On Flailing

Things will be feeling great, and then one day you wake up and they stop feeling that way. That's depression in a nutshell.

Ah, my black wolf. He's been hanging around me for a few weeks now, making me weepy and apathetic. And at first, I fought and thrashed and said "This is some unfair bullshit, go away." and then felt guilt and shame for feeling this way again with Acorn being so young still, and for being snappy and crabby and apathetic with everyone.

But, over the past few days I've had some long, deep, in the shit rambling talks with my husband and a few very close friends. They're the best for these sorts of talks because, they listen. They don't interrupt, they don't offer pity or advice. They simply listen.

It's a skill I'm a bit bad at myself, if I'm being completely honest.

And in these ramblings, I uncovered some truths I had been avoiding while in the fog. All on my own, with no one pointing it out.

Have I mentioned how much I love good listeners?

I need to find the mother inside of me. Not the one I DON'T want to be, or even the one that I DO want to be. Just the one that I ALREADY am. And embrace her in all of her messy, human glory. It's time to unfollow the parenting advice sites and blogs, unfriend the sanctimommies, forgive the examples I'm running from and just BE in this role and in this life. I can still commiserate, because we all need to commiserate sometimes.

In fighting so hard to hold on and not "lose myself" after becoming a mother (my biggest fear), I actually stifled a new iteration of myself from coming through. I'm so terrified of change and the what if's of what comes after that I've shackled my ankle to an old, ill fitting version of myself where I don't have room to breath, much less grow.

And it feels like I'm fighting myself, constantly. The old snarky version of me who wasn't going to let motherhood change her AT ALL, the consummate rebel who scoffed at "women's work", the misunderstood loner artist and the new one who wants to soften and surrender to this season, who isn't embarrassed by the pride and joy she finds in homey things, and admits that perhaps this wasn't the best time to try to try to become a "serious artist", but rather keep on doing what I do for the sake of doing it. The one the old me thinks is super fucking lame.

Because she's afraid.

She's afraid of dying, and she's afraid of what comes after. She thrives on feelings of not enough. And so she clings on desperately and whispers vitriol that makes me question the simple joys I find, and makes me fear that if I change to much, everything will crumble around me and I'll be left where I started.

Alone and flailing.

She whispers to me that accepting a pill to help is cheating, that it's synthetic happiness, that it's less than real. That it will make me a phony despite my urging and celebration of others for doing what is best for them. Even takings the pills.

That part of me is what's phony. And hypocritical.

And amidst all this, I'm flailing with my faith. I never really understood what a crisis of faith really felt like, though I've been sympathetic with others. It turns out, it's not just limited to followers of organized religions. Even a raising herself on dirt and whispering to nature kinda gal can thrash about, crying for answers with the best of them.

And so I'm searching as I'm clinging. Which doesn't really work out so well.

My hips and lower back have been aching for weeks. I can't get comfortable when I lie down. Walking, standing and squatting are painful. I feel creaky, crooked, and like my legs are going to pop out of their sockets.

I feel like I did the week before I had Acorn, when I was in pre-labor.

And while I'm thrashing about with my spirituality, there's one thing I'm still set on: my body is a mirror for what's going on in my heart and mind. It's time to birth someone new. Flailing and confused but comforted instantly by love.

It's time to be brave, get clear on how I want to feel rather than who I want to be, and do what I need to do to get there. Because this thrashing about in the cold gray sea thing is better left to the birds.

Oh, Hello

Blue moon witchery. Big magic for big healing and big changes over the next 2 years.

It's been a while.

But, you know. Life. 1st birthday. Toddler. Illness. Family Visits. Sleep. WALKING! (sort of) It's been a busy life, and at the end of the long days that make up the insanely fast years, I want to curl up on the couch with my husband or a book and veg out. Sometimes, I art a little, or color, or work on a crafty something or other. I'm coming back to who I was before baby, though I'll be forever changed and it's still taking a little adjustment.

Funny, going "back to normal" is like a whole new adventure all over again. Haha. And as it is with adventures, I'm learning and growing from it. My priorities are a lot clearer now and the mess (though still sometimes insanity inducing) is firmly on the back burner until I've met the needs of myself and my dudes. That sometimes means dishes get done at 7 am and other times mean they're done at 10:30 pm. Doesn't really matter because they're still there waiting no matter the time, because I'm not a storybook witch who can wish them away. *sigh*

The big updates from here are: Acorn is now a year old. And hot stepping all over the place for short distances. And breaking his mom's heart with all this growing he's been doing, even as he delights us and makes us proud. Looking back on the last year has helped me to get through the hard and longest of days, because there's perspective now. I feel like I blinked, and my newborn baby was whisked away and replaced by this toddler with his boy face. Really, where did those baby features go?!?

Joe and I are both doing well and finding more time for ourselves and our hobbies again. My physical stuff is still ongoing, still waiting to see a specialist for my autoimmune disease so I can get a 100% accurate diagnosis and start treatment, but I've been taking my own steps to try to keep my discomfort under control. I'm working on improving my diet, cutting back on consumerism (sorry craft stores, my money now goes entirely towards food!), increasing my vitamin D (which is hard when it's like the surface of the sun outside ALL THE TIME) and getting up at the asscrack of dawn to do some stretches, yoga and my PT exercises. I'm not a morning person, so that's been a bit rough, but it's been tremendously helpful.

Taking some time to center and breath.

I'm making lots of progress with my mental health too, which sometimes feels very frustrating, because it often feels like 2 steps forward, 2 steps back. Every bit of progress seems to dredge up something else that needs to be healed. But, I'm getting there. The work is hard and some days I question if it's worth being grumpy or upset to get this work done, but then I remind myself that for all of the short term discomfort, there will be long term healing. Once I heal my inner child, overcome the fears that trigger my anger and quit questioning my worth, things will be smoother, happier and less stressful. So, onwards and upwards.

I've also still been debating if I should keep blogging here, change the name, move to Wordpress, blah, blah, blah... and I'm still undecided. I know the name no longer suits me, that I need an overhaul to make this space feel like it belongs to this current iteration of me. But do I want to wipe the slate completely clean, or just redecorate? Still pondering.

How are things with all of you? What's new in all of your lives? I've been a real shit about emailing, writing, etc. and I no longer use Facebook at all so I'm completely out of the loop.

Photo from my flight last month.

“There is nothing more beautiful than a warrior woman standing in her power, courage, and confidence. From this place of strength, she is capable of loving the world in a way that transforms pain into promise…and hell into heaven.” ~ Debbie Ford

I'm more or less through the woods of postpartum depression, so my therapist and I have moved on to tackling deeper, darker things. I cried for the first time in a session. The work I'm doing on my own is hard; excavating old memories and unlocking old hurts and anger. It's easy to let the ugly of the past take the wheel, to make me a cranky mess.

But I'm fighting it. I'm pushing through, owning my anger, my hurt and I'm pushing forward in to forgiveness. For the first time, I'm learning to forgive and heal old soul wounds. For the first time, I'm speaking to myself a little more positively, realizing that I AM worthy. For the first time, I feel a little confident, powerful and free.

Even as the darkness swirls around the messy room that is the mind I'm working so hard to heal and transform, I'm standing in my strength, in a place of love.

