Snow

I watch the snow drifting pale on pale through a sky yawning grey in an endless expanse of forever, rooftops bleeding white on white and drifting lost ghosts in the sleeting grip of a winter never ending. The candle on the mantelpiece flickers vanilla thoughts into the quiet of a house breathing dusk into my eyes.

I sip Irish-laced coffee, closing tired eyes and allowing the hot need to slip down my throat and warm the shivering spirit which cowers in the dark corner of a soul gone dark.

I have changed.

The past four years have laid an indelible mark of pain along the long line of thought and hope that once was me. Sometimes, I marvel at how knowledge can become so physically corporeal so as to scar forever marks of knowing on a mind that once believed it knew truth.

I find it gently ironic that his marks have left permanent scars on a soul shut down, scored and marked forever this life with his words and the sting of his repudiation while my back remains a pale expanse of skin, lightly freckled, warm and throbbing, smooth and untouched and only the fading memories of warm lashes and delicious sting of his once caring to sustain.

I look back over centuries of agony seared into the psyche of stupidity personified in someone who should have had the sense to know better. I miss that innocent child, the one who believed that connections like ours were inviolable and forever and in the comfort of promise drew dreams of a reality thought authentic.

I struggle to forgive the silliness that engendered 30 years of belief in a dynamic I though immutable.

The fragrance of coffee, laced with the essence of my childhood, wafts in the quiet of my thoughts and I drift, eyes unfocused, losing myself in the shadows of remembered moments. Snow stings memory against the gauze of maybe and my eyes storm drifts into the morass of conflicted thoughts which gather ache into a rumbling mess of confusion.

I have changed.

I stretch, muscles of remembered freedom, thrust upon me, denied and shorn of strength, but wakening slowly, reluctantly but in the reality of the now, inevitable.

For when all is said and done, I am a warrior.

It is as if I have been suspended in a waking dream of possibility and passionate belief and now the crassness of real day has crashed into and shattered into a thousand pieces the fantasy of life lived and pulled me into the harsh light of the now.

I lay my cheek against the cool pane of glass and let my eyes flutter and drift with the sleeting winter tears, separated from the fragile skin of me only by a thin line of defence, as fragile and delicate as a breath and mourn the death of my submission.

You can't get ketchup chips in America, eh?

They don’t have ketchup chips in America, eh?

I’ve been told by my best friend Sally (about whom I’ve blogged before – for I truly believe EVERYONE should have a “sally”), that our family has weird conversations. That particular comment arose because I was relating D’s permanent scarring of Daughter 2- Rowan. This occurred when cooking dinner one night, Rowan perched on the counter, D. holding onto his coffee as if it contained the elixir of life, we were discussing the castrati (http://www.essortment.com/all/castratihistory_rzna.htm) during the Baroque period. The discussion was lively as we argued the merits of emasculation in terms of creating a better life for you and your family, how it was ostensibly, a good economic decision, the ramifications of the life, what was involved and what the futures held for these divinely voiced boys.

Thinking about it, D., in I am sure a very male moment, grimaced and said the WORDS “When I had my vasectomy”, thus permanently scarring Rowan who collapsed to the floor clutching her ears, screaming “TMI, TMI” –because of course, as her DAD, he had only had sex four times (under duress) to create herself and her siblings, thus there should have been NO need of a vasectomy, particularly in view of our advanced age.

Sally looked at me and said “Yes, we stand around our kitchen when I’m making dinner and discuss things like the castrati in the Baroque period ALL THE TIME”…

Last night I thought of that. D, son Declan, daughters Rowan and Kealin were sitting in the living room discussing Rowan’s experiences at a protest by students of York University (aka GODDAM YORK – as I had JUST finished forking over close to $6,000 in tuition last October and two DAYS later they friggin went on STRIKE – and refused categorically to return said $$$).

Did you KNOW that in Toronto, and for all I know in the rest of Canada – you BOOK a time and an AREA for a PROTEST????

Good rebel child of the 60s and 70s that I am, I am aghast. You BOOK for a protest??? How CANADIAN and polite is THAT?? She was like, yeah, we booked our time, then they assigned an area and we protested. All I could think was How the Mighty have Fallen! What happened to CHAOS? What happened to REBELLION? Where are the hippies gone???

The conversation ranged then from the protests of my youth to the Black Panthers, the Weatherman, touched on the Stockholm Syndrome and Patti Hearst, meandered into whether violence was an acceptable solution, flared into arguments over unions, tripped into a tirade against CUPE (who had tried to incite the students into violence) and then suddenly, Kealin, who had been sitting quietly (we thought) taking this all in …

“Do you know you can’t get ketchup chips in America?”

HUH – we all stopped short and stared at her.

“Yeah – I saw this interview with Jimmy Kimball and Seth Rogan – Seth Rogan was like, you have to IMPORT ketchup chips”.

She nods sagely, appalled at how limited the shopping apparently was in our neighbour to the South.

“Imagine, not being able to get KETCHUP chips”.

D. and I looked at each other and I said considering – “well, they DID push for amnio in view of my being a senior mum… maybe we should have listened…”

sighs.

Hurt

It often astonishes me when suddenly as if struck by a bolt of lightning, the little bulb goes on and you have one of those “holy shit” moments. You know, the ones where it is as if the skies opened up and the sun spilled down and the murk of twilight want dissipates and you dive into clarity.

Of course, me being me, I find even those revelatory moments suspect, particularly in view of my experiences over the past six years during which my entire life turned out to be a farrago of illusion and deceit. In that relatively short time period, I watched every inner belief and conviction I thought inviolate and immutable, crumble and fall to dust, leaving me thrashing and gasping for breath in the detritus of folly and trust misplaced.

Out of the debris, I’ve tried to muster some semblance of normalcy and balance, and worked hard not to sink into reproach and despair; although my success to date is questionable. Most important, and something I work diligently at is the sometimes improbable goal of avoiding bitterness – the sourness of being bitter is by far more toxic to the holder than to its intended target.

But it is, I admit, an uphill battle – good thing I’m from good Celtic warrior (or if you’re British, terrorist) stock – because it is indeed an ongoing effort to avoid turning all harsh and astringent, particularly in hindsight about the men in my life, who pretty well entirely and, in some respects, thoroughly managed to spectacularly destroy any faith I might have had in professed love and regard, leading me at times to consider the merits of same sex relationships (but truth, the lack of a penis is definitely on the red side of the ledger and so far, is a deal-breaker – and yes, this IS sarcasm).

