willkommen! bienvenue! …you get the idea

From Elen Woderose of the Industrious Barony of Thescorre, come greetings unto all who enter here. [switching hats] Hi, I’m Lunochka, and I’ll be your blogger this evening. What can I start you off with?

I have a rich fantasy life. I write fiction and some verse; current works-in-progress include the bloody doomsday thing that isn’t really doomsday after all and the heavily-edited Immigrant Songs, poems stretching over oh ye gods it really has been eight or nine years since I wrote some of those. I indulge in fanfiction from time to time. I’ll be writing songs this year. I don’t promise they’ll be hits, but I’ll try not to offend your artistic sensibilities too badly.

My pop culture interests bridge the gap between geek and chic. I’ve gone vaguely boho and vaguely prep (see Gravatar), and my favorite trousers are basically a skirt cut in two and stitched up the middle. Send me your old, worn-out peasant skirts with drawstrings in and I will make more skirts. Uh, tell me in advance if you want them back. ;) I sew chiefly by hand, and I have been dragging my bottom on that, so I’d better hop to sometime this month.

I’d like more Downton Abbey, Call the Midwife, Archer, Grey’s Anatomy, Lost Girl, and Bomb Girls (that one’s a long shot). I don’t know whether The Mentalist got cancelled. I know The Good Wife is coming back, which, yay! My idea of a good horror film is a few hours’ worth of Public Information Films. Or Threads. (The Day After is a little sanitised.)

I finally think of myself as this woman in this place and from it, but I cannot forget, not ever, that the path to serenity wound through a lot of brambles. I’m only technically native to Western New York; for all intents and purposes, I’m a German immigrant. We moved before I began to form memories, and as a result, yes, the worst culture shock I’ve ever had was coming here. I still don’t get a lot of things, but I have friends now, and a beloved man, and for them I would put down my roots.

In order of fluency, I have English, German, and French; I can usually make sense of Spanish in context; I read Arabic script but can’t tell you whether that is written Urdu, Farsi, or Arabic proper, nor can I differentiate between Arabic dialects. I address my loved ones using Russian diminutives and my liege lords and ladies by their titles.

the nature of grief.

One week. Nearly a week and a day. I think about beginning to move forward. I even begin to begin to move forward (that is not a typo). Then I look around me, terrified, wondering what on earth made me think I was ready? — Well, bravado. A good day’s sleep (seriously, seventeen hours). But when I am tired again I remember who I am missing. When I am tired I am vulnerable.

vulning: to wound oneself by biting one’s own breast. a pelican vulning is a pelican in her piety, much revered.

I take my medication in the dead of night; I have kept myself too busy at inane things to do so earlier. Maybe then I’ll sleep, except that the bed will be so cold. But it would be cold anyhow. Six days out of seven it was cold. What’s the seventh? The seventh is the difference between someone having my back and no-one. Someone in my life and someone out of it.

How can I think about moving forward when we are both still hurting? I have those gaping holes in me, too. I am overcome at unexpected moments. It hurts to move; it hurts not to move. This is shit, I think. This is the kind of shit feeling that makes me want to run straight back to what we had. It wasn’t perfect, but it was us. Connections like ours don’t happen often. I have had similar that went unrequited because it had to; those loves ranged from slightly immoral to downright dishonorable. Even when one of them dishonored himself, I could sleep easier knowing I had not been part of it. I could despise him and learn not to want him. But I never had him. I’m glad I never had him. I think now perhaps the people who knew us both were protecting me.

Eleven (I erased the word “my”) protected me. He would have been right to veto that, had it been likely.

. . .

I run into the question: am I polyamorous? I was in a polyamorous relationship for six and a half years. Could I even be monogamous?

If this is a matter of orientation — I’m panromantic and demisexual. What’s one more grey area? So it could go either way, so long as I’m cared-for. But the world is binary. You have to explain these things. I will have to explain these things. Fine. I want to be accepted for who I am, and there are far stranger aspects of my identity. Immigrant citizen (subject of a kingdom that does not exist), grown daughter at home, intelligent science-loving believer in woo. The name I call mine is not the name on my birth certificate.

I will always be explaining myself.

. . .

How do I prove to myself that leaving was the right thing to do, even if only to find that it may ultimately be wrong? By putting one foot in front of the other. Standing still is no proof that I have loved, because I have loved before and never forgotten, only learned to despise those who disgraced themselves. Going forward is no proof that I cease to love. And none can ask me to stop loving, because it won’t work. So if I’m only going to keep loving and stand still (which is not the same as reconciliation), all I get from it is pain and neither of us will know any more than we do today.

