Dear Reader,
The last few days have been the revenge of the head cold. It's made functioning challenging. I find myself wishing that I could take something for this sinus pressure but thanks to diabetes and my psych meds interacting with EVERYTHING under the sun for colds, I just can't do a thing about it. I have been working on editing a book separate from the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar. I'm making relatively good progress considering the splitting head ache I've had for the last two days.
The worst part about this cold is not the sinus pressure. It isn't the fact that my nose is raw from how much I've been blowing it. It's the fact that this thing keeps messing with my blood sugar readings. They're running high which makes me exhausted, on top of the feeling of exhaustion that comes from being sick. It makes it really hard to focus on stuff when all you want to do is sleep. This cold can go die in a fire.
Thursday, January 30, 2020
Monday, January 27, 2020
Good gods, what have I done?
Dear Reader,
I am currently in the middle of editing a manuscript I wrote out by hand back last October. So very many words mashed together because my brain was running faster than my hand. Lines of text that are functionally gibberish because of how illegible they are. It's bad. I knew that my hand writing degraded when I get stressed out and I am trying to write to a deadline. At the same time, this is salvageable.
Because, most of the time, I can piece together what I was trying to say in the sentences that look like they're just a mass of swooping curves and lines. I don't know how I can do it. It's the same thing that lets me read the handwriting of my doctors and of my children (whose handwriting has been steadily improving since they decided they were going to start trying to write books too). That said, this manuscript is giving me a headache.
Killing two birds with one stone, I am editing as I am typing it up. The process is not going very quickly. But, it is moving forward. But, I am not writing another book out by hand.
I am currently in the middle of editing a manuscript I wrote out by hand back last October. So very many words mashed together because my brain was running faster than my hand. Lines of text that are functionally gibberish because of how illegible they are. It's bad. I knew that my hand writing degraded when I get stressed out and I am trying to write to a deadline. At the same time, this is salvageable.
Because, most of the time, I can piece together what I was trying to say in the sentences that look like they're just a mass of swooping curves and lines. I don't know how I can do it. It's the same thing that lets me read the handwriting of my doctors and of my children (whose handwriting has been steadily improving since they decided they were going to start trying to write books too). That said, this manuscript is giving me a headache.
Killing two birds with one stone, I am editing as I am typing it up. The process is not going very quickly. But, it is moving forward. But, I am not writing another book out by hand.
Monday, January 20, 2020
Posting on hold this week.
Dear Reader,
Due to a combination of factors (the kids having off from school two days this week, my having a nasty cold, and familial duties), I am stepping back from blogging this week so that I can stay on top of "real life" stuff. In other news, I didn't realize that my sinuses could be so plugged and yet still be able to smell the horrible scent of burnt hair. I offered some of the fiber I had spun in a burnt offering to the gods. The smell of burnt hair didn't clear my sinuses out but it was definitely strong enough to make me think burning the offering may not be the best method. The scent of burnt wool smells the same as the scent of burnt human hair, by the way. (The latter I learned by misadventure when I was young. I didn't need a haircut because of it, but it was a thing. Always keep your hair pinned back when dealing with open flame, even if you think it is too short to be caught.)
Thank you for your patience. See you next week.
Due to a combination of factors (the kids having off from school two days this week, my having a nasty cold, and familial duties), I am stepping back from blogging this week so that I can stay on top of "real life" stuff. In other news, I didn't realize that my sinuses could be so plugged and yet still be able to smell the horrible scent of burnt hair. I offered some of the fiber I had spun in a burnt offering to the gods. The smell of burnt hair didn't clear my sinuses out but it was definitely strong enough to make me think burning the offering may not be the best method. The scent of burnt wool smells the same as the scent of burnt human hair, by the way. (The latter I learned by misadventure when I was young. I didn't need a haircut because of it, but it was a thing. Always keep your hair pinned back when dealing with open flame, even if you think it is too short to be caught.)
Thank you for your patience. See you next week.
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Book Progress Notes: Books 5 & 6 of the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar
Dear Reader,
I feel like I'm going through the millionth read through of book five. I'm down to sorting out grammatical errors. It's a process that I feel would be easier if I had a paper copy and a red pen. My lack of a printer, however, means that I'm doing it ALL digitally. It makes my eyes tired. But, my hope is to have book five ready to send off to the printers by this summer.
I have just started the editing process on book six. It's not too awful right now. I am still working on the first few chapters, however. I am sitting here referencing my previous books to make sure that I have character descriptions right and location descriptions accurate. I'd be using my Book Bible for this but it's mostly empty because I've been busy with other things. I might take a break from working on editing book six to actually copy material into the Book Bible.
I feel a little guilty about it sitting there just waiting for me to write down my outlines of how book plots turned out and character descriptions. This was something I was going to work on last year and never got around to it. My intention this year is to spent 15 minutes a week working on it. Hopefully by the end of the year, it will be a useful tool for making sure that everything in book seven is correct.
On the writing front, book seven is proving to be a pain in the neck. I have a major scene to write out but it keeps coming out wrong. I am still coming down from a mixed episode recently. My Beloved assures me that once things stabilize within me, I'll have greater clarity in getting the ideas from in my head to the page. I'm just impatient for that to happen RIGHT NOW.
It is my hope that during NaNoWriMo this year, in November, I will write book eight. I need to finish book seven, however, before I can get working on book eight. Comparing what I have done right now and what I have slated to work on this year with my master outline for the entire series, I am at about where I want to be. I am a little behind in a couple areas, but that will be resolved in the next few books.
I feel like I'm going through the millionth read through of book five. I'm down to sorting out grammatical errors. It's a process that I feel would be easier if I had a paper copy and a red pen. My lack of a printer, however, means that I'm doing it ALL digitally. It makes my eyes tired. But, my hope is to have book five ready to send off to the printers by this summer.
I have just started the editing process on book six. It's not too awful right now. I am still working on the first few chapters, however. I am sitting here referencing my previous books to make sure that I have character descriptions right and location descriptions accurate. I'd be using my Book Bible for this but it's mostly empty because I've been busy with other things. I might take a break from working on editing book six to actually copy material into the Book Bible.
I feel a little guilty about it sitting there just waiting for me to write down my outlines of how book plots turned out and character descriptions. This was something I was going to work on last year and never got around to it. My intention this year is to spent 15 minutes a week working on it. Hopefully by the end of the year, it will be a useful tool for making sure that everything in book seven is correct.
On the writing front, book seven is proving to be a pain in the neck. I have a major scene to write out but it keeps coming out wrong. I am still coming down from a mixed episode recently. My Beloved assures me that once things stabilize within me, I'll have greater clarity in getting the ideas from in my head to the page. I'm just impatient for that to happen RIGHT NOW.
