Category: Compositions

As I make my “debut” in the “public” light and try to bring myself forward honestly, it occurs to me that there are concepts that I can approach factually and exploratively with an open mind and caution that perhaps others cannot respond to so equanimously.

This means that I feel constrained in broaching some subjects of uniquely-angled interest, except through creative nuance by only lightly discussing them in the “surface” world. 

i have private blogs where I go to ponder and explore deeper psychology, which I call “the underground.”

I am still “but a shell” out here at times. and must return there for deeper musings.

I have not tested this idea regarding COVID, but when my eldest child was a baby, she came down with a fever. I made chicken soup with the bones and meat cooked into a thick broth, carrots, celery, and lots of garlic. The idea I learned in massage therapy school and related healing, the lymphatic system is where larger molecules of fats get pushed out of the body. So the good fat broken down into particles in the broth get pushed through lymphatics, and this pushes out viruses. When she went to sleep after eating the soup, her body broke into a sweat, pushing out toxins – and her fever broke. I have wondered if this would help people with COVID.

As she turned down the lane, she saw the cider house still open – though it was late.

“Why not?” allowed her reconsidering, and after backing up, she then eased to the side and forward into the parking lot.

When she got to the top of the stairs, the doors were locked, after all.

She could see the two gents behind the counter pouring drinks for themselves, glad the day was done.

“Ah, to be them for a moment!” she lamented, wistfully.

Then, she accepted defeat with grace, and headed back to the car.

Just as she was getting in, one of the men invited her to return if she was just getting a couple of bottles.

“Everyone needs a bit of cider on a Frdiay night!” he welcomed repeatedly, warmly.

She accepted his offer joyfully, and they spoke briefly about cider types and flavors.

She inquired and found she could try a small sample tray of on-tap exotics in the future.

Feeling nourished – and possibly saved – she purchased two cans by different brewers, and headed home to her evening.

As she parked the car in the back of the building, she noted the heavily-coated man walking into the light, coming toward her.

Bundled up tight against the icy night air, he hoisted two bags she surmised were full of bottles.

As he passed, he said nothing and asked for nothing, seeming content upon his purpose.

Suddenly inspired to add to his cause, she hailed him as he moved away, and asked if he was collecting.

He said yes, and after they discussed the heavy weight of her contribution, they arranged to meet at his rest stop in 15 minutes.

When the time came, she drove to meet him.

As she pulled up, he shed his outer layers, revealing a decent shirt and pants, as if he wanted her to see him as a worthy human.

He told her his name, then she gave hers, and she said how happy she was to have met him.

He thanked her, sharing that he was saving up to get a certain kind of phone and that she was helping him boost to meet his goal.

She donated three bags of empty No. 1 Rosemary Water bottles, sure that the creators and shareholders would be happy to have their ingenuity in spirit expanded.

Her family needed the little bit of money that recycling gleaned, but this man had carved a niche for himself that she felt needed promotion.

“You’ve become a brash, young man!” his mother exclaimed.

“Why don’t you just settle down and marry? Haven’t you had enough ‘fun’?”

“Mother, you know they need me – I’ve only just begun!”

Worriedly, she conceded: “As long as you’re happy…”

My mother taught me that you don’t walk away from family – which is funny, because she drove me away by how she and her then husband treated me when I was fifteen.

This is when another break happened to me – a split, off from another reality.

A week before my sixteenth birthday, she stripped me of the friends I had gained and the Bachelors I could foresee by sending me away to take care of my grandmother.

She thought that removing me from the situation would help everything. Being with her mother gave her a sense of control over me.

It is one of my deepest regrets and a heinous tragedy that the wounding from both my ex’s and my own childhood ended up being passed to our children when they were in their teens.

At least I recognized tbey needed to be given the choice to decide their destiny when we lived temporarily with my parents and chose to return to their schools on the Central Coast and be homeless.

We climbed out of that pit together, although I “lost” my eldest to the confusion and pressures of what then transpired as she went to high school and tried to find a way to create her own family – free from our losses.

What’s important about all of this is that I saw the issues underlying throughout our family’s progressing timeline, yet was not taken seriously.

Like Cassandra with her prophecies, my sight was biased as triviality. I was branded a “mad woman” for begging others to see.

The irony is that my middle name is Cass. Her legacy has always haunted as a tease, playing with my conscious perceptions.

And, with such a strong, Greecian goddess name as Athena, I thought it was my duty to learn and uphold any wisdom I could find in all things.

It has been my goal in life to always improve myself, and Cassandra’s example has guided development of my intuition.

I’ve been surprised that no other person of my name that I have met has taken its meaning seriously – beyond the novelty, or an excuse for indulging ego.

Our names are an important aspect of who we are. They set the tone for how we could be living.

The sweetest little tubby tube of a dachshund you ever saw with black, sleek, flat fur and a brownish-pink belly.

She used to sit up on her hind legs – the long length of her swaying – to beg for scraps and treats.

I remember her progression from energetic puppy into complacent cylinder.

We grew up together.

