Friday, December 31, 2021

CCCC 2022 Project: Fat Friday: Food Without a Side of Guilt


Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

New to this blog? Read the Rules of Engagement before joining the fray!

Spirit of the Universe, please guide me to the choices that will help me live my own best life while helping others. Please help me overcome the desire to pursue validation or adulation and to instead seek the path that promotes goodness, both for me and those who read my words. Help me to be compassionate rather than defensive. Amen.

"Food without a side of guilt tastes much better." --Laurel Ann Deininger

I remember the bad old days of New Years Resolution guilt.

Every year was going to be the year when I would lose eighty thousand trillion pounds, become drop-dead gorgeous, hit the big time, and be the envy of every woman and the desire of every man. Every year started out with heavy emphasis on food restriction and orthorexia. By the time my birthday rolled around in February I was so hangry I could have eaten my entire family and I'm sorry to say that I was an absolute delight to be around (not.) It was a horrible pattern, and I'm afraid that I repeated it every year for more than three decades.

I don't do that anymore.

I think that New Year's resolutions are kind of dumb, honestly. What difference does it make if you begin a project on January 1 or February 15 or March 17 or April Fools Day or Halloween? None, that's how much. Don't wait for an arbitrary day. If it's something you feel is beneficial, do it. Only don't do it by setting impossible goals for yourself. That only results in disappointment and increased self-loathing.

My resolutions for 2022 include continuing the battle against my abusive life partner ED. I still don't entirely have the restrict-binge-guilt cycle under control although it is under control much more of the time than it used to be. 

Weight loss used to be my most important obsession--I mean goal. These days, weight loss is NEVER the aim of any changes to my eating or exercise habits. Having weight loss as a goal is a shitty recipe for inevitable failure. I don't like shitty recipes. I shoveled that shit sandwich down my own throat every day for more than 30 years, starting when I was twelve years old. It is a sandwich that I refuse to ever eat again.

Becoming "beautiful" is also off my list of must-dos. What the fuck is "beautiful" anyway? It's an arbitrary attribute. It's fucking meaningless. Feast your senses on the brilliance of the late Carrie Fisher.

Carrie was beautiful, particularly in the way that counts most. She had a beautiful spirit. Unfortunately, it was also a wounded spirit. She was undeniably harmed by the arbitrary (and stupid) standards that Western society places on women to be nubile sexpots with massive, perky breasts and not a trace of fat on their backside or thighs, regardless of age. I do not think that Carrie would have died at 60 had she not been a tortured soul. 

People think that it is okay to make shitty comments about other people's looks. My quest to call out this fuckery wherever it occurs will continue in 2022. I'm not saying that anyone has to find me beautiful. I don't even give a single fuck if no one finds me beautiful. I'm saying that no one has the right to be a dick about it, regardless of how unbeautiful they find me or anyone else.

My goals in 2022 include continuing to kick guilt to the curb whenever it comes knocking and to defeat my abusive life partner ED whenever and wherever possible. I suggest that you adopt similar goals rather than succumbing to the usual disappointing New Year's resolution bullshit.

Ornery Owl is defying convention
Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors

Hangry is defying diet culture and defeating ED whenever possible.
Free use image from Pixabay

I begin my diary entries with a variation on the prayer I learned from the book Self Help Sucks by Tony Blankenship. You can pick up a copy of the book here. If you purchase a copy through this link, I earn a small commission from Amazon.

I appreciated Tony's personable and flexible approach to the Twelve Step program. You don't need to be perfect in your efforts to improve your life. You don't have to believe a certain way or pray a certain way or to a certain or any deity. I like to use the term "Spirit of the Universe" rather than God.

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

Creative Commons License

This work is the intellectual property of 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.

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Tuesday, December 28, 2021

CCCC 2022 Project: Objective and Ground Rules


Image by Serena Wong from Pixabay

Following a couple days of beating myself up, sometimes literally, for a dumb mistake that I made recently, I decided that I would like to try a new old thing. I would like to utilize this blog more often in 2022 with the goal of learning to understand myself and perhaps helping others along the way. I'm feeling a bit at loose ends currently, but I'll try to be as concise as possible.

First the disclaimers. I am not a psychologist, psychiatrist, licensed counselor, or social worker. I speak from my own many years of experience (57 on February 15) as a hot mess. My neurological and psychological conditions include ADHD, severe anxiety, depression (my baseline state is moderately depressed), eating disorder not otherwise specified (may binge, purge, or restrict food), and PTSD. I have a history of sexual trauma. I "enjoy" various and assorted phobias. 

I feel it's always best to lay down the ground rules at the start of the game. 

