If the Shoe Fits - Pt 7

Ella felt silly for all her hopelessness and worries as she followed after the King's servant, who she had found standing outside her door when she'd finished dressing. The emissary was nowhere in sight, but she didn't mind.

Why had she let a mere setback get her so down? Of course there would be another hope, another way to see if the path she most desired was the right path - and then to walk down it.

The appealing scents of various cooked meats and breads grew stronger as they came closer to the dining room and made Ella aware that she had skipped supper the night before. Her stomach let out a growl and she smiled sheepishly at the servant, who kindly smiled back in return.

"What is your name?" she asked the man, suddenly curious.

"I am Liam, miss."

"That's a good strong name, Liam."

"Thank you, miss."

She smiled, and then realized that they had passed the dining room and were headed onward, toward the King's wing of the palace. "Why did we pass the dining room?"

Liam chuckled softly. "His majesty wishes to dine with you in his quarters, I imagine it is for the sake of avoiding your step-family, if it does not offend for me to say so, miss."

Ella smiled at the thought of the King avoiding Amelia. What had she said to drive him off so soon? They;d only had maybe two or three meals together thus far.

They finally came to the ornate door that marked the entrance to the King's quarters and Ella found herself intimidated. The door itself was so large, it looked almost too heavy for a normal person to move.

Liam knocked heavily three times, and then opened the door with apparent ease and announced her.

"The young lady, your Highness."

Liam stepped aside and Ella cautiously moved into the room. She located the King in the room, and dropped a curtsey to him.

"That's all, Liam," the King called out. "You can leave now. Do keep those women away from here, though. I can't handle the lot of them."

Liam nodded and left the room, silently closing the door behind him. Ella found herself nervous at being alone with the King, until he was overcome by a coughing fit. She hadn't heard of the King being sick, especially not with a bad cough. Forgetting her manners, she rushed to his side to support him as the cough racked his body and doubled the big man over. When it had finally subsided, he patted her hand on his shoulder and smiled at her.

"Thank you, sweet Ellandria."

Elle drew back in surprise. "How...How do you know my name, Highness."

The king waved as though dismissing something. "Call me Albert, please. Your father was a dear friend of mine, many years ago. Did anyone ever tell you who you were named after?"

Ella shook her head. Come to think of it, that was a very good question. Ellandria wasn't exactly a common name in the area, how had her father come up with it?

"Sit, dear," the King instructed, gesturing to a nearby chair, "and have some food. I'll tell you stories about your parents."

________________

"Somebody's in trouble."

Amelia resisted the urge to cringe at the grating sound of the singsonged words. She slowly turned in her chair to look at the culprit. "Whatever do you mean, Altheus?"

"Just that, miss. You're in trouble. Or Priscilla is, depending on how you look at it."

Amelia straightened her spine slightly. "Priscilla? What has that child done now?"

"More like what she hasn't done." The fae answered, grinning that horrible, jagged-toothed grin of his. "Which would be gaining a private audience with the King to win his favor."

Amelia sniffed in disdain. "The King is weakening by the moment, his favor won't matter much longer. Aside from that, he won't grant an audience to anyone, not a private one anyway."

"If I were you, Altheus whispered, "I'd find a way."

Amelia's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

The fae smiled that revolting smile again, making her stomach feel uneasy at once. He really was a horrible creature, and if he hadn't been so useful to her up to this point, she'd certainly have had him killed by now for that crime alone. But he was useful, and seclusion was hard to find, and she was afraid of losing the fellow anyway. It was his magic that had re-sized Elle's precious glass slippers, which her ridiculous mother had worn on her wedding day. Amelia needed to move up in the world again, and Altheus was the way she was going to do it. All she had to do was convince her dolt of a daughter to kill the prince mere days after they were wed. Timing was, of course, going to be the key in that mission. Priscilla was an impressionable girl, easily guided by anonymous whispers from the shadows. The timing would most certainly be the challenge.

Nevertheless, it would work. It had to. She couldn't stay as Hillshire's Lady anymore. She needed something more, something bigger, something....powerful.

'Queen' was right up her alley.

"An audience with the King, you say? Well, that shouldn't be too hard."

__________________________________

Philip slept far into the day and attributed that to the fact that he'd been talking with Priscilla far into the night.  She had proven more interesting than he'd expected, having quite a calm personality when she was not around the other one - Anastasia was it? They were like amplifiers of each other, each one feeding back the nothingness at less and less ignorable volumes.

But when she was not with Anastasia, Priscilla could be herself, as she had been the night before. He'd learned that she loved books, especially the love stories like Romeo and Juliet. When he'd asked her why, finding it a particularly morose and macabre piece himself, she'd simply said that it was her dream to be loved like that. He asked if she had ever been loved, suspecting after meeting the woman that her mother was not very giving in her affections toward her daughters. Priscilla had wept, telling him of her father and how much she missed him, how she resented her mother for killing him and everyone else for not believing her. She clung to him, with her head rested on his shoulder, and wept for her loss for a little while before they moved on to discuss other things.

This morning, he was to take a walk with her and learn about her favorite things to see in a garden. Perhaps he'd learn enough that this cruel fate which had robbed him of the woman he truly wanted, would not feel so cruel after all. Perhaps he could grow to like her, learn her interests and hobbies, and perhaps one day he would even love her.

Yes, he thought to himself as he pulled his boots on, he may even come to love her. Then this whole blasted mess wouldn't be so bad anyway.

If the Shoe Fits - Pt 6

The dance ended slowly. Ella followed the prince's footsteps as they slowed and then stilled completely. His face read uncertainty, confusion, and frustration, and her hopes were raised. She waited for a long minute, searching his eyes.

"You're the one I danced with," he whispered. She nodded in response, having no words. She was so overjoyed that everything would be all right. He knew, and now he would set things straight.

Ella waited, breathless as he stared at her for what seemed like forever. Why wasn't he excited about the news? Why wasn't he rushing off with her in tow to speak to his emissary, to his father? Why wasn't he...doing anything?

"Is something wrong?"

He nodded. "You're the right one, but the shoe didn't fit you."

"So? I'm the one you danced with. You wanted to marry me. What's the problem?"

"I wanted to marry you, but I didn't imagine this problem."

"What problem?" Her voice echoed in the room, and she recognized the frantic pitch of it. She was getting frustrated, losing control of her emotions. Her father had always cautioned her against allowing herself to be too volatile. In response, the prince only sighed and shook his head.

"My promise was an official edict, taken down by the court scribe, set in the record books. I cannot possibly go against it."

"You don't have to. I don't understand what you're trying to say."

