The Monster Under Your Bed

Build a Better Mousetrap

~*~

Well, guess who is a Pelican now? On December 7th, the Crown, John Paul and Gylian elevated me to the Noble Order of Service, known as the Pelican.

That takes me beyond being a Lady, or even an Honorable Lady....I'm a Mistress now.

Mistress Sorcha McCullogh.

~*~

::cough:: But I'm still naughty and a Wench....

It's come to my attention that some people I know are of the mind that perhaps I shouldn't be discussing my anxiety disorder and depression in an open forum like Facebook, but should instead perhaps keep it under wraps and shared with family and close friends only.

This opinion is theirs. As if Anxiety Disorder and Depression were something shameful, to be kept hidden. As if my emotions and moods were something to be kept in the closet, hidden from polite society.

A personal weakness that makes me a weak person.

They fear that this weakness diminishes me in the eyes of the rest of the world. That you think less of me as a capable functioning adult, because sometimes I have bad days that overwhelm me.

Well. Let me open this closet door and let some light shine in.

Because if this was you, then you my friend, have been sadly misinformed.

I'll let you know now that your concerns have been heard. On one level, I appreciate your concern. Thank you for looking out for me. But on the other you need to understand something. I have come a long way, through a very dark tunnel, to get where I am today. This is MY fight, not yours. And if I choose to scream it from mountain tops, that is my business.

If my friends choose to think of me as a weak person, because I suffer from Anxiety and Depression, then that is their choice. But it weakens them in my eyes. Truly, no one who has ever suffered from a depressive issue could ever discount what a fight it is to just survive on a daily basis. No one who has ever been in the grips of uncontrolled anxiety could ever call another sufferer *weak*.

It is the ignorant *happy people* who look at someone with issues such as these as weak. Mental disorders are no different than cancer or diabetes. They are a progressive illness that when left untreated and ignored, WILL KILL the person who suffers from them.

Let that sink in for a minute. KILL THEM. Dead. End of game. They may not have been taking insulin shots for years, they may still have all of their hair, they may have looked completely healthy. All of those years.

In the end, they are no less dead than the cancer sufferer. Maybe they left a better looking corpse.

Maybe.

The thing you don't understand, my concerned friend, is that I AM just like the person with cancer. Just like the person tied to the blood sugar machine. I *HAVE* to take my medications every day OR I WILL DIE. Why do you belittle me, the person struggling to survive, yet proudly wave the pink ribbon and cheer on the cancer survivors?

So think of me as a weaker person if you want to. Discount my words, ideas, and leadership....if that is your choice. But do not think for one minute that I am going to shut this closet door to make YOU feel more comfortable. Don't think that your concerns are going to make me be less vocal, open, and less of an advocate for those with mental health issues.

You wouldn't ask the insulin dependent diabetic to please stop taking care of their health. You wouldn't ask the cancer survivor to please stop being ill around you.

Please don't ask me to shut that closet door because depression makes you uncomfortable.

I am busy surviving here.

Dad's in a physical rehab hospital this week after falling and nearly breaking his hip. But his pain levels aren't being treated well enough (according to Edna, Dad's new wife). And she's afraid he's had another mini-stroke.

She got desperate enough to call my brother last night and ask for help. My brother is a Physician Assistant and can speak Doctor fluently, whereas Edna thinks she's being ignored. So Chris will talk to Dad tonight on the phone and try to convince him to sign the release of information records so he can make sure Dad's getting the care he needs.

And possibly see if Dad will agree to make Chris his temporary Medical Power of Attorney...which *I* see as a good thing. How Dad will view it is an unknown. Hopefully, he doesn't see it as giving up his power but will see it as having an ally on his side to argue for his medical care.

Chris, I imagine, isn't thrilled about being drug into this...he's been estranged from Dad since last November when Dad chose to get married without arranging it so that Chris and his family could attend.

I, honestly, am gleeful that he's being dragged into Dad's care. They need to talk, they need to heal their rift, and hopefully, my brother will be smart enough to let things go before we lose Dad and he learns the definition of regret.

We've been married for 21 years. We've been together for 28.

We're best friends. Each other's shield, shoulder, and support system.

But we've reached a point where the fires, well...they don't burn quite as hot as they used to. Part of it is medical. He's on medications that keep certain fires from flaming, if you get my drift. But a good deal of it is just...comfortability.