I will do my best to ensure if a post will include potentially triggering subject matter such as discussion of eating disorders, self-harm, or sexual assault. I cannot guarantee that I will always point out everything that could possibly be triggering. Due to the issues discussed on the blog, everything has the potential to be triggering. 

I cuss. A lot. If you have a problem with profanity, this is not the fucking blog for you.

It is acceptable to discuss YOUR feelings regarding your relationship to food or your feelings about your own body. It is NOT acceptable to tell me or anyone else how they should feel about their relationship with food or about their own body. It is acceptable to discuss how diet culture has fucked with your life because I will certainly discuss how it has fucked with mine.

It is NOT acceptable to encourage dieting, i.e. "but you haven't yet tried the All Spam Diet! I lost 84 kilos/pounds/elephants worth of weight on the All Spam Diet! Click my affiliate link to learn how you too can lose a car's worth of weight on the All Spam Diet!" Fuck right off.

Similarly, it is NOT acceptable to suggest weight loss surgery. If you are going to suggest that I or anyone else would "benefit" from weight loss surgery, I suggest that you would either benefit from a lobotomy or have already had one. Again, fuck right off. 

It is NOT acceptable to pull the old "but your health!!11!!!" card. It's never about health. It is NOT acceptable to say that bodies of whatever size are bad. 

It is NOT acceptable to use the o-slur (obese) except in the context of "the asshole doctor in the ER didn't even look at my foot after it got run over by a train. He kept saying that if I wasn't obese my feet wouldn't hurt so much." Big, fat, hefty, heavy, large, stocky, stout or anything of that nature is acceptable. 

It is NOT acceptable to urge someone to take psych meds. If medication works for you, great. Please continue taking it. Psych meds fuck me up and I won't take them. This includes medications for ADHD. Just like diets, I've tried many medications. For me, the cure is worse than the problem. I tend to be highly critical of psych meds, so you are now forewarned if that might be a problem for you.

It is NOT acceptable to proselytize. If Allah/Jesus/The Flying Spaghetti Monster has helped you find peace in your life, great. I tend to be critical of religion but not of spirituality. I'm an agnostic who has seen some shit that leads me to believe that it is possible that something of the personality survives the cessation of life function. If you believe that or don't believe it, great. I won't push my beliefs on you, and you don't push yours on me. There's no reason to be a dick about it. 

I cannot possibly know or mention all of the Genders Du Jour that keep popping up. I try to avoid identity politics and my pronouns are fuck/off. There's really no reason that pronouns should come up in the first place. I call people by their name and I deal with them on an above-the-neck level. I am a biological female and my worldview is shaped by that fact. While I try to be compassionate towards people from all walks of life, my experiences will be discussed from the perspective of what I am, not from the perspective of what you are. 

Sometimes my posts will be encouraging and a little more upbeat. Sometimes they will be down and discouraged. It's okay to express hope that I feel better. It is not acceptable to tell me that I'm being selfish, whiny, that I should "just snap out of it" or that other people "have it worse." I already feel like I'm being selfish and whiny, kicking myself because I can't "just snap out of it," and I know that there are people who "have it worse." Saying this sort of shit doesn't help.

My ADHD is not your ADHD. My anxiety is not your anxiety. My depression is not your depression. My eating disorder is not your eating disorder. My PTSD is not your PTSD. There are as many presentations of these conditions as there are people who have them. Just because mine doesn't present exactly like yours doesn't mean that I'm lying about having the condition. Everyone's experiences are unique.

At the end of 2022, I may publish selected posts from this blog in an e-book that will be available for a modest price as well as permanently free to borrow from Kindle Unlimited. My hope in doing this is to reach and possibly help a wider audience. 

Whether I have a big audience or no audience, it is my goal to see this through. 

Ornery Owl is sick of being put down and kicked around, including by her asshole inner critic.
Free-use image from Pixabay

Hangry is fighting back against her abusive life partner ED (Eating Disorder)
Free-use image from Pixabay

Arioch is here to shred men who think it is acceptable to objectify and abuse women and girls.
Arioch is a genital demon from Shin Megami Tensa.
 This picture was posted as a fuck you to Tumblr Support after the Great Fuckening of 2017 when Apple bought Tumblr.

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

Creative Commons License

This work is the intellectual property of Naughty Netherworld Press/Poetry of the Netherworld.

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.

Want more poetry?
Get it here!

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Sunday, November 28, 2021

Charity Sunday: In Memory of my Dad


Today is the eleventh anniversary of my father's passing. He had a serious hemorrhagic stroke in 2006. In the following years he had more strokes, developing vascular dementia. During his working life he had been a college professor. Towards the end of his life, he would read and re-read the same line in a catalog. He also developed congestive heart failure. His circulation was so poor that at the time of his passing, his lower legs were purple.

