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LJ Idol-Season 20: Introduction
Sep. 5th, 2026 01:10 pm::taps the mic::
This thing on?
:: a screech of feedback blasts my ears::
Sorry guys! My bad!
How many times have I written an Introduction entry for Idol, and here I am, wondering what to say...
~*~
I just want you to know I'm going to be that one friend who curses, can be asked ANY question and you'll get an honest opinion, and knows where to buy the best sex toys.
You may not want to invite me to meet your parents, but you know you can ask me to join you in just about any crazy adventure and I'll bring the Crisco and rubber sheets.
~*~
I'm a housewife who devotes her life to the ideals of Donna Reed. I love baking, cleaning, cooking, and making sure my husband's needs are met before anything else. My life is full with bake sales, church luncheons, and teaching poor Guatemalan slum children to appreciate the gifts God has given them, gosh darnit.
No...really...I can't believe you'd doubt *ME*
~*~
Some things I thought you should know...
1. I'm a tree hugging dirt worshiper who doesn't believe in Hell. I think Jesus was a smart man....but a man for all of that. I am a firm believer that the Bible was written by MEN and men are fallible. I will let you tell me about your Faith. But please don't try and convince me I'm wrong and going to Hell.
Really.
Please.
Don't make me break out the Book, it never ends well...Logic and all of that….
John 8:7
Matthew 7:1-5
Galatians 5:14
Yeah, I read it too.
And please, let’s not have the discussion that *X* book is a parable of God’s word, but *X* book is His direct message.
~*~
2. I spent 11 years of my life dealing with and caring for children with mental issues. This has created a lack of children in my life.
My loins are fallow ground. Nothing grows there.
To quote Gandalf: The way is shut.
I have chosen to NOT have children because at least with dogs, I can chain em in the back yard or beat them with a rolled up newspaper and not have CPS called on me.
Kidding.
Kinda.
No...really...I'm joking. I like kids. That's some good eatin right there, if ya get em young enough.
No. Really....kidding.
Don't get me wrong, I like kids. Love some of them. But we won't be having any human ones of our own. Please don't tell me I *need* to have some, that my life will be fulfilled.
My life is quite full enough, thank you. Except for the gaping hole where *you* used to be if you don’t knock off the Quiverfull bullshit.
~*~
3. I'm sarcastic.
I know, this is going to come as a shock to some of you. But...it's true. Let me give you a moment to recover……
K, done.
I also have a serious allergy to stupidity, which inflames the sarcasm gene. I have a tendency to spout funny, but potentially embarrassing things when confronted by excessive stupidity. My handlers know to get me away from the offending problem before I am over-exposed and become verbal.
Dreamwidth is NOT a safe space.
But, if I walk out of a gathering, do not come chase me down. Send my Beloved Spouse. He’s probably safer than anyone else.
~*~
4. I've got a very extremely dirty mind. I can make perverts blush. I have skills. I know people who have better skills. No, I will not share that information with you.
There is a very select list of people who are privy. There's an even shorter list of people who've been witness. Your chances of getting on either list are slim.
Unless I'm feeling evil and want to watch your brain scream in fear.
~*~
5. This space for rent.
~*~
6. I am an active Empath.
Google it. Ask my friends.
I may not know EXACTLY what you're thinking, but believe me when I say I can tell when you're smiling to my face and getting ready to stab me in the back.
This also means that you're not going to get around with the fake, "I'm fine!" squeak when you're falling apart. Prepare to be boarded.
~*~
7. I am one of the most loyal people you'll find. If I bring you into my circle, you've got a friend who will go above and beyond the call of friendship to help you.
Despite my possible shortcomings, I'll fight like a lion to defend you if you're in trouble. And woe to the person who's fucking with you.
~*~
These are the basics. If you have a question, please...ask me. I'll agree to be honest if you can agree to not be judgmental.
~*~
In the SCA I'm....
Mistress Sorcha
Matriarch of House Anthrax
Voice of Reason and Logic Enforcer for House Black Company
"Cogito ergo non phallus"
High Priestess of Bondage Equipment Procurement,
Initiate (3rd degree) into the Mysteries of Mass Wenchings,
Grand Dame of Midnight Maulings,
Handmaiden to the Goddess of Unusual Pleasures,
Pastor of Peculiar Predicaments,
Elder in the Order of Outrageous Expression,
Sorceress of Cyber Silliness, and
The Right Righteous Reverend of Rumor Control.....
"You may bow."
This thing on?
:: a screech of feedback blasts my ears::
Sorry guys! My bad!
How many times have I written an Introduction entry for Idol, and here I am, wondering what to say...
~*~
I just want you to know I'm going to be that one friend who curses, can be asked ANY question and you'll get an honest opinion, and knows where to buy the best sex toys.
You may not want to invite me to meet your parents, but you know you can ask me to join you in just about any crazy adventure and I'll bring the Crisco and rubber sheets.
~*~
I'm a housewife who devotes her life to the ideals of Donna Reed. I love baking, cleaning, cooking, and making sure my husband's needs are met before anything else. My life is full with bake sales, church luncheons, and teaching poor Guatemalan slum children to appreciate the gifts God has given them, gosh darnit.
No...really...I can't believe you'd doubt *ME*
~*~
Some things I thought you should know...
1. I'm a tree hugging dirt worshiper who doesn't believe in Hell. I think Jesus was a smart man....but a man for all of that. I am a firm believer that the Bible was written by MEN and men are fallible. I will let you tell me about your Faith. But please don't try and convince me I'm wrong and going to Hell.
Really.
Please.
Don't make me break out the Book, it never ends well...Logic and all of that….
John 8:7
Matthew 7:1-5
Galatians 5:14
Yeah, I read it too.
And please, let’s not have the discussion that *X* book is a parable of God’s word, but *X* book is His direct message.
~*~
2. I spent 11 years of my life dealing with and caring for children with mental issues. This has created a lack of children in my life.
My loins are fallow ground. Nothing grows there.
To quote Gandalf: The way is shut.
I have chosen to NOT have children because at least with dogs, I can chain em in the back yard or beat them with a rolled up newspaper and not have CPS called on me.
Kidding.
Kinda.
No...really...I'm joking. I like kids. That's some good eatin right there, if ya get em young enough.
No. Really....kidding.
Don't get me wrong, I like kids. Love some of them. But we won't be having any human ones of our own. Please don't tell me I *need* to have some, that my life will be fulfilled.
My life is quite full enough, thank you. Except for the gaping hole where *you* used to be if you don’t knock off the Quiverfull bullshit.
~*~
3. I'm sarcastic.
I know, this is going to come as a shock to some of you. But...it's true. Let me give you a moment to recover……
K, done.
I also have a serious allergy to stupidity, which inflames the sarcasm gene. I have a tendency to spout funny, but potentially embarrassing things when confronted by excessive stupidity. My handlers know to get me away from the offending problem before I am over-exposed and become verbal.
Dreamwidth is NOT a safe space.
But, if I walk out of a gathering, do not come chase me down. Send my Beloved Spouse. He’s probably safer than anyone else.
~*~
4. I've got a very extremely dirty mind. I can make perverts blush. I have skills. I know people who have better skills. No, I will not share that information with you.
There is a very select list of people who are privy. There's an even shorter list of people who've been witness. Your chances of getting on either list are slim.
Unless I'm feeling evil and want to watch your brain scream in fear.
~*~
5. This space for rent.
~*~
6. I am an active Empath.
Google it. Ask my friends.
I may not know EXACTLY what you're thinking, but believe me when I say I can tell when you're smiling to my face and getting ready to stab me in the back.
This also means that you're not going to get around with the fake, "I'm fine!" squeak when you're falling apart. Prepare to be boarded.
~*~
7. I am one of the most loyal people you'll find. If I bring you into my circle, you've got a friend who will go above and beyond the call of friendship to help you.
