Camera Critters #590 + Saturday's Critters #308 + Shadow Shot Sunday + Not So Silent Sunday + Sunday Selections #454: Haibun for a Sea Skeleton

The photograph was taken 17 January 2019 at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science

Image copyright Cara Hartley/The Real Cie

You are welcome to use it, but please credit me

I have written a Haibun in honor of this creature on this not-so-silent Sunday:

There are all kinds of wild shadows and reflections happening in this photo. The prehistoric water denizen swims eternally in an ethereal sea as creatures from its future marvel at its skeleton and wonder about its life.

you swim forever

a ghost in the twilight sea

only bones remain

~Cie~

OctPoWriMo 2019: Day 20: Haibun My Way: From the Mountains to the Prairie

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Image Source

You see a lot of these critters along the county roads leading to Grover. You have to be careful because sometimes they'll want to cross the road. Unfortunately, I see a fair number of them dead on the roadside. Hitting one would probably total my car, which is one reason I don't like to drive after dark on the Lone Prairie.

And now, on to our Haibun.

In the days of my youth, I loved to party. If anyone asked me to go out to a club, I’d immediately say “yes.” I loved to drink and dance.

I always dreamed of living in a glorious mansion, the sort of place that was the toast of the town.

I have always loved the mountains. For most of my life I lived near the mountains and could not imagine living anywhere else.

The prairie? “Well, how bland and boring is that?” I asked myself.

Except I never really found the prairie bland and boring. I was just repeating what I was supposed to think. Still, I could not imagine living in a place where I couldn’t see the mountains.

Then just this year, I discovered a place a hundred miles from where I’d lived for many years: a place way out on the prairie.

I no longer see the mountains every day, but I love what I see now just as much.

My dream home is in a place that I couldn’t have imagined, far from city nightlife, way out on the prairie. I wouldn’t want it to be anyplace else, and if you asked me to go clubbing these days, I’d look at you as if you had three heads because I can imagine few things I’d want to do less. I prefer to stay home and listen to the wind whistling through the prairie grass instead.

the whispering wind

billowing the prairie grass

sounds like home to me

~Cie~

Notes:

Visit the Artist

Ghost Town Grover Sez: 

"I liked this here High Bun. I ain't up to writin' no High Bun myself right now, but I got a poem fer y'all.

In the days of old when I mined fer gold

Life shore was excitin'

But these days I prefer an easier life

So the Lone Prairie is more invitin'

Visit the Artist

Cactus Clem sez:

"I like that Ornery writes poetry that's more rootin' tootin' than High Fallutin'. I ain't never fit in real well with them High Fallutin' folks myself. Which is okay, 'cause I think them high society parties is kinda boring anyways.

I don't like to go to parties

In the high society

'Cause it's a prickly problem

When them fancy folks stick to me

If you'd like to read Grover and Clem's Halloween adventure, Horrible Harvest, click here.

Don't Move, This is a Haibun! The Magic of the Prairie

Pawnee National Grasslands, Northeastern Colorado

Most folks will tell you that the prairie is boring, depressing, and certainly not a magical place.

The truth is, although the prairie may appear drab in comparison to more immediately impressive environs such as tall mountains, clear lakes, or beautiful beaches, it is a fascinating and adaptive setting which holds many wonderful stories and secrets.

Prairie grass is strong and resilient. It prevents erosion of the topsoil and can withstand long periods of dryness. It provides food and a home for many species of marvelous creatures.

beneath the surface

this drab land in its plain dress

full of surprises

~Cie~

Also sharing with the Spread the Kindness linkup.

Useful resources to learn about the North American grasslands.

http://shelledy.mesa.k12.co.us/staff/computerlab/ColoradoLifeZones_Plains_Plants.html

https://wrangle.org/ecotype/north-american-short-grass-prairie

Disclosure: 

If you purchase one of the books featured in this search, I will receive a small commission. Any commissions earned will be used to fund the restoration of the historic Grover Hotel, which is now proudly owned by my son. Grover is a very small town on the northeastern plains of Colorado.

To follow along with the project and for more about the various ventures of the Ornery Old Lady (me) and the wild cast of characters at the Grover Hotel and Ghostly General Store, please visit the Good Stuff From Grover blog.

Heeding Haiku with Chèvrefeuille: Summer Solstice

Image Source

At the beginning of the day on the summer solstice, I leave my body sleeping and walk in dreams to a place I will never see in life. I watch the sunrise through rocks mysteriously stacked long ago and wonder if it was possible that I was there in some form.

Do I have a connection to a time and place I could not possibly have known in my current reality, or do I merely wish that I was more important than I am? Did I once have wisdom and abilities forgotten by the passage of centuries and lifetimes, or am I merely a pathetic creature who wishes there was a possibility that I might not be as utterly hopeless and wretched as I appear?