Collier Hospice in Wheat Ridge, Colorado was the second best thing to being able to pass away at home. The room was spacious, pleasant, and quiet. The staff were attentive but allowed for plenty of private family time. On the night before he departed, I read my father A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas. He always read it to my brother and me when we were kids, along with Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I know that in this lifetime, I will never again be able to read A Child's Christmas in Wales aloud because I can't get through it without breaking down.

I will donate a dollar for every comment received on this post to SCL Health in honor of my father.

Link to learn more about Collier Hospice.

Link for the SCL Health Foundation donation page.

I apologize, but NaNoWriMo in conjunction with the November Poem-a-Day Brain-Dissolving Challenge has dissolved my brain and I can't think of an excerpt to post. If you would like to read a gloomy holiday-related poem that will appear in a future anthology, follow the link.

I'm adding in the 28th chapter of my NaNoHellMo project. I'm 1000 words from being able to stick a fork in that fucker. Be forewarned, it's a long read.

Day 28

28 November 2021

Spirit of the Universe, please set aside everything I think I know about myself, about my story, about my need for validation, and especially about you, Universe, so that I may have an open mind and a new experience with myself, with my story, with my need for validation, and with you, Universe. Please help me to see the truth. Amen.

Today is the 11th anniversary of my dad’s passing. It was about a half-hour ago that the hospice called my mother to inform her that he was gone. The ringer on my phone wasn’t working so she had to call twice. On the second time she said something hurtful that has stuck with me. She said “you’re never here for me.”

I don’t want to sit too long in this place. My mother is better these days, not as angry any more. However, my parents’ disappointment in me has always been palpable to me. I think it’s been a driving force in my life. I want to show them that I can be successful without having to do what they want me to do because I can’t do what they wanted me to do.

My parents helped me a lot financially over the years but it always came at the price of having to listen to how disappointed they were in me. I felt like I was always begging them to see what a mess I was, to please have some understanding for me and to let me get better so I could succeed on my terms.

I remember when I got the job in the independent living section of the retirement community where I worked. It was such a relief to not have to kill myself in the long-term care center anymore. Part of what got me the job was my EMT license. I was never able to work as an EMT because I would have had to take a $4 per hour pay as an entry level EMT over what I was making as a C.N.A., but the license still helped me.

I liked the job in the independent living section much better. I had a lot more autonomy and there was far less heavy lifting. I was proud when I told my father that I’d finally found a job that I thought I could stick with. His response was “well, we’ll have to see about that.” He and my mother were hell-bent on having me get my nursing license so I could make more money. There went my feeling of pride in one fell swoop.

When I did get the nursing license some six years later, I made between $2 and $6 more per hour than I had made working as a resident assistant, and I was killing myself working 60-hour weeks. My sciatica got better because the first case I had involved working with a one-year-old infant whose case resolved.

The next major case I had would be the main client I worked with for the rest of my career in nursing. It might have been okay if the patient had stayed with the agency that I was working with, but there was a serious disagreement between the agency and the patient’s mother, so he was transferred to a different agency.

I signed on with the new agency but kept my foot in the water, so to speak, at the agency I was already with. I had good (though expensive) health insurance through them. I did not know about the Medicaid buy-in if it existed, and I don’t know if it existed in 2016. There can be dry spells working for homecare agencies, so I figured it was smart to be signed on with more than one.

Working as much as I did fucked my health to hell. One of my patients developed a severe respiratory infection which he passed on to me. I had to call off from my other assignments so I wouldn’t pass it on to those patients, but my coordinator told me that I could keep working with the patient from whom I’d picked up the illness because I couldn't re-infect him and laid on the guilt by saying “the family really needs you.”

My diabetes was getting worse and I wasn’t on insulin yet. I was really, really sick. There is no way under the sun that I should have been working. During the night, I sat by this patient’s bedside. I would play games on my tablet or write on my laptop. Sometimes I dozed off, but it was a light sleep and I would always snap to if something were amiss.

I didn’t snap to on this occasion. I recall looking at the time when I started feeling so drowsy that I knew I was going to go under. I was in a state of complete unconsciousness for the next 20 minutes. When I woke up, the patient’s father was sitting at the end of the patient’s bed glaring at me. I collected my things, apologized profusely, and left. I knew what was coming.

I think that I had a T.I.A. (transient ischemic attack) brought on by all the stress that my body was undergoing. I was well and truly unconscious. I was, unsurprisingly, fired from the first agency. I wanted to rail at my coordinator for putting me in that position, but I remained stoic during the process, responding only with “yep” and “nope” and finally saying “okay, bye,” and leaving.