I would be satisfied at right this moment to undo what I have done. At other moments I see the wisdom in what we talked about weeks before I made the call. I do need to try. I have changed. I need to see how much and in which direction.

. . .

Yes, we talked about it, and I had been thinking about it, but I had feared the pain of even discussing it. Yes, I cried on him. Yes, it was at least a week or two before the actual split.

I do this thing. It has a name: anticipatory grief. I mourn before the loss if I see it coming. Loss in the near future is loss now; emotionally I have a difficult time separating what will be from what currently is. I look back and I was mourning us for ages, even before we spoke. I did that when my uncle was dying. I still missed my uncle fiercely. The loss still burned like cheap office coffee smells: bitter, acrid. I was in the middle of Remeron withdrawal when they held the funeral and couldn’t leave the house. That probably compounded the pain.

It didn’t linger like my grandmother’s death. That death hit me from behind. She was okay. She was doing pretty well, all things considered. One February evening, my aunt called. She never calls in the evening. She sleeps, because she’s in fecking Europe, not New York. I still can’t wear that tank dress without remembering. What followed was either flu or the ugliest fibro flare that calendar year. I know I had a sore throat by morning (we were all awake all night). I can’t fly. I couldn’t go to her funeral, either.

From this I can conclude that anticipatory grief helps, but so does closure, and I can have no closure until there is a real and true end to this story. There will not be an end to this story for some time. (Watch me tempting fate.)

. . .

I need to believe something good will come of this, and not some trite “Elodie learns to stand on her own” pishiness. No, I assure you, losing Eleven is not going to make me independent. Driving, graduating, job, these are what I need. I am not better off alone. I have known literally for half my life that I wanted very much to be part of a close-knit kin group not my family of origin. I have longed to interdepend. I haven’t cared about the number of people, just the relationship. The family I build, that surrounds me and loves me and lets me give love back. I know now that I have lots of extended family of choice. Will that extended family of choice yield a closer one? I don’t know. If they can help me find it, I welcome their help. For a non-Jewish woman, I am awfully enthusiastic about the prospect of matchmakers.

My dad’s finally had some good out of his hell. My mum’s hell is passing. So why is mine ongoing? Why is the very thing I have longed for more out of my reach than ever? Whatever and whoever is listening, can this be fixed, please? I’m doing my bit Below. Now you do yours Above and we’re solid!


Five days and sixteen hours ago, I told Eleven I needed to leave him. I had spent a terrible night, one of many terrible nights. We had missed each other that week due to illness. If I had only understood the week before — I regret, I regret, I regret — I mourn.

Because that’s what it is when you don’t have someone anymore, someone who has grown into your world. The loss is as if he has died. We were inseparable. I thought we were. I thought I was not so stupid as to throw away someone who loved me as I was. But I have, I’ve hurt him, and I am deeply ashamed. No matter what was imperfect or even bad between us, I am still spending terrible nights. I wonder if we needed to break down in order to rebuild. I call myself stupid and I call myself careless. When you are unusual, the people who are unusual with you are to be treasured; when one of those is somehow more distant from you than before, where do you look for others who are unusual in just the ways that complement your own?

Who will love or understand an immigrant girl with disabilities and a wish to mother the world?

I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow but sleep is as far away as Eleven. My head aches. My stomach churns. I cannot remember feeling lower in spirit. I walk in fog. I contemplate telling my professors and my dentist to leave me in peace for a week so I might truly rest. I have spent much of my day sewing. Do you know that in two weeks I have taken three and a half yards of red and wheat plaid flannel and made them into a winter gown? By hand? Every seam is sewn from rolled, hemmed pieces, selvage to selvage. Those rolls are slipstitched into place. When I am stronger I will tighten the sleeves; they are ungainly. Tonight I am (I cannot use the word satisfied) able to leave it at “finished, relatively attractive, suitable to be seen in court”.

And all I wanted as I stitched was to lay my head on that chest one more time.

tonight your ghost will ask my ghost
who put these bodies between us?

never blog in anger.

I try to be better. This is why, despite my grumpy-old-woman affect, I am actually quite fond of some inspirational blogs, and today’s Message from the Brightside comes from Louise at Sprinkle of Glitter.

She titles her post “Inadequacy”, and immediately my brain connects two ideas: yes. Anger and feeling inadequate often go hand-in-glove for me. While I’m not on board with the whole “I let myself be hurt” thing just yet — because I live in a reality where it has been true that other people actually hurt me (sometimes the hearing is enough) — I can distinguish between the two and I think I’ve felt her way recently.