There was a time when I believed in one God and a single savior. Then came the time that I believed in many deities and no specific savior. At this point, I neither believe nor disbelieve in any specific thing, except that I think the god postulated by most organized religious institutions is a construct created to give adherents carte blanche to behave cruelly.

is there someone there

a powerful entity

or are we alone?

~Cie~

Note:

It is not my intent to belittle anyone's faith. The thoughts I express are mine and mine alone. I neither believe nor disbelieve in any particular deity or set of deities, including the Christian god. My final paragraph is a criticism of the sorts of people who use their religion to behave as intolerant bigots and to cause harm to those who do not adhere to their dogma and edicts.

Carpe Diem Weekend Meditation #89: Extreme Haibun: Is It Too Much to Ask For Rain?

Image Source

“Is it too much to ask for it to rain?” I ask as I spend another summer steeped in sweat.

Yet I remember the year when the flood came, another year when I often asked: “is it too much to ask for it to rain?”

I remember the wave slamming into the side of my car, the terror as I wondered if I would be swept away into a field which had become a choppy lake.

I did not ask for it to rain for a long time after that.

when something well-loved

becomes a thing of terror

everything changes

~Cie~

Image from the Longmont Times-Call

Notes:

For those who are prone to questioning my veracity, the story related above is 100% true and I had PTSD following the incident. One of the ways in which this affected me is making me unable to write for a long time. People lost their lives during this flood, and I didn't know why I wasn't one of them. I've never done anything which I believe makes me worthy of continued survival, and yet, like toenail fungus, I persist in hanging around long past my sell-by date.

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 30 + Poems in April 2019 Day 30: Thank You Jimi

Copyright Nico van der Stam

I want to thank you

For some much-needed wisdom

Across many years

~Cie~

Notes:

I watched the Jimi Hendrix documentary, Voodoo Child, this evening. 

I didn't really become a Jimi Hendrix fan until I was in my teens. He died when I was only five years old. I saw a documentary about him when I was eighteen or nineteen, and it was good, but this documentary reveals more of his personal thoughts. He was brilliant and he left a lot of wisdom for the world. 

The wisdom he imparted to me today is to stop looking for adulation and approval from others. This is something that I've struggled with my entire life.

When asked how it felt to receive so many compliments about his work, Jimi said that he really didn't care about compliments, in fact, he found that they distracted him from what was important: creation.

I think that's what it really means to be secure in oneself. Not so much thinking that one is flawless, but to be able to see the worth of one's goals and actions regardless of the opinions of the masses. 

Lots of views and comments stroke the needy ego of the insecure and wounded child that remains within the crusty, curmudgeonly, and likely not at all tasty exterior shell which houses my soul. 

This becomes a distraction to the creator. I start wanting to please my visitors rather than express myself through my words.

Next time I get stuck in that unharmonious groove, I need to remember Jimi's wise thoughts on the matter.

I will always be a fan of Jimi Hendrix the musician. 

Perhaps most people won't understand this, but that doesn't matter.

I also appreciate Jimi Hendrix the philosopher, and I'm grateful for the wisdom and works that he left behind.

(Don't move: this has been a Haibun!)

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 15 + Poems in April 2019 Day 4 & 15: The Haibun Ballad of Cie

My Eyes Have Seen Version 4

Photoshop Manipulation by The Real Cie

(Yes, that's my big, ugly, Neanderthal forehead)

So, you want to know about me.

My truth will make you uncomfortable. You may end up thinking that I’m lying because surely in modern society, nobody could be allowed to fall through the cracks that much. But you asked, and so I’ll answer as briefly as possible.

I was born in 1965 in Denver, Colorado to a doctoral student in literature who had once wished to travel the country like his hero, Jack Kerouac, and his wife, a former nurse with a degree in fine arts.

My parents had abandoned the church but returned to it when I was seven years old. My then-three-year-old brother and I were baptized and became Catholic.

My bipolar disorder onset when I hit puberty, and I was always misunderstood.

I am fifty-four years old and live in poverty.

If you are broken

If you are damaged or odd

You will be cast out

~Cie~

(Telling it like it is)

Prompt #4

Prompt #15

Notes:

By the way, I do write flash fictions in Haibun form because I like to.

Come at me!

The ending verse was inspired by a quote from the character John River, portrayed by the brilliant Swedish actor Stellan Skarsgard.

In this world, no-one can be different or strange or damaged, or they lock you up.

--John River

OctPoWriMo 2018: Day 5: Devastation (NSFW)

Image copyright Comfreak on Pixabay

I just can't get poetic with today's prompt. I may end up attempting to tie things up by making it into a Haibun, but I make no promises there either. This is one of those that's going to be real, raw, and only lightly edited, so buckle up, Bitches, it's going to be a bumpy ride. 

