What is Motivation?

My client/boss asked me today

In my late teens/twenties, I had a goal. Maybe you could call it a motivation. Because my education got all kinds of fucked up, and then senior year I was able to connect a few dots. That’s a longer story.

At that point, I decided that I would do whatever I could to encourage other kids that if I could do it despite the lack of encouragement around me. I did that. My mid 30’s I realized I had accomplished that goal several times over. Then I decided I’d live my life for myself. I had poured out everything nurturing to boost those kids self esteem.

Then I was okay, still struggling with motivation and C-PTSD. As well as depression, GAD, and being undiagnosed Autistic (that will be changing come Wednesday).

I achieved my goal. I didn’t really find a new one. And now, at 50, I’m just floating on the water. I’ve worked toward my MLIS, but I’m stuck having to pay for my last fuckup. Then I have one semester left to finish it. But for now, I’m going to apply to SNHU (rolling admission) for a MFA in writing.

I was on track to get stuff going and then last weekend happened and my survival mode dial got turned all the way to 10. I’m coming back down from that level. I got past the dramatics of the situation and now I can get back down to a more manageable level.

But I still lack motivation.

12/4: The Lake (poetry)

Waves pull back
Let go.
Gently lap at the boulder
I stand on.

Breeze manipulates the water.
The leaves.
Fall on the surface of the lake
Before me.

I am here and
Yet…
I am elsewhere. Wishing
I were.

The craggy peaks around me.
Tell an Ancient Tale
Of geologic fury
Long ago.

My mind escapes.
Where I am is not where
I wish to be.
And still.

Closed eyes, trying to ignore
The person next to me.
Making me wish. I was anywhere but
Where I am.

Peaks make the wind whistle.
Rhythm matching the water.
Nicer tune than the person
Talking to me.

Eyes closed. Breathe. Slowly.
Calm my heart. Remove his hand.
Get up. And make sure he doesn’t
Follow me.

2/20/18: Love Letter to my Cat

Dear Portia: We have been through a lot since I adopted you on 10/30/2010. I saw your picture on C.A.T.’s website (Cat Adoption Team in Sherwood, OR) a few days before, visited you at your Petsmart location on 10/29, and knew. I knew you needed me and I needed you. JoJo, although she would be loathe to admit it, needed you as well.

After JoJo died of Congestive Heart Failure a year ago, the two of us have been through even more. Our eviction, bouncing from one friend’s apartment to another’s house and then three different rooms in that house since. You have helped me battle panic attacks, depression, suicidal ideation, the loss of your feline sister, and so much more. Which is why you are my ESA (Emotional Support Animal) and friend.

I wish I could have taken a picture of how we were cuddled up a few minutes ago. I had paid down on my side, with my head at the foot of the bed. You were contemplating jumping up for a moment, but once you did, you plopped down right in front of my face. That’s your style. I put my hand up to rest under your chin, between your front paws… as I gently leaned my own face against your fur. And your jet engine purr began.

You love touch. You are a people cat, even though you’re a little hesitant with some. I rarely hear you purr unless you’re loafing on my chest or touching me somehow. When I first adopted you, you couldn’t get lap time because JoJo insisted on HER laptime, so the bedroom became your place for human time. At first, you curled up near me and reached one paw out to place on my shoulder or face. You gradually got to how you are now with curling up on my chest (granted, the current bed is narrow, so not much room).

You have your ornery times. You have sensitive skin, so being groomed is not a preferred activity, yet your mats buried under that silky soft floofage say it’s much needed. Areas that most cats LOVE having petted are off limits for you (base of the tail mostly, which elicits a claws-extended swat from you). And sometimes your butt fur doesn’t get as clean as either of us would like…

But I love you anyway… stinky butt and all.

You are a goofy, sweet 14 pound lovebug of a cat. I know your needs and you know mine in your own way. Your purr is therapeutic and burying my face in your fur when I need comforting is an extra bonus. We’ve been through a lot of stress. But with you there for me, I believe we will make it through.