It is my hope that during NaNoWriMo this year, in November, I will write book eight. I need to finish book seven, however, before I can get working on book eight. Comparing what I have done right now and what I have slated to work on this year with my master outline for the entire series, I am at about where I want to be. I am a little behind in a couple areas, but that will be resolved in the next few books.
AW: Morning Blog no. 71
I've been having a crisis of faith in my writing and my work as an artist. I struggle to say that my work is good because I am not really selling any of it. I struggle to say that my work is good because I don't have big readership numbers on my blog posts. It doesn't help anything that I am coming down off of a mixed episode and sliding towards depression. That tends to skew my view on everything.
I tell myself that I shouldn't worry about how popular my books are. I shouldn't be worried about how well they'll sell because my focus really should be on just getting this damn series written and out of my head. It's hard to keep that focus because I feel like I'm working in a void. I struggle to motivate myself to work when there is an echoing silence. In that echoing silence, I have myself and my thoughts and memories to contend with. Unfortunately, this means I am wrestling with my mental illnesses and traumatic memories on a regular basis.
No amount of positive affirmations can quite break through the message that was hammered into my head when I was young that my value was based on what I could contribute and that meant how much money I could make. And that I was never going to be good enough, no matter how hard I worked or how much I contributed. Being told things like 'You're a failed abortion.' and 'There's nothing you can do that will be good enough for your father and I." during your formative years is really harsh. Being told those things on a daily basis and hearing their prognostications that my life was going to amount to nothing despite how hard I was working to make something of myself left some scars behind that run soul deep.
I sit here and can almost hear my parents telling me that no one is going to want to read what I write. I can almost hear them cracking jokes about how I was their investment because of how expensive my birth was. And then listening to those jokes become a theme through out the years, perhaps an earnest statement even. Only to have them tell me that my college education was a failed investment (which meant that I was a failed investment) because it didn't net me a big paying job right out the gate. The mockery of my writing and being told it was a waste of time because they never expected me to make any money off of it, as if a book contract was the reason why anyone writes, echoes in my head when things are quiet.
When I self-published my first few books, my parents (from whom I am estranged) came by sniffing for money. Apparently they decided that since my name was actually in print, perhaps I had a book contract and that they could get some 'dividends' off of their 'investment.' I've been so tempted to send them exactly one penny and a note stating that it was their dividend off of their investment in my education and existence. It's spiteful and bitter. It also would open up the lines of communication for them to resume their barrage of psychological torment. So, I haven't done it. But, the thought hits me from time to time.
The fact that I am writing means that I am not a failure. The fact that I finished college and worked in a career that I loved until I had my first child means that I am not a failure. The fact that I use my degree every day answering questions from the kids and doing my writing means that I am not a failure. The fact that I haven't given up means I am not a failure.
But it doesn't stop me from feeling like one on days where my brain chemistry isn't quite right and the voices of the past echo really loudly in my ears.
I tell myself that I shouldn't worry about how popular my books are. I shouldn't be worried about how well they'll sell because my focus really should be on just getting this damn series written and out of my head. It's hard to keep that focus because I feel like I'm working in a void. I struggle to motivate myself to work when there is an echoing silence. In that echoing silence, I have myself and my thoughts and memories to contend with. Unfortunately, this means I am wrestling with my mental illnesses and traumatic memories on a regular basis.
No amount of positive affirmations can quite break through the message that was hammered into my head when I was young that my value was based on what I could contribute and that meant how much money I could make. And that I was never going to be good enough, no matter how hard I worked or how much I contributed. Being told things like 'You're a failed abortion.' and 'There's nothing you can do that will be good enough for your father and I." during your formative years is really harsh. Being told those things on a daily basis and hearing their prognostications that my life was going to amount to nothing despite how hard I was working to make something of myself left some scars behind that run soul deep.
I sit here and can almost hear my parents telling me that no one is going to want to read what I write. I can almost hear them cracking jokes about how I was their investment because of how expensive my birth was. And then listening to those jokes become a theme through out the years, perhaps an earnest statement even. Only to have them tell me that my college education was a failed investment (which meant that I was a failed investment) because it didn't net me a big paying job right out the gate. The mockery of my writing and being told it was a waste of time because they never expected me to make any money off of it, as if a book contract was the reason why anyone writes, echoes in my head when things are quiet.
When I self-published my first few books, my parents (from whom I am estranged) came by sniffing for money. Apparently they decided that since my name was actually in print, perhaps I had a book contract and that they could get some 'dividends' off of their 'investment.' I've been so tempted to send them exactly one penny and a note stating that it was their dividend off of their investment in my education and existence. It's spiteful and bitter. It also would open up the lines of communication for them to resume their barrage of psychological torment. So, I haven't done it. But, the thought hits me from time to time.
The fact that I am writing means that I am not a failure. The fact that I finished college and worked in a career that I loved until I had my first child means that I am not a failure. The fact that I use my degree every day answering questions from the kids and doing my writing means that I am not a failure. The fact that I haven't given up means I am not a failure.
But it doesn't stop me from feeling like one on days where my brain chemistry isn't quite right and the voices of the past echo really loudly in my ears.
Monday, January 13, 2020
Craft of Writing: Keeping a Writing Journal
Dear Reader,
I apologize that this post is a day late. My weekend was spent with a migraine and trying to herd my children into cleaning up the disaster that was their room. Writing anything was nearly impossible, even in my daily journal. Looking at a computer screen wasn't exactly my friend either. But, I'm back and here's this week's ramblings.
I believe that I am revisiting a past topic in this week's post. It is something that is dear to me and that is why I bring it up again. I confess, I have been keeping a writing journal since I was sixteen. It hasn't been a daily thing because life happens, but I have been done my best to be consistent in keeping it. I have challenged myself this year to write based off of prompts. So far, I have single page entries based off of said prompts. It is similar to the Morning pages concept from The Artist's Way.
First thing in the morning, after I have finished my daily journal entry (one page in an A5 notebook), I whip out my basic composition notebook and get to the day's prompt. Not everyone has time to keep two journals or do as much writing as I do. But that doesn't mean that keeping a writing journal is prohibitive. A notebook is exceedingly portable. While I was in college, I carried my writing journal and my daily journal with me everywhere. I wrote when I had random moments of free time. That was probably the period where I wrote the most poetry. We're not at the point where someone jotting notes down in a notebook is looked at as strange when we stop for a cup of coffee. Just a few minutes of time spent writing can open up a world of ideas.
There are many different ways to keep a writing journal. One could write strictly poetry in there. One could use it for bullet point outlines of future projects. It could just be single line prompts for later writing sessions. Or a notebook of letters to never send. The goal of a writing journal is simple. To keep you writing.