By the way, if you have issues with profanity, with subject matter that is on the opposite end of the spectrum from sweetness and light, with mental illness, the black dog, and suicide ideation, you'll probably want to give this post a miss. 

Also, please remember these guidelines:

If I may add a couple:

"Have you tried meds?"

I will be 54 years old in February and have lifelong mental health issues. What do you think? The Wonder Drugs don't work the way they're advertised, they make things worse by a long shot. So, please, don't patronize me with that crap.

"Have you tried church?"

Some of the nicest people I've met have been religious.

Conversely, some of the most truly horrible and destructive people I've met have been religious.

If religion helps you, that's great. I don't like organized religion. It did me a lot more harm than good. 

But neither of those things are what I came here to talk about.

I came here to talk about the day that the nuke dropped on my life.

Oh, hey, here's a Haiga I made last year. So, there's the poetry part of this assignment. This Haiga has little nuclear clouds in the background.

I'm a lifelong proponent of nuclear disarmament. I grew up during the cold war. When I was a child, I feared that I would die in a nuclear exchange. As a teenager, I figured I might as well party as hard as possible because I didn't know if I had a future. As an adult, I still have nuke dreams, but they're allegorical, just like the nuke that dropped on my life closing in on two years ago now.

I've mentioned before that I was fired from my job as a nurse back in March of 2017. I was really sick at the time I got fired, with both a chronic illness that had become significantly worse and an acute illness that made my lungs and sinuses feel like they were full of Slime.

Yeah, that stuff. When I was twelve, my brother and I got the kind with worms. It came in a little plastic trash can. We loved it. 

I miss the fun I had with my brother when we were kids. He's too overworked and miserable and also in constant pain to have much fun now. It breaks my heart.

Anyway, the days playing with Slime and believing that Really Cool Stuff was going to happen were long in the past. I was working when I knew I shouldn't be working. Like I said, I was really, really sick. 

I was working as a home care nurse. I had this really pushy coordinator who, when I mentioned that I was sick, said that the family really needed me to be there and it would be okay because I had contracted the illness from that patient, so it's not like he could catch it from me. Besides, this coordinator kept talking about how they were going to replace the nurse who had the four-night week with me (I was working three twelve-hour night shifts with this family and one twelve-hour night shift with another family) because that nurse had lupus and often had to miss work because of it. Great! Not like I can mention that my diabetes had gotten worse and was causing me problems when presented with that, right?

Yeah, I could have, but it has been a lifelong struggle for me to assert myself. I was afraid I'd lose my position. So I buckled down and went in. I had been dozing off during the shift during the past couple of weeks, but I always woke up. Still, it was worrying me, but I didn't feel like there was anyone I could tell.

On this particular night, I didn't just doze. I fell into a dark, dead, dreamless sleep. I'm fairly certain that I had a small stroke because there were certain changes to my cognition following that incident. Judging by the clock, I was out for about twenty minutes. I woke to the patient's father sitting at the end of the bed, glowering at me.

I apologized profusely, gathered my belongings, and left. I knew that I would be fired, which I was.

I felt horrible about the incident and about myself. I very seriously considered suicide. I've dealt with suicide ideation my entire life, but at this point, I was wondering if there was any reason for me to go on living. I was the worst of fuckups. Was I redeemable in any way? I hardly thought so.

At first, the financial hit wasn't as bad as it could have been. I was working part-time for another agency, picking up shifts once every couple of weeks with another patient. I was able to get full-time hours with them although the hourly salary was less. But then, that patient's condition worsened, he was hospitalized and ended up requiring more extensive care than we could provide. The agency never found me another case.

I drifted for a while, delivering food for Uber Eats and eventually trying to drive for Lyft and Uber. This lasted about two weeks, and some dumb stoner kid backed into the rental car I was driving. The rental company did not prorate me for the lost days, and Lyft took close to a month to reinstate me, even though the accident was not my fault. I said, "fuck it." I really didn't like driving passengers anyway.

I tried going back to work in long-term care, but the activity intolerance caused by my diabetes combined with the slight cognitive impairment experienced after the night which led to my being fired from the home care agency made this impossible. You never stop when you are working in a long-term care institution. There is no time to rest or even eat. My blood sugar tanked. Plus, as I discovered, I was no longer the whiz with passing meds that I had been when I did my nursing internship in 2011. 

I understood each of the components of passing meds. This patient needs this med in this dose at this time. I understood what each of the meds did. But for the life of me, I could not prioritize which patient to give medication to first. I called my son halfway through the shift and told him I didn't think I could do the job. I emailed my letter of resignation to the staff director the next morning.