Everyone who sees pictures of you is taken aback by your beauty. Your soft dilute tortie fur and the eyes that make everyone gasp. Eyes that can be green, green-gold, blue, blue-gold, or some other combination. Of all the cats I’ve known or lived with in my life, I have never seen a cat with eyes like yours. And everyone who sees your pictures says the same thing. I likely will never see another cat again with eyes like yours.

You are 12 now. I know you can’t live forever. I cherish the time I have with you. You ground me when I need it. And I give you wet food when I can afford it. I am so glad you let me adopt you.

Love,

Your Human, Amanda

1/20/18: March For Me

March for me.
I survived.
But still I live
In fear of
Repercussions.

March for me.
I am disabled
And cannot walk far.

March for me.
I am anxious in crowds.
And my voice wavers.

March for me.
I have C-PTSD.
I cannot stand being
Touched by men.

March for me.
For walking is too much
For me to handle.

March for me.
For I cannot
March
For myself.

~A

10/16: Wake Up Tomorrow #metoo

TW/CW: Talk of suicide, sexual assault, C-PTSD, etc…

I’ve talked about all of these things in spades over the lifespan of this blog. With the #metoo tag flying around on FB and Twitter the last two days, I felt like expanding on mine.

Now, I have (at some point) ticked off all the times I was sexually assaulted.

• At 17, by a 22 y.o. acquaintance.
• At 19, by a blind date. Tried to force me to perform oral on him, pushing my head down. I broke free and threatened to call the police.
• At 19, by a guy I met at a Twelfth Night event… friends invited him to our Rocky Horror outing later that evening. While he had been in costume, he was mostly a gentleman (save for trying to un-lace my bodice in public)
• At 21/22. After 6 weeks in an increasingly abusive relationship, I started to pull away from him, which he noticed. He spent the next 2 and a half months raping and assaulting me (using various areas of my body to ‘get his rocks off’) all against my will. I cried, I begged, I said no every damn time, but even making me bleed repeatedly didn’t matter to him. This happened 2-3 times a week… on a good week.

Those are the major, or most distinctive, events. Getting catcalled, being told by some older guy in Chicago (as we passed each other in the crosswalk) that “damn, you got some bigguns!” … no matter what I’m wearing, what my body language is saying (usually “don’t fucking get near me, asshole”), what I’m doing, I’ve had hands brush against my butt, breasts, etc… hands that should stay up near my shoulders wandering down… at a club one night (partly why I fucking HATE clubs) getting dragged out onto the dance floor and made to dance with some stranger, who kept putting his hand on my thigh and slipping it up to my hip under my skirt (which wasn’t that fucking long to begin with). I was 18, I think. It was an “Under 21” club.

Do I need to go on? I think I’ve made my point.

This shit happens every damn day to women of all skin colors, sexualities, cis or trans… you name it. Fuck, I got catcalled just a month or so ago… wearing all baggy grungy clothes heading to the MAX stop (I think I was going to an appt or something). Me with my mohawk and baggy clothes and beat up sneakers and a cane… getting catcalled.

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I’ve also, as I think I’ve said in previous posts, had many phases or short contemplations of suicide. High school, a period in my 30’s when my asshole doctor decided to put me on Prozac, which made me want to slit my fucking wrists so badly, it outdid the suicidal ideations of my high school years. That shit fucked me up so badly.

In the past couple of years, I’ve had shorter bursts of contemplating it. Usually when I’ve been in full panic mode over possible eviction as well as earlier this year with the eviction itself. I lost count how many times I sat on my bed or my couch … or in the bathtub … thinking of why the fuck I should keep living? Then I got either of the girls, Portia or JoJo when she was still alive, just coming up to me and purring and either nudging me or tapping my arm or leg with a paw.

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Life isn’t easy. I’m dealing with C-PTSD, my asshole ex cyberstalking me like I’m his damn “internet chew toy” … being homeless in a tentative situation that needs to come to an end, but my means to get back into my own place again are virtually non-existent. Trying to finish grad school, find decent work, organize my stuff in storage, handle medical and dental appts, go on tasks to make some income, and remember to take my meds and eat decently. Some of those, especially the later things I listed, are basic, normal-ish things I can handle… working all the big stuff around them is the hardest part. With chronic fatigue and pain, getting up at a decent hour that isn’t close to noon, but earlier in the day, is not always easy to do.

