"You get nothing!"

Jul. 25th, 2017 02:26 am
rosefox: A cartoon figure slipping toward a gaping hole in the paper. (slipping)
[personal profile] rosefox
I'm having one of those "parenting is so hard, when does it stop being hard, oh right, never" days.

I was watching Kit play on their own and glumly thinking that happy Kit is independent and only wants parents when they're sad. Then they toddled over and handed me a stuffed fox, just because. So I know that what I'm feeling is just a feeling and has very little to do with reality. But it's still a big feeling.

Relatedly, having a tantruming toddler scream directly into your ear for several minutes is really quite challenging.

"Kit is so chill," I thought, once upon a time. "Maybe they won't really get toddler tantrums." I was so wrong. Soooo wrong. Tantrums aren't about personality. They're about cognitive and emotional overload. A scream into the void.

(My right ear is the void, apparently.)

(But was I going to stop cuddling my screaming child? Of course not. My ear can cope.)

And now I feel like the worst parent in the world because I couldn't really help my kid, even when they were bottomlessly miserable. There is no cure for the tantrum because it's an existential crisis. You just hold on and say "I'm here" like it means anything. And eventually they stop crying long enough for you to get some calories into them, which almost always helps. It turns out that kids are always basically one minute away from a massive hunger crash, and that rather exacerbates the existential angst.

You could not pay me enough to be a child again. No way. It's genuinely a wonder that kids are ever happy at all. Their bodies do weird things, the world is baffling, everything is too big, they have no control, safety is elusive and fleeting. It's like a fucking horror movie, 24/7. And yet my child comes over and smiles at me and puts their head on my knee for sheer love.

I guess maybe they wanted to say "I'm here" like it means anything.

I guess maybe it does.

Rhetorical question is rhetorical

Jul. 24th, 2017 06:11 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
Why do I worship Death? I have no other gods, no other patrons or symbols that have captured my love the way Death has. I have loved Death for decades, long before my actual brushes with death that left my life waiting in the span of hours, in minutes of actually meeting Death.

Why do I have shrine built to the very idea of death? Skeletons, mini-graveyards filled with actual cemetery dirt (I still have that, Cemetery!) Pictures of graveyards, cards made by friends of movies that deal with death, a locket of the Catholic patron of Death. The comic of the Crow. A rose with an actual muskrat skull buried within the petals. Jewelry of bones. An actual animal skull, in full, on display.

Are people like me born this way or are we made this way?

Why do I worship Death? And why does it comfort me?

Private blisses

Jul. 23rd, 2017 08:42 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
The night ends in a private bliss. A hot bath, meds to let the hot water sink into every pore, and music as haunting and beautiful as what shivers down the darkest hallways of my soul.

It's exhilarating, cathartic - to have it just be you, the water rising, and alone as this apartment gets. (One closing door in the entire place - and that place is the bathroom.)

Jesse gets worried. He'll check on me, I assume to make sure I'm not painting the walls red with my blood or else have fallen asleep in the tub. (Though I do love to lay in the tub once the water has been drained, cooling off on the still warm but not concrete cold porcelain.)

Sometimes that's all I need to chase the demons away. Be alone, be in hot water that soothes like softly felt fire, and to hear what speaks to the sorrow.

I can sleep with some sort of peace now. And at the end of the day, that's truly all I want.

Brainstorming For Yuletide

Jul. 23rd, 2017 06:12 pm
calliopes_pen: (lost_spook will serve for lives)
[personal profile] calliopes_pen
I am compiling a list of things I would want to see nominated (or might nominate on my own) when Yuletide nominations do open in September. These are what I am currently taking into consideration:

-Makt Myrkranna | Powers of Darkness - Valdimar Ásmundsson
-The Haunting (1963)
-The Innocents (1961)
-The Uninvited (1944)
-Dark Shadows (1991)
-Dracula - Bram Stoker
-Dracula (TV 1968)
-Count Dracula (1977)
-Nosferatu (the 1979 remake) -Hammer Horror Films
-Universal Monster Movies
-Crimson Peak (2015)
-Fright Night (1985)
-Ghostbusters (Movies 1984-1989)
-The Last Unicorn (1982)

At the moment, I suspect that I’ll be nominating Makt Myrkranna (the Icelandic version of Stoker's Dracula that I discussed a while back) in that first slot. Either Dracula (TV 1968) or Dracula - Bram Stoker would go in the second slot unless someone else eventually nominated either one of those.