I took a job with an all-night grocery delivery service and ended up with a permanent nerve injury to my left arm. I spent half of November in terrible pain, unable to sit up for more than about 45 minutes at a time before I had to lie on the arm to try and numb the pain. I again considered suicide, this time not out of self-loathing but because the pain was nearly unbearable. I had to wait for two weeks for Medicaid to kick in before I could start physical therapy. I hadn't been able to afford insurance before that and was making too much with the delivery service to have Medicaid. It is one fucked-up system we have going, and there is nothing anyone could say to make me believe otherwise. It is straight-up fuckery, plain and simple.

At this point, the arm pretty much feels like a lump of clay. Sometimes a tingly lump of clay. But I'll take that over a hideous pain that induces suicidal feelings. Before anyone gives a person desperate for pain relief grief, think of the worst pain you have ever felt in your life. Now, ponder on the idea that you could not stop that pain. Bitch, you aren't going to just grin and bear it. You're going to do whatever the hell you have to do. I can't stand people who get sanctimonious about folks who become addicted to pain medications. Nobody wants to be in pain. End of story.

After a couple of weeks of physical therapy, I was able to drive again and ended up at my current job: delivering food. This is the sort of job that people have been taught to look down their nose at. To them I say, well, Motherfucker, I have your fucking food here, which you did not have to cook or pick up. You're better than me just because you work in an office? I say no. This kind of shit "master and servant" attitude does no-one any good. Rich people aren't better than poor people. In fact, to para-quote Bob Marley, some of them are so poor that all they have is money. Some of them are terrible people, and I would find it torturous to be in their presence for one minute.

Case in point, and ain't it the truth.

I went through more than a year of thinking "if I'm not able to be a nurse anymore, what value do I have?" I'm no longer in a "helper" profession. I'm no longer able to do the kind of work that said "helper" profession requires. I not only have a psychological disability or three, but I am also now physically disabled as well.

This society behaves as if people with disabilities deserve to live in poverty. I never believed that, but I kept feeling as if I'd done "something to deserve this."

I can't remember exactly when the breakthrough happened, but one day I got really pissed off and realized that no, I damn well did not do anything to deserve to be pushed into poverty. I lose Medicaid if I make a dime more than $1100 a month, but who the fuck can live on $1100 a month? I don't qualify for SNAP because I have a 401K from the job I held for close to 11 years and I don't want to take an $18,000 hit by liquidating it. I want that whole fucker to go to my son when I go tits up. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

As for being a nurse, the truth is, I never wanted to go into that profession. I was encouraged to go into it by my family because my mother had been a nurse. While I had some nice moments with the kids, and while I had some nice moments with my co-workers and the residents at the retirement community when I was working there, I was done. I was burned out. I really didn't want to do it anymore, and I felt extremely guilty about that. What kind of person doesn't want to help other people?

It isn't that I don't want to help other people, but I think it's long past time that I acknowledged that I need help too, that I deserve to have help, that I'm not garbage because I'm disabled. No disabled person is garbage. We need to stop this shit attitude in our society, and we need to stop it yesterday. 

My disability doesn't really make me angry. Sometimes I wish I could still run and jump like I could when I was a kid. But I like to walk, and I hope I'll be able to walk for the rest of my life. Maybe the time will come when I need a scooter or power chair. If I do, I won't be bitter. Bodies age, shit happens. It is what it is. However, I have to be brutally honest. If I deteriorate to the point where I need to spend the rest of my life in a long-term care center, or if I'm diagnosed with dementia, that's the time I pull the plug. Those are two situations that I find absolutely intolerable. I won't do it to myself, and I won't do it to my son.

By the way, inasmuch as we need to acknowledge that depression is a very real illness, as real as any physical malady, we also need to acknowledge that sometimes depression isn't a brain-based issue. Our world is very fucked right now, and anyone who looks around and doesn't see terrible problems that should have been fixed a long time ago is shutting their eyes, sticking their fingers in their ears, and yelling "lalala, can't hear you." 

It isn't going to get better by ignoring it, People.

It's really not.

And that's all I have to say about that.

XOXO, 

Cie

NaHaiWriMo 2018 #8: Monkeying Around + The Fight Against Perfectionism

Notes:

Click the image to enlarge.

"So then I artistically blurred my photo to give a sense of moving back through time."

Nah. I moved my hand while the photo was being taken.

"But why would you want to use a photo like that? Any photographer worth their salt would delete it forthwith!"

I don't really consider myself a photographer. I'm a person who takes pictures because I enjoy it. 

This blurry photo isn't without its merits. It inspired me to create this Haiga of questionable quality.

Nobody is ever going to consider this to be a high-fallutin' work of art to rival the classics. But it is fun, and it illustrates the idea that you can make your mistakes work for you.