Despite my possible shortcomings, I'll fight like a lion to defend you if you're in trouble. And woe to the person who's fucking with you.
~*~
These are the basics. If you have a question, please...ask me. I'll agree to be honest if you can agree to not be judgmental.
~*~
In the SCA I'm....
Mistress Sorcha
Matriarch of House Anthrax
Voice of Reason and Logic Enforcer for House Black Company
"Cogito ergo non phallus"
High Priestess of Bondage Equipment Procurement,
Initiate (3rd degree) into the Mysteries of Mass Wenchings,
Grand Dame of Midnight Maulings,
Handmaiden to the Goddess of Unusual Pleasures,
Pastor of Peculiar Predicaments,
Elder in the Order of Outrageous Expression,
Sorceress of Cyber Silliness, and
The Right Righteous Reverend of Rumor Control.....
"You may bow."
Good evening,
Sep. 4th, 2026 09:31 amSince I last wrote, I’ve caught myself pausing in the middle of ordinary work, hands
half-raised, as if I’m waiting for a signal only you can give. It’s a strange thing to be steady by nature and still feel pulled off-center by a person I’m only beginning to know.
You do that to me. Quietly. Thoroughly.
I keep thinking about your word, “Still.” I like it more every time it crosses my mind. It tells me you understood exactly what I meant when I offered you control. It tells me you can be brave without being reckless. It tells me you have a spine, and you also know how to
protect your peace. That combination does something to me, and I’m not going to
pretend it doesn’t.
You asked for the truth I’ve been keeping. You didn’t ask with ink, maybe, but I felt it in the way the air changes when a question lands in the right place. I’m going to give you a
piece of it now. A fragment. Something you can hold up to the light and decide for
yourself if I’m real, if I’m worth your attention, if I’m safe.
Here it is, plain.
I recognize you.
Not the way a man recognizes a face he’s passed on the street, or a voice he’s heard once
and filed away. I recognize you like my body already knows the shape of your silence. Like
I’ve been listening for your honesty for longer than I’ve had any right to.
And before you tense, before you start building a wall out of logic and perfectly reasonable suspicion, let me put my hand where it belongs in this. On the boundary. On the promise.
You are safe with me.
You are not a puzzle I need to solve, or a prize I intend to win. You are a person I want to know, and wanting you has made me more careful, not less. If you decide this is too much, you can step back. If you decide you want to walk away, you can. Your life stays intact. Your peace stays yours. I will not turn desire into pressure. I will not turn mystery into a trap.
I will still mean what I’ve already told you: I see the real you.
That line isn’t a flourish. It’s a discipline. It’s me choosing the part of you that doesn’t perform. The part that wants, and then tries to edit herself for being human. You don’t have to do that with me, Love. I’m not asking you to be smaller so I can feel bigger.
There’s a reason I’m telling you this now, and it’s because I’d rather you test me than trust me blindly. So I’m giving you a clue you can keep in your pocket. You can treat it like a match you haven’t struck yet.
When you’re ready, touch that little scrap of leather again. Feel the softened edge.
Remember the rule we made, one unedited sentence, and give me one back when you
feel like it. Keep it simple. Keep it yours.
Because I’m going to do something that can’t be faked with charm.
I’m going to speak to you as if I’ve stood where you’ve stood, without you ever leading me
there.
Before I do, I want you to hear the way I’m holding this. I’m not using it to corner you with fate. I’m using it to offer you a clearer choice. If this recognition in me makes you curious, you can lean in. If it makes you wary, you can keep your distance. Either way, I stay respectful. Either way, I keep my hands to myself unless invited. Either way, if you ever say “Still,” I go still, and you’ll feel how immediate my obedience is.
You like a man who can fix things. Here’s what I’m trying to fix, quietly, with the patience of a man tightening a bolt until it sits right. I’m trying to fix the idea that longing has to be dangerous to be exciting. With me, it gets to be thrilling and clean at the same time. Heat with a conscience. Desire with a spine.
I’ll give you my two lines, the way my mind keeps writing you when I’m not looking:
You don’t have to shout to be heard by me.
I was trained by your silence, and I stayed.
Hold that, if you want. Roll your eyes if you need to. I’ll take the hit and keep going,
because I can handle you exactly as you are.
One more thing, and it matters.
This isn’t me asking you to carry something heavy. This isn’t me setting up a heartbreak.
This is me laying a careful truth on the table and keeping my palms open so you can see
I’m not hiding a blade. Whatever this is between us, it’s allowed to be private and still be honest. It’s allowed to be intense and still be safe. And it’s allowed to grow slowly, in a way that keeps you chosen at every step.
So read this once, then read it again, and pay attention to what your body does on the
second pass.
I am going to describe a place you have never shown me, and you will know I am not
guessing.
Yours,
R.
half-raised, as if I’m waiting for a signal only you can give. It’s a strange thing to be steady by nature and still feel pulled off-center by a person I’m only beginning to know.
You do that to me. Quietly. Thoroughly.
I keep thinking about your word, “Still.” I like it more every time it crosses my mind. It tells me you understood exactly what I meant when I offered you control. It tells me you can be brave without being reckless. It tells me you have a spine, and you also know how to
protect your peace. That combination does something to me, and I’m not going to
pretend it doesn’t.
You asked for the truth I’ve been keeping. You didn’t ask with ink, maybe, but I felt it in the way the air changes when a question lands in the right place. I’m going to give you a
piece of it now. A fragment. Something you can hold up to the light and decide for
yourself if I’m real, if I’m worth your attention, if I’m safe.
Here it is, plain.
I recognize you.
Not the way a man recognizes a face he’s passed on the street, or a voice he’s heard once
and filed away. I recognize you like my body already knows the shape of your silence. Like
I’ve been listening for your honesty for longer than I’ve had any right to.
And before you tense, before you start building a wall out of logic and perfectly reasonable suspicion, let me put my hand where it belongs in this. On the boundary. On the promise.
You are safe with me.
You are not a puzzle I need to solve, or a prize I intend to win. You are a person I want to know, and wanting you has made me more careful, not less. If you decide this is too much, you can step back. If you decide you want to walk away, you can. Your life stays intact. Your peace stays yours. I will not turn desire into pressure. I will not turn mystery into a trap.
I will still mean what I’ve already told you: I see the real you.
That line isn’t a flourish. It’s a discipline. It’s me choosing the part of you that doesn’t perform. The part that wants, and then tries to edit herself for being human. You don’t have to do that with me, Love. I’m not asking you to be smaller so I can feel bigger.
There’s a reason I’m telling you this now, and it’s because I’d rather you test me than trust me blindly. So I’m giving you a clue you can keep in your pocket. You can treat it like a match you haven’t struck yet.
When you’re ready, touch that little scrap of leather again. Feel the softened edge.
Remember the rule we made, one unedited sentence, and give me one back when you
feel like it. Keep it simple. Keep it yours.
Because I’m going to do something that can’t be faked with charm.
I’m going to speak to you as if I’ve stood where you’ve stood, without you ever leading me
there.
Before I do, I want you to hear the way I’m holding this. I’m not using it to corner you with fate. I’m using it to offer you a clearer choice. If this recognition in me makes you curious, you can lean in. If it makes you wary, you can keep your distance. Either way, I stay respectful. Either way, I keep my hands to myself unless invited. Either way, if you ever say “Still,” I go still, and you’ll feel how immediate my obedience is.
You like a man who can fix things. Here’s what I’m trying to fix, quietly, with the patience of a man tightening a bolt until it sits right. I’m trying to fix the idea that longing has to be dangerous to be exciting. With me, it gets to be thrilling and clean at the same time. Heat with a conscience. Desire with a spine.
I’ll give you my two lines, the way my mind keeps writing you when I’m not looking:
You don’t have to shout to be heard by me.
I was trained by your silence, and I stayed.
Hold that, if you want. Roll your eyes if you need to. I’ll take the hit and keep going,
because I can handle you exactly as you are.
