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(Author’s note. Original publishing date was June 2020)

“It’s happening again.”

The Giant from Twin Peaks is on a loop in my head with the same angst and urgency as when Maddie died.

I do not feel good.

I got a courtesy email from Kijiji yesterday, addressed to Final Boss. No idea why it didn’t go to the junk folder, but it didn’t.

51 weeks ago he was laying in my bed, in the room I made for his comfort asking for help looking for an apartment. I did it. I helped, and he ended up in a trap house anyways.

And it’s happening again.

I do this every fucking time without fail.

I don’t see reality.

I really gotta talk to my therapist about this.

I only see potential, never who they really are. Then the truth comes out and I am blindsided. Devastated. And I get to play a fun game over months called ‘what did I do wrong this time.’ And you dear readers get to walk along beside me on my quest to be a better girlfriend/partner by dissecting myself until there is nothing left of me. Followed by a soft delete wherein I decide I made everything up in my head and they didn’t really say or do those things, they didn’t really love me it was just me seeing things that weren’t there.

But invariably a memory or an email from Kijiji shows up and I am right back where I started and faced with the truth that no, it was real and it doesn’t matter anyways because it’s over regardless.

Nina Simone said, “you have to learn to get up from the table when love is no longer being served.”

I never do.

I buy the food, cook a beautiful meal full of love and exotic delicacies, set the table, serve, maybe take a couple quick bites for myself, dish out seconds, then dessert, then clear everything, wash all the dishes and wipe it all down and wait for scraps. Meanwhile they are off eating junk food burgers served up by plastic girls in polyester uniforms.

This time I saw the signs a little.

Still ignored them.

The one thing that keeps looping in my head is when he said that I shouldn’t deny myself the now discontinued vape pods that we both love so much, that I shouldn’t save them for when I see him. My brain whimpered “donuts”.

I don’t know why that is the thing my mind is latching onto; I know my gut rolled when he said it a month or so ago. Maybe I did really know then, what I am about to find out now.

I got the ‘we have to talk’ message earlier today.

This is me in real time, trying to calm down, to not vomit, not cry.

I write things down to get my head on straight, it is what I do.

And I plant flowers in graveyards and sing songs about the ghosts who haunt here.

He seemed real. Like really real.

And it isn’t like I didn’t know what I was getting into.

There have never been lies here.

I don’t think Final Boss or any of the other ones ever lied outright either. Not on purpose.

I seriously think I am going to throw up.

I was talking to my girl earlier.

With much bitterness in my voice I said I am used to this.

And I am.

I show up. A ball of unconditional love and support. And they bask in it for a while.

Then, invariably end up leaving to go back to mediocrity.

Is it more comfortable? Do they need the nagging?

I don’t understand.

I tried reading that book, Why Men Love Bitches. Some of it made sense. I liked the first few chapters about being your own person and having your own life. It’s important. But then it bled into manipulation and lying and I can’t. I want to be loved as is. Freewill, not by force or obligation or false pretenses.

Maybe I set the bar too high.

And I can’t bring myself to be a bitch.

I don’t want to be worshiped for something I am not, I want to be loved for what I am. It took me a long time to get here.

I am friends with an amazing mega dominatrix online and I adore her. But I know I can never be like her, or the majority of my friends. None of whom are like me.

I listen to their advice about what I should do with my life, but I know. I will always be ruled by my vulnerable heart with my vagina cheering her on from the sidelines and my logic just rolling her eyes and prepping for the worst.

I actually really believed everything I have been through and everything I have learned finally had a purpose.

Truth be told, I have toyed with that idea before, but this time it felt real.

The stove is always hot, even if it’s a different stove.

I keep thinking if I stay true to myself and fine tune things and continue on my quest to figure out how to love that someday someone will see me and know I am the one they have been looking for.

And, they have.

Problem is to be with me they have to be a little better and do a little better and get used to new things. Unlearn old ideas of what relationships look like, and I get the fear of the unknown, the unstructured, the new.

And some of them have tried, bless their hearts.

But invariably it becomes too much so I am too much, and they settle back into the muck of old routine masking as comfort.

There is a huge re-offense rate with criminals, life out of prison is scary and hard when that’s all you know.

I know I can’t expect or ask anyone to change any more than I can magically turn into a bitch.

If I was going to, I would have by now.

But this is the 46^th verse, same as the first.

I suppose now the silver lining is that I don’t beat myself up quite as bad as I used to about it.

I would rather be too much than not enough.

It will be a month tomorrow since George Floyd died.

White privilege is real, all lives matter was stolen by white people to undermine black lives matter and those hangings were not suicides.

We all caught up now?

Once upon a time I had the luxury of thinking that racism existed behind closed doors with elderly family members sprung from the old folk’s home for Thanksgiving dinner, saying inappropriate shit while the younger generation rolled their eyes. Or in little pockets of humanity buried in the deep south, or northern Georgia where white boys wouldn’t go to That gas station because it was for the others. They used that word that makes my mouth taste like soap liberally, sprinkling it in with fuck, as a curse and a slur.

But that was just Rome, Georgia right? And Alabama. I went to a flea market and it was peppered with wooden signage praising the lord and flags praising confederacy.

I grew up watching Dukes of Hazard every Friday night at 8pm. We sat on the popcorn blanket and watched the General Lee drive recklessly when Daisy Duke was a character on a show, not the shorts she wore.

I was 5. I didn’t know.

I remember wanting a cabbage patch kid doll so badly when I was 8. My mom asked my step grandma to bring us the dolls up from the states because our tiny town couldn’t keep them in stock. I was so excited for them to visit. They came empty handed because the only ones she could find were black. I remember how she spit the word out of her mouth like a curse word, and I remember thinking “but it’s still a baby and I want one.”

I didn’t understand then.

I am 46 now and I know. I also know there is more to learn. And I also know no matter how much I read or watch or listen I will never really know. I had to accept this.

I did the hiring for a strip club for a year. First question every fucking time I brought up a new girl was, “is she black”. What bearing does that have on how beautiful she is, how sexy she is, whether or not she does a good stage show, whether or not she shows up for shifts or how she is with customers? None that I could think of, but I kept my mouth shut and hired her anyways.

