This is a concept that has always bothered me. My great grandma was seventy five when I was born. She bowled in three leagues until I was ten. For me I see people at thirteen who are more mature then people who are nearly thirty. I believe each person should be judged (if they must be judged at all) on their own merits, not based on silly things like age or gender. What about you? What is your opinion?
I have four. A pentacle, a blue rose piercing through a heart, a faery, a blue rose with an infinity symbol surrounding it’s stem.
They each have meaning. Although in truth each of the tattoos were chosen merely because I liked them. Nothing more or less than that.
The pentacle is a symbol of protection. It banishes the negative. My tattoo artist was a high priest, and as he finished the circle, he blessed it.
The faery is a symbol of nature and of belief in the fantastic. Mine is faded and nearly nothing but her wings and toadstool remains.
The blue rose is a symbol of death. Which is also a beautiful sign of life. The one that pierces a heart was my first tattoo. I have wanted it since i was fifteen.
The other one is supposed to symbolize infinite hope.
This is a bit harder to answer. Historically there are several who fascinate me.
Lady Jane Grey – because for all the tragedy surrounding her, and the grace with which she handled her inability to affect her own life.
Lucretia Borgia – Because she was strong and independent during a time when it was not acceptable for women.
Ellspeth Bathory – Because she was truly Bat shit crazy. Everyone should be fascinated by at least one bit of crazy.
Edgar Allen Poe – Because for all his Talent, he died an unknown. He was an extraordinary writer.
Emily Dickinson – Because she wrote only for herself. She was not published until after she died. Her poetry touched me deeply.
Jack the ripper – because he is an unsolved mystery.
There are quite a few that fascinate me…and I would be here till tomorrow trying to list them all. I am often fascinated by strength (of character and physical) and intelligence.
What are you fascinated by.
1. I am very diverse in my interests. Art, Anime, animals, old movies, crafts, reading, computers, games, amateur photography, history, science, religion, nature…. and so on.
2. I am a survivor. And that is part of why i write.
3. I am geeky and into several fandoms….but not always am I truly fanatical about the fandoms I enjoy.
4 I don’t do politics… really… just no.
5. I am really into pikachu, miss piggy and Eeyore.
6. I wanted to be a teacher when I was in High school…. mostly because of the amazing English teachers I had then.
7. I am my own worst critic. I do not see much of what I do as being worth being read or seen.
8.I believe that all art, music and writing enriches the lives of anyone it touches.
9. I kill houseplants… unintentionally.
10. I got my nickname in high school. I am called mouse because someone (who became my friend ) chose to on a prank on me. He slipped a dead mouse in my purse. I had a cat at the time who was always giving me a gift. So I just calmly dealt with it. Soon after i was called mouse.
Here recently I accused someone I love of having secrets from me. It caused a fight. I wasn’t saying in a cheating sort of way, and I was right. He was hiding his misery. Each of us do this. We tell only part of our lives because we don’t want to be seen as weak or wanting. We all want to be strong, if nothing else as an illusion to ourselves. It is truly in human nature. We expect those around us to see what is bothering us, and are often disappointed when no one does.
Our minds are mazes that we even occasionally have trouble navigating. Add in the mental mazes that exist in those we love, And that is where confusion lies. What makes relationships work, all sorts of relationships, is a truly open line of communication. Trust and honesty make for strong and lasting relationships.
So next time you feel doubt as to what someone feels or may be hiding, Ask… Don’t accuse. It may make all the difference.
I have had them for as long as I can remember. I have looked into the idea of controlling my dreams. However once they dream starts, I am helpless. I know that some who have never been in my place would suggest that I just “shake it off.” Waking from a nightmare for me isn’t logical. The fear and helplessness follows me. I wake confused about where I am. I wake with my heart racing and my breathing uneven. Depending on how long I was in it, I even sometimes awaken to bloody places where I have scratched myself or been hitting the wall.
Add to that the fact that I rarely get back to sleep after, doing so is very often a herculean effort. So if I tell you I am tired. Or say I am having trouble sleeping…. please don’t feel the need to suggest I cut down on my coffee. Most weeks I have less than a cup a day. Please understand, if i tell you I am tired, it is merely me explaining that I am not at my best. Even with nightmares, I am not stopping… Don’t ask me to tell you what is so scary. Most of the time all i remember is the fear. The feeling of being helpless. No details other could I give you.
This nightmares are not a sign of weakness. They are the a sign that I am mentally unstable. They are merely another reminder of my survival. I made it through a lot of things. I have lived an interesting life. How my mind handles some of it, well, it could be worse.
I Grew up watching wrestling. I was basically the only girl among a house full of boys. And though I enjoyed wrestling…. you were what caused me to love it. To look forward to it. For you were equal to the men. You were strong and beautiful… you had an intelligence that was far more than was expected in your profession. Please may you rest in peace, for your light will truly be missed here.
I am a writer, a poet. A lot of what I write is gibberish to start. I then go back and polish, much as one would polish a gem. It is for me the easiest way I know to deal with major issues is to write it out. However here lately I often find myself needing to watch more of what I say. It’s so easy to be careless with our words….and those careless words can do more harm than we realize. I have always understood this. One of my favorite poems, that i discovered in High School, spoke of this….
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The Stone
By Wilfred Wilson Gibson
“And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him–
A stone for him?” she said.
Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead–
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired–
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall . . .
And, broken ‘neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.
I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father’s door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl’s heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came, she stood alone–
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.
Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall–
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.
The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
“And will you cut a stone for him?”
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
With still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.
And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover’s name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watched with eyes aflame.
She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.
With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, overwearied hands,
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.
And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Passed slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.
Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.
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So I try to think before I speak… but I really have no filter. Most people who know me realize this and overlook the random strange that occasionally comes out from me. However I do try to be kind. So much so that I have avoided a few topics because I know I cannot be kind. While I would feel no problem with my actions when it comes to being cruel to those involved… being mean there brings me to close to acting like them. Do you censor yourself on any topic? If so why?
In life I try not to judge the people around me. For you never know what road they were forced to walk. Today for me that point was driven home by a conversation I had with a man I have always considered to be very strong. He was telling me that his Stepmother had passed. As one would expect of a woman in her eighties. But when he spoke of her and indeed when he ever speaks of his father…. I hear a sadness there. I had always believed it was because of the distance between them. Tonight I saw a lot of what was under there. I still think he is strong, but perhaps there’s a reason for the strength. Perhaps in seeing the vulnerability in the ones we see as strong we can allow more in ourselves. We try to hold ourselves, I think, to impossible standards. Many end up depressed because of said impossible standards. So for today I will accept my vulnerable side. I will stop pretending that all i am always strong. How about you?
April is child abuse prevention month. So many of my friends, myself included, are survivors. The thing about surviving is we mostly don’t talk about it. It becomes a dirty little thing that gets hidden because no one wants to hear the truth. We get told to be quiet or told we are lying. This makes trying to heal all that much more problematic. One of my friends is waiting to write her story until her mother dies. Simply because every time she tries to speak of what she went through, her mother tells her not to. The man who molested me was allowed to harm others because when I finally stepped forward no one believed me. It took another to send him to jail. Another friend worries about her son as his father molested him, and was court ordered visiting rights. Speaking up only works when it is believed.
My voice shakes… but I have not lied. So for those today whom are out there fighting what you have survived… you are not alone. Speak… no matter who tries to silence you. Write, if only for yourself, no matter who tries to stop you. What you say, even if you are afraid, may help you find your bravery.
Pattimouse 