Category: Childhood Trauma

It’s been awhile…

It’s been awhile…

Fall has always been my kind of season. When I moved from L.A. in the 80’s I’d never experienced all four seasons before. That magical low humidity high clarity time of year, the lower angle of the sun and change is in the air.

I had a roofer come over for an estimate the other day and as I met him coming from the yard he said “Holy cow, did you see the two great blue herons? Like literally right there?!?” Uh, yep…they’re kinda always…around??? And it’s true. I’m blessed with proximity to nature’s ultimate HD experience day in and day out! I just chuckle and we watch the last one give us the stink eye for spoiling his fishing before taking a swooping flight around the pond.

_DSC5221-1Update: Right after this post look who dropped by for a visit.

Let’s see… Anxiety, check. PTSD and its related derivatives, check. Progress on processing early childhood trauma and its context to human connections today, major check.

Going through the #MeToo movement via Twitter, Instagram & Facebook has been an eye opening experience. On the one hand I have greater awareness that I’m not alone. I’ve also learned there’s a lot more layers of complexity out there when it comes to the over all topic of “Childhood Trauma” within the sexual abuse category alone. I still haven’t found anyone who’s had my personal experience but that’s okay.

I won’t get into categories or descriptions regarding the topic either because it doesn’t really matter. No ‘one’ person’s story is ‘less than’ anyone else’s. To take that a step further. None of our lives or stories are any ‘less than’ each others. When I think of things in those terms I don’t get stuck living ‘in the trauma’ and find it easier to live in a solution.

Growing up on my grandparents farm in Arizona meant everyone was exposed to geology. Whether it was something like the International Tucson Gem & Mineral Show or even The Grand Canyon itself, you kiiinda pretty much had a clue that the earth has been around for quite awhile. Sorry Ark Experience folks but no…uh uh. Not buying it. Hence my obsession visualizing and trying to find a way to express my personal timeline in some manner. I have a zillion childhood photos of a very unique time in Los Angeles I just gotta figure something out. Watercolor, mixed media, who knows.

Think about it. In the longevity of mammals we’re literally shot out into the world in 16-18 years and then, with fingers crossed, we’re expected to somehow stick the landing and not land on our face. That’s a preeetty narrow window of time when your little childhood sponge of a brain is literally sucking up every image, sound, scent, feeling, phrase, touch, lighting angle, fabric and surface texture along the way. Assuming you find a decent career or living after all that, then the next 30 years are kinda on auto pilot. That’s a pretty big if…

Recently I reconnected with an old Hollywood High School friend and it’s made a difference in moving forward. I’m trying to keep using FaceTime so that it pushes me to keep up with things around the house. The joints had me down most of the summer and given the mosquito issues it’s probably just as well I didn’t get to work in the yard as much as usual. I can’t get to a gym and keeping a 1c yard cleared, mowed, trimmed and stacked with wood is quite a bit.

I took some time off from ‘processing’ the tough stuff from my childhood. Not because I let it go or found any sort of resolution, but because some of it sorta just resolved itself. #MeToo got me in touch with owning and living my truth. Now it’s time to live what’s next rather than keep treading water and wondering why I’m still stuck. If you’re reliving the trauma over and over via social media. It makes it harder to transition to a more positive affirming life approach and that’s pretty important to me.

I closed my FB account and definitely don’t miss it one bit. I’ve unfollowed a lot of news media outlets/hosts from Twitter and Instagram. I use Tweetdeck because I can put in filters, which I cannot encourage strongly enough if you want maintain some sense of sanity. Total lifesaver during the FratBro confirmation hearings for example. Definitely didn’t need those kinda triggers in my life.

Rambling, I know.

My whole reason for firing up this post was because I spoke with my Dad today. I never thought I’d hear his voice again to be perfectly honest. Not in a mean way. Just in a way that I really didn’t have a clear idea of just how bad he was the last time we spoke. I make leeway that he’s old and can’t stick to any one topic for long so I’ve always just let him go from one to the other. Today was no different…almost.

He left a voicemail last Friday but didn’t say anything other than. “No I don’t want to leave a message, thank you.” and hung up. I’m guessing at 79 with parkinson’s he thought the VM prompt was a real person and more a result of old age not dementia. Another side effect of old age is answering your phone no matter where you are because you’re old and you’ll do it if you damn well want to. Lol.