I almost remember when she got that crimp in her tail from missing the sliding glass door timing.

At least, I remember the before and after.

She didn’t last long after grandpa died.

But, by then, she was ancient in dog years.

She used to chase me around with a fly swatter if she thought I was being naughty.

She was dead serious about her aim, once she got her mind to it.

No matter what, I knew to not push her past that point of no return.

I knew she’d make sure that I would never forget it.

Other than that, we got along fine.

She’d send me to the kitchen to get snacks and watch my own TV while she watched her golf, loudly.

A cigarette and a cocktail later, early evening.

She wasn’t a lush – in fact, my grandparents were highly respectable.

It was just the swing of the clubhouse scene.

She’d let me watch her make dinner, but barely help.

Her meals were her own secret recipes.

I guess they were the one thing she could maintain control over.

And man-oh-man – she knew how to make our tummies crave her artisanry!

She had this magic Italian dressing mix that I could never reproduce again.

And her mac-n-cheese with Ritz crackers crumbled over the top – baked in – was heavenly!

A piece of candy or two was given to me as a rarity.

There were jars in the large kitchen drawers of latest selections.

And always, I was permitted a slice or two of the forbidden Kraft sliced cheese.

She knew how to take good care of me, and always played cards until late as my partner until grandpa came home.

Coming home at 2am.

Smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat – highlights of an evening’s production.

Crisp damp of a new morning clinging, he was like Jack Frost – heart happy and singing.

It was a kind of letdown that he had to come home, again.

He’d go straight to the couch after barely saying hello to me and grandma.

He used to let me lay alongside his length and snuggle while he’d smoke his cigarette as reclined.

He rarely spoke about his engagement.

Maybe he’d comment about what was on TV.

He’d tolerate it when I again begged him to stop smoking to avoid his later cancer.

And soon, his mouth would drop open into a loud snorking sound.

Grandma and me, we used to tease quietly – joking.

Then, “Hey, Grandpa…Wakeup! You were snoring!”

He’d make his apologkes and shuffle off to bed, yawning.

It was our ritual when I’d stay over.

I missed him, while he spent most of his time chasing glory.

I take most of the hits to keep my family healthy.

This is where a partnership comes in handy.

I am not feeling sorry for myself in saying this, but I know I’m not like the rest of them.

You know.

The other single mothers needing a man to step up to the scene.

Yeah…it’s just a flimsy illusion of hope for me to cling to.

My husband projected onto me.

Everything I did and said became an impetus for him to countermaneuver.

A reason for denying me.

I was multitalented.

His mother was this way.

If I got angry, rather than coming to my defense, he criticized me – and by his gaze berated.

I felt under constant scrutiny.

Nothing I did, no mater how beautiful, pure, or innovative was worthy of his approval.

I know now that it wasn’t me.

That it was because he became injured, and this kept nightmares from his past constantly playing.

But, when you come away branded as “bad” by someone you once trusted and loved, it’s hard to find reprieve.

It can’t be forced, but must be earned.

A lot of sh** went down to make someone’s resiliency scatter.

It must be fed with given trust.

It must be carressed by promises kept.

It must be shown that Light Is the Truth.

And that darkness is the fallacy.

Perhaps I am making a mistake in going to places where the poor go.

I haven’t judged them – but I sure as heck judge myself!

Perhaps, if I avoided such places, I wouldn’t be triggered by my empathy.

Maybe I am overexposing myself to this, instead of more positive situations.

I’ve just been so caught up in survival, making sure we can make it by simplifying.

Yet, even the homeless look at me, wondering what I am doing there.

It’s clear that I am not one of them.

I’m a niche creator.

The system is broken.

Maybe it never worked to begin with.

Laws are just cobbled together to serve lawyers and politicians, instead of human decency – which they claim to defend.

When someone as good as me gets put through hell, like rabid wolves, others target.

A public argument or heated discussion.

The need to at last set limits with an out-of-control dog.

This is all it takes – just a “slip” – and in come the wild hogs.

They say that stress can kill, and now I know why.

It messes with your homeostasis.

And like an injured cichlid in a tank, society turns on you like an opportunistic school (of cichlids) and picks at you.

Until you fight back, and prove you have what it takes to still compete.

It’s a feral instinct of self protection, and if you don’t push against and act crazier than they do, they’ll keep coming after you.

If I know all of these things, why can’t I get out of the cycle?

Why does the darkness keep pulling me back to its bossom?

Well, because I put up a good fight and keep it at bay.

It so easily claims others – but not me.

I am tired of it.

Maybe I’ll just ignore it.

I heard that if you do this, it simply ceases to be.

When you’re an empath, you sense nuances other people may not notice.

When you’ve been abused, you learn to track patterns.

When 911 happened, I felt the undercurrents.

Most of the nation reacted to the external of it.

I realized then that Bush Jr.had secured the presidency.

No one was going to do a recount.

How convenient – and was the cost worth it?

To evil, yes. For profit – absolutely.

Hey. I don’t want this power.

It’s like being a super hero with no benefit.