I Wanna Get Better

There are things people don't like to talk about, especially in relation to things that are supposed to be joyous. There's a fear of being perceived as incapable, less than or bad in some way. I know this, because I've felt it too. Not at any time more so than I have since I had to admit to myself after months of telling myself "it's just hormones" or "the baby blues" that there was something more going on. Even after I checked off several boxes on the PPD check list.

Motherhood is one of those things that is held in such sacred and high regard that to speak ill of it, to let anyone know that you've found anything other than joy in it, causes you shame. I've been feeling so very ashamed, so very heavy and alone, only willing to admit my feelings to Joe. I felt myself withdrawing, I felt myself cracking under the weight of my own unmet and wholly unrealistic expectations of what motherhood would look like for me.

I've found myself beating the shit out of myself for not being this perfect, beautiful, serene zen hippie mama that I expected and wanted to be. I've railed against my body - this miraculous and strong vessel that grew and bore this baby- for it's faults and weaknesses, because I can't wear my child the way I had envisioned and longed to. Because I have 2 left hands and 10 thumbs and can't get the whole wrapping thing down (goodbye dreams of beautiful, heavily filtered photos of my baby curled up and snoozing in hand woven fabric) and then because my back will spasm with angry ropes of fiery sciatica if I carry or wear him in the strappy buckle carriers I CAN use for too long. (so long dreams of painting while I wear my soothed, snoozing infant). I curse it because the same happens when I sway my hips and rock him to sooth him when he's sick or uncomfortable. I've been cursing it and wishing for a new one because neither one of us particularly likes it when I have to soothe him laying or sitting down. We both crave motion, a calming rhythmic motion, when we're uncomfortable. He is so much my son.

And I've been cursing myself and this brain of mine, so filled with emotions, for being anything but happy and delighted by this child I wasn't even sure I could have. For daring to be annoyed with him, for feeling my blood pressure rise when the cries of an overtired child can't be soothed away easily or sometimes at all. I've hated myself for whispering to the night to please shut him up so we could sleep and loathed myself for putting him down to cry and walk away to go get my head on straight again and calm back down when I feel myself becoming agitated. How could I?

I've felt like a monster; who gets mad at a baby? Who asks a baby to kindly shut the fuck up - even in gentle whispered sing song tones?

Apparently, every one. But I've been incapable of giving myself the grace needed to accept that and to accept that in that aspect anyway, I'm perfectly normal. And that lack of acceptance and grace coupled with the unmet expectations I had for myself, sent me down a spiral. The waves of sadness, darkness and less than have dragged me under and left me gasping in heaving breaths for air. They've tossed me on to my knees, a tear stained crying mess of a woman who can barely breath or find a kindness to give herself. And they've left me on the shores of endless doubt and hopeless dark skies, wondering aloud if my boys wouldn't be better off with another woman to care for them.

One who isn't a giant fuck up. One who doesn't constantly worry. One who doesn't cry and feel so very emotional. One with a strong body and mind.

And the light broke in, through those clouds for one shining moment. The full moon's kiss on my tear stained raw face, and I knew that these are all lies. All a pack of motherfucking evil, hateful lies. That it isn't my fault, that I don't deserve these feelings, that there is nothing to be ashamed of or scared of. That I'm worthy of love and motherhood and most importantly, of healing.

And I reached out. In one big afternoon of emailing and calling, I reached out. To my sisters far and near and I was lifted up and held. And I was gifted with their stories, so many so similar to my own. So many that I had never known or would have guessed had done this dark dance as well. So many women suffer this in silence. So many women never reach out. So many of my beloved sisters were too ashamed to tell anyone, some were scared of themselves but were too afraid of what others thought to reach out. And that is why I'm sharing. That is why I'm placing this darkness, raw and unedited, in to the glaring light of day.

Because fuck being afraid. Fuck the shame. Fuck people who think depression is fake or all in our heads. Fuck those who think we're weak. And fuck the unrealistic standards that women are saddled with - by themselves and by others.

I've reached out. I'm starting therapy tonight, despite the fear I feel at opening up to a stranger face to face and despite it not being in my budget, because this isn't my fault. And I deserve to get better.

And, so does every other person out there who needs it.

Why I "Changed my Mind" About Being a Mommy

I've been getting this question a lot, in regards to my decision to get pregnant and join the circle of Motherhood. My initial reaction was one of learned defensiveness where I just wanted to say "None of your fucking business" and leave it at that.

But, here's the thing. If I share my story maybe I can be a small deterrent in what people consider to be socially acceptable to pester women about. So, here's why I "changed my mind" about having a child.

You see... I didn't change my mind. Somewhere inside of me, I've always wanted to be a mom. I've known since I was a child that if I had a baby, I didn't want to find out what I was having before birth (and I'm not finding out). I've had names picked out since my teen, though they've changed and evolved now.

But, there were obstacles to overcome before I decided to bring a new life in to this world and be responsible for it. If you read my Painting the Feminine post titled The Noble Path you'll recall that I've only recently come clean about my fears of being barren due to a slew of medical issues. That fear was enough to have me tuck the want for a child somewhere down deep inside myself; I may have been a physical masochist during the darkest days of my depression, but I'd never have willingly hurt myself emotionally. It's not an exaggeration to say that at a certain point in my life, that level of disappointment could have been life threatening.

Which leads me to my second obstacle; there were a lot of emotional walls for me to tear down and a lot of healing work to do on myself. Some things may never be healed fully, such as being O.K. with people touching me or being in my personal space without my permission, but others could be and needed to be. I couldn't take care of a child when I still felt like I was responsible for taking care of my younger siblings, I couldn't take care of a child while I thought of family as nothing more than a hive of hurt and disappointment, I couldn't take care of a child while I was busy being terrified I'd turn in to my own parents and I sure as shit couldn't take care of a child when I was too much of an emotional nightmare to even take care of myself.

No one really asks you when you're going to have kids until you get married, so I didn't have to explain myself for a while. But once Joe and I were married, it seems everyone felt it was their personal duty to inquire about the emptiness of my uterus and when that may change. At first I just said, when I'm damn well good and ready.

Which should have been enough, but never seemed to be. Because these same people; family, friends, coworkers... would ask me repeatedly. Some would do it each time they saw me and others would keep a watchful eye on things like whether I was drinking wine or beer at parties and gossiping amongst themselves to see if I was pregnant.

Let me stop my own story here to make a very important point, which is the entire reason I'm going in to this: it is never and I mean NEVER acceptable or ok to pry this much in to someone else's personal life. If you chose to get knocked up at 24, 16, a week after you got married, before you were married, at the sperm bank - good for you. I respect your reproductive decisions but you and I aren't the same. Nor are we the same as anyone else. The choice whether or not to reproduce is an incredibly personal one and shouldn't be relegated to water cooler or family reunion gossip. You don't know what someone is going through or what their reasons are and to be completely honest and frank it is none of your fucking business, regardless of your relationship. And should you ask if someone is planning to have a child, take their answer at its face value and move on. Do not guilt them with wanting to be a grandparent, aunt, uncle or want your child to have a playmate. Emotional blackmail is one of the reasons so very many relationships of all sorts are in shambles, don't do it.

My answer of "when I'm ready" was never enough and people wanted to pry in to why I wasn't ready, when I would be ready or (my personal favorite line of bullshit) reminded me that I was getting old (I turned 31 17 days ago). I finally hit a wall with what I could take and refusing to dignify their inquiries with highly personal and private information, I began telling people that I didn't want kids and in fact, greatly disliked them.