Certainly, I’ve had some revelatory moments which have provided a smidgeon of positive energy and in the knowledge, given me some tools to which I might otherwise not have had access.

And while I have specifically labelled the men in my life as my greatest adversaries at times, I do not place the blame all on their shoulders. For anyone who reads me will discover fairly quickly that one of the single most important guiding principles of my existence is my unshaken belief in taking responsibility for your own damn actions.

And thus I suffer the result of MY choices.

And while in hindsight I wonder if I would make a lot of those choices again, given foreknowledge of the outcome, I accept that it is MY choices that lead me to where I am now. For to even entertain the thought of someone outside myself controlling MY choices leaves me appalled. Damn it, my life may be fucked up, but no one fucked it up except me.

But with all the chaos engendered by many years now of an existence lived on quicksand, I’ve been offered a few salutary insights which have again, lead to me making some conscious decisions about my behaviour and the direction I take with respect to certain issues.

For instance, I recognized some time ago that I am attracted to broken people (http://seafoamselkie.blogspot.com/2008/08/you-just-cant.html) and in my arrogance, thought I could fix them or at least alleviate some of their agony. If sharing that agony is alleviating their own pain, then perhaps to a very limited extent, I did. But in reality, I realized that each of us must seek our own balm for our pain, that it is only through our belief in our own abilities and the desire and then decisiveness to follow that path, in which something broken can heal. All that I got from my efforts, in most cases, is pain and disillusionment.

Internalizing this of course, is different from recognizing the veracity of it, but I felt a moderate thrill of success as over the past few years, I’ve set limits with certain friends, slowly and as kindly as possible (but decisively) severed the threads of unhealthy needy relationships and tried to find a balance between retaining some degree of autonomy as selkie while retaining the essence of who I am.
But, despite the evidence (which if I had stepped back and tried to perceive the situation rationally would have been obvious), my most important relationship and primary cause of my agony remained elusive as a source of my greatest pain.

While I could clearly see that a particular friend for instance, had been sucking me dry for years, that her narcissistic, self-absorption was leaching me of energy, hope and optimism, I only very recently recognized those self-same traits in someone who I continue to love with a sadly malicious, obsessive and unwavering commitment.

I literally could list the behaviours and match them up – I just never saw it before.

And while I think the one might be engendered by a chemical imbalance, the other the result of emotional and spiritual trauma, the end result is much the same.

I hurt.

Pretence

Outside the winter sun spills fragments of captured want in a glittering stream of golden illusion which strikes the glaring arctic reality of ice and shatters in the crystal green of my eyes. I flinch from the vacant promise of its beckoning need and feel the frost of my soul intensify its grip on the reality of a life in abeyance.

It seems I blinked, a fluttering of lashes, a flash of lid and in that momentary suspension of colour and light, my life went spinning into a second of darkness that lasted an eternity. I open my eyes, unaware of the capriciousness of time and moment and find myself in this world of dissonance and harsh reality, adrift in choices made and seconds lived and barely recalled as if somehow, it were another who walked in my shoes and made those decisive moments which have shaped a future I never envisioned.

My eyes leak regrets, dripping emerald sighs down the arroyos of past transgressions, useless, wasted thoughts, better to be expunged and denied and packed away in boxes to be tucked away into the corner of a soul grown ancient and withered in my chest.

But I reach out and pull the fruit of my choices to me and lick resignation into their needy want, and wish passionately that like you, I knew how to quieten the demons of hope and desire into tortured subjection to fear. I yearn for the certainty of acquiescence to dreams not lived and hope denied.

The cold golden glow of an arctic sun, teases as it dances a minuet over the hard-packed snow, an empty promise of surcease, spitting burning splinters of contempt into my empty gaze. My body stands suspended, alabaster skin crystallizing pale flowering prisms of defeat along its pale surface, as slowly but surely Despair claims triumphant victory over what after all is an illusion of warmth and the death of belief and hope.

Resignation truly is the culprit here, purveyor of pretence and promises never to be kept, sycophant of Anguish, toady to Desolation.

And yet I blink and in that moment of suspended time, sighing, painfully, pull around my shoulders the illusion of your promise and as the soul-eating cold seeps into the tattered remnants of heart, pretend like you.

for the record...

Thinkin on.....

ONE; I know our Canadian medical system gets lots of darts for real and imagined failures... but damn, we're a lucky country when all is said and done. I spent several hours there this morning with D2, who after several asymptomatic years, had a doozie of an asthma attack... Between Xmas, bills, no overtime due to the worsening economy, money is pretty tight right now. What a luxury that when Ruadhan woke me crying and wheezing, I didn't have to think twice but bundled her into the car and into Emerg at Scarborough General...

There a couple of breathing tests, ventolin masks and 1.5 hours later, we were home. The luxury of not having to worry about whether your child was 'that' sick ... the hearfelt comfort of knowing that while there are lots of places for improvement in our medical system, when all is said and done, compassion and a care for its citizens is a mainstay of our Canadian society.

TWO: I've come to some sort of position on whether Canada should shelter Americans seeking to avoid the Iraq (and other wars) and following a long tradition of escaping to Canada. When I was living in Grand Bahamas, back during the Vietnam era, our house was a haven for sevearl draft dodgers avoiding the war. When we eventually returned to Canada, we had another few boys come through. Difference though? These were DRAFT dodgers. These were NOT men or women who had SIGNED up for the army voluntarily and then when it came time to follow through on their part of the bargain, tried to run away from their responsibilities.

So here's my stand: dodging the draft because you don't believe in the war of the moment? My door is open. Dodging your voluntarily assumed responsiblities as a solider? BACK you go. You signed up. You volunteered. You were happy to take the perks offered by the army, NOW face up to your end of the bargain.

Do I think it easy? Absolutely not. But ultimately, each of us MUST take responsiblity for our own actions.

THREE: While I believe and wholeheartedly support cultural diversity, the buck STOPS when it comes to culture or religion coming up and disagreeing with Canadian LAW - Canadian law MUST and SHOULD prevail, no contest.

FOUR: the new law in Ontario banning smoking in cars with children is yet another erosion of personal rights and pisses me off. Do I think people should smoke in cars wiht children? ABSOLUTELY not. Do I think legislation should be in place to "make" them - NO NO NO. There are many many things out there that are far worse tow which children are exposed - the increasing, insidious creeping of government into our personal spaces MUST be stopped. As Trudeau once said and the concept can be applied to other issues "The State has no place in the bedrooms of the nation"...

