Tackle It Tuesday: Breaking it Down Again

 

In truth, I tend to take a deist approach to these matters. I don't think God/the Universe/whatever gives enough of a fuck about me (or anyone else) to test me. I'd prefer to think the Universe isn't that much of a cunt, and I think that any personified higher power simply isn't that involved. The Universe behaves more like The Force in Star Wars. 

Karma is simply the energy of our actions plus our circumstances. Some shit is simply beyond our control. Other shit may be in our control but we may not to be able to act on it in the most effective fashion. I'm at the breaking point with most of it, so I'm going to break it down further.

When I was still working a J.O.B. (Just Over Broke), I was driven by anxiety. There was the anxiety that I wasn't going to get to work on time. There was the anxiety that I wasn't going to get enough sleep. There was the anxiety that I wasn't going to be able to get any writing done. I was bound and determined that working a J.O.B. wasn't going to stop me from doing what I really wanted to do.

All along, I gaslighted myself with Teh Big Dreem. You know the one. The dream where I become an overnight sensation, am able to quit my job, meet Teh Handsum Prints, and live Haplessly Ever After. Yeah. That one.

Today, approximately three years beyond when I was last able to work for someone else, the chickens have come home to roost. But these chickens are not gentle hens laying golden eggs of inspiration. Nor are they funny Foghorn Leghorns, cheering me on with cheeky comedy gems. Nor are they Little Red Roosters serenading me with smoky blues numbers. Nope, these chickens are the shadows of the shit I avoided dealing with for decades. They are fucking trauma vampires and they are fucking with my head.

All of my life, I had to fight against an enemy and my writing sustained me in the fight. When I was in school, the enemy was the fuckers who bullied me. I was determined that one day I would have my revenge on them by being successful and adored by the public while they rotted away in loveless marriages with ungrateful children, toiling away at dead-end jobs they hated.

Once I started working for a living (if you could call it living), my job became the enemy. My writing was going to lift me above the rat race and, depending on how much I loathed the job, I would either benevolently put in my two weeks' notice or I would burst into a rousing chorus of Take This Job and Shove It. Either way, my cruise ship to the High Life would come in, and for once I wouldn't be at the airport.

I actually did work at the airport for a while, first in a bookstore and then in a clothing shop. It was kind of fun at first. It started sucking pretty quickly. My boss at the clothing shop was bugfuck crazy and her son would have made the kid from the Omen pee his pants. The little monster was completely out of control. I literally had a headache anytime she brought him with her. I'm sure he went on to set fires to mailboxes or worse. Not even joking about that.

Currently, the U.S. disability system is the common enemy, but I don't know if I'm up to taking on the entire-ass corrupt system currently in place. I'm fighting it by exposing it, but I don't have the energy to do much else and I have my doubts that anyone is listening. 

Disability is even worse than working a J.O.B. in most ways. I don't have to punch a time clock and I don't have to answer to a power-hungry supervisor, but I do have to follow a set of unrealistic, Draconian rules. To break free of the clutches of the U.S. disability system, I would have to make an unrealistically large amount of money. I would literally have to become an overnight millionaire. 

Although the federal government sees the piddling amount that I make from book reviews as insignificant and allows me to claim the standard deduction, SSD doesn't see it that way. I have virtually given up doing book reviews for pay because I don't want to have to report that nothingburger to disability and risk having my benefits lowered. Most of the time I make less than $100 doing these reviews. It's a fucking hobby. It isn't a real job. But I still have to declare "self-employment income" from it. Fuck my life.

I'm trying to do better with the whole self-care thing, (I kind of hate that term, to be honest), but I'm so used to burning the candle at both ends and running myself to the point of exhaustion. Taking care of myself doesn't come naturally. Youth, stupidity, magical thinking, and self-medication used to mask the damage that I was doing to myself. 

Obviously, I'm no longer young. I may still be stupid as a bag of bricks, but I'm no longer able to gaslight myself with magical thinking. The only "self-medication" I do these days involves shit prescribed by the doctor. Antihypertensives, asthma and allergy medicines, diabetic medications including insulin, eye drops for glaucoma, anti-rosacea cream that makes my face feel like I've been mummified for several millennia, thyroid medication, and triglyceride-lowering medication just don't hit the same as booze, pot, and illicit pills. 