You don't need to write every day. Maybe the only time you have for it is during your coffee break on a Tuesday afternoon. Weekly or monthly entries still count. Any writing is good writing in your writing journal. Keep the journal private, however, because it gives you greater freedom to write what you think. (Like a haiku about how awful your boss's hair looks may not be the best thing to share with anyone.) Going analog with your writing journal is something I highly recommend. Digital journals and blogs are great but they can be hacked. A notebook is much harder to hack and steal away when you keep it in a secure place. After all, those little locking diaries for kids can make good writing journals and are small enough to stash just about anywhere. I will warn you, however, the locks those little diaries come with are remarkably easy to pop with a screw driver. A tiny luggage lock might be the solution if you need to keep it a little more secure.
Just keep writing. Even if it is one sentence every once in a while. Four sentences make a paragraph. And approximately five paragraphs makes a page. If you want to write a book, write one page a day and you'll have a good sized novel at the end of the year. Writing is not supposed to be painful or prohibitive. Do what you can with the tools you have. Just keep writing.
I apologize that this post is a day late. My weekend was spent with a migraine and trying to herd my children into cleaning up the disaster that was their room. Writing anything was nearly impossible, even in my daily journal. Looking at a computer screen wasn't exactly my friend either. But, I'm back and here's this week's ramblings.
I believe that I am revisiting a past topic in this week's post. It is something that is dear to me and that is why I bring it up again. I confess, I have been keeping a writing journal since I was sixteen. It hasn't been a daily thing because life happens, but I have been done my best to be consistent in keeping it. I have challenged myself this year to write based off of prompts. So far, I have single page entries based off of said prompts. It is similar to the Morning pages concept from The Artist's Way.
First thing in the morning, after I have finished my daily journal entry (one page in an A5 notebook), I whip out my basic composition notebook and get to the day's prompt. Not everyone has time to keep two journals or do as much writing as I do. But that doesn't mean that keeping a writing journal is prohibitive. A notebook is exceedingly portable. While I was in college, I carried my writing journal and my daily journal with me everywhere. I wrote when I had random moments of free time. That was probably the period where I wrote the most poetry. We're not at the point where someone jotting notes down in a notebook is looked at as strange when we stop for a cup of coffee. Just a few minutes of time spent writing can open up a world of ideas.
There are many different ways to keep a writing journal. One could write strictly poetry in there. One could use it for bullet point outlines of future projects. It could just be single line prompts for later writing sessions. Or a notebook of letters to never send. The goal of a writing journal is simple. To keep you writing.
You don't need to write every day. Maybe the only time you have for it is during your coffee break on a Tuesday afternoon. Weekly or monthly entries still count. Any writing is good writing in your writing journal. Keep the journal private, however, because it gives you greater freedom to write what you think. (Like a haiku about how awful your boss's hair looks may not be the best thing to share with anyone.) Going analog with your writing journal is something I highly recommend. Digital journals and blogs are great but they can be hacked. A notebook is much harder to hack and steal away when you keep it in a secure place. After all, those little locking diaries for kids can make good writing journals and are small enough to stash just about anywhere. I will warn you, however, the locks those little diaries come with are remarkably easy to pop with a screw driver. A tiny luggage lock might be the solution if you need to keep it a little more secure.
Just keep writing. Even if it is one sentence every once in a while. Four sentences make a paragraph. And approximately five paragraphs makes a page. If you want to write a book, write one page a day and you'll have a good sized novel at the end of the year. Writing is not supposed to be painful or prohibitive. Do what you can with the tools you have. Just keep writing.
Flora & Fauna: The Poisoner's book 1
Dear Reader,
Just as there are herbals that talk about the plants that are good for healing and eating, there are ones that talk about poisons. There is one book that is famous in Evandar known only as the Poisoner's Book. It is a catalog of all known toxic and poisonous plants in that region. I haven't written out the legendarium section for this book because it includes 'real world' plants. I don't want someone to sit down and pick up a notebook I have and find a list of deadly plants and how to kill or injure people with them. There are something I can just leave in the real herbals and make it look less suspicious.
As I move forward, there will be excerpts from the Poisoner's Book posted that feature plants that are not 'real'. They will have the same subject line as this post. The plants in the poisoner's book have names that may seem strange or are very descriptive of what they do. (Strangler's plant, for example, is one with an obvious name. It isn't in the Poisoner's book because it is a vine used to make the rope for nooses, but the deadly plants that have obvious names are going to be that sort of obvious.)
These little 'excerpts' are being posed here as references for me and entertainment for you. I'm also going to post 'recipes' using these plants. The recipes are going to be based on actual historical recipes for things like ointments and such. I have a lot of notes about these kinds of things and I need to start putting them down somewhere that they can be useful. Unfortunately, this is not the sort of thing that I put into my Book Bible. But I have to put it somewhere, right? So, why not the blog, eh?
The excerpts will be part of a future book. I will let you all know when that book is in the works and ready for publication.
Just as there are herbals that talk about the plants that are good for healing and eating, there are ones that talk about poisons. There is one book that is famous in Evandar known only as the Poisoner's Book. It is a catalog of all known toxic and poisonous plants in that region. I haven't written out the legendarium section for this book because it includes 'real world' plants. I don't want someone to sit down and pick up a notebook I have and find a list of deadly plants and how to kill or injure people with them. There are something I can just leave in the real herbals and make it look less suspicious.
As I move forward, there will be excerpts from the Poisoner's Book posted that feature plants that are not 'real'. They will have the same subject line as this post. The plants in the poisoner's book have names that may seem strange or are very descriptive of what they do. (Strangler's plant, for example, is one with an obvious name. It isn't in the Poisoner's book because it is a vine used to make the rope for nooses, but the deadly plants that have obvious names are going to be that sort of obvious.)
These little 'excerpts' are being posed here as references for me and entertainment for you. I'm also going to post 'recipes' using these plants. The recipes are going to be based on actual historical recipes for things like ointments and such. I have a lot of notes about these kinds of things and I need to start putting them down somewhere that they can be useful. Unfortunately, this is not the sort of thing that I put into my Book Bible. But I have to put it somewhere, right? So, why not the blog, eh?
The excerpts will be part of a future book. I will let you all know when that book is in the works and ready for publication.
AW: Morning blog no. 70
In my daily journal, I have been trying to figure out just where I lost my focus and how to regain it. It's been a lot of soul searching and a lot of uncovering ways that I have the past effecting the present. It may be apparent that I am a survivor of some seriously ugly stuff in some of my past Morning blog posts. The way I live with it is I try to forget it happened. I tell myself that my past doesn't matter and that today is more important. I tell myself that the best things are always out ahead of me. When my brain chemistry cooperates, this method tends to help me push through the days where my complex post-traumatic stress disorder tries to run the show.
In the course of my journal work over the last several weeks, I have come to two conclusions. I don't like these conclusions, but they are logical and it is hard to argue with logic. First conclusion is that trying to ignore trauma just makes it more likely to pop up in unexpected places when you have a boatload of triggers, like I do. The second conclusion that I have reached is that I have to directly address the way these traumas interact with my present life. I have been using my fiction writing to process some of them and some of them I have been using the Morning blog posts.