And, it’s not like I can control it, or predict anything.

I have no real proof my impression was the whole story.

But, if anyone is paying attention at all to what’s around them, over time, some things can become a bit predictable.

Like the fact I was attracted to the celebrity.

Guaranteed that he was not available.

If I could break out of this grip that some hold has on me, I would do it – gladly.

That’s why my ex left me.

I wasn’t the problem – it was imbedded deep in his psychology.

And, like my father and fiance, he figured breaking up the family was a worthy sacrifice.

Well, having received that end of the lack of pardon, I refused to abandon my children.

So, they had to see the ugly – the damage that happens when someone destroys your dreams and takes everything.

I wish it didn’t still affect me.

It would be nice if there wasn’t constant negative reinforcement.

It that the out?

Make everything perfect?

Or numb oneself to the nth degree by alcohol or mushrooms or some other drug of choice that is a “no no” – but still more permissable than allowing me to break free?

The system has to be Right, and wil do everything and anything to maintain this facade.

At the expense of you and your loved ones – at a pittance of the cost for making you dependent.

So, there’s a fire raging inside of me.

It’s determined to break this larceny.

I have nothing to prove to others, but myself to reclaim – and to be the best person that I can be.

Oh, how the mortgage specialist was so kind and attentive.

He kept pinging my email, until I asked him to wait and contact me mid-Novemeber.

Then, he called today like clockwork, eager and ready to be of service.

Until I began telling him what had transpired and that I’d gone into business for myself.

Then, he abruptly cut me off and began retreating..

“We need two years worth of proof if you’re a sole proprietor…”

Interjected as he hastily gave apologies and said I could contact him when I was ready, while hanging up.

The nice thing about being alientated is that you remember.

And I have all the emails, so I won’t forget who turned tail on me when the sale was suddenly not so easy.

When the day comes, he will not be the person I apply to for a home loan.

I’m the worst on myself, but not on others.

I hold myself to strict accountability – and if I vary outside any “norm,” I am the hammer on the gavel.

No jury of peers – none is needed..

No begging for clemency: I know what I’ve done.

And yet, the rapists, murderers, and destroyers of sanctity get to walk, without punishment.

It has become acceptable by society that people are disallowed variances – unless extreme.

She discovered when she connected with him online that there was already too much static between them.

She had approached him, open and honest.

While he had responded politely with light inquiry, his guards were already cemented.

She realized, then, that she didn’t want to just get shunted into a preset category.

He was too important to her to let him get away with that.

I am not a “helicopter” parent, but I do make sure he is nourished.

He has social anxiety and his own difficulties.

We have been through hell together, and separately.

I won’t abandon him because society says this-and-that about upbringing.

Society, as a rule, ignores what we really need in order to become fully conscious, healthy contributors.

I may get into a lifestyle of traveling for work and exploring, but he’ll be the base I return to until he is solid with his own wings.

Humans are capable of wonderful things, and I’m ensuring he gets to claim his talents.

I skimmed across mention of a Type-C personality.

My impression was that this is a person who schedules their own lifestyle flow, according to the best support of their creativity.

This kind of takes a back seat for me.

Not just because of work needed for income, but because of adrenal depletion.

Once I am up and moving, I tend to keep going until my energy is beyond flailing.

I don’t know when to stop because everything seems important when there’s so much to get coordinated and progressing.

Plus, these past three years I was apparently fighting deep depression and crushing anxiety.

Not that it was always cycling in my head – in fact, I was in denial that I had any.

This is because it is important to me that I stay functional.

I do not like masticating when I could be innovating.

But, once we had arrived to the mountain, I was hit by a weight I struggled to manage.

Every day, it was on me – attempting to suppress and suffocate.

My body reacted by locking down muscles to slow movement, as if preparing for immanent attack.

We had just moved to predator country: bear, cougar, and rabid man.

We found ourselves not only 20 miles over hard terrain from any town, but 2 hours away from sensical civilization!

My mind and emotions were on high alert and negative reactive, as if we were nearing doomsday.

I was probably picking up on why people move to and have stayed there.

I think my being’s awareness just understood integrally that we had arrived to a dead-end situation.

No pun intended.

And somewhere, deep inside, I was screaming to be released from that situation.

Devotion to my parents complicated.

So now, the lingering effects are that I must rest – then rest again, when there is not something absolutely pressing.

I just gave too much at the cortisol shank bank.

For example, I was going to jump into the shower, but then had another thought to write.

My posture felt fatigued, so I crawled back into bed until the thought was captured.

Now, back comfortably nestled on the heating pad as l allow my body to relax again, I realize I still feel exhausted.

So, when I think of working closely with a person I greatly admire, I think about his schedule.

I think about his eating patterns and workout regime.

I think about his daily performance and the sleep loss he’s enduring.

And I ponder how I could even sync up with that kind of lifestyle.

I am simply where I am in my healing, and I would have to contribute independently.

I cannot ever let myself get this depleted again.

I need a life path that ensures my continued recovery.

“There’s no space or time for me – conscripted to a life of struggling.