These days my idea of a party is seeing if I can find something that doesn't suck too much on Amazon Prime to watch while playing games on my smartphone to earn Amazon gift cards. I have people that I like but nobody I can call a friend because I always feel like I'm bothering people. I'm a loner by nature but sometimes I wish there was somebody that I could bounce things off. I honestly don't know how to be a friend because I don't trust anybody. I've got my reasons.

Well, it's party time. And by that I mean time for me to take the aforementioned medications. Are you jealous yet?

Spirit of the Universe, I'm trying hard not to give up. I'm trying to make it make sense. I'm trying to take responsibility for my health. Maybe I could have a win--just a small one? 

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Things Ornery can't do anymore

Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors

Resource Books:

52 Weeks of Writing

https://amzn.to/33sESxd

Self-Help Sucks

https://amzn.to/3sCWA9q

The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)

Creative Commons License

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This work is the intellectual property of Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp and Naughty Netherworld Press.

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Come As You Are Party: Breaking Down my Breakdown

 

Trigger warning for those who want or need it: Suicide Ideation

"The readers in the world - regardless of how much or how little writing talent they have - become the people who succeed in life."

Unless they're me. 

I am an abject failure.

I am burned out on reading, and on promoting other people's books.

I am discouraged about writing. Clearly, I can't cut it in the popular writing world, but I feel like I've been ousted from my own universe and can't get back in. 

Nobody wants to read what I write, but I can't give the people what they want because what they want doesn't interest me. 

52 Weeks of Writing encourages me to find an "accountability partner."

I'm already accountable. I am a fucking taskmaster. I won't cut myself a break. I'll sleep when I'm dead. And so on. 

This is what I need:

I think that Stephen, being the King of Horror, has forgotten what it's like to not know if anyone needs or wants what you write. He knows that someone out there needs his stories. 

Clearly, nobody needs or wants my stories. There will never be a single soul who says "boy, Story X by C.L. Hart really helped me through" or "wow, that poem by Ornery Owl really spoke to me," or even "that cheeky Lil DeVille's spicy stories cheered me up when I needed it." 

If I haven't made it by almost 60, I'm not going to make it. Honestly, it's discouraging rather than inspiring to be in the company of people who have made it to some degree. I'm going to have to resign myself to the fact that my stories are just a coping mechanism to keep me from topping myself. I wanted something more from them and I wanted something more for them. They deserve better.

I'm sick of myself. I'm sick of this breakdown. I'm sick of living in a world of broken-down things that I don't have the money to fix or replace. I'm sick of living in poverty. I'm sick of all my health problems. 

I've just spent over an hour trying to correct my whacked-out blood sugar. Having zombie organs floating around in my body doing jack shit is a fabulous adventure. Please do try it sometime.

On second thought, don't.

I considered shooting the moon with my insulin this morning. Just dialing the pen as far as it could go and saying goodbye to this failed existence. The only reason I didn't is that my son would be in dire circumstances without my help. It's strange how I can be indispensable and yet an utterly useless piece of shit all at the same time. Such a dichotomy I am. 

Don't tell me to "get help." There isn't any. I don't trust counselors. 

Don't tell me to "take medication." Psych meds make me psychotic. I don't enjoy being psychotic.

Don't tell me to "go to the ER." This isn't an emergency. This is suicide ideation. If I went to the ER every time I experienced suicide ideation, I'd have to live there. Being placed on a psych hold wouldn't help me, it would make things worse. I know what's wrong with me. I'm fucking discouraged and I'm sick of it all. I need a win and I'm not going to get one.

I'm going to have to do something else with my writing. Pursuing fame and money makes me depressed. Well, more depressed. 

I'm going to have to go back to writing what I like to write.

I need to find the key to the gate of dreams again.

Lead on, Mr. Lovecraft.

