Disruption

Disruption

I had such beautiful plans

Three different blog subjects planned

Getting back on the horse 

So to speak

But you know what they say about best laid plans. 
We found out we were going to be moving, sometime in the next month, the day after my second child’s birthday. It was great news but short notice. Short notice is hard when you are two adult disabled people with very limited resources, and four autistic kiddos ages 3-16. 

Short notice is really hard in those cases, which just happened to be out case. Wooooo? Whew. 

So we’ve spent a month cleaning, packing, moving, unpacking, going without, cleaning some more…and we are sorta mostly done, in the short term at least. 
Since we’ve been mostly done I’ve developed a debilitating anxiety flare. So debilitating I can barely move or think for how intense the panic freeze and sound aversion is. This isn’t to surprising, life and routine change is hard for autistic people. The kids are of course adjusting as well, their adjustment is quite a bit screechier than mine.  A tough combination in the best of times but the children and their needs are so important. It can be difficult to balance sometimes as primary caregiver, but it still has to be done. Goodbye spare spoons.

After more or less days long panic attacks I am trying to get this under control as proactively as possible. I’m taking care of myself and trying to re-establish a routine even when my brain is so panic frozen I can barely put two sentences together. This writing may be disjointed as a result.

Thus this free writing ramble. My apologies.

I’ve been feeding my sensory needs, eating, and sleeping…So hopefully next time I sit down to write I will be able to dig into some of those great writing ideas. 

In the mean time I am alive and doing my best. 

I love you and know you are too. We will slog through together. 

Together sounds pretty nice doesn’t it?

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Fulcrum

Fulcrum

This year has been a long and torturous year of loss, pain, struggle, and surprise expenses. 

All my family and I have been able to do is survive for a while now, staggering from one dire circumstance to the next surprise broke emergency.

But now we have a small opportunity to improve our lives a little bit, the opportunity to move into a little bigger place. It will be expensive, and difficult given our meager resources…but once there perhaps the rest of this year will allow us opportunity to heal and settle in. 

A literal and metaphorical turning point

I’m hoping

Perhaps the blood Goddes will be satiated for now and we will be allowed to heal some…live even. 

I hear it said that we deserve to live, to thrive. 

So that’s the goal. 

A long slow road to be sure, but the only semi positive end in sight. 

here I am, taking that first step

Closing my eyes, leaning into the wind and hoping my faith is founded. 

Breathing blessings into the night

May the Moon and I live unhindered 

May the harvest be bountiful 

The predators few and far between 

Hope, Faith, The Moon…and Me

For we are Radiant

Cryptid Quantification

Cryptid Quantification

There are times when I have wanted to make a list of every identity I have held in my lifetime. 

not unlike a map

each bullet point laid out as plainly and simply as possible

to soothe the ragged edges of my soul

but i have never been a taciturn man, so a word becomes a sentence, a sentence a paragraph, a paragraph a story, a story a novel, a novel a universe. 

I can not contain or define the the divine ocean and mystical universe contained within each ragged exhalation. 

words and ink stutter, falter in the face of this expansive…

experience

maybe that is ok, just for today, or tomorrow, or forever 

humanity doesn’t have to be defined, weighed, categorized, to exist 

i am allowed to live with depths yet unexplored

unexamined

though saying that sounds like blasphemy 

the mysterious forest of my heart 

whispering cryptids

what, that we may know peace without bearing our bones for you. 

without bleeding for your pleasure 

tears for your satisfaction

what, that we may live?

Redemption Arcs and Retcon

This is a significant departure from what I typically write. It is very nominally fan fiction. It is very very nominally fiction at all. It’s obviously still autobiographical (I wouldn’t insult your understanding to deny it anyway), as such there is a content warning here for adult sibling loss, mourning, self doubt, and despair
The problem was that Leonard didn’t know exactly what he wanted, and Leonard generally was not a man who didn’t know what he wanted. He’d built his entire life around doing what needed doing, getting what he wanted it needed, got. Often enough to his detriment, true enough. But it was an irrevocable part of who he was…wasn’t it? 

Always so rock solid about himself if nothing else in this world. It had always been his anchor, the concrete under his feet. Even when he self examined, self questioned…he tried to be as honest with himself as possible. He knew what and who he was, and what exactly he and the universe shared space, comprised, co-existed. He couldn’t always get it, he wasn’t a Godde after all, just one moderately…or maybe majorly inflexible man.