William Carlos Williams - The Ivy Crown

The whole process is a lie,
unless,
crowned by excess,
It break forcefully,
one way or another,
from its confinement—
or find a deeper well.
Antony and Cleopatra
were right;
they have shown
the way. I love you
or I do not live
at all.

Daffodil time
is past. This is
summer, summer!
the heart says,
and not even the full of it.
No doubts
are permitted—
though they will come
and may
before our time
overwhelm us.
We are only mortal
but being mortal
can defy our fate.
We may
by an outside chance
even win! We do not
look to see
jonquils and violets
come again
but there are,
still,
the roses!

Romance has no part in it.
The business of love is
cruelty which,
by our wills,
we transform
to live together.
It has its seasons,
for and against,
whatever the heart
fumbles in the dark
to assert
toward the end of May.
Just as the nature of briars
is to tear flesh,
I have proceeded
through them.
Keep
the briars out,
they say.
You cannot live
and keep free of
briars.

Children pick flowers.
Let them.
Though having them
in hand
they have no further use for them
but leave them crumpled
at the curb's edge.

At our age the imagination
across the sorry facts
lifts us
to make roses
stand before thorns.
Sure
love is cruel
and selfish
and totally obtuse—
at least, blinded by the light,
young love is.
But we are older,
I to love
and you to be loved,
we have,
no matter how,
by our wills survived
to keep
the jeweled prize
always
at our finger tips.
We will it so
and so it is
past all accident.

Part the Second - the Internet "Reality"

Apart from anything else, it continues to amaze me how people believe what they are reading ... it is very easy to be the "perfect" man or the "perfect" woman when ugly reality doesn't intrude - we are all perfect online or can be - cellulite, that pouchy tummy, the cranky moods ... and reality bites like that fact that you leave the toilet seat up, you leave dishes in the sink, are a slob - all those realities which you learn to work around or live within a real relationship don't intrude in an online one.

Once upon a time, because it is foreign to who I am, I thought it would be easy to weed out the individuals with hidden agendas; that spotting the “sincere” ones would be easy. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could in essence, create an entire persona and maintain the facade over a sometimes extended period of time. I just can’t BE other than who selkie IS.

But you know what?

The predators are predators BECAUSE they are damn good at hunting. Excellent at sniffing the naive out of hiding. Masterful at playing the credulous at the end of the line. Which is WHY they are called “predators”

pred•a•tor (prd-tr, -tôr)
n.
1. An organism that lives by preying on other organisms.
2. One that victimizes, plunders, or destroys, especially for one's own gain

That is what they DO, what they have always done.

Sadly, the nature of online interaction lends itself to massive abuse and a slaughter of the innocents.

The reality is that online interaction provides a spurious sense of intimacy, leading to misplaced trust and engaging emotions and feelings that otherwise would remain private. People truly believe that they are being given “glimpses” into another individual’s reality when in actual fact, all that is occurring is that they are swallowing the bait.

They believe that by reading another’s words, they are privileged to learn who that individual is; because they are honest and sincere, they think chatting online is providing them with the ‘real’ opportunity to get to know another’s soul.

But think about your favourite author. You’ve perhaps read every single word that author has written. You’ve devoured his words and even read his biography. Do you KNOW that author? NO, you do NOT. You know what he has written, that is all. Ultimately, you do not know his private thoughts, his hidden agendas, you don’t know the realities of his day to day life nor do you even truly know his personal philosophies. Because what he IS, is a writer, and what he writes are the fruits of a talent with words and a vivid imagination ....

So too is interaction with an online acquaintance. Ultimately, you are seeing ONLY what that person wishes to show. Truth is that you’re only being given a look at one dimension of this individual, the ONLY one he or she is choosing to show you...

The reality is that human beings interpret the world and their place in it through a myriad of senses, not just through their vision and what they read, but through a perception of an individual, the body language, the speech pattern, the actual reality face- to-face “feel” of that individual – all of which sense are useless in pixels.

While I don’t believe every internet relationship is necessarily insincere, I do think once an element of romance, sexual intimacy or something other than friendship intrudes, then trouble is looming.

In actual fact, I have several internet buddies I’ve been in contact with who I consider “real” friends – people whose counsel I value, whose conversation I enjoy, whose opinions and viewpoints I respect. These few people I consider as real to me in terms of honest friendship as my off-line friends. These are people, who should the opportunity arise, I would love to meet up with in real time and I have no fear that my opinion of them would in any manner change or alter. For they, like me, are “real”. They, like me, don’t create personas nor do they have agendas which include the manipulation and destruction of innocents ..

But unfortunately, the predators out there outnumber the sincere individuals.

Be forewarned. Be smart. Be cynical.

And in the end, realize the internet is (in many ways) simply a form of entertainment, a way to while away time when bored (and hopefully when it does not interfere with your real-life obligations), and a terrific way to gain insight and knowledge into other venues you might otherwise have knowledge of. It can be a wonderful tool, one that provides vistas and places you would never in a million years have visited, but remember too that like everything else in life, it has its dark places as well...

Part the First - Internet Hijinks

Sweets brought up an issue that I’ve often blogged on before. In short, would online ‘hijinks” be considered cheating on a partner? (http://idodgebullets.blogspot.com/2009/01/white-horse.html)

First and foremost, if BOTH partners are open and honest and have incorporated that type of “play” into their primary relationship, then that is their prerogative and I would NOT consider it cheating. Specifically, if one partner is indulging time, emotion and effort into a relationship online without the other partner’s knowledge, fully cognizant that IF the partner discovered it they would be impacted negatively, then it IS cheating.

I got into a big debate a few months ago about this and spent a lot of time thinking about it - people argued back and forth, some saying it wasn't as if bodily fluids were exchanged, others perceived online interactions as similar to interactive porn ... not really "real".

Yet an emotional betrayal can be as devastating (if not more so) than a more standard type of affair.

I think if you look at it logically and break it down, that is hard to argue.

If your relationship is actually just physical (and don't get me wrong, if that turns your crank, more power to you) - then maybe this type of interaction won't impact you unduly.

But to me, ,most relationships are far more complex than that - the physical is a factor, of course (I could never have a strong love relationship without the physical), but more importantly, there are emotional and spiritual elements to a relationship that cannot and should not be ignored. To emotionally freeze out your partner and share those emotional aspects of your day to day life, to confide in virtual strangers your intimate thoughts, worries and dreams is (to my mind) cheating – and often very indicative of something missing in your real time relationship.

