I’ve moved into my own place! Only been here a week, and it’s been weird.

I keep expecting people to come home in the evenings. I’m always waiting to hear my door open and have someone come up the stairs. I’m making dinner now and I hope I won’t make too much. Shopping for just me was an experience. What I had didn’t even fill half the cart. It just looked wrong. There wasn’t enough food there, to my eye.

The nights are the worst. I lock up, and just sit here in the living room with the TV and all the silence. There are people I could call, but I don’t want to bother them. What can I say to them? “Hey, chat with me because it’s creepy for me being up here with only me.”? No.

So because the nights are weird, I don’t sleep very well. I wake up every hour, and I have to get up early for work anyway. I have tea and I drink it, but still.

And the dreams…well, the dreams are another post.




I feel like I’m slacking off.

I’ve got a job (finally) and am, at long, long last, making money. I pay rent. I try to be a good roommate. But despite all that, I feel like there’s something else I should be doing.

No, I don’t know what the “something else” is. If I knew, I’d be doing it, right? But it nags me. It’s in my dreams, this sense of something that needs to be done. I think of it when I have quiet time.

So because I can’t  find it, I feel like I’m not living up to expectations. I don’t know whose expectations either. But I’ve been grading myself on Adulthood Matters and, so far, I fail.


The worst part is that I don’t know where to start the unfailing process.

On self-care

Simply put, I have issues with it.

A live example: I’ve got a cold or flu coming on. I hate being sick, and I’m doing all I can to head it off and keep the suffering down. There’s a part of me that’s asking what the point of all of it is, though. Nobody cares if I’m sick. Nobody cares if I sink into oblivion here.

I know that’s not true, I really do. It’s part of the issue with self-care.

I have problems with eating well and making sure I get proper rest. Not that I don’t want to do these things, but again, my first thought when I tell myself to have some breakfast or to head to sleep is “For what? Nobody cares.” I’m working on it, and it is a little better.

I don’t know if this is something which beginnings I can source in childhood, though that’s what everything I’ve read on the subject says. It’s something to look at.

A letter to my mother


With the way I feel right now, it’s a good thing for us both that I’m several states away from you, and you will never read this or find this blog.

I’m writing this because I’m angry. How could you do this to me? For years, since I was old enough to stand up and walk around. How could you twist my head and all the thoughts I think about myself? How could you do that? How?

Do you know that becuase of you I can’t be happy with anything I do? Do you know that I have trouble seeing the good things I do? I can’t allow myself to be happy with anything. I can’t allow myself to feel joy or pleasure because of you. Do you know how hard just getting gifts is for me? I always feel so inadequate, like I haven’t worked hard enough to have earned the gift.

You told me that everything had a price. Do you know how that twisted me? I’m always looking for the pricetag for everything. Gifts make me uncomfortable. I’m forever trying to do more, give more, be more, so that people will be happy, so that I could feel worthy enough to merit something, anything. I give so much to people that there’s nothing left for me, and I feel like I don’t deserve what I might have.

All my friends (and yes, I really do have friends, mother!) love and care for me, and it’s so hard for me to let them. It’s hard for me to feel like I deserve what they want me to have, and why? Because you told me that I wasn’t worth bothering with. God knows how many of them I’ve hurt or offended by believing what you told me.

I’ve let what you told me define my whole life since I was small. I’ve been afraid of joy and happiness and pleasure. I’ve been afraid to know my own thoughts on anything. I’ve been afraid to be who I really am. I wanted your approval. I wanted you to look at me and really see me. I wanted you to love me.

Well, no more. I will no longer allow you to run my life or my thoughts. I am in control of my life and my emotions. I am the one who will say what I feel or think or do from now on.

I wish I could hate you; I’m angry enough to do it. But it’s not worth it. Hating you would just mean I’m giving you more of my energy. I am going on into my own life on my terms.




I’ve left my family back at the homeplace!

So you won’t hear any more about the Keeper of the Holograms, Volcano, the Bestower of Righteous Silliness or the Lord of Lassitude, except in passing. No more direct interactions with them except by phone, text or e-mail.

I’m living for a time with childhood friends. I haven’t found good nicknames for them yet, but when I do I’ll add them to the intro post.

The fam wasn’t happy when I told them I was heading ’em up and moving ’em out a few states away from them. They told me I was making a horrible mistake, that I was going to be used, that I was abandoning them in their “time of need”, and how could I do that?

The Lord of Lassitude hit me with his (and Volcano’s) displeasure about a week before I left in a very ugly scene that left me shaken and afraid. It was bad, really, really bad. Let’s just say he called me every name in the book, threatened me, and basically threw his weight around–both metaphysically and emotionally. Needless to say, my last week at home was tense.

Getting here was an adventure. I was on the bus for a day and a half, and the bus got stopped at a border town to check for illegal immigrants. A couple people were pulled off the bus and had their stuff searched, but they and their stuff got back on the bus, angry but unscathed.

I had a time actually getting to my friends, but I made it here. They know about what I left behind, and want to help me get my feet under me and get my life started. I’m very grateful to them.

Vent and release

I woke up this morning feeling like I didn’t want to be in this house, so I took myself off to the mall.  Some big escape, huh? But I needed to be away.

I came home still feeling those hard, pounding emotional fists inside me. I’ve been trying to examine my life and the things I’ve done, and I’ve found myself on the low end of the “good person” meter. I called a friend who’s known me since childhood, and asked her if she thought I was a good person.

She told me yes in no uncertain terms, and asked me who’s been telling me that I’m not. That’s when everything came out. I told her about everything that’s been happening, and she was shocked and angry for me, though she’s known my family for decades.

She told me that she’d noticed for years that I was marginalized and had pressure put on me that wasn’t put on my siblings. She told me that I am a nicer person than she is; if she’d been in my situation, she said, she’d have told my parents off already and they’d have thrown her out. 🙂

She said it was good that she couldn’t get to where I live, because otherwise she’d be here, kicking ass and taking names.

I don’t know why she loves me, I really don’t.

She told me that I can’t let the bastards get me down, and then her boyfriend piped up on the phone and said that from where he’s sitting, I’m the only one who’s acting like an adult. “Being an adult doesn’t mean having a job,” he said. “A monkey can get and do a job. Being an adult means recognizing problems and handling them. You’re doing your damnedest to help them and hold them up. You’re handling your business–and theirs too. Be proud of yourself, girl–we are.”

I don’t know what I did to get such awesome folks in my life.

Once more with feeling

The question this morning is: how can you begin to love yourself? Yes, back to this question again.

People say you should. People say it’s essential to a healthy self-image. I agree, but exactly how do you start?

I look at myself and I don’t see much there worth loving. My cat loves me, but my cat is a little silly. I have people in my life who love me. I don’t know why, but love me they do.

If all these people love me, there has to be something there worth loving, right? So how do I find it? Maybe the right question is how do I begin to see myself as someone worthy of loving?

Telling myself that I’m a lovable person just isn’t working; every time I say that, I look in the mirror and say, “No, I’m not.” I have really good reasons for thinking that.

I know how I am. I know my faults; I’ve a lot of them. I know I’m an odd person, just ask my mother. How can I help myself love this oddness?

I have been asking for help with this for a while.  Maybe the answer’s always been there, but I can’t see it; maybe I’m not seeing the trees for the forest. Maybe the answer is terribly simple and easy; I have a habit of always missing the simple things.