It wasn’t so bad at first because the second agency kept me on with the patient I’d been working with before. Unfortunately, his case worsened to the point where he needed more care than a regular LPN could provide. He had a rare x-linked genetic disease and was going to start needing infusions. I am unsure if he is still alive. He had lived longer than most kids diagnosed with this condition.

I tried to go back to work in a long-term care center when the homecare agency was unable to find me another suitable client. It didn’t work out. The diabetes had taken a lot out of me physically by then and I felt like I was going to pass out. I also felt confused, probably as a result of my blood sugar taking a dive.

There is a high rate of burnout in long-term care and this is because they work their staff to death.

I made a promise to my father that I haven’t been able to keep when I was sitting beside his body in his room at the hospice. I promised that I would finish my Bachelor’s degree in English. My father was a college professor and was always disappointed that I only had an associate's degree. Unfortunately, I am too busy to take on even one more thing.

One always hears these stories about people getting a lucky break after years of hard work. I honestly don’t think I’m ever going to be able to join that crowd.

Enheduanna's Daughter : A Nature Poem

Enheduanna's Daughter : A Nature Poem:   A Nature Poem You expect, perhaps,   a paean to trees, an effusion on the beauty   of hills and rivers, or a towering   ode to mountains? ...

I don't think most people know who they really are. I may be slightly more connected with who I really am now that I no longer live in the city and am no longer killing myself working 60-hour weeks, but I can honestly say that I haven't known who I am for a long time.

Saturday, November 27, 2021

Kestril's Rhythms and Groove: Assassin

Kestril's Rhythms and Groove: Assassin: Grief is an assassin waiting for the pause between forgetting and remembering to re-shatter your heart, leaving you attempting to find a way...

Keanu Reeves once said that grief changes shape but it never leaves. I agree with that assessment.

Tomorrow is the 11th anniversary of my father's passing.

Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writings #4: Pain in Ink

Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writings #4: Pain in Ink: Greetings, my dearest poets and storytellers, and welcome to another Friday Writings session. I hope your weekend starts well and keeps gett...

I mostly experience widespread low-grade chronic pain. It's hard to explain to people that it makes me tired.
Midway through November 2017, I started experiencing excruciating pain in my left arm. I ignored the numbness and tingling that preceded this pain. As it happens, I severely injured the median nerve by continuing to bear heavy loads while delivering groceries and alcohol. I had no insurance and had to quit my job and wait for Medicaid to kick in. During that six weeks, I was in non-stop agony that was only alleviated by laying on the arm until it went to sleep. Fortunately, physical therapy helped with the pain fairly quickly, but I still don't have a full range of motion in the arm.

Saturday, November 20, 2021

Cressida de Nova: The Wayra ...57768

Cressida de Nova: The Wayra ...57768:      there is something wrong can't get you out of my head begone dull lothario get behind me satan am too old for this foolishness   ...

Love it, love it, love it!

And, obviously, I'm not done talking about this incident, but I have a new spin on it.

One day when I went out for a walk with my mobile park bench (my upright walker) this aggravating fellow greeted me to give me one of his unsolicited pep talks. On this occasion, he told me "you have beautiful hair. If we could get your body to match your hair, you'd be a real doll."
I wish I'd thought of saying "yes, and if you'd just shut your mouth, you might be handsome."
Unfortunately, I live in a small town and don't want to make enemies of anyone here, so I probably wouldn't have said it even if I'd thought of it.

"Fun" With Sleep Paralysis


This is a response to a post by Amber Daulton featuring an excerpt from one of her books. The hero suffers from PTSD. He sleeps with a knife under his pillow.

Yikes! I can only imagine that if I kept a knife under my pillow, I'd slice myself up. 

I suffer from bouts of sleep paralysis. One time my son happened to be passing my room and saw that I was in distress. To my relief, he woke me up. When I asked him if I was making any sounds, he said only vague muttering. I could have sworn I was shouting at the top of my lungs.

Thursday, November 18, 2021

A Response to Life's Journey by Dawn of Dawn's Night


Free-use image by Enrique Meseguer on Pixabay

Ah, Dawn, I really feel your words! My nuclear family wasn't physically or sexually abusive but they didn't understand me at all and were often inadvertently emotionally abusive. I was badly bullied at school and was inasmuch as asked what I was doing to cause it. 

My father (RIP) once suggested to me that I had "weird mannerisms" because I tended to talk with my hands, the result of not being able to speak above a painful whisper during a severe month-long strep infection. Because of his words, I became very wooden, rarely gesturing with my hands at all and being very self-conscious of it when I did.