When he answered there were some musical instrument sounds in the background. It’d fade in and out, sometimes it was quiet on the line while he moved around. I’ve learned not to revisit any past phone conversations and I can sense he appreciates that. I casually ask how things are and let him go from there.

Definitely not happy he can’t drive anymore but seems to understand it’s his parkinson’s that make it unsafe. “Can you believe it? You don’t do good on one test and boom, no more car. One, ONE test, sheesh.” I commiserate and support the absurdity, he slightly chuckles and moves on.

His reaching out to me is his own way of trying to be fatherly, I can only guess, with him it’s never been clear. The conversation went on for awhile as he discussed each physical change that has now limited movement. More of the ‘gee whiz’ exclamations and how he’s fighting having to use a wheelchair and how he definitely doesn’t want to be in a home. He wasn’t angry but logical and accepting of the fact that of All the conditions he’s been through Parkinson’s is the worst. He says worse than going through both Prostrate & Colon Cancer which is ming boggling.

The hardest part of today’s call was hearing the constant jangle on his phone while his voice was sort of far away. He didn’t want to admit it but his admission earlier of having to wear a bracelet now and with his left hand being the most prone to shaking, it all eventually made sense. He’s left handed and he was trying to use that hand to hold the phone hence the rattling bracelet. Sigh…(that kinda really hit home tbh)

So. Where am I with all this shit? Tread lightly I suppose. Even though he’s at the root of most of if not all my childhood trauma. I want to be able to look at my childhood photos again and keep the good memories like a normal person. Put them in actual frames, on the mantle or bookcase and not keep living the life of a ghost like I have.

The question of forgiveness hasn’t been resolved but it doesn’t have to…for now. For now, I just gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other and be okay with not being okay. 

It’s Fall in New England, time to get that camera out even if I feel like shit! And I own that in all of it’s profane positivity!

 

Getting closer…

Getting closer…

#anxiety, #depression, #cptsd, #childhoodtrauma, #childhoodsexualabuse – these are the things i still carry as an adult. they don’t go away. they don’t magically disappear when those around us can’t bear us as we are, we have to fight allll the underlying symptoms and pretend things are normal when they’re anything but…

i reached out to a mental health alliance three weeks ago for help. they did an extensive intake over the phone and i disclosed my sexual abuse as a young boy in hope of finding a trauma informed therapist.

everything seemed to go well. the intake person was nice enough. paused when she needed to let me get my muddle thoughts out. reassured when she could and made me feel like i could trust her. after confirming all the necessary personal, medical and insurance info i was told the director would contact me and then i’d hear from a therapist they felt ‘could’ be a good match. (meaning after that conversation the director would have a better sense of who to match me with but the ultimate connection would be between myself and the therapist.)

that was three weeks ago and i’m still without mental healthcare.

i’m losing the will to keep getting back up. over and over and over again…i’m worn out, tired, defeated and fearful.

when you’re told from your earliest memories to “be a man, it’s not that bad.” or “stop crying, you’re bigger than that” or “oh stop being a baby, sheesh.”

i wasn’t a child in anyone’s responsible form of care. i was just an annoyance. nothing more than a pet. something you just make sure there’s water in their bowl, food in their dish and once and awhile you let them out to take a piss on the lawn if they bawl loud enough…

i’m alone. i’m scared. i’m not sure of what’s next.

suicide? dunno. one time i tried pills. i swallowed the whole bottle of Restoril that i’d just filled. 30 30mg’s should do it. my eyes began to feel heavy and i did doze in and out a few times. barren apartment, my first, hard futon on a hardwood floor, lighting from the outside courtyard coming through the blinds…that’s the last thing i remember.

my apartment was within walking distance of a major hospital area near Fenway Park. walk out of the courtyard take a right and 5 minutes later you’d be in the lobby of their emergency room. it seems i was on auto-pilot because that’s the only way i could have gotten there.

my head was pounding, awful taste in my mouth, black stains all over my hospital gown and arms. it wouldn’t be until much later that i’d see my reflection in a mirror where my teeth had been blackened by them charcoaling me. stains down my chin indicate either i wasn’t conscious enough to aid in drinking it or they just wanted to get as much of it in me as possible and hope for the best.

this was my first inpatient stay in a mental hospital. later i’d learn the term was ‘feet first’ versus signing yourself in or someone else had ‘sectioned’ you. feet first referring to being wheeled in on a gurney…

i was there for 7 days, long by health insurance standards, not long enough by mine but there would be many more in-patient stays to come…

without an external support system (no friends or family) i had to live off clothes others gave me when they left or had extras of. it was a humbling yet lonely experience. certainly not one that got me on the road to figuring anything out anyway. i was only 30 and didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside of me.