One more thing, and it matters.
This isn’t me asking you to carry something heavy. This isn’t me setting up a heartbreak.
This is me laying a careful truth on the table and keeping my palms open so you can see
I’m not hiding a blade. Whatever this is between us, it’s allowed to be private and still be honest. It’s allowed to be intense and still be safe. And it’s allowed to grow slowly, in a way that keeps you chosen at every step.
So read this once, then read it again, and pay attention to what your body does on the
second pass.
I am going to describe a place you have never shown me, and you will know I am not
guessing.
Yours,
R.
I’ve been meaning to write, and not just because your last quiet bravery has been
occupying my hands like a familiar tool. Since I last put ink to paper, I’ve caught myself
reaching for that little scrap of leather in my mind, remembering the softened edge, the
warmth it held after I worked it. It’s ridiculous, in the way the right kind of wanting makes
a man a little ridiculous. I’m fine with that. I’d rather be honest than impressive.
You have a rule now, and I don’t make rules I won’t follow. One unedited sentence from
you. One unedited sentence from me. No polishing. No making yourself smaller to be
easier to hold.
So here is my truth, clean and contained.
I want you to say what you want without apologizing for it.
I can already hear the clever part of you lining up a joke, the raised eyebrow you keep
ready when something lands too close to the center of you. Go on, take your shot. I’ll take
it like a man. Then I’ll look at you the way I do, steady and unblinking, until you feel how
serious I am beneath the teasing.
Because this is the part where I challenge you, and I do it with care.
Somewhere in your days, there is a place you pass through that is ordinary enough to
belong to the world, and quiet enough to feel like it could belong to you. A shared
location, the kind of place that isn’t romantic on purpose, which is exactly why it works.
Fluorescent hum or low lamps, a faint scent of paper or machine oil, a corridor you could
walk with your eyes half closed. I’m not naming it. I don’t need to. What matters is that it
exists, and that soon it will start to feel like a hinge.
You and I are going to be near the same place, more than once. Proximity has a way of
turning maybes into truths, and I’m curious what yours tastes like when you stop diluting
it.
Before that makes you tense, listen to me carefully.
You stay in control.
I’m not going to crowd you. I’m not going to corner you with charm and call it fate. If you
decide you want distance, you’ll get it. If you decide you want closeness, you’ll get that too,
the kind that feels intentional, not accidental.
Here is the boundary I’m putting down, protective and simple, the way a good bolt sits
where it’s supposed to.
You get one word.
One word you can say, quietly or sharply, and everything stops. No questions asked in the
moment. No sulking. No argument. No “are you sure” to make you manage my feelings.
The word is “Still.”
It’s a good word, isn’t it? It sounds like calm. It sounds like the moment your body knows
it’s safe. If you say “Still,” I go still. My hands, my mouth, my movement, my attention. I
step back, and I stay steady. You’ll never have to fight for that with me.
Now for the part that will make your pulse jump a little, and yes, I’m going to notice even
from a polite distance.
I want your one sentence to answer this:
What do you want from me that you would never ask for out loud?
Don’t give me what you think I want to hear. Give me what you actually want. The truth
with its collar undone. The truth that makes you feel exposed and strangely powerful at
the same time.
If you need a frame, use this one:
“Right now, I want you to…”
Finish it. Don’t explain it. Don’t defend it. Don’t turn it into a joke halfway through to keep
yourself safe from your own honesty.
I’ll make you a deal, since you seem to appreciate a man who can be firm without being
cruel.
If your wanting feels too big while you write it, you are allowed to use the smallest
language possible. One plain sentence. No poetry. No performance. Just fact. Wanting
does not need decoration to be valid.
And since I’m me, and I can’t leave well enough alone, I’m giving you one more small rule,
the kind you can roll your eyes at while you secretly obey it.
When you write your sentence, touch the leather once first. Just once. Let it remind you
that something can be rough and still be made soft in careful hands. Let it remind you
that I meant what I said about warmth and shelter.
I’ve been carrying another thought, too. It’s the one that keeps showing up when the
world gets loud.
“I see the real you.”
I don’t mean the version that performs competence, or the version that smooths her
edges for other people’s comfort. I mean the you that wants, the you that pauses before
she admits it, the you that reads a line twice because it hits somewhere private.
You don’t owe me that you. You get to choose whether I earn her.
And I intend to earn her.
There’s something else I’ve been keeping, and you’ll feel the weight of that sentence even
if you pretend you don’t. It isn’t a threat. It isn’t a trap. It’s simply the next true thing
between us, waiting for your courage to meet mine.
Tell me one thing you have never said out loud, and I will answer with the truth I have
been keeping.
Yours,
R.
occupying my hands like a familiar tool. Since I last put ink to paper, I’ve caught myself
reaching for that little scrap of leather in my mind, remembering the softened edge, the
warmth it held after I worked it. It’s ridiculous, in the way the right kind of wanting makes
a man a little ridiculous. I’m fine with that. I’d rather be honest than impressive.
You have a rule now, and I don’t make rules I won’t follow. One unedited sentence from
you. One unedited sentence from me. No polishing. No making yourself smaller to be
easier to hold.
So here is my truth, clean and contained.
I want you to say what you want without apologizing for it.
I can already hear the clever part of you lining up a joke, the raised eyebrow you keep
ready when something lands too close to the center of you. Go on, take your shot. I’ll take
it like a man. Then I’ll look at you the way I do, steady and unblinking, until you feel how
serious I am beneath the teasing.
Because this is the part where I challenge you, and I do it with care.
Somewhere in your days, there is a place you pass through that is ordinary enough to
belong to the world, and quiet enough to feel like it could belong to you. A shared
location, the kind of place that isn’t romantic on purpose, which is exactly why it works.
Fluorescent hum or low lamps, a faint scent of paper or machine oil, a corridor you could
walk with your eyes half closed. I’m not naming it. I don’t need to. What matters is that it
exists, and that soon it will start to feel like a hinge.
You and I are going to be near the same place, more than once. Proximity has a way of
turning maybes into truths, and I’m curious what yours tastes like when you stop diluting
it.
Before that makes you tense, listen to me carefully.
You stay in control.
I’m not going to crowd you. I’m not going to corner you with charm and call it fate. If you
decide you want distance, you’ll get it. If you decide you want closeness, you’ll get that too,
the kind that feels intentional, not accidental.
Here is the boundary I’m putting down, protective and simple, the way a good bolt sits
where it’s supposed to.
You get one word.
One word you can say, quietly or sharply, and everything stops. No questions asked in the
moment. No sulking. No argument. No “are you sure” to make you manage my feelings.
The word is “Still.”
It’s a good word, isn’t it? It sounds like calm. It sounds like the moment your body knows
it’s safe. If you say “Still,” I go still. My hands, my mouth, my movement, my attention. I
step back, and I stay steady. You’ll never have to fight for that with me.
Now for the part that will make your pulse jump a little, and yes, I’m going to notice even
from a polite distance.
I want your one sentence to answer this:
What do you want from me that you would never ask for out loud?
Don’t give me what you think I want to hear. Give me what you actually want. The truth
with its collar undone. The truth that makes you feel exposed and strangely powerful at
the same time.
If you need a frame, use this one:
“Right now, I want you to…”
Finish it. Don’t explain it. Don’t defend it. Don’t turn it into a joke halfway through to keep
yourself safe from your own honesty.
I’ll make you a deal, since you seem to appreciate a man who can be firm without being
cruel.
If your wanting feels too big while you write it, you are allowed to use the smallest
language possible. One plain sentence. No poetry. No performance. Just fact. Wanting
does not need decoration to be valid.
And since I’m me, and I can’t leave well enough alone, I’m giving you one more small rule,
the kind you can roll your eyes at while you secretly obey it.