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So, you may wonder what the subject heading of this post means… here’s my lesson and philosophy behind it:

Look back up at all the shit I’ve been through. Add verbal and emotional abuse by some family, used and abused by people I thought were friends, etc… I’ve dealt with a lot.

Wake Up Tomorrow

I adopted this years ago during a bad run… I think it was later in high school. Say you had one of THE shittiest days you can remember in recent months. Everything went wrong and in some seemingly catastrophic way, or at least that’s how it feels. You may already be battling a period of depression or severe pain. You contemplate ending things. You’re absolutely SURE tomorrow is going to also suck and you can’t imagine things getting better any time soon.

So you think about it.

But you can’t guarantee tomorrow will suck. Shit, you don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Maybe it’ll suck, maybe it’ll be awesome, but you won’t know unless you wake up tomorrow. And the days following it. You can’t know for sure that it’ll be horrendously awful. Unless you wake up tomorrow. Go to sleep, get some rest, cry if you need to (man, I’m surprised the tear stains aren’t permanent on my face by now), and wake up tomorrow. Sounds simple, I know. Take each and every day as it comes.

Will that work for everyone dealing with shit? No. I know it works for me. I’ve had friends and a few strangers, in the past 24 hours or so, call me brave. I’ve done therapy off and on since I was 16. I understand so much about my past, but I don’t really know how I’m getting through it… except for one thing:

I wake up every day.

I’ve had close calls, due to medical stuff, not attempts on my part, and they’ve taught me this: Not everyone gets the chance to wake up the next day. No one knows when they’re going to die. The fact that, despite pain and all kinds of other things, I wake up every day and am able to feed my floofy monster kitty, that my heart is still pumping blood, my lungs are still taking in oxygen, my legs work… mostly. I have those days when my legs/back/feet/hips/knees/etc just rebel and go, “nope!! what was that about going somewhere today? yeah… not happening, bitch.”

Life isn’t easy. But I figure that as long as I keep waking up every day, I have a fighting chance to make things better. Never know unless you wake up.

~A

5/12: It’s Alive!!

Another short musing.

For years now, I have heard “poetry is dead…” 

I’m no Poet Laureate or anything, but the fact that I have friends who regularly get their horror/suspense poetry accepted to genre mags, and that -this week alone- the pages/posts that consistently get the most hits are the poetry posts… 

Those who say poetry is dead can go suck it! Between poetry and my fiction, writing in general has been very therapeutic for me. It helped me process my mother’s Alzheimer’s and eventual death. Dealing with my PTSD (and the assholes who did enough damage for me to develop it). With my dad passing away suddenly. With my own brushes with death, my suicidal ideations…etc… writing has helped me process a LOT of shit. As well as general observational pieces. 
Poetry is powerful. And in the right “hands,” it can rock worlds. Just look to Maya Angelou. She made words soar.

Poetry is alive and can be used for great things in times of upheaval.

~Amanda (still in pain, but not as bad as 2 hours ago)

After the crying stops… #eviction #crowdfunding

Right now, as I type this, I’m partly zoning out, breaking down. The stress and anger and frustration have hit a breaking point in me. I’m not angry at the world, although a lot of my frustration is over job hunting. My anger is more at myself.

“Why can’t I find work? Why can’t I get my shit together? What am I doing wrong? I keep fucking up. Everyone tells me my skills are highly desirable, and yet I can’t get a damn interview for something I know I’m good at. What is WRONG with ME??”

When I express these feelings and thoughts externally, I get told that it’s the market. Hell, I’ve used that excuse when fighting with my sister when she berates me for being jobless. Yes, the market here is ugly. But there’s no reason I shouldn’t at least get interviews.

Some of those thoughts are variations of what I grew up hearing and believing as a kid. But that’s been pretty much handled in therapy. Do I still battle those thoughts and feelings? Yeah, but they aren’t as persistent.

