Friday, 19 August 2011

When Even The Abyss Does Not Look Back

This was me yesterday: breaking at last, the dam breached, the walls down, critical mass attained. Even the most impervious of us have our limits. (I feel very fortunate that, like poor Brennan over there, I have a "Booth" in my life willing to be there for me; though it wasn't until later, when I was more myself again, that I realized the scenes were so very similar.) At least some of the horrible, grinding sorrow washed away with the flood of tears, although I'm not sure the hollowness of the aftermath feels all that much better. It's not like this is a particularly new sensation for me, but in all my years I've never learned to like it. I will say emphatically, however, that it is rather better not to have to writhe through it alone.

So there it is. According to the Holmes and Rahe stress scale, I should probably be dead by now (and that is only a slight exaggeration). I am not dead, and luckily for me I have dealt with situational depression, intermittent dysthymia, in the past and know that it does pass eventually. It's just the waiting for it to pass that is the annoyance. A lot has gone on in the past year, and in the year before that, and the year before that--a constant accumulation of stressors with very little downtime, and me with few reserves left from which to recharge. I suppose I should be surprised that it took this long for me to collapse in a sullen, sodden, weeping, self-loathing, self-recriminatory, heart-crushed heap! (Note: I got better.) Hell, I've lost my oldest cat, my job, my free time, my house, my land, along with various intangibles that it would be far too melodramatic for me to go into, and that's just in the past 12 months, never mind what came before; wouldn't a normal person have long before now gone completely round the bend? But as usual, I'm down but not entirely out.

I'm trained in psychology, but that doesn't necessarily mean I can apply it to myself; like reading Tarot for yourself, it's all to easy to interpret things as you want them to be rather than as they truly are. You can run and run, but eventually you have to stop running. Your world may turn upside down, but it will eventually right itself. It's said that it takes the brain three days to adjust; maybe it takes the heart a little longer.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011


Remember her? Yeah, so do I. She's that part of me that, just a couple of troubled months ago, I thought I'd lost--or worse, that had never existed at all. At best I thought she'd been left behind in the move, packed away in a box stored in a far corner of an attic, perhaps given away in the final mad scramble to disassemble the last decade of my life and tidy away the details in preparation for the next phase. I thought there could be no place for her in the very different world I was entering.

And I thought wrong.

Some things in life seem irrevocable, unalterable; they're the things that you always come back to, or the things that simply are. I will always have distinctively blue eyes; colored contacts could disguise or conceal them, but the essential fact of their blueness remains beneath. A trip to the spray-tan booth only briefly alters the fair skin that betrays my ancestry. I like Warehouse 13, but it's The X-Files that holds my heart as a personal, modern mythos. I'll drink the wine you serve me, but I might secretly be wishing for the moscato or plum that I like best.

I have many interests in this life--you can't live this long without discovering a few things you like--but some are more enduring than others. Egyptology is a long-standing one, dating back to about sixth grade when a school trip took us to Chicago's museums and my first glimpses of mummies and funerary goods and shiny lovely things. Egyptian religion, in theory and then in practice, was a later awakening. These things endure. But witchcraft? I can't remember a time when I wasn't infatuated with witchcraft. And no matter that the books I was reading as a wide-eyed youngster were tainted with questionable scholarship or authorial bias; the die was cast, the spark was struck, and a little witchlet was born who eventually grew up, looked around, fell in with the wrong crowd, made it out on the other side, licked her wounds, and--

And what? Gave it all up because her life got weird and other people were assholes?

No. You know what? Fuck that sideways. That's not how this is going to work.

Just as spray tans fade and contacts can be removed, so the disguises and distractions all fall away eventually. The truth is, I love this stuff. And if it took me this many years to physically and psychologically and spiritually and magickally sever all the miserable bonds to that Wrong Crowd, then so be it. And scars add character, right?

I will be doing the spooky blog I mentioned before, I think, but there's something else I want you to see first. I think some of you may end up liking it:

And here's your appropriate Bones quote for the day, from Agent Booth:

"I'm BACK, baby!"

Friday, 5 August 2011

Or, you know, not.

Hmm. I am apparently in a phase of life where anything I say will summarily be disproved by the universe, and where things are subject to change without notice. Okay, then. Challenge accepted.

And just because I stop believing in a thing, it doesn't necessarily mean that thing stops believing in me.

So don't count me out just yet!

(In other, somewhat related news, I think I'm going to open an adjunct blog dedicated solely to the spooky things I love so much. It's almost That Time Of Year, you know.)