The line about the key to my dreams is a reference to the story "The Silver Key" by H. P. Lovecraft. You can read the story here if you are so inclined.

https://cthulhu.fandom.com/wiki/The_Silver_Key

The first few lines go a little bit something like this:

When Randolph Carter was thirty he lost the key of the gate of dreams. Prior to that time he had made up for the prosiness of life by nightly excursions to strange and ancient cities beyond space, and lovely, unbelievable garden lands across ethereal seas; but as middle age hardened upon him he felt those liberties slipping away little by little, until at last he was cut off altogether.

Lovecraft was writing about himself when he penned this story. He struggled with depression including suicide ideation just like yours truly. 

The story's protagonist, Randolph Carter, is actually a bit of a dick. He brings misery to the life of the hapless Yaddithian wizard Zkauba. My yet-to-be-edited novel "The Wizard's Key" includes a sympathetic account of Zkauba's plight, which led him to call on Nyarlathotep to free him from Carter's influence.

I hope it isn't too late to re-open the gate.

Perhaps it would be best if I slept for another couple of hours. We're going to try the journey to my mother's house once again today.

Spirit of the Universe, please help me recapture the joy that writing once gave me. Please help me remember what's important. It isn't validation. Still, it hurts seeing so many other people winning when I seem to do nothing but lose.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Free use image from Pixabay

Resource Books:

52 Weeks of Writing

https://amzn.to/33sESxd

Self-Help Sucks

https://amzn.to/3sCWA9q

The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)

Creative Commons License

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

This work is the intellectual property of  Naughty Netherworld Press and Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp.

Reblogging is acceptable on platforms that allow it. Odysee’s reblog function is called repost, which makes things confusing since reposting is considered a no-no on most platforms. It’s fine to share the post using the repost function on Odysee. It is not okay to copy-paste the material into a new post.

Sharing a link to the post is acceptable.

Quoting portions of the post for educational or review purposes is acceptable if proper credit is given.

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Fucking Around Friday: The Definition of Insanity

 

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

After several days of Stupid, we're back. I sort of know where I'm going with this, but there are a few topics I'd like to address. I've given myself permission to take as long as I need and write as much as I want. I've told my inner critic to fuck off. So, let's do this.

First, some questions from 52 Weeks of Writing. The link to purchase a copy of this book for yourself can be found at the end of the post.

What are your goals for the upcoming week?

Let's just take a page from my planner. It looks a little bit something like this.

Write a flash fiction for the Fish Flash Fiction writing contest. Maximum words 300. No limit on theme or genre. Does not need to be about fish. Deadline 28 February.

https://www.fishpublishing.com/competition/flash-fiction-contest/

Enter Women on Writing Flash Fiction Contest (Max words 750)

https://www.wow-womenonwriting.com/contest.php#FlashFictionContest

Deadline 28 February.

Submit poetry to Humana Obscura

https://www.humanaobscura.com/submit

Humana Obscura is now accepting submissions of poetry, prose/short fiction, and art for its next issue!

Submissions will remain open until the end of February 2022.

No politics, nothing rhyming, nothing longer than 75 lines. Haiku is preferable to Senryu. Previously unpublished only, no simultaneous submissions.

Poetry – 3 to 5 poems (or up to 10 haiku, tanka, or other forms of micro poetry, 5 lines or less), no longer than two pages each. Please include all poems in one document.

Short Prose/Flash Fiction – no more than 2 pieces, 1,000 words maximum (per piece).

Unpublished only, no simultaneous submissions.

Work on story for Dragon Soul Press Chance on Love anthology.

https://dragonsoulpress.com/anthologies/

Deadline: 31 March 2022

Anthology: Chance on Love

Word Count – 5,000 to 15,000

Theme – Everyone deserves a chance at love. Whether it lasts forever or ends up being temporary, these characters will fight for the chance at happily ever after.

Rating: R

Work on story for L Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. Sci-fi, fantasy, or dark fantasy, up to 17,000 words. Deadline 31 March 2022.

https://www.writersofthefuture.com/enter-writer-contest/

Work on Cosmically Bonded (part of my ongoing serial series.)

Submit a piece for this month's WIP contest.

Have another look. Are you being realistic? If not, what would be more realistic?