they’re goal is to just stabilize you with meds give you a treatment ‘plan’ and you’re on your own after you’re out the door. no clean hand off to a psych for meds or a therapist for skills. nope. just some SSRI’s du jour and “Best of luck, you’ll do fine, keep up the great work!” and all the rest of the platitudes i assume the train them to say.

i suppose pills were less dramatic than the 15th floor balcony ledge in downtown boston some years later. another time i’d fallen through the cracks and felt like i had no way out or anyone to help me.

who knows why i chose a hotel balcony given that i have an extreme fear of heights. all i remember is climbing over the rail and facing outward but gripping the railing so hard i couldn’t feel my hands…

the side of the hotel i was on was well lit from below but i hadn’t noticed any sirens or lights. the door opened with what looked like 4 firemen and a hotel worker. who knows why fate works out the way it does but the hotel worker turned out to be someone i know as a friend of friend kind of thing. shame and guilt immediately came over me, then panic…

“Rob…it’s me Kyle, please don’t do this. Just stay with me and let’s talk okay?”

my eyes met his and i crumbled into sobbing tears while a phalanx of arms and gear lurch me back into the hotel room…another ‘feet first’ visit back to the same hospital.

therapists always ask me if i feel safe or have plans to kill myself. it’s a tricky question because the truth is i always, always have a plan on stand by. anyone who’s ever had to keep suicide in their back pocket as a way out of pain always always has a plan.

i try and be honest i try and trust but i never fully commit. i’ve never met a therapist or single friend who’d stay around long enough to hear my story so that i ‘could’ in fact trust them. trust…my achilles heel.

it’s tuesday night June 25th and i had a really hard time driving into boston to see my MD for meds yesterday. the prescription is all screwed up which means multiple phone calls to him, the pharmacy, medicare, aetna and so forth. all of those things drain a person with #Anxiety from #CPTSD so quickly and so deeply it takes days or weeks to bounce back from that stuff.

and that’s why i’m tired of, well, everything. tired of being let down. tired of people saying they’ll call back and don’t. tired of people saying they’ll come visit me and they don’t.

tired of being invisible and of no consequence…

i don’t have any answers other than i know i’m not to blame for things or thought processes i can’t control. when you’ve done all you can to reach out and say “HELP ME” and nothing comes back to you from the echo chamber of life what else are you left with besides…why bother?

no i don’t need a wellness check, not tonight anyway. just know that this is all being written in real time with real names details and timeframes. full and complete honesty is they only comforting characteristic i’ve come to value in this life, it’s the only way i know how to navigate people and it’s also the source of my greatest pain. when all you know how to be is honest and authentic, when people cast you aside your brain doesn’t know how to process that except for making yourself the failure.

this house is a trap and i need to leave here if i can. if i can’t find a solution soon than those ‘plans’ will definitely become more of a reality even though i really don’t want that to happen.

even if i don’t want that to happen – there’s still only so much pain a person can take in life before there’s just no more room. your brain, body and emotional capacity starts to push back and say “no…not anymore…yeah i’m sure…i’m done.”

 

La Mirada Ave, Hollywood CA ’77

La Mirada Ave, Hollywood CA ’77

who knows why i capitalize things or write the way i do. i’m not a professional and i failed 10th grade english. the transition from junior high school in 9th grade to high school at 10th grade was when my life began to fall apart…

13 – 15ish were the years living with my father on a street called La Mirada Avenue in Hollywood California. a classic hollywood neighborhood in between santa monica and sunset blvd. little armenia i think its dubbed now which i find kinda odd and offensive but that’s another topic…

traditional as well as side by side spanish style stucco duplexes co-mingled with 50’s retro apartment buildings, replete with large lettering, backlighting and landscaping. some stand alone classic california bungalow’s mixed with various corner stores upstair apartments and a new thing called a mini strip mall made for a diverse mix of people. rick dees’ disco duck was popular at the local laundromat.

le conte junior high was just around the corner which made getting to school easy in the morning. le conte and hollywood high schools were open campuses back then. on a trip to L.A a few years back they looked more like prisons which was sad.