We're just too comfortable.

The fire is banked, we're tucked in for the night, and sleep is calling our names.

~*~

I remember Fire.

I remember when the flames burned hot, and high, and almost out of control. We burned like the dry brush of a forest fire. Licking, devouring, razing the landscape bare until we lay alongside each other, covered in sweat, panting for air.

.
.
.

When we were younger and had more energy and less stress.

~*~

Some nights I think about stoking that fire. Adding a log, some tinder, and blowing to see if the spark can be rekindled.

But my own insecurities raise their head and I draw back from the woodpile. Almost afraid to find out that no amount of kindling will get even a small fire glowing in the night.

~*~

Today the fire sometimes seems to be barely there. A kiss here, a touch there...a far cry from what we once were.

But just enough to see by the glow of the fire's light.

No one really knows why one becomes a ghost. It's almost like Fate flips a coin and "Heads!", you journey on to an afterlife. Or "Tails!", your spirit gets stuck on a never-ending eternal plane of half existence. Unlucky.

I suppose it could be worse. Not all deaths are met with choruses of cherubic angels and halos. Oh no...sometimes those trumpets herald a darker ending for a soul. Witness those passings and well, you realize that ending up as a ghost isn't *that* bad after all.

If you're lucky, you die someplace interesting. A house, a bar, maybe a school is built over your death spot. Someplace to haunt. Someplace with people. Some place with *LIFE*.

God forbid you should die in some frozen remote location, far from human civilization, with nothing to keep you company except the howling winds and the occasional snow leopard.

Eternity is a long damned time to be stuck as a ghost without some level of life going on around you. And a frozen lake in the Himalayas is about as shitty a location to die in as well...ALMOST ANY PLACE ELSE ON EARTH. Wanna guess how I know how miserable THAT existence is? Voice of experience here. Unlucky.

Imagine our surprise when they found us. We'd been in that lake for hundreds of years. Which for humans is a long time, but for an earth-trapped spirit, it felt like forever.

They say that the longer we remain, the more we fade, passing through your world, maybe glimpsed just out of the corner of your eye, a mere shadow. But that actually takes more time than you'd expect. So I was still quite active when they came to that frozen lake and dragged us up onto the shore.

They dragged our bones out of the water and onto the banks. There were so many bones, you could tell they were confused about the whole situation. So many bones, but remarkably, very few ghosts. Remember that coin flip? Most got lucky.

Me? Eternally unlucky...

Eventually, the scientists carefully packed us up in crates and brought us down that God-forsaken mountain to the museum labs for further study. My bones had been packed, and I had no desire to remain with that frozen death field, so I went along with them.

Being a ghost, you really learn what the word commitment means. Because you are. Committed, that is. Whether you like it or not there is no Manager to speak to or complaint department to call. Stranded, as we are in this world, we've few options for anything really.

So, while we can, we watch you. And I watched. Some of the porters mumbled about curses and ghosts, and I had to chuckle. Oh, if they only knew what they carried down that mountain with them.

Being dead really offsets any human responsibility you once might have had. After all, what's to stop you from creating a little havoc? Once you're a ghost, your sense of right and wrong really becomes a moot point. Who's going to tell you no, or punish you?

So, we rattle you.

And so I figured, why the hell not?

It started simply enough. A pen would go missing when the scientist had just laid it down.

"I was sure I'd just laid that here..."

A sample might move from one table to another.

"Would you please leave my samples alone?!?"

Then I discovered electricity. Oh, now THAT was a lucky find!

We find ways to mess with your lives, then vanish with little remorse for our misdeeds and mischiefs. We do these things because we have nothing better to do.

And we do these things because we can.

I have a sinus infection and a double ear infection. I feel like I should get some sort of medal or something.

So Dad is getting married.

And I'm trying to be okay with this, but that devil Anxiety has risen with the new situation and has me firmly in its teeth.

A little needed background...

~*~

12 years ago my parents hired a housekeeper, Edna, to help around the house, since Mom was in a wheelchair with her MS, and unable to do basic chores. Dad was caring for Mom full time, and he didn't have the time or energy to keep up either.

Edna would come over once or twice a week to do the dishes, laundry, clean the bathrooms, do the dishes, and anything else that was needed. Sometimes she would bring her grandchildren over, and Mom...who loved babies, would watch them in their playpen.