On the surface, this looks rather unrealistic. But when I break things down, I don't think it is. I've already written the poem for the WIP challenge. I just need to put it in a post and submit the link. 

I can write a few Haiku for Humana Obscura. 

I can submit Lucina Entombed to the Chance on Love anthology, although there's a possibility it may be a little clean for their liking given the R-rating in the description. The story contains no descriptive erotic scenes and scant profanity although it contains adult themes. 

It took me a few months to write this 7500-word story. It's a combination of three fairy tales (The Buried Moon, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White) re-imagined in a sci-fi setting. I submitted it for potential inclusion in an anthology and never even received an acknowledgment of receipt. I attempted to contact the person compiling the anthology and heard nothing from them. I have given said anthology up as a lost cause. 

The story is a bit of an oddball and I'm not sure anyone else will want it. My policy is to shop out the stories that aren't part of my ongoing serial over the period of a year and then publish them myself. I'm thinking of compiling an anthology of my work at the end of the year and calling it something like C.L. Hart's Space Oddities Volume I. 

I feel like ideas of this nature make me sound extremely arrogant and self-absorbed. The truth is, I don't think that I will ever have much of an audience. I really like my stories but nobody else seems to. This hurts me more than I can convey. 

Also, I completely suck at promoting my work.

Image by Robin Higgins from Pixabay

Me promoting other people's stories

Me promoting my own stories

What can you do this week to make sure you achieve your goal(s)?

Not have my car battery conk out on me again, something I completely blamed myself for. I had a bit of a mental breakdown when it happened. I am in quite a vulnerable position. Living in the middle of nowhere I need my car to work 100% of the time. I keep up on maintenance. The battery has plenty of life left and there's nothing wrong with the alternator. So, what happened?

I only drive about once a week. Modern cars (even an older one like my 2011 Ford Fusion) have computerized gadgetry and an alarm system that impose a small chronic drain on the battery. I'm taking the car back to the mechanic next week so they can install a switch that will allow me to turn off the battery when I'm not driving the car. This disables the car alarm, but I live in a very low crime rate area and my room is in the front of the house. The car is nearly always in my line of sight. 

Also, we had a few very cold days last week and my car is parked in the open. The cold drained the battery as well. 

My anxiety was astronomical after this happened. I hated myself for allowing it to happen. I could not make myself write and spent several days just watching episodes of When Calls the Heart. 

Why was I unable to write you may ask? It wasn't as if I suffered an irreparable loss. My fucking car battery died. Boo fucking hoo. What a crybaby.

Back in 2013 when my car was hit by a wall of water as I was trying to get to work during the 100-Year Flood in Boulder, Colorado, I was unable to write for a month afterward. I felt like I didn't deserve the luxury of a "hobby" like writing. People had lost their homes. Some people lost their lives. How dare I think I should be allowed to engage in a fucking leisure activity? I'm always such a selfish bitch.

I suffered from (additional) PTSD following that incident. I have complex PTSD from chronic incidents of abuse throughout my childhood. When things are working normally, my anxiety is manageable. Put something out of place and I start to come apart. 

I know all about how people who can "go with the flow" are more likely to be successful. I have had to realize the fact that I will probably never be such a person. I am always teetering on the edge of disaster. I live in a house of cards with a sand foundation built on the San Andreas fault. I am always one huff or puff or seemingly minor disaster away from devastation.

The Spent module allows users to experience what it is like to live paycheck to paycheck. (In my case, disability check to disability check.) It isn't fun.

https://playspent.org/

I used to have such big dreams. Some really were unachievable. I can live with that. What kills me is the feeling that none of them are achievable because I am so awful at everything. 

Hold on to your hats as things are about to devolve into a bitch fest.

It's probably evident by now that I like to listen to independently produced relaxation music and electronic music such as deep house or trance while working on these posts. I saw some long mixes that I might have checked out except for one teeny problem. Rather than posting some nice pictures of, say, nature or candles or people dancing, the thumbnail images feature blatant tits and ass. 

How the hell it's supposed to be relaxing to stare at cleavage or butt crack is beyond me. Even if I was attracted to women, I wouldn't want to be staring at cleavage or butt crack. I'm attracted to men and I don't want to be staring at package shots or male butt crack. Fucking hell, just rename your channel Dudebro Haven. Tits and ass don't convey "positive coaching."