If it were going to be being released sooner than December, I would be able to add Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water to my list of potential things to throw in there.

Oh, and on a note that doesn’t involve Yuletide: I finally watched Jack The Ripper (1988), and I loved it.

:)))

Jul. 23rd, 2017 09:20 pm
annyuta: (Default)
[personal profile] annyuta
Когда смотрю это видео, не могу перестать улыбаться.
55 лет человеку, ну! :))

https://twitter.com/bongmute/status/881902754003914752

А это гифка из видео, но она не встраивается - надо на нее нажать.


Кажется, пора заводить тэг для DM или персонально Дэйва Гаана :).

Tracking the swings

Jul. 23rd, 2017 01:07 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
Mood hit a wild downswing, for the reasons that they do, most famous being why the hell not? It's not depression. That's easy to recognize. It's not sadness. That's also easy to name. It's something more chaotic than that. Something that I'm not sure how it's going to manifest.

Predictability is not a virtue, nor a thing I put any faith inside.

Gonna try to sleep it out. May or may not work.

Sleepless nights at the black and white keys
I'll let my fingers say it for me.

Sometimes I swear the lyrics words write me
The words write me.

The melody a remedy to calm me down
You never did approve of the fix I found.

You can bury my body in the backyard,
When you're not looking I'll go dig myself up!
" Icon for Hire "Rock N Roll Thugs"

Buried halfway underground due to the tricksters in my head. And if I shall have enough dirt thrown at my head to bury me completely, I will try to dig myself out. I will try.

That's all anyone can ask of me, whether or not I manage actually to crawl out of the grave covered in dirt or covered in blood.

Science and how it redeems itself

Jul. 23rd, 2017 08:44 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
I think I've discovered the core issue of my life-long migraines - and it's ridiculously basic.

High blood pressure.

Since the worst of them only happen when I forget to take them (my potassium blocker, for some reason, always ends up the "forget to take it till mid-afternoon" list), and I now know I've had high blood pressure for most of my life, it's easy enough to pinpoint the largest cause.

Just a few pills and for the most part, my skull stays exactly where it is and does not explode into boney-shards waves of pain. I do still GET migraines, but those are now either stress related, (usually when I am having bad or anxiety dreams) or "Oh shit, I forgot my pills. Goddamnit."

The wonders of modern medicine. I'd say I'm surprised no one caught it, but outside of two urgent-care clinics (basically one-time doctor visits which do not have access to full medical equipment or personnel), I hadn't been to a doctor in 20 years. There was no one there TO catch it.

Lack of health insurance, mostly. I saw little reason to go to an ER as they always said "Go to your doctor", of which thanks to having no health insurance, I didn't have a doctor to go to.

One time I went in hoping to get sent to rehab, but SURPRISE, my small town's single rehab center did not take methamphetamine addicts, as they did not believe it was a physical addiction.

(Thank fucking God we know better now.)

Seriously, the 90's sucked so hard for some of this medical/psychiatric shit. Mad props to anyone who had to get help for physical or mental health in earlier decades. I mean, FOR REALS.

And even now, in 2017, we are still waiting on science to catch up on so much stuff. Why do epilepsy drugs work for bipolar disorder? Not a fucking clue. Is lupus family-based genetically passed? Not a fucking clue. What REALLY causes addiction, and why do support groups work only some of the time? Not a fucking clue.

Shit like that. I'm exceedingly grateful that we know so much more now. I'm exceedingly exasperated that we don't know MORE than we do now.

But I guess that's science. EUREKA moments are made-for-tv only and the rest of us have to live in Real Life. I guess, for today, that's okay.

"Close enough for jazz"

Jul. 23rd, 2017 03:13 am
rosefox: Me snuggling a giant teddy bear, entirely contented. (sleeping)
[personal profile] rosefox
Vacation to-do list/wishlist summary: not too bad! Especially given that today was totally eaten by stressful unexpected circumstances. (Everyone is fine now.)