7th grade in 1977 is when i was abruptly dropped into the city of hollywood. uprooted from a year of stability and safety where i was finally learning coping skills. a city where everything and everyone was completely new to me…including living with my own father.

i had spent my 6th grade year living in arizona with my grandfather and other aunts and uncles because my father had sent me there for a summer and then didn’t want me back…and then suddenly he yanked me from where i was perfectly comfortable living and it changed everything…forever.

1977 hollywood was a huge change from living on a farm in arizona. a place with wide open spaces a sense of routine and grounding were the best thing for me back then. so when it all changed to having to live in a one bedroom apartment stacked up with 8-10 other units, it was all too much for me. i’d try to tell my dad but he didn’t get it. he never did when it came to things i could and couldn’t handle.

i don’t want to go too far back tonight so just some quick back story on meds and ADD w/Hyperactivity disorder.

i had lived in arizona before when i was 7 and had to spend 2nd grade there as well. this is when ritalin and eventually dexadrine became part of my life and would continue until i would come back for 6th grade. the same year my grandfather threw out the drugs and taught me how to farm and keep busy. it was the healthiest i had ever been…ever. even my childhood dr. was surprised to see me go from a sickly kid on 3 different meds to a strapping teen farm kid who was happy and healthy.

i would come to be in hollywood at the strong objection of my grandfather and and aunt who was only 18 herself at the time. i also didn’t know they wanted me to stay until just last year when my aunt and i began to reconnect over the health of my now ailing father. she told me they both told him he should leave me where i was but he didn’t. that’s a hard feeling for me to reconcile even today. it’s difficult to stay away from the thoughts of ‘if only’ he had just left me where i was. it’s not productive but it is my default programming. work in progress…

the desert offered me something no one had ever bothered to ask me about in all of those childhood psychologist pick your brain discussions. the peace and solitude of wide open spaces with stars that lit up the night sky as far as the eye could see. the smell of rain or a thunderstorm on the horizon. the smell of the creosote bushes on the breeze as a wall of rain and lightening sweep through…i wish i was there right now.

teenage years are rough enough and when you’ve been yanked all over the place your entire life all i wanted by the age of 11 was to get off the fucking carnival ride of drama that my father created for my mother and myself and just be left the fuck alone…i’m here because of you jackass, go live your life and leave me alone i would cry into my pillow. i didn’t want to leave.

noise. noise is the single biggest trigger in my life. it was a trigger throughout my entire childhood at school and no one would ever listen to me. i’m putting the emphasis on school because that was my father’s idea of how parenting was supposed to work. you send your kid to school and they baby sit you, that’s what his taxes paid for you know. his idea of fatherhood was basically financial meaning up until 7th grade he had always

paid other people to take care of me. paid-them-to-board-me-like-a-fucking-pet.

1st grade was when i lived with my grandmother on my mothers side, the years when the sexual abuse began, and 3rd through 5th grade i lived with people we weren’t even related to and i were people i didn’t even know. it’s no wonder i craved the stability of arizona and the time with my grandfathers side of the family. nothing bad ever happened there, it was where i wanted to stay you idiot, couldn’t you see that and not be selfish? no, that was too much to expect…another theme in our relationship. his needs always came first and my disappointment was something he hated. he hated it because i could never hide it, i could never hide my feelings not then and not even today.

as of last december, he still hates it…

we’ve all had those times when you’re told “Oh just ignore them, it’s no big deal.” and i get it. for most people it isn’t a big deal, you learn to tune it out and it becomes part of growing up. trust me i toooootallly get it. but…with ADHD and meds, well that’s a whole other ball of wtf is going on in my brain?!? did they reeeally know what the long term effects would be for meds at that age and for that duration? 7-15? that’s a long time if you ask me, oh that’s right. kids…seen, not heard…

noise, especially repetitive noise still makes me lose my shit. city living and apartment living in particular is a noise and scenario i’ve been running from my whole life. the thought of falling so far down the economic ladder that that’s where i end up again terrifies me. not so much my apartment living in boston but those of the L.A. type. thin walls of cheap and expeditious stucco, shared stairway landings and trying to block out the sound or visual movement of people less than 15 feet from your screen door. THAT kind of city apartment proximity…

while my health may be in the shitter right now, i am grateful that despite the route my life taken, at least i have a roof over my head and the only noise i have for company at the moment is my ticking cuckoo clock. i’m thoroughly grateful for moments like these. moments of unbelievable quietness, peace and solitude in order to organize my thoughts and expectations for the road ahead.