Anyway...

Spirit of the Universe, I am lost again. Please help me find my way.

~Ornery Owl is Searching~

Image by moonzigg from Pixabay

Resource Books:

52 Weeks of Writing

https://amzn.to/33sESxd

Self-Help Sucks

https://amzn.to/3sCWA9q

The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese If You Please (Or Don't Please)

Creative Commons License

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

This work is the intellectual property of Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp and Naughty Netherworld Press.

Reblogging is acceptable on platforms that allow it. Odysee’s reblog function is called repost, which makes things confusing since reposting is considered a no-no on most platforms. It’s fine to share the post using the repost function on Odysee. It is not okay to copy-paste the material into a new post.

Sharing a link to the post is acceptable.

Quoting portions of the post for educational or review purposes is acceptable if proper credit is given.

Come check out Readers Roost, the online book store featuring works by indie and small press authors. Discover your next great read at the Roost! It's the link you need when you wanna read.

https://bit.ly/ReadersRoost

Buy me a coffee

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Or buy me a coffee here

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Playlist for the Post

https://odysee.com/@M%C3%BAsicaElectr%C3%B3nica:3/LA-MEJOR-MUSICA-ELECTRONICA-POSITIVA---THE-BEST-ELECTRIC-AND-POSITIVE-MUSIC:d?r=GTwnGJ4fFBQfzuJgpHVpfKBKaC9b8B16

https://odysee.com/@MUSIC-RELAX:e/musica-electronica-positiva108:e?r=GTwnGJ4fFBQfzuJgpHVpfKBKaC9b8B16

https://odysee.com/@WKDsociety:8/WKDsociety-house-of-electronics-mix:9?r=GTwnGJ4fFBQfzuJgpHVpfKBKaC9b8B16

Tardy to the Party IWSG

Ornery Owl

Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors on Pixabay

First things first. Let's get this out of the way before the post begins. I swear. A lot. If you have problems with profanity, let this serve as your warning not to proceed with this post, 'cause it's about to get salty in here. So, strap on your life jackets, and buckle up, Bitches.

Okey dokey, now that's out of the way, so let's hit the Insecure Writers Support Group question for this month. (I swear, I'm always tardy to this party.)

Writers have secrets! What are one or two of yours, something readers would never know from your work?

Let me answer this by saying that I really don't know how to answer this. On one hand, I tend to be pretty transparent, although, on the other hand, I don't really feel like I owe anyone any explanations ever. Unless I crash through the front window of your house while holding a jug of moonshine in one hand and a bong in the other, in which case...well, there again, the explanation for my bad behavior, in that case, is probably pretty obvious.

Anyway, here's a list of the shit that's abnormal about me, in alphabetical order because that is the way I roll.

Attention deficit disorder

I didn't know this until I was in my 50s, but it explains a lot, and I have been very misunderstood because of it.

Bipolar disorder type 2

I was almost 40 before this was correctly diagnosed.

Diabetes type 2 

An ailment that is highly stigmatized, and fuck a whole lot of that. I think the name of the condition should be changed to hypopancreatism. It would be a more accurate description. Diabetes is an obscure Greek term that is kind of meaningless at this point.

Elevated Triglycerides

A common companion with diabetes. Other than this, my cholesterol levels are very good, which is neither here nor there.

Female Reproductive System Glitches

Endometriosis and fibroids, which have hopefully resolved now that I'm three years beyond menopause. 2018 was the Year Of A Lot Of Bullshit With My Reproductive System Which I Don't Even Use But Still Didn't Want To Undergo Major Surgery To Remove It. 

Doctors are very keen to do hysterectomies on older women, but the condition I was experiencing (simple hyperplasia with normal cells) only increases my chances of developing endometrial cancer by 1.6 (that's one point six) percent. I saw no reason to undergo the risks of surgery for such a slight increased risk. Sometimes hysterectomy is the lesser of two evils, but there are reasons to leave the business intact, even if it's dormant.