But there was nothing to be done, not really, so he was adrift, seriously adrift for the first time since adulthood taught him the necessity of who he needed to be, who he had to be…to survive.

It did *not* sit well or nice. He was unaccustomed to this feeling of…something he couldn’t quite put a name to. It was breadcrumbs under his skin, it was open itching wounds and raw destructive self doubt…self loathing…self recrimination. He was sure he could think up another couple descriptors, another couple metaphors…maybe even a depressing quip or two…a pun even. 

But he hadn’t the heart, hadn’t the energy…his whole body bunched strong and sinewed, ready to save her, his little sister, his family…his only blood family that mattered. But there somehow was nothing to be done, it was far to late. Even if he could turn back time, it wouldn’t help…maybe even make things worse. 

So he was powerless to save her. It bothered him much less when it was only himself he hadn’t been able to save.

And anyway, he couldn’t turn back time so what was the point of even wishing. Hoping.
He had tried though, he had tried, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he done everything in his power? He had to believe that he had, the alternative was a hurricane so powerfully, terribly, hopeless he couldn’t even bear to look for fear of losing everything. 

Himself. 

And where was the line exactly, between being willing to do anything and being unable to everything? What good is being willing to die for someone, being willing to kill for someone when you are watching that very person slide away, shaking your hands off, willfully uninterested in hearing you, into the fog-without you-time by choice? 

It did absolutely no good. 

So Leonard didn’t know what he wanted, and didn’t know how to get the unknown. 

If only there was a plan, or a plot, or magical fix it. 

If only he could live that lie forever. Maybe she could be alive somehow, on a job, or mad and avoiding him…on some other earth. 

Despite himself he desperately wished that lie were true. somehow. Some when. 

But for now all he could do is not know, and not be, and hope someday, if not his sister, his own life could come back to him. Breathe existence into his own limbs again. 

Leonard might not know what he wanted, he might not be able to find path out of this loss right now, but he guessed it might be ok to hope. 

Just a little bit. 

Four Months

I’ve been deteriorating the last few days, though I didn’t know why. 

I was ok right? 

still reading fanfiction all day every 

Music every waking moment to drown out my sensory distress 

Today I thought, ‘I don’t know why things are getting bad again but they are getting bad again.’

Nothing bad has happened except/but don’t think about that. 

*desperately* 

Then, in a rush I remembered, as if I could ever really forget. Today is the 25 th, almost exactly four months since my brother lost his nearly life long battle with addiction, despair, and self loathing. 

*oh* 

The tears were immediate and overwhelming 

*oh.oh.oh*

This month has been the first month of my being ok-ish. Ok-ish being entirely subjective. This month has been the first month of being semi functional, of not feeling like I was actually dying emotionally *and* physically. 

The joys of mourning with chronic illness i guess. 

I’ve been wanting to write you all something beautiful, vulnerable, good. Sometimes late at night, when my body is so heavy with fatigue, beautiful words flow over and through me…and disappear into the abyss, unable to return. My body unable to comply with my needs, my desires. 

I thought i was ok-ish

I guess this is all I have right now.

It will have to be enough.

Loss, PTSD, and Trying to Try 

Loss, PTSD, and Trying to Try 

The thing about mourning is, you can be going along thinking you’re just fine and suddenly, something…anything can set off an overwhelming cascade of memories and hearbreak. Sometimes you weren’t even thinking directly about your loss.

Mourning like this is an independent entity. It has it’s own reasons for settling, like a broody hen, on your chest, and blooming the thick ichorous pain of despair

Trauma can be like that too. No matter how thoroughly we catalog and protect ourselves, therapize ourselves, proactively protect and treat ourselves, advocate for ourselves…sometimes the despair comes, and it comes, and it comes. Not even always because of a trigger or a memory, because of a…wait why now? I thought i was ok.

I was ok.

until I wasn’t ok again.

Sometimes trauma requires we mourn the person we were before the harm. Sometimes the mourning is more esoteric, more complex, more extensive. Despair and pain twined for so long we can no longer see where one ends and the next begins, haven’t been able to for a very long time.