I have been battling perfectionism all my life. Embracing my mistakes is helpful for me. Perfectionism is an extremely destructive quality. I would like to share the ways in which it has harmed me from various perspectives.
In this post, I would like to share how physical perfectionism has caused untold harm to me and many others. Some of what I share involves my own perfectionism, and some of it involves the unrealistic standards which society imposes upon people.

On a physical level, we live in a society which demands that Number Twelve Looks Just Like You. We are supposed to aspire to a certain standard of beauty and fitness, and, if we fail to achieve such, we are deemed failures not worthy of even basic decency in the way we are treated by others.
However, rather than inspiring everyone to become super duper supermen and women, this attitude has a tendency to backfire. You end up with people who do not trust doctors because doctors continually shame them for their physical appearance or failure to be compliant with regimens that it may be impossible or intolerable for them.
So, instead of engaging in a program of regular visits to the doctor for preventative care and maintenance of chronic health issues, people avoid going to the doctor until they experience a critical problem. This helps no-one.
When my current doctor addressed my slightly elevated triglycerides (a common issue for diabetics) with "have you been indulging in treats?" I snapped. I said "I make twelve thousand dollars a year and generally eat only one or two meals a day. I eat what I can afford to purchase. I do not 'indulge.'"
In spite of the fact that this doctor is by far the most effective doctor that I have ever seen, I am considering going back to the guy who was burned out and had no fucks to give, because my current doctor has given me ample reason to mistrust her. The 'indulging in treats' bit is mere sprinkles on the body-shaming cake.
This doctor presented herself as offering a 'safe space' for larger people, and, during my first visit, appeared to live up to her promise. Thereafter, she suggested weight loss surgery and blamed my abnormal endometrial thickening on "obesity."
If you want your larger patients to believe for a second that you have any respect for them, you need to ditch the "o" word. "Obesity" is "other." "Obesity" is a pariah. "Obesity" is shit. "Obesity" is always said with a sanctimonious sneer. If you use that word, I do not trust you.
Abnormal endometrial thickening is correlated with a larger body type, but correlation is not causation. It is also correlated with being over fifty (guess I need to step into an age-regression machine), white (guess I'd better start tanning), and diabetic.
A larger body type is also correlated with type 2 diabetes. Again, correlation is not causation. I am inclined to think that abnormal pancreatic function is a strong contributing factor in both the tendency to gain weight and the endometrial hyperplasia. There may be a third factor which causes all of my endocrine issues. A heavy body type is correlated with endocrine issues, but it did not cause these issues. In fact, the reverse is true. None of my endocrine system works properly. It would be highly unlikely for me to have a thin body unless I were to become deathly ill, regardless of how little I eat or how much I exercise.
So, having a bench in your waiting room rather than just chairs with arms does not constitute offering a "safe space" for people of all sizes. I don't trust you, and that makes for an ineffective doctor/patient relationship, regardless of your ability to diagnose and possibly treat health problems.
People are not inclined to take care of things they hate, and that includes their bodies. While cleaning out my storage unit, I found numerous artifacts from the many years I spent trying to hate myself thin. Looking over the awful things I wrote about myself, thinking about all the money I spent playing a game that almost nobody wins, realizing that I caused wear and tear to my body equivalent to the harm done to it by the many years I spent working long hours at physically punishing jobs, thinking back on the times when I was sometimes spending five hours at the gym when I should have been spending that time with my son, I became extremely depressed.
To top it all off, none of this shit brought me to the goal of Magical Thinness, which would have won me the Handsome Prince with the Exactly Correct Body Fat Percentage, a billion dollars for every pound I lost during my incredibly successful "weight loss journey," fame and adoration of the masses, or anything but a far thinner wallet and a soul filled with self-loathing.
Thinspo is crap. Fitspo is crap. Dieting is crap. It's all harmful. None of it will bring you happiness, and it won't even bring you health. It will bring you self-loathing and turn you into an awful person that nobody likes.

Dieting is not about health. It is about perfectionism. The pressure to be perfect is purely for profit. Stop paying into a system that doesn't give a damn about you and thrives on your failure.

"In the long term, dieting is a spectacular waste of time for everyone except statistical unicorns." --Louise Adams

~Cie~

NaHaiWriMo 2018 #6: House of Cards

Notes:

Text by The Real Cie. House of Cards and its characters are the creation and property of Netflix.

I was inspired to create this Haiga while binge-watching House of Cards instead of sleeping. I noticed the parallel between the over-the-top drama involving House of Cards' main character, Frank Underwood, and Kevin Spacey, the actor who plays the part. Frank Underwood describes his father as having been a violent alcoholic. Spacey has stated that his father was both physically and sexually abusive as well as a racist.