ALL relationships - I don't care what kind - take work - sometimes lots of work and the longer term the relationship the easier it is to fall into a rut - to forget why you were with that person in the first place. Everyone needs to remind themselves to stop, think and REMEMBER WHY they were with their partner in the FIRST place. It is particularly easy to lose sight of the importance of your primary relationship when life gets in the way - children are a great way to lose touch, for instance - as the two of you become caught up in the day to day realities of making a living and dealing with the minutiae of a child's (or children's) life.

Ultimately, if you are sharing parts of yourself with a stranger instead of with your partner, face up to it and either work at rekindling your relationship or let go and get out.

Which of course is one of my own personal peeves; if your primary relationship is so unhappy or you are lacking some essential element so thoroughly that your life is unfulfilling and bleak beyond tolerance, then END it and move on.

I'm not saying people can't have friends nor that it is wrong to bitch to your friends about certain things that piss you off about your partner. EVERY relationship has its ups and downs; the moments when life is perfect and ones where you look at your partner and go “WTF was I THINKING of?” That is (in my opinion) a “normal” relationship, the point being that people in a committed dynamic at some point recognize that they need to take a reality check, to step back, take a deep breath and say, ok, I fell in love with him/her BECAUSE and then start remembering why ...

But, I'm talking about scenarios where precious time (for most of us in short supply) is spent on the nurturing and care of a relationship that starts to loom as very important in your mind. Because, bottom line, time spent playing online (sexually but also emotionally) is ultimately time spent AWAY from your partner – time wasted online is time NOT spent on working on the relationship you DO have.

Again, I want to reiterate - I do not think anyone should be with someone very moment of every day - I am independent, D. is independent - you can have varying interests, friends, things you do that don't involve the other.

But, the things that SHOULD be part of your interaction with your partner should be with that partner - not with an online stranger.

Tears

Pygar has been exploring “tears” and their impact, and in his usual caring manner and search for insight, wants to know how many of his readers deal with ‘tears’, what elicits them, how they view them ...(http://xpygarx.blogspot.com/2009/01/tears.html).

His questions provoked a rather contradictory response in me and while I went to comment more than once, I realized in the end that I would have to explore it further in my own venue as my thoughts were convoluted, complicated and verbose.

My gut reaction was quite simply to declare “ I HATE tears” and further thoughts on tears, while providing some insight, did not change that initial flush of emotion at all. For, right or wrong, it is bred in the bone to me to equate tears with weakness and I cannot tolerate nor abide any weakness in myself. I despise crying and have spent my life fighting a natural propensity to tears, refusing to surrender to a passionate heart and a genetic predisposition for revelling in great emotions. (The Irish are well known for their ability to tear up at the slightest brush of emotion – from rage to passion to love – requited or unrequited.)

I cannot stand to be vulnerable. And there is a vulnerability to the soft eyes, the trembling lip, the heart which leaks in trails down soft cheeks.

I cannot stand to be seen as weak. And while society wrestles with the reality of tears and the knowledge that tears do not necessarily equate weakness nor does the saltwater of passion mean a lack of character, I can’t internalize that any more than the general populace.

Tears have caused me much anguish during the years. Oddly, while I have learned since very young to ruthlessly suppress the tears of sorrow, pain and anguish, I continue to find it almost impossible to contain tears of rage. Which infuriates me even more. For women are still underestimated, seen as emotionally unstable, irrational and apt to be dismissed out of hand. To be a rational, intelligent person and have your concerns dismissed because of being unable to contain a few inadvertent tears is infuriating ... and to have my rationality challenged, my facts suspect, my arguments dismissed is galling to the extreme – because individuals look at the tears and ignore the substance of your argument.

I don’t necessarily feel that my obsession with NOT crying is linked to any child trauma either. I had, when all was said and done, a loving childhood with passionate parents, both of whom were unashamed to cry and did so on occasions of sorrow, joy and passion (whether fuelled by rage or simply a conviction of their validity). But I do believe that it is partially a personality quirk, intrinsic to who I am. For in my own children, I see myself in that respect in my eldest, who you could have flayed alive before she would cry while my second one never stopped her wailing ....

Ultimately, tears to me are a weakness and one in which my pride prevents me from indulging.

I think too that being a woman in male-dominated fields in my 20s and early 30s (1970s/1980s) at a time when that meant you bore the brunt of harassment and contempt, when you had to fight hard for simple respect, when you had to work twice as hard and twice as long as men, meant ANY vulnerability, anything that linked you even tenuously to what were perceived as “weak” feminine traits HAD to be ruthlessly and positively suppressed and tears certainly would fit that kind of narrow viewpoint.

Further, I have a rather rigid sense of honour, and tears have been a woman’s weapon for many years (understandably so, shorn was we have been and continue to be, of many other ways of defending ourselves or asserting our own will). But I despise manipulation of any form and while I believe that most women do NOT use tears to manipulate, there is enough perception of this being a “feminine” trait that I avoid it as yet another reason to suppress my tears – for fear I would be seen as resorting to a backhand and less than honourable way of getting what I wish.

One of the questions asked in Kind Dom’s blog, is do they provide a catharsis?

For me, NO. In fact, they leave me more anguished than before, bereft and vulnerable. As if personifying my dislike of my vulnerability, tears of sorrow or anguish physically hurt ... it is as if some form of acid has etched its way into the saltwater of my body and escapes to trickle burning down my cheeks, hot, acidic and hurtful to the soul and to the body.

And when I do cry, I want to be left strictly, completely alone – not unlike if I hurt myself physically – whether spiritual, emotional or physical, when I hurt, I am an animal who needs to be left alone to deal with the pain as best I can. To touch me, feel me, reach out to me is ultimately destructive to my sense of self and my ability to control my emotions and will leave me crushed. I don’t think that is necessarily a positive trait, incidentally, and can be immensely frustrating to those who love you and reach out caring hands only to have them smacked away a snarling virago spitting rage at them for daring to care ...

I slipped once and fell down steps and broke three ribs and absolutely refused to even be touched or helped to my feet but lay, pulled in on myself, clutching my agony to me, fiercely mine, not to be shared .... and that is how I am when tears do sometimes claim me.

Even physical pain seldom makes me cry. I have an immensely strong constitution and take pride in my tolerance and ability to withstand pain. In actual fact, physical pain is probably the LEAST likely trigger for tears (which, incidentally, makes me a very desirable masochist, unless of course, the tears are the desired outcome of the session).