I worked at another club where the black girls were limited to 5 a night, so they were there before the club opened to secure a spot, while white girls like me could waltz in 6 hours later and pay the same amount of money while being spared the half a shift of dead time. I quit working there. Not because of that, although in retrospect I wish it was. Too many fights, young blond strippers pulling each other’s extensions out and dudes in affliction shirts smelling like whatever new stink Axe body spray had come up with this month. Spray tanned and greasy looking, all of them.

I have concluded, over the last 3 terms of American presidents, that racism is alive and well.

My white skin gave me the luxury of not noticing. That is white privilege.

You know, language is so important.

Scientists fucked the planet in the 90’s by calling climate change ‘global warming’. Every fucking winter it’s the same thing. Global warming isn’t real, it’s snowing. We are an ignorant and shortsighted species.

Racism has become for me, like the blue car phenomenon. Start noticing blue cars and suddenly they are everywhere.

I joined a few Facebook groups for outing racists with the intent of having them fired for racist behavior. I scroll through my feed now and every 4th post makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t look away. This is real… and honey, you gon lose yo job.

It isn’t just blatant dudes hiding under bedsheets anymore. It’s the ‘colorblind’ folks, the ‘all lives matter’ peeps. Well ya, all lives are supposed to matter, that is the ideal, but we don’t live in the ideal and here is a thousand examples, charts, videos facts and figures as to why we aren’t there yet, so please stop saying it.

The collective hive mind got together and decided it was a form of racism. Catch up buttercup.

There are 2 sides to history right now. We’re in it, and the only way out is through.
Racists have had their day and their way for far to long.

Its rampant, its a disease and its debilitating to all women, minorities, anyone who isn’t a straight white male…and ESPECIALLY to BIPOC.
The police are killing black people for sport.
People are getting lynched

Basic human rights are being denied and violated.

The veil is torn, there is no more hiding from this.

I’m terrified. I’m angry. I’m confronting a lot of unpleasant things about myself and the horrific state of our countries.
But I am glad to be alive now.

I’m fighting for my god children and all the other children who are going to benefit from this chaos now.

Something happened yesterday.

I read something and it took the air out of my lungs from the sheer truth of it.

I posted the most dumbed down version of an explanation for white privilege I could find.

“White privilege doesn’t mean you have an easy life it means it isn’t harder because of your skin color.”

This is as non-debatable to me as 2+2=4

But…

Every time I post about white privilege all the white people start screaming “my life is hard too”.

Ya and?

All I hear is global warming isn’t real because it snowed.

Social scientists should have called it something else.

All comes back to snowflakes though, doesn’t it.

I’m doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out ‘why’ white people are racist.

Came up with a few things.
Sports
Porn
Spices
and this

Jade is my superhero

White people (in general) need someone to oppress so they feel superior. There is no such thing as white culture. We are parasitic. We are Borg. We invade other countries and insist they assimilate to be more like us, but what are we really bringing to the table? Mayonnaise?

But what happens when we are presented with glaring, undeniable proof that we have every advantage…

Well, we have to confront our own shortcomings with the added caveat that we had less hurdles in the first place. The monopoly board was stacked 400 years in our favor. So, if you didn’t accomplish anything not only is that all on you, you started ahead in the race and you still failed.

If your life sucks it’s beyond your fault and if it doesn’t suck, you still aren’t as accomplished as you thought you were there sugar.

Mind boggling isn’t it.

But it’s true.

I have to sit in that reality and deal with my own inadequacies. Been doing a lot of that lately. Reading disturbing history that we were never taught in school. Filtering through and deleting 1000’s of racist comments on my page.

I hear the phrase ‘make racists afraid again’ thrown around often.

I think they are already afraid. Just like incels want to blame women for their own failures and sexual insecurities. Racists are afraid of things they don’t understand, and that they may have to take some responsibilities for their own lives.

Small dick energy either way.

They’re terrified.

Most everything I have posted lately I use a very white tone, speak only to white people. I can only speak from my own experience and to my own people. I don’t get to tell oppressed people how to react to what they have been through, I haven’t been through it. All I can do is reach in and pull as many white people to the right side of the fence as I can and stop giving a public platform to the ones who want to remain on the wrong side of history.

I repeatedly use the phrase ‘do better’.

And that is what it is.

We have to do better.

I have hesitated to write anything, and this one won’t be long.

It’s not my turn to speak.

I usually write about sex, love and relationships. But that seems trite and unimportant in the wake of everything that is happening. I usually post about those things too plus poetry, astrology, witchy shit.
And lately I have stopped. I no longer feel comfortable being complacent.

Being non complacent is not comfortable either.

I am trite and unimportant, and I am okay with that.

It isn’t my turn to speak.

I went back and read an old post I had written when Roy Moore almost got elected.

63% of white women who voted decided a pedophile was better than a democrat.

Wow sis.

I hesitated to go back and look at the article I wrote in the time called before.
It was 2017 and I did not know then what I know now.
I was worried I had been offensive towards POC.

Dear White Women

I stand by every word and I have a few to add.

I have banned and deleted over 800 people since I watched George Floyd being murdered.
Here is why.
He was murdered, by a stone faced racist police officer who believed in that moment, for 11 minutes worth of moments and for 4 days after the fact, that he would get away with it.
This is a fucking problem.
Nothing that has transpired after is as important as the series of events that lead us to a viral snuff film of a cold blooded murder.

All lives matter was created AFTER Black lives matter to undermine their issues.
I get that a few people are mistaking it for love and light, but I am telling you right now, it fucking isn’t. There have been 100’s of analogies as to why it is bad, and if you ignore that and continue to preach this, you are part of the problem.

Same with the not all cops are bad. Enough of them are, and the good ones don’t stop the bad ones. Guilt by association.

I just keep thinking back to #metoo and seeing my mom post it, and the little girls I used to babysit and every one of my friends.

And the seething shrieking rage I would feel when some douchey dude (who you know full fucking well has done some questionable shit) piped up with not all men.

Like fuck off and let us talk.

IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO LISTEN… FINE, SHITTY AND ARROGANT BUT FINE.

DO NOT TRY AND MAKE THIS ABOUT YOU.

I can imagine it feels something like that for POC, but times a thousand.

There is a glaring difference, and an important one. I know, as a woman, the dread of being tipsy, leaving the bar and the danger that comes in that space between the bar and the cab. I know how terrifying it is to walk home after a late shift. BUT if I am with a group of other women, or escorted by male friends, the danger decreases exponentially. POC, don’t get that “luxury”. The danger never decreases.

The world is built for white male comfort, rallies around the ‘protection’ of white women and spreads fear of black men.