When you write your sentence, touch the leather once first. Just once. Let it remind you
that something can be rough and still be made soft in careful hands. Let it remind you
that I meant what I said about warmth and shelter.
I’ve been carrying another thought, too. It’s the one that keeps showing up when the
world gets loud.
“I see the real you.”
I don’t mean the version that performs competence, or the version that smooths her
edges for other people’s comfort. I mean the you that wants, the you that pauses before
she admits it, the you that reads a line twice because it hits somewhere private.
You don’t owe me that you. You get to choose whether I earn her.
And I intend to earn her.
There’s something else I’ve been keeping, and you’ll feel the weight of that sentence even
if you pretend you don’t. It isn’t a threat. It isn’t a trap. It’s simply the next true thing
between us, waiting for your courage to meet mine.
Tell me one thing you have never said out loud, and I will answer with the truth I have
been keeping.
Yours,
R.
Store bought is fine
Sep. 1st, 2026 04:11 pmSo, the World's Greatest Medshrinker has closed his doors for an unknown time...which means we needed to find a new Medshrinker for the sanity drugs, ASAP. Cause if your body doesn't produce the serotonin and dopamine you need to survive, then store bought is fine.
There were only 2 in town I even considered going to. I literally flipped a quarter...
My appointment with the new Medshrinker was at 2. I wasn't nervous really, I just don't want him to go messing around with my specific cocktail of meds, which seem to be keeping me from killing myself or anyone else....despite any vague threats I may or may not have made (we all know I'm too lazy, and it's too damned hot to go dragging a body into a mesquite field for the wild hogs to deal with).
I asked my FB friends to cross their fingers, toes, eyes, send the good juju, light the candles, or apply your pasta strainers in prayer that he and I hit it off, and can work together.
~*~
I'm glad to report that he's not one to "try and fix what ain't broke", and since my current regimen is working, he's mostly left it alone. He's not thrilled that I use my Xanax to help get to sleep, and he did cut me from 120, 2mg tablets a month to 75 tablets a month. But taking into consideration that I never USED 120 tablets in a month, and actually have 2 full bottles (240 tablets) sitting on my desk....I can live with the cut.
We talked about possibly switching to Seroquel for the Bipolar and sleep...and I told him the last time I took it, I slept for 2 and a half days, so it wasn't my first choice to mess with. That was the XR version, however, and he said obviously at way too high a dose.
I have to see him every month, since I'm on controlled meds (the Xanax and my ADHD meds), but I'm ok with that too. My last Medshrinker, while a wonderful Doctor, only saw me 3 times a year usually....and you could never get his Nurse on the line for timely refills. Seeing Dr. A every month means I get refills processed, EVERY MONTH...without waiting a week for refills to be called in to the pharmacy.
Me, without meds, for a week is a scary thing to see. It's even scarier to be inside me, with no meds.
There were only 2 in town I even considered going to. I literally flipped a quarter...
My appointment with the new Medshrinker was at 2. I wasn't nervous really, I just don't want him to go messing around with my specific cocktail of meds, which seem to be keeping me from killing myself or anyone else....despite any vague threats I may or may not have made (we all know I'm too lazy, and it's too damned hot to go dragging a body into a mesquite field for the wild hogs to deal with).
I asked my FB friends to cross their fingers, toes, eyes, send the good juju, light the candles, or apply your pasta strainers in prayer that he and I hit it off, and can work together.
~*~
I'm glad to report that he's not one to "try and fix what ain't broke", and since my current regimen is working, he's mostly left it alone. He's not thrilled that I use my Xanax to help get to sleep, and he did cut me from 120, 2mg tablets a month to 75 tablets a month. But taking into consideration that I never USED 120 tablets in a month, and actually have 2 full bottles (240 tablets) sitting on my desk....I can live with the cut.
We talked about possibly switching to Seroquel for the Bipolar and sleep...and I told him the last time I took it, I slept for 2 and a half days, so it wasn't my first choice to mess with. That was the XR version, however, and he said obviously at way too high a dose.
I have to see him every month, since I'm on controlled meds (the Xanax and my ADHD meds), but I'm ok with that too. My last Medshrinker, while a wonderful Doctor, only saw me 3 times a year usually....and you could never get his Nurse on the line for timely refills. Seeing Dr. A every month means I get refills processed, EVERY MONTH...without waiting a week for refills to be called in to the pharmacy.
Me, without meds, for a week is a scary thing to see. It's even scarier to be inside me, with no meds.
Someone please tell me
Sep. 1st, 2026 07:06 amThat I do not need a $200 solar paneled video bird feeder for my yard!!!!!
LJ Idol 20th Year!!!!!!
Aug. 28th, 2026 01:31 pmWAAAAAZZZZUP!!!!! 20 years older, same Icon, same Wench, same level of sarcasm!!!!
Officially declaring my sign up for Season 20!!!!!
Officially declaring my sign up for Season 20!!!!!
2026 can suck a bag of dicks
Aug. 27th, 2026 08:08 am
Hayden Panettiere, Frank Beard from ZZ Top, Dolly Parton....all in a week or so of each other.
And then Tim Curry, the day after Dolly, starts the cycle of 3 over.
I’m thinking of you.
Aug. 27th, 2026 07:54 amSince I last wrote, I’ve had to stop myself from doing the one thing I do best: taking
something apart just to see how it works. That’s what you are to my mind right now, and
it’s a problem because you are not a machine, and I’m not allowed to treat your heart like
a locked panel with screws I can loosen.
So I did the smarter thing. I wrote again.
I keep picturing you with my first letter in your hands, the way paper makes people
honest when nobody’s watching. You probably read it once like it was a curiosity. You
probably read it again like it was a challenge. Somewhere in there, I’m willing to bet your
mouth did that little thing it does when you’re trying to stay composed. Yes, I know how
arrogant that sounds. I’m comfortable with arrogance when it’s paired with patience.
Here’s what I want you to understand, clearly, before the teasing starts: I can handle
whatever you give me. A single line. A long confession. A refusal. Silence. I won’t push, I
won’t punish, and I won’t turn your caution into a game. I’m interested in you, and I’m
steady about it. That steadiness includes your boundaries.
Now. Teasing.
You already know I didn’t give you my name. You also know I asked you a question that
was designed to make a careful person squirm a little. You strike me as the kind of woman
who can talk about a hundred things with perfect composure, then go quiet when
someone gets too close to the one truth you keep tucked behind your teeth. It’s an
impressive skill. It’s also a very pretty weakness.
Which brings me to our first shared rule.
If you choose to answer me, you give me one sentence that is unedited. One sentence you
don’t sand down for politeness. One sentence you don’t make smaller so it fits in someone
else’s comfort. It can be as soft as a whisper or as sharp as a blade, Muse, as long as it’s
yours. In return, I give you one sentence that is just as honest.
That’s the rule. One line each. No performance. No gymnastics. The truth, contained, like a
spark in a matchbox.
And before you ask yourself whether you can trust me with your spark, here’s my promise:
I won’t use it to set you on fire. I’ll use it to keep you warm.
I’ve been thinking about the kind of wanting you hinted at, the kind that needs to feel
safe or it turns into something hollow. You deserve a desire that pays attention. The kind
that notices when you go still. The kind that waits when waiting is the brave thing. The
kind that asks, then listens to the answer.
So I’m going to dare you, gently. Send me one line that begins with: “Right now, I want…”
No apology attached. No explanation required. You don’t have to earn wanting by being
easy to love. You get to want because you are alive.
And because you like tension, because I can feel that in you even through the distance
you keep, I’m going to make you a second rule you can laugh at if you want.
If your pulse jumps while you write, you have to keep the sentence anyway.
I can almost hear you scoff. Good. Keep your wit. I like it. I like a woman who meets
intensity with a raised eyebrow, then surprises me by being brave five minutes later.