I know I can do better. BE better. But I feel like I’m flailing around trying to be an adult but not doing a very good job. Part of that can be put on the various phases of abuse and PTSD… but I still have to own it. I still have to take responsibility. I just feel lost. Even broken, even though I keep telling myself:

I. Am. Not. Broken.

I know where I want to go. Where I want to be. How much income I want/need to survive and maybe even enjoy life a little. I see my friends on FB rave about how awesome this or that movie was, but getting to go see it? Maybe I’ll catch it down the road.

The last time I dealt with the eviction proceedings, I knew my financial aid funds would cover it once they showed up. This was two years ago, right after my dad died. Some snafu in communications and paperwork resulted in my aid getting disbursed. Trust me, January was Hell that year as well. I’ve struggled and fought with this for two years. I did well for the next six months and the eviction was discharged. You have to pay on time or the eviction is reinstated and you’re out. It was discharged. This time, I don’t know what the next few months will hold. One good thing is that if I do get the funds together in time, I’ll have the next 6 weeks to find work in some form and get paychecks going (I’d have to pay January and February).

With PTSD, grad school, job hunting, trying to promote and get stories for the anthology, my volunteer project at the museum, then temporary stuff: getting sick for 5 weeks with three side infections all while sick. Trying to clean up my apartment. Trying to get gigs from TR, dealing with a sick cat (who has one of the same infections I already recently tackled). It’s all too much. My winter break from school is supposed to be relaxing… a time to read non-school books. I haven’t been able to find the one I was reading earlier… I hate picking up another one when I still need to finish the other.

So I feel stuck. Worn down. Tired of life but still needing to wake up each day and get things done. My energy levels aren’t what they used to be. Just doing one thing, such as going to get cat food tomorrow (they are seriously out of kibble), will wipe me out. If you’ve heard of The Spoon Theory, I feel like about half of my original set of spoons have been stolen by something so I have less to work with.

Trying to find peace amidst the different things in my life when so much causes stress. I know that once I get steady work that I can at least reasonably enjoy, I’ll be better. It’s getting that work that’s part of the problem right now. I’m doing what I can with what I have, which isn’t much… but I’m trying.

I just need some help to keep me, my cats, and my stuff safe.

~Amanda

#crowdfunding #rent #3hours

Three hours remain when this posts (I’m able to schedule the post). I need a touch over 800 to cover the rent, late fee, and the water bill that I’m behind on (which is small all things considered). Only use PayPal. If you have a credit/debit card, you can send funds instantly, you don’t need to do a transfer, etc. A lot of people may not always realize that. Unless you want to specifically help toward storage, which has a little more time, but not much, PP is the best way.

I cannot afford to move. My parents are gone, my sister only speaks to me if she “absolutely must” and my brother can’t afford to do much (he’s also 600 miles away with a crowded house himself, so not only can I not move in with him, but little help is available from him. It’s okay. He’s still a better person than some people I’m related to.) Most of my friends are either full up on space or they’re in similar predicaments as I am.

So, I’m still stuck. Most of my friends are trying to figure out why I haven’t been able to get a decent job yet (decent as in pays enough to live on, is not retail or call centers, etc… something I can do without sacrificing my physical or mental health). I apply and get rejected. Not even an interview. Yes, it’s frustrating. I know, somehow, I will get work, but right now, no job will pay my rent today.

Being sick isn’t helping me right now either. Nor is the PTSD. Yay me! Not. I need to head out the door and catch a streetcar right at the 3 hour mark, so this is scheduled. I should be home in time to see what has transpired before the deadline…. hopefully a small miracle.

Maybe?

~Dragon

PS: The Feature Image is my Fuzzy Little Sister, Skunky, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge some years back. She was a miracle of a cat. Outdoors (parents decision), loved by everyone in the neighborhood, and lived to be around 18 or so… She was a wise and calm cat (who lost her balance a lot and proved that cats don’t always land on their feet). She loved everyone, humans, cats, dogs, you name it. Everyone. I wish we could all be more like my Skunky. She was a wise soul.

The Lelephant in Dragon’s Home

As usual, yes, #crowdfunding is still a factor… it will be in every post until I’m stable financially.

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Then there’s the Lelephant. I’m not sure where that term came from in my life. Maybe from a friend’s kid… don’t know… but I like it. Right now, I have a huge white Lelephant following me around.