hollywood was noisy and close proximity apartment living. sometimes good sometimes not, but definitely not quiet. the quiet older married couple downstairs, the single lady across the hall and the armenian family below them made up our front quadrantof the building. that was in our first la mirada building before moving to a two bedroom just up the street.

funny how tonight’s emphasis is on noise and basketball. two things i hate the most as a kid. i mean i loved hanging out at school and stuff but sports totally weren’t my thing. the only reason my dad is even part of this writing is because he would often come and play after school. on one hand i loved that we were spending time together but on the other hand he didn’t hide how he felt about me not being good at sports either. this would become a common theme with us. what was wrong with me and why i couldn’t be like him. he never missed an opportunity to verbalize or physically lash out about it either.

to get through the health challenges ahead i’m going to have to deal with how it is that he triggers me today. and by triggers i mean being triggered when asked about my parents or childhood/familial history which is part and parcel when interacting with dr’s and hospitals.

as i write this i’m struggling with my fingers not working like they used to. keeping my arms raised to type becomes fatiguing and my wrists and right elbow feel like i just want to rip them off from the constant pain. i’m way past over the counter meds, which never worked anyway, and now i really do have to see a dr. which absolutely terrifying for me. the probing questions always lead to an un-rehearsed question i hadn’t planned for and then there’s the whole body touching thing.

i’m definitely ‘not there’ yet at all…

i was watching an old james garner movie called “Mister Buddwing” one night and then it clicked. Probing. Probing questions are what cause my anxiety to go through the roof and now i finally know why!

i found it channel surfing one night, TCM had been plugging it the week so i figured why not and what’s not to like about 1966 NYC?

the architecture, the style, the costumes and jazz. not to mention Jean Simmons, Suzanne Pleshette, Katharine Ross and Angela Lansbury. man wakes up in central park, has amnesia, then tries to piece it all together retracing his steps with each woman.

apart from the visual eye candy ala a 1966 film set in NYC, it’s still a drama dealing with some very tough subject matter.

Mister Buddwing is a made up name until he can put the pieces of his memory back together while various storylines play out with the female characters. in one scene a man asks to share a table with him while eating lunch. Buddwing seems put off but says yes.

then the barrage of questions start. the usual small talk typical of a 1966 nyc urban setting. the, what kinda work, where ya from ,what’s yer name kinda stuff. all things Buddwing can’t answer so he bs’s the pestering fuck until he blows up at the rapid fire bullshit!

Bing Bing Bing! We a winner! – that’s me to a fucking tee!

when i first saw the scene i hadn’t realized another twenty minutes had passed before i snapped back to the present. my mind had been tumbling the thought over and over that that’s exactly what happens to me but for one small difference.

i don’t ‘want’ to remember things people ask me, i never have. not that i can’t, i really really don’t want to and if you keep pushing me i will explode.

once my father uprooted me like he did and then proceeded to abdicate any and all responsibility for my difficulty adjusting from farm to city, i began running away from home and living on the streets doing things to survive a 14yo shouldn’t have to…those are the parts i don’t want to remember.

unraveling how my #anxiety and #ptsd manifest itself today has been a very long journey indeed. but. now that i have some distance from the holidays, i need to go back to forgetting things again. that’s not a bad thing and it’s not a negative commentary on my father either. it just means means i’ve found a few more pieces of the puzzle and that’s half the battle.

if i’m going to get through the medical hurdles ahead i’m going to have to work on familial triggers and pre-empt them ahead of time. i’m going to have to practice being asked the same questions over and over and over again while not losing my shit – especially when it comes to my father and his medical history.

i can’t let him rob me of a future, i just can’t.

i don’t ask why so much anymore when it comes to how or why life unfolds they way it does. it’s counter-productive and robs you of the present. i mean when a random movie can trigger an insight like that it’s pretty hard to not to be grateful.

grateful for something like the simple gift of clarity. grateful i’m still here. grateful to have found another piece of myself…

…end brain dump

Another closed door…

Another closed door…

contacted my old therapist in Boston. got the same reply i’ve been getting for months from All healthcare professionals. “Oh I don’t know anything about Medicare, that’s not my thing.”