I don't have a therapist. I can't afford one out of pocket. And I can't find one who takes my insurance. I live in a rural area. I'm lucky to have found a psychiatrist who takes my insurance and is actually pretty good. So, what do I do for my processing of trauma and handling the stress of being disabled due to the combination of c-ptsd and bipolar II? I have my trusty notebook and pen. I write it out. I was in therapy for the better part of a decade. I have a pretty good idea how it works when it comes to talk therapy. So, I ask myself questions and explore the answers.
The questions about my writing, art, and attempts to run a business reading tarot cards are not getting happy answers. Probing them, I find that down beneath the block to posting on my blogs and finishing my incompleted manuscripts are traumas from when I was younger lurking. I find that the psychological scar tissues from being gaslighted for about half my life by people who were authority figures in my life during that time is really hard to cut through. I doubt myself and my skills a lot. Being depressed triggers these massive periods of self-doubt and terror while I am depressed, not to mention this feeds being depressed.
It was only recently that I realized that this self-doubt and terror that I am wrong about everything I know about myself and have experienced goes right back to the psychological and emotional abuse I suffered in my teen years and through my early twenties. Being depressed is triggering emotional flashbacks. Emotional flashbacks are a bit easier to handle in the moment than the ones where I am not in the present. But, those types of flashbacks are starting to creep up again as I am trying to press forward and make my dreams reality.
Emotional flashbacks are where you are reliving the emotional response you had to the traumatic incident because of some kind of triggering event that bears some manner of resemblance to the traumatic incident. "Regular" flashbacks are where you are reliving the traumatic event itself because of some triggering event that bears resemblance to the trauma. In those flashbacks, you may hallucinate being back in the place where the trauma happened. In those flashbacks, you may have a response that looks like you've got the thousand yard stare as you stand/sit there and relive it. Or, in those flashbacks, you may be semi-aware of your present situation and take action to get away or out of the potential danger zone of where the traumatic incident seems to be about to happen. Then there's the especially ugly ones where you are hallucinating the event happening again and you're attempting to defend yourself from the attacker, but in reality you are self harming. I have had all of these different responses.
There's nothing quite like going catatonic in the middle of sex and then coming out of it screaming in terror, confused as to where/when you are, and your partner is left feeling like they've harmed you some how. Fortunately, my marriage is rock solid and we've figured out what my triggers are as a survivor of a relationship when I was much younger and I was sexually assaulted multiple times and we work around them. The problem now, honestly, is tracking down what is triggering my difficulties writing and figuring out how to deal with them. See, sometimes a block is not what it seems. Sometimes a block is your brain attempting to protect you from something horrible that happened to you in the past. I'm working on chipping away at that block and as I do so, I am finding ugly things coming to the surface. So, if my Morning blog posts get weird, please bear with me. And be aware, there are things that I am not posting here not because I am hiding out of shame but because the people who harmed me are still out there and could stumble on to this blog. And they know where I am and how to get a hold of me. Discretion is the better part of valor as some might say.
In the course of my journal work over the last several weeks, I have come to two conclusions. I don't like these conclusions, but they are logical and it is hard to argue with logic. First conclusion is that trying to ignore trauma just makes it more likely to pop up in unexpected places when you have a boatload of triggers, like I do. The second conclusion that I have reached is that I have to directly address the way these traumas interact with my present life. I have been using my fiction writing to process some of them and some of them I have been using the Morning blog posts.
I don't have a therapist. I can't afford one out of pocket. And I can't find one who takes my insurance. I live in a rural area. I'm lucky to have found a psychiatrist who takes my insurance and is actually pretty good. So, what do I do for my processing of trauma and handling the stress of being disabled due to the combination of c-ptsd and bipolar II? I have my trusty notebook and pen. I write it out. I was in therapy for the better part of a decade. I have a pretty good idea how it works when it comes to talk therapy. So, I ask myself questions and explore the answers.
The questions about my writing, art, and attempts to run a business reading tarot cards are not getting happy answers. Probing them, I find that down beneath the block to posting on my blogs and finishing my incompleted manuscripts are traumas from when I was younger lurking. I find that the psychological scar tissues from being gaslighted for about half my life by people who were authority figures in my life during that time is really hard to cut through. I doubt myself and my skills a lot. Being depressed triggers these massive periods of self-doubt and terror while I am depressed, not to mention this feeds being depressed.
It was only recently that I realized that this self-doubt and terror that I am wrong about everything I know about myself and have experienced goes right back to the psychological and emotional abuse I suffered in my teen years and through my early twenties. Being depressed is triggering emotional flashbacks. Emotional flashbacks are a bit easier to handle in the moment than the ones where I am not in the present. But, those types of flashbacks are starting to creep up again as I am trying to press forward and make my dreams reality.
Emotional flashbacks are where you are reliving the emotional response you had to the traumatic incident because of some kind of triggering event that bears some manner of resemblance to the traumatic incident. "Regular" flashbacks are where you are reliving the traumatic event itself because of some triggering event that bears resemblance to the trauma. In those flashbacks, you may hallucinate being back in the place where the trauma happened. In those flashbacks, you may have a response that looks like you've got the thousand yard stare as you stand/sit there and relive it. Or, in those flashbacks, you may be semi-aware of your present situation and take action to get away or out of the potential danger zone of where the traumatic incident seems to be about to happen. Then there's the especially ugly ones where you are hallucinating the event happening again and you're attempting to defend yourself from the attacker, but in reality you are self harming. I have had all of these different responses.
There's nothing quite like going catatonic in the middle of sex and then coming out of it screaming in terror, confused as to where/when you are, and your partner is left feeling like they've harmed you some how. Fortunately, my marriage is rock solid and we've figured out what my triggers are as a survivor of a relationship when I was much younger and I was sexually assaulted multiple times and we work around them. The problem now, honestly, is tracking down what is triggering my difficulties writing and figuring out how to deal with them. See, sometimes a block is not what it seems. Sometimes a block is your brain attempting to protect you from something horrible that happened to you in the past. I'm working on chipping away at that block and as I do so, I am finding ugly things coming to the surface. So, if my Morning blog posts get weird, please bear with me. And be aware, there are things that I am not posting here not because I am hiding out of shame but because the people who harmed me are still out there and could stumble on to this blog. And they know where I am and how to get a hold of me. Discretion is the better part of valor as some might say.