That's right. I started telling family members and friends that I didn't like kids and never planned to have any, simply so they would shut up, leave me alone and let me get to the business of taking care of myself. When you think about it, that's a really sad situation. No one should have to lie to get people to respect their boundaries.

But I did. For years. And right up until the day I got pregnant there were only a dozen people that knew that I did, in fact, want children.

So to answer the question of "Why" or "What" made me change my mind... nothing did. Because it hasn't changed. I just have been dishonest with a large group of very intrusive people for a very long time in order to give myself the emotional space that I required but was consistently refused.

If you're in that group, or someone like them, I hope this will serve as a lesson to you and that in the future you will understand that not everyone is an open book and not everyone welcomes personal questions and prying. And that even if they're ok with your asking, please don't ever turn it in to a stalk and gossip situation, because that's really unnerving and creepy.

If I can get even one person to change a behavior by telling my own story, that will be enough. That's the biggest reason that I share personal stories about depression, fear, healing and other personal issues in this forum; to advocate and hopefully touch others in some small way. I'm much better at writing about them than I am at speaking about them and only share when the time and tone sits right in my heart and in my mind; never before I'm ready to do so.


*****
Less heavy stuff on the horizon. Cross my heart. xox

Painting the Feminine - Destruction and Rebirth

The journey we took together through Painting the Feminine, led by the huge hearted, vibrant and honest Connie at Dirty Footprints Studio officially ended this past Monday, February 2. But truly, when she offers it again, I highly recommend you take it, even if you don't think you can draw because art skills and techniques DO NOT matter. They really, truly don't. I have thoughts and feelings on what this whole journey meant to me and look forward to continuing the exploration on my own (with the safe space to continue to share my work and discoveries here on the blog and with my sisters in paint on our community page) but I will share those once I've finished sharing my art journal pages. Which will hopefully resume next week. My scanner has been giving me some trouble and photos of the journal just don't capture the essence of each image as well as I'd like. But I think I've finally gotten it sorted out, so I'll be on a scanning marathon this weekend!

In the meantime, one of the prompts that I haven't shared yet touched me so deeply and so heavily that I worked with it not only in my journal, but on to the canvas.

The prompt was The Fierce Feminine... in particular, the power of Destruction. Harnessing our Kali and Destroyer energies in such a way so they don't burn us out, but are beneficial rather than simply destructive for destruction's sake.

You all may remember this painting I shared a while back:

Some of you will be horrified to know that I mindfully and intentionally destroyed this piece, smothering her with gesso and modeling paste until the canvas was blank and textured; new and reborn. All 80+ hours of work and hands down my masterpiece painting, gone in a few hours time. Let me share why I did so, as recorded in the writing journal that's accompanied this journey through the feminine:

Destruction and closure came to me in a very different way than just in the art journal this week. It came in the form of a bottle of Gesso and the edge of one of those faux credit cards you get in the junk mail (who needs a palette knife?).

The painting is one that took me almost 100 hours to complete. It is filled with sweat, tears and so much raw anger, hurt and frustration. She tore from my gut and my heart like an avenging angel, filled with fire and poison, ready to smite and to kill after one of the most emotionally draining and painful periods this soul has encountered in its 30 years on this Earth; my longest and most difficult battle with depression, lasting over 6 months and nearly costing me every single loved one in my life. She sucked the last vestiges of the lingering feelings from that time out of me, like a great vacuum and left me feeling cleansed, renewed and refreshed when I had finished.

It was a year ago this weekend that she was created and it was this weekend that she has been cleansed, wiped clean. I was so proud of her when I finished her; she was both a technical and emotional masterpiece for me... the single greatest work I've ever achieved. But we both knew that I couldn't fully heal with the energy leaking from her and from me; that the old wounds were merely scabbed over and not yet scars. Looking at her was a painful reminder of that terrible time, not one that uplifted me and said "I made it!" but one that reminded me of all that I had felt. So I sealed that time and those feelings behind layers and layers of Gesso; I sent her off with ritual - with incense and with more tears, this time of the cleansing variety. The surface of the canvas has been cleansed and reborn and is now waiting to reveal something new to me when the time is right.

This was one of the most difficult things I've ever done; to in essence destroy something in to which I'd breathed life. But from destruction, so often comes birth and I know that something beautiful will emerge from her proverbial ashes.

***

And something already has. I've been working on a new painting on this canvas since our circle closed, keeping my painting practice alive in a different form... taking the time and space each day to connect with the Feminine and paint. I've been enjoying this new painting, singing and dancing while I break in new paintbrushes from the husband on it. This is the polar opposite of my time painting The Lady, where most days I dragged myself unwillingly to the canvas almost as an act of penance... painting this new one has been an act of pure joy and light heartedness. Going to the canvas isn't a chore, but rather something to look forward to each day.

Taking that brave step, harnessing the strength of the fierce Feminine to destroy something that I had created (which I have never, ever, ever done before) was an amazingly freeing and healing experience. Without that happening, I may never have fully gotten over that time or the fear of relapse. Now, without her constant gaze reminding me of it from the studio floor (I never hung her up but rather left her in the corner) I feel no fear or shame.

Here's a sneak peek at the rebirth, the Phoenix rising from the destruction:

I'm Tired, Not Depressed

It's no secret that I live with depression, I'm an open book about my own experiences and trials both here on the blog and in person. Over the years, people have thanked me for being honest about the disease and how I handle it saying I've inspired them, helped them in some way or that it was simply comforting to know they aren't alone. And while it's been hard to be honest about a condition shrouded in so much shame and misunderstanding, I've continued to share to help heal myself and continue to help others like me. I've never once regretted the writing or the speaking until I became pregnant, and that makes me ashamed and angry - to have had the power and healing that I've found in those words to be stripped from me by people I know.

You see, even before I became pregnant, people threatened that should I conceive they would become my shadow to make sure I didn't become depressed and hurt myself or my child. This freaked me out a bit and when it came time to tell everyone about the baby, I didn't want to. I talked to Joe about how much I just wanted to keep the whole pregnancy secret until the baby was here (a Ukranian tradition that my father told me about) and how apprehensive I was about the whole thing... but you can't really hide it forever when you're showing at 3 months.

And so we told people, with my guts in knots and my stress levels elevated the whole time. I don't remember if I smiled at all; if I did, it was forced as I waited for the pouncing and the craziness that I knew would follow.

And sure enough, it did. Since we told everyone, I've had two days go by where these same people have not texted me or started a conversation with me with the now dreaded words... "how are you feeling?" And should I answer with "fine" because, really I am and I'm tired of answering the same question repeatedly... I'm pregnant, I don't have cancer - they come back with "are you sure...." or "..." or "how about mentally?"

Those of you to whom I've spoken about my depression and those of you who've read about it here on the blog will know that I've handled this disease on my own with exceeding competence and that when I have needed help, I've asked for it. I'm not too proud, or scared, or ashamed to say "I'm depressed". It's a part of me; not a shiny happy part that people like to gush about like my art, my spirituality or my penchant for hilarity at awkward moments... but a part of me nonetheless. And I accept it for what it is; it doesn't make me weak or pitiful, it just means I deal with different stuff than others.