How am I to uncover and reveal my talents with the jackals constantly nipping?

Storms blow apart cobbled shelters, and I am driven from society without reason.

Humans need something to hate – and because I’m different, they target me.”

Somewhere in her heart’s beat and inner ear, she could hear the sweetest rhythm and melodies – lost in translation as they filtered through her broken channels.

The talented band leader/musician renowned for discovering and elevating new talents to stardom cringed whenever he heard her off-kilter tonality, and discounted her creativity.

He did not realize nor think to dig beyond encased marble to discover that she was imbued with wild magic’s ingenuity.

He soon avoided her questions, countering them with deflections, as he focused upon his own conquests because his marriage was failing.

When she begged for guidance, he outright rejected her – believing she had no talents, whatsover, after the most brief assessments.

He was not attuned to seeking outside the realm of his own understanding.

Once a fragile creative, himself, he’d learned to become commanding.

Had he known about psychology, and how trauma suppresses and distorts emergence…

Had he decided to let the great love that poured freely from him to others fill the little girl to brimming beyond her vessel’s holding…

He would have discovered the miracle he’d searched for of love’s unending expansion – and his granddaughter would have carried on his legacy.

I have no idea how I will be able to have a good relationship again.

I say again, because on my end, I think I had a lot of positive going for me.

I contributed well and likely beyond usual requirements to ensure growth and positivity could flourish.

My partners ended up draining me, pulling themselves out of the water of life and just watching me tread water doing the work, while they sat on their shelving.

I don’t know how to find someone who will invest like me.

And honestly, I’m frightened of the commitment because I imagine it will at first make me feel quite disoriented.

How does one keep being themselves in a good partnership?

When can one relax and know the other won’t find excuse or reason to leave?

How do I find and identify an available man of excellent character and integrity?

I need someone who’s willing and able to give and receive beyond my dreams.

I say this because the ideal concept promises a better matching for mutual collaboration.

How does one gain cooperation from another person so that they are equally contributing?

I look back at past behaviors I worked on when I had personal failures, and I haven’t met someone willing to mirror me.

I’m not speaking of codependency, but of endurance and tenacity no matter the challenges.

I crave to have a deeply bonded love that is vital and dynamic.

I want someone who will recognize when the facade I am presenting is a survival mechanism – and to pull me out of such reveries.

I desire to have someone who wants to play and enjoys reciprocity.

It’s been said that if you name what you want, you will receive.

But, how can I be sure I’ve found what I’ll need?

Of course, all of this is just hypothesis.

I still remain isolated as I’m reemerging.

By default, this has become my normal state of being.

And, I kind of like it – because I like me.

Me is fragile…I don’t want to lose her.

I must curb how I repond to internal alarms begging for reactivity, rather than response.

It took more effort than I could ever give – but kept struggling to produce – when I lived on the mountain.

Then, my consciousness was blown wide open as I expanded beyond capacitkes to seek solutions.

When answers are not in reality, one is forced to travel other dimensions for innovation.

However, I am on “solid’ ground here.

No matter how my stability muscles still shake and ache from the moving and timespent scrabbling on the mountain, I can adjust.

I must believe in myself and streamline to mesh with my potential.

Being responsible for my parents’ satisfaction was a goal I could never achieve.

They are by nature easily dissatisfied, and I did not have the support nor power to fulfill their needs.

Plus, they are very powerful, so their “depending” on me while being completely capable plied at my boundaries, when I was already bending to be overly flexible.

From their point of view, they were frustrated because I could not fulfill their ideals of “simple” needs.

They had the money and resources.

They had the partnership and it was their property.

Every step I’d try to take on their behalf, they’d interfere with by vying for control, attempting to puppet my strings.

Oh! How they’d sigh in reminiscence for the previous lady catetakers’ competence!

Well, yeah – they gave her the authority and autonomy necessary for her to succeed.

They never fully trusted me, which imposed a constant sense I was trespassing as a burden, and just a “child in need.”

It was conveyed by their language, in talking-down-to-me tones, and by projected undercurrents of their own past wounding.

I was responsible for their feeling safe, secure, and healing – but they kept hamstringing my abilities to provide this.

I was placed in a situation where my energy was constantly drained without replenishment, leaving me the target of negative criticism.

What makes me thrive was absent. Nonexistent.

I had to keep recreating mere remnants of it, while the circumstances kept making me bleed.

Being away from all of that now leaves an ache that feels hollow.

A person gets used to the weight of chains: they feel like “home” in the absence of genuine affection.

Yet, now that I am breaking free and working on getting back for final cleanup, it is amazing to just focus on my own family.

My youngest and I put in a lot of growth together there – individually and regarding our relationship.

We still have the occasional squabble, but for the most part, we are getting our routines calibrated.

I am finding it helps that I no longer have my parents’ expectations crushing me.

I saw the baby quilt – a rare, classic find: double layered and beautiful beyond mere tradition.

I had purchased it for our future – for the dream of having more children.

My puppy eats everything. It’s just the stage she is in.