So where does that leave us when our trauma and our loss wrap around each other, pulling each other’s fine silver threads?

trauma and loss exacerbating

exacerbating each other

till my breath comes quick and my heart burns empty

i don’t always know how to find the sweet relief of this golden sun

the peace of cool shadows and soft breezes

i don’t know how to find my heart but I am trying to keep staying alive in all the moments in between.

all the moments between

the heartbeat and the heart breaking

all those moments in the in between is where I am breathing.

Holding Onto That One Last Thread

Holding Onto That One Last Thread

Oh Brother Dear, we sadly fear your presence we have lost

——–

I live here now

I don’t know where here is

The night spirals from my fingertips 

sweet promises and regrets

I am the eye of the storm 

bereft and bloody 

broken open raw

numb

out of sync with this universe 

it’s moving on without you 

relentless

no matter how I scream and tear my hair

no matter how

~~~~

This room feels empty without you though you haven’t been around for awhile. The air is heavier now. it hurts to breathe. i occupy an impossible moment 

dying

betrayed by my continuation

how does one define the edges of a lifetime? chubby baby hands, blue eyes, warm raspy chuckle

————-

A little over a month ago my baby brother died. He died young and he didn’t have to. The system failed him, on multiple levels. Maybe we failed him too. 

that keeps me up at night sometimes
I had to sit with that first sentence for awhile, honestly. A little over a month ago, my baby brother died. 

I haven’t been able to write much, because I haven’t been able to think much. My spoon supply, such as it is, is going to parenting…and pretty much just parenting. 

I’m here, alive, coping. I don’t forsee ever seeing any of my blood family again, short of minor miracles. That’s been coming my whole life, they always made sure I knew I was unwelcome, burdensome. 

obligated. 

I have one paternal cousin who still speaks to me. He’s a sweet guy. I’m thankful for that human connection. He’s been a singularly positive influence on my life, though we live in different states and have much different lives. 

But we’re poor, my paternal relatives are to far away, probably wouldn’t really  understand my identity, and my maternal relatives and I have gone our separate ways. It was, I think mutually beneficial for everyone. 

So here I am, cut off from the people who knew him, my brother, best, and I’m coping. 

I mean, except I’m not really coping at all, I’m parenting and reading fanfiction. In the realms of self medication, fan fiction is almost entirely harmless and that’s good.

 I’m a parent and don’t have the luxury of the self destruction I was on the road to before children. Becoming a parent gave me focus, gave me a reason to strive for something better. I repay the gift they didn’t mean to give me, by maintaining that focus and reason to live…even when it starts feeling a little to nebulous and far away.

but I understand why I am currently hyper fixated on fanfiction. My brain is reading sooo many stories about anxious, sad queer boys because it’s an anxious sad queer boy, and these little happy endings just…alleviate the pain for a moment, as long as I stay submerged. like soothing music or soft fuzzy blankets. it’s.like an emotional stim. brain candy.. 

let me just stay here submerged in Emo Quinten Coldwater and Regal, Gorgeous, Bad ass magnus Bane. 

It’ll be fine. 

probably.

but as a coping mechanism it’s not so great for the concentration. though i don’t know what could possibly be better. I can be slightly checked out or i can be writhing in devastation. those are my current choices. no more. no less. This is the first time I have been able to write about this without falling apart. I’ll call that a good sign…of some sort.

Allistics accuse autistic people of being cold and indifferent in the way we mourn. That darn flat affect. 

In my experience the opposite is true though, we carry loss and hurt so heavily it overloads our whole system, like a fuse that needs flipping after a lightning storm.  

look away. look away. look away

I disentangle slightly so that I don’t burn out entirely.  

but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel it. 

i feel everything.

I’m still emotionally fragile even slightly disentangled, every strong emotional reaction turns into gut wrenching despair and then to more chronic pain flares. I forget sometimes why every single thing makes me feel like my heart has been ripped out. 

oh yeah, because it has been.  

I don’t know what mourning is like for allistic people. I don’t know what mourning looks like for other autistic people. 

This is what mourning looks like for me. 

I’m not there yet-wherever there is

and I don’t know when I will be

but I’m trying and I’m coping and I’ll be ok

more or less

eventually
in the meantime, anybody know any good fan fic?