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
The Iron Lily, Part 27 – The Endless Road
Elwis did indeed lead Halthor to a traveler's rest. It was ramshackle and poorly tended, but still it was shelter against the weather and had a hearth for a fire to beat back the cold. It was nearly sunset when they reached it. The red eared white dog ran in circles about Halthor excitedly as they entered the building. Halthor looked up in the waning light of day that came in through the doorway. Deeming the roof sturdy enough not to collapse upon them as they slept, the red haired builder sighed. He was exhausted. The fight on the cursed battleground had made him weary and the long walk through the holloway just increased that weariness to bone numbing exhaustion. He was tempted to throw himself to the ground and just sleep. He knew, however, that if he didn't light a fire that he wouldn't wake in the morning.
Halthor set his pack down beside the rough shelf that served as a sleeping space. He found it curious that it was fashioned out of earth and near the fireplace. The strangeness of the arrangement, however, was put out of his mind as he stepped back out into the rising wind to find wood. While he scoured the small grove of trees about the traveler's rest, Elwis nipped at his ankles. "What is it?" Halthor said crossly. The dog ran to the windward side of the building and began to dig in the snow. "Oh, come on now," he groaned, "That's just a drift of snow." When Elwis pulled out a branch almost as big around as Halthor's forearm, the 'drift' shifted and a pile of wood was revealed. "You must have one hell of a nose," Halthor commented. Elwis paused in shaking the end of the branch like a rag doll and looked over at Halthor in a classic look of doggy confusion.
Halthor walked over to the wood pile and reached into it. He began pulling out an armload of wood when Elwis yipped almost cheerfully. "Yes, you're a good dog. You did very well today. You're not eating all of my rations, however. If I had some fresh meat, I'd give it to you before carving it up for the pot," Halthor said to Elwis, "Let's get out of this cold and start a fire." Elwis trotted happily, pulling the branch behind him. As they came to the doorway of the traveler's rest, Halthor again wondered why this one was so different from the others. Elwis dropped the branch half in the doorway and began to worry at one of the straps on Halthor's pack. "Hey, stop that!" he shouted, waving an arm at the dog. Elwis looked at Halthor and gave a growl as the dog pulled on the pack, almost toppling it down off the ledge on to itself. Halthor heaved a long suffering sigh of exasperation. He walked over and picked up the pack. As he set it aside, he pointed at Elwis, "Stay out of that or no meat."
Halthor turned his attention back to the work of starting a fire. Soon, he had a decent fire going and the one room building began to warm up considerably when Halthor shut the door. He knelt beside his pack and looked inside. His supplies were still well stocked thanks to the generosity of the Blue Lady. Thinking of the elf-woman, Halthor wondered if she was alright. He decided that Freystein would likely stop to check on her and put the matter out of mind. He set his cook pot in the fire after half filling it with snow. As the snow melted, he pulled out of his pack a sack with mushrooms and dried vegetables in it. Halthor smiled. "Not quite your style, but it looks good to me," Halthor said as he dumped them into the pot.
Elwis whined at the door. Halthor got up and opened it. "Don't wander off too far," Halthor said, "We've seen enough trouble for one day." After several minutes, he heard the fey dog barking at the door. Halthor was in the process of trying to calculate how much of his supply of jerky he could conserve and how much he'd need to feed himself and the dog. He set the leather sack of jerky aside and opened the door. Elwis trotted in with a freshly killed rabbit. "Now how did you find that in this weather?" Halthor wondered as Elwis deposited it at his feet. Elwis nudged Halthor's leg and looked meaningfully towards the door. Halthor stood and went to the door to find not far from it was a hole excavated from the snow and the dog's tracks going into it. Beside the hole was another dead rabbit. Neither rabbit had been chewed upon, though they looked as though they had been tossed about harshly. "You did this, boy?" Halthor asked, looking down at the dog at his left side. Elwis yipped cheerfully and did another lap around Halthor. "You must be my luck bringer," he said, shaking his head with amazement.
"Go on, fetch the other one, I'll get them ready for the pot." Halthor set to work skinning and cleaning the rabbit before him when Elwis arrived with the second. The dog sat by his side as he worked, all but ignoring Halthor in his efforts. When he had the offal of the first rabbit laid aside, Elwis's ears perked up. Halthor prepared the second and laid the offal of it upon the guts of the first. Halthor gathered up the cut rabbits and carried them into the traveler's rest. As he put them into the pot, he suppressed a shudder as a chill breeze blew in from the partially open door.
The last of twilight was fading from the sky as he walked out the door to find Elwis happily dining on the innards of the rabbits. "Good dog," Halthor said, "Come to the door when you're done. It's going to be a cold night." About the time that Halthor's rabbit stew became fragrant and savory to smell, he heard Elwis whining at the door. Halthor opened the door, expecting to see the fey dog with a red muzzle. To his pleasant surprise, Elwis's muzzle was somehow clean. He figured that the dog rolled about in the snow given the sprinkling of the white stuff on his coat.
Halthor set a hand on the earthen sleeping bench and pulled it back in surprise after finding it warm. He shook his head with amazement. The stew in the small cook pot was bubbling and the fire lit the room with ruddy light that was comforting after the horrors of the day. It reminded Halthor of the hearth-fire of Alaric's house. He supposed that the house was now his when he returned to Starhaven. He thought of the city of his birth and life before this strange journey. A sharp pang of homesickness hit him.
"Once I see Olerand, this buiness is done and I'm going back to Starhaven," he said, "A nice quiet life for me. I was a fool of a boy to want adventure when I was young. I asked the gods to give me a quest for the glory of the kingdom. And, here I am. They say when the gods put you on a road, it never ends. We must be halfway through Ranyth by now. The mountains have turned eastward in the distance. The hills are not as steep. We should be on a town soon, if we're lucky."
Halthor set his pack down beside the rough shelf that served as a sleeping space. He found it curious that it was fashioned out of earth and near the fireplace. The strangeness of the arrangement, however, was put out of his mind as he stepped back out into the rising wind to find wood. While he scoured the small grove of trees about the traveler's rest, Elwis nipped at his ankles. "What is it?" Halthor said crossly. The dog ran to the windward side of the building and began to dig in the snow. "Oh, come on now," he groaned, "That's just a drift of snow." When Elwis pulled out a branch almost as big around as Halthor's forearm, the 'drift' shifted and a pile of wood was revealed. "You must have one hell of a nose," Halthor commented. Elwis paused in shaking the end of the branch like a rag doll and looked over at Halthor in a classic look of doggy confusion.
Halthor walked over to the wood pile and reached into it. He began pulling out an armload of wood when Elwis yipped almost cheerfully. "Yes, you're a good dog. You did very well today. You're not eating all of my rations, however. If I had some fresh meat, I'd give it to you before carving it up for the pot," Halthor said to Elwis, "Let's get out of this cold and start a fire." Elwis trotted happily, pulling the branch behind him. As they came to the doorway of the traveler's rest, Halthor again wondered why this one was so different from the others. Elwis dropped the branch half in the doorway and began to worry at one of the straps on Halthor's pack. "Hey, stop that!" he shouted, waving an arm at the dog. Elwis looked at Halthor and gave a growl as the dog pulled on the pack, almost toppling it down off the ledge on to itself. Halthor heaved a long suffering sigh of exasperation. He walked over and picked up the pack. As he set it aside, he pointed at Elwis, "Stay out of that or no meat."