I also had polycystic ovary syndrome, but my ovaries are now atrophied, so I guess that problem has resolved. I was always told that I'd never be able to have children. Shows to go ya that doctors don't know everything.

I had horrible periods for 40 years, starting at twelve and ending at 52. I didn't bleed, I hemorrhaged. Other than the endometrial hyperplasia, menopause was a walk in the park. I was fortunate to have the longer-lasting but less intense "ember flashes" rather than the nuclear blast hot flashes that some women describe. I refer to menopause as my "red giant" phase. I am now a large white dwarf.

Fibromyalgia

I'm one of the lucky ones. I have low-grade, widespread chronic pain rather than excruciating pain. I can do a lot of things that fibromyalgia sufferers with severe pain can't. However, people like me get misunderstood and passed off as "lazy" or making excuses. Being in constant pain drains a person's energy and causes brain fog. I sometimes joke that if I did have dementia no-one would know, because walking around in a fog is my normal state of being. 

In truth, neither dementia nor fibromyalgia is funny. My joke is a bit of gallows humor. I've lost people to dementia, and I will top myself if I am ever diagnosed with it. I don't want to go out that way.

Glaucoma

Hypertension (idiopathic)

Hypothyroidism

My thyroid burned itself up when I was 15. Oh, bliss. Oh, joy.

IBS

I'm usually fine as long as I take Lactaid before eating ice cream or pudding and as long as I avoid foods with MSG or Splen-don't. It really helped to stop taking Metformin. I was kind of tired of having explosive, uncontrollable diarrhea.

Neuropathy

Not diabetes-related. I have neuropathy from back problems and a severe injury to the median nerve in my left arm. I was in such severe pain for a month that I considered suicide to find relief. If it hadn't been for the fact that I knew Medicaid was going to kick in at the beginning of December 2017, I don't think I'd be here writing this. I didn't have insurance, so I couldn't afford to get treatment.

Here is the fun of being a member of the working poor. I had a job. I often worked more than 40 hours a week. I was a contractor. I couldn't afford insurance on my salary. This is the job that fucked up my arm. I had to wait a month for Medicaid to kick in. In the meantime, I was in excruciating pain. Every time I went to sleep, I hoped I wouldn't wake up.

The thing about harshly judging people who become addicted to pain medication is this. When you are in severe constant pain, you will do ANYTHING to stop that pain. Both chronic pain and addiction are conditions that are stigmatized. 

I have lived with low-grade chronic pain for most of my life. It tires me out and a lot of the time I feel like I'm operating in a fog. 

Obsessive-compulsive disorder

For some reason, everyone always thinks that OCD = germophobe neat freak. It actually has a broad spectrum of presentations. Hoarding disorder is a subtype of OCD, and I really have a problem with exploitation shit shows like Hoarders. Next up, what will those whacky Schizophrenics do, amirite, Kiddies? There's nothing like ridiculing people struggling with a major mental illness! Yeehah.

I was going to say there's your answer to what people would never know about me from reading my stories, but I actually do address it. Now, here's the plain truth. While struggling with severe depression and still holding a full-time job, my hoarding problems got severely out of hand. I have never hoarded animals, only items. In all honesty, becoming unable to work a normal job is one of the best things that ever happened to me. I was finally able to address my very serious hoarding problem. 

My old mobile home has taken more than six months to deal with because the only ones working on it are my son and me, and I can't do any heavy lifting. My son is high-functioning autistic. He lives with a degree of agoraphobia (which he can manage as long as he is able to maintain control over the situation), anxiety, and major depression. He's always gotten a ration of shit from my family for not being able to hold a regular job. They refuse to believe that he's autistic because he is able to engage in normal social interaction. My mother says that my son is just "timid" (he isn't timid) and my brother thinks that my son needs to just pull himself up by his bootstraps and "man up." 

If you ask me, my son is a goddamn rock star. Hell, he's better than most rock stars. He's the most humble person you'll ever meet. He puts other people's needs before his own all the time, and when he sets his mind to something, it will happen. Maybe not on someone else's timeline, maybe in a country minute rather than a New York minute, but on one thing you can rely; if he says it's going to happen, it's going to happen.