As a side note to those who are friends or loved ones of people with depression: sad, glum or tired do not always equal depression. We can be sad just like you, without it spiraling in to depression every single time.

Anyways, this lack of space -this clingyness- has left me with anxiety every time my phone goes off or people come over. I dread the question and the prying, I dread the near stalker level of crazy some of my friends have taken on. I wouldn't be surprised if I didn't answer in a reasonable amount of time if they showed up at my door. And that freaks me out and, more importantly, pisses me off.

It pisses me off because - I'm not depressed! I've been sad a few times since getting knocked up, worried about a few things but who doesn't at some point? Also, it makes me angry because it feels like a severe lack of trust and faith in my own abilities to care for myself (as I've done numerous times before) and even worse than that? It feels like a lack of faith and trust in my husband's ability to be mindful of my depression or be able to care for me should it arise.

Which he has done through every episode of it I've had since we've met. He's actually gotten better at seeing it coming than I am and allows me the space I need without letting me sink. Which is what I need in general - regardless of mood... space.

I'm not saying that all people with depression are capable of handling things on their own, have a supportive partner or don't benefit from a constant watchful eye or twenty. But for me, the more you cling the harder I will shove you away. I'm a fairly private person (I know right? a private person blogging) and when people insert themselves in to incredibly delicate and personal areas of my life uninvited, it makes me resent and dislike them for disrespecting my hula hoop of personal space.

Not everyone who lives with depression will suffer prenatal or postpartum depression, just like not everyone who suffers prenatal or postpartum depression has a history with the illness. To lump every woman's experience in as "the way it goes" and to treat every woman (or even every pregnancy or birth) as a cookie cutter image of someone else's experience belittles and demeans the personal nature of this experience.

So please, stop clinging. You're giving me anxiety and you're making me want to break up with you, even if I'm pretending like everything's ok to your face. Please stop assuming that because I've been staying home more lately that it's because I'm in a deep dark pit of depression. Want to know why I've been staying home? Then ask why I'm being a hermit and these will be your honest answers:

1) The holidays were insane and I'm enjoying my sabbatical of not needing to do anything. There wasn't a single weekend in November or December (you know, when I was feeling sick all the time) where we didn't have solid all weekend plans or weren't traveling and I'm enjoying peace and quiet and most importantly, not having plans.
2) I feel like crap. I'm tired, I'm achy, my head hurts and I still get random bouts of nausea. And you know where I want to be when those things hit? Curled up on my own couch or my own bed.
3) I'm taking time for self care; taking time to paint, work on my spiritual practices, clean up my house. Yes, those sound selfish to you - they aren't.
4) We're having a baby and when it comes I'm quitting my job. We're pinching all of the pennies we can right now and going out simply isn't in the budget.

That's reasonable, not depressed.

And while I wouldn't be surprised if people came over, emailed or called after reading this... I really hope you don't. Lately I hate being right and enjoy being wrong and need lots and lots of space. Please give it to me.

Money Can't Buy Me Love

The Guardian - Acrylic painting done over an 8 hour at home painting retreat I gifted to myself over the Summer.

It takes time, after you've been through an experience that leaves you miserable or hurt, to regain trust. Trust in yourself, trust in other and, sometimes, the trust of others in you. It takes time for the wounds to heal, for you to let your guard down, to get back to normal. And after days, weeks, months or years of being twitchy, angry and upset constantly it will take time for yourself and those loved ones around you to realize that it's truly over. That you won't be lashing out at every question or touch, that you won't dismiss invitations for your time or affection because you simply don't have time. It takes time to get back in to the swing of doing things you loved but forgot you loved because they were swept under the rug.

I've been going through that for a few months, this healing thing. And it's work. Which is sort of frustrating, because I wanted (hoped, really) everything would go back to the way it was 2.5 years ago, before I sold my time and my soul for the almighty dollar, immediately once the situation was over. That might sound melodramatic, it might even sound peevish or immature to some, but how it sounds to you makes it no less the truth for me. When I took a job two years ago at a bank, I expected a) for it to be temporary - as in a few months and b) to be a 20 hour part-timer. I'd worked full time in banking previously and had enjoyed it, and we needed the extra income, so I accepted the job when it was offered to me.

And at first, things were as expected. My boss respected my wish to be a 20 hour employee, even scheduling me for quite a few morning shifts as I had told him that my priority was spending time with my husband, taking care of our home and growing my fledgling art business. I made it clear from day one that this job was for extra income and that my home life was far more valuable to me. But, as time went on and my manager left, I began working 30 - 40 hours a week, because that's what my direct supervisor scheduled me for. And at first I was complacent, telling myself the extra money couldn't hurt. Then things at the office became miserable; understaffed, loud-mouthed opinionated (and incapable of explaining their opinions in a non-abusive manner) co-workers, a supervisor who would stand by and let customers curse you out and told I would either work the hours I was given or get out. I couldn't, in good conscience - despite his asking me to do so repeatedly - just walk out and leave the burden of financial responsibility on my husband. And so it became an ever-increasingly toxic and stressful environment. Yet, I refused to leave, believing a new job was right around the corner - after all, I was interviewing and applying for better positions all the time, right?

Not quite. Being trapped at work 2 hours past closing, getting home between 7 and 8 pm after going in at 8 or 9 am became the norm as was working 6 day weeks, because my boss decided to schedule me for the occasional 3 hour pointless shift here and there, thus expanding my work week ever further. Constantly exhausted and cranky, I fell in to a depression last Autumn that lasted over 6 months. 6 MONTHS. That's a long fucking time to be depressed. I was crying at the drop of a pin; constantly belittling myself for not getting all the things I wanted to get done at home done, telling myself I was a miserable excuse for a wife because Joe was doing most of the housework (without being asked or ever uttering a complaint... no, you may not have him.) and falling asleep on the couch most nights before 10 pm without so much as feigning casual interest in having a sex life. My garden was crunchy and dead in its boxes, the weeds choked out and murdered almost every herb in the kitchen garden. Spirituality was observed with a simple head nod to the altar or stars, Hermes went over a year without a single offering or token or joke. Having Luna come to live with us made me cry all the time, because in my over-taxed state of mind, I viewed her as both a burden and a precious soul who I was doing a terrible job mothering. My art shop closed up for over a year and my blog space, which I had always loved so much, was abandoned to grow cobwebs or else house passive aggressive entries about my depression and anger. Just take a look back in the archive, you'll see how spotty and angsty my writings were.

The lack of support at work - where I was spending over half of my waking life, the "I'm more important than you or your stupid life" attitude of my boss and customers, the being treated as if everything I did was wrong because I took initiative where others didn't, the constant badgering of insane right-wing politics and faux-Christian religion (if you spend 90% of your time belittling, mistreating or judging others, I'm sorry... I don't consider you a Christ follower.), the lack of time to do anything I loved or enjoyed in pursuit of some fucking currency made me such a volatile, angry and miserable person that I damn near lost every single person in my life who is dear to me. And that's no joke or exaggeration.