Oddly, I have NO issue with tears in others and soften and want to reach out and nurture when I see others’ tears. Other tears open the deep wellspring of caring I carry inside me always and makes me move mountains to bring smiles, to bring some level of comfort to the individual crying ...

But tears... at the end of it all, I HATE tears in me.

Settling...

It seems to me that there is an awful lot of “settling” going on around me – both online and off. In my own limited sphere, I see several bloggers I know settling for what crumbs of time and attention they are accorded by men who have other lives. I see other bloggers settling for less than they desire in their primary relationships. I see people whose lives are far less than they envisioned and others who seem perplexed and confused as to how they ended up where they are ...

In real time life, I am conversant with various relationships, the sum of which is one partner has “settled” for what the other partner is willing to accord them. And I’m not exempt, of course, as witnessed by my recent whining, I’m settling myself for less than what will make me truly content. And truth be told, it is something I’ve looked at long and hard and realized in the end, that I’m settling because the history of my dynamic with him always has been and probably always will be, I take him on HIS terms. Making me, I suppose, weak-willed and ineffective....

I accept, however, that it is, ultimately, ALL about choice and ALL about compromise. The trick of course being that you have some self-awareness of what that compromise will cost – in terms of comfort, in terms of emotional equilibrium, in terms of what you will gain versus what you stand to lose.

I think in one sense, the nature of life is all about compromise. It is neither realistic nor possible to assume that each of us always gets our heart desire out of life. We whine, we cry, we shout and yell and demand and scream that we MUST have it this way or NO way ... and in the end, we have to make a choice – whether to compromise, accept, walk away or deny.

“Settling” has such negative connotations- as if we accept less than that to which we are entitled; as if by accepting that we can live with less than we really want, we are somehow diminished, weakened.

In the end, most of us settle for what we think, in the end, is the “lesser” evil (Christian dogma aside, I think the intent is clear). Ultimately, it comes down to the individual own sense of preservation, self-esteem and desire.

Yet....and yet.

There is for most people, however, the hard reality that time and experience have etched on lives; a knowledge that the grass is often NOT as green ...a comprehension that dalliances, short-term experiences, limited exchanges in the end are not indicative of what a full-time life would encompass.

There is also often the hard-won knowledge that desire does not equate need, that want does not equal must and that what works in the short-term may not survive the long haul. There are so many adages that preach the whole concept of `settling` ``a bird in the hand``, ``be careful what you wish for`` .. a myriad of home-grown preachy sayings about settling for what you do have rather than yearn for what you may not.

Should you or shouldn`t you? Hell, I don’t know.

What I do know is anyone with a modicum of intelligence will think long and hard before making a life-altering decision about anything. One must weigh the consequences not just on your own life, but on those whose lives are entwined with yours. For very few of us come without our own set of complications, our own Gordian knots of worries and confusions. The choices an individual makes impacts not just them but those with whom they are entwined. Further, no one comes to a new relationship unencumbered ... each of us brings our own baggage, some of it battered and torn, bearing history and hard-won lessons.

I think one of the most prevalent scenarios I see are online relationships where individuals equate reality with the stolen moments online; where pixels and visuals confuse fantasy with reality and where fulfilling what is ultimately a role is confused with living a life.

The bottom line is that living a real life is not the same as creating and maintaining an online one.

And if you are content with that, then more power to you. BUT, what i see more and more are people equating their fantastic twitterings with real living.

I would highly recommend reading some of the excellent blogs online that deal with the true realities of trying to live the BDSM lifestyle (simply as an example) day in and day out. Kaya’s Under His Hand (http://underhishand.com/), morningstar’s The Journey (http://wtsubbie.blogspot.com/index.html) or Swan’s always insightful The Heron Clan (http://theheronclan.blogspot.com/). You see, they deal with the realities of life as we ALL live it. The worries, the pressures and stressors, the realities of medical issues, bad moods, outside issues and the normal interaction of human beings in short.

In musing about this, I realize too that the online worlds created with the advent of the internet are really just Marshall Mcluhan’s vision brought into being ... for snatched moments online are really not all that different from the more cerebral and sometimes flesh on flesh “affairs” engaged in before electronic wizardry.

In fact, on a re-reading of some of his work, I realize what a visionary this man was!

All media work us over completely. They are so pervasive in their personal, political, economic, aesthetic, psychological, moral, ethical, and social consequences that they leave no part of us untouched, unaffected, unaltered.

And laptops, computers are most definitely ‘media’. And the “creations” which appear on our screens are – as often as not – simply a form of media.

And this is fodder and discussion for another blog ....coming soon to this space.

Dreams

I stand on the porch watching the roiling, dark sky while the growling wind licks at my cheek and medusa strands of vanilla scented hair wrap snake-like around my throat, snapping and writhing in the gloaming night. Clouds scud across the seething darkness, lit from beneath and spilling a diffused light refracted from a crouching moon which hides behind the restless wind and vainly strains to lick softness into the raging expanse of sky.

Fat Cat wends around my legs sinuously, his purr audible even over the grumbling of wind and slash of cold, stinging snow, his small, warm plumpness a comfort. I stand coatless on this frigid January morning, a thin cotton shirt moulding to me as I clutch the warmth of fragrant coffee and breathe deep the scent of awareness. The wind growls and pulls at me, I hear the rustling whispering of branches and gazing out on the street, watch a kaleidoscope of images reflect and refract in the mirrored frozen pools of ice.

I remember him, tart on my tongue, tasting of night and sleep and arousal, a familiar bouquet of spurious comfort, a pervasive normalness in the chaos of a life derailed and without direction. I sip and the hot spill of coffee across my tongue mingles with his recalled taste and I close my eyes and allow images to chase and trickle through consciousness, of the painful tenderness of skin stretched delicate over the throbbing muscle of his want and the sharp, sweet pulling and he, cupped gently in my hands, my finger trailing between taut thighs to tenderly caress the highway of vein and tendon trailing into groin.

Ritual. So crucial to a sense of purpose and meaning. Ritual. A sacrament of repetitive actions and reactions. Ritual. Convention, tradition, routine – often reviled as plebeian movements of uninspired drones yet with a comfort in the rites whose practice is a muscle memory of habitual movement. Ritual. A sacramental worshipping of routine which can soothe and whisper false promises into ears willing to lie.

And despite the broken trail of promises and the sharp, toxic imprecations of regret, my morning ablutions continued for a very long time; my worship at his groin a source of comfort, a confirmation of want and need and a pervasive, needful sense of comfort in the familiar taste and smell.