I told you I fix things. Here’s a small proof of that, offered the only way I know how: with
my hands. I worked a little piece of leather free from an old scrap, cleaned it, rubbed it
between my fingers until it went soft, then pressed it flat so it would ride quietly inside
this page. It’s nothing extravagant. It’s simply real. The kind of object that makes you think
of warmth and shelter without needing a speech about it.
If you decide you want to keep it, you can. If you decide you don’t, you can let it go without
guilt. I’m giving you choices the way some men give flowers. It suits me better.
Two lines, because I meant what I wrote about saying more when I stop trying to sound
clever:
Your truth fits in one breath, and I’ll still hear it.
My hands stay open, and you decide what they hold.
There’s one more thing I want to slide into your palm, and it’s simple.
You’re wanted. Intentionally. In a way that doesn’t blur your edges or ask you to be
smaller. In a way that leaves you more yourself, not less. I’m not here to consume you. I’m
here to see you, and to be close enough that you feel it.
You already know what I’m going to ask for.
One honest sentence.
And before you fold this page away, do what I’m about to tell you.
Check the fold of this page, Love. I left something there on purpose.
Yours,
R.
something apart just to see how it works. That’s what you are to my mind right now, and
it’s a problem because you are not a machine, and I’m not allowed to treat your heart like
a locked panel with screws I can loosen.
So I did the smarter thing. I wrote again.
I keep picturing you with my first letter in your hands, the way paper makes people
honest when nobody’s watching. You probably read it once like it was a curiosity. You
probably read it again like it was a challenge. Somewhere in there, I’m willing to bet your
mouth did that little thing it does when you’re trying to stay composed. Yes, I know how
arrogant that sounds. I’m comfortable with arrogance when it’s paired with patience.
Here’s what I want you to understand, clearly, before the teasing starts: I can handle
whatever you give me. A single line. A long confession. A refusal. Silence. I won’t push, I
won’t punish, and I won’t turn your caution into a game. I’m interested in you, and I’m
steady about it. That steadiness includes your boundaries.
Now. Teasing.
You already know I didn’t give you my name. You also know I asked you a question that
was designed to make a careful person squirm a little. You strike me as the kind of woman
who can talk about a hundred things with perfect composure, then go quiet when
someone gets too close to the one truth you keep tucked behind your teeth. It’s an
impressive skill. It’s also a very pretty weakness.
Which brings me to our first shared rule.
If you choose to answer me, you give me one sentence that is unedited. One sentence you
don’t sand down for politeness. One sentence you don’t make smaller so it fits in someone
else’s comfort. It can be as soft as a whisper or as sharp as a blade, Muse, as long as it’s
yours. In return, I give you one sentence that is just as honest.
That’s the rule. One line each. No performance. No gymnastics. The truth, contained, like a
spark in a matchbox.
And before you ask yourself whether you can trust me with your spark, here’s my promise:
I won’t use it to set you on fire. I’ll use it to keep you warm.
I’ve been thinking about the kind of wanting you hinted at, the kind that needs to feel
safe or it turns into something hollow. You deserve a desire that pays attention. The kind
that notices when you go still. The kind that waits when waiting is the brave thing. The
kind that asks, then listens to the answer.
So I’m going to dare you, gently. Send me one line that begins with: “Right now, I want…”
No apology attached. No explanation required. You don’t have to earn wanting by being
easy to love. You get to want because you are alive.
And because you like tension, because I can feel that in you even through the distance
you keep, I’m going to make you a second rule you can laugh at if you want.
If your pulse jumps while you write, you have to keep the sentence anyway.
I can almost hear you scoff. Good. Keep your wit. I like it. I like a woman who meets
intensity with a raised eyebrow, then surprises me by being brave five minutes later.
I told you I fix things. Here’s a small proof of that, offered the only way I know how: with
my hands. I worked a little piece of leather free from an old scrap, cleaned it, rubbed it
between my fingers until it went soft, then pressed it flat so it would ride quietly inside
this page. It’s nothing extravagant. It’s simply real. The kind of object that makes you think
of warmth and shelter without needing a speech about it.
If you decide you want to keep it, you can. If you decide you don’t, you can let it go without
guilt. I’m giving you choices the way some men give flowers. It suits me better.
Two lines, because I meant what I wrote about saying more when I stop trying to sound
clever:
Your truth fits in one breath, and I’ll still hear it.
My hands stay open, and you decide what they hold.
There’s one more thing I want to slide into your palm, and it’s simple.
You’re wanted. Intentionally. In a way that doesn’t blur your edges or ask you to be
smaller. In a way that leaves you more yourself, not less. I’m not here to consume you. I’m
here to see you, and to be close enough that you feel it.
You already know what I’m going to ask for.
One honest sentence.
And before you fold this page away, do what I’m about to tell you.
Check the fold of this page, Love. I left something there on purpose.
Yours,
R.
I’m going to trust you with something simple and dangerous: a few honest lines from a
stranger who has no business feeling this sure about you.
You don’t know me, and I’m not asking you to pretend you do. I’m asking you to feel how
steady this is. My attention is deliberate. The kind that doesn’t grab, doesn’t rush, doesn’t
play games. The kind that looks you in the eye, even on paper, and makes a quiet promise:
you are safe with me.
I keep thinking about that private second when you realized you were holding your
breath, and you let it out like you’d been waiting for permission. Maybe you’ll say I couldn’t
possibly know that. Maybe you’ll roll your eyes and call it a guess dressed up as
confidence. Fair. I’d do the same. Still, I’m here, writing to you like I’ve been entrusted with
something I intend to handle carefully.
I’m the man with work-rough hands and a mind that never really clocks out. I fix what
breaks. I tighten what comes loose. I make things hold. It’s a useful habit in the world, and
a dangerous one around someone I want to keep close, because I never want you to feel
like a project. You are not a problem to solve. You are a person I want to know, slow and
properly, until the shape of you makes sense in my palms.
And yes, there’s a leather jacket involved. There’s always a leather jacket involved with
men like me, isn’t there? Consider it fair warning: I have a habit of standing between a
woman and whatever makes her feel exposed. Not in a showy way. In a practical way. The
kind where you suddenly notice the draft is gone, and the room feels quieter, and you can
breathe again. If you ever decide you want that from me, Darling, you’ll have it without
needing to ask twice.
I’m keeping this careful. Warm, even. You deserve that. Still, I won’t pretend there isn’t a
pull here. It sits under the words like bass under a song. You can feel it if you press your
fingers to the page long enough. If it makes your pulse tick a little louder, good. If it makes
you cautious, also good. I like a woman who listens to her instincts. I’m counting on yours.
Here’s my first rule, since I can’t seem to stop myself from being the kind of man who
makes rules: you don’t owe me anything. Not an explanation, not a confession, not a polite
response because someone wrote you a pretty letter. If you answer, it’s because you want
to. That’s the only currency I respect.
I’ll give you something in return, small and true.
I see the real you.
I don’t mean the version that performs competence, or the version that smiles at the right
time, or the one who keeps things smooth so nobody asks questions. I mean the person
underneath, the one who goes quiet when something lands too close to home. The one
who pretends she doesn’t want to be chosen as fiercely as she does. You don’t have to
steel yourself with me. I can handle softness. I can handle heat, too, as long as it’s yours to
offer.
There’s a question I want to set in your hands, gentle as a tool placed on a clean cloth.
What do you want right now, the kind of want you usually edit before anyone can hear it?
One sentence is enough. One honest line. No overthinking, no apology. If you don’t want
to answer that, you can answer something easier: what would make you feel
unmistakably safe and unmistakably wanted, at the same time? I’m asking because I
mean to remember it. I’m asking because I intend to honor it.
You’ll notice I haven’t given you my name. That’s on purpose. Mystery is only attractive
when it’s respectful. Mine is. I’m not hiding behind it. I’m holding it back until you decide
I’ve earned the right to be more real in your life than a page full of ink.