I was that far in the darkness of depression and rage that I was driving off every person I loved and who loved me because, two years is a long fucking time to try to help someone. I don't know how anyone did it, how anyone still loved and cared for me when I was such a self abusing ball of hatred and misery. I honestly don't. But I thank the Gods and stars and moon and Universe every single day that they did. That my husband is still here, still loves me dearly and didn't abandon me when no one would have blamed him. And when I realized how much I was about to lose, something snapped inside of me and I saw what I had become; saw my volatility and anger, saw that I couldn't have a civil conversation with someone of differing opinions than mine anymore, saw my untouched paints, my dead plants, the way my closest family of the heart tiptoed around me and I realized I was done. I was out. I was going to work one more month, if nothing came along, to get us squared away with some savings and then I was out. Just giving myself the freedom to walk away, seeing an end to the bullshit, was enough to snap me out of it.

It's been almost 6 months since I made that decision and a friend dropped a much better job in to my lap. The two happened within a week of each other, proving once more to me that the Universe provides for those who help themselves. I made the conscientious decision to save myself and my life, to take back my heart, emotions and time from a shitty paycheck. Yet, I'm still healing, as are those around me. I'm re-learning how to take time for myself and the things that I love and enjoy without giving myself grief or guilt that I'm not "doing something useful" like I did when my free time was virtually non-existant. Re-learning how to be patient and compassionate and how to laugh at myself again. I've broken out the scrapbook I haven't touched in 2 years, have started organizing and printing photos that are sorely in need of it, pulled out my DSLR rather than my iPhone to get some new photos and have a list 10 miles long of all of the projects I want to work on for Hallowe'en and Christmas. Making things makes me happy, it brings my hands and my heart joy. And somewhere along the way, right along with how to be patient, how to laugh at myself, how to be laid back and funny, how to not stress and yell and cry at everything, I lost that.

But I'm finding all of that again. Slowly, but surely. Sometimes I still stumble and doubt, take things to heart and give myself guilt that I shouldn't, but it's progress. And it feels so goddamn good. And I've learned that I would rather move in to a small space, with no bells or trappings, no vacations or trips and not pay off our debts until I'm 100 than let myself be trapped in something that churns out such misery in myself ever again. Because all that truly makes my heart sing, can't be bought. And I will never, ever, with all the Gods as my Witnesses, ever let something or someone take my power away from me like that again.

Not for all the money on this Earth. Because it won't buy me happiness and can't buy me love.


P.S. This all bubbled to the surface now, because I'm done holding in these residual feelings of doubt, guilt and annoyance. Six months is enough time to wrestle with them and beat them down and now it's time to release them and set myself free. Making room for bigger, better feelings.

Apathy and Introspection

"Heart Driven": Work in Progress.

Every year, right around Samhain, when it begins to get dark and cold I begin to think about introspection. Now when I say think, I mean I literally think about it, not that I sit down and dive deep inside myself necessarily.

I suffered through a terrible bought of Autumn Apathy this year, which has never happened to me before. Seriously, I barely wanted to do anything at all, much less share it here. That whole 'effort' thing sounded so unappealing and all I really wanted to do was sleep in a puddle of warm sunshine and stay there for at least the next 6 years. My Halloween party happened because it's what I do, my pumpkins were carved because it's what I do. There was no real thrill there in my bones, no tingle like there normally is. I chalked some of the really blank spots up to worrying myself ragged over loved ones effected by Sandy but if I'm really honest, a lot of it had crept in and taken hold before that. There were things I went and did that I really enjoyed, like going home to NJ for a few days, going to the Renaissance Festival not once but twice and taking part in the Color Run in Charlotte, NC.

But, even as I enjoyed those events, anyone close to me could tell I wasn't feeling like myself because there was something missing from most of these expeditions; my camera. Which, to the outside observer, probably seems like no big deal but to those that know me well is a big glaring sign that something's amiss with me. Being one of the most photographically motivated people I know, my camera is like my hand when it comes to events, trips and memory making. It goes everywhere with me. Into stinky abandoned buildings, on carnival rides, out to sea whale watching, to game nights, birthday galas, festivals and on quiet trips of contemplation in to the woods. My camera is so much a part of me that it sometimes drives my lover insane, like when I can't lay in the damn hammock and just watch the shooting stars - oh no, I have to fiddle with the camera and get grumpy that I can't get the shot and finally give up 20 minutes later when we're both annoyed and want to go inside. (That absolutely happened.) He's actually joked that if we ever have a kid, it won't know what my face looks like because I'll be too busy taking a million pictures of it. And if I do ever emerge from behind the lens, it will think I'm a stranger. So, my absent camera was a big red flag that everyone seems to have noticed but me.

Despite the apathy and glaring red flag, I signed up to jump in to part two of the Fearless Painting Adventure with Dirty Footprints Studio, DEEP. Throughout the course of the journey, myself and my Fearless painting sisters all seem to have been struck by a bit of malaise, mayhem and melancholy. Things have gone topsy turvey in so many lives, so many of us have fallen behind the prompts, so many are fixated on one that they just can't move out of as they explore the deeper aspects of a painting they created. Some, like myself, are on top of the paintings, going DEEP, flinging paint, getting dirty and tearful and joyous in a great bi-polar cacophony of creative process but are so bogged down and tired that the paintings are taking all we have and we haven't been sharing our journey or even really reflecting on them after. And while it pains me to be so far behind with the sharing and I am, I admit, worried, about sharing the processes that have grown a bit cold in my memory - I feel it's such an integral part of this process that I need to do it before the class is over. But, while I feel a tug of longing and a tug of guilt, I'm working to be kind to myself throughout - to let the tired and the apathy and all the feelings I'm dredging up work through me and having this tremendous group of kindred spirits going through the same sort of journey has helped me to find comfort within this space.

And in this space, where the DEEP paintings and drawings are causing the apathy to begin to flake away, I've noticed for the very first time I'm not just thinking about introspection during this time of the year, I'm actually turning inwards of my own unconscious volition. Things are bubbling to the surface and adding that to my work related stress is enough to knock me out at least until the Solstice, possibly longer. But, I wouldn't give up the emotions and feelings for anything because I finally feel like I'm really getting to know my real self, the one I gave up back in my teens, again. My intuition and I are getting reacquainted and I'm finally focusing on the most important person in my life for a change - myself. While there will be shit to trudge through, changes to make, people to confront, cut out or pull closer I feel for the first time, that the dark half of the Wheel of the Year has really caught me up in it's cycle and that all the extraneous, fun stuff that I normally do for Harvest just wasn't what I needed to focus on this year. Hence, the apathy.