Halthor turned his attention back to the work of starting a fire. Soon, he had a decent fire going and the one room building began to warm up considerably when Halthor shut the door. He knelt beside his pack and looked inside. His supplies were still well stocked thanks to the generosity of the Blue Lady. Thinking of the elf-woman, Halthor wondered if she was alright. He decided that Freystein would likely stop to check on her and put the matter out of mind. He set his cook pot in the fire after half filling it with snow. As the snow melted, he pulled out of his pack a sack with mushrooms and dried vegetables in it. Halthor smiled. "Not quite your style, but it looks good to me," Halthor said as he dumped them into the pot.
Elwis whined at the door. Halthor got up and opened it. "Don't wander off too far," Halthor said, "We've seen enough trouble for one day." After several minutes, he heard the fey dog barking at the door. Halthor was in the process of trying to calculate how much of his supply of jerky he could conserve and how much he'd need to feed himself and the dog. He set the leather sack of jerky aside and opened the door. Elwis trotted in with a freshly killed rabbit. "Now how did you find that in this weather?" Halthor wondered as Elwis deposited it at his feet. Elwis nudged Halthor's leg and looked meaningfully towards the door. Halthor stood and went to the door to find not far from it was a hole excavated from the snow and the dog's tracks going into it. Beside the hole was another dead rabbit. Neither rabbit had been chewed upon, though they looked as though they had been tossed about harshly. "You did this, boy?" Halthor asked, looking down at the dog at his left side. Elwis yipped cheerfully and did another lap around Halthor. "You must be my luck bringer," he said, shaking his head with amazement.
"Go on, fetch the other one, I'll get them ready for the pot." Halthor set to work skinning and cleaning the rabbit before him when Elwis arrived with the second. The dog sat by his side as he worked, all but ignoring Halthor in his efforts. When he had the offal of the first rabbit laid aside, Elwis's ears perked up. Halthor prepared the second and laid the offal of it upon the guts of the first. Halthor gathered up the cut rabbits and carried them into the traveler's rest. As he put them into the pot, he suppressed a shudder as a chill breeze blew in from the partially open door.
The last of twilight was fading from the sky as he walked out the door to find Elwis happily dining on the innards of the rabbits. "Good dog," Halthor said, "Come to the door when you're done. It's going to be a cold night." About the time that Halthor's rabbit stew became fragrant and savory to smell, he heard Elwis whining at the door. Halthor opened the door, expecting to see the fey dog with a red muzzle. To his pleasant surprise, Elwis's muzzle was somehow clean. He figured that the dog rolled about in the snow given the sprinkling of the white stuff on his coat.
Halthor set a hand on the earthen sleeping bench and pulled it back in surprise after finding it warm. He shook his head with amazement. The stew in the small cook pot was bubbling and the fire lit the room with ruddy light that was comforting after the horrors of the day. It reminded Halthor of the hearth-fire of Alaric's house. He supposed that the house was now his when he returned to Starhaven. He thought of the city of his birth and life before this strange journey. A sharp pang of homesickness hit him.
"Once I see Olerand, this buiness is done and I'm going back to Starhaven," he said, "A nice quiet life for me. I was a fool of a boy to want adventure when I was young. I asked the gods to give me a quest for the glory of the kingdom. And, here I am. They say when the gods put you on a road, it never ends. We must be halfway through Ranyth by now. The mountains have turned eastward in the distance. The hills are not as steep. We should be on a town soon, if we're lucky."
AW: Morning Blog No. ???
I've lost count of how many of these morning blogs I have posted. I should probably look at the post count next time I go to write one. After all, there only so many question marks I can use to replace numbers. I'm listening to the Loreena McKennitt radio station on Spotify. It's made pleasant background music for me as I have been writing in my journal. My day so far has started to fall back into a rhythm of a pattern of work and rest similar to what I had when I was writing more profusely. I am optimistic that this will continue.
I'm still working on trying to make sure that I get my light therapy in the morning. It has been a point of contention over the last few days with my sons who want to just go and play in the kitchen as I am doing so or want the overhead light on as they get ready for school. The light therapy lamp provides a significant amount of light and where I am using it, it is sufficient for them to get ready for school by its light. They just don't like it.
Well, that was just a confusing incident. A person drove by at highway speed with someone else leaning out of the window ... Actually, it was someone damn near standing out the door whilst in the moving car with a pair of binoculars as they were looking upward. I haven't the slightest idea what was going on with that, but it clearly is something that'd be against OSHA regulations. Sometimes people around here, in the course of doing their jobs, do some really dumb things that are more than a little bit hazardous in an effort to get things done faster.
I try not to think about it. It makes me anxious. The idea of someone falling out of a moving vehicle and requiring first aid troubles me. I know that my first aid certification is not up to date and I'm not obligated to provide it. At the same time, I know that I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I witnessed something like that and did nothing to help the foolish victim. I just have this strong compulsion to help people who are in trouble. The fact that I remember most of my first aid training enables me to help to some extent in an emergency. At the same time, I worry that if I do attempt to help and something goes sideways, I will find myself in a position where I'm getting sued for it. The Good Samaritian laws in NYS generally protect people who stop to help in accidents. I still worry about it though.
I guess it was about fourteen years ago I witnessed a roll over accident. At the time, my first aid certification was current because I was working at a daycare that required it (and paid for us to keep our training up to date). The truck ahead of me was pulling a camper. They were going about 65 miles per hour. As we were coming to a turn in the highway, the camper began to fishtail. I immediately slowed down and put on my hazards. The camper whipped back and forth hard three times and then rolled into the embankment on the side away from oncoming traffic. I think that right there was a small mercy because this was in the middle of rush hour traffic. As the camper rolled, it dragged the pickup truck into the roll as well.
As this was happening, I pulled off to the side of the road about ten yards behind the vehicle. I grabbed the first aid kit that I had in the back of my car and ran up to the scene. People were crawling out of the camper and the truck. I asked if there was anyone else inside and they answer was no. I then began checking people for injuries. One of them, a young woman close to my age, had a cut on her arm. I popped open my first aid kit and cleaned it up before bandaging it. As I did so, the police and the ambulance arrived. The emergency technicians stood back and watched me bandage her injury and commented that it was a textbook perfect job. I was too focused on instructing her to keep her arm raised up above the level of her heart to acknowledge what was said.