A little warning, the teasing kind: if you do write me, don’t bother trying to sound
unaffected. I’ll know. I’m good at reading what people try to keep neat. Besides, the
moment you stop pretending is usually the moment you become irresistible.
I’ll leave you with two lines, because sometimes a man can say more when he stops trying
to sound clever:
Hold still, and let my steadiness find you.
I won’t take more than you give.
If you choose to answer, I’ll make it easy. Private. Clean. Yours. You won’t have to wonder
who will see it or where it will end up. You’ll have control the whole way through, and if
you ever want this to stop, it stops. No pressure. No punishment. Just a man who can take
a hint and still keep his word.
And if you want the truth beneath all this restraint, it’s simple: I wrote because I wanted
you, and because I want you to feel chosen without being cornered.
If you say yes, I will tell you where to leave your answer, and why that place has been
waiting for you.
Yours,
R.
stranger who has no business feeling this sure about you.
You don’t know me, and I’m not asking you to pretend you do. I’m asking you to feel how
steady this is. My attention is deliberate. The kind that doesn’t grab, doesn’t rush, doesn’t
play games. The kind that looks you in the eye, even on paper, and makes a quiet promise:
you are safe with me.
I keep thinking about that private second when you realized you were holding your
breath, and you let it out like you’d been waiting for permission. Maybe you’ll say I couldn’t
possibly know that. Maybe you’ll roll your eyes and call it a guess dressed up as
confidence. Fair. I’d do the same. Still, I’m here, writing to you like I’ve been entrusted with
something I intend to handle carefully.
I’m the man with work-rough hands and a mind that never really clocks out. I fix what
breaks. I tighten what comes loose. I make things hold. It’s a useful habit in the world, and
a dangerous one around someone I want to keep close, because I never want you to feel
like a project. You are not a problem to solve. You are a person I want to know, slow and
properly, until the shape of you makes sense in my palms.
And yes, there’s a leather jacket involved. There’s always a leather jacket involved with
men like me, isn’t there? Consider it fair warning: I have a habit of standing between a
woman and whatever makes her feel exposed. Not in a showy way. In a practical way. The
kind where you suddenly notice the draft is gone, and the room feels quieter, and you can
breathe again. If you ever decide you want that from me, Darling, you’ll have it without
needing to ask twice.
I’m keeping this careful. Warm, even. You deserve that. Still, I won’t pretend there isn’t a
pull here. It sits under the words like bass under a song. You can feel it if you press your
fingers to the page long enough. If it makes your pulse tick a little louder, good. If it makes
you cautious, also good. I like a woman who listens to her instincts. I’m counting on yours.
Here’s my first rule, since I can’t seem to stop myself from being the kind of man who
makes rules: you don’t owe me anything. Not an explanation, not a confession, not a polite
response because someone wrote you a pretty letter. If you answer, it’s because you want
to. That’s the only currency I respect.
I’ll give you something in return, small and true.
I see the real you.
I don’t mean the version that performs competence, or the version that smiles at the right
time, or the one who keeps things smooth so nobody asks questions. I mean the person
underneath, the one who goes quiet when something lands too close to home. The one
who pretends she doesn’t want to be chosen as fiercely as she does. You don’t have to
steel yourself with me. I can handle softness. I can handle heat, too, as long as it’s yours to
offer.
There’s a question I want to set in your hands, gentle as a tool placed on a clean cloth.
What do you want right now, the kind of want you usually edit before anyone can hear it?
One sentence is enough. One honest line. No overthinking, no apology. If you don’t want
to answer that, you can answer something easier: what would make you feel
unmistakably safe and unmistakably wanted, at the same time? I’m asking because I
mean to remember it. I’m asking because I intend to honor it.
You’ll notice I haven’t given you my name. That’s on purpose. Mystery is only attractive
when it’s respectful. Mine is. I’m not hiding behind it. I’m holding it back until you decide
I’ve earned the right to be more real in your life than a page full of ink.
A little warning, the teasing kind: if you do write me, don’t bother trying to sound
unaffected. I’ll know. I’m good at reading what people try to keep neat. Besides, the
moment you stop pretending is usually the moment you become irresistible.
I’ll leave you with two lines, because sometimes a man can say more when he stops trying
to sound clever:
Hold still, and let my steadiness find you.
I won’t take more than you give.
If you choose to answer, I’ll make it easy. Private. Clean. Yours. You won’t have to wonder
who will see it or where it will end up. You’ll have control the whole way through, and if
you ever want this to stop, it stops. No pressure. No punishment. Just a man who can take
a hint and still keep his word.
And if you want the truth beneath all this restraint, it’s simple: I wrote because I wanted
you, and because I want you to feel chosen without being cornered.
If you say yes, I will tell you where to leave your answer, and why that place has been
waiting for you.
Yours,
R.
When memories are the hardest
Aug. 18th, 2026 01:54 pmHi....I still exist. The Book of Faces is where I spend most of my days, but I'll be participating in LJIdol 20th over here on DW, so I figured I'd better warn ya'll....I'm going to be posting again.
This popped up in my FB Memories today, and I admit, I watched it for half an hour and bawled. We lost Loki on August 4th, 2025, and Kharma on May 6th, 2026.
I miss these two with all my heart.
This popped up in my FB Memories today, and I admit, I watched it for half an hour and bawled. We lost Loki on August 4th, 2025, and Kharma on May 6th, 2026.
I miss these two with all my heart.
I have an LJ friend who lost her husband in the Towers, 24 years ago. She doesn't post much anymore, and I wonder how she and her daughter are doing today.
I wrote this, back in 2008. I hope their diamonds are shining bright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sept. 11th
I sometimes wonder what it's like to walk a mile in your shoes. Especially today. My mind tries hard to conceive the amount of change that you have gone through. I try to wrap my own minuscule experiences around that one singularity that took you from perfectly normal to forever changed. I've watched you, since that brilliant morning. I've watched as you picked up the pieces, tried to fit them back together as best you could, and tried to move on.
And I've watched as every year, your two steps forward seem to come round to this point again. Not a step back really, but a place of memory and memorial.
You were individuals. You were singular humans, in your singular world. And in one moment, you were thrust together in a way that many...no...most of us don't and will never understand. You were individuals and all at once, you were a city's heartbeat, a city's fear, and a city's loss and strength, all at the same time. Suddenly all those individual faces became part of a greater story. Each was a character on the page of this story, each was a letter, and each letter of this story had a face and a name. But I lost the faces and names in the scope of the story.
My mind wanted to lose myself in that mass becoming. I wanted to distance myself from those humans because, in my humanity, I couldn't grasp so terrible a thing. And for a while, I accomplished that.
And then you started coming apart. I saw beyond the dust and the paper and the smoke. I started seeing faces again. I started seeing people again. And I began to wonder, as I would watch the memorial shows, newscasts, rebroadcasts of that day. I started to grasp the concept that these were individuals having a world moment.
Now, as then, I sit here safe. In my own singular world. My own individual moment.
I wonder what it must be like to walk a mile in your shoes. I can't help but wonder and pray...
I attach my own feelings to you, with this. You had no reason to open the door to your world. You could have chosen to remain one of the nameless individuals I think about, at this time. But you did and I am thankful that I was given this window to look upon.
I wish for you, good things. I wish for you peace. And I wish and pray that for you, those times, that change, transforms you. Much like the pressure of the Earth creates a diamond, that this wasn't unlike knocking a bit of the coal off your surface.
Because as I look at you, and wonder what it must be like, to walk a mile in your shoes, I can see the shining, glittering reflection of each facet of the diamond you are becoming.
I wrote this, back in 2008. I hope their diamonds are shining bright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sept. 11th
I sometimes wonder what it's like to walk a mile in your shoes. Especially today. My mind tries hard to conceive the amount of change that you have gone through. I try to wrap my own minuscule experiences around that one singularity that took you from perfectly normal to forever changed. I've watched you, since that brilliant morning. I've watched as you picked up the pieces, tried to fit them back together as best you could, and tried to move on.