He shook his head again. "I cannot marry you, because of the wording of my promise. My ability to rule the people when my father passes relies on my ability to keep my word. My promise was not to marry the girl I danced with. It was to marry the girl whose foot fit the custom-made shoe."

Her heart dropped straight to her toes. "I don't suppose you can re-word your promise?"

Another head shake. "I cannot."

"Is there no way to fix this?"

"There is not."

Ella studied his expression closely. He was hiding something from her. It was there, deep in his eyes, behind what he was saying to her, and in the set of his shoulders. "What aren't you telling me?"

Suddenly he turned angry, his expression clouding as a veil dropped over his eyes. "Madam, if you are finished holding me hostage, there is important business I must attend to. I find that my future wife and I are in desperate need of some time to get to know each other."

With that, he left. He just walked to the door, opened it, and left, closing it behind him. Ella was left in the semi-dark of the unused room, completely stunned. What next? Was she going to stand by for the rest of her life, watching her sister have the life that she should have had? Did she even want the life she should have had if it meant being attached to a man who would not follow his heart's deepest desires, would not use the power she knew he had to alter the conditions of his promise so that he could have what he wanted without jeopardizing the people's opinion of him?

She felt like a fool. One night of dancing and she thought she knew the man. She thought she was in love with him. She thought...

She was wrong. That was the simple fact. With that realization, a sob forced its way through her chest. The strangled sound echoed in the room, making her feel more alone than ever before. What would she do now? How was she going to recover from this one? Did she even want to recover?

What now?

With a heavy heart she left the room and made her way back to her own quarters. She would miss supper, probably be beaten for not being there to dance attendance on her about-to-be-royal half sister. At this point, she  didn't care. She felt as though her spirit were broken, her very soul shattered. She had been in love, and he...

He just walked away.

Ella barely made it to the bed before exhaustion claimed her. She lay on the bed, limbs skewed at odd angles, staring at the piece of sky she could see through the window. Her hopelessness nearly overwhelmed her. After a long while, her mind stopped racing in circles of questions, and she fell asleep.

_________________________________________

What did it mean?

The shoe, the custom made glass shoe that could only have fit one foot in the entire world, fit on the wrong girl's foot. Now he was locked into a promise he'd carelessly worded.One that could not be taken back, not just because it was a promise written down in the records of the palace, but because the promise was made to the one man no one could legally break promises with. He couldn't go back on his word, or alter it at all, because it was a promise made to his father. And a promise to the King was simply unbreakable. To go back on his word to his father would be to set a prescient that many would follow afterward, one of lying to the King and making promises with no intention of keeping them. The kingdom, one governed largely by the people's own sense of honor, integrity, and self-respect, would fall apart.

So how did he get out of this? How did he marry the right girl? Or, how did he marry the wrong one and not hate himself?

He glanced up when he heard a knock on the door of his study. He considered ignoring it, any of the staff would have entered following the knock unless bidden otherwise, and his father would have just walked in. That meant it was his guests - either one of the three he didn't want to see, or the one he did want to see but shouldn't.

When whomever it was knocked a second time, he gave up with a low growl in the back of his throat. He really didn't want to be interrupted right now, he needed to think, but it didn't look like he had a choice. "Come in."

A pale redhead came in and he struggled to hold back his sigh. "What is it, Priscilla?"

"I...I um..."

Philip found himself smiling at her shyness. "Come over here and sit down, Dear."

She seemed grateful of the offer. She quickly approached and sat in a chair on the other side of the desk.

"What can I do for you?" he prompted.

"I just..thought we should get to know each other."

He smiled, and nodded. "What would you like to know first?"

______________________________

"Ella?"

Ella woke slowly. She didn't want to wake up. She wanted to stay asleep. She wanted to disappear into the darkness.

"Ella, wake up."

She opened her eyes and peered at the family fairy. "What is it, godmother?"

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying. I'm sleeping."

"You were crying. Why?"

Ella sat up with a sigh. She didn't want to talk about this, but godmother wasn't going to allow her to avoid it.  "I met him, Philip. I met him yesterday."

The fairy beamed. "Oooh!" she squealed "Tell me, how did it go?"

"Horribly."

"Horribly? How could it have gone horribly? He recognized you, right?"

"Yes, and he danced with me again, and he knows the truth."

"So what's so horrible about that?"

"He's...not going to do anything about it."

There was a long moment of silence as the fairy tried to understand what Ella was saying. Recognition hit, and then fury. "He's just going to marry Priscilla?"

Ella nodded, and the fairy stamped her foot. "That nancy!"

"He says there's nothing he can do about it. He made a promise, and he can't break it, for the sake of his ability to rule the people."

The fairy nodded, a little more calm. "Yes, a promise to the King. It cannot be broken, to do so would be to jeopardize the very principles the kingdom was built on. He has to keep that promise to the very word."

"What can I do, godmother? I'm not sure I even want to fight for him anymore, since he doesn't seem to want to do anything on his end."

"The only one who can get a promise to the King revoked is the King. You could try taking it up with him."

Ella scoffed. "As if I could get an audience with the King."

The fairy shrugged. "You never know. In the meantime, look out. Amelia may have a fairy after all, a rogue. I don't know for sure, but there are rumors starting. I'll let you know what I learn."

"A rogue? What does that mean?"

The fairy pressed her lips together for a minute, as if she wasn't sure she should say any more.

"Godmother, tell me."

The fairy sighed. "When males of my kind lose their mate, particularly to a tragedy, they have a tendency to go rogue. Basically, fairies aren't very good at keeping themselves balanced out. We all need someone to help balance us. Even I have someone who keeps me in check. Once a fairy finds a mate, they become the balancing force of each other. The only balancing force. The females can often go on and find a close friend to be a new balancer. But the males...they don't normally do so well. Fortunately tragic accidents are infrequent among our people. Sometimes it does still happen. And when it does, the male usually goes rogue."

"Are the rogues dangerous?"

"Yes, very. Think evil incarnate with fairy powers."

"Why would Amelia have one?"

"I don't know."

Ella sighed again. "It's so frustrating not to know so much."

There was a quick knock at Ella's door followed by a male voice. "Miss Ella, may I come in?"

She exchanged a confused glance with the fairy, and then shrugged. "Yes."

The emissary opened the door and bowed slightly at the waist. "Miss Ella, I know it is early in the morning, but the King takes his breakfast before dawn and wishes you to join him."

Ella stared, stunned. The king...wanted her to have breakfast with him? Wait..."Breakfast before dawn?"

"Between you and me, miss, it's more of a late-night snack for His Highness."

She smiled at that, and nodded. "I'll be right there, thank you."

The man nodded in response and left. He seemed to have not even noticed the fairy, who smiled at Ella and flashed a thumbs-up before disappearing.