When I was fifteen, I was sexually assaulted by a nineteen-year-old guy. This was 1980 and I didn't believe there was anything reportable because there had been no PIV sex. The cops would have laughed at me. My friends supported me, but like me, they didn't think it was "real rape." I started acting out more than ever at that point. Not one adult bothered to ask what was going on with me. I was just scolded for being bad and told that I needed to be fixed.

I suppressed that event for 40 years. It really wasn't until I was in my fifties that I started being able to acknowledge that the bullying my classmates inflicted on me was abuse. I was 54 years old before I was able to acknowledge that I had been sexually assaulted by that fellow.

I still have trouble acknowledging that my parents psychologically abused me, even if the abuse was inadvertent. But they did. It doesn't mean that I don't love them but if I'm to move forward I need to be able to acknowledge it.

Thank you so much for this very powerful poem. I mean it.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Free-use image from Open Clipart Vectors

Tuesday, November 9, 2021

Rainbow: to never ever trust a stranger

Rainbow: to never ever trust a stranger:                                                                                                        
It's wise to trust one's intuition. If someone is sending up a red flag, there's probably a reason for it.

Saturday, November 6, 2021

Kestril's Rhythms and Groove: Origin Story

Kestril's Rhythms and Groove: Origin Story: My lips were chapped, holding back words I couldn’t know. But it didn’t matter, because my eyes still saw that girl with a sword who held th...

I love it! I wish I'd heard more stories with girls being their own heroes rather than relying on some prince to rescue them. It would have made all the difference.

Wednesday, November 3, 2021

Lunch Break: 2874

Lunch Break: 2874:  wear them they must masks of every design - back to school students © gillena cox 2021 REVISIT   sumie sunday 49 Sunday Standard 49 Sunday...

I hope that with both the church and the school having Halloween events we won't have any tapping at our door. Then my son and I can eat all the gummy bears.

I'm glad that my son is an adult and we are in a small town. Kids at the schools he went to were, overall, better behaved than the kids at the schools I went to but it would still make me nervous. At the schools I went to, the kids would have gladly pulled the masks off of kids they didn't like and spit in their faces.

Monday, November 1, 2021

Graham Lester's Poetry Blog: The Children Who Fell Through the Cracks

Graham Lester's Poetry Blog: The Children Who Fell Through the Cracks: Here come the children who fell through the cracks; Here come the whiz kids who went off the tracks, In between sitters and saccharine sna...

I'm one of those kids who fell through the cracks and was everybody's punching bag, but I don't have enough stamina to get revenge.

Saturday, October 30, 2021

Come As You Are Party + Charity Sunday: Association for Size Diversity and Health


Free-use image from Pixabay

Content warning for brief mention of self-harm and suicide ideation

What if neither of the bodies depicted in the image above is "bad" or "wrong?"

What if they are both just bodies?

This is the concept promoted by the Association for Size Diversity and Health.

The Association for Size Diversity and Health adheres to the principals created by Dr. Lindo Bacon in their book, Health at Every Size. 

A full explanation of the HAES approach can be found here.

The Health At Every Size® (HAES®) approach is a continuously evolving alternative to the weight-centered approach to treating clients and patients of all sizes. It is also a movement working to promote size-acceptance, to end weight discrimination, and to lessen the cultural obsession with weight loss and thinness. The HAES approach promotes balanced eating, life-enhancing physical activity, and respect for the diversity of body shapes and sizes.

Speaking as someone who tried to hate myself thin for 33 years to no avail, the diet approach did me more harm than good. My thyroid fried itself as I entered my teens and I developed PCOS. I have been treated shabbily for my size not only by the general public but by those who are supposed to "do no harm." 

When I was in nursing school, size-shaming was not just overlooked, it was actively encouraged. 

Even my current GP, who does not harp on weight loss and generally treats me with respect, honed in on weight as the focus for why I should increase my dosage of thyroid medication, which I am reluctant to do because too much thyroid medication causes my blood pressure to rise and my pulse to race. 

She suggested adding in another blood pressure medication, an idea which I gave a hard pass. I am already at the maximum dosage of two blood pressure medications, Irbesartan and Amlodipine. I can't take ACE inhibitors, which make me cough, or beta blockers, which exacerbate my asthma. I refuse to take a diuretic because I already have to pee all the time thanks to diabetes, another gift from my trash fire endocrine system.

Whenever the focus is placed on my weight as opposed to my overall health, I go into a shame spiral. I starve myself. I don't want to go out in public. All the hard work I've done to accept myself goes to shit as I once again start imagining cutting the adipose tissue away from my body, calling myself a worthless, fat piece of shit, and thinking that the world would be a better place if I killed myself.