And I've watched as every year, your two steps forward seem to come round to this point again. Not a step back really, but a place of memory and memorial.
You were individuals. You were singular humans, in your singular world. And in one moment, you were thrust together in a way that many...no...most of us don't and will never understand. You were individuals and all at once, you were a city's heartbeat, a city's fear, and a city's loss and strength, all at the same time. Suddenly all those individual faces became part of a greater story. Each was a character on the page of this story, each was a letter, and each letter of this story had a face and a name. But I lost the faces and names in the scope of the story.
My mind wanted to lose myself in that mass becoming. I wanted to distance myself from those humans because, in my humanity, I couldn't grasp so terrible a thing. And for a while, I accomplished that.
And then you started coming apart. I saw beyond the dust and the paper and the smoke. I started seeing faces again. I started seeing people again. And I began to wonder, as I would watch the memorial shows, newscasts, rebroadcasts of that day. I started to grasp the concept that these were individuals having a world moment.
Now, as then, I sit here safe. In my own singular world. My own individual moment.
I wonder what it must be like to walk a mile in your shoes. I can't help but wonder and pray...
I attach my own feelings to you, with this. You had no reason to open the door to your world. You could have chosen to remain one of the nameless individuals I think about, at this time. But you did and I am thankful that I was given this window to look upon.
I wish for you, good things. I wish for you peace. And I wish and pray that for you, those times, that change, transforms you. Much like the pressure of the Earth creates a diamond, that this wasn't unlike knocking a bit of the coal off your surface.
Because as I look at you, and wonder what it must be like, to walk a mile in your shoes, I can see the shining, glittering reflection of each facet of the diamond you are becoming.
Loki's turning 16 in July. And, he's on a downhill slide. He has a mass in his stomach cavity that is either his pancreas, or a tumor, the vet couldn't really tell.
But what it means is that it's pressing on his stomach, and he doesn't want to eat. They've given us 5 days of appetite stimulant, to try and keep him going a little bit longer...but I'm having to face some hard facts.
My Service Dog (although retired for the past 2 years) is dying.
My bestest buddy, the goodest boi on earth is going to be leaving me soon.
He's been to every therapy session I've had for years, and last week, I may have taken him to his last one.
We're just taking the time we have, and loving on him the best we can.
But what it means is that it's pressing on his stomach, and he doesn't want to eat. They've given us 5 days of appetite stimulant, to try and keep him going a little bit longer...but I'm having to face some hard facts.
My Service Dog (although retired for the past 2 years) is dying.
My bestest buddy, the goodest boi on earth is going to be leaving me soon.
He's been to every therapy session I've had for years, and last week, I may have taken him to his last one.
We're just taking the time we have, and loving on him the best we can.
Remember when I said....
Jun. 13th, 2025 08:38 amBuild 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....
~*~
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 okay to not always be okay
Jun. 11th, 2024 10:50 amIt hurts. Living with depression and anxiety hurts. Every day I wake with this hurt weighing on my heart. Every day it seems to get heavier and heavier. I’m waiting for it to completely break me apart. Heavy, everything just feels so heavy.
I have moments where I forget it. I forget all the reasons I’m disappointed and broken. I can thank the good company of my family, and friends and their encouraging words. But they don’t last forever. These moments end, and that feeling of doubt shows back up.
I thought that maybe I’d be able to focus on all the good in my life. But some days that still doesn’t seem like enough. There’s still something missing. I’m still convinced I need something more. But what?
This feeling of hurt consumes me. It eats away at my confidence; my optimism slowly disappears. It’s this cycle of happy and sad, happy and sad, happy and sad.
It’s the same thing, different day. I feel like a zombie in my own life. I wake to go through the motions, over and over again. I can’t fall asleep at night. I’m too busy worrying about everything. Everything that happened 3 years ago, a month ago, and things that haven’t even occurred yet.
The days and dates keep changing, but my life, it doesn’t feel like it is. I confess, I’ve gotten better at painting on this smile. I’ve gotten better at convincing the world and myself that I’m okay. That I’m just fine.
Because what happens when the next person asks me “are you okay” and for once, I reply with “no”. “No, I’m not okay”.
What do they say back to me then? Where does that conversation then go? They just stepped into a pile of awkward. Because everyone always says, “I’m okay”, even when they’re not.
I’m lost and have no clue where to go next. I’m afraid. I need someone to offer me a hug or a hand. I need someone to show up at my doorstep with arms open wide. I need a safe place to land.
I have no clue what I’m doing; I don’t know where my goals and dreams lie anymore.
People always ask, “where do you see yourself in 5 years”. I have no answer for that. I have no answer to that question. I can’t think that far ahead without a wave of anxiety. I don’t know what it will look like. That scares me. That scares me so much. 5 years is soon, but I don’t know what a year from now will look like, how can I tell you 5?
I’ve always felt the need to be strong for everyone else. But right now, I need someone to be strong for me. I need someone to just simply say, “it’s going to be okay”. I need someone to just sit in the silence with me. I need someone to wipe my tears. To pick me up off the floor. To comfort me.
I’m sorry that I’m not okay.
I’m sorry that somedays it hurts to think.
I’m sorry that sometimes I don’t want to be bothered, I don’t want to talk.
But then some days I need someone there. I need someone to simply say hey, to check up on me.
Sometimes I need to be reminded and reassured that being strong isn’t the only thing I’m good at.
That I am allowed to be weak. That I too can cry out for help and that there will be someone there to provide it. Even in the simplest form.
My answer is always, “I’m okay” when people ask. Because it’s easier that way. To say you’re okay when you’re not. You don’t have to explain. They don’t have to feel burdened with your hurt. They don’t have to ask any more questions and you don’t have to give them any more answers.
But maybe we should start being honest with ourselves. Maybe it’s okay to not always be okay. Maybe sometimes we need to scream and shout and tell the world, “I’m not okay today”.
It’s okay to not be strong all the time. It’s okay to need someone.
It’s okay to not always be okay.
I have moments where I forget it. I forget all the reasons I’m disappointed and broken. I can thank the good company of my family, and friends and their encouraging words. But they don’t last forever. These moments end, and that feeling of doubt shows back up.
I thought that maybe I’d be able to focus on all the good in my life. But some days that still doesn’t seem like enough. There’s still something missing. I’m still convinced I need something more. But what?
This feeling of hurt consumes me. It eats away at my confidence; my optimism slowly disappears. It’s this cycle of happy and sad, happy and sad, happy and sad.
It’s the same thing, different day. I feel like a zombie in my own life. I wake to go through the motions, over and over again. I can’t fall asleep at night. I’m too busy worrying about everything. Everything that happened 3 years ago, a month ago, and things that haven’t even occurred yet.
The days and dates keep changing, but my life, it doesn’t feel like it is. I confess, I’ve gotten better at painting on this smile. I’ve gotten better at convincing the world and myself that I’m okay. That I’m just fine.
Because what happens when the next person asks me “are you okay” and for once, I reply with “no”. “No, I’m not okay”.
What do they say back to me then? Where does that conversation then go? They just stepped into a pile of awkward. Because everyone always says, “I’m okay”, even when they’re not.
I’m lost and have no clue where to go next. I’m afraid. I need someone to offer me a hug or a hand. I need someone to show up at my doorstep with arms open wide. I need a safe place to land.
I have no clue what I’m doing; I don’t know where my goals and dreams lie anymore.
People always ask, “where do you see yourself in 5 years”. I have no answer for that. I have no answer to that question. I can’t think that far ahead without a wave of anxiety. I don’t know what it will look like. That scares me. That scares me so much. 5 years is soon, but I don’t know what a year from now will look like, how can I tell you 5?