My love for my son is obvious in my stories. Most of my major female protagonists have sons, nephews, or young male friends whom they would die for if it came to that. Sometimes I throw in a daughter as well, just to mix things up, but if people read between the lines, it's probably obvious that I don't have a daughter. The character tends to be an adjunct.

Moving on with Cie's Health Bullshit...

PTSD

The complex variety. I've endured a lot of abuse in my life. It took me a lot of years to come to the point where I know I may never be able to "love myself," but I sure as hell am going to respect myself enough to not let people abuse me anymore. If you're the sort of person who thinks that I, or anyone else, deserves to be shit on for having a body that you don't find attractive, fuck you. What the hell makes you think I care if you find me attractive? Believe me, I ain't into you.

Then there were all those great guys who preyed on me because they wanted someone with low self-esteem that they could treat like crap, that they could belittle or hit or rape to their shriveled little heart's content and I should consider myself lucky for the abuse. Because crazy chicks are great in bed, amirite? And for anyone who feels the need to tell me that "not all men are like that, and there's a great guy who will love you just as you are," please stow that noise. I'm simply not interested.

I had PTSD after my car was hit by a wave of water washing over the road during a flood, and I eventually overcame it. I don't think I'll ever be over the PTSD caused by bullying and abuse. Hell, let's call it what it is. Bullying is simply another term for abuse.

It took me a lot of years to be able to say that I have been abused, that I did not "ask for" the abuse, and to take a stand that I will not put up with further abuse.

Abuse, particularly sexual abuse, is a common theme in my writing.

In the past, I would have put "borderline personality disorder" on this list, but I have come to the belief that "borderline personality disorder" is a sexist diagnosis, like "hysteria." It is overwhelmingly applied to women. "Borderline personality disorder" is actually a subtype of PTSD. 

People who are given this diagnosis are people who have been abused, often sexually. The tendency for self-injury in women diagnosed with "borderline personality disorder (a problem that I struggled with from my early teens) is a tell. 

Suicide Ideation

Part and parcel of the other mental health stuff. I've had less of it since moving to a little rural town in the middle of nowhere with my son. Sometimes I even feel hopeful and inspired.

And now, the big reveal.

Urinary incontinence

Yeah, I just love this. It started when I was in my late thirties and by the time I was forty, I was using the Ultra Maximum size of incontinence pads. It was great when I had my period, and by great, I mean it really sucked ass. Between the heavy bleeding and the urine leakage, I had to wear Depends plus an Ultra Maximum incontinence pad. It felt like I was wearing a mattress. 

It's not clear why I developed this lovely problem, but it's probably a combination of neurological and physiological fuckery. Anyway, I have it, and I think that it's one thing that I don't write about, not out of embarrassment but because where the hell would I fit it into one of my stories? 

There are a lot of adults who deal with incontinence. We aren't emotionally immature or losing control of our functions on purpose. I count myself lucky to only be dealing with urine loss. Metformin gave me a taste of what it would be like to have bowel incontinence, and that's a whole other beast. 

Here's the thing: incontinence isn't a joke, and people who live with it still deserve respect. That's why I'm honest about it. 

Those things that you may think it's somehow your birthright to ridicule people for, like their size or their health problems either physical or mental? If you're doing that, you need to be asking yourself why you need a scapegoat. Chances are, you're dissatisfied with yourself and are looking for someone who has it worse to make yourself feel better about your own lousy lot in life. That's called schadenfreude, and it isn't a good look.

So, there you have it. I came to the party. I brought it. And now you know that pretty much the only thing I don't write about is incontinence. 

Ornery Owl is Round and Real and apologizes for nothing

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The Icky, Sticky, Nit-Picky Legalese, if You Please (Or Don't Please)

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Carpe Diem Tan Renga Wednesday: Such a Cold Night

Image by Robson Machado from Pixabay

lying down

with quilts over the head

such a cold night

I spent many nights like this

in a trailer with no heat

~cie~

notes

The Hokku stanza was written by Matsuo Basho (1644 - 1694). The Ageku stanza was written by me. It is autobiographical.