That woman who called the cops when she was the one breaking the law by having her dog off leash basically pulled a gun on that man.

We already have power, and this is how we choose to use it?

Nah sis. Do better.

Any time you hijack a BLM post you are diluting it to talk about your opinions and your problems and your life, you are part of the problem.

You are contributing to racism.

For the first time since my ancestors landed here I’m being asked to sit down and listen.
Not for the first time, but this seems to be the first time it really worked.
If you are not helping, you are in the way.

My decent or even not so good experiences with police officers do not fucking matter at all.
No one is talking to me or about me. And that is okay.

It is not my turn to speak.

It was a very strange sensation to realize that whether or not I had something to say, it didn’t fucking matter. I realized I am used to being heard. I realized I have benefited from a system designed to be comfortable for people with my skin tone and realizing that really fucking hurt. I felt shame and guilt and confusion.

But here’s the thing…

I struggled with this.
I felt like I needed to be different, special, forgiven.
Then I had a profound moment when I realized that this has absolutely nothing to do with me or how I feel.
And that my friends is the entirety of the point.

Joy and pain.

Life is both of these things in varying amounts, every day until we die.

Bob Ross, bless his happy little tree heart, said that the dark times in life make you appreciate the good times. I am paraphrasing, but still.

Wolf worries about hurting me.

“Life is pain highness, anyone who tells you differently is selling you something.” Princess Bride.

It’s true. The world is a really awful place. You don’t have to look far to find things that maim and hurt our psyches. Entire kingdoms are built conquering and ranked by how many weapons they have. And if that isn’t enough. Try posting something about love on a Facebook page. Those who say “nay” swarm like murder hornets. Men are garbage, women are crazy, love is a lie.
Also, there’s murder hornets.

I have known love, looks a lot more like acceptance than traditional fairy tale love.
Takes some work, but it’s worth it.

I read once that ‘everyone has baggage, you just have to find the people willing to help you unpack yours.’

That’s astute. I don’t think I wrote it. Probably quoted it a few times.

20 years ago a very smart man sat me down and told me that most of the baggage I carry around doesn’t even belong to me.

I have never forgotten this, but sometimes it gets really hard to tell the difference.

So I need help.

I do not make a secret of the fact that I am in therapy. Again.

Been going on and off since childhood. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

The one I’m with now is working, but it is because I am working at it.

She was with me before, 8 years ago when I left my husband.

Hilarious story, he forced me to go to therapy during the sisterwife debacle and had no idea what was going to happen, that I would have a safe, sane person I trusted telling me gently that what was going on in that house was not right at all. I had been in it so long, I couldn’t see.

She was so busy digging me out of there we never got to the reasons I ended up there in the first place.

Cut to 8 years later, cue a global pandemic amid a major upheaval I was going through anyway, and I decided to do some work on myself. I mentioned yesterday I am always learning, changing and evolving. I took a couple years off and backslid almost into oblivion on that island, but Wolf found me, and I left, and I have some work to do.

There’s a lovely song by The Bleachers. I Wanna Get Better.

I didn’t know I was broken until I wanted to change.

I knew I was broken. I like being broken, in the right situations.

Now back up.

Waaaaaay up.

I said Wolf was afraid of hurting me.

I have made no secret about the nature of my relationship with him. He is my Dom, I am his submissive. Hurting me is kinda a thing he does. For our mutual pleasure of course. And he is the King of pushing all the right buttons, reading my reactions and knowing what I need before I know it, and with him I have finally attained subspace. We both like it when I am his broken princess.

He is also the King of aftercare. It is a paramount aspect to any rough play relationship, and he is ahhhhmazing at all of it.

So, when he brought up hurting me, I knew what he meant but I giggled anyways. I am a brat.

I could ramble on about the management of expectations and giving your happiness to someone else to hold onto and why that is a really bad idea. How hurt people hurt people and detailed explanations as to why someone else’s opinion of you is none of your business and living in the present is the only way to be happy etc etc yada fucking yada. In fact I have done that, at great length, for approximately 6 years and 600+ blog posts.

But what it boils down to is this.

We are going to get hurt. And no matter how hard you try not to hurt someone else, its gonna happen.

I have said some seriously offside shit to this man that I absolutely adore.

Did I mean to? No.

Certain turns of phrase and behaviors are triggering for him. I have mine too. He has said shit to me that cut me really deeply and scared the shit out of me. Because I have baggage from when someone else said/did that to me.

Example.

We both have different views on the term ‘friends’.

Seems like not a big deal, right?

It triggers me from past experiences when men I wanted to be in a relationship with decided they still wanted me around without the imaginary effort or label of a relationship. To me it feels like I am being dismissed.

Wolf has spent the vast majority of his life either too busy or too misunderstood to have good solid friendships.

So when I balked at his statement that we would always be friends, my reaction to being triggered, triggered him.

We got through it.

Here is the thing I realized. I am in therapy both professional and with him.

Both of these things hurt sometimes. I am trying to undo past traumas and triggers and unpack some really ugly baggage.

The thing I get with him is the same thing I get after rough sex. Aftercare.

We have decided to be blatantly honest with each other. This is not always going to be the prettiness of little lies, but it is so much better.

He is teaching me that tears are a good thing and subspace is bliss.

We have painful moments and we soothe each other when they are over.

No one is every going to be perfectly healed. You can live in a bubble and never be triggered, sure.
But that is no kind of life now is it.

I am blessed with a loving partner who wants to understand why I do the things I do, and if those things I do are self-destructive or painful he wants to help me deal with them. And I will tell you right now, healing is messy painful work. So is a BDSM session. But both are cathartic and fucking phenomenal with the right person.

And he has this maddening kinda mean thing he does where he coos at me in this deep sexy voice when I am being ridiculous, I love it. I love him.

I have felt like I have been treading water for a while now.

I know I am not alone in this.

The work of keeping our heads above water. Pedaling the bicycle and waving our arms in the water just trying to breathe. No rest, not getting anywhere either. Sometimes we succumb and go under. Then kick and fight just to break the surface again.

I had a therapy appointment this morning.

Feels like a merry-go-round.

I didn’t talk about what I wanted to talk about. But we did have a good ride.

She has asked me to stop using the word ‘need’ and replace it with want. We have discussed mindful breathing, accepting what is and varying other things normal people discuss with therapists.