While I feel that the inner turmoil from his childhood abuse combined with shame over his sexual orientation may have prompted Kevin Spacey to behave in inappropriate and ill-advised ways with young men, and while I feel compassion for his struggles, I do not think that his behavior is acceptable. It is a shame that it resulted in his being terminated from House of Cards because he is a superlative actor. Of course, it is also unfortunate that the young men subjected to his behavior suffered psychological repercussions.

This piece falls into the categories of fan art, art imitating life, human failings, tragedy, and irony.

NaHaiWriMo 2018 #1 and Shadow Shot Sunday

Notes:

I loathe this laptop with the fiery passion of a thousand supernovas. I will be glad to have my desktop back in action this week.

Click the above photos to enlarge them.

It appears that Rick from 19 Planets (19planets.wordpress.com) is not doing Haiga prompts this year. It has become a tradition for me to do Haiga in September so I will continue that tradition. The Haiga may occasionally be mixed with other prompts. 

If I miss a day, I will try to double up on another day, but I'm not going to be a strict disciplinarian with this. I'm not in school and this isn't homework. It's supposed to be enjoyable. Life is far and away stressful enough without my adding to the stress by beating up on myself for not having my Haiga done on a strict schedule.

My Haiga this month will probably become Haibun more often than not, as this one has done. 

I will be using more of my own photos than I have in the past. The above photo, with and without the Haiga, is mine. You are welcome to use and share it, but please credit me back. You can link to this blog, but at least provide a copyright credit to Cara Hartley or The Real Cie. You are welcome to alter the original photo, i.e., to make your own Haiga or use for a photo prompt, but, again, credit me for the original photo. I'm pretty easygoing about the use of my work as long as I'm credited for it.

In other news, my financial situation is still awful, and my son suggested that I move in with him. I would never have asked him to let me do this, and I was surprised and grateful for the offer. He has grown up a lot, and it shows in the fact that he saw the way I was struggling and offered this solution. I think it shows that I have made a few positive changes as well.

One change that has come in the past year is my reaction to acknowledgment (or lack thereof) of my work. In the past, it has been very upsetting to me that I do not generally receive comments on my creations. This has tended to have a negative effect on my work. At this point, I seem to have taken enough Fukitol that I really don't give any fucks whether people comment on my work or not. 

I also don't care if people are offended by my liberal use of profanity. I'm assuming we're all adults here. I cannot possibly be the first person you've encountered who has a tendency to drop f-bombs. I used to post warnings all over the place and apologize any time that I typed a post full of swears. Fuck that shit. If you have a problem with profanity, this is your notice that I'm not someone whose work you want to read. Full stop.

I will not apologize for being politically liberal, being horrified by the reptilian aliens who have taken over the United States Government (I don't actually think they're reptilian aliens, this is an example of hyperbole), my tendency to be hyperbolic, my being agnostic with a tendency to metaphysical beliefs, my tattoos, my mental health issues, my physical issues, the size of my body, my dead libido, or my outrage at the state of the world.

I will not apologize for the fact that in spite of the financial upheaval my physical decline has wrought, I am greatly relieved to never have to work in healthcare again. Although there could be a sense of accomplishment, I realize that I was extremely stressed out and more often than not miserable doing this kind of work. The physically and emotionally difficult jobs I worked in the past took a toll on my body, and I'm not sorry to be done with them.

I will not apologize for working a low-paid job as a delivery driver for a restaurant. I should not have to apologize for that.

I will not apologize for needing to receive Medicaid. I will say that it's bullshit that I should have to make sure that I don't earn over $1100 a month because if I earn one cent more than that, I lose Medicaid. Everybody in the U.S. should have Medicaid. Full fucking stop, no fucking apologies.

I will not apologize for writing gloomy poetry.

I will not apologize for writing Haiku.

I will not apologize for being an outlier. I used to beat myself up for not being able to belong to any group, including so-called "writer support groups." These groups tend to only be supportive if you are a very select type of person. I am not a very select type of person. Whether accidentally or on purpose, the Universe broke the mold after it made me. I think the Deities probably said, "holy shit, we can't have another of those running around!"

So, here we are, my first Haibun of 2018. I think. I may have done another somewhere along the way, but, as far as I know, this is the first one.

I may make a virtual chapbook of this year's NaHaiWriMo. (I'm pretty sure I stole that term from the aforementioned Rick.) All proceeds will go to helping me pay my plethora of back bills. Stay tuned for more!

~Cie~

Haibun: Borderline Groupthink Callout Hell

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Inside my own head

 Or going out of my mind

 What the hell is real?

~The Unreal Cie~

Content warning for profanity and lots of it. 

So if profanity upsets you, don't read this shit.  