I shiver in the gloaming darkness of the early morning, and feel the sting of frost against tender skin. I hear the dogs moaning on the other side of my bleak thoughts and relish the razor slash of reality against my tender face as the wind petulantly slashes now into my consciousness. Strands of crimson tangle in my mouth and Fat Cat mews and demands to be let into the warmth of the house behind me. Grey thoughts shiver through my body, a sharp contrast to the warm yellow light spilling through the glazed window of the door, its golden flowing stream bleaching to paleness and then disappearing into the cacophony of wind and snow and dark.

Time, inexorable and implacable, sounds sonorously and obedient to ritual, I turn and enter the house, the windswept reality of road to be travelled as work beckons and I, obedient, follow the path of dissolution and defeat.

and miss, poignantly, terribly, my morning devotional.

I am Canadian ...

the topic this morning in work was invariably the weather .. specifically, the frigid, -30 temperatures which have descended on our city (THANKS Buff, just THANKS)...

it was SO Canadian! What would we do without our weather, we Canadians? What in the world would we talk about?

Each person to whom I spoke had a usually amusing story to relate about their forays into the arctic air. From the lawyer talking about how his shoes freeze, thus making him walk like a clown as the soles refuse to bend to the individual whose nose suddenly began gushing blood as she took a deep breath and frozen water sliced into the tender mucus membranes with a vengeance.

This morning at 4 a.m. I was crunching through the morning dark with the dogs frisking ahead, oblivious to the cold, kept warm by their enthusiasm and sheer joy in being alive. Encased in my dad's parka (bought in 1958 when he first came to Canada and was working up north in Bear Island), I felt quite cosy but as the walk progressed, as the frigid embrace of dark arctic need insinuated itself into the vulnerable exposed expanse of skin and licked fire into thighs covered only by thin work pants, I felt the beginning of the Canadian "sting"...

My legs began aching, licked by fire and breathing hot stinging want...until I slipped into the warm golden light of the house and they erupted into ache. Laughing, I pulled down the pants and grinned at the flaming crimson of my thighs, reminiscent of those high school days of micro minis, knee socks and coats with linings removed and never closed (because you might look FAT)... when pale fleshed legs flamed red and even purple and frostbite was a thought away.

Rubbing feeling back into their frozen length, I slipped up my pants and put on a coffee, slipping out quickly to start the reluctant car (and feeling a small sting, quickly extinguished, of remorse at my contribution to global warming!) and then completing my ablutions continued into work ... where I gloried in the myriad tales and stories of my workmates and laughed again at the Canadian obsession with our weather.

Despite dealing with what many from outside our country consider untenable situations, we Canadians remain united and strong in our passion and secretly (and not so secretly) relish our crazy temperatures as a uniqueness which defines who we are.

Please ....

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,I
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

e.e. cummings
I am so restless these days.... moody and intense, capricious and contrary.

Anxiety rides my back like an angst-driven hag from legend, digging sharp claws into the tender line of neck and nipping at my restlessness until I feel like throwing my head to the sky and howling like a rabid dog into the grey of a winter sky ...

I prowl in the complicated passageways of time and memory and sniff out the nuggets of possibilities that could have been and wonder at the complicated byways of thought and desire.

The flesh on my back tingles with remembered sensations while the tug of Want sends reverberations of need along nerve-endings I thought dead. I want to be controlled. I want to be mastered and used and abused. I want to choke on the hot muscled need in my mouth the salty tang of desire and demand trickling down my throat.

I feel bereft, lost... a trailing shadow of what once was, a “palely loitering” spectre drifting on substantial thought towards oblivion and the end of days.

Thoughts thunder in on cloven hoofed steeds , snorting and pawing rage into the rivers of despair etching arroyos of want through the frozen landscape of my id. The Need rides me harshly, slashing Want into the soft pale flesh of my straining flanks, twisting lust into nipples crimson and swollen with frustration and memories.

Not for me softness or sweetness and the soft, butterfly hovering kiss of tentative questioning pleading. No... the Want lusts for hands gripping curls, tugging at the roots and inciting thrashing rage. Need growls for teeth fastened in taut shoulder, the hot, wet battering realness of personified demand thrusting harshly into swollen softness and clinging hotness. I want to be breached, taken, conquered, no quarter given, no surrender possible.

I want to feel the slash of desire against my back, etching ownership into pale flesh and feel against the delicate, throbbing line of neck the exquisite lick of cold, hard steel. I close my eyes and remember the hot aching sting as steel licks acquiescence into the proud resistance of my warrior’s heart and feel the soft sweep of delicious agony as flesh and spirit sigh their submission.

Instead, I sit quietly in the arid, frigid wasteland of my thoughts and remember .... once I was wanted.


And this is why I soujourn here
alone and palely loitering
Though the sedge has withered from the lake
and no birds sing.
(La Belle Dame Sans Merci, John Keats)

Musings on submissiveness ....

The film is crackly and the figures on screen jerk slightly. It is a party and people mill about, cigarettes and drinks clutched in hand. The hum of the projector and the heat of it lends an almost eerie sense of déjà vu; the hot rubbery smell and squeak as the rubber pedals flash images onto the wall are unique and she remembers the unique sound of film spooling through rubber. Amongst the adults, a child appears, curls close and short to a small skull, a starched “party” dress with a bouffant skirt and cap sleeves. She moves busily between the milling throng, clutching a bucket, emptying ashtrays and picking up glasses.

The child was me. I was 5 and as we watched the jerking, straining super 8 mm celluloid reveal a forgotten era, I found it remarkable to see the submissive in the child ... My father recorded many hours of super 8 film, primarily of my sister and I. The advent of my two youngest sisters coincided with more frequent out-of-town trips and very few films reveal anything beyond around 1961 or 1962. But watching that film some years ago, after rescuing 20 or more canisters of the film from the garbage on one of my “commutes” to Montreal after his death, I was struck by the adult in the child ... for even then, at 5, I had an obvious desire to be of service.

On my forays into the words and thoughts of other individuals, I often see what is termed an “overwhelming need” on the part of women (I realize there are many submissive men, but in this thought, I’m dealing with females). I see again and again justifications and arguments for online and offline relationships apart from their relationship with a primary partner, based on an oft-stated “must have or I’ll die” attitude.

I frequently read that their partners don’t “understand” them or their desires, that they “must” fulfill this deep need to subjugate themselves to a more forceful, dominant personality (now, TRUTH, that kind of excuse really does NOT sound any different than ANY justification for looking outside your primary relationship).