A few minutes ago, myself shivering from a window left open, I turned on the heater after closing out the night’s damp chill.

Our pup was in her crate, stoically and bravely also shivering.

I looked around for a blanket less harmful to her if it is chewed and devoured.

I couldn’t find anything suitable – and then I found the quilt.

I brought her out of her crate and snuggled her in front of the heater for a moment, then took it from its shelf and laid it down for her with the tiny tassle tie-offs folded inward.

(She’ll become enamored of them, in the morning.)

She looked at it and immediately went in to stand on it, recognizing it as a gift.

Then, after thinking for a moment, she lay down and curled on top of it.

I just now heard from her a sigh of contentment.

If she destroys it – for this evening – it’ll be worth it.

I have decided to no longer worry about my weight as of this moment.

This decision has been building as I’ve watched my adrenals take a beating and life challenges just don’t diminish.

I don’t overeat, but the thyroid cortisol response thickens me as a type of buffer against brutal reality.

So, rather than continuing to feed into this stress cycle, I must no longer worry about it.

It’s like the situation with my clothing.

I cannot afford more, or to diversify, so I must no longer desire to.

Sometimes, I will go briefly down the isle of a thrift store, looking for quality weave, and wonder what lifestyle I’d be living to support such a theme.

The cool part is that if I let my identity dissolve even further, then eventually, I could ease into just about any fashion statement I could imagine.

But, we live in a small apartment with little storage space.

My work uniform is the same everyday – and I like it. It serves its purpose and does not complicate.

I noticed earlier today that on the shelving above the fridge, to the side and behind the on top microwave that’s hard hard to reach, I have backstocked my basic favorite liquids..

On the left side are my mango juice and unsweetened rice milk containers.

On the right are a month’s worth (or more if I portion it) of rosemary water.

Am I officially a bachelorette to know the few simple things I like and stick to them?

Yes, I drink straight out of my refrigerated juice jar.

I lightly scoff a bit at other people’s complicated life styles: the elaborate meals they’ll make and fuss over, for example.

I haven’t had the illusion of that kind of food security for longer than I can rememeber.

I am in awe that people feel safe enough to invest in it.

Some guys like to know you have your sh** together, yet are just as turned on, if you don’t.

More so – actually – because it makes them feel superior if you are not stronger than the persona they own.

In the quest to find balance in a relationship, this goal can become one-sided.

One person may feel they need to stop growing to keep the other satisfied.

And even if they were told this is what was wanted, they become vilified.

For, ironically, the more dominant will seek a more assertive replacement for the diminutive.

There seems to be no winning once one gives away their power.

I cannot tell you how much I have fought, seemingly in vain, to get the doors inside my subconscious to open.

That old negative messaging, though I’ve been cognizant, just refused to budge no matter my shoving at it.

But, just now as I was opening boxes, I felt a shift in some of the dialog.

When the old messaging played, I was able to answer with a different response.

I again tested the boundary – and it yielded for me!

Its thickness seems to be at last thinning – I could fall upon my knees and weep with relief.

I used to think that the subtle approach was best.

Then, perhaps, I would avoid stepping on toes, and people wouldn’t see me as a threat.

But, I’ve found that no matter my good efforts nor intentions that people will slap you down if that is their tendency – and they want to.

So, avoiding and bending for them is not necessarily a recipe for success.

And, since they seem to notice, judge, and affect me no matter what I do, I might as well assert my own point of view!

I often lament I do not have more of it.

I have alot – but it is fine, like spider silk.

Maybe this is Arachne’s way of getting back at one of Athena’s namesakes.

A “paying it forward,” if you will.

My youngest tells me thicker hair is too hot.

As I let mine get longer, I can feel it is certainly heavier.

I must accept that mine is a unique beauty – and no longer desire what can’t be bought.

It’sneverenough-whatIdo.

There’snotime,safety,security,peace,orrelentmentofthepressure.

There’snoplacetogo-nothingIcandotostopthiscycling.

Pacic,dread-strugglingtogetagriponmyemotions,onmybody,onmyhead.

Don’texplode,don’tdestroy,holdtight,rideitout.

Don’tgivein,nomatterwhat.

I’mgonnaslipI’mgonnaslip –

I’mslipping!

9am

Workmen arrive outside our back door.

They never knock and just keep talking in the quickest, highly intelligent, relaxed hippy-type stream of assessment I’ve ever experienced.

It’s like having a human burbling brook appear outside my window.

Melodic cacophony downloading and processing analysis information.

The puppy’s bark collar is not working because the refill cartridges were eaten by the highway, and rumor had it no more existed locally.

She begins to “wuff!” Low bark and growl constantly.

I can’t blame her – but, she can’t bark here.

Boiler plate lit inside by cbd goes from zero to 102 degrees, instantly.

1-2am before, got a blink of sleep before picking up youngling from late shift.

5-9am a brief nap that was not repleat.

930am

Try to get youngling to have pup in bedroom.

Pup clambers and whines, trying to go after cats and eat everything.

Youngling too tired to be nice and cbd has me wratched.