I generally have the borderline aspect of my incredibly fucked-up psyche under much better control than I used to. However, stress can trigger this aspect. Although the manifestation is less destructive overall because I have more capacity for reasoning things out than I did when I was younger, my anxiety levels still fly right off the scale, and I feel like my heart and head are going to fucking explode.

There you go.

I don't know if it's just me, but it seems that people these days are incapable of disagreeing without becoming violently disagreeable, at least verbally. I've never particularly enjoyed debating, I find it stressful. However, I was always taught to be civil. These days, people feel entitled to go on the attack anytime someone disagrees with them even a little.

Politically, I lean way to the left. However, I find the the far left equally as troubling as the far right. If you don't adhere to their exact thought patterns, you get accused of all kinds of things. 
Last night, I made the mistake of leaving what I thought was an innocent comment agreeing with an author who stated that he felt a jackass comment made by a right-wing pundit was inappropriate but it wasn't sexual harassment. I stated that I felt it was important to make the distinction between hyperbolic posturing such as this and actual sexual harassment, and I got piled on. If you want to see the article in question, it's here. I'm not going back there. 

The first person vehemently accused me of not believing that zir rape was rape, and it devolved from there. One person felt the need to explain to me that forced anal penetration was rape. Well, no shit, Sherlock. I am aware of this. Another demanded to know if I broadcast my off-the-cuff hyperbole on television. Obviously not, Shithead. I told him that I generally use a bullhorn.

I attempted to voice my disagreements in a reasonable fashion, but they were having none of it. Callout culture and groupthink have made it impossible to have a non-toxic debate. I fucked off, allowing the screaming meemies to think they won teh internetz!!!1!!

I try to avoid this kind of environment, because I find it extremely (I hate to use this badly overused word) triggering. I honestly didn't think there was potential for this sort of backlash as I thought I was dealing with adults. I expected disagreement, but I expected it to be rational in presentation. Man, was I wrong!

I was already under a lot of stress, and now I feel like my body is full of stinging insects. It's one of those days where I'd like to just take a low dose edible and take a load off, but I have too much to do.

For me, the edibles work a lot better than benzodiazepenes. There is no rebound effect (most benzos), no mind-numbing dullness (Valium), no extreme sedation. I wish I could just do that. But, nooo. So here we are.

I feel like the current call-out culture has given people permission to behave in an odious, entitled manner and to have no manners.

As it is, I sometimes have trouble even checking my comments for fear that I will be attacked.

I really don't belong on this planet.

Damn. That was the shittiest Haibun I ever wrote. Sorry. 

 

30 Days of Haiga 2017 Day 30 + OctPoWriMo 2017 Day 13: Suicide Ideation

Original background image:

Hannah Hoch, 1930

Words and text manipulation by The Real Cie

Notes:

With this image, I am caught up with 30 Days of Haiga. Too bad I can't use it for Inktober, which I am severely behind on, but that requires actually drawing something. I didn't draw (or paint) this.

The image references living with a mood disorder which includes suicide ideation. I've said it before, but it bears repeating, please respect me enough to know that, as a person of 52 years old and having at least average intelligence (even though I sometimes think I'm dumber than a box of rocks) who has lived with mental illness for her entire life, I know very well what meds are, what counseling is, and what an emergency room is. If I went to the ER every time I had a suicidal thought, I'd have to live there. I don't want to live there. 

When people tell me I should "think about seeing a counselor" or I should "consider getting on meds," it's pretty much the same as telling me that I should "consider seeing a doctor" because my blood sugar is elevated. Yes, I have diabetes. Insulin and metformin have worked pretty well for me, but sometimes, depending on what food is available and circumstances not entirely in my control, I may still have elevated (or diminished) blood sugar readings. As a veteran diabetic, I know the score with my blood sugar.

As a veteran of the mental illness wars, I also know the score. However, people tend to treat those with mental illness as if we are stupid children who don't know our own minds and bodies.

My life contains certain aspects that would probably depress a person who didn't have a screwed-up brain like mine which likes to exaggerate every emotion I feel. I work full time but don't have enough money to buy adequate food, which is crappy any time but has an added element of crappiness when you're diabetic. I "make too much money" to qualify for aid programs. When I started making "enough money," my Medicaid got cut off. I'm still behind on all the payments I fell behind on when I was underemployed after losing my job back in March. Like I said, GOOD FUCKING TIMES!

It seems that I no sooner catch up a little than something else comes along to run me over like a Semi barreling down a one lane road.

Last night I was thinking to myself "why don't I just do it? Nothing ever gets any better."

This thought wasn't one of the hyperbolic ones where I imagine flinging myself into a canyon a la Wile E. Coyote. I had some pretty realistic ideas on how to top myself. These are actually always in the back of my mind because I will utilize them toot sweet if I am ever diagnosed with dementia. I am not putting myself or my son through that shit, no way, no how.