I understand I have a fear of completing projects because I am afraid the final product will no be good enough, so I just don’t start.

We have worked on working through that.

Be afraid, do it anyways.

Easy to see and say, harder to do.

I remembered that I started this blog for myself and myself only. I was living very alone and having rapid fire epiphanies and I needed to keep track of them. And I wanted to live in Georgia. I wanted to make money writing. I have never monetized the blog. A few attempts have been made and I never followed through.

We had some ideas.

I gotta do something. This nothing and treading water is not cutting it.

I remember getting ready to go to Florida last year.

Felt like a beautiful new beginning.

And it was.

No meat, no booze and a lot of writing and relaxing after I had been doing either too much or neither of those things for 2 years, respectively.

I started writing a book in the Jeep on the way to Disney.

Bad writer, I had no pen or paper, so I wrote it in email drafts to my boyfriend. Safest place I could think to put it.

Cut to January, 7 flights later a few chapters flushed out in airport terminals, at an Airbnb I finished it.

I also uprooted my life, moved back to Hamilton. Spent 5 days in that jeep. Traveled everywhere and kept writing everywhere I went.

The day after my birthday I get my first royalty cheque from sales.

It’s peanuts, but they are my peanuts.

Therapist had me talk through the things I have actually accomplished since lockdown started.

It is hard for me to see them. I just see a sad lonely girl in yesterday’s pajamas, dirty hair, 2 weeks worth of laundry, washed but still sitting in the basket. An unmade bed. A rug that doesn’t match anything else in my room because that stuff isn’t here yet.

I see a caterpillar in goo phase in a messy cocoon.

I have sketches for how to better arrange my room. I have sketches in my head and scribbled notes and 12 open tabs for new books. But I can’t write them. Or that is what I am telling myself.

Focus.

Focus.

Remember the things I did do.

I did attack and clean the hell closet, I did edit the big bad book and send that off for publishing. I did organize my room as it sits now and although it is not perfect, it is pretty good.
I had the kittens for a month and I cleaned up after them and I REALLY cleaned up after they left.
Repaired some damage between myself and my son.
Wrote some blog posts.
20 000 words of the new book that has nothing to do with the other books. I might actually put my real name on this new one.
I kept my plants alive and got some of my old plants back and I have done the bare minimum of existing. I drink a lot of water, take my vitamins, eat very well.

The new new book was started in this incredible influx of muses and inspiration. Then it turned into work. And this is when I get frustrated and avoid or ruin things.

I gotta remember that the first 5000 words were easy and beautiful sure, but the other ¾ were all being stubborn and working at it, slowly.

I think that is a metaphor for a lot of things. Including my life and relationship.

I found the perfect song to encapsulate how I am feeling in this moment.

Slip Slidin’ Away. Good ol’ Paul Simon.

Soundtrack to many, many things.

You know the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip slidin’ away.

Preach it Paul.

I do this and it vexes me, but I don’t know how to stop. I sound like a broken record. I know how the universe works better than most. You plant seeds of wishes and wants and goals, water those seeds with your thoughts and actions and then, usually when you least expect it, they bloom.

So why do I keep slip slidin’ away? Some kind of internal sabotage I suppose. That fear of not being good enough. The decision I made that I had to earn any happiness or love given or it wasn’t valid. Wolf would just call it corrupt data, and it is.

The exact reason I am in therapy. Trying to clear that or at least reroute my brain around it.

The problem is, in this moment, I don’t have a clear picture of what my destination is.

And then there’s this…

He said Dolores, I live in fear, my love for you is so overpowering I am afraid I will disappear.

I did disappear for a bit.

I got caught up in a future that is no longer viable and oh lord did I mourn.

And my love for him is really fucking overpowering.

We just went through what can gently be put as a rough patch. 70 some odd days apart. It was bound to happen. I tried to back off both for myself, to get some clarity and for him so he wasn’t sucked up in the constant tornado that is my thoughts.

I was afraid.

I still am.

But I remembered it’s okay to be afraid.

My therapist has horses. She used the metaphor of getting back on the horse after you get thrown and I chuckled. Remembering my second horseback ride, post car wreck on that huge Percheron cross I had. No saddle, and ya, he dropped me off in a pile of shit. But it didn’t make me scared of him. I was grateful he picked somewhere soft to put me down.
And I remembered the sheer strength of will it took to drive down the same highway my car wreck happened on, to get back and forth the physio I needed to get on that horse or even walk right. It was hard and I did it.

So the lessons I came away with today were, fear will always exist, be afraid and do things anyways.
Life will smash you up and slough you off into piles of shit and you just gotta ride or drive anyways.

Knowing these things and doing these things are different. With all the treading water I have been doing it’s hard to remember how to swim. And honestly…I don’t know which direction to go in. I can’t see the land from where I am.

But I have to pick a direction, pick a horse to ride, do something, anything. Even if it’s wrong or I get thrown.

I have had enough of days where I hit the snooze button and let it ruin my whole day.

So what if I didn’t do a thing yesterday. I can always start again.

2.5 hours until I go downstairs, fix myself some snacky snacks and indulge the middle of our movie marathon in the continuing Avengers saga. I think it is Guardians of the Galaxy night. Winter Soldier was last night, after Thor.

I realized I had cherry picked the movies and only watched what I wanted to watch.

I do that with a lot of things a lot of the time. On my list of shit to quit.

Apparently Venus is descending or something, she does this every 8 years and I had to take a long hard look at 2012 and 2004.

I didn’t like it. 3/10, do not recommend.

Left both marriages for good those years. Marriage is an over statement. 5 and 7 years of engagement and cohabitation. Common law with diamonds and promises.

I will post the link at the bottom instead of trying to explain it but in summation, love stuff is hard right now mmmkay.

I already knew that.

Not because of the blatantly obvious C word that I refuse to talk about right now. But because my heart hurts.

I stumbled on a bit of it yesterday but chalked it up to leap years, which also suck, but apparently every other leap year sucks harder because Venus does some sort of self-cleaning oven thing where she burns old lingering issues out of our chakras. Started at the bottom now we a bit above the bottom; or is this all crown chakra on down.

My head hurts.

Vagina fairs not much better in the pain and frustration department so, I don’t know.

Apparently it is just a retrograde in Gemini specifically. Not as bad as I thought. Venus goes retrograde much less often than Papa Mercury.

~ Venus Retrograde in Gemini ~

And so, in the midst of one of the transformational times in known history, we tentatively follow Venus/Inanna as She slowly starts to descend into the underworld.