Breakfast with the king?

*The only one who can get a promise to the King revoked is the King. You could try taking it up with him.*

Ella smiled at this new hope. Maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay after all.

My Dad. -and a small rant-

The marketing media (Hallmark, etc) seems to treat Mother's day like it's the end all and be all of holidays. It also seems to treat Father's day and graduation season like they're the same holiday and are of equal (un)importance. I don't understand this. I mean, sure, graduation is a big deal. You survived school, you made it all the way through, you completed, and for some of the people in my age group that was a real struggle! However, making it the same as or greater than Father's day? Sure, dads are harder to buy presents for (how many times have we fallen back on the tool set or the tie or the "dad is great" coffee mug?) but that doesn't make them any less important.

And sure, they didn't spend 20 hours in labor pushing you out after 9 months carrying you like an alien parasite in their bodies. But, they do a lot of other and still really important stuff. Dad stuff.

Let me tell you about my dad.

My dad isn't perfect. He became a dad way before he was actually ready to even be a grownup and he's had to do a lot of learning along the way. But he's a good dad, in that he's always been there as a dad and he's always done his best to do right by the family. Even in his worst moments, I know he was still just doing the best he knew how to do.

My dad got our family through a lot. When I was really young, my parents and I moved to Indiana from California because Dad had been promised a job - that he didn't have when he got there. For a little while, we were homeless, and he got us through it. Later on, when there were three kids instead of just me, a coworker got mad at my dad and threatened our family - he got us through that one too, praying and trusting God to provide a way out of danger's path and then listening and seeing the path God provided.

Through the years, I've watched my dad work a lot of jobs where he was paid less than he deserved, worked harder than he deserved, and treated really poorly. He worked those jobs to take care of us. From Northern Harvest to Cintas, to painting fences for the school district, my dad has always done whatever he could to keep the family taken care of. He's come home exhausted and dropped into bed only to wake up exhausted a few hours later so he can go out and work. He's lived for months on end with a sleep schedule that consisted mostly of catnaps in the drivers' seat of a limo. He's worked through sickness, stress, extreme pain, all to make sure that no matter what we were taken care of.

In the times when he didn't have a job, he swallowed his pride and asked for help - something he probably never would have done for himself. He's set his dreams aside, over and over again, because sometimes reaching them meant risking his ability to provide for us - and he just won't do that. He's taken jobs that were beneath him, and jobs that were way out of his comfort zone. Throughout my entire life, one of the reliable facts is that my dad works hard, and he does whatever it takes to take care of the family.

Dad wasn't the one in pain when I was born, but since the day he found out I was on the way I know he's spent a lot of time worrying about and taking care of my mom and I - and all of my other siblings, as they came along. He's sacrificed a lot, spent a lot of sleepless nights, probably put his health and his safety at serious risk, to make sure that we were provided for. And he wasn't content with all of that. Even when he was working as a chauffeur, and he barely got ten minutes in a given hour to rest - much less sleep - he still did his best to be a present dad; to show up at events, to help with homework, to be there for dinner. As a kid, it's all stuff I didn't see, how hard he was working and how hard he tried. But recently, as I look at what it takes for Dearest and I to run our company, I'm beginning to recognize just how hard my dad really did work, the lengths he really did go to, the effort he put in - all to take care of us and try to be a good dad in the meantime.

My dad's not perfect. Nobody's is. Even Dearest won't be perfect as a dad. But just because Dad is out of the house more often, is too tired to play more often, and is WAY harder to buy gifts for, doesn't mean that he's not important. Graduation is awesome, but what you went through to finish high school is nowhere near what most dads go through to keep their families safe and cared for.

So a note to Hallmark: Just because the two events happen in June - and both are pretty hard to buy gifts for - doesn't mean they're the same thing. "Dads and grads' is a cute way to market, but one really is a bit more important than the other - imagine trying to combine Mother's day with Administrative Staff Appreciation day!

The song that was stuck in my head this morning:

"Give me a second, I
I need to get my story straight.
My friends are in the bathroom getting
Higher than the empire state.
My lover, she is waiting for me
Just across the bar.
My seat's been taken by some sunglasses
Asking 'bout a scar
and
I know I gave it to you months ago.
I know you're trying to forget.
But between the drinks and subtleties
And the holes in my apology, you know
I'm trying hard to take it back.

"So if by the time
the bar closes
and you feel like falling down
I'll carry
you home.

"Tonight
We are young.
So let's set the world on fire
We can burn brighter
than the sun"


I still don't understand this song. Every time I think I've figured out what it's about, I hear another lyric that I can finally actually understand (it takes a while to know what they're saying) and the whole thing flips again. Nevertheless, it's stuck in my head. Especially the first verse.

The Christian and the Homosexual

Just saw someone rant about how Christianity sucks because of the unaccepting and hateful behavior many Christians exhibit toward homosexuals. I'd like to clarify, just in case that person can see my page, and for anyone else who agrees with that person. Christianity is not hateful or unaccepting.  Christianity is loving. Religious self-righteousness is often hateful and unaccepting, but there is definitely a difference. Christianity is the practice of endeavoring to be like Christ. Christ loved everyone, even the people who live in sin. Homosexuality is a sin, according to the Bible and the teachings of Christ. However, Christ - and those who endeavor to be like him - would never be hateful or unaccepting of a person because of the choices they've made.

We, the Christians, don't hate you. We are disappointed by your actions, but we understand that all have sinned and fallen short - meaning everyone, even and perhaps especially us. Understanding this, our disappointment does not affect our ability to love you as people, as beloved creations of God. Just like siblings can't ever really hate each other - no matter how far off the right path one of them may go - we Christians can't really hate you. It's not in our DNA to hate. It's not in our wiring, in our belief system. Our moral compass steers us the other way. And though we may sometimes struggle with this - for all have sinned - we struggle because we choose to endeavor to be like Christ.

Jesus told us very plainly that our mission is to love others.

So though you, my friend, may have run into more than a few self-proclaimed Christians who were hateful and unaccepting of you because they did not agree with your lifestyle; please understand that this does not mean Christianity is this way. Please do not allow your opinion of us to be jaded by those who are still learning what Jesus meant when he said "love your neighbor." We, the Christians, love you. Our hearts are broken by your actions, but we love you anyway. Just as Jesus does.

New perspective.

Fair warning: I have written and deleted this post many times. I want desperately to share what I am about to share with you, but I know that it will hurt some people - possibly many - who are close to me, people I care about deeply. This post is written in complete honesty of how I feel now, and remembrance of how I have felt in the past. It will not be pretty.


