The Midnight Disease

 Here I am awake at 2:46 am because my brain has consistently been pinging at this time of night. Now is it my brain, or my bladder -- probably both. But I wake up and sleep becomes elusive. 

Also contributing to my no sleep are two almost microscopic cuts on my left index finger and my right thumb respectively. Both small incursions into my flesh are products of my own loss of focus and inattentiveness over the past while. It might be a bad health sign that these small damages have been stealing my peace for almost 2 weeks, or it may just be a function of their locations. But whatever it is, they are currently throbbing for attention. Wrapping them tightly in small bandages turns the howl of a fresh painfully angry wound into something more persistently nagging.

Pagan has chosen to keep me company during this morning's awakeness. She is curled up to my left with her head on my knee. Her purr is a steady hum in rhythm to her breathes. I feel more than see small green eyes pondering me. Cheering me on perhaps? Has she come into  my life as my muse? My night-time guardian? 

The recent realization that my brain has likely occupied a spot on the autism spectrum continues to unravel me on more than one level. The Ah Hah moments play out more as Holy Shit hours. Growing up I now realize I was some type of an alien in my community. It was more than being a nonMormon. More than living a home with no Father, no padre familias. More than living what I now recognize as poverty, although at the time it was just home. I really did see the world significantly differently than my friends. The Mormon love-bombing that surrounded me first as a small child and then again as I entered adolescence had no effect on me because my eyes saw something different in the stories I was told. There was no measurable difference between the fables contained in the pages of the Bible and even more so the BoM. They were just as cautionary and fantastical as the Just So Stories and the Wizard of Oz. They were words on a page written long before I arrived on planet Earth. Even now it seems incredulous to me that anyone would consider them some type of capital T Truth. 

Mom helped with this mindset exposing me to ideas larger than world boundaried by 7th street on the west, Highway 2 or First Avenue on the North, ?? to the East, and ?? framing the south. I was allowed to sit with the adults as they talked about, well, talked about the stuff of adult conversations. Relationships that were failing or starting. Friends and family who were in need of some type of help -- help to leave a failing marriage or stay in one. Mom was of the generation where marriage was . . . well . . . you got what you got. For better or worse were not just words from a tradition hundreds of years old. [find out about origin of modern marriage vows] For better or worse was what life became your life. I can almost hear Mom talking to Helen Bowden as they sat at the dining room table drinking coffee in the winter and beer in the summer. Both of them had lived a marriage that seemed to provide an inordinate amount of Worse - for mother in the form of early widowhood and for Helen something else that I now recognize as likely physical abuse from a husband who took his bad luck out on her. 

See Word Doc writing

Journaling Challenge - Day 3 - The happiest you've ever felt.

 Happiness is defined as a state of well-being and contentment. This is something I work to embrace every single day. Looking back over my life I have been lucky enough to have made moments of happiness. Some have been the result of fully knowing and understanding the situation I am in, others the result of blissful ignorance. 

In childhood, the most blissful moments I recall centre around times spent either alone or with my Mom. She was my safety and my security. She SAW who I was and loved me odd behaviours and 'moods' and all. I do not ever recall her trying to push me into a mould so that I would be more palatable to the rest of the world. Now that I am recognizing that, along with my clear and present ADHD, I am likely also on the autism spectrum, this reality becomes even more magical. I have witnessed the end result of parents imposing their standards and expectations on their children. The results were often an adult child who, out of a recognition that their interaction with their family of origin was not healthy for them, made the difficult choice to go "no contact". At the extreme, the results ended with a funeral and puzzled family members. 

When choosing death is preferable to your family, well that speaks volumes. Living in a family system that tells you that you are not acceptable everyday, that you are less and are deeply damaged and flawed steals something from a person's essence. I do not wonder why this choice is made. I experienced this but in the reverse of the typical child and teen -- I was constantly given the message that I just did not measure up but it came from my peers and my 'friends'. At home, I was safe. It was clear to me from early childhood that I was indeed a stranger in a strange land. An alien who had been dropped in the middle of some particularly odd culture to observe and report. 

What most of my friends likely do not know about how I survived was that created my own world where I was the 'normal' person and they were the freaks. On one level I knew that I was never going to be part of the 'in crowd', but on another level it did not matter. I was valued and supported in my home. Even now that I am in my early 60s, I rarely meet anyone who felt completely safe and supported in their home growing up. I will take that win. When I had my own child at age 35, it was just normal to work hard to provide a home and a world where they knew they were safe. Where they knew they had a fan club that would always be there. Where they would be cushioned from the negative that our world provides from every direction. Thanks Mom -- for being the example of what a parent should be. 