So what is this submission that is so compelling, so overwhelming a desire, so forceful a part of their nature that they are willing to couch potential disaster to fulfill that part of their personality?

1. Submissiveness does not EQUAL WEAK. I know that I was well into my 30s before I recognized the submissive part of my own personality. Certainly, submissiveness is NOT something I had ever associated with myself – thus the first dichotomy I recognized in my maturity. Being submissive is NOT the same as being a doormat – the first mistake a great number of “new” submissives make. I am and always have been a leader. I am and always have been a warrior. I am and always have had ability, “smarts” and a facility for getting things done, organized and completed ....

2. Submissiveness is a Dynamic Between Two Unique Individuals! What I did recognize – in hindsight – was that when D. and I met, my submissiveness flared to life .. it exploded to the forefront and became and integral and inescapable (I thought) part of our dynamic. At 17, I fought against the need I had to serve him. I battled what I perceived the “weakness” i had when it came to forgiving him for transgressions I would have annihilated other men for. I fought the overwhelming (and continuing) sexual fever I found myself wallowing in whenever he was around ... and at 19 I “escaped” to another province, hoping distance and time would sever the obsession he engendered in my erstwhile practical self. What I discovered, however, was that ONLY he elicited that kind of slavish pavlovian response from me – no one else.

And, of course, my ‘escape’ didn’t work and he followed me down two years later.

What I did discover in my short forays away from the magnetism of our mutual obsession was that no one else would do. And as the years progressed and we explored the limits of our complicated, never sanguine obsession, we hit some pretty amazing high points – including a recognition on my part of my innate masochism and an understanding (but not acceptance on his part) of his sadism. Sensuality had always been a driving, magnificent force between us; the addition of the s/m to our sexual repertoire provided such a dimension of pleasure and ecstasy that it at times threatened to invade every aspect of our lives together.

But, when all is said and done, his discomfort with the dynamic persisted and detritus of a damaged psyche contributed to the (almost) inevitable deterioration of a relationship which sadly, worked so well.

In the past four or five years, our dynamic has undergone some dramatic, life-altering changes; shocks, revelations and blows – the jury is out on whether or not we will survive them. During several of these stressful and upsetting intervals, I was faced – several times - with the reality of his repudiation of our dynamic.

And ultimately, it ended.

Regardless and without going into years of our complicated, fucked up relationship, at the end of days, the submissiveness that is an integral part of who I am is no longer in the forefront. In short, I do not live my life in a dynamic which celebrates the submissive part of my psyche.

3. You CAN get on with Life – like many other things, it is all about CHOICE! I had a decision to make – am I willing to ‘give up” or at best, sublimate that part of who I am that provided such poignant, soul-fulfilling contentment? Or (and truly, it is this simplistic)- was having him on his terms more important? What I ultimately concluded, after a great deal of soul-searching and yes, pain, was that the submissive aspect of who I am does NOT define me in my entirety.

The answer in the end, as it always was and probably always will be, is I take him on his terms.

I ruthlessly suppress the submissiveness which, when all is said and done, is simply part of who and what I am. As is my hot temper which I seek daily to control. As is my obsessive list-making. As is my need to “serve” in some form or another.

Because, ultimately, it is a choice we all make.

I will be honest – I could never get my head around having a primary partner in real time and having a Master on the side (whether online or in real time) – not only because I can’t imagine anyone EXCEPT D. in my heart and my bed, but because the sheer INTENSITY of a D/s dynamic is so compelling that I cannot understand how your “regular” relationship could survive.

I do add the proviso – I am NOT judging anyone out there that chooses differently. Ultimately, when all is said and done, I do not walk in anyone else’s shoes. I do not live their days, nor deal with their stresses nor live in their skulls. What consenting adults choose to do with their time, hearts and wills is THEIR business and I would NEVER presume to decide for them the morality of their individual situations.

There is – I admit it – a gaping wound in my psyche – but you know what? The choice I’ve made is to get on with life because when all is said and done, we submissives are tough broads ...

things about selkie

I am one of those who always reads the "100 Things about _______" so for fun, thought I would start my own. As a proviso - if you are curious about something, email me and I may or may not add the answer to your question ...

1. I lived in several countries between birth and 13- born in Ireland, to Canada (briefly) at 5, then Grand Bahamas, the States and eventually back to Canada at 13.

2. Although I feel strong ties to Ireland, I am Canadian by choice and in my heart.

3. I have four children and my longest labour was 3 hours - I left the hospital right after birth with all of them.

4. I am 5'8" and consider myself large and unfeminine.

5. I have small breasts and HATE the fact I do.

6. I have two university degrees which I don't use - Undergraduate in English and Classics from University of New Brunswick and Graduate in Communications from Concordia in Montreal.

7. I put myself through University and had no help doing so.

8. I worked in my field (journalism and media) from 19 to 31.

9. I had my first child at 31 and my universe changed. I left a career for a job typing at night and had 3 more children by the time I turned 36 and forgot I had a brain.

10. I met D. when I was 15 (he was 18).

11. I fell in love with D. when I was 15 and first learned what it meant to be submissive to someone.

12. It took 2 years before I could convince him to go out with me.

13. Our relationship has NEVER been calm.

14. We recognized and lived a D/s relationship for many years (we lived it without naming it for many years before that). We don't any more through his choice -in many respects, he doesn't want me any more.

15. I am submissive but not a doormat. I have never submitted to anyone BUT D.

16. I grew up in a family of women - 3 sisters and a female, much beloved cousin.

17. My father never wanted a son, my mother did.

18. I don't sleep much and never have. A "good" night is around 4 hours.

19. I broke my back (EARTH) (crushed 4 verterbrae, cracked 3) when I was 15 and got run over by a tractor on a visit to my cousin's farm in Kildare.

20. I was in a brace for 1.5 years and still went dancing.

21. I drowned (WATER) (declared dead) when I was 5, just a few months after we came to Canada. A WW I vet put me in a lukewarm bath and brought me back to "life" - (in hindsight, hypothermia when you go into a coma).

22. I caught on fire (FIRE) when I was 10 and found my baby sister on the stove with burners all on high - my baby doll pjs caught and went up in flames. My mother rolled me in the snow and I survived with no bad scarring.

23. I figure AIR will kill me which has never prevented me from flying or going up in a kite. I also intend to sky dive one day.