My parents are coming up on their 24th anniversary this Friday - the same day as our first anniversary. Today, my mom wrote something on her blog about her relationship with my dad, and how it's survived hell, and so on. She admitted to things that I knew all along, but never thought in a million years I'd hear (or see) her own up to. Not that my mom is a bad person or that she's irresponsible. Just that, in our family, the particularly icky parts of life tend to end up in a closet somewhere. Skeletons, if you will.

The most shocking thing in that blog, however, was that she knew what their split and sudden reconciliation did to me:

"Our oldest daughter suffered the most. She felt responsible to protect the other kids from our insanity. She tried to be there for me and support me, but I was such a mess and I was going in the wrong direction. Her support just made the guilt worse. I blocked her out, it broke her heart. She lost control and spiraled down a path that led her to run away. I don't blame her, I can't. She is a beautiful and fiercely loyal young woman who would do anything for her family, but her family was falling apart. Who she was didn't make sense anymore. She was lost, we had taken away the beacons in her life that held her safe and left her in the dark. She was only 16."


I didn't think she knew. Somehow, in all the crap, I thought she just didn't notice. All this time, I've been angry without even realizing it because I thought that she hadn't even realized what that did to me. 


The divorce started with my dad's anger problems. He'd always had them, and they were steadily getting worse. One day, he scared the living crap out of me by punching a wall right next to my head, and that's when mom called it quits. At least, that's when she told me they were going to. At that point, I had already fallen in with the drama club crowd - which most people know is actually pretty bad association. I had to keep the divorce a secret from the kids, so it wouldn't ruin their holiday season, and that only kept me from processing the anger and sometimes even despair that I was suddenly feeling. I took my feelings to my drama friends and - wouldn't you know - they all had coping mechanisms already. Things like stealing, lying, and cigarettes.


I don't remember what order things happened in after that. I was already good at lying and  though I couldn't wrap my conscience around stealing, I enjoyed smoking more than I thought I would. It was a way to piss off my parents, to lash out at them for screwing up so bad and not getting the help they had needed so many years before - when I would stay up at night to make sure dad got home safe and end up listening to them fight. It was also a way to check out. Since the day the proverbial bomb hit, I'd felt antsy and anxious. There was a hum, almost a buzz, that constantly riddled my body - my skin, my bones, my brain and organs, my whole body felt like I was the inside of one of those jumping beans and I wasn't allowed to jump. I had to keep pretending everything was okay. Smoking shut the buzzing down, turned down the volume in my brain, and helped me feel something besides scared.


I was never alone when I smoked, and I was never judged by those who stood in tight circles with me to ward off the cold. The bible club, the church, even my fellow academic all-stars may have left me. But the smokers didn't. They couldn't, after all. They needed to smoke. 


Better than just not leaving me alone, they let me talk. They let me say the same thing over and over, and they didn't get on my case for using unsophisticated words, for stuttering, for sometimes just breaking down in tears. After all, we were all smokers; we were all pretty screwed up.


Christmas came and went and then the "Sometimes love just isn't enough; you kids aren't the problem here" talk happened. Things started a steadily faster downward spiral. School was a hell I survived by throwing myself full force into the drama club, by smoking at every opportunity, and by forcing my emotions into the structure and order that poetry could provide. I latched on - leeched from, really - anyone who would just look me in the eye and listen to what I had to say and not tell me I was being overdramatic about the whole thing. Anyone who could hear my heart without telling me I was just seeking attention got my friendship. Which meant I went even farther into hanging out with all the wrong people. 


I became someone I didn't recognize. I was angry, lonely, and hurt most of the time. I began hating God for letting this happen to my family, hating the church for doing nothing besides sitting back and judging with the occasional "We didn't see you on Sunday" guilt trip. 


The rug was really pulled out from underneath me one day when I found a giant bottle of whiskey under the kitchen table. 


My mom raised me to believe firmly in not drinking. Alcohol was bad, drinking was a sin, and drinkers were evil people. So when I found that whiskey while babysitting, it really hit me hard. All the anger and hurt and resentment that had been piling up doubled and became a wave that just washed me away. I might as well have found cocaine, for the way it made me feel. I demanded an explanation from my mom and was unsatisfied with the one she gave. I felt betrayed. Up until that point, I had felt like my mom was my ally at home. Right then, I felt completely and utterly alone. My friends had abandoned me, God had abandoned me, and now this. 


I started drinking, just to spite them. I didn't enjoy it except for the fact that it put a physical pain into my body and after all the emotional pain I just didn't know how to cope. 


I realized shortly after that, that my mom wasn't OK to be a mom anymore, and I took over as much as possible. I nagged the kids about homework, made meals, cleaned as best I could. I tried my hardest to hold them together and show them that even if mom and dad weren't okay, we were going to be.


When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me the strangest things. Like that if I was walking with my mom, I had to walk on the outside of the sidewalk so if a car came up onto it I could push her out of the way. He impressed upon me at an early age that being the oldest means that I was supposed to take care of the family if anything ever happened to him or mom. 

Well, something happened. He wasn't safe anymore, and mom wasn't coherent enough to handle kids. I can't count the times I tried to keep the kids away from mom while she was on the computer, or the times I took the baby away from dad because I was afraid he'd get hurt, or the times I physically stood between my dad and one of the kids, or tried to redirect his anger onto me. I could handle it, I could handle him. They couldn't. Any time my dad started showing signs of an oncoming storm, I'd do something to make him blow up at me instead. 


It's hard to believe all of that was only six months. It felt like forever.


Then Easter came. On Friday I got in a fight with my dad and he lost his temper worse than ever before. He had finally broken me, finally shattered the little bit of strength I had and crushed the heart I was protecting. I couldn't be strong for the kids anymore, and we were split up by people in the church so they could take care of us over the weekend while my mom was still out of town. My younger sister ended up with me, so I couldn't process. I had to tape together the pieces of my strength and hope she couldn't see the holes. I spent both nights on the couch silently screaming and crying into a pillow. I didn't know what else to do. The buzz was gone, but inside was a deadness. 


On Sunday my mom came back, and we went to church because I promised her we would. It was Easter, after all. I was still angry and hurt and mostly shut down. I was afraid of going to the church, afraid of the people and their accusing, nosy stares, afraid that if I stopped hating God long enough to go to church, then I'd end up too broken to move. But I went anyway.


Dad showed up, out of the blue. I was so angry, and after church he and mom disappeared into the pastor's office for hours, leaving me to fend for myself against an onslaught of people who were pretending to be concerned about how I was doing, just hoping they could get some detail so they could talk about my family and how screwed up we were over lunch.


When we all got home, dad was there even though mom had promised she'd kick him out.  They told me they were going to try to work things out. 