Journaling Challenge Day 2 - Best memory of this year so far

 First it is necessary to preface whatever I write here with the reality that my 'memories' are not visual. I cannot close my eyes and 'make pictures' of an person, place, or event. My brain seems to just not be wired that way. So definitely do not expect a description of the proverbial 'scene'. This is a recent 'discovery' about what seems to be the hard wiring of my brain and has me re-evaluating a great many things including whether or not I can even trust my memories.

All that being said, in a year that was filled with painful memories and too many losses to count, the addition of Pagan into my life has been a wild fun and funny ride. Specifics, you scream, and I will detail those that spring to mind:

• the first couple of weeks where she would not venture from my room - uncertain of both a new 'place' and new 'people' both bipedal and feline
• watching those green eyes light up with wonder and wanting as she watches 'Cat TV' with its programming of birds, squirrels, and the occasional human.
• the feeling of a sleeping cat laying on top of me - whether that is as I sit in the recliner or when I wake in my bed with the weight and purr of 'cat' so close to me that she is almost part of me
• watching her - just now - spring from apparent deep sleep to follow a flying box elder bug that seems to have found its way inside the house across the living room to her cat tree. Almost a personal afront that such a thing would have the audacity to invade her space. 
• the curiosity that is the definition of "Cat"

Thank you little 4 footed creature who has soothed the pain of the losses that filled the first half of the year.

Journaling Challenge - Day 1 - Favourite Part of the Day

 This is something that truly depends on the day and is influenced by many factors.

Most days, the early morning hours have always held a type of magic for me. The newness when the world is reborn with a kalideoscope of possibilities. So here is a list of "best"parts of 'any given Tuesday':

• anytime sweet Pagan chooses to grace me with cuddles and love
• first thing in the morning - that first taste of tea - just feeling the energy of the day
• night time - as I curl up beneath my quilts and let the day settle upon m

breaking point . . .

 Breaking Point 

Woke up - my heart playing the rhythm of a Celtic band .... so fast ... so fast

the mind immediately starts to overflow with all the ways I am failing

with all the balls that are dropping from the sky?  - I did not start with this many balls . . . someone is adding them . . one from one by two by 10 by 20 

I am trying to grasp the words before all words leave me and I am mute 

I explain my life in song - a playlist of the jumble that is twirling in my head

Why didn't you ask for help? 

well, well, well - you've found my kryptonite - ASKING FOR HELP

why don't I?

Well - I have done that in the past . . so many times . . . 

close my eyes and see a toddler me . . . holding my bottle of milk . . . beseeching someone to help me . . to really SEE me . . . but the grown ups only see a spoiled brat ...and the wounds start

the wheel of time turns . . . and I'm standing outside the school , hand on the window , watching everyone part of the circle time . . stories told . . . turns taken -- but no one has noticed the missing girl and 

I stand, staring . . slow, hot tears silently trace down my face igniting my cheeks -- and I am only finally seen when the light from the twin fires becomes too large to ignore

the wheel turns . . this time the sounds of Abba and Bread and olivia newton john play over speakers the size of volkswagons and

I stand - watching from the dark corner - unchosen

the wheel keeps turning . . . fiaally I am chosen . . . by a sweet angel boy who makes me his best friend, his chosen family . . .  and my heart is broken by a fact of biology . a primary incompatability and the parting . . . I now understand what a 'sweet sorrow' is  -  I understand and feel it to my bones

the wheel starts to lose air but it keeps turning and

I stand on the periphery watching the dance and . . I am chosen  - a trophy - a doll to dress up until

I start to plan, to believe, and the crash...alone

all along I am collecting knowledge, facts, grade point averages and pieces of parchment - evidence that I have done SOMETHING, made some mark

I -as the advice goes - turn my attention elsewhere and 

HE appears  - the quiet wounded hunter - and I take his hand - our soul wounds reflect in each other and for a while ... a long while ... .

We create a world - a life - and then A Life - a mini-version of our souls and 

they are so much more than we could have imagined

the piece of magic that we will leave ... a ripple in the pond 

And now...now...where am I

what am I

that was all just a preface to try to explain that

the PAIN is a reflection of all of this ... and of the weight of today ... the weight of what I cannot name

I stand holding a rope ... 3 inches across ... the threads wound and braided together 

everything

from silken strands to rough twine meant to hold hay bale strands to chains of STEEL

So now you tell me to ask for HELP

well I have been screaming for help for decades and no one has HEARD ..they watch my lips and play the pre-recorded tape that they produced, directed, and wrote --> my screams turn to protestations "THAT IS NOT WHAT I SAID" but minds are made up and decisions already made about who I am and what I need