As I gave my report to the police regarding what I witnessed of the accident, they asked me if I was a volunteer emergency services person, like a fire fighter or something. I answered that I just was a teacher with a first aid kit and some knowledge. When ever there's been an emergency that I was involved in, my first response is to assess the situation and determine the best way I could help. I usually find myself fully prepared to do potentially dangerous things as the situation demands, realizing after the fact the risk that I was undertaking. Like when that vehicle rolled over, I was ready to crawl into the wreckage and provide first aid to anyone who was trapped if I couldn't help them out. To say the least, I was glad that I didn't have to do that, but as I ran up, I was assessing entry points and smelling for gas leaking.
I told this story to my children a few days ago. They stared at me with wonder and awe. They asked me if I was afraid. I explained that I was too focused on doing what I felt was my job (helping these people) to be afraid. The after effect of OMG WHAT IF I WAS CAUGHT IN THAT MESS?!?! hit me when I was driving home. Even then, I didn't regret pulling over and helping. Now my eldest child wants to be a fire fighter. He's got that drive to help people a lot like I do. He has been reading books about first aid and trying to memorize them. When he gets a little older, I'm going to sign him up for the Red Cross's baby sitting certification course, if they still have that program running.
This way he gets to learn the proper technique for how to perform first aid and how to assess the situation. Right now, he tends to rush into a situation before checking if it is safe first. He's gotten a few scrapes and bruises helping his brother out after some bike accidents. Nothing serious has happened, but he's always right there to get ice for bruises and provide bandaids for scrapes. So, we'll see where this goes.
I'm still working on trying to make sure that I get my light therapy in the morning. It has been a point of contention over the last few days with my sons who want to just go and play in the kitchen as I am doing so or want the overhead light on as they get ready for school. The light therapy lamp provides a significant amount of light and where I am using it, it is sufficient for them to get ready for school by its light. They just don't like it.
Well, that was just a confusing incident. A person drove by at highway speed with someone else leaning out of the window ... Actually, it was someone damn near standing out the door whilst in the moving car with a pair of binoculars as they were looking upward. I haven't the slightest idea what was going on with that, but it clearly is something that'd be against OSHA regulations. Sometimes people around here, in the course of doing their jobs, do some really dumb things that are more than a little bit hazardous in an effort to get things done faster.
I try not to think about it. It makes me anxious. The idea of someone falling out of a moving vehicle and requiring first aid troubles me. I know that my first aid certification is not up to date and I'm not obligated to provide it. At the same time, I know that I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I witnessed something like that and did nothing to help the foolish victim. I just have this strong compulsion to help people who are in trouble. The fact that I remember most of my first aid training enables me to help to some extent in an emergency. At the same time, I worry that if I do attempt to help and something goes sideways, I will find myself in a position where I'm getting sued for it. The Good Samaritian laws in NYS generally protect people who stop to help in accidents. I still worry about it though.
I guess it was about fourteen years ago I witnessed a roll over accident. At the time, my first aid certification was current because I was working at a daycare that required it (and paid for us to keep our training up to date). The truck ahead of me was pulling a camper. They were going about 65 miles per hour. As we were coming to a turn in the highway, the camper began to fishtail. I immediately slowed down and put on my hazards. The camper whipped back and forth hard three times and then rolled into the embankment on the side away from oncoming traffic. I think that right there was a small mercy because this was in the middle of rush hour traffic. As the camper rolled, it dragged the pickup truck into the roll as well.
As this was happening, I pulled off to the side of the road about ten yards behind the vehicle. I grabbed the first aid kit that I had in the back of my car and ran up to the scene. People were crawling out of the camper and the truck. I asked if there was anyone else inside and they answer was no. I then began checking people for injuries. One of them, a young woman close to my age, had a cut on her arm. I popped open my first aid kit and cleaned it up before bandaging it. As I did so, the police and the ambulance arrived. The emergency technicians stood back and watched me bandage her injury and commented that it was a textbook perfect job. I was too focused on instructing her to keep her arm raised up above the level of her heart to acknowledge what was said.
As I gave my report to the police regarding what I witnessed of the accident, they asked me if I was a volunteer emergency services person, like a fire fighter or something. I answered that I just was a teacher with a first aid kit and some knowledge. When ever there's been an emergency that I was involved in, my first response is to assess the situation and determine the best way I could help. I usually find myself fully prepared to do potentially dangerous things as the situation demands, realizing after the fact the risk that I was undertaking. Like when that vehicle rolled over, I was ready to crawl into the wreckage and provide first aid to anyone who was trapped if I couldn't help them out. To say the least, I was glad that I didn't have to do that, but as I ran up, I was assessing entry points and smelling for gas leaking.
I told this story to my children a few days ago. They stared at me with wonder and awe. They asked me if I was afraid. I explained that I was too focused on doing what I felt was my job (helping these people) to be afraid. The after effect of OMG WHAT IF I WAS CAUGHT IN THAT MESS?!?! hit me when I was driving home. Even then, I didn't regret pulling over and helping. Now my eldest child wants to be a fire fighter. He's got that drive to help people a lot like I do. He has been reading books about first aid and trying to memorize them. When he gets a little older, I'm going to sign him up for the Red Cross's baby sitting certification course, if they still have that program running.
This way he gets to learn the proper technique for how to perform first aid and how to assess the situation. Right now, he tends to rush into a situation before checking if it is safe first. He's gotten a few scrapes and bruises helping his brother out after some bike accidents. Nothing serious has happened, but he's always right there to get ice for bruises and provide bandaids for scrapes. So, we'll see where this goes.
Monday, January 6, 2020
Flora & Fauna: The 'history' of Dragons
Dear Reader,
Dragons are amazing creatures. They are the cornerstone upon a great deal of fantasy literature is built. One could write a really informative and awesome post about the place of dragons in the genre. My first interaction with dragons aside from fairy tales was Anne McCaffery's Pern series. That, however, is all a tale for another day. The dragons of the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar have always existed within that universe. Each culture within that universe has had some kind of contact with dragons and have different stories about how they relate to humanity and their origin.
The kingdoms of Evandar and Ranyth border each other. A mountain range that is named for dragons spreads along that boarder and then splits into two separate ranges along the northern borders of those kingdoms. The kingdoms share the same general religion, though there are regional variances in the practices. There is, however, a shared consensus that dragons are dangerous and to be avoided. In Evandar, they are said to be the children of the god of chaos and wind. In Ranyth, they are said to be servants of that god in his malevolent aspect. The folk memory of Ranyth recalls the Great War between the gods drawing out the dragons into combat.
It is a state secret, however, in Ranyth, that the royal household is under the protection of a great dragon. The marriage between Asriel and Erian included the royal family of Dakon-Bar, a sub-kingdom of Evandar, in the protectorate of dragons. This lead to the revelation of the dragon whose domain overlaps Dakon-Bar and gives the region it's name (for Dakon means dragon and -bar is a prefix that denotes a region as forested.) This is an ancient Evandari name for the place. At the heart of it all is a forest known in modern times as Dragonwood forest. Here is the dragon's lair, hidden beneath the hills and trees of the region.