I wrote about how it feels to be a large person in a world that loathes large people in the following poem, which you can read if you care to.

Ragen Chastain, creator of the Dances With Fat blog, wisely observes that people don't take care of the things that they hate, and that includes their bodies. Teaching people to hate their bodies is emotional abuse, not "tough love." If shame worked, there would be no addicts, no alcoholics, no fat people, nobody with mental illness, and no smokers.

A person's size is more complex than the "calories in, calories out" model proposes. One can't determine anything about a fat person's food intake, level of physical activity, medications, or medical conditions by their size. The only thing one can determine is that the person is that size.

Even medical professionals who agree that many larger people have endocrine problems still deem it acceptable to shame these same people for their size. I can't wrap my head around that.

I told my PA that the numbers I care about are my blood pressure and my labs, including my blood glucose. I said that discussions of my size or weight are off the table. 

I am more likely to comply with treatment protocols if I'm not mired in self hate.

Emotional abuse doesn't work to mold people into what others think they ought to be.

Imagine that.

I will be donating a dollar to ASDAH for every comment on this post. 

As this post discusses a sensitive topic, I would appreciate that comments be respectful or not made at all. As someone's mother once said, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything.

My share for today is my entry for Day 25 in my perilous diary, Breaking Free from My Addiction to Validation. This journey has not been without it's setbacks. I am obviously still fighting my demons, and they win more often than I would like them to. 

Day 25

October 29, 2021

Spirit of the Universe, please set aside everything I think I know about myself, about my story, about my need for validation, and especially about you, Universe, so that I may have an open mind and a new experience with myself, with my story, with my need for validation, and with you, Universe. Please help me to see the truth. Amen.

I’m going to say something shocking.

You don’t need to “love yourself.”

If you’re like me, self-loathing is behind many of the difficulties in your life. I have trouble asserting myself and standing up for myself. It is very difficult for me to form bonds that go deeper than the superficial. I don’t trust other people and I tend to put myself last. The problem with the median nerve in my left arm stems from the fact that I kept pushing myself well beyond the warning signs that something was going wrong until one day I was in excruciating pain and could no longer work.

If you don’t stand up for yourself, people will walk all over you.

However, if you’re like me, you just can’t hang with the idea that you need to “love yourself.”

When people tell me that, it makes me cringe.

The only person who can say that without it making me cringe is Ru Paul.

Therefore, I advise you not to focus on “loving” yourself.

Accept yourself. Respect yourself.

You are as good as anyone else. Nobody deserves to be taken advantage of or treated like crap.

You don’t need to believe that you’re beautiful. I’ll never be able to think that I’m beautiful. Honestly, the idea feels kind of creepy to me. “Beautiful” has never done me any favors. It’s a lie that guys who want to get laid without caring about who they’re hurting tell.

I once saw a post on Tumblr that said something along the lines of “I don’t think my stretch marks are beautiful. They aren’t ‘tiger stripes.’ But they are human and deserve to be treated with respect.”

That is what I’m talking about.

I will never think that my too-small eyes with their skimpy eyelashes are beautiful, although I’ve always liked the color even though it’s a moss-green rather than a scintillating emerald green.

I will never think that my chipmunk-cheeked face is beautiful.

I can’t see my double chin as beautiful.

I don’t think that my gray hair is beautiful although I’ve always liked the thick texture (except that it’s a real pain in the ass to take care of) and I do like the way it looks right after I’ve applied the silver dye that I use to give it a bit of pop.

I don’t think that my big ass, chunky legs, jelly belly, or saggy boobs are beautiful.

And no, I don’t think that my stretch marks are “beautiful” or “tiger stripes.”

What I do think is that people don’t need to be “beautiful” or “fuckable” to deserve to be treated with common decency.

This old, fat broad deserves to be treated with the same levels of common decency as someone half her age and/or half her size.

You don’t need to think I’m beautiful and fuck off with “seeing the potential” in me. That shit is just creepy. Honestly, nobody wants to be made into someone’s project.

You don’t need to “love yourself” or think that you’re “beautiful” to be worthy of respect and dignity, and that includes from yourself.

I have a graphic that I use in blog posts with reasonable frequency. It says: “the pressure to be perfect is purely for profit.”

Who is benefiting from convincing people (women in particular) that they need to be a certain size or look a certain way, or they are worthless?

The beauty and diet industries have perpetuated this trash for years. They benefit from our self-loathing. They encourage it. It’s time to hit back and knock these multi-billion-dollar bullies on their asses.