As She moves through the 7 gates of the underworld, She strips off the trappings of Her ego, purifying each Chakra of old energies. Like the sacred Serpent She must shed the old skin, writhing as She sloughs of the layers of fear and projection so She may rebirth Her true self, free from the ideologies of others, and the collective.

In the shadowy caverns of the realm of Ereskigal, She must come face to face with the grief, pain and rage she has buried for lifetimes. She must dance with Her dark sister to heal the wounded, heart-broken parts of Herself, so that She may claim Her true sovereignty.

Although usually portrayed as a lighthearted, frivolous sign, Gemini holds deep themes of love and loss. She is eternal dance of shadow and light, reminding us that within each polarity is contained its opposite. During this retrograde journey, we must all learn how to stay rooted in our heart’s truth, whilst remaining compassionate and open the perspectives of others.

I can handle a good skin shed to be perfectly honest. This one I am wearing now is starting to itch and not fit quite right. The problem with snakes right before they shed, they go blind.

And that is how I am feeling. Like I can’t see right, everything is blurry.

I decided I wanted to know the future, so I started digging up the past and I didn’t particularly like what I found. I don’t want to end anything, except this plague and this fucking retrograde. Both are doing a number on my head and my heart.

40 days every 18 months and it had to happen now huh? Awesome timing there my darling goddess of love. Just what we needed.

Basically, this too shall pass. I thought it was a Saturn return kinda deal where it goes on for years.
I feel like I have one of those coming up. Been nice knowing all of you. Cronos is a hard teacher. Think Beatrix and the white-haired master that taught her the one-inch punch from Kill Bill.

I keep looking for answers and maybe there aren’t any.

Just kinda had a cathartic moment there wherein I just decided to give up.

Universe, just take the fucking wheel.

All this trying to plan in a pandemic, exhuming of the past trying to read the bones of what was, torturing myself with funeral for futures that never happened outside of my head.

Fuck it. I am done.

8 years ago my life was nothing like it was now, 8 years before that, ya, kinda similar but I wasn’t learning or evolving back then. Just coasting and existing.

Whatever lies ahead will be better than before, it has to be, I am better than I was.

(the aforementioned article)

https://www.facebook.com/soulbirds444/photos/a.647218411976814/3334995619865733/?type=3&theater

Traditionally speaking today is the day things get better.

4 days ago really.

After the long winters of my discontent, into the spring of lions, lambs and winds of tumultuous change.

All the seeds I’ve planted start to break through the dirt.

I have literal seeds to plant. Morning glories, columbine, lupine and sunflowers. But today I have a dinner date with Mandabear and tomorrow the men are coming to rip the backyard up. I need groceries and I want to keep tanning. Plus my uterus is in a full revolt. I couldn’t bend over or work a shovel if I wanted to. Going downstairs for coffee is hard enough.

Small miracles, instead of crippling panic attacks, I am just in crippling pain. It’s been a shitty week in my world, and I thank whatever gods were listening or intervened on my behalf that the pain I am experiencing is physical and I was able to remain somewhat sane.

Thank you gods. Impeccable timing.

Sometimes sane for me equals feeling numb. And I am. Not my nether regions, they are hovering around a 7 on the pain scale and breached at an 8.5 last night. I laid in bed, doing my best to stretch and ride it out with tears running down my cheeks. But I didn’t cry.

It was my grandmother’s birthday yesterday. She died when I was 15, she was 65. Way too young for both of us. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was the glue that held that family together. It didn’t break all at once, but it broke. For me especially. The next fall I think I left home for the first time.

I cannot help but wonder how different my life would be if she hadn’t passed away before I could learn from her. She had this toughness to her love that might have kept me from flying apart and being an irresponsible asshole. Or maybe not. Who knows. She knew things and I’m still basically Jon Snow.

I could use her advice now. New moon in Gemini, time for sowing seeds of change and gifts of wisdom from our ancestors. Bring on the tough love Nana. Tell me what to do.

She still talks to me in dreams and in moments of heightened danger. Like the time I preheated the oven in my new, crooked apartment and I didn’t know the last person had left a sponge soaked in oven cleaner under the element. I smelled smoke, opened the oven door and liquid fire started rolling out towards me because the floor slanted on an angle, all the floors did. Not my best apartment. I heard her voice clear as day “you’ve got a box of baking soda in the fridge, use it.” And I did and me and my bestie ordered pizza and ate out on the stoop while my apartment aired out.

Why do I feel like that was a leap year? I split with a fiancé, my cat died, I had a miscarriage, lost my job and life just kinda sucked real bad. It was, it was 2004. Fucking leap years man.

I am struggling to remember what the Dalai Lama says, everything is as it should be.

Ya, ya. I get it but I don’t care for it.

I am starting to worry about money. Book sales have been abysmal the last 2 weeks. The next 3 books are all delayed for a myriad of reasons, one being its hard to write about sex when you are having none. Every fucking thing on the fucking planet is fucking delayed and I get about 4 minutes every morning or 55 minutes of a Game of Thrones episode every night where I can blissfully forget what is happening. The rest of the time it is perched on the edge of my awareness waiting to pounce on any hopeful or nice thought I might be able to summon.

I feel like the first half of the leap years are doomed to be ultra-mega super fucky and they pan out at the end. 2004 I ended up in a brief relationship with Jesus. Y’all remember Jesus?

He was my first Libra.

Had a huge crush on him when I was 23/24. My roommates and my bestie really hated the guy I was dating so they set up this elaborate plot to get us together, and it worked.

But I wanted to be in a relationship, and Jesus had just gotten out of a bad one and I had invested sooooo much fucking time and effort in this other dude. Who subsequently got really jealous of Jesus and decided, after a fucking year to finally take me seriously. There was a basketball game with like 5 of my exes and it got pretty fighty.

Classic case of neglecting a toy in the sandbox forever, then getting mad when another boy decided to play with it. But I was young and dumb and I fell for it.

And my mistake was expecting one man pay for the sins of the other. I had time and patience for one, and my well was empty. My bad.

I can now objectively look back on that year of my life, and realize how many things had to line up and fall apart to put me on the path I ended up on. Not good or bad, just the way it should be I suppose. I could have kept dating Jesus casually until he was ready for something more. But here we are 22 years later and I am digging in the proverbial dirt trying to figure out what to do in the here and now.