P.S. (and this is a bit of a rant) This isn't too say that all of my moodiness and grumpiness is a thing of transformation and self healing. A lot of it is being caused by my job, which while it pays the bills that I need it to, drives me to a place of feeling stuck and hopeless because I've been unable to find anything else and have been unable to attend any small business classes to really get my art going because they are way out of my budget. So many people like to tell me 'You should just be happy that you HAVE a job' in that condescending manner of theirs and while, yes I am grateful to be able to pay my bills, I don't believe anyone should be taken advantage of or made to feel uncomfortable because their boss is a fucking incompetent closed-minded moron. Currently, I am a part timer doing a full timer's work and that coupled with the constant ignorant bullshit my boss throws out while shopping online instead of doing her friggen job on top of people constantly accusing me of taking their money when they over-drafted their damn accounts because they can't manage their funds has driven me to the point of coming home most nights, sitting on the couch and crying before I make dinner and pass out, with barely a smile or a snuggle for my husband or our fur babies. So yes, helpful assholes, I'm completely thrilled. And for those other helpful assholes, yes. I am looking for something else, but I don't want to make less or work overnights and never see my husband - part of the thing that's pissing me off so badly now is that our schedules are nearly opposite so if I want to spend time with him, everything else I want to do falls by the wayside - art, spirituality, cleaning the house, playing with the dog, seeing friends. And, I'd love to quit my job and paint full time, to display in the galleries and coffee shops downtown and vend at shows, but whenever I ask other artists how they went about getting themselves set up with the licensing, paperwork and taxes everyone is very shut lipped. I don't know if it's like a secret cult and they don't want to let me in or what down here, but it's very frustrating. And on top of that, when I contacted the Small Business Association down here, rather than a person emailing me back they sent me an electronic reply saying 'Hey! Come to our $120 8 hour class on Tuesday, which you can neither afford nor get time off for!' (ok, I may be embellishing, but dammit, this is so frustrating. ARRRGG! (rant over. Sorry, loves. but if anyone in the SC area can help with me understand this license/tax/legalese stuff, my heart would be forever grateful.)

Cleaning up the Energies

Those of you who have read for a while or who know me well, know that depression is a part of my life. Lately it's been sort of an uphill climb for me, emotionally. Periods of depression or very strong emotional states mingle in with feelings of stuck, feelings of hopeless, feelings of inadequacy.

Anyone who lives with depression can tell you it lies to you, it tears you down and makes you worry about things that you would never worry about out in the daylight. Sometimes, it comes along with its good friend, the feeling of failure, and the two of them gang up on you until you've nearly convinced yourself that you suck at everything under the sun and moon and stars. Sometimes, just by voicing your feelings of lost, stuck and hopeless you'll drag others down with you, because they can't help you or think it's somehow their fault. This just make you feel worse.

Some days, you feel so overwhelmed that you don't want to get out of bed or off the couch. Sometimes, this lasts for weeks though I've been very, very lucky and haven't had many episodes longer than a week in my life. Often times, it's the little things that will set you off: an unexpected expense, the loss of a favorite random item, a creeping deadline for something small, a rant about the state of the food industry in the U.S., running out of your favorite coffee. And sometimes, because they have no idea what's going on in your head, people look at you while you have a full on melt down or switch off over these little things like you're completely bug fuck insane. But you're not.

That little thing is just a catalyst, not the be all end all of you as an emotional person. And so too, can those little things be the catalyst for a swing back to the bright side. And in these days of being very emotional and sometimes wondering which way is up, it's little things that I cling to and am so very, very thankful for. Things like a break in the heat, rainy mornings, a surprise watermelon in the garden, a good hug, my crazy fur babies (even if they pee on everything I love), laughing with the hubs, a quick note or email from a friend, a warm mug of coffee and a good book.

The other night, I sat with the Full Moon for a bit and the feeling came over me that I need some freshness, a clean start moving forward. She illuminated a lot of the negative energies that are bogging me down, mostly from other people and what I believe to be the cause of my current funk. This hasn't been one of those depressions that I learn from, that the Black Wolf brings me to in order to teach me something. It has been stagnant and pointless. And so, I'm going to take big strides to sweep those pesky energies out and walk out of this pointless, draining fog.

There are some things in my life I can't do much about: I need an income, so until I find another job (and I'm fussy) this one needs to do. I can't stop my family from being crazy, but I can practice shielding myself from their shitstorms (something I'm very, very bad at when I'm close to the people involved). I can't make a good number of the people I work with down here stop being intolerant jack wads, but I can let the hammer drop and unmask myself as a non-Christian. (I'm not in the broom closet, but as I feel it's unprofessional to discuss religion/politics at work I've never brought it up. Others clearly don't share my thoughts on professionalism.) Which might at least get them to keep their hate to themselves, even if it won't change their minds. I can't change the economy/society/the fuckery that is modern politics but I can distance myself from the vitriol.

But there are other things that I can change and so, I'm going to attempt to do so. The unfortunate and hard part in this will be letting people go - but I need to. I started yesterday on Facebook (I know, it sounds silly - but baby steps in to change) by paring down my friends list by nearly 100 people, keeping only family, close friends and people I've not given a proper chance yet because we've only just met. Some people were hurt by this, the majority didn't even notice. From there, I'll be evaluating how my offline relationships make me feel. If being around someone drains me, if the relationship is faltering and I've been clinging for dear life trying to save it, if there's no glow or warmth from being around them... I'm letting them go. Because it's the best thing I can do for both of us.

During all this, I'll be cleaning up my physical spaces too. Clearing out the closets, dusting up the altar spaces, re-doing to studio so it makes my heart sing again and pulling down the Hallowe'en decor. This funk has left me lacking a little in the spirit of the season, but I'm not about to let it win. This is the season that renews me, the season I wait for all year and I'm going to enjoy it, dammit.

If you made it through this stream of consciousness-esq ramble, you deserve a chocolate frog. <3

If you have any stories to share, thoughts on clearing up the crap energy or suggestions on shielding leave, I hope you'll share.

Fearless Painting, Memory and the Enduring Heart

We've just finished week 3 of BIG, A Fearless Painting Adventure and I've thrown myself so completely into the process and the painting, as well as taking the time to really love, heal and reconnect myself to the things I need that I haven't shared anything about it yet. When time is sparse, you can only do so much, sadly.

But tonight, I find myself with a glass of wine and an empty house (save the husband and animals, who are all curled up on the couch in the other room) since my friends have gone home and I figure it's time to share a bit. I've been sharing my experiences with the other gals who make up the current BIG Tribe, so I'm going to share the same experiences with all of you now. This is going to be long and very emotional, fair warning. Some bits have been copied and pasted from my original postings on the BIG forums, so they may read a little oddly.

For background, the first week of BIG was spent scribbling, doodling and generally getting into the groove of letting our intuitions guide our brushes, to let go of over inflated expectations and to get comfortable with the process. We also became familiar with our fear gremlins, those little voices inside of us that tell us something is ugly, or stupid, to give up or not to share this and that - the voice that stifles as it attempts to protect us. Now, what I'm going to share is my painting and process for week 2. Connie, our fearless leader, asked that we work with Memory in our first real, honest and fearless BIG painting. To just pick a memory, the first one that comes to mind or the one that keeps reappearing and popping in to say hello!

I watched the intro and the first video, popped over to the first discussion and read through it. My paper was out and ready to go and I closde my eyes, let my mind go and waited to see what the first memory that comes across my mind is because that, THAT is the one I'm going to paint...

And my mind goes blank. There are memories there in the depths of my mind, oh are there ever. Big bright shiny ones and deep dark terrifying ones but none jump forth and say 'paint me!' So I wait some more. Then I distract myself with some music, who knows? Maybe in setting up this small ritual I've scared them off, over thought them without even realizing it. Hours go by and nothing. I wait to hear something... yet nothing comes.

There are the obvious ones I could go for, like getting married, buying a house - you know, big life things. But when I think about using them for the project I get this feeling in my gut that says, nah. Not this one. Keep waiting.

When I decided to undertake this adventure, it was partially in order to break down my difficulty in not overthinking things, to learn how to trust and to let go of total control and expectations of the finished product. While I'm not consciously aware of doing any of these things while waiting for my memory to come, I wonder if they aren't hindering me somehow just the same. I continued to wait and sat down at the desk in my studio, opened youtube and this song was in my recommended que (not sure why - I suppose the Universe needed me to hear it.)