I was disgusted. There's no other word for it. My anger, my hurt, my increasing resentment, wouldn't allow anything other than extreme disgust. The rest of my family had a good day hanging out together as if nothing had ever happened, as if I hadn't ever had to hold the door to my room closed while my dad had punched the other side, and I stayed in my room because I couldn't stand them. 


That pretty well sums up how the next year went. I was shoved back into the role of extreme lesser subordinate in the house that I'd given up so much to hold together. Rules, standards, policies like 'in this house we go to church on Sundays' were just suddenly there and I was forced to comply because I had nowhere else to go. Mom offered to find me somewhere else to live but couldn't ever offer a place that wasn't under the same rules I hated at her house. I spent a lot of time in my room because I was still too hurt and angry to laugh and play and pretend like nothing had ever happened - and that's all everyone else wanted to do. They quickly forgot that I was the one protecting them all this time, making sure they finished homework and ate breakfast and didn't ever end up bearing the brunt of dad's outbursts. Sometimes I even thought they had forgotten I was there.


Eventually my parents realized that I was a behavioral issue and that I needed to work things out with my dad, so the counseling started. It ended just as quick. At least, my attempts to cooperate did. The second their pastor demanded that I respect my dad simply because he was my dad, he lost me. I wan't going to be a part of it anymore. One other person tried to help us, tried to get my parents to sit down and listen to what I had to say, but nothing changed so I could only guess that they just hadn't listened. 


As my 18th birthday approached they sat down with me to talk about what life would be like and how the rules would change once I was an adult. As far as I was concerned, I already was an adult. I had pulled five children and two adults through hell without letting any of them get killed or kidnapped or even hit. But they still saw me as their kid, theirs to order around and control.

Despite my resentment and my pain, I wanted desperately to be happy like everyone else was, so I tried. In return, I asked for a simple evidence that my dad would try too: I wanted him to read one specific book. If he would just read that book, I would take it as a sign that he was trying. And reading the book would give us something to talk about. In that time, that was all I wanted in the world, for him to just read that book.

He didn't. 

As soon as the school year was over I called a guy I'd been talking to online and had him come get me. I moved 4 hours away, and when that didn't work out well I moved back just two months later. At that point, I had no one. The voice on the other side of the phone I'd vented to for so long wasn't a friend anymore. The people at school couldn't hide the fact that they thought I had made up the problems with my family for attention. I wasn't smoking anymore. My drama friends had all graduated and gotten lives. The church was distant at best. I was, completely, alone. 

I couldn't stand being in the same house with my father, who demanded respect he didn't deserve and refused to even try to have a relationship with me - refused to even read a book. I found someone else who would move me to where he was and I came to Seattle. You've heard the story from there.

For the past five years, I've waited, longing to hear someone admit that they knew what happened hurt me, that they knew it was gone about all wrong, and that they were sorry. For five years I've waited, doubting the words would ever come, doubting anyone had even noticed my pain when they were all so busy noticing my poor choices. 

Now that my mom has admitted it, now that she's pulled the skeleton into the light and said "this happened, and it wasn't okay," I just don't know how to react. I'm not angry anymore, I haven't been for a long time. I'm not mad at my parents because I know that they were just too young when they started off to be starting off and they didn't have anyone to guide them. They did what they knew to do and even though it sucked it was still their best. 

All this time, I've just been hurt and scared. Now that my mom has written that post, and admitted all the things I only suspected before, I don't know how to feel. It's a new perspective for me, and I'm not sure how to handle it. But I'm glad that I can finally talk about it. I'm glad that I can finally say what I really thought and felt. 

I just wish I knew where to go from here. When hurt becomes such a big part of who you are, of what identifies you, it's an odd sensation to have it suddenly be gone.

Blogging

I was reading Michelle's blog post about what blogging is to her and it got me to thinking. What is blogging to me?

As Michelle mentioned, some people - those who saw blogging as a networking opportunity - are beginning to feel that blogging is a dying form. In a way, I agree with them. The blog as the social network tool wasn't as effective as some had hoped it would be. It was too hard to stay interesting, to keep up the face while still being intimate and reachable, and to optimize search engine results.

For others, blogging is alive and well. Why? Well, because instead of using a blog to try to promote our businesses, we just used it as a way to put our thoughts out there where people could see them without forcing those who aren't interested to hear them.

For me, blogging is a form of journalling. I can easily let my family and friends know what's going on with me, what I'm thinking, how life is going, without having to spend time on the phone scrambling for which bit of information to give them next. I can write something, look at it, edit out any unnecessary emotional crap (I sometimes tend to wax depressive if it's early enough in the morning or late enough at night), and then post it. It's a way of telling everyone how things are doing in a coherent fashion.

Blogging also helps me sort things out in my own head. I can blog about - for example - how Ryan's death affected me, and I can sort out whether I still have things to deal with on that front, and at the same time I can let the people who care know "Yeah, I still miss this guy."

I don't know that I could be as intimate with people in person as I am in my blog. There are a few exceptions to that, Dearest and his mom being two of them, my close friend Emma being another one. Aside from people who are close to me like that, I have a really hard time just sitting down and actually telling someone everything - and if I do get to the place where I can open up and start talking about personal stuff, I tend to venture way far into the "I didn't really need or want to know that" zone.

So I blog. I put my randomness, my craziness, the ways I'm growing and the ways I still need to grow into this blog, and a few others, and it helps me. It helps me process, it helps me feel connected, and sometimes it helps me more than I can say to get things out of my head so I can cope.

Except for when I'm trying to keep a secret like my super top secret anniversary plans (lol).

It's Monday!

To start off with, allow me to direct your attention to the blog of an author friend of mine, Michelle Davidson Argyle. I do this for a few reasons: I always enjoy a good giveaway, I want a copy of that book, I really enjoyed reading the book and think you should enjoy it also, and (last but by no means least) Michelle has worked really hard to produce this amazing book and deserves all the help promoting it that she can get.

Now then, as I mentioned - and you probably already know - it's Monday. What does that mean?

Well, it means that I work today; which in turn means that I want to drink the whole pot of coffee because I'm tired and could use the pep, and also that I will not do this because there isn't a bathroom at work that's easy to get to (it's in my boss' house). Granted, the house is on the other side of the driveway, but with people coming in and things to be done, it's just not all that comfortable for me to try to hold a whole pot of coffee in my bladder for an undetermined amount of time. Yes, I have tried.

So I will start my day with my oatmeal and my cup of coffee. I will probably grab something small to tide me over until lunch - I always end up hungry two hours after I eat and on work days that's a problem. I will sit at the desk at work and drink as little as possible until the last hour. I will hope that it is busy so that I am not bored, but since it is Monday it probably won't be.