3 years later, I had split with the ‘other’ guy, Jesus was tucked into a newish relationship that would ultimately lead to his marriage with a girl everyone called my cardboard cut-out, and I became his mistress.

I’m currently trying to remember how that worked.

I remember deliberately getting dressed up super cute and going to a bar I heard he went to, I found him. We decided on a coffee date later in the week.

I remember walking home late one night with my friends, before it started. It was probably 4am, night life in the Gay village where I lived was just winding down, or up depending on how you looked at it. I was emphatically trying to tell my girl that we were ‘just going for coffee’ and this gorgeous bear of a man covered in sparkles and wearing fairy wings (and not much else) looked at me on said with the sweetest deep voice, “Oh honey, coffee always leads to cock.”

My very gay fairy god bear was not wrong.

Jesus did try to be faithful for a minute, I just made it really hard.

I remember seeing them walking down the street towards me and playing frogger in Saturday traffic across 4 lanes and streetcar tracks to get across Bathurst to the other side. I remember seeing them heading towards the restaurant I was in and immediately getting my food to go and slipping out the side door. I remember him deliberately showing up on the nights he knew I worked, very very late and offering to drive me home, but we never went straight home, we would eat and talk and watch the couple fuck through their condo window across the street on Fridays. And I remember my very gay roommate sprinting up the stairs to tell me “there’s a man at the door for you and he is just oozing sex.” Jesus ascended.

I remember one specific ride from point A to point B in his old Ford Taurus, sticker of Ganesha on the dashboard, Jane’s Addiction on the stereo. It was raining. We were talking about ‘us’ and ‘them’. I couldn’t tell you why I asked but I did…

“Are you in love with her or something?”

He hesitated, but eventually said yes. We hit a red light and I got out of the car, I swear to god it was raining, a lot of dramatic moments in my life had me storming off in a storm. He came after me, put me back in the car and drove me home. I can say with all honesty, I got out of the car with zero expectations of an outcome. In that moment I didn’t care if I ever saw him again. That numbness kicked in and stayed.

It would be a lovely end to the story if that was the actual end of it. But it wasn’t.

He picked me up from work the next week, 23^rd verse, same as the first. I just stopped asking questions.

Whatever hope I had got washed away with that rain.

I ended up in another relationship shortly thereafter. It was really bad. The worst. I tried to leave a few times and Jesus was among the lovers of mine that tried to pry me out. Then he told me he proposed to her, still smelling like soap from my shower, the morning after I got raped and the only night I had ever called him and asked him to come over. I was completely out of my relationship and he fully committed to his.

That was my stopping point, there was a line drawn in the sand and I couldn’t cross it.
I never called him again. 5 years later a mutual friend said that Jesus had gotten a divorce and had been looking for me.

So I guess, I didn’t really handle it so much as I just accepted what was given until I couldn’t anymore, and it eventually worked itself out. And now he lives in Germany, we still talk, he has apologized a thousand times over, but there isn’t anything to be sorry about.

Like I said, we ended up dating eventually, and he pulled the come here go away patented Libra maneuver and I wasn’t interested in playing round 2 or 8 or whatever the count was at that point.
So I left and he chased me, and I just didn’t get back in the car.

She gets mad and she starts to cry
Takes a swing but she can’t hit
She don’t mean to harm
She just don’t know what else to do about it

Jane Says, Jane’s Addiction

I was talking to my therapist yesterday about need and want and how I am incapable of doing either.

I will routinely deny myself things if my need or want involves another person.

I can barely ask for what I need, much less what I want.

There is some disconnect inside of me wherein if it involves the effort of someone else, I simply can’t ask for the things that make me happy.

We could chalk it up to not fitting in with my family when I was little. I could have happily spent hours wandering the beach and picking up rocks. I always wanted to meander on family trips and just watch the sunrise, or go swimming in whatever water we were near, and I was always told no. I remember standing on the beach in Florida at 7 years old and all I wanted to do was put my feet in the ocean.
I had never been anywhere near the ocean before. I have a vague recollection of my grandpa saying it was fine ‘just let her’, but the answer was still No.

The fam always had a schedule, somewhere to be, or I might get my clothes dirty or or or. Just no.

I didn’t get to go in the ocean until I was 25 years old and it remains one of my favorite things to do. I keep a bathing suit and towel in the trunk of my car at all times now.

We talked about how I can ask for an eyedropper of a favor if I have filled a giant bucket of good karma up with a close friend. But even that is Herculean and I always have to have a back up plan of how I can do it myself and I will probably just do it that way.

Intellectually I know there is a vast difference between a reasonable request and an ultimatum. I do. And asking for something is not manipulation, but I have this weird synapse misfire and I get true satisfaction watching what people do when left to their own devices, without the influence of me saying anything. Or maybe I am just prettying up my paralyzing fear of being rejected.

Ya, that is probably a big part of it.

I also know that people are not mind readers. And that if I don’t ask, the answer is always no.

I still won’t ask 90% of the time.

I also have the ability to understand why literally everyone does literally everything they do. I know rejection isn’t always about something personal pertaining to me, it might (and probably is) more to do with what they are currently going through or went through in the past.

Therapist and I moved past childhood reasoning for my inability to ask for anything and talked about the first 2 Mike’s after I was single. You know them as Young Un the First and the Hulk.

I was learning how to be more myself.
I see it as my second childhood technically, and oh look, second verse the same as the first.

You can look at the water, but you can’t go in.

Young Un was young, obviously. And we were in, for all intents and purposes, what constituted as a relationship. But I wanted more, I wanted a label. I asked; and was denied. It was over after that.
About 2 whole minutes after I asked for the thing I wanted.

I have turned that over in my head enough that it is a shiny pebble called, ‘be happy with what is.’

That’s the lesson right?

But, I wasn’t happy with what was, or I wouldn’t have said anything, now would I have? I remember him pulling out of the driveway after he said ‘no’ and the sinking feeling in my gut. I knew I broke it and I couldn’t take it back.

In retrospect it was okay for me to ask in a safe, experimental learning kinda way, because he was not capable of giving that to me and it was bound to end anyways. I have written the handbook on dating younglings, everyone knows this.

We can also chalk that up to a tainted experiment. He was 24 I think at the time. I was the adultier adult.

