Tearing my hair

I wonder why it’s so hard for me to feel things and just let them be. I can never just feel things; I always have to pick them apart and dissect them.

I’m doing that right now, have been doing it for a while. I want to put these feelings in a box, where they can sit until I can separate them all and look at them one at a time. This mass of feeling is uncomfortable. I can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s wrong to feel them at all.

Can feelings ever be stomped into submission, or at least made to march inside acceptable lines? I don’t think so, but I can still try, right?

I’m frustrated. Why is it so hard? I’m not a baby or some teenager; I’m a grown woman and I can’t manage to put reins on my own feelings. It’s pathetic. I don’t know what happened to the sensible person I used to be.


Unstable ground

I can’t trust my feelings right now. I’m trying to stuff them or make them into something else.

I’m asking for guidance and trying to be kind to myself, which I admit is very hard. I feel like I’m on shaky, spongy ground here.

One good thing, I’m sleeping a bit more easily now. It’s not get into bed and bam, asleep, but at least I know I can get to bed at a halfway decent time and maybe start to feel drowsy in 30 to 45 minutes.

I can’t even manage to handle my own feelings. I guess I’m hopeless all the way around.

Strange (dream) country

When I don’t get much sleep after a few days, my dreams become crazy.

In this one, I’m running down this corridor. The corridor is completely smooth, like the longest tunnel in the world. The darkness is complete; not a glimmer of light anywhere.

I don’t know what or who I’m running from, but I know it’s behind me, and gaining. I feel its breath on my neck and try to run faster, but in the way of these types of dreams, nothing happens.

Suddenly my forward motion stops as I slap against a wall. I’ve run out of tunnel, and now I have to turn and face the thing chasing me.

I hear it breathing hard. But it doesn’t sound like an animal, which was my first confused thought. It sounds human.

“I am human,” it says, startling me.

Okay. I try to act like I’m not totally scared of it, and ask what or who it is.

“You know me,” it says. “You are trying to reach me, yet you hesitate to fully embrace me. That must end now.”

It’s completely dark in there, but I just know that “Huh?” was written large on my face.

Then, with perfect timing, a single, cool spotlight comes on, illuminating the space between whatever (whoever?) it is and me. It’s standing far enough back in its own darkness that the light doesn’t penetrate it, but a hand comes out.  The hand is purple, with lovely, well-kept fingernails.

“Take my hand and embrace me,” the owner of the hand says. “Embrace me and be whole.”

I woke up while I was still trying to decide what to do.

…Yeah. Like I said, these are the things my poor brain comes up with when it’s running on fumes. Purple hands? Running down smooth, dark corridors? Single spotlights that come on with a playwright’s timing?

I must get more sleep.


Just one of those days

Today was one of those days.

My parents have been sick these last few days, so I’ve been on medicine patrol. Neither of my parents use medicine the correct way: the Keeper of the Holograms hates medicine and won’t take it as it’s meant to be taken, and Volcano is the opposite–he takes too much medicine, too often, and he even takes it when he doesn’t need it.

Neither of these ways is calculated to get healthy as quickly as may be, so I’ve been monitoring medicine intake and spacing of doses. Volcano is a total baby when he gets sick, and I’ve been struggling not to snap at him.

There were kids here, and Colonel Crazy is a somewhat inept parent. He says he has no patience for them, and I believe it. The kids were in and out, wanting juice, wanting to play with me, wanting to talk to me, wanting to ask me questions. I played, and listened, and answered.  The Lord of Lassitude had his fiancee and her kids here too. The house was chaotic and loud, and it was hot.

Now the house is quiet, the parents have had their nighttime medicine doses, and it’s even cooled down here some. I’m going to pack it in and try very hard for sleep, since I’m totally wiped.


Everyone I’ve told about my being pagan always asks what I pray about and how I do it.

The snarky answer I’m always tempted to give to that question is “I pray about the same things you do, duh!” I guess hearing that Pagans pray is sufficiently mind-blowing to some people that they can’t help but ask.

It’s true, though. I pray about the same things that people who pray do: fulfilling work, happiness, my loved ones. I give thanks, ask for healing, ask for clarity, ask that this metal box that lets me reach out to my friends stay working (yes, I do say prayers for my computer–doesn’t everyone?)

I usually say formal prayers twice a day–in the morning and again before bed. Morning prayers are the time when I express thanks for the day, for the fact that I’m up and around in the day. I ask that I have a smooth day, with no major explosions, and if one should happen, that I not go ballistic and do something ill-considered. I usually say the Serenity Prayer too, since I think I have need of it.

Nighttime prayers are when I give thanks for the day that’s gone. I say prayers for those in my prayer bowl, say prayers for myself and my loved ones. I ask that my parents get off to work safely the next day (they both leave for work before dawn), and that the cars work well. Finally, I ask for restful sleep and no nightmares.

There are times when I ask for more, times when I need reassurance, guidance, or comfort. Sometimes my prayers sound more like rants–which always surprises people.

Prayer works, guys. I won’t begin to preach about the power of prayer, but it really does.

Not-sleeping rambles

The Lord of Lassitude was talking to one of our cousins today, telling him about one of his women.

Wait! you protest. Isn’t the Lord of Lassitude engaged?  Yes he is, Constant Reader. He remembers that fact when it’s convenient for him.

Anyway, he was talking about one of his women. This woman bought his car for him, and he’s bragging to our cousin about how he can talk to this lady disrespectfully, ignore her, lead her on. They’re laughing about it.

I ask him if he likes her.

“I like her money,” he says, and our cousin gives him a high-five.

I ask him if he’s ever considered her feelings.

“Screw her feelings. Why should I care about that? It doesn’t put money in my pocket, rims on my car, or food in my stomach.”

How can you hang around with somebody, let them spend their hard-earned money on you, and not even like them? I know this lady has a choice, that she could choose not to give my brother anything, but still.

And I wonder how I could be related to such a user. How is he happy with doing this to people? My conscience would batter me day and night if I treated people the way he does.

My brother hates women. It’s really starting to sink in for me. How can he surround himself with them, sleep with them, yet hate them?

I don’t understand it. If I hated anyone as much as I think he hates women, I wouldn’t be able to be in the same space with them.  Is he aware of how his actions come off to people? If he is, I bet he doesn’t care.

And what is my problem that I’m sitting here trying to dissect my brother’s psychology? I really must be unable to sleep.

Open letter

Dear Subconscious,

Why do you do torment me by producing dreams about things I know can never happen? For what purpose do you reach in the mental image box and pull out these things, and then parade them before me while I sleep? Do you enjoy it?

I wish you would stop. It’s not fun. It doesn’t make me happy.

Thank you.