Brief argument squabbles between us spit fire and venom.

Puppy is my charge, again.

10am

I give up trying to recover and get dressed.

The never-ending river-speak has now engaged upstairs neighbors.

Getting the dogs leashed: I’ll introduce them.

Panicking internally without externally transmitting because puppy needs to not begin bay-barking.

Go to the back door, dogs barely under control.

Pull aside curtain and open door – Nothing.

From 1 second before, they’ve all vanished!

No sign of them, anywhere.

Youngling gripes by text to get cartridges.

I gripe back they could “kiss my biscuit” and find a source.

Cartridges found and held for later pickup.

Returned to bed with earplugs in to calm distress.

Neighbors above, inside, won’t stop loudly talking.

The earplugs at least muffle.

Then, they turn on loud base, which pounds through body – erupting system.

If I responded how my body and jacked-up emotional mind wanted me to, the walls would not be left standing!

Herbs can sometimes have the opposite effect on me.

I noticed this began happening about 25 years ago, after ingesting rancid food oils from a fast food place, which wrecked some of my intestinal lining.

I thought I had contracted food poisoning – that’s how bad my gut reacted for weeks after eating the fried flour shell to a taco salad.

If I didn’t eat an apple at the same time, I couldn’t digest anything, and cramps were severe.

I came away from this with leaky gut and for years was chasing illness symptoms.

My digestion is reactive and I often feel nutrient depleted – although you wouldn’t know it by looking at me.

I am mindful about what I eat, and try to take care of my body.

My immune system is just always fighting overload, which is reinforced by events externally.

It makes me sensitive to everything because particles that should be prevented by tight violii in the intestines are now permitted directly into my blood stream by micro gaps were the lining was damaged.

This causes systemic inflammation and reactions in my body to foods that should be ok as if they are allergens because they don’t get processed properly.

It also makes my nerves constantly on edge, because longterm inflammation erodes myelin buffering and hormone byoroducts that should be easily flushed out of my body get reabsorbed – which magnifies their effects on my system.

(Do not put me on birth control. I promise you won’t like the result!)

In essence, my body does not properly rid its waste products, and thus, always has too much of a load on it – which propagates chronic fatigue.

Supplements promoted to repair the intestines have not worked for me. For example, aloe vera and licorice inflame, and L-glutamine is such a fine particle, it goes straight into the blood and shocks my system.

Products like holy basil for nerve calming and turmeric for inflammation are reacted to as too spicy.

When I tried a CBD chewable last night to try to help take off the stress edge, its effect has now turned me into an intolerant “bitch,” incapable of applying patience.

Guess what I’ll be returning to the store!

Where’s the product that heals me?

I was speaking with a colleague about this, and wondering what prohibits me.

It isn’t just a lack of good forums to practice in, but likely due to past losses of self ownership.

I hate to say it, but I was brainwashed alot when I was a kid.

It was not safe nor permissable to be me, if I did not want to be re-targeted.

In my adult life, I can look back and say I’ve done some living. I have interesting resumes to proove this.

But, in each temporary phase, my way of expressing was geared to the type of role I was playing. I shifted personas to accomodate circumstances.

So maybe, I’m on a quest for self identity, and my diversity is expressed as it arrives and develops in my writing – where I can see, take note of, and track it.

Maybe I feel at risk for losing sight of myself.

Writing gives me a sense of security.

Our system is set up, unwittingly, to propagate victimization. Here are are some examples:

A woman can not go to a protective shelter if she’s seen or feels the signs of abuse coming – but it hasn’t, yet. She must wait until she first receives the abuse to apply for help. Even then, if it isn’t physical, agencies debate that it has happened.

A family cannot risk getting off of Welfare unless a member who is willing to support the others gets a job beyond the gap between poverty and middle class. This is because once a family begins bringing in income, they get penalized by benefits reducing before they can successfully bridge.

Unemployment compensation pays out very little compared to a person’s normal wages, and if you try to supplement by working, any income you make is subtracted from weekly benefits. So if your benefits per week were $150, and you got a temporary job that paid $150 that week, you only get $150 – even if you need $300 per week to survive.

What do I mean by using the term “victimization” in these scenarios? My point is that we are penalized no matter the difficulties we face in times of hardship, and if we try to improve our lives, society only supports this if we are mired in struggle.

The woman cannot outmaneuver the hammer trying to “nail her coffin.” The family cannot prosper without fear of losing what little they’ve gained. And an unemployed worker has no hope for success unless they regain liveable wages..

No one is allowed to be happy during these trials. If they are anything but miserable, they are not seen as in crisis, and they will be denied services – or at least hassled and suspected of fraud.

Having a positive outlook – or feeling ok because the system is aiding you temporarily – is frowned upon with shame conveyed that you are a “burden to the system.”

The smashing-crash impact of the vehicle speeding behind me hitting the bag of items I’d left on the roof of my car in the dark with its bumper rocketed me into a new emergency.

Pulling over into the middle lane as cars wooshed and sloshed past me, whipping the rain’s moist buffeting air against me and the car at night was unnerving.