Then 8 years ago we lost Mom. But Dad kept Edna on because she needed the work, and he'd lost his purpose to live and the last thing he cared about was dishes or clean clothing. She helped him after his heart attack several years ago.

So I've known Edna for a long time. Sometimes she'd call me if she couldn't get Dad to answer the door (always in a panic), or if she thought something needed fixing.

~*~

6 weeks ago I called Dad for our weekly chat and he told me that he and Edna were, "Living in sin" (you have to know my Dad's sense of humor on this) and that she was spending 2 or 3 nights a week at his place. Initially, although surprised, I was happy for him. He needed companionship...more than I was providing, and if she made him happy, then I was all for it.

Then things started speeding up.

Really fast.

It went from 2-3 nights a week to, "We're buying a bigger bed" to "Edna's redoing the Master bedroom" to, "We want to get married, ASAP".

In 6 weeks.

~*~

Now, I'm not bothered by her redoing the master bedroom. Mom passed in that room, and Dad never spent more than half an hour in it since her passing. Within a week of her passing, Dad was getting rid of her clothing, their bedroom suite, anything that had to do with my Mother, he was purging.

At the time I was told that sometimes, that's how people grieve. And Mom passed 8 years ago...if Dad's okay with sleeping in the Master bedroom, redecorated, then I'm happy for him. My brother Chris does not feel the same way. In his eyes, that's Mom's room, Mom's house.

And I don't really believe she's out to get his money, for one thing...it took 8 years for them to get together. She could have moved in on him a lot faster. Secondly, all the money he's spending has gone into home improvements, that were needed. He's given her what he calls a "nest egg" to buy things, but otherwise, all the money they are spending is to replace broken furniture, new paint, repairing the toilet, etc...

He supposedly told Edna that the new paint and all the redecorating have made him feel like he's being released from a prison he's been in for 8 years. That may be the most emotion I've heard from him in YEARS.

~*~

Here's the hard part, and if you've stuck with me this long, kudos to you.

Dad, in his smitten, head-over-heels, self bought her a gift. A silver teapot. With their names engraved on it, and room for a wedding date.

When he married my Mother, he bought her the very same gift. I tried to not let this bother me (it infuriated my brother) but God help me...it bothers me. To the point that I am sobbing tears, just thinking about it.

Dad wants to get a wedding set and give her the engagement ring, and then do the Justice of the Peace thing ASAP. He'd do it today if he could, I think. And I am very much, "WHOOOOOAAAAAA....what's the rush?!?!?!".

6 weeks...we've gone from friends with bennies to going to the chapel in 6 weeks.

~*~

I told my brother about this relationship and its Warp Speed procession. So the other day, Chris dropped in to meet Edna (I don't think he's ever met her before), and get the lay of the land, so to speak. Edna took to Chris's wife right away and showed her around the house, at all the improvements they've been making.

But she never spoke to Chris. Not even a "Hello". And my 14-year-old niece was there, and Edna completely ignored her. Dad's met Edna's kids and grandkids, and all is peachy keen there. But not so much on our side of the family.

I'm trying to give her some grace...maybe she's nervous to speak to my brother. Maybe she's not feeling 100% in her new position, and she doesn't know how to approach him.

But...acknowledge him. Do *SOMETHING*...

When I talked to Dad, after Chris's visit, he was excited that, "they'd passed the test". Oh, if he only knew how badly they did NOT pass that test...

~*~

And there are things I need to know...

Dad had very specific funeral plans. And as much as I don't want to think of end-of-life plans, once he marries her, she's Next of Kin, and our plan to follow his directives potentially goes out the window.

And then there's the matter of the Will and his assets. Is he going to change it? If so, how much? I know this may make me sound like a horrid person, worrying about money and assets, but if it does, then I am a horrible person.

~*~

Chris and I want to take Dad and Edna out to lunch on the 9th and talk about this wedding, and our concerns. But Chris is currently pretty pissed, Dad's going to feel attacked, Edna is an unknown quantity, so I have to be the grownup.

Saturday night I was awake all night. Despite a hefty dose of my sleeping pills, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how much my life is going to change.

I don't deal well with huge changes.

Fast, huge changes.

The World's Greatest Headshrinker is going to earn her money this next couple of weeks.