And while I’m decidedly Team Grim Reality, I hope I’m relatable to someone. ;)

Louise, my duckling, what better topics are there than the ones that make you happy? If fluff is what makes your heart leap and your fingers fly, please indulge! You have this beautiful life, and I do not begrudge you your joy. So you went awhile without confronting feminism? As a woman, that means you were probably blessed with good men and privilege that allowed you to grow up fairly well-adjusted. Feminism was all around you, like some fairy godmother, and I think you must have benefited from what our foremothers did — that doesn’t mean I’m angry you don’t blog about it! (Or seem to blog about it. I am new.)

I don’t see much of the world. When I was young I was the girl who had. Now I am the girl who is content to make a home and a life. If anything, finding culture has been a journey in this place, to discover what is diverse about this place. If you do feel inadequate, culturally, wherever you are, find who and what is not of that place. Learn. Embrace. That is impressive all on its own. In fact, an awareness that one wishes to learn more is impressive.

This is an “Oh, did you hear what Louise did?” moment.

I’m not looking to stroke your ego. I’m looking to reassure you. Who you are is good enough. Been there, done that, always going to fight it because everywhere you and I go, someone’s going to try and tell us we’re wrong, eh?

And if your mind’s all over the place, you bring the tea, I’ll bring the sympathy.

I am On Track for my semester so far. Yes, it is in fact verging on Day Two. I know. But small victories count, and I consider having my weeks mapped out a major achievement. I’ve struggled for years to find a system that suited me.

One of my textbooks came decidedly not as advertised, so I communicated with people about it. I told the people who sold it me that they’d best come up with an access code ASAP (next step: getting my cash back/trading up to Edition the Third). I let my professor know that this might be an issue for current students, because she did say “get the 2nd Edition” and that’s no longer handy on Amazon with codes guaranteed. She thanked me and said she’d start recommending the 3rd, and in the meanwhile if nothing could be done she would find me a workaround. See? Reasonable.

I began to read this unit’s required textbook today for Music. It’s nice reading. It’s got “yes!” moments.

My Disabled in America text isn’t actually here yet, so I can begin thinking about the things I’ll need to do later in the semester. Right? :)

There is still an eight-hundred-pound essay in the room, which problem I wish to address Wednesday with the new therapist. Please, please, let her and her smart-people CBT work on me. Please let it not suck.

+4/+4 and then it dies horribly

“Look out there!” my mum tells me while I’m playing Hearthstone — in the middle of my first match against an actual opponent. I’ve been hearing something beep, and yes, I know it could be brilliant, but I have to defeat this player first. But she’s very excited, so I get up mid-turn and hope I don’t come back to a Game Over screen or some such. I have to admit I’m curious myself, now. She’s acting like this is something I’ll really enjoy.

“I see the truck,” I say through about a gallon of snot. Oh, allergy season, piss off.

“Look through the window!” She points. Finally, frustrated with my utter cluelessness about Good Things What Come From Home Depot, she says, “We bought a grill!”

It’s a very nice grill, I’m sure, and like she says, the old one nearly killed us; it was rusted through and the gas had begun to leak everywhere. So that was what she was smelling. But I stand there, dumbfounded, sniffling. Did it occur to her that I’m not going to care what they grill on given I don’t eat what they grill?

I don’t even want to know what they paid.

. . .

Summer’s end, and the livin’ is definitely not easy. I’m titrating up on my Celexa because I guess my body notices when I go from 15mg to 20 in one fell swoop. Settling in at 17.5, the lows aren’t so extreme, but I’m missing a particular high, and it’s not mania, I’ll tell you that. I have no periods. Sometimes Pepsi gives me hot flashes. Now I’m barely alive below the waist anymore. Good grief, I’ve managed to induce menopause in myself somehow.

No, I haven’t. But that’s what this feels like. It goes with the general sense that I am getting old. You can laugh, but I feel caught between ages, as if I am both too old and too young for where I want to be. I miss dorm living, of all things. I miss what it might’ve been. At the same time some part of me wishes I were part of a DINK couple where he’s normal but he understands my quirks because we can’t all be Suits, you know? Some of us have to be people-helpers. And maybe he’s widowed, maybe he’s divorced, but he’s never younger than forty. Maybe I am even a soccer stepmom ferrying my preteen and my teenager to all their activities while I keep house and quirk my days away.

Too much “Modern Family”.