Things without deadlines (fun):

* Watch Voltron: Legendary Defender and do some knitting
* Stroll in the Botanic Gardens (I didn't do this but did go read in the park near our house)
* Maybe steal the baby from daycare early one day and get extra baby time
* Read (three books! in one week!)
* Cook
* Lunch with my mom
* Sleeeeeeeep

Things without deadlines (productive):

* Shower and dress in real clothes every day (mostly)
* Tidy room enough for vacuuming
* Unpack
* Vacuum (well, I swept, but it's pretty clean underfoot now)
* Catch up on laundry
* Celebrate the 1st anniversary of Story Hospital (!)
* Call insurance company about that bill
* Call doctor's office about that prior auth
* Finish setting up Tinybeans
* Remake OT appointment for next week
* Do a family Readercon debrief/postmortem

(no subject)

Jul. 22nd, 2017 03:59 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
One of the most awesome things about being an adult is that you can eat whatever you want to, whenever you want to (assuming kidneys, livers, and all other forms of digestive system implements are working at somewhat full health.) Now, my promises at 8 years old of eating nothing but chocolate bars has fallen off the rail as the years go on and I find out I actually LIKE certain fruits, vegetables, and the occasional salad, buuuuut -

I'm 36 and the novelty of this has never worn out. I want to binge eat three gigantic bowls of Fruity Loops for lunch AND dinner?

FUCK YEAH. ADULTHOOD RULES.

Rest In Peace, John Heard

Jul. 22nd, 2017 12:14 pm
calliopes_pen: (taibhrigh hear the Ood song)
[personal profile] calliopes_pen
John Heard has passed away at the age of 72. May he rest in peace. He was found dead in his hotel room yesterday, two days after having minor back surgery. He might be most well known for the role of Peter McAllister (Kevin’s father) in the first two Home Alone films. I also vaguely remember him from Cat People (1982).
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
Sometimes I tire of this "gift", this "talent" I have for writing - a gift that I argue is comprised of mostly practice and study. Want to write well? Read a lot of fucking books and write everyday that you can. Do that for several years and BAM - other people will compliment you in awe of your "gift" and your "talent." That's what this "gift" is. That's what ANY "gift" is. Practice and study.

I wasn't born with this. I worked for 24 years to be able to do this. Don't call it a gift. It's fucking self-imposed homework is what it is.

A "gift" implies that is it something one must share with the world - the entire world, lest they be deprived of of your brilliance. I tire of that as well. As much as I've discovered the benefits of public writing, it doesn't make me a fucking genius. It just makes me someone who took all the handwritten journals over the years and moved onto writing on a website that was totally cool back in 2006.

Most (okay, ALL) of my writing is just me trying to keep my head above water. There's not a lot of energy left over write in any other fashion for any other group of people. No, it's NOT as easy as just editing 17 years total of writing. No, it's NOT as easy as just throwing the whole thing on whatever new self-publishing site is new. No, it's NOT as easy to go entry by entry and rewrite the commentary as I see it NOW, years later.

And maybe that's WHY I should do it. Because it's NOT easy - and nothing good has ever just waltzed right up and sat in my lap. But when Maslow's Hierarchy is toppling from the base down, goddamnit, I have the right to do something that helps it from falling over entirely, and that's general journaling.

Will I ever have the energy and the spare psychic wherewithal to write something more than just a journal? I have no idea, and that idea is yeeears away right now anyways. I'm in deep waters, writing is a life-raft, and I'm not ready to build a goddamn cool life-raft designed mansion on the sea just to impress others.

I'm not sure why this frustration is coming this morning. It's been a few days since Jesse and I got into about my writing (and what it should be and what I should do with it.) Maybe there really is the next Great American Novel inside of me.

But she's gonna have to wait in line, because right now I've 200 dollars worth of bills to pay, no money coming IN to pay it, and cramps that are borderline bodily implosion. This is maintenance writing, and y'know what?

I'm okay with that.

So goes the thought process:

Jul. 21st, 2017 10:59 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
* Have one of those inexplicable nights where your meds take hoooours to hit you.

* Roll out bed, disgusted by boredom.

* Hit youtube. Watch College Humor videos until your eyes stop seeing comedy actors and start seeing young 20-ish kids poking fun at social issues that you only think of in passing.

* Get even MORE bored.

* Contemplate listening to music. Curse your inability to listen to happy music.

* Scour your playlists for calming music, knowing that it won't budge the meds or your moods in the slightest.

* Contemplate reading a book. Realize your glasses have gone the way of the dodo and you couldn't find them with a glasses-scrying machine a mile wild. Also curse your inability to read because you're that fucking tired anyways.

* Realize part of this is because you're on the rag. Curse that bitch Eve and try to ignore the lower back that feels like it's exploding out of your torso.

* Fuck it. Put on calming music. Write a Livejournal entry. Realize you will be up till midnight with nothing to show for it.

* ARRRGHHHH.