Well, hello! 2019, correct? Please, call me Sorcha. You have no idea how glad I am to meet you! Do come in and have a seat.

Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea? Please, make yourself comfortable. We're going to be working together for the next 365 days, I want you to feel right at home here. They say that first impressions are the most important, and I want us to start off right.

2018 and I, well...we didn't quite get off on the right foot with each other. And it put a bit of a strain on our relationship. You see, I was quite angry and not at all cooperative with the whole "New Year, New Leadership" philosophy. And 2018 had a lot of really grandiose ideas. Not all of which I was on board with.

But, I've mellowed a good bit. Not quite so ranty. And well, 2018...he's been plugging along, God bless him, despite some really horrible press.

But you and I...ahhh, I want great things for the two of us! You're coming in with 365 days of open possibilities, and I'm feeling kinda hopeful and excited.

Did you know I got us a gym membership?!?! Well,::chuckle:: I certainly did! I feel like making some positive changes!

Of course, I'm still going to post inappropriate memes...and we're probably not going to work on that sarcasm thing. Then there's the laughing at sexual innuendoes like a 15-year-old boy...would I stop doing that? Abso-fucking-lutely not!

Oh, we're going to have the best time, 2019! I can just feel it!

I'm signing up for Second Chance!

If there's one thing you need to know about Sorcha is that she's good at giving you the impression that she doesn't give a shit. Sorcha was never what anyone would call "Lady-like". When it came to the gentler pursuits, Sorcha had little time or patience.

But let someone suggest a wet chemise competition and she was right there with a bucket of water.

Raunchy and inappropriate? Yes.

Did she give a shit? No.

~*~

Sorcha was a wench. And she was good at it. Full of bawdy jokes and ribald humor, she could be counted on for a double entendre without hesitation.

Did she flirt? Like it was her native language.

~*~

When she formed a Household of young women based on Monty Python's Castle Anthrax (from The Holy Grail), did she care that everyone automatically assumed that they were into spankings and oral sex?

Nope.

~*~

There were stories about Sorcha over the years. The time she "slept with 4 men and a Knight" or the "drunken orgy at that Eldern Hills event". She'd hear these tales and with ease, blush, shake her head in denial and smile a secret smile, neither confirming nor denying the story's truth.

And she never appeared to give a shit about whatever bit of drama was circling her name at the time.

~*~

Wenching came easily to Sorcha. And she believed in sharing that talent with everyone. At one event, a strong storm came and everyone was forced to hide in shelters as tornadic weather passed overhead. Sorcha had been telling her Household Sisters that day that being a wench didn't just mean you got to flirt with the cute guys and girls...but that you shared your humor and friendliness with everyone. No. Matter. What.

It just happened that event a young man was there who was wheelchairbound. Since they were all trapped in a bathroom for the foreseeable future, Sorcha took it upon herself to show her Sisters exactly what she meant.

Declaring that she was tired of standing and bored with the tornado, Sorcha went over and plopped herself into the young man's lap...and proceeded to flirt with him, the same way she'd flirted and joked with any number of people sharing that bathroom.

For over an hour Sorcha and her Sisters entertained the populace in the bathroom with wit and laughter. The worry over the storm was lessened.

Finally, the all-clear was called and everyone emerged from the shelter. As Sorcha and her sisters started back to camp to see about damage, a man stopped her and thanked her. He was the host of the young man in the wheelchair, who had never been to an SCA event before...and who had been largely ignored by the rest of the populace, according to his friend. He thanked Sorcha for making his friend feel welcomed and like a normal SCA'er.

~*~

Sorcha was a firm believer that by making people laugh and smile, you improved their game in the Society. And by doing so, you improved your own. So it came naturally to her to treat everyone as a potential victim of a bit of bawdy humor.

And she really didn't give a shit about what anyone thought of her sense of humor and behavior.

~*~

While she's grown older, Sorcha hasn't matured much over the years. She's gotten a little more savvy about when and where to make an inappropriate joke...but she's learned new jokes over the years too. Maybe there is a little more tact and she tries not to curse around the kids as much, but overall her lack of giving a shit still holds true.

When she stands before a Bardic audience, you may hear a ballad of bravery, a love poem, or a raunchy song about "Four and Twenty Virgins". The wench may be older, but she's lost none of her shine or her spark.




{Icon change in honor of the post~Sorcha}