Cut to 3 months later. That wound licked and fairly healed. Same barber friend of mine sets me up with the second Mike. Big and beautiful. Sweet and strong. Age appropriate and a Libra, I like those, I know how to Libra. He was nowhere near over the ending of his last relationship.
But that’s okay right? I can wait. I wasn’t in a rush at the time. 2 Libras in my 20’s shared the secrets of their people and you just don’t rush Libras.

So…

I waited.

And I waited.

Started around Labor Day, made it to Thanksgiving. He half ghosted just before Remembrance Day. And I still waited till St. Paddy’s day. There was that thing with the owl almost flying into my car on my drive home, and I decided to just tell him how I felt. And he left without eating the steak and Guinness pie I had agonized over all day.

Once again, I went to the land of say it say it say it; and was unceremoniously rejected.

So I just stopped asking.

Not like it helped.

Zero ultimatums and…

Giant picked the traveling waitress over me. Wolfling picked his cross-fit instructor. Cruz picked booze, although we did date for a minute in there and technically it was I who left him, but I had to. Lumberjack picked the tiny, bitchy photographer that he had been cheating on for 4 years. Thai Fighter picked baby mama, which is totally fine, although I heard through the grapevine she is bitchy too.
(Maybe men really do love bitches and I should read that book again.)

Then the Last One ghosted in the worst way I have ever been ghosted and had a new girlfriend within a month of leaving me. And the Boy, well that was a whole weird thing, but the gist of that was he was getting back with his ex as I was putting the last of my stuff in the car to drive east. After him, Mister wandered off after saying he wanted to keep me, and I was the magical good witch and blah blah blah and finally Final Boss. I waited for him too.

I literally know all of the why behind why none of that worked out.
“Why they left” in triplicate, stamped, notarized, signed and sealed. Because, I have spoken to most of them since and they reiterated what I had already figured out on my own.

I pretend to be all Zen master Buddha on the mountaintop of enlightenment, be content with what is. Everything is as it should be, and ya, it fucking is. Sadness is living in the past, anxiety is living in the future, true contentment is living in the moment.

But in case you hadn’t noticed, this moment fucking sucks.

I chose now to exhume all of my past and my ghosts and dig up the graveyard of my childhood and rearrange my psyche. What else I gotta do?

I had to call up a song from way back when. My marriage theme song.
The District Sleeps Alone Tonight, by Postal Service.

I am finally seeing, why I was the one worth leaving.

Catchy huh? It has definitely been a pattern in my life. The revolving door of Thunderdome that was the farm, two women entered, then she left then I left then he kicked her out, then me and I am getting dizzy even typing this…and eventually I finally left, but not after being left a million times. Even high school sweetheart dated literally everyone but me all through my teenage years. Waited for him too.

My ideas on life and love have evolved substantially over the last 33 years since high school, even more in the last 8 or 9 years since the marriage ended.
Even more more more in the last 6 years that have passed since the tale of 2 Mikes.

I have found my relationships are substantially more satisfying with zero expectations and I’d probably choke on an ultimatum if the words ever tried to pass my lips. Love is the one thing you can’t take by force, and why would you want to. That’s not love, that is ownership and not the fun kind. I don’t feel like that is the answer either.

Alone doesn’t scare me, and that makes me powerful beyond measure and I have a pretty nifty set of life skills from doing all of this shit on my own.

I have been left, a lot, like a lot a lot, and I lived. Here I am rambling on to you fine folks about it.

Maybe I have done enough learning for now and should just start living.

I am sure with a bit more therapy I will be better at asking for things and accepting the answers given without taking it personally.

Besides, I am grown and technically I can always go in the water if I want to.

There is a school of thought wherein, we ask the universe for what we want, and the universe starts putting things in motion. The want is a seed that gets planted in the dirt. We are looking at the dirt completely unaware of what is happening beneath, just waiting around staring at dirt. Every time we wish for the same thing or make choices that are in alignment with that want, we water the dirt. But at some point, people get frustrated and say fuck it, and the sprout never has a chance to break through and grow into the light.

There is a happy medium in between asking for nothing, spitting out venomous ultimatums, waiting too long and saying fuck it too soon.

If anyone can find the fulcrum, it’s me.

Yesterday I had some really big feelings and I self-soothed.

Today I had some really big feelings and I asked a partner for help.

And the funny thing is, both were growth.

My pixie person posted this yesterday.

Same baby, saaaaaaaaame.

I have modes. We all do.

I also recently spent 72 hours in a glass case of emotion.

I got feeling shitty and I couldn’t shake it.

It’s cyclical for me. I am not one thing all of the time. There are times where I wish I was. But if I got stuck in child mode, that would be messy for everyone around me.

I have this block, when I am feeling shitty, lost, confused. I feel like I have to figure out why before I can approach anyone else with it.

Somehow, I have decided I am not allowed to just need what I need for no discernible reason.

Try telling my inner child this.

Problem is, I do tell her that, so then we sit in tears with horrible thought loops in our heads and we make mountains out of molehills. Because, in addition to not having her emotions under control, my inner child has a very vivid imagination. Which is amazing at certain times and places. But not when it comes time to try and figure out what is actually wrong. The pile of blankets at the end of the bed becomes a monster and the fear drowns everything out.

There is no logic in this place.

4-year old’s don’t trouble shoot, if you asked a little kid what a logic tree was I am sure they would draw some sinister, twisted thing with rulers and books and calculators where the leaves of a tree should be. Children can’t even register their own physical pain levels and look to the reactions of the adults around to ascertain how bad it is when they fall.

Sometimes I am the same. I can’t register my own pain levels. And my default is set to the end of the world. So, I spiral until I can stop. Which makes me spiral harder.

I have a few close girlfriends I can reach out to, but my main stumbling block is, sometimes I don’t actually know what is wrong. And honestly, it could be nothing. I could have slept badly, it could be the 3^rd day of rain or the 60^th day of quarantine. Sometimes its isn’t one thing but a trickling of many and untangling that isn’t always easy. And of course, it is exacerbated by the fact that I think I need to know what is wrong and a list of possible solutions before I can approach anyone about it.

But, when I am in it. I cannot figure it out. Not fast enough to satisfy me anyways.

It does not help that I have been in relationships and friendships wherein I was not legally allowed to cry. Like at all. Immediate shaming and shunning. I am realizing now, just now, that this was a big bag of not okay.

I get it. Tears are vexing and I have been known to ugly cry.