In Ranyth, there are actually two dragons that reside in the region. In the north, is the dragon that is sister to the dragon of Dakon-Bar. This dragon is the matron guardian of the royal family of this kingdom. In the south, all but completely forgotten, is another dragon of a more malevolent nature. They sleep, hidden away within their lairs. For Ranyth was once a battleground between these two dragons during and prior to the Great War of the gods. That battle exhausted them and they have rested for over an Age. When they awaken again, as the dragon of Dakon-Bar has, they will reengage in their fight.
Dragons are amazing creatures. They are the cornerstone upon a great deal of fantasy literature is built. One could write a really informative and awesome post about the place of dragons in the genre. My first interaction with dragons aside from fairy tales was Anne McCaffery's Pern series. That, however, is all a tale for another day. The dragons of the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar have always existed within that universe. Each culture within that universe has had some kind of contact with dragons and have different stories about how they relate to humanity and their origin.
The kingdoms of Evandar and Ranyth border each other. A mountain range that is named for dragons spreads along that boarder and then splits into two separate ranges along the northern borders of those kingdoms. The kingdoms share the same general religion, though there are regional variances in the practices. There is, however, a shared consensus that dragons are dangerous and to be avoided. In Evandar, they are said to be the children of the god of chaos and wind. In Ranyth, they are said to be servants of that god in his malevolent aspect. The folk memory of Ranyth recalls the Great War between the gods drawing out the dragons into combat.
It is a state secret, however, in Ranyth, that the royal household is under the protection of a great dragon. The marriage between Asriel and Erian included the royal family of Dakon-Bar, a sub-kingdom of Evandar, in the protectorate of dragons. This lead to the revelation of the dragon whose domain overlaps Dakon-Bar and gives the region it's name (for Dakon means dragon and -bar is a prefix that denotes a region as forested.) This is an ancient Evandari name for the place. At the heart of it all is a forest known in modern times as Dragonwood forest. Here is the dragon's lair, hidden beneath the hills and trees of the region.
In Ranyth, there are actually two dragons that reside in the region. In the north, is the dragon that is sister to the dragon of Dakon-Bar. This dragon is the matron guardian of the royal family of this kingdom. In the south, all but completely forgotten, is another dragon of a more malevolent nature. They sleep, hidden away within their lairs. For Ranyth was once a battleground between these two dragons during and prior to the Great War of the gods. That battle exhausted them and they have rested for over an Age. When they awaken again, as the dragon of Dakon-Bar has, they will reengage in their fight.
AW: Morning (somewhere) blog no ??
I have had one hell of a month. I'm glad that the holidays are over. They were pretty stressful. I'm glad that the kids have gone back to school, because that was pretty stressful. And I'm glad that the landlord got our heater fixed because that was pretty chilly and stressful.
I'm not really sure what to write at the moment. My confidence is pretty low. I am still dealing with that damned seasonal affective disorder based depression. Light therapy and my medications are helping me be functional. Beloved says that I am doing much better now than I was at thanksgiving. I personally can't see much of a difference because I still feel pretty shitty but he says that I have made big strides and done a lot better than I was this time last year.
I'm pretty pleased with how the anti-anxiety medication has helped me not have screaming nightmares and flashbacks over the last few weeks. I am at a loss for how to fully process the memories that are coming up. I don't quite know what to make of them. It'd help if I had a therapist but all I've got is a notebook and a psychiatrist who actually listens to me. He had to get into an argument with my health insurance company to make sure they stopped jerking things around on me. He's a decent guy with a sense of humor.
I don't feel very confident in my writing at the moment. Traumatic memories of things that happened surrounding my writing and my efforts to be social keep popping up. I've been doing my best to journal and stay on top of it all, but it is exhausting. I mean, it is really hard to just 'get over' social phobia that got grilled into you by your abuser telling you that you were never going to have real friends only people who used you. That one and her line about how I wasn't ever going to be able to manage the business side of a writing career because I just was 'too dumb' for it have been rattling around inside my head a lot over the last few weeks. Not to mention her response to my blogging, which was that nobody was ever going to read what I wrote and it was a waste of time.
It's been rough inside my head for the last little while. Some of it is because of the fact that I am depressed and that triggers cptsd symptoms all by itself. Some of it is because there are anniversary dates of particularly traumatic events going on over the course of the season. One may wonder, why did so much of the abuse happen during the late autumn and winter? The answer is simple, I couldn't just get out of the situation and go off and wander the woods for hours. I couldn't just go walk to a relative's place and hang out there for hours. I couldn't literally walk home from one of the abusers.
Winter traps people. Sometimes it traps people in bad places where bad things happen. It is probably part of the reason why I get depressed. But, I know one thing, there is always spring after winter passes. I'll get through this season like I have for the last several years, with grit and determination.
I'm not really sure what to write at the moment. My confidence is pretty low. I am still dealing with that damned seasonal affective disorder based depression. Light therapy and my medications are helping me be functional. Beloved says that I am doing much better now than I was at thanksgiving. I personally can't see much of a difference because I still feel pretty shitty but he says that I have made big strides and done a lot better than I was this time last year.
I'm pretty pleased with how the anti-anxiety medication has helped me not have screaming nightmares and flashbacks over the last few weeks. I am at a loss for how to fully process the memories that are coming up. I don't quite know what to make of them. It'd help if I had a therapist but all I've got is a notebook and a psychiatrist who actually listens to me. He had to get into an argument with my health insurance company to make sure they stopped jerking things around on me. He's a decent guy with a sense of humor.
I don't feel very confident in my writing at the moment. Traumatic memories of things that happened surrounding my writing and my efforts to be social keep popping up. I've been doing my best to journal and stay on top of it all, but it is exhausting. I mean, it is really hard to just 'get over' social phobia that got grilled into you by your abuser telling you that you were never going to have real friends only people who used you. That one and her line about how I wasn't ever going to be able to manage the business side of a writing career because I just was 'too dumb' for it have been rattling around inside my head a lot over the last few weeks. Not to mention her response to my blogging, which was that nobody was ever going to read what I wrote and it was a waste of time.
It's been rough inside my head for the last little while. Some of it is because of the fact that I am depressed and that triggers cptsd symptoms all by itself. Some of it is because there are anniversary dates of particularly traumatic events going on over the course of the season. One may wonder, why did so much of the abuse happen during the late autumn and winter? The answer is simple, I couldn't just get out of the situation and go off and wander the woods for hours. I couldn't just go walk to a relative's place and hang out there for hours. I couldn't literally walk home from one of the abusers.
Winter traps people. Sometimes it traps people in bad places where bad things happen. It is probably part of the reason why I get depressed. But, I know one thing, there is always spring after winter passes. I'll get through this season like I have for the last several years, with grit and determination.
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