Luckily, no accident was caused – just pulverized glass, the last bundle of my business cards, proof of dogs’s vaccinations, and paperwork I’d spent hours collecting that I had readied for faxing.

The gecko lamp and bulb worth $35-40 that didn’t work, and the dog bark spray refills of citrinella we couldn’t stand would have refunded money.

A few empty bottles of No. 1 Rosemary Water (TM) I’d intended to add to the three bags ready for recycling didn’t make it – except one jagged body missing its neck.

One mistake from overwhelm obliterated this afternoon’s efforts.

Luckily, no one was hurt – and I felt stupid being out there timing the cars, trying to not get decapitated in the headlights as I bent over in attempts to scrape papers stuck to wet pavement.

I had to leave most of them out there, strewn across the road, recognizing that I could not retrieve them in that dangerous situation, and that likely they’d be unrecognizable by the morning.

Though any cleanup crew, police officer, or on-foot passerby later investigating might receive free marketing for my services.

And by grace, my parents’ mail I’d saved to send to them remained intact and sealed it its plastic bag.

This one task, I could finish for them this evening.

But maybe, I should wait until tomorrow.

Shell Shock can have a lasting impression, long after the event has passed and damage would seem healed.

It’s one thing to sew flesh and tend to it: you can witness resistance to progress and mend it.

But, when a wound impacts the senses, it burrows deeper than mere impressions.

It can hijack perceptions of safety – and movement made to break caution’s pattern sends out alarm signals for mitigating.

This gets misdiagonsed as procrastinating while the system attempts to recalibrate

Many intelligent people seem broken, because they need their missing pieces.

Sometimes, just listening to them and honestly empathizing can be what is needed.

At other times, going with them directly to the source of pain and calling it by its true name helps to release.

But, generally, we are not taught how to do this.

We are discouraged from being “humane.”

We are taught to believe that another’s suffering could be catching.

We are taught to be selfish – and only invest if there is personal gain.

We are taught to disassociate from our own feelings, as if to know and own them is weakness or flaw.

We are taught to ignore our own instincts, so we’ll line up and be fed to The Maw.

She might be the only survivor, having stayed hidden until danger had passed.

One by one, they had been taken.

She remembered silent screams from the blast.

They didn’t even know it had pierced them, but just shambled off to take their place.

The drones had moved into the internet – for enslaving the human race.

As she walked into the Great Hall, clad in nothing but common decency, she felt the ripples move throughout the room, as if she were a rock sent skipping along surface waters.

“Pariah!” they whispered.

“Not One of Us!” barely censored

But, little did they know her ancestors’ lineage.

At one point, the young woman is invited to stay with a man who is stable, well educated, supportive, and desiring to care for her and her daughter in a bonded, romantic relationship.

After many deflected attempts, he asks her to go out on a date with him. Though by then she has warmed up to him, finds him attractive on many levels, and wants to – she denies him.

Her reason, which she openly, though tremulously explains, is that they would not be on equal levels because she has become dependent upon him.

She recognizes that she needs to feel capable and in control of her life cirumstances – as well as have her self confidence restored – in order to best fully participate.

I was delighted to find this was scripted, as it has been a recent discovery about myself in my own journey.

However, much of the criteria or foundation for one’s self confidence can tend to become based upon extetnal factors and uncontrollable circumstances.

I am not sure these influences should weigh so heavily upon our self esteem.

But, I will say that being on the edge of constantly grueling poverty does make it hard to say, “Pick Me!”

Whilst initially I had dread and increased tension, if something seems prospectively viable, I will investigate and work the situation to solution.

I can’t just let an opportunity go by because it initially imposes pressure – even if my system begs me to.

I don’t know if this is a flaw in my operation – that I test to better define inner messages.

Maybe I ought to go in a different direction when I feel resistance.

But the question is, what kind of barrier is it?

Is it someplace I need to and could grow, or is the flaw something in another’s system?

Having received feedback from another doctor that the first was well known for his competence, and recognizing that the biggest barrier I perceived is that I need to brush up on anatomical terminology, perhaps this is a challenge worthy to attend to.

The other part is that I’m not sure I can trust the office.

Will they accept me and treat me honorably as their own, or will they use and then reject me?

The fact they are further testing and vetting me could be a good indicator that they have good boundaries.

Perhaps this could also mean that once I’m invited to join them, I’ll be included as part of the team’s family.

I am not sure what kind of compass Spirit works based off from.

(That was a grammatically challenging sentence – did I get it right? Lol)

Though it may have the ultimate goal in mind with the best of intentions, I suspect that it at times forgets that I still have to “put bread on the table” daily.

When I think about the last office I worked for and analyze what fit for me, I liked the clients being brought to me, and the income flow’s diversity.

It was fun and useful – highly applicable to my current needs and situation – to always have some sort of money trickling in.

And, I felt happy there because I was able to spend at least a full hour with each client, with a time buffer between ending with one and beginning the next.

I did not mind back-to-back bustle, and I thought I’d found a genuine team to collaborate with.