I’ve struggled the last few weeks with an incident that triggered what I had never before considered to be what it is: PTSD. I am a survivor of sexual assault (an attempt at 19, and then repeated assaults a couple years later). I did therapy, I tried imagining facing my primary attacker. I did all the things… except report it to the police. A big mistake, but I felt I wouldn’t be heard. That I wouldn’t be taken seriously. When politicians brag about how low reporting numbers are, it’s a sad state. Yes, the numbers of rapes being reported are low, but that doesn’t mean those numbers are accurate. I know I’m not the only one who has never reported sexual assault to the police. There are many -too many- of us out here, walking around in our lives, trying to block out the memories, the pain, the things we can’t forget no matter what we do or take or drink to try forgetting.

We are out here getting our voices dismissed by men -and even some women- who think we must be making it up. I wish. Man, do I ever wish it had never happened.

But it did.

Repeatedly.

And throughout most of my adult life, I have lived with it. I’ve shut myself off from any possibility of a connection that could be romantic. Now, my asexuality does come into play to a certain point. But remember, please, that asexuality is merely a lack of sexual attraction to others. It has nothing to do with my assaults or PTSD.

I didn’t think it still bothered me THAT much. Three years ago, I had my “ladies'” exam… and freaked out in a full on breakdown. Yet I still moved forward. I still kept going. Hoping I could still -one day- find a relationship where things just kinda worked themselves out. One little freakout session… meh. I left it behind me. Thought nothing of it.

Then the latest thing happened. Again, no details. It wasn’t a sexual advance, but certain things happened that triggered memories I’d long ago dealt with… or so I thought. In the time since that incident, I’ve slipped into this even thicker fog. I’ve had things I needed to do, but couldn’t bring myself to do them… how do I cope? How do I still function?

I think the latest thing has pushed me closer to being Dragon than normal. Preferring to not socialize…. I don’t feel like me right now. Granted, I haven’t since my dad passed away two years ago. But add a trigger from my assaults and it’s one big mess. I’m in shut-down mode. Sometimes the littlest things will grate on my nerves.

I never asked for this…. any of it. But the Lelephant won’t go away. I can’t afford to feed it. And I’m not allowed to have a “third pet” here…

I wish there was a magic wand or something to make the pain go away. Let me heal. Let me have peace in my life.

It doesn’t exist. I know that. I just kinda wish it did.

~Dragon

One more for the night… #crowdfunding

SHARE ME!!!! Pwease?

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… unless my insomnia decides to kick into gear and I end up with some late night WTF posts that’ll make you all question my sanity (unless you were already doing that, then just carry on). I’m back over on the Vostro (that had a bad battery, so it was acting up… battery gone). I’ll do a post about Jack later…. like, tomorrow.

I started this blog to just let me be my weird self. One step beyond FB, more words than Twitter, and I can share it with Tumblr as well. I have other blogs, but this is the one that gets the most abuse. I’m open about so much of my life…. there are a few things, such as details about my past sexual assaults, that I leave out. I would hope people who read me understand why.

I’m one of those people who wonders if I’m a test guinea pig for God’s experiments and other things He wants to toss at humans (if pigs do start flying, that wasn’t my fault, I swear). I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life and sometimes, like now, I wonder if things will truly get better. I need to finish school, find work and get more help for my PTSD and a few other things. If I’d known that what I was dealing with with PTSD from those assaults, I would have sought help for it long ago… I guess I tried to forget too hard.

I’m human. I’m damaged but not broken. I’ve dealt with pain of all kinds. But I’m still here. Where ‘here’ is, I don’t know if I can define it right now. I have some physical pain flaring up that is messing with me… so I may be even foggier than usual. I hate asking for help, as I’ve always been the one who wanted to fly solo, to not have to depend on others…. and yet this is where I’ve been stuck for most of the past year and a half. I want to get “surviving” down and move up the ladder to “thriving.” I know I’ll get there… somehow…. I just need help from my community to get there.

Please share posts, donate if you can, but at least share. And encourage your friends to share.

~Amanda