Then it's home, and then to the store for a few things (as much as I love subway, making sandwiches at home is way cheaper and I feel bad asking Dearest for lunch money twice a week). Then home to make and eat dinner, and to clean something so I can know I made some progress toward my goal of having the entire house cleaned by Friday.

This is a very big goal, especially when you consider that in "the entire house" I'm including the hot tub room, which has not been cleaned since we finished moving in. There are still unpacked boxes in there. On the bright side, maybe I'll find something I've been looking for!

Then it's on with my week: 6am connecting meeting in Federal Way, 10am new client meeting in Tacoma, 3pm new client meeting out on Bainbridge Island, and then a consultation or two. - all on Tuesday. Wednesday is multiple system setups for two companies we support in Puyallup - so we'll be out doing our thing from 8Am to about 4 or 5 pm. Not sure what's going on Thursday, so I'll probably do a lot of cleaning then. Friday is our anniversary (squee!) and then Saturday is work again.

I am, as I find myself doing every time I have a job, looking forward to payday. I have all but $50 of my several hundred dollars allocated to other things - phone bill, for example. This time I will also get a gym membership, though, and probably a subscription to one of the bridal magazines I so frequently covet.

So that's my Monday...and Tuesday through Friday. I'll talk more about my top-secret anniversary plans after the fact, since they're top-secret.

So here's to hoping you all have a good Monday, and a good week to follow.

With so Much to be Grateful for...

Today, I have been a little overwhelmed by all the things I have to be grateful for, so I thought I'd share. Here's a few of them, in no particular order:

• People who care about me and support me - especially those who I haven't spoken with in a long time. You guys know who you are, because today you showed up on my fb wall when I said that I was sad about something. I totally wasn't even expecting that! For me it was a sadness that hit me hard (because I've been excluded in my life a lot) but was still only there long enough for me to post the status about it (for the same reason). And you guys...well, I'm a little bit humbled by how awesome it made me feel that you decided to say what you could to make me not be sad anymore. I really, really appreciate that, and I really appreciate you guys. Thanks :)

• My wonderful, way smarter than me, patient husband. As frustrating as it may be at the time, he gets me and knows when it's time to just ignore everything I say and do for a little while because I'm being a little bit ridiculous. He knows me well, he knows how to get what he wants from me (not a bad quality, considering that he usually just wants me to behave just a little more logically) and even after I have a conniption fit over something stupid he still loves me. He may not always understand me - and this is usually because I am female and all spaghetti brained and whatnot - but he does almost always try. He's so good to me, and I probably don't deserve him, but he's mine now and I'm not giving him back! (lol)

• Along with my husband being awesome and so dang loveable, he's got the best aspect of the gay best friend every girl wants: He instinctively knows what is going to make me look and feel really good. He's helped me pick out all the clothes I've bought since the first day I moved in with him and he's ALWAYS been right! Not only right, but super super considerate as well. For example, when we bought my wedding dress last year, he thought of the fact that my arms may break out (I have eczema or something, not sure exactly what it is but it's ugly) - so he found me a shawl to wear over my arms. How freaking considerate is that? I can also use the shawl as a scarf (as I did in this picture from later in the evening during our wedding) and I do so whenever possible. It reminds me of how much I'm loved, and how awesome he is.  Additionally, he recently bought me an over-jacket thing for my normal outfits and when I was discussing with him what to wear to our anniversary this year he pointed out that said jacket would go perfectly with my dress from our wedding. He was right. As always.

• That last one brings me to this next one. I am so very grateful for the way that we did our wedding. We worked within our means, did a small wedding in our living room, bought a dress that wasn't super duper expensive, used plain bands that we already owned, and had pizza and ice cream cake. Benefits of this: 
• We didn't go into debt from our wedding, which means that when hard times hit we didn't argue over "If you hadn't spent $75000 on your dress!" type of things
• I get to wear my wedding dress over and over again, and every time I wear it I feel super special and blessed. 
• When we hit hard times, I didn't have to feel guilty about having a $1500 ring on my finger and no food in the cabinet
• Pizza and ice cream cake is an awesome tradition!

What are you grateful for today?

Ryan

This is Ryan Trost. I met him in 8th grade when my mom and I were at a National Honor Society thing and she pointed him out. She went up to him, introduced us, and told him that he looked really nice in his shirt and tie and that he looked like a really smart kid. I don't know what drew my mother to Ryan, but because we met that one time we were able to form an interesting type of relationship.

Ryan was my best friend. He's the best human friend I have ever had - apart from Dearest. We only really talked over Yahoo instant messenger, but I really felt like he knew my soul. He read everything I wrote, and I read a lot of what he wrote, almost all of his song lyrics. He was a musician, a wonderful, troubled, amazingly creative musician.

We spent a lot of long nights 'talking' via the internet. He was always there for me, always supportive and understanding. I'm afraid I wasn't as good a friend to him as he was to me. There were several times when I talked him off the edge, convinced him not to give up on his music and on life, and there were many more times when he listened to my troubles and comforted me or got on my case when I wanted to stop writing.

In 2009, after I had moved from Indiana to Washington, we stopped talking as much. Work, school, his girlfriend, my boyfriend, and the time difference all got in the way. We talked when we could, just not as often. In the spring of 2010, he killed himself.

Losing Ryan was like losing a piece of me. I couldn't explain it because we weren't close by normal standards, but he was so close to my heart that his death was an incredible blow. I couldn't even make it back to Indiana for the funeral. The best I could do was sit in my living room, listening to his voice in the videos on youtube, and praying he wasn't really gone. My writer's mind turned against me, playing and replaying a vividly detailed movie of what his last moments probably were, of how he killed himself. It was all I could do to not go insane.

My grief was so deep that my boyfriend at the time couldn't handle it and he broke up with me, and kicked me out. I was forced to shove my emotions, my grief and devastation, into a closet somewhere. I couldn't afford to be emotional, I had to survive.

My writing stopped altogether. It simply would not come to me. The words were not there, the stories no longer played in my mind. There was only emptiness.

It wasn't until I let myself grieve for Ryan that my writing started again. I had to open the closet door and pull everything out and just cry. I wept for Ryan and the terrible loneliness he must have felt. I wept because he had resigned himself to the very insignificance he so feared. I cried because he was my friend, my very best friend, and I had never been a good friend to him. I cried because at that point, two whole years later, I missed him so very much. I missed the silly things he said, and our long nights of word association games. I missed the way he always was there for me, the way he held me up sometimes when I needed it most. I missed him more than I knew how to say and two years after he died I finally let myself cry for him again, until the missing didn't hurt as much as it used to.