What I am finding so far in its place are offices that want to chop up sessions into incremental pieces.

And, they want me to work at higher intensity and capacity, for less pay.

If I were to work their full time version, my adrenals at this point would again hit burnout.

Look.

It would be different if, say, I were working at a movie studio and under timelines of accomodating people.

Why do I say this?

Because it would be exciting with a sense of purpose.

There would be a shared interest and a common goal toward supporting people in their being creative.

Then again, the pressure might be from odd hours and too many clients – at random rushes.

I am getting the signal that I ought to, indeed, open my own office.

But, initially, there is not that needed income security as I’d build my client base.

And, the pandemic is still an issue.

The migraine is telling me something.

It started with tense muscles – yet, the tension had a certain frequency.

The kind that jangles nerve endings and escalates into inflammatory pain.

It’s a combination of psychological distress when I’m pushing beyond comfort levels in a direction not good for my body.

It’s the junction where denial includes overstretching boundaries.

It’s an instinctual alarm system that something is not right for me.

And, it is hard to take seriously when the situation seems dialed in, professionally.

i appreciate consummate business practices.

These appeal to me.

But, I should not be pushing beyond my limits right now.

Especially while I am still healing.

Out on-the-sea of dis-par ri-ty
Where hopes and dreams fall as-suuun-der

You will see what-was-once cap-tive
Now re-leased on waves’ rol-ling thuuun-der…

It can go faster like a chant game and get raucously silly with boot stamping and bottle smashing, then slow down again with earnest sincerity.

The two chiropractors I have worked for allowed sick people into the office during this pandemic, and when I’ve become sick as a result, they fired me.

The first client allowed in still smelled sick and his skin was slick as soon as he got on my table.

He had just had COVID, but proclaimed himself over it – while his family was still in quarantine. My employer thought COVID was a hoax designed to control Ametican businesses and derided my caution, so I could not terminate the session.

I believe I caught the virus from this client, for he was the only direct exposure I’d had, and for the next month, I fought off an aggressive draw on my immune system with herbs and vitamins to keep symptoms from developing.

The second office, here in a new town, let a client in who had a strong cold for over a week and still had symptoms of coughing and congestion.

This is when I was still moving, had already exhausted my immune system, and had to walk/jog home at night along the freeway after I caught it.

The cold got deep into my system, and when I let the office know I was infectious and questioned their sick policy, asking why they’d let the client keep the appointment, they also fired me.

I am concerned now that this is a thematic with chiropractors. Two different offices, in two different regions, have not followed strick screening policies against clients being sick – and I have paid for it.

They have also presented as supportive team players – then given me the ax suddenly, instead of collaborating.

I don’t need to keep nursing the feeling of taking it so personally – even though it is personal when people lie and sabotage your safety and financial security.

But, I do wonder if it’s even possible to find a competent office to work for – and this has me worried about sticking with this direction.

Employment is not secure when “throw away” societal standards are allowed.

It was wonderful to think you believed in me, and I appreciated how you saw the value in my survival’s ingenuity.

You seemed to not judge that I shopped at thrift stores, because one can find quality clothing there from all over at better prices than you’d find if you looked for the same items in many towns.

You rode beside me, checking in, through all these hardships of unemployment and moving to a town where our family would not have fit in, nor would have been accepted.

You fought to come back to me, everytime you were sideswiped by your culture and family for wanting to be with a woman older than you, who was an open-minded American.

But, you left me, in the end – and I’m left to feel shame all around.

Shame for the position I keep getting put into.

Shame for the way other supposed business “professionals” treat me without common decency.

And I look back at the life I offered you, where we would have had deep happiness between us – but it would have been pounded on by these hardships of financial insecurity, and people’s bias against our union.

It is one thing to say that we could have been like Khadija and Muhammad, sharing a love so rare and true.

It’s another thing in this modern materialism for you to be content with less because I cannot provide for you.

I am worn out by the constant struggle, and realize I would have carried this burden now for three people – not just two.

And once you had arrived here, the local masjid would have called you in and further indoctrinated you.

I see now that there was never a real chance for me and you because my spirit doesn’t give up – nor bow to hypocritical belief systems.

I dig for the truth and endure against societal brainwashing’s persistence, unsatisfied until I break through.

I cannot expect – nor further ask – the same of you.

“They shouldn’t have done that to you – they should have at least spoken with you about it!” exclaimed an older, beloved client.

“Yeah, but my last employer did something similar. It seems to be a theme.” I lamented.

“I should have a word with them – afterall, they’re supposed to be good Christians!”

“Look. I really appreciate your wanting to do this for me, but don’t think for one moment that if you challenge them, they won’t terminate your relationship with them as a client.

I’ve also seen this happen, and they like you. Don’t sacrifice yourself for me.”

(Conversations in my mind…)

“Why didn’t you stand up for me?” she asked the other doctor.

“Because I don’t ‘shit where I live!'” he replied, adamantly.

“You mean, you don’t stand up for others, if it hurts your own skin…”

(Conversations in my mind…)