Two of the items in my son’s and my recent food bank allotment were Smart Ones turkey dinners. These things were awful. There were four tiny morsels of turkey in a weird-tasting runny gravy with watery garlic-flavored mashed potatoes on the side. Aside from the fact that this isn’t enough food for an adult, it was entirely unpalatable.

I used to sink a lot of money into diet frozen dinners and shakes that left me ravenously hungry an hour later. This crap prompted binge eating because starvation does that.

The only diet you need is the Fuck It Diet.

I eat many more healthy foods and binge a lot less since I stopped dieting.

This doesn’t mean that my story has a Goldilocks ending where I magically become the “just right” weight and the handsome prince comes and swoops me off my now-svelte feet and we live happily ever after. I’m still fat and there is no prince, not that I even want one. But I am healthier and feel better at the size I am. Not that this is a measure of my moral worth. As Ragen Chastain says, nobody owes it to anybody else to be what they consider “healthy.”

Spirit of the Universe, please help me to accept myself at whatever size I am and wherever I am in life. Help me to discern what I really want to focus on in life and to follow my dreams.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Fat and Ornery
Free-use image from Open Clipart Vectors on Pixabay

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

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Friday, October 29, 2021

Fat Friday: Health and Other Crap


It's never about "health." Trust me.

The following is a response to this post:

I'm 56 years old and have several chronic health problems that I take care of as well as I'm able considering that I have a high degree of distrust for medical people.

My paternal grandfather was 64 years old when he passed away from cardiac arrest.

My father had a major hemorrhagic stroke at 68 and died at 74. He developed vascular dementia and congestive heart failure.

My mother's in decent health for someone in her 80s. 

I'd prefer to take after my mother health-wise but I've tried not to emulate the way she treats her family members. She isn't exactly abusive, but she's very judgmental and doesn't hesitate to make her unsolicited opinions known.

Continuing beyond my response to the post:

My son and I are going to the doctor tomorrow. Our PA does not make a "thing" about my weight, but my blood sugar has been high and my thyroid has been wonky (again) and I feel like I'm being sent to the principal's office. This tends to make me defensive AF. 

I'd probably cancel the appointment, but we need our flu shots.

Fucking hell.

Because I'm better in writing, I'm going to print up a list of the things I want to discuss so my defensiveness doesn't get in the way.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Fat and Ornery
Free-use image from Open Clipart Vectors

Sunday, October 24, 2021

Come As You Are Party: We Grieve in our Own Way


Image by Jeremy Kyejo from Pixabay

A response to a poem by Paens Unplugged.

I didn't cry when my father died. He had been sick for a long time. He died on November 28, 2010, and I described the holiday season that year as "painfully beautiful." The holiday lights were more vividly beautiful than they had ever been and they stabbed at my heart. It's a strange sensation that I can't accurately put into words.

Saturday, October 23, 2021

Blow Your Stack Saturday: Con Men


Image by simona molino from Pixabay

A response to a smart bit of prose:

Peter is more clever than the would-be con man who tried to take advantage of my "desperation" back in 2006. The thing he didn't anticipate was the fact that my being middle-aged and fat didn't make me desperate. Having to deal with guys like him made me grouchy. Hopefully, everyone he targeted gave him a similarly cool reception.

Seriously, this guy was as stupid as a box of rocks. He was obviously looking for a green card and he thought referring to me using terms such as "sexy angel" and telling me that he fell in love with me on first sight would do it. Who could have anticipated me telling him to go fuck himself when he also inquired if I was "lazy" because I bemoaned not enjoying housework. 

Even if he hadn't added the "lazy" bit, I still would have blocked him. He was a nuisance.

~Old Fat Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Free Use Image from Open Clipart Vectors

Friday, October 22, 2021


Worditude: PASSION'S NOT FOREVER: THURSDAY POETICS, and the challenge is to write a compound word poem with set rhyme and meter given as aab and 883 in each of 5 3-line stanz...

Been there done that. Too many times. That's why I don't play the game anymore.
An impressive poem. It told a tale that I think many of us are familiar with.

Wednesday, October 13, 2021

Surrealistic Pillow (24K Gold Collector's Edition) Full HQ

When I listen to this music, I become young again for a little while. 

For a short time, I'm not the handicapped woman who has to use a very visible mobility device to walk more than short distances--a device that is the only thing that people seem to notice about me, because it's sure as fuck the only thing they can talk about. Either that or they think my memory is shot to fuck and they need to remind me about it every time they see me because I'm going to forget I have it otherwise? Hell, I don't know. 

I feel like I need to put a bumper sticker on the walker. Something with an arrow pointing up that says "I'm up here." Or maybe "the walker's fine. How are you?" Or maybe "not dead yet, merely pining for the fjords." Maybe I need to make a series of snarky, interchangeable signs.