That's when my writing started again. It was just a trickle, an idea here or there, a dialog, small bits and pieces I couldn't actually use. It's still not flowing the way I want it to, but it's starting. It's there again,  I can reach it, and I'm glad.

I still miss Ryan. I miss everything about him. When he died, it felt like part of me died with him. Now I know that's not true. I didn't die with Ryan, I just took too long trying not to grieve. I'm done grieving now, and I can move on; I know that's how he would want it anyway.

Ryan was my very best friend, so close to my heart that when I lost him I also lost my writing for a little while. I will always remember him, I will probably always miss him. I hope he found the peace he searched for.

My writing

I've been formulating this post in my mind for..quite some time. I've been thinking about my writing a lot; about why I write and why I don't, about where my writing comes from. My mom posted something about her own writing today and I guess it was the push I needed to write this.

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. It started with stories - lies and exaggerations - as a kid. I've mentioned before that there are parts of my past I don't remember the truth of because I made it something else in my mind. If you've ever read "And to Think That I Saw it on Mulberry Street" by Dr. Seuss, you have an idea of what used to go on - except that I would actually tell the story with the elephants and giraffes and whatnot.

Later on in my childhood I began physically writing in a genre now called fan fiction. I didn't know really how to come up with stories of my own, so I borrowed elements from other things I'd read or watched and made those stories my own. That lasted throughout the rest of my life, though I stopped writing them down shortly after I had started. In my mind, the stories continue and I add myself in as keystone character to whatever plot I've just read.

In my teenage years I really took to writing. I loved to create things and I loved the idea that one day my name would be on the spines of the books that lined Barnes and Noble shelves. I had many teachers who encouraged me, despite the fact that they were - I'm sure - annoyed that I often favored my own stories over the homework they had issued. When I reached high school my teachers not only encouraged me, but helped me. They beta read my work, proofread for me, and suggested various self-publishing venues. All of my English and Language teachers loved my writing - except for one.

I don't remember his name. Let's call him John.

My relationship with John was a perfect example of how much you can devastate someone if you aren't careful of your words. He was my creative writing teacher, but I was not his favorite student. Looking back, I see two reasons for this: Firstly, I was a better writer than he was - grammatically speaking. I knew how to twist the words into a story much better than he did and whenever he slipped one of his works into the class partner-grading stack, I almost always failed him before knowing it was his work. The second is that John loved poetry much better than stories. We lingered only briefly on the creative writing and story building portion of the curriculum, but when we got to Poetry we stayed there all year.

I would like to point out, as a side note, that my Junior year poetry teacher was much better at teaching the dissecting, understanding, and creation of poetry than John was.

I did not favor poetry. I considered it - while John was teaching it - asinine and below the skills of someone who could actually write. I probably at one point even said "those who cannot write, write poetry." John insisted I turn in a quota of poetry, even though I was fully absorbed in what I still consider my best work of fiction yet. To motivate me, he told me that I wasn't good enough at fiction writing to have any future there, I didn't have the talent for it, but I might be able to manage poetry. To spite him I wrote 150 poems in the next few weeks and then continued to work on my book.

But the seed was planted. Even though I finished that book and completed another - along with various short stories - in the course of the next two years, that kernel of doubt was there. Was I a writer? Did I have what it took? I had several binders full to bursting with my writing and yet I still thought: "Can I actually write?"

Emotional tragedy struck my life in my Junior year and gave that seed a place to root. I switched to poetry, preferring the river-like movement of words to express my confused emotions over my stories. My teacher at the time, Mr. Jaggaditch, was amazing. He supported and encouraged me, and he helped me to make my writing - even my stories - better. But the seed was there, and the root had grown, and that summer I destroyed all of my best works. I started to review them, and I just heard John's voice in my head, telling me they were crap. A full novel with potential to become a series, a novella, several short stories, and many, many poems found fiery death in the grill in my driveway.

My emotional tragedy had hurt my heart deeply that past year, and  it could not withstand his harsh criticisms because the truth of the matter is that every piece of writing I have ever produced - fiction, poetry, essays, everything - came from a place deep within my heart. A place that was connected to my soul. And with my heart already in battered condition, John's criticism which had been dormant for almost two whole years collapsed the connection.

Once I burned those writings it was like sealing off the entrance to a gold mine while there's still gold left. I knew there was potential there, I knew it was still in me somewhere, but I just couldn't reach it anymore. My heart, my soul, even my mind mourned the loss. I tried once in a while to pick the writing back up, but I never felt like it was good enough because it never quite came from the same place. That place was blocked, and I eventually gave up hope that it would ever re-open. Writing, which was once such a huge part of me, became something I used to do. It became a part of my past, like Barbie dolls or Playdough.

For years, it stayed that way. I would probe, once in a while, poking at the part of my soul my writing came from to see if anything would emerge. It didn't. My heart mourned the loss of my best works - and still does to this day.

I may never be an author. I may never have my name on the spine of a book, or my writing on a shelf in Barnes and Noble. I may never know the alternate joy and despair of reader's reviews or of trying to find a publisher that will take me on. But recently I've discovered that I am still, and always will be, a writer.

You see, being a writer isn't about whether you're published. It isn't even about whether anyone ever reads what you've written. It's about having that place, deep within your heart and connected to your soul, where your writing comes from. It's about having the story in you. It's about sitting down and - whether it's on a computer screen or a legal pad or a spiral notebook - creating that world where the story happens.

Writing is still very hard for me, I'm still working on the seal to that gold mine. Sometimes, I get so frustrated with my inability to know where things need to go next that I just stop. But for as long as I live, I will be writing. It's just too much a part of me for me to ignore it anymore. The stories are there, I just have to re-learn how to get them out.

Which means that in the next few months or years or however long it takes, you get to watch me try.

Addendum:

The real point when I actually stopped writing, when I just gave in and said "I cannot do this anymore" was when my best friend and biggest stick-it-all-out supporter died. I think I'll do a different blog on him, how much he meant to me, and why - for a time - my writing died with him.

Adjusting

I'm still adjusting to the new layout and whatnot for blogger. Believe it or not, that explains why I just dumped the whole Dr Who challenge into published form at once. The queuing system used to allow me to write out a post and then post it when I wanted to, at which point it would be categorized by the date posted. Not anymore. Now it categorizes by date written. Go figure.

So feel free to go look at the posts about my favorite and least favorite parts of Dr Who, and in the near future I'll be picking up a different blogging challenge to entertain us with.

Update for the past week or so

I've just realized that I once again forgot to write anything for Monday. Truth be told, life around here has been kindof boring. Same ol' same ol'. Dearest has been sick, and it really tears me apart to see him in pain - he caught a cold, sinus infection, and flu at about the same time and now they've all morphed together into some kind of superflu thing. I don't think he's contagious though, since the worst thing plaguing me is boredom, laziness, and allergies.