Some folks will say "but the Conventional Wisdom when you're having suicidal thoughts is to go to Emergency Services."

As a veteran of the Mental Illness Wars, I can tell you that there's a myriad of reasons why that's the last thing many of us would do, one of them being the fact that I don't have the fucking time to be on a three-day psych hold. Guess what I wouldn't be making while I was in the psych ward arguing with a bunch of by the book types about the fact that SSRI's make me worse rather than better. That's right, a paycheck! I'm not stupid and I'm actually not delusional. Cold, hard logic dictates that I need money more than I need to seek help that isn't going to help me anyway.

The Haiga references the fact that on one hand I care very deeply and hurt very deeply. On the other hand, I've had so much pain in my life that I'm pretty well numb a great deal of the time. My heart feels like it's been shot full of Novocain which is wearing off. I hurt so much that I don't feel much anymore, and that hurts.

There's my story. I don't expect anyone to necessarily know how it feels, but I do expect respect for my experiences. 

No one would ever tell me to "stop being so hypothyroid," although, sadly, I'm sure a lot of people would be happy to tell me about the latest quack miracle cure, such as rubbing myself in black salt while standing on my head and drinking liquid Vaseline. It doesn't happen as much with hypothyroidism, but with diabetes, this is certainly something that happens quite often.

The point being, no-one would ever tell me to stop being so hypothyroid or even stop being diabetic (although they might tell me how I could cure my diabetes.) However, people think nothing of telling me and others like me to "just stop that stinkin' thinkin'," "just get on some meds," "maybe you need to go to church," "mental illness is caused by demons, wrong thoughts, bad karma," or one of my favorites, "stop looking for attention." 

I've also gotta love the people who post things like "how can anyone be a Negative Nellie when God has made such a beautiful world for us to live in? I just don't understand Teh Negativ Peepul!"

I used to feel really hurt and defensive when I saw such posts. At this point, I feel that these people are ignorant and lack empathy. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be wired to Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. Even when I'm happy I'm always somewhat sad. I know that makes very little sense to anyone who hasn't experienced it, but it does not make me any less worthy of having a decent life than someone who is always Ms. Pollyanna Sunshine.

So, this is my last Haiga/Haibun for this year's 30 Days of Haiga. I can't say I hope you enjoyed reading it, but I do hope you might have learned something.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

The Cheese Grates It + 30 Days of Haiga 2017: Day 29: Desert of Dreams

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Original background image copyright Devesh V. Tripathi

Verse and text manipulation by The Real Cie

Thoughts:

The image and the prompt made me think of all the things I planned to do in life, most of which fell through due to fighting with a very misunderstood disease, the prescription for which was pills that made me feel even worse and the edict that I should "just stop that stinkin' thinkin' and be happy for what I have." 

While western society has a somewhat better understanding of mental illness than it did when I was younger, the treatment of both mental and physical illnesses in many countries, including first world countries such as the United States is out of reach for many citizens.

I do not respond well to medications or to this particular aspect of me being treated in a completely clinical fashion. I have often felt that I, as a person, have been ignored in favor of seeking textbook symptoms and outcomes. One of my son's EMS instructors wisely said: "treat the patient, not the chart." This is something that practitioners treating both body and mind all too often fail to do.

I would have done well to learn skills to cope with my particular mental presentation, rather than having wrestled for so many years with failed attempts to turn me into something I am not: a happy robot, gleeful to take my Soma and take on my prescribed role as a cog in the machine.

At this point in my life, I am no longer devastated by not being famous or adored, but I am awfully tired and a bit sad at the way some things have turned out. I try not to feel like a failure. I deliver groceries rather than speeches on the Red Carpet (or what have you) as I accept an award for my wonderful performance or book. 

Delivering groceries while clad in modest attire does not make me any less worthwhile than those delivering acceptance speeches for their grand performances while clad in glamorous gowns or sleek suits. However, I am tired and I ache and I am sad to see so many people I have known both in real life and through their work which inspired me becoming ill and dying. I would like to stop working for a living and start simply living. 

This isn't likely to happen anytime soon, and I fear that what happened to my father will happen to me. Less than a week after taking full retirement, my father had a hemorrhagic stroke which forever altered his life and the lives of his immediate family. He went through six years of decline, including more strokes and congestive heart failure. In the end, he was like a frightened child trapped in an adult body.

I don't want that to be my fate. But I fear a similar fate awaits the majority of us who live in a society which sees people as flesh androids rather than souls operating through corporeal vehicles.

The most humble of us and zir dreams is equal in importance to the most celebrated among us. Perhaps it is time to celebrate the most humble members of society and give weight to their hopes and dreams.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~