I do feel a little like I’m shambling along, though. Going through the motions. Because where is the good excitement? My aunt’s not coming this year. She’ll try to make it in time for something spectacular next year, and after she’s bailed on us twice I’m not sure I trust that. I’m twenty-eight and I think I’m middle-aged, because the most I can hope for at this point is a nice double-occupancy house in the city, with me living on the top floor and my parents on the bottom. Maybe a foster child. I think my thrilling days may be done. The romantic scenarios that normal women use as consolation prizes when they are pushing thirty are closed to me. Is this why I don’t want to be a therapist in a nice suburban practice? Is this why I hope for a job with the police or an ER or something else that’s meant to be taxing?

Really, I’m surprised you’re still reading this, if you are. I could make this private. I feel like I’ve made so much private lately, though, filing the less palatable slices of myself away. Withdrawing because I don’t want to hurt anyone. Hiding so you all think I’m perfectly normal, the Cass girl who started this blog, when I think I turned left somewhere out of her skin. So I’m going to leave this pretty public (ugly public?). The sneezing’s died down, as has the revulsion from last night’s dream — and it felt like a warning, and I think I’ve got it now, but will I do anything about it?

Will I hell.

watch over them.

I can’t sleep for guilt. My next session with Rachael can’t come fast enough. It’s hot tonight, yeah, and I can’t get comfortable, but I think if I weren’t so very sure I was reaping karma I might be out like a light.

I am not allowed to forget that at best, I was a bystander when they bullied him. They were hurting me, but like I said on Facebook, at least I was clever, at least I was that. I had places to hide; where did he hide when he was feeling beaten down? I never saw him in the library or the band room.

If he was bright we never saw it because I think he might have been quite poor. I remember he smelled a bit, and I think his clothes had holes. Otherwise he was quiet, I realise from fifteen and sixteen years’ distance. He didn’t bother me. I don’t know that I outright bothered him, either, but I joined in the general disdain and I’m certain I made sure never to partner with him on projects.

He vanished sometime between seventh grade and high school. Where did he go? Did he kill himself? Did he just change schools? Please, if there is mercy in the world, let him not have believed that middle school mattered. Let him have moved on with his life understanding that people can be awful and cruel and it wasn’t his fault.


h/t Rue Morgue on Facebook, I give you:


Reasons to have been admitted to an insane asylum. Let me count the ways:

♥ hereditary predisposition: On both sides.
♥ immoral life: I grant you, that is subjective, but according to the morals of the day, oh, yes.
♥ laziness: Because I prefer books to dishes.
♥ medicine to prevent conception: What the sodwockets were they using?
♥ mental excitement: I take it that’s what they called panic disorder?
♥ novel reading: Unrepentant.
♥ over action of the mind: Sometimes I can’t quit.
♥ over taxing mental powers: And sometimes it hurts.
♥ dissolute habits: Oh, lovey, I am positively louche some days.
♥ domestic trouble: You can’t say our home life is brilliant.
♥ suppression of menses: A nifty side effect of “medicine to prevent conception”.
♥ superstition: Last night I went a bit mental looking for the third in a set of three blue feathers that I’d found. Not because I wanted to fletch an arrow. Because I was afraid that throwing away the third feather in a set represented throwing me out of a polyamorous relationship.
♥ grief: Not just for people!
♥ self abuse: Using multiple definitions.

Suspect I would have remained an inmate for life.

the missing stair

Disturbing thing I realised while watching Francesca, Baby: Francesca’s mother is flaking on throwing Francesca’s sister Kate’s birthday party, and Cess tells Kate she’ll take her shopping for all the things she needs. Cess has just got in from the shopping. This “missing stair” dynamic is familiar to me.

This winter my car stopped working. I renewed the registration in March but I never got it inspected because I couldn’t drive it and I didn’t have AAA anymore. I was having issues. Dad was having issues. Mum was… coping with us having issues. Fast forward to feeling well enough to fix things. The registration is missing. Instead of looking for it in the mail I didn’t get, I’ve reordered it. I was not up to having the car taken to the garage, so for a little while it was a battle of the missing stairs; in the end, I told Dad to have it done (because my depression was worse at the moment) and he did.

Why hasn’t the registration turned up and why can’t I just hunt it up? I get my hoarding/OCD tendencies from Mum’s side. Her big cannot-do is deal with her papers. I offer repeatedly to do the dealing, because I have organisational schemes coming out my ears. She absolutely cannot cope with other people getting into her papers and disturbing them. There is no way around her on this. I’m probably getting my own post office box by year’s end just to separate my papers out — what papers I can manage to change the address on! And that’ll be some job. But I’ll have to do it. I don’t want a sunroom full of cannot-do.

. . .

