Snow Day Reveries...

Dear Hearts,

Snow Day. Dad says we got like a foot. I am not so sure on that—but he did all the shoveling so if he wants to call it a foot he can.

The wind is whistling and moaning. It just looks fucking cold out.

We are leaving for The Holy City Saturday instead of Friday—so today is my last “free day,” before I start packing.

I can’t believe I have been home for three weeks.

I saw my GI Doc yesterday. He’s a good man. Devan. Or that’s what I call him.

“Thank you so much, Devan,” I said as I returned his hug.

My UC is in remission. It has been since I quit teaching. Thanks Be To God. Devan said he remembered how much stress and struggle I had with teaching. He was legitimately happy for me.

My spirit felt lighter. This was yesterday.

He assured me that if I were to have a flare—he would be there for me even if I were in Illinois and we’d make it better. He’s a great doctor.

I am literally grateful to God every day for my UC being in remission.

After the divorce, re-fi on the house, changed locks—I was still not only grieving a life I’d had, but also dealing with really bad digestive issues. I would always get to school by 7.30 so I could use the student girls’ bathroom—that way I wouldn’t inconvenience other staff by taking so long. In the stall I would take off my skirt, dress, sometimes top—because—let’s just leave it at that. You don’t need to or want to know why. It was fear of making them dirty—it was just…how it had to be.

I marked on my calendar every day whether it was a good or bad stomach day. I was living in a prison of my own making.

“Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself." Breakfast at Tiffany’s Film 1961.

There is nothing for me in Henry. My House was a part of my life that is no more. It’s so not that simple—but it is.

I could start with a clean slate—Act II: Fresh Start.

CD is so weird. The night before I was deep in the well and then 24 hours ago I felt lighter—I could see over the rim of the well. Then I slipped back down the slimy walls of the well last night. My sister came for dinner but I excused myself an hour before she left because I just wanted to be alone and draw. I felt guilty. But, she said it was okay.

This room is a fucking mess. I purposely did not move in here while I was home for three weeks. I am tired of living in different places—of falling asleep and on the edge of my consciousness wondering where I am.

If I could choose a perfect place to live…it wouldn’t be The Holy City. I don’t know where it would be. Somewhere west of Illinois? The perfect house? Lots of rooms and made out of stone.

No matter all the bad that might have happened in Mom and Dad’s House—this will always be Home to me.

(I wish it were spring and the air was warm and the trees were in between budding and being full green.)

I have changed so much. When I met Asshole, I still believed he’d “save me” and I could get my Ph.D. Even when I realized the Ph.D. Part was bullshit—I still believed in magick, faeries, reincarnation…I really believed in those things. I dressed, when not teaching, like a bling-y hippie.

(Fatty, the cat, just ambled up the stairs into my room where Angel was sleeping. I heard the growl and Angel jumped off the bed to protect her kingdom. She is such singular creature…wait, I just heard Dad call Mom “hun” three times day. That’s a changed from “Fuck.!” Angel is now yowling…Angel had Fatty trapped in Mom’s bedroom. I had to rescue Fatty and take him downstairs.)

…a bling-y hippie. I wore faerie wings to Ren Faires and really believed in Faeries. I talked to The Goddess daily. I believed wrote fiction about telepaths. I read almost solely contemporary fantasy. This would be like 2011. When I did my computer art it was very much centered in my Pagan Faith. I truly believed in reincarnation. I put pentagrams over the doors in My House to protect them. I wore 14 rings, 8 bracelets, 5 necklaces, earrings…the more the better.

I still wore cowboy boots, loved Reagan and Buffy.

Now I would say my style is Bohemian or Boho-Chic. I wear long flowy skirts, but also clothes are form fitting. I am not necessarily going to be given a flyer for the local “Love In.” I don’t think about faeries so much anymore—or think of them as a part of my everyday world. Maybe that’s sad.

It’s like I grew up. No, I became more somber.

Angels are my faeries. I still love Buffy and Reagan! I think little erasers shaped like food are so fucking cute! I sleep with stuffies. I am interested in the paranormal. I still collect Barbie.  Sorry, Aunt Faerie and Richie for the lack of sentence variety. I still love pink. But, I wouldn’t kneel and pray at the altar as it is now in My House.

I don’t long for England the way I used to. My Heart’s Home—so I thought. I long for respite from this depression. The same feeling England gave me—I think I felt that in Nebraska. My rings used to be pentagrams, moonstones, amber—magical. Rings now: one simple silver ring from Montana and has a chip of Black Hills Gold in it; a claddagh ring from Ireland given to me by G-Pa. A small garnet and diamond chip ring from my dear Gram; Another demur silver ring with a cross and the inscription, “You’ll never walk alone” given to me when I converted my subtle Black Hills Gold ring Dad bought me when I turned 21; and my college ring. I still wear the bracelet Mom gave me the first night that they brought the police to My House when Asshole and I were together. Like you give a shit about that or my other bracelets

After the colitis and the breakdown—I just needed things to be simpler. I don’t put one “Full Make-up.” I don’t believe in reincarnation anymore. I think I am against the Death Penalty.

I haven’t “grown up” because I still love my life-sized poster of Rick Grimes from The Walking Dead. I still use my tarot cards.

My House doesn’t wholly reflect me anymore.

What a rambling waste of a post…I am not the same woman who was married to or even filed for divorce from Asshole.

When I OD’ed—something really, irrevocably changed for better and/or worse.

I don’t believe in Fairytales anymore. Not even the kind—especially not the kind where Prince Charming is the one by your bedside when you wake up from a failed suicide attempt.

If I knew that I could live…If I had faith that I could live…there is the crux of the rambling post.

Something did indeed die when I OD’ed. I feel like my life was blown apart and I’m trying to pick up the pieces—but I have got to keep only the pieces that fit into this new picture.

“You’re not the woman you envisioned. But your life is not a broken time machine. No, it’s not that bad…” Tim McGraw “Forever Seventeen.”

God, I look for the golden sky.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: For all my blessings I am so grateful—Thank you Good Lord and Mother Mary.

GOT IT OR SOMETHING:

I was totally obsessed with all things King Arthur. I always identified with Guinevere. My wedding was even "Camelot" themed. Asshole was my Arthur--well, Arthur tried to burn Guinevere at the stake. T. was supposed to be Lancelot, who saved Guinevere.

Camelot is just a legend.

Camelot has fallen.

Glastonbury, England where the first Christian Abbey was built and the Holy Grail is perhaps buried at the Chalice Well--this town is sacred to Pagans and Christians. All my life I saw the Pagan sacredness of it--the magick. Now, I see the Christian sacredness of it--the history and mystery.

I'm not sure if Glastonbury's Doors are open to me anymore...Avalon or The Abbey...