My guts churned, I cried. I knew what I needed to paint.

I'll admit, I was (and still am) a bit scared to share my memory painting. Opening myself up wide and laying my innards bare and raw for people I've 'just met' to see isn't something I do, ever. (Hell, sharing this level of myself with people I know well is rare.) So, I'm taking a fearless leap here, one of faith and of trust and I'm going to share the process and the memory here - to let it and myself be seen.

I was caught up in choosing a memory, but it was given to be by the universe in a song and a rush of clenched guts and tears. I know that it was said that we didn't need to dive into a deep, dark, heavy memory as we get our toes wet in the water of fearless painting... but that's what my guts, my soul, the gods above brought forth from the depths for me to work with. And I did.

The memory dredged up wasn't a one time event, but rather a period in time. In my late teens, my small world shattered around me. I was in an abusive relationship, my parents were divorcing and kept putting me in the middle of their spats as referee and bargaining chip, my younger siblings clung to me for love and stability. I fell into an incredibly dark and desperate place, barely clinging to any real will to continue to exist... I began to self hurt. Or cut myself, in more blunt terms. Over the course of those few years, I covered myself with hundreds of marks, always hidden by clothing as they bled and subsequently healed. 8 years after the last time, I still have 22 very visible scars just on my forearms and wrists, which people seem to be drawn to ask about. When they do, I become uncomfortable and nervous, worried they'll judge me for something that is long past. Terrified they'll look at me as 'one of those crazy people'. I decided to follow my gut and paint this time period in order to attempt to lay to rest those feelings and make peace with my past.

I put the song back on as I chose my colors; grey, grey-blue, blue, red. I let the tears fall as I sketched the shape on the paper. Hunched, cross armed, trying to maintain a small shape in the large space.

I just let it roll out of me and then, I added the heart. My fear gremlin went wild - she was livid and terrified all at once. How dare I expose my heart? Isn't that why I existed in that dark place, to shelter myself from further hurt? Isn't that why I hurt myself - to relieve the emotional pain? To remind myself that I was still alive and could feel?

I poured her a glass of wine and we cried together. I held her close and told her it would be OK. To trust me and our gut. She hid behind me as I began to fling blue onto the background. Grabbing red next, I slathered it over the blue. As I painted, I wanted to get physical with the process, so I tossed my brush aside and went at it with my hands and fingers - mushing red into blue, creating bruised purples. (In retrospect, I think my sub-conscious was putting the colors of my hurts onto the paper, as I was always badly bruised around the cuts afterwards.) Barely stopping, I grabbed the gray and began to fill in the body - as I covered the heart, my gremlin sighed in relief. It was safe, hidden - protected. As it should be.

Dipping my fingers in red, I cut at the wrist and the chest, swooped outlines around the figure in vibrant blood tones. Looking at the wrist I felt revulsion and tried to cover it back up with gray, resulting in a pink mess. My gremlin was upset but my gut said to put the red back and taking a deep breath, I listened.

Quieting my mind and the gremlin for a moment, I really dig deep and let my guts talk to me. I cry again, the sort of deep, heaving cathartic cry that comes on when you've been holding something in too long. I let the music in the background wash over me (I had a playlist on, not the same song on repeat just in case anyone was worried I was torturing myself) as I sat on the floor and cried. The gremlin came back over, patted my shoulder, trying to tell me I'd revealed too much - see? It told me I'd get hurt. I understand that it's trying to help me out, to look out for me, but I shoo her away. Not unkindly, but firmly. We need to do this, my guts have never, ever steered me wrong when I've taken the time to really listen to them.

And now, my guts tell me to get up and paint. I've got a lot of work to do. I grab a dark brown and add in hair, straight and stringy, falling forward to obscure some of the face; yet another safety mechanism that I only recognize in retrospect. Taking out the black, I give her big, bold outlines. My gremlin pops up again - 'That's not your style!! That's not how you paint!! She's cartoony, ugly!' I shush her again, after all, this isn't my typical subject matter nor is it a particularly pretty memory. I keep on, this part of me, this woman on the paper - she wants to be seen. She NEEDS to be seen. And big bold lines catapult her into view, where she cannot be ignored or pushed aside.

Stepping back a moment, I don't want to cry - for the first time since starting this. I don't feel lost, miserable, ashamed when I look at her though there is still some melancholy there. A sort of heavy eerie feeling down in my bowels. My gut chimes in, since my goblin has washed her hands of this - I'm not listening to her anyway - informing me to paint white circles in the background. I get to work, filling half the background with them before my gut says 'stop!' Step away and stop. And I do. I clean up my brushes and leave her, knowing somehow that she's not quite done with me yet.

As I look at her, she strikes me as sort of pretty and sort of powerful. Maybe not in a traditional sense, because there's a lot of pain and darkness surrounding her, but she's sort of light upon the page. Like a bright spot. And those circles, they make me feel hopeful when I look at them.

I let her sit on the easel in the studio for a day and a half. Friday, when I was on my lunch break journaling about this painting (she's taken up 10 pages in my composition book so far) I realized I was excited to see her. To get home and ask her what she needed, to work with her. The 4 hours of work were the slowest I can recall in recent history, not work volume wise, but to my rapidly spinning mind and needy heart.

When I bounded into the studio and grabbed my palette, my heart shouted 'Grab the red and the the yellow! And your favorite color blue! Oh, and white too!' And I did. Adding deeper hues of shadow to her, giving her more definition and somehow, despite blue being very melancholy - brightening her up a bit. I scribbled yellows and whites around her side, a sort of aura of hopeful energy - a sign that there was still so much life in her. A will to continue, to live. And then, my gut and heart whispered the most important part conspiratorially to me, quietly, so as not to wake and anger the sleeping gremlin. The finishing touch, the final lesson that she has to hand me:

To live, to let my heart beat fierce and free. That time is over with and not only did I live, I thrived despite all the anguish and pain. I pulled myself out of that darkness and rose like a phoenix into a new life, in which I wanted to let love back in to my heart. And how can you do that, if you lock it away?

This process, this painting, helped me in ways I can't even quite express right now because I am still absorbing it all. I plan to pin her to my wall for a while, to let her lessons sink in further, to have her help in overcoming the last remnants of shame I feel over my past like a great guardian angel birthed from a black seed in myself. My gremlin is pursing her lips at me for sharing all of this, worrying how this will be judged and for right now, I'm ignoring her and feeling so very, very free.

This journey, this adventure, has been bigger for me than I ever expected. I'm not learning new techniques, not fussing over the outcomes. Just letting the the process take me where it will... and it is an exhausting, magical, spiritual, beautiful process.

Comments from my fellow fearless painters, whose support and love I will cherish always.

Comment by Connie Hozvicka on July 16, 2012 at 3:04pm
DANIELLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

First, I have to whole heartedly--with every drip of my Soul--acknowledge the incredible courage and bravery and pure genuine FEARLESSness it took to share so openly from your heart. I feel so honored and humbled to experience your process aside you. Thank you for letting me in--letting us all in. I feel healed on some level of my own life as well by traveling through this with you.

She is beautiful. You are beautiful. Your story of rising above so much darkness in your life is beautiful.