I’ve always felt the need to be strong for everyone else. But right now, I need someone to be strong for me. I need someone to just simply say, “it’s going to be okay”. I need someone to just sit in the silence with me. I need someone to wipe my tears. To pick me up off the floor. To comfort me.
I’m sorry that I’m not okay.
I’m sorry that somedays it hurts to think.
I’m sorry that sometimes I don’t want to be bothered, I don’t want to talk.
But then some days I need someone there. I need someone to simply say hey, to check up on me.
Sometimes I need to be reminded and reassured that being strong isn’t the only thing I’m good at.
That I am allowed to be weak. That I too can cry out for help and that there will be someone there to provide it. Even in the simplest form.
My answer is always, “I’m okay” when people ask. Because it’s easier that way. To say you’re okay when you’re not. You don’t have to explain. They don’t have to feel burdened with your hurt. They don’t have to ask any more questions and you don’t have to give them any more answers.
But maybe we should start being honest with ourselves. Maybe it’s okay to not always be okay. Maybe sometimes we need to scream and shout and tell the world, “I’m not okay today”.
It’s okay to not be strong all the time. It’s okay to need someone.
It’s okay to not always be okay.
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.
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.
The Scars We Bear
Feb. 17th, 2023 11:16 amSometimes the scars we bear aren't always the visible kind. The soul scars that take ages to heal. Red and angry they never quite fade away. A reminder to us of past hurts, past regrets, and past mistakes...and a warning to us to never allow ourselves there again, lest we face the pain a second time.
Sometimes the scars are given to us by others. Unkind words and actions that strike us to the core. But how many of those scars are self-inflicted? Brought upon ourselves through necessary change and those times we were learning to walk the winding emotional road of growing up.
We've tried to soothe the roughened patches with healing balms, soothing therapies, and by surrounding ourselves with love. But even so, the cleanest soul is a myriad of trails and puckered soul skin. A testament to being human and living a full life.
It's quiet nights like tonight that I can feel the pull and ache of the scars I bear. Those mistakes and lessons, are etched forever, deep within me. They keep me awake with a nagging pain, a reminder of what was, and what could be.
So I sit and journal. I surf the web, looking for distractions. I mindlessly flip through channels on the TV. I envy those people who rest quietly under the growing moon's silvered light. I have to wonder about their scars and if they have come to a place of peace with them, that allows them to sleep so uninterrupted.
The Witching Hour has come and gone. That time when magic things are said to happen. I have not seen magic this night but I felt its call to my restless scarred self.
Perhaps tomorrow night I will follow its call.
Sometimes the scars are given to us by others. Unkind words and actions that strike us to the core. But how many of those scars are self-inflicted? Brought upon ourselves through necessary change and those times we were learning to walk the winding emotional road of growing up.
We've tried to soothe the roughened patches with healing balms, soothing therapies, and by surrounding ourselves with love. But even so, the cleanest soul is a myriad of trails and puckered soul skin. A testament to being human and living a full life.
It's quiet nights like tonight that I can feel the pull and ache of the scars I bear. Those mistakes and lessons, are etched forever, deep within me. They keep me awake with a nagging pain, a reminder of what was, and what could be.
So I sit and journal. I surf the web, looking for distractions. I mindlessly flip through channels on the TV. I envy those people who rest quietly under the growing moon's silvered light. I have to wonder about their scars and if they have come to a place of peace with them, that allows them to sleep so uninterrupted.
The Witching Hour has come and gone. That time when magic things are said to happen. I have not seen magic this night but I felt its call to my restless scarred self.
Perhaps tomorrow night I will follow its call.
Dad and Chris update
Jun. 23rd, 2022 08:32 amDad'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.
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.
::taps microphone:: This thing still on?
Jun. 15th, 2022 10:58 amHey.
It's been a while.
I'm addicted to Facebook, so if you know me personally...then you know everything that's going on in my world happens over there. But my Memories led me back to my LJ, which led me back here to see what I've missed updating.
~*~
Dad got married back in Nov. of 2021, to his housekeeper, Edna. That was a clusterfuck as he picked a date that my brother and his family couldn't make it to. So they missed the wedding.
This has led to Chris basically cutting Dad out of his life. He doesn't call, he doesn't visit, and he doesn't check-in for health updates. But who am I kidding, he hasn't done any of that for several years prior to Dad getting married, because of some racist bullshit Dad said years ago.
Dad's health is getting worse. He's been suffering from mini-strokes and a possible seizure disorder. He's falling a lot, and I'm afraid he's going to break something. I've shared this with Chris, but his level of give-a-shit is nil.
We've got my youngest niece's Quinceanera coming up next month, and Dad wants to go...apparently there's a special dance with the Grandfather/Granddaughter that he wants to do. But his body is so unsteady, I just don't know if he's going to be able to do it.
Chris has said that if Dad doesn't come, then he's going to cut him out of his life permanently...and then when I talked with my oldest niece, Alexis...they didn't even have a table placement for Dad, because they assumed he wouldn't be coming. Double standard much?
I want to throttle both of them on alternate days. The Taylor men have tempers and can nurse a grudge until the end of time.
~*~
Back in Jan., I had a run-in with the `Rona. Thankfully it was a mild case and I was put on the anti-viral meds quickly...so I didn't have any long-term effects.
~*~
The Beloved Spouse is looking toward his 4th year teaching as a Paraprofessional with an Elementary school here in town. And I just celebrated my 6th anniversary as a cashier at the DFAC at Sheppard.
We're getting a pay bump next month (Thanks, Biden) as they have to bring all Federally contracted workers up to $15/hr. I'm hoping they'll stagger the pay levels a bit...if they do, I could be making $16/hr or a little more soon.
~*~
I need to dust this thing off and start writing more. I've got so many half-started stories that are crying for attention. I need to break myself off the Zukerberg nipple and get back to the thoughtful person I used to be.
It's been a while.
I'm addicted to Facebook, so if you know me personally...then you know everything that's going on in my world happens over there. But my Memories led me back to my LJ, which led me back here to see what I've missed updating.
~*~
Dad got married back in Nov. of 2021, to his housekeeper, Edna. That was a clusterfuck as he picked a date that my brother and his family couldn't make it to. So they missed the wedding.
This has led to Chris basically cutting Dad out of his life. He doesn't call, he doesn't visit, and he doesn't check-in for health updates. But who am I kidding, he hasn't done any of that for several years prior to Dad getting married, because of some racist bullshit Dad said years ago.
Dad's health is getting worse. He's been suffering from mini-strokes and a possible seizure disorder. He's falling a lot, and I'm afraid he's going to break something. I've shared this with Chris, but his level of give-a-shit is nil.
We've got my youngest niece's Quinceanera coming up next month, and Dad wants to go...apparently there's a special dance with the Grandfather/Granddaughter that he wants to do. But his body is so unsteady, I just don't know if he's going to be able to do it.
Chris has said that if Dad doesn't come, then he's going to cut him out of his life permanently...and then when I talked with my oldest niece, Alexis...they didn't even have a table placement for Dad, because they assumed he wouldn't be coming. Double standard much?
I want to throttle both of them on alternate days. The Taylor men have tempers and can nurse a grudge until the end of time.
~*~
Back in Jan., I had a run-in with the `Rona. Thankfully it was a mild case and I was put on the anti-viral meds quickly...so I didn't have any long-term effects.
~*~
The Beloved Spouse is looking toward his 4th year teaching as a Paraprofessional with an Elementary school here in town. And I just celebrated my 6th anniversary as a cashier at the DFAC at Sheppard.
We're getting a pay bump next month (Thanks, Biden) as they have to bring all Federally contracted workers up to $15/hr. I'm hoping they'll stagger the pay levels a bit...if they do, I could be making $16/hr or a little more soon.
~*~
I need to dust this thing off and start writing more. I've got so many half-started stories that are crying for attention. I need to break myself off the Zukerberg nipple and get back to the thoughtful person I used to be.
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.
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.