My inner social worker is kind of repulsed by the advice these Alateen kiddies are giving Francesca. Is it really empowering to hear “So you don’t have the all-American family? Too bad!” when someone in your family’s an alcoholic? This was the seventies, but I have to wonder where the real help was for these kids. Cess’s mum nearly burns down the house at one point because she blacks out in bed with a cigarette in hand. The Alateen advice — “don’t make it your problem anymore” — doesn’t actually fix the missing stair issue. At the end of the day, no matter what Cess says to her mum, Cess’s father still works out of town and Cess’s mum still drinks. Cess is still raising her sister. “You should have an escape route, in case your mother sets her bed on fire!” Uh, how about “you should go to Social Services about this because your mother is incompetent and your father is unwilling”? But we probably had a terrible reputation even then, so nobody would’ve wanted that.

My household consists of three adults. We have admitted to our issues. Dad’s in therapy. I’ll be back there this week. Mum could use it, but she’s not keen, and hers isn’t so bad. For all that we malfunction, we know we malfunction, and we do what we can to mitigate it. We also don’t have children left in the house to raise. There are three of us encouraging each other to be better. I might understand “missing stair” somewhat better than Joan Surname, but I also understand “fix the missing stair”.

I have also paged through the Orange Papers, so Cess’s mum admitting she needs AA is not a Happily Ever After. My dad had a psychiatrist through the VA who thought twelve-step programs were all that and a bag of crisps, and I’m sorry now that I agreed at all with her. We were all in a low place. Allow me instead to promote the Sinclair Method, which worked well enough for Claudia Christian (aka Ivanova from Babylon 5). I’ll take science over mumblety-peg any day.

thank you thank you thank you

They gave me the option to swap back to classic mode and I’m all yessss, I can code in-text because yes, I really have got used to typing out the tags for italics and bold and whatnot. I was prepared to adapt and move the H on, but you know? I will take this classic mode thing for my ease of use. Not everything has to change all at once.

Because changes are coming and boy am I nervous.

Well. Not nervous, exactly. That would imply a much higher level of unease than I’m currently feeling. Uh. Sort of confused? No, I understand the changes for the most part. My ears are up, then. My ears are up and on swivel. I am alert. There. And I’m still rolling with other changes that have happened like, oh, the radical unfscking of the guest room (so, uh, now we have a guest room) and the same going for my room (which impressed Eleven no end). Mama’s dragging her feet on doing other rooms and I bet she’s just as freaked as I am. I get my OCD/hoarding tendencies from her side, not Simon’s. Plus, this is the first time her sister will see her house this century, and without their mother along for the ride. Tante Rosi is coming strictly to see us.

I’m pleased as punch, but I have all this cool shit to run around and show her, so it’s not like I have any reason to be nervous about that. I’m very much a “take me or leave me” woman. Here is my space. It is laid out just as I like it. Here are my sarongs on the walls. The one without the necklaces dangling from it was a gift from Eleven. The blue one over the head of my bed I bought in Virginia Beach in 2002 (pre-panic by one day). Those round things look like CDs. They’re not. They’re my art. I used acrylic paint, decoupage, permanent marker, and nail polish. The wooden medallion on the black string with the three beads is an award from Their Excellencies Aquila and Bronwyn for achieving the rank of Archer. The metal coin-looking piece on the black ribbon is the event token from last Pax; I will be running the next and you will not be here to see that, my aunt, but I’ll get my dad to take all the pictures he can and maybe a little video to send you. The bar of grey stone with the strips of red and cream running through it also came from Eleven and I love him, I do, and you will meet him.

Yes, the Jesus on my rosary is disabled. If Christianity and its whole “made in God’s image” is right, then surely one of the correct ways to depict Jesus as God’s son is missing his right forearm.

This is my desk. It has some desk things on it and some not-desk things. Yes, that’s a poster of the Berlin Wall. The somewhat primitive statue is one I sculpted aged fourteen and exploring Paganism for the first time; it’s a man and a woman backed up to each other holding hands. See her pleated skirt? See his trousers? Those dabs of white on their heads and hands are coconut oil, anointings made in the hope of better days to come.

And this is a microphone. You should get one, too. You should get headphones. You should get a laptop. You should get a Google account. Then we can talk face-to-face for free. It won’t be awkward because I’ll have Translate open in another window for the things I mean to say but can’t. You’ll be able to see my expressions and the hand motions I make when I’m reaching for a word that I know I have somewhere but can’t find. Little Georg who is not little any longer can set it all up for you. He’s really very good with computers. After all, Gärtnerei Neubauer has its own domain name dot d-e.

I know one of the charms of the world is travel, and how large our world really is, but I need it to get smaller in some respects so I still have my family Over There.

File all that under “did not intend to say these things”. Not regretting the words, though. Not one bit no never.