Really? Than why and how is it you’re a Medicare “P R O V I D E R” yet you know nada??? Yeah…okay.

all i can say is that i truly am in a no mans land when it comes to medical care or mental health care. of the hospitals or medical centers that within driving distance of me the locals won’t even go to for specialist care.

if i’m lucky enough to bump into a neighbor long enough to strike up a casual convo, they all say the same thing. “I’d never go to that hospital, we always go to Boston, it’s waaay safer.”

so wtf am i supposed to do. i can’t drive that far on a regular basis. so far no one in either the medical side of things or mental health side of things seems to know what the fuck a Social Worker is or how to get one.

how, how the fuck is it that you can be disabled, yes i have my social security letter, be on Medicare AND have a Blue Cross Blue Shield Bronze supplemental plan but i don’t qualify for any type of outside help coordinating all of this??? zero? zip? nada? Hello???

i fantasize about just selling my house and taking whatever cash is left over and then try to get lost in another country somewhere. i mean why not just get a passport/visa and whatever else it takes and just leave the US all together?

i don’t have family any longer. i’m done chasing after friends who inevitably never call you back or make the effort to reach out themselves, so if i’m truly a ‘party of one’ as i call it, no one will miss me anyway.

if all else fails there are always the more immediate solutions.

when you’re an adult male of early childhood sexual abuse by a female family member, your world and perception of people is forever changed. you ‘may’ find a way back to normalcy and i’m thrilled for you if you have.

that’s just not in my story unfortunately. mine is shaping up to be one of solitude and permanent loneliness because i’ve been kicked to the curb so many times i’ve just given up trying. maybe i was never meant to understand how to navigate friendships or how to build an extended family of strangers.

i dunno. so many maybes…still so much left unanswered…

with whatever energy i have left in this timeline maybe i should really un-tether myself and just go off into wherever the wind might take me. it’d certainly be better than struggling with a healthcare system that has zero interest in helping someone like me.

life’s not so kind to single white me of a certain age, we’re always the first one’s to be cast offs of our society…

i should have known better…

i should have known better…

kicked to the curb on xmas eve by my father, aunt and step mother. why ask me for help turning my world upside down only to disavow all of the hard legal work you had me do in the first place?

after doing everything in my power to get legal documents completed from 3k miles away both last year and this year i’m told “we’re all set…” “we don’t need or want your help any longer…” “oh, you can see you father if you want but only on my terms.”

all of this via text on christmas eve…

really? you all couldn’t have the maturity to treat me with enough respect to pick up the phone and call me? or better yet. why not just wait until After the holidays have passed like normal people?

because none of you are normal people and i’m done being made out to be the bad guy.

i was an idiot to believe my father and family understood that in all of the legal paperwork i had sent that the one most critical for me today was a medical directive. it didn’t have to be to ‘direct’ his care but it would have allowed me to talk to and work with his dr’s directly. when you’re talking about the kind of genetics we have, that was all i had hoped for. a possible shot at and a small glimmer of hope that by accepting him for who he is today i’d at least have some hope as to what my own future might hold medically.

today all of that was thrown out the window without a care for me…as is always the case.

i’m sure i’ll be made the bad guy again. i’ll never get a thank you or a simple “I know what you’re going through, let’s find another way to help you.” kinda stupid to expect simple things like that right?

i’m not bitter. i’m tired. i’m tired of always being the one left holding the bag. i’m tired of always being the one mentally and emotionally battered and bruised without so much as a passing thought.

i’m tired and yes i’m truly done… goodbye dad, goodbye family and goodbye to my past. i won’t remember you fondly. i won’t spend a single thought trying to piece together gauzy idealistic dreams of what my childhood should have been like. there aren’t enough positive things that can overcome the negative now, it’s all become one black sludgey slimey memory i never ever want to recall again.

my holidays will be only mine from now on. no more nervous expectations there ‘might’ be a xmas card (and there never is). no more waiting for birthday cards or any celebrations. you’ve forfeited the right to be part of my memories.

i’ll go back to erasing all of them from my memory and feelings. there’s no space for them going forward and today i’m truly a party of one on this planet. i’m hurt and lonely. sad yet relieved as well.

relieved because i can now go back to cordoning off my holidays without the intrusion of an overly ‘entitled’ family who never gives a second thought to how it may upend mine.

it’s a little before 3pm and i’ve only just received the text 6 hours ago. my body feels crummy and yet it’s depressing but i’ll battle back before the evening sets in.

light snowflakes fall outside and i need to restock the firewood for an evening watching old movies. i have a spiral ham i’m going to make along with twice baked sweet potato’s and baby peas.

someday i hope to cook for more than one, just as i always do, but tonight and tomorrow will be as they always are. spent in solitude and safety while i safely shut out the world.

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