24. I am a risk taker and confront things head on which frighten me.

25. I love cooking, especially baking and am very good at it.

26. I love writing but know my words tend to be over blown and trite - my father called it "oral diaharea".

27. I have problems maintaining ties with people - I tend to compartmentalize and move on (I think due to frequent moves when young - I went to around 12 schools between kindergarten and grade 11).

28. I live in my head a LOT and have problems verbalizing.

29. I am by nature, extremely sensual and sexual but the past year, due to rejection and denial, have subliminated my sexuality and wonder if I can get it back.

30. D. was my first lover and the first in every respect for any sexual exploration.

31. I love sex in the morning, it is my favourite time.

32. I have no recollection of the last time I had sex in the morning it has been so long.

33. I love travelling and did a fair bit before I got married and almost none since.

34. I did the backpack Europe thing for 8 months when I was 24 and it was the trip of a lifetime.

35. I love the ocean - I need the ocean - I crave the ocean ... and intend to live out my later years beside it.

36. That's how I got my name "selkie".

37. When D. and I were in a D/s dynamic, I fellated him every morning and every night before bed.

38. It was one of my favourite things.

39. I tend to tilt at windmills and am a sucker for causes. I have been to many demonstrations and participated in many campaigns.

40. I was almost kicked out of university for exposing a university president.

41. I am a leader.

42. I hate working in teams.

43. Red is my favourite colour.

44. I had two marriage proposals (and no, I'm not including D. - we got married, he never asked me, I told him).

45. I was fond of both men who asked me, but they were submissive and I didn't love them.

46. I've only ever loved D. in all these years.

47. I've only ever hated D. in all these years.

48. I own all 7 seasons of Buffy and continue to think it brilliant. I like Spike not Angel.

49. I adore animals - all animals and if D. didn't keep tabs on it, we would have more than the 2 dogs, 4 cats, guinea pig and rabbit we DO have - all rescues by the way.

50. I volunteer at the Toronto Humane Society becuase I need to serve in some capacity and I could't handle dealing with people - I love it and love walking the dogs there, even the mean ones.

51. I have problems identifying faces and forget them really easily.

52. I am HORRIBLE at math and am embarassed that I am so stupid.

53. I am an amazimg multi-tasker.

54. I've worked since I was 12.

55. I speak French badly and understand it pretty well and read it even better; in hindsight I think I probably have a facility for language I never explored as I picked it up just by being around Quebec for a few years - and spoke Spanish when I was in the Bahamas through the same way.

56. Two of my four children are completely fluent in French.

57. I like to be restrained and flogged, I like pain in proper doses and figured out it is becuase it is the only time I'm not in charge and that I "stop".

58. It is very difficult for me to turn "off" - I am usually on and in a take charge mode.

59. I HATE the heat and it makes me physically sick - I have to stay out of the sun.

60. I have NEVER had a tan- I only burn (thus why I stay out of the sun).

61. I love gardening and am just sad that work and other commitments don't give me enough time in my garden.

62. I am very strong.

63. Autumn is my absolutely favourite season.

64. I grew up a nomad and am still one. I had no extended family around and still don't - I have one sister in Sierra Madres, one sister in Pennsylvania and a mother and sister in Montreal.

65. I love all my sisters but we would probably kill each other if we were too close to each other.

66. [more to come]

New Year, new page

new year, new page ...

I’ve spent a large part of my life trying to be nice ... placating people, soothing situations, the peacekeeper and the one who keeps her mouth shut.

I’ve bitten my lip so often over the course of my existence that there are, I think, permanent indentations in my full lower lip (just mentioning my lip because while I have a (in today’s world, an unpopular) small mouth, I think my lower lip is sorta pouty and sexy, just saying).

I have spent a very large part of my waking moments NOT saying what I think, not expressing my perspective nor venturing my opinion; in large part, I think, because I knew full well my opinion doesn’t count for a whole lot in the scheme of things to the people who purport to care about me.

And there truly is nothing quite so devastating as opening your mouth and hearing the words come out and the ears for which they are meant are not hearing them....

My emancipation from the shackles of my own prison is ongoing and a work in progress.

I think too a lot of individuals who “know” me would laugh at the thought I am reticent or in any way, a peacekeeper - as fighting battles is something I do extremely well - but then, if they really looked at things, they would realize, those battles I fight are inevitably for OTHER people.

The reality is, I cannot STAND to be helpless nor can I tolerate being helped.

I literally go into a frenzy at the thought of needing something from someone and find it almost impossible to accept even the most simplistic offer of assistance.

I am fiercely independent in just about any way you might imagine – financially, physically, mentally ... and have been for as long as I can remember.

It is one reason I obsess over staying healthy. As I am a type 2 diabetic, I am fanatical (or have been in the past) about dealing with the disease in a way which will retard its progress as much as possible. Only recently, I recognized some very bad choices I made over the past year which seriously impacted the course of the disease were fuelled by rage and a despair so implacable it was almost suicidal in nature.

And the result is I have now spilled over the line into serious territory insofar as my blood sugar is concerned.

I’m now committed to trying to undo – or at least slow down – the damage I’ve inflicted on my body over the past year of hell. Which means back to the gym, back to healthy eating, back to testing. I don’t fool myself that the path will be smooth or in any way easy – I’ve been down this path before and there is a certain part of me that scoffs at the thought of doing it yet again and doubts my ability to complete the course.

When I watched my father die from complications of Type 2 diabetes 6 years ago, I swore I would NEVER be in a position of helplessness like him – EVER – and my will has never wavered for ONE second in that regard – I would far rather be dead. So I need to refocus and ensure I don’t end up in the position of seeing if I really mean that (and I know I do).

But in my life anyway, the ties between the physical, the emotional, the spiritual and yes, the mental balance are so entwined and co-dependent that one thread can’t be pulled without a resulting vibration along the tenuous lines of other self .. (god, now I sound like I hear voices – hell, I do, all day, every day, but I’m really usually very good about drowning them out (NOTE: THAT IS SARCASM incidentally)).

The bottom line is I have a lot of reassessing to do ... a lot of naval-gazing and decision-making to tackle ... because terrible experiences from the past five years have left an indelible and profound impact on who I thought selkie was ... have changed to the core my awareness of self and shaken to pieces what I thought was a solid and very real foundation of belief.

and one of the changes is I’m not biting my lip anymore.

And another change is I’m working damn hard at accepting I don’t believe in a damn thing anymore, not in god, not in memories I thought real, not in truths I thought unwavering and I know now were lies.

And seeing where that takes me from here...