I have never been able to stomach crying babies in public places, or children repeating mom mom mom mom mom over and over again. It vexes me beyond reason and measure. I become very agitated and it is hard for me to calm down about it or even hear anything else but the child.
Not because I am annoyed with them, I am annoyed by the parents. I want to pick the child up and figure out what is wrong, and really that is not a socially acceptable thing for me to do.
I have been approached by sad toddlers in public, when they just needed an adult.  I play peekaboo across airport gates with little kids. I have sat on the floor of the cereal aisle with a kid who was having a breakdown and his mother juggled 2 other kids and looked at me with tears of gratitude in her eyes. They all had one thing in common. They just needed attention.

Until my actual child was verbal and able to articulate what was bothering him, it was my singular purpose on this earth to figure out what was wrong if he was crying and fix it. And even after. He was an incredibly well-behaved child, but even the best kids have meltdowns sometimes. Hungry, tired, the tag in their shirt itches, or they just need to be acknowledged…it doesn’t matter. And when it came time, we talked about self soothing and sitting in your feelings.

I was able to teach him something I cannot do.

That’s the kicker. I can anticipate everyone else’s needs. I offer help and love unconditionally to the people around me. But I cannot do it for myself.

I am the safe place where other people come to figure shit out. I am the hug for no reason. I am the tissues in my purse in case you need to cry.

Sometimes I need a hug for no reason. And I have no idea how to ask.

I know where this comes from and it doesn’t bear repeating. I exhumed and examined it on my own.

The exact same place my equal and opposite reaction to being needed by others comes from.

I can hold space for the ones I love like Atlas holds the world on his back.

By the grace of god or some other miracle, I have found myself surrounded by friends who don’t hold me to a standard of needing to be fine all the time.

Anyone else feel like they are stuck in the montage from the second Twilight movie where she sends emails that never get read or responded to, and just sits in a chair and stares out her window as the seasons change and it cuts to her screaming a lot in the night.

No?

Just me then?

Okay.

That blood curdling, sorrowful scream of so much pent up pain and loss. It is easier to accept absence if the other person doesn’t exist anymore. At least you can logic your way around the holes in your heart, eventually. Mourning the living hurts like hell. Never heals. I mean technically Edward was dead; but lived forever. There is no metaphor in that. just an odd observation. Mourning an immoral must be extra fucky.

For an actress who constantly looks like she is holding in a fart and hesitates after Every. Single. Word. She sure can screech in a way that I feel it in my soul.

Can we just get to the church on time and end this already?

I was supposed to be off the internet and working on a book, any book today. But I realized I barely rewrote the beginning of the Little Mermaid for one of them so that might not work. Didn’t open the big new one and I can’t find the intro for the other.

I did look, rather thoroughly and ended up revisiting old blog posts, using them for jumping off points and writing new things as well as revamping and expanding on things that were never meant to be public, but hey, fuck it. I wrote the intro during retrograde so we can safely assume it is gone forever into the ether. I don’t think it was that great anyways.

My usual trick for getting writing done is to have a basket of socks that need sorting and I will cure cancer to avoid it.  I hate sorting socks. No idea why. I like organizing things, sometimes.

On my list of quarantine tasks is going through all 600+ posts on the blog and fixing them.

I reeeeeally don’t wanna.

In there somewhere, pretty much everywhere, exists a girl who pined after this boy or that one, got hella catfished and heartbroken and watched a lot of Twilight.

I was dealing with the shedding of High School Sweetheart at the time, to be fair. 26 years lost and wasted over what turned out to be nothing but a racist roughneck who thought me no better than to split his time between his wife and I. She left him a year or so later and took everything. Somehow, he managed to be surprised by this. Can’t say I didn’t warn him. He wanted me to be salve for the wounds, ex hubby did too. Come on guys, even at my worst I am better than that.

I had to forgive myself for caring about someone who hurt me as badly as he did. As badly as any of them did really.

That was the beginning of all of this. The magical 6 year journey.

Since then, I have lost 3 best girls. Reclaimed the only one that mattered and made some semblance of peace with another.

Another thing on the list of shit I really aught to be doing is cleaning out my downloads folders, both on my phone and ye old laptop. There is so much porn on my phone I can’t find anything. Maybe tomorrow.

This is in there.

I know it looks benign, but it bothers me a bit. Just one more example of being worshipped then forgotten. I forgave him last time I saw him. How could someone be so enamored of me to think to photograph traces of me like this, and then leave? Drugs, the answer is drugs. Even a good witch doesn’t trump hillbilly heroin. So be it.

But it’s all in here. Every mister and mistake. Every time I made someone into something they weren’t.

No grudges, just lessons.

I stumbled on an old post about me and Giant, last leap year. No idea why I didn’t remember that. Every time we see each other I have to do mental math on how long it’s been. I highly doubt, now that I have put that together, that I will ever have trouble remembering again. We were gonna hang out, but he is a mortician so ya, he’s been a bit busy lately. I wish I could go back in time and tell the sad girl in that tiny, albeit beautiful room, in our old apartment that it was okay to be sad and everything was going to be alright in the end. We evolved, both separately and together into what we were meant to be. I was right about him the whole time. He is important and we remain friends to this day.

I have a half formed theory regarding leap years being really fucking tumultuous. And I just found out Pluto went retrograde so basically we are having to deal with unresolved issues from our past and being locked up for as long as I have with literally nothing to do, I am in the thick of it. Might as well start the autopsies and see what I can glean from the viscera.

A different ex accused me of ‘taking hugs’ and sucking his energy or some other such shit. He just didn’t like physical contact unless he was getting his dick wet. That did not go over well. I hate being manipulated. I just learned to live without both and shortly thereafter learned to live without him.

For me, good touch is as necessary (if not more) as food. And I am fucking starving with only a vague idea about when supper will be ready.

Non affectionate ex might have had the right idea, at least now and going forward. Anyone I hug is going to have to psychically block me from feeding off of them accidentally. I have become Rogue in my isolation. Complete with white streaks in my hair.

I am trying to channel my inner Churchill, ‘if you are going through hell, keep going’ but I am awfully starved for affection and I am really tired.

Samuel Beckett —
ESTRAGON: I can’t go on like this.
VLADIMIR: That’s what you think.

I can, and I will.

It’s a bad day, not a bad life.

But I really need a hug.

And I really need to get back to writing. Preferably about the future or a fantasy I can escape into at least.
I am trapped in an attic alone, Pluto is in retrograde and my ghosts are all here.