A friend of mine has been having some marriage troubles and we've been trying our best to be present and supportive for them. It hurts us to see them hurting this way, which in a way is a little amazing since we haven't known them very long.

Isn't this picture awesome? 

Dearest gets sweeter every day - which is awesome. I'm so very glad to not be in the place we were last year, with him medicated out of his mind and unable to really be a good companion. He's getting a lot better at saying the things I need to hear, even if they sound a little weird. For example, yesterday he assured me that he thinks I smell pretty - not something most girls would think of as something they need to hear, but for someone who desperately misses scented soaps and lotions it's unexpectedly comforting to know that he thinks my non-scent (clean) smells nice. He still doesn't remember when my birthday is, but he remembers our anniversary (he should, since he picked the date) and though he can't remember that I want him to get me flowers for our anniversary he does know that it's essential to my emotional sense of "all is well with the world" that we do something special and out of the ordinary to celebrate. Honestly, since I can't even explain why it's so important that he buy me flowers for our anniversary, I don't mind having to remind him that day. I'd much rather he remember to make dinner plans for us somewhere. He's getting a lot better than he used to be at romance and pushing those mental and emotional buttons that make me feel loved and taken care of, and I really really appreciate all of his efforts.

Our dishwasher broke, making all of his jokes (like, "tell her to get back to it" when I tell him the dishwasher's not working) true. On the bright side, having to wash the dishes by hand is helping me to work on beating my overall laziness when it comes to housework.

We spent...a lot of money...on yard work equipment this week, but it was all things we actually rather desperately needed so I guess I don't feel too bad. I finally got the hedges our neighbor planted - which have since been growing into and taking over our side of the fence - trimmed. I also discovered a few rose plants that have probably never been supported properly and I tied them to each other and the fence with some yarn; not a permanent fix but good enough for the time being. I still have a lot to do with the yard: cleaning up after having trimmed the hedges, supporting the rest of the rose plants, weeding, getting a few potted plants strategically placed and then keeping them alive, that sort of thing. I also have to clean out the fountain that probably hasn't been cleaned or turned on in years.

The inside of my house is much more of the same. Although I did finally get to Laundry Mountain yesterday - with the help of the ironing board Dearest bought me - I still have so much to do and so little motivation to do it. I'm working on it though.

In the last few weeks I've turned a huge canvas shopping bag full of yarn into a canvas bag full of hats for our Imagi-Knit group. Nothing fancy, just beanie-style hats. I love working with the yarn and since I got it for free I have no issues re-donating the hats.

We are still having a few financial struggles, but things are getting so much better. Soon (dear God, please let it be soon) we won't ever have to eat chili again. For those of you who don't know, we've been having chili for lunch and dinner almost every day since January. I, for one, am far past ready to be done.

With my recent download of the Kindle app I've gotten back into novels - which Dearest and my mentor would probably both frown upon. It's a welcome break for me, though, since many of the books I read for the sake of self improvement are fairly dry and quite difficult for me to get through. With a novel, there's nothing to learn or absorb. You just have an adventure in your head and then you're done. Reading the other books has often left me exhausted from the sheer effort it takes to focus and read and absorb what is there. I will get back to them, but for just right now I'm taking a break.

We found a neat new app, called Pirq. It's a coupon app, sort of, and as far as I know just in WA and some areas of OR. It's really fabulous. Businesses sign up with Pirq and put out a limited number of a certain offer to help them get more business, then the users of pirq take advantage of those offers. For example, yesterday we claimed one of twelve available 50% off coupons for a pizza place in the area between 12:30 and 2:30. It was delicious.

I finally finished King of the Hill on Netflix. I tried showing a few episodes to my boss' daughter but I guess to understand the show and think it's funny you had to at least have been alive during the 90s when it was airing and relevant. In any case, that series went on forever! 13 seasons with between 12 and 32 episodes each...LOTS of King of the Hill, and I will probably never watch it again. I have taken all I can take.

Now I'm moving on to Lie to Me, which I've watched before and just need to catch up on. I absolutely adore this show, I love  the Cal Lightman character and the way he interacts with people, and I love the science behind figuring these things out. For those who don't know, Lie to Me is about a firm of people whose sole job is to read people. They know how to pick out microexpressions in body language, how to read what a person is not saying, and how to really get inside the heads of the people they talk to. In the series, their skills are usually called upon to solve mysteries or catch criminals. If you liked Psych or Monk, you'll adore Lie to Me (and if you like Lie to Me, you should check out Psych and Monk, they're more hilarious versions of the same type of thing, minus the microexpression focus.)

That's really all of what's been going on here. Lots and lots of nothing exciting. lol

A totally irrelevant ramble.

My subconscious sends me messages in my sleep. I'm beginning to think it hates me.

My past isn't sunshine and roses. The emotions tied to my past are largely negative. And just when I think that I've finally let it all go and started to move on, here comes my subconscious to remind me: "No, you haven't. It still hurts. You're just hiding."

So I guess the question becomes: How do you let go of a past that won't let go of you? My past still has its sharp, poisoned talons deep in my heart, and I don't know how to dislodge them. So far, prayers that God will help me move past all this has only brought days and nights full of memories I don't want to have anymore. I don't want to remember, because I don't know how to deal with it. I'd love to just "put the past behind me" and move on, but my attempts to do so thus far have only resulted in it at my back, waiting for a chance to strike.

How do you move on from the past when it still hurts?

I've read psychology articles and books, I've talked to psych students, I've studied as much as I can stand to - all to figure this one out. The answers I can find seem like crap. Validate the emotion and then you can move on. But how do you validate an emotion from years ago that - logically - should not even be felt anymore?

ugh.

It's Thursday, and I really just want to go back to sleep and start today over again...except that my subconscious is hard on my heels and I don't want to deal with it.

Oh, well...coffee and netflix and laundry and dishes and about a million other things call my name today. Time to get a move on.

A bunch more

Favorite quote: "I'm burning up a sun just to say goodbye" or "You're scottish, fry something!"

Favorite catchphrase: "What are you?"

Favorite gadget: SONIC SCREWDRIVER!!

Favorite interview: Don't have one
Favorite guest star: Don't have one

When you became a fan of Dr Who: Two years ago on May 2nd, when - for the first time - I sat on the couch with Dearest and watched an episode on netflix.

Monday Makeup

I forgot to make my post yesterday, so here it is today. The week was fairly uneventful until Saturday, when we went to an amazingly beautiful wedding and a friend's kid's birthday party. That's about all I have to say about the week, though.  Pictures above.