I can't understand why people are so interested in my fucking walker. Have you never seen a person using a mobility device before? Has your life really been that sheltered? Did you fancy that everyone was able-bodied before this weirdo with her fancy wheeled frame thingy came to town?

I haven't been able to muster the wherewithal to go for a stroll again since the last fiasco when one person saw fit to stop and ask me in very concerned tones if I was all right because I had my fat ass parked on the seat of the walker and was looking at the sky and contemplating whether I wanted to make penne or lasagna for dinner.

I was prepared to let that slide. But then the fellow who always thinks I need a pep talk came out of the place he's fixing up and asked how I was. Not content to let it go at "I'm okay," he went on with his usual schpiel with a bit of unwanted icing on the cake about how I have beautiful hair and if we could just get my body to match my hair, I'd be a real doll.

I'm never comfortable with people talking about my appearance, so I said "well, I don't really care what I look like," which apparently startled this gent, as he said in a startled voice "why not?"

"I just don't," said I, tapping my forehead. "I'm this. I'm not my body."

"Oh, Honey, you need to believe in yourself!"

I wasn't up to explaining that I'm a realist and I don't think that the problems I have with my body can be resolved. So I said "okey-dokey" and went on my way.

You might think that's the end of this stupid story, but you would be badly mistaken. As I was passing the general store, a fellow was coming out and, of all things, asked me if I needed a ride.

I said, "no, I'm just walking." I tried to make a joke of it and said "if I don't, nobody else will."

"Are you sure you don't need a ride?"

Fuck's sake. Do I really look that decrepit?

"No thanks."

I really just cannot.

I like walking to the edge of town and sitting by the tree for a spell, contemplating lasagna or how I made the entire house smell like cabbage when I cooked The Italian Windbreaker (which contains a hearty helping of cabbage), or why Costco doesn't sell Tater Tots. 

I think I need a big, obvious set of headphones to wear as I gimp along. Then I can ignore everyone and listen to audiobooks.

In case anyone needs instruction on how to talk to them crippled-up disabled-like retreads, here's the highly classified, secret method.

Talk to us like you'd talk to anyone else.


I've never heard one single disabled person say that they want constant pep talks or to constantly answer questions about their mobility devices. 

I just want to take a fucking walk in peace.

Maybe my sign needs to simply say "my back is jacked up so I use this thing. No, it's not likely to improve. Can we please talk about something else?"

I know people "mean well," but it gets really boring always having to have the same conversation. To be honest, I don't give a fuck if they mean well. This shit is still invasive and offensive.

Ornery Owl is still pissed off

Free-use image from Pixabay

Wednesday, October 6, 2021

WTF Wednesday: A Fearful Fall


Image by Mark Payton

A response to this post:

I love this rhyming anecdote and the perspective of meeting the end with humor. I have to say that I didn't react with humor either time that I was looking the grim reaper in the eye. On one occasion, I was angry and swore to come back and haunt the driver coming up my tail way too fast for me to react. (These thoughts occurred in the space of about 3 seconds.) Obviously, the jackass swerved at the last minute or I wouldn't be here to say this.

When a wave of water slammed into my car during a flood, I felt one moment of abject terror, and then I went into shock. I managed to brazen my way through, but I had PTSD following the event.

If you'd like to see my response to the above photo, sashay on over here.

In other thoughts, if any of you have ever wondered why disabled people tend to shut themselves off from the world, wonder no longer. I can't speak for anyone else, but I am certainly tired of being treated like a retarded child, getting pep talks, having people ask me if I'm okay when I'm just fucking sitting there looking at the sky and trying to figure out what to make for dinner, having people offer me rides when I'm just trying to take the fucking walk that I'm told I should take more and longer of because I'm too fat (probably according to the same people), and having people talk about nothing but my fucking disability or my fucking mobility aid. It makes me really fucking grouchy.

"But how should I talk to disabled people, Ornery? I mean, they're special and handicapable and all that!"

If I am special (an idea that I find questionable) it certainly isn't because my back and endocrine system are fucked beyond repair. And if anybody ever uses the term "handicapable" in my presence, I will hulk out and drop a car on them. I much prefer the term "disabled, not incapable." 

I'm thinking about having a snarky bumper sticker made to put on my walker. Something like "I'm just taking a walk," or "not dead yet," or "disabled, not incapable." What I'd really like is a bumper sticker that says "fuck off," but I think that's probably a bit confrontational.

Ornery Owl is...

(Free-use image from Pixabay)

with everyone's patronizing shyyyyt

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

Creative Commons License

This work is the intellectual property of Naughty Netherworld Press/Poetry of the Netherworld.

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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