Wonder how much a ticket to South Carolina would run me?! I'd love to wrap my arms around ya in a BIG hug!

Sending you so much LOVE!
Connie

Comment by Michelle Turbide on July 13, 2012 at 5:53pm

I can't even speak I am so blown away by your courage not only to explore this memory for yourself but to be so open and honest in sharing it with all of us. Thank you so much for letting us know you in this way. I feel blessed to be a part of your process.

Comment by Colleen McCarthy on July 13, 2012 at 3:53pm

Thank you for being so courageous and sharing your story. And especially for ignoring that gremlin - Lovelovelove you!

Comment by Sharon Bode on July 13, 2012 at 1:02pm

...right now, you are very much loved. Thank you...for sharing your pain, your tears and...your heart.

In the Darkness

In the darkness, the nightmares come. The things that scratch and chase, the feeling of unease and fear. The ghosts of the past, the pain and occasionally, death himself appear in the nightime carnivalesque horror show of black, grey and red. I fall and run and scream and yet I am never far ahead of my pursuers.

In the darkness, there is unfathomable sadness. I ride the waves of the dark seas, curled up and lonesome in my tiny vessel waiting the approach of an unseen shore. The cloak of depression wrapped tightly around myself, the only thing I know for sure to be real.

In the darkness, the bats fly through the blackened sky, silhouettes amongst the moon. Dogs bay in the distance, rustling in the bushes; a goblin or something worse lurks unseen and watching. And yet, when I look skywards, there among the all encompassing inky blackness of the sky; there are stars. Balls of burning gas light years away, bright beacons of hope.

In the darkness, I wind my way through the thorns and twisting paths to the land of the Crone and of the dark goddesses. Seeking wisdom and guidance. 'Do not fight the Dark', is all they say, 'for it has different lessons than those of Day.' I am comforted in this darkness and lean into in, letting it envelop me and breathing deeply, allow the truth of this place to overtake me.

In the darkness, there are dreams. I fly high above the Earth as a bird, swim deep beneath the seas and discover its mysteries without fear of suffocation. I find the strength to turn and face the things of my nightmares, to plant my feet firmly and hold my own ground. The colors of the world return, vivid blues and greens shining like gemstones. There are battles won in the darkness of my dreams.

In the darkness, the blackest seas end and I find there The Black Wolf waiting for me on the shore. The sadness doesn't dissipate, it shifts and changes broadening into something profound. Placing my hand on his warm fur, I allow the Black Wolf to lead me further inwards; into the grotto of myself. I surrender to the feelings and experience them without reservation until I become numb. Until the pain and the sadness has ended. The Black Wolf nudges me forward from my hibernation, wet nose bringing on the pins and needles of emotion. I emerge from the cave into the arms of the Torch Bearer, renewed and refreshed. In the darkness of depression I find solace in myself.

In the darkness, I watch the bats dance among the twinkling stars with childlike elation. These creatures of the night have always meant so much to me for reasons I cannot fully explain and my heart soars when I see them. The goblins rustle in the brush and I offer them beer and bread to keep their tricks to themselves. I sit quietly in the darkness, listening to Mother Night and her creatures. There are songs that are only sung here, in the darkness.

In the darkness, I am challenged.
In the darkness, I discover truth.
In the darkness, I am renewed.
In the darkness, I find hope.


******

I was diagnosed with depression in my teens after being dragged unwillingly to a hosital and beat myself up for a long time because I felt broken. I felt like there was something terribly wrong with not being care-free and happy all the time. Like the darkness was a blight and a mark of shame to be carried with my head down like a giant cross on my back. I self hurt for nearly a decade, letting the physical pain distract from the anguish of the fighting within myself. The years passed and I finally stopped fighting the cycles, I let myself be carried out to sea and allowed the black waters to wash over me. In time I dragged myself ashore, with battle scars aching, triumphant and finally able to accept the darkness within myself.

I find happiness and warmth in the light, I find comfort and renewal in the dark. They both reside inside of me and in all of us, each having a unique cycle of their own. Depression is a part of me, but I no longer suffer from it.



******

A gift of sorts to you, my loves. This song is like pure fucking magic and I belt it out while spinning 'round feeling weightless, dark and super nova beautiful.



ETA: Thank you for your concern dear ones. I no longer self hurt and right now I'm in a good place. This post started as me pondering over what to write for this week's Pagan Blog Project post for the letter 'D' and when I thought about doing a post on 'Darkness' the words just came tumbling out, like a confessional of sorts. I was initially going to write about 'Deity' or 'Diana', but as you can see, my heart had other intentions.

Balance and the Black Wolf

The Black Wolf and The Torch Bearer - Ball Point Pen.

All around us, there is balance. The cycles of nature, the seasons, are balanced. There is a time to sow and a time to harvest. A time for life to die back and a time for it to begin again; renewed. It is present in the passing of days, shared by the sun and the moon. These balances are necessary, for without darkness there could be no light.

In theory.

Light could still exist without the juxtaposition of darkness, however, would we truly appreciate it in that state? If we never experienced the chill and cold, the onset of despair that can be found and fought in the night would we be as thankful for dawn's breaking light and day's warmth? Does one who has never experienced drought or heat, appreciate the coming of rain as much as one who has?

By the same token, there is a balance that strives to exist within ourselves. It is the constant dance of light and dark that takes place in our minds, our emotions, our spirits. We go through periods of happiness as well as melancholy, both are necessary and it is worth getting to know these aspects of ourselves. The Goddess of Crossroads, the torch bearer, often comes to bring me light when I most need it. As one who has been prone to unexplainable periods of gloom since my teens, I've gotten accustomed to the darkness, the Black Wolf.

Sometimes the Black Wolf is called to my side by certain events. He envelops me in his darkness and I do not fight back. I surrender to the emotions and he sits patiently beside me until the Torch Bearer comes to lead the way back to the light. At other times he sprints unbidden from the shadows, nipping at my heels without warning. I can escape his jaws, but sometimes I am not fortunate enough to do so and at these times I find myself cloaked in the gloom for hours, days or weeks. The heavy weight of the Black Wolf sits on my chest, an unexplained lump of sadness, fear or listlessness. Often, I know not why he has come to pin me down and I occasionally fear his darkness will be unrelenting. Yet sometimes, in his darkness, there is something of importance waiting to be found.

The Black Wolf has been sitting beside me these past few weeks in what I at first assumed was a random bought of depression. But no. He was patiently waiting for me to pull myself inward, to hermit, and realize that I've been doling out too many pieces of me and not keeping enough to myself. He wanted me to see that I need to spend time nurturing and reconnecting with myself, that the funk I've been in was very much of my own making. My spirit has been feeling listless and disconnected, it longs to reconnect with my heart and the divine. The Black Wolf teaches me that I need to learn how to say 'no' when I want or need to and stop worrying about how folks will take it. Stop being a 'yes' woman and start making time for myself and my spirituality. His lesson learned, the Black Wolf bows his head and allows the Torch Bearer to lead me from his dark domain.

The Black Wolf and The Torch Bearer are balanced, as each has lessons to teach that require my time. While the Goddess shows me the light of happiness and hope, the Black Wolf asks me to look into the darkness. While laughter may be the best medicine, sometimes a good cry can be just as cathartic. When we dance in the darkness, the light will always be the brighter for it.