Rest In Peace, Deborah Watling

Jul. 21st, 2017 12:09 pm
calliopes_pen: (sallymn Brigadier raining)
[personal profile] calliopes_pen
Deborah Watling has passed away, at the age of 69, following a battle with lung cancer. May she rest in peace. She played the role of Victoria Waterfield, companion to the Second Doctor, on Doctor Who. Unfortunately, most of her episodes were destroyed.

The Tomb of the Cybermen and The Enemy of the World managed to survive from her tenure on the series, along with the second episode of the serial The Evil of the Daleks.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
[personal profile] quirkytizzy
I may need another medication adjustment, as the last two mornings have seen me leap out of bed in the middle of anxiety attack, doom and gloom pressing down every breath, ragged and grabbing me by the throat. I pace. I clean. I sit down, curl up, head on my knees, hands caught in my hair, trying to pull the thoughts out.

Mornings used to be my favorite time of the day. Now I dread them. Life at 36 is not life at 16. Simple enough concept, right? But it's one that clobbers me over the head every goddamn time I open my eyes.

The nights are easier, though as the days go, Jesse sinks and I do not know what to do to catch him. Arms can be a lifesaver, but getting out of my head seems impossible somedays.

I must try, though. My goal of having meaningful interaction (face to face) with another human being 30 minutes every other day has had some success. I don't always feel better, but I know it's necessary to get moving out of my sickness. Re-socialize to eventually back to being able to work.

I've managed to keep every appointment set in the last month. My case manager and I come up with a new goal every week. I've accomplished most of them. I've got a peer-support-specialist to call back tomorrow.

My dreams keep throwing me back to the psych ward, where no one will tell me why I'm there and no one will let me leave. It's a stark juxtaposition to how I feel WHEN in the psych ward. (Safe, protected, and somewhat scheduled with all their groups.) But I really, really want to stay out them. That helps.

I'm setting up every goddamn mental health resource available towards my outstretched hands, because it's either this or resigning myself to the 6th floor every fucking month. And while I feel safe there, it also holds my recovery back, because life ain't no psycho ward, and I've got to learn to live outside of it.

See, a person gets so many screw ups before their support group has to start pulling away for their OWN sanity. I don't want to do that. I've an AMAZING support group, both online and face-to-face. I just need to get better at utilizing it! I'm terrible about reaching out, especially when push comes to sharp objects and extra pill bottles laying out.

Gonzo, your suggestion of removing all the sharp knives and razors, the extra bottles that whisper to me to take them all at once - the easy-go-to's for destruction was taken and it has helped immensely. Not that there aren't another million ways to hurt myself (broken glass, jagged pencil edges, hell, staples and thumb tacks), but those are never as satisfying.

I don't even know where the knives, razors, and extra bottles are. I think Jesse did the smart thing and handed them off to a friend, because if there's one thing an addict will do (and cutting and making entire dinners out of a pill bottle is an addiction) is to tear apart a house, stone by screaming stone with their bare hands, to find their favorite fix.

Existential angst is in full force in the mornings. I tell myself that THAT is perfectly normal. It is the human condition. Sometimes it is enough to calm the anxiety enough for me to allow me to practice other mindful exercises to get me through.

The next step - the goal set up for this week - is to find someplace to volunteer. I'm physically well enough to do at least twice a month. It will accomplish several things at once: Developing a schedule (which has been destroyed in the last year), helping others, finding a sense of self-identity.

And for fucks sake, I need a goddamn sense of self-identity. I've been so aimless, so in my head, so completely out of my mind, I think to find things OUTSIDE of myself that help identity myself, to give good labels to apply to myself will be a life-saver - possibly literally.

I CAN DO THIS. I am not destined to sink and swim in the mud in my veins. I am not going to let all the years of building myself before mean nothing in the force of what is currently destroying me.

The demons are many, and I am in an ocean where the sharks smell the blood and constantly circle. I will fight them. Somedays will be better than others. Somedays a shower will be the best I can do. But I am finally beginning to see some light on the other side of the tunnel, and I can say with some certainty that it's not just another train barreling straight for me.

My pain didn't change me, I changed my pain. MY PAIN DID NOT CHANGE ME, I CHANGED MY PAIN." - Icon for Hire "Demons. I've done this before. I can do this again. I listen to this song every day. It is anthem. It is reclaiming power - both mine in sharing the struggle and mine in remembering my strength, my endurance, my resilience.



If God shall send a fire, so be it. I will be reforged.
Page generated Jul. 25th, 2017 10:45 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios