An Ending

For years, I believed that you did things because it was all you knew. I thought you showed me how much you cared when you sent me food, cat toys, clothes, books, blankets weighted specifically to help with me with my autistic anxiety attacks, because you didn’t know any other way to show me – and I excused that because of how far away from each other we were… Even stranger, in the beginning when I kept telling you not to do these things, because I felt I would owe you something in return (because everyone always wants something in return for their charity), and because I felt that anyone who buys me things was attempting to buy my love (because it’s happened so many times before) – you told me not to worry about it. None of that was true about US. WE were DIFFERENT.

When my illness became so bad I couldn’t communicate anymore, you waited for me to answer your texts – even when it took months, even when my answers simply never came. Of course, you took me to task for my negligence of you, but you were always been the first to admit you are needy and greedy – and I always assured you that wasn’t the case. I agreed that I was the negligent one.

When I was so sick, I simply wanted to die, and you would tell me I wasn’t allowed to die until you were ready to go, yourself, I told myself that you were being loving… the truth is, telling someone they can only die on your schedule is cruel, and grasping. It is not caring when they’re experiencing what I went through. It’s just more emotional torture added to the experience.

In exchange for all of this perceived care, you received from me acceptance, and excuses for all that you were. I accepted the things in your life, and the things about yourself, that were out of your control, beyond your power to change. I accepted those things about you over which you DID have control, and yet still would not change. I occasionally discussed with you what I thought about how your choices, and lack of choices, were affecting your health – spiritually, physically, and mentally… but I never thought of it as judgment, or a request for you to change… I accepted you, wholly. You were who you were, and that was more than ok… it was wonderful.

While you were going through your separation and eventual divorce, I dealt with your constant  criticism of my relationship with my husband, and your frequent oblique references to your ex, as if my husband was cut from the same cloth. I always told myself that your negativity towards R was because you were so hurt… I realize now that there were other issues you had with my happy relationship – one was jealousy… our relationship is significantly healthier than yours was, and I am happy with my husband. The other issue was one of ownership. Every time I mentioned a problem I had, your immediate response was to tell me to run to you, come live with you and be your only person… you never included my husband in your offers unless I brought him up. In your mind, I belong to you, and with you, and shouldn’t be happy anywhere else, with anyone else. When I look back on conversations where you talked about my husband, I feel very manipulated, emotionally. That is not something a friend would do. 

When you expressed an interest in my husband, I was open about it. I know what happens around you when you want things and have to be sneaky, and that is not what I wanted for any of us. When, to protect myself and my relationship with my husband, I laid your desires on the table, you were angry. Part of it is that you enjoy sneaky theft, but a larger part of it was your deep, abiding fear of rejection. Seduction works for you. Bluntness leaves you too open, too revealed. It terrifies you. 

Of course, you and your therapist decided I was a raping raper who pushed you towards things you swore afterwards that you didn’t ever say you wanted. You looked good from that angle… and I took the fall like a good dog. 

When I agreed to take a stronger roll in my own life and power, and in yours, I asked for one thing from both you and the Universe. I asked that I no longer carry the blame for those things that are beyond my control… and you failed to keep your oath.

I experienced something I did not understand, and I came to you for help. You laughed at me, and then you told me that what I’d done (even though it was something beyond my control) was stupid, and that it was going to cause you harm, and that maybe next time I found myself in such a predicament, I should take a moment to think about the larger picture, and all the facts, before I do something like that again.

In other words… you blamed me, and you chastised me. 

You seem to think you gave me information I was unhappy to learn. I was glad to learn what my power had done. I was happy to understand. What pissed me off was your attack of things I had no control over, your blame of me. It’s like yelling at cats for having hairballs or shedding. They have fur – to expect them not to have trouble with their fur from time to time is irrational, and to hold them accountable for their troubles is unreasonable and cruel. 

When I found myself in a situation where I was doing things, but didn’t know what was happening, or even WHY, and I came to you for help – you lorded your superiority over me, and told me, once again, that I think I’m just SO smart that I can do anything I want, because I’ll always find a way out of it. Except that you know that’s not true, and that’s not how I think. This is not the first time we’ve had this EXACT discussion… or even the 90th.

The truth is there are moments in my life where I am fully aware of everything going on around me, yet I am not the one in the driver seat… It appears to everyone else that I am in complete control of what is happening, and yet THAT’S NOT ACTUALLY ME. I move, speak, change the world, and everyone sees my face, my mind, my hands; everyone hears my voice. It’s still not me. I do agree that I’m fully conscious in those moments, where time and the multiverse seem to take a breath, before a sudden wave of power and will changes everything completely… and the epicenter is absolutely me, but I am still not the architect – and saying that I am is like saying I’m to blame for the sun rising.

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I say this to you – you refuse to understand it. No matter how many times I tell you, “I wasn’t thinking anything at all – there wasn’t an opportunity for me to think, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t do this,’ or ‘Wow, the ramifications of this action make it inadvisable…'” – you STILL insist that because I was there, and the action happened through me, that somehow I could have stopped it, could have changed it… and that next time this happens, I should take control and make it NOT happen.

All this, while also telling me that one of my biggest issues is that I try to control everything (though of course anyone who consistently has their life turned upside down by a puppet master universe would OF COURSE have control issues) and that I should stop “insisting that the system behave the way I want it to,” WHILE you’re simultaneously telling me I should have more control over myself.

The final straw, I think, was that when I asked, you, no… BEGGED YOU to PLEASE attempt to see what was happening to me from my perspective so that you would understand why blaming me for this type of shit is so hurtful, ESPECIALLY COMING FROM SOMEONE LIKE YOU WHO HAS BEEN THERE, TOO… 

When I said to you that you do not seem to understand when I tell you with words, or when I write it down, or when you see it happen to me, but that you seem to ONLY learn by doing, so would you please ALLOW a flow of information to SHOW YOU, BY YOU DOING IT YOURSELF, and you told me I was asking you to be raped – more than that, you told the world that I WANTED you to be raped, that I insisted on it… despite the fact that both of us have been in situations where we were not in control of what happened to our bodies, and neither of us would EVER wish that on ANYONE, EVER… that accusation was just it for me. 

The moment you said that you were not interested in experiencing my world for yourself, I said, OK. I stopped asking you for what I needed, and tried, ONCE AGAIN, to explain IN WORDS what I go through, and you called it a lecture, and then you threatened me – and then you followed that with some incredibly passive-aggressive bullshit.

That was the moment I realized how toxic you are.

I find it interesting that when I won’t do my job, I’m a horrible person, and when I do my job, I’m to blame for the things that happen through me. You call what I asked you to try and experience “Rape.” This essentially means, when you asked me to take back my power, you were asking me to accept rape… and now you’re blaming me for the results… and telling me I’m a rapist because I asked you to attempt to view things from my perspective. What I hear you saying is that it’s ok for me to be raped, and for you to blame me, but it’s not ok for you to emotionally, spiritually, or mentally support me while I endure what you have asked me to endure.

All the gifts in the world don’t make up for you calling me a rapist because I asked you for understanding – asked you for something EVERYONE NEEDS. All the food in the world would not make up for you being ok with me experiencing what you consider to be rape, and also being ok with blaming me for the results. All the pretty dresses, all the plush toys, all the blankets in the world, don’t make up for you greedily telling me that I don’t get to die on my own schedule, but yours. All the visits to organize my medical care, all the offers to pay for various therapies, don’t make up for you lying to me about so many things, and then blaming me for not knowing anything. 22 years of friendship doesn’t make up for you continuing to blame me for shit I cannot help, while doing your damnedest to remain as pure as the driven snow.

That’s about as pure as the shoveled shit. You have betrayed me, abandoned me – every time I have become homeless it has been because of you and your choices. Every time I’ve moved across country, except for the very last, it has been to suit your desires – to either have me, or to throw me away because you found something better for a little while – and the one time I have moved by choice, and for my own reasons – the one time I’ve managed to maintain a stable life for an extended period – when you finally realized what you had chosen over me wasn’t going to work for you anymore, you began trying to emotionally blackmail me into changing my decision.

Do not reply to this post. Do not call me. Do not email me. Do not send me another single thing in an attempt to make yourself feel less guilty for who and what you are, and all the betrayals you have heaped on me over the years. I do not want you – in my life, in my power, in my future – we are not family, we are not friends… and I don’t care enough to even want to be enemies – because you’re not even worth THAT kind of energy.

I have forgiven you, accepted you, loved you… and you have lied to me, accused me, blamed me, betrayed me… and all of this, for the last time. I’m done with you.

 I’ve blocked your phone number and your emails. We’re done. I got help and removed my power from your family line, untwisted our fate, and separated our godhead. We are now two, on two separate paths. I have paid you what I owe, and washed my hands of all of it. 

Thank the gods we’re over. That was the silliest 20,000 years of my life. 

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I Cried

I cried when I thought you were dying. 
I cried when I knew you would live. 
I cried when you just kept on taking
All that I had left to give. 

I cried when I got so much stronger, 
And my strength was a rock for you – 
I cried when you acted like I wasn’t there,
Like I didn’t need help from you, too. 

I cried when I said it was over, 
I cried when I walked away, 
I don’t cry any longer, 
And that’s all that there is to say.

It’s not often that I ask for help. It’s certainly not often that I get so angry that I almost cry. It’s even more rare that I wake up the next day, still pissed off, and depressed. Can I be moody? Certainly… and at certain times my hormones make me a royal bitch, and everyone runs for cover. This isn’t one of those times. 

When you call me and say you need me, that you really need a hug, even though I don’t like touching people, don’t like letting them into my aura, don’t like the information overload that happens when someone touches me, even to shake hands; even though you KNOW all of this, you ask anyway, and because I’m the nurturing, caring, forgiving type of person that I am, I say OK. I am your rock, I am the last iceberg on a storm-tossed sea that is your life, and you cling to me the way a drowning sailor will cling to the person underneath – but I never sink. So you cling to me, and I make life stable, make it bearable for you. For a moment, I even make the consequences of your own choices silence their voices. 

What have you done for me? 

You have brought me chaos and pain. Your choices, your actions, and the consequences cause only suffering, and when I finally break, and ask for help…. you’re not there. You’re too high to care. Your words are so slurred I cannot understand them, and you can’t understand what I’m saying, because you can’t remember how the sentence began. You talk as if you are drifting off into dreamland… and you are. 

I am always there for you. Why aren’t you there for me? Why is our relationship, our so-called friendship, so one-sided? WHERE ARE YOU? 

This is not fair. It is not right. Come get your shit, get it out of my house. Give me back my own things, the books, movies and games you have borrowed, and get the hell out of my life. 

We’re done. We’re really done.

I broke because of you… and when I ask you to tell me what’s real and what’s not, when I ask for your help, when I need proof that my storm-caused delusions are real or unreal, you’re so deep in your own chemically induced happy place, that once again, I’m there for you, but you’re useless to me. 

That’s not a friendship. 

That’s you, using me. 

And I’m done. 

I’m done crying. I’m done being pissed. I’m done being used. 

Get your crap, and get out… and don’t come back. 

Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t come over and visit… because I’ll be pretending I never knew you, and thanking all the Gods in the heavens that you are gone from my life, that I’m completely alone, that I don’t have to be strong for anyone, anymore, except me.

I cried my last tears for you, 
I cried in my rage and my pain, 
I put a few holes in the walls of my room, 
And I’ll never see you again.

Screwball

Note To Self – 
Do not ask the drug addict to help you sort out your mess.
Do not ask to tell him the crazy you discovered because of him.
Do not try to show him the rabbit-hole of the last year and a half.
Do not expect, or even hope to get, an outside opinion on the veracity of your life, or attempt to get various people in your head to talk to him. 
He will be too high to follow this sentence from beginning to end.
He will pick a fight.
He will be a dick and a jackass, 
And tomorrow he won’t remember any of it. 

I know Desire is real… But the rest is up for grabs. 
Will someone corporeal please tell me I’m not nuts? Will you offer me proof?

Two Bad Decks

 The Fifth Tarot 
I’m not even sure how to preface this… except to say the creators of this deck have NO respect for the Tarot – and no understanding of it. 
This deck absolutely INFURIATED me. It seemed like a really odd idea – my study of Tarot has led to the understanding that the five elements ARE represented – the four cardinal elements by the four suits, and the fifth element by the Major Arcana. However, the review also suggested that some outmoded concepts contained in the tarot had been removed, or altered to connect to new forms – new archetypes and new energetic practices. I was fascinated by the idea, and wondered how they were going to manage that – where they’d take it. The creators of this deck took it to the sewer.
The tarot has over 700 years of history behind it, if not more. It has worked as it works for this long because it’s based on a sound understanding of human archetypes, human psychology, and the recognition that the subconscious/collective unconscious of our race hasn’t changed all that much. Yes, every day technology advances, and we change the way we view the world and how we operate within it, but how much do we actually change on a species-wide level? Practically not at all. Our modes of being are hardwired into us by evolution… so it’s not surprising that, even with the broad changes to our social values, we’re still the same animal.
The creators of this deck don’t seem to really understand the original format of Tarot and the archetypes and rich symbolism that are behind it, driving the happy subconscious/mystical bus, and because of their poor research, when they altered it, they broke it; the deck has no energy. The artwork is OK, but it’s sparse and scanty. And not a single card in the deck has a negative meaning.
For instance… The five of swords (here in this deck called the five of feathers) – in a normal deck the five of swords represents knowledge changed. We are presented with an image of a battlefield, after the battle is lost. The character in the card is gathering swords from the fallen… his world has crumbled, all that he believed to be true has turned out to be false, and he’s gathering what’s left of his thoughts, his changing ideas, and attempting to fit them into his world-view – and he feels that to change his mind is a betrayal of all he holds dear – a dishonor that can never be washed away. It’s an image of a shattered belief system that must be replaced by new thoughts, new ideas… usually by conquest. The usual definition of the card is Failure – the failure of ideas or ethics, and the forced reaping of new ones.
They decorated the card in pinks and greens. They put four hummingbirds on the card. They called it JOY.
They removed the high priestess completely, but they replaced the fecund image of the Empress with an image of the high priestess (while still calling it The Empress) – complete with gauzy dress and lunar crown.
Or what about the Devil in a normal deck – the card that represents self-deceit, lies we tell each other, the animal lusts, living without moderation. They called it The Shadow, which I wouldn’t object to normally, but then they suggested that by AVOIDING negative thoughts, the Shadow could be conquered – and they suggested that, rather than those subconscious land-mines being rather like layers on an onion, that you could just… decide to face it, even if you weren’t ready, and fix it all in say, five minutes, and never have to deal with it again.
This deck is for Pollyanna personalities who have absolutely NO grasp on reality and no respect for the Tarot, it’s history, it’s allegorical symbolism, its psychology… I sent it back in disgust. 

The Truth-Seeker’s Tarot 
Cheap Trash
This deck wasn’t so much a bad deck as it was just… really cheaply made. The corners of most of the cards were cut unevenly, and while there was gold-leaf detail on every card, the wax placed on the cards to protect the detail-work wasn’t thick enough or solid enough to truly protect it. The cards were clunky and sticky, and very difficult to shuffle. Sometimes the gold leaf overshadowed the artwork. The colored-pencil drawings were kind of nice, but reminded me of the kind of work a kid in middle-school could have done, and the details even on the images of the Major Arcana were rather bare. The minor arcana are done in the Marseille style – there’s some detail, but not enough – a simple background with the suit pips placed on top. Occasionally a minor-arcanum card will have something extra, but it’s minimal – such as a table for the three cups to sit on. Because the cards are so naked of symbolism, scrying with them is next to impossible – leaving the practitioner to fall back on numerology alone. 
Oh, and my deck had two "4 of Cups" cards, and NO "7 of Cups" card. I kid you not. 
The book was even more of a disappointment – the author started out with a strong case for Tarot to be used in psychology – as a professor of psychology himself, he discussed the archetypes represented by the tarot, and his own fascination with it beginning early on in his own career. However, having made an impassioned case for a mystical tool to be used in modern soft sciences, he dropped the ball entirely. The rest of the information provided in the book was less than minimal – you get more information from the LWB. 
I think this deck was made to capitalize in the boom that’s happened in Tarot lately – and as a money-making venture, they cut corners everywhere they could – the best I can say about this deck is that the box it comes in is very sturdy and made to travel – the box will last longer than the cards. 
I know I recommended this deck for A, but upon further study, I think he might do better with The Jungian Tarot instead. 

Cutter

There’s an old saying that love cuts both ways. You can only be wounded as deeply as you feel. For an empath, for a healer, that willingness to be savaged by the emotional knife, amounts to an almost suicidal obsession. And once you’re bleeding, you don’t stop cutting until there’s nothing left of you. For an empath, love is deadly. Trust is deadly. Hope is deadly. The only thing that keeps you safe is your willingness to walk away, your ability to cut your emotions off at the knees and pretend until it’s real that you DO NOT LOVE HIM.
Unfortunately, when fate throws a proverbial wrench in your emotional gut, there’s really no choice in the matter – not consciously… you simply GO.
Which is why, two nights ago, I found myself using telekinesis to fetch the road under the wheels of someone else’s car, faster, faster, faster… all to serve a mission that should never have been mine in the first place. Some lives just shouldn’t be saved, and some mothers don’t deserve to know.
Finally home, home from building a house and a family. Home from healing. Home from feeding. Home from shopping for supplies… finally home and ready to sleep in my own bed… that’s when his God came for me, and demanded the last shreds of my heart and my dignity. Naturally, that Selfish Bastard doesn’t just want to sap the will and thoughts of His own people… no, He wants MINE, too.
So tired I can barely walk, I approached the doors to my apartment building, ready to crawl into bed and sleep for a week… but my upstairs neighbor stopped me, to tell me that an ambulance had been to the house across the street to pick up S. My first thoughts weren’t thoughts at all. Everything went cold inside me. Everything went still. And then, one thought… he’s finally done it. He’s finally overdosed. I called his mother’s cellphone, to let her know that an ambulance had come for him… just in case she didn’t know… just in case the hospital hadn’t reached her yet.
I didn’t get her. I got him. And he had a grand mal seizure on the phone. A friend that sounded suspiciously like R, one of his druggy friends, grabbed the phone and said distinctly: “I have to hang up on you. I have to call 911.” So I hung up. I didn’t know where he was, but I knew he was going to the hospital, although I wondered momentarily why he wasn’t there already. I went inside, and asked K if I could borrow her car. No friend should have to deal with this kind of a fucked up situation, but she very kindly lent me her car and her comforting presence.
I know I scared her shirtless on the drive… Missouri mountain roads are all hairpin curves, and people die on these roads daily… and I took most of the road going 90. Fetching works by gluing the car to the road, and pulling time through the needle, so you have enough space to react when you need to. It’s an interesting skill, and I’ve managed, over the years, to hone it to a knife-point. But it’s probably uncomfortable for someone else who’s still running on normal time. She kept one hand on the oh-shit handle the whole time and tried very hard not to panic.
My only thought was to reach his mother’s house in time to let her know that her son was in the hospital and probably dying. If I could get to her in time, she could be there when he passed. It was all I could offer either of them. I just… don’t have anything left anymore. I spent nearly 7 years keeping him alive by ripping myself apart at the seams… I’m not whole enough for anyone, anymore. Not really. I just fake it, really, really well.
When we arrived at the house, the ambulance was there, and his mother was not. Dreading going to the door, I instead chose to look into the back window of the ambulance… and I saw his face. It’s not healthy, I know, to let yourself be punished over and over, and still come back for more. But there he was, crying and shaking, so frightened… begging and needing like always. I didn’t really have a choice. I had to answer that need. I never could say no.
I climbed into the ambulance, without thinking at all. I took his hand, and pressed my forehead against his own. And I told him I would ride with him to the hospital. And so I did.
His mother called him while he was in the ER. She told him he needed to send me home. She’s always hated how much he needed me… but it’s her own fault. When he DID need her, she was never there… and now she wants to be the only one he needs, but she broke him so badly, his need is so deep in him that one person will never be enough, one DRUG will never be enough. So he didn’t listen to her, and I tried not to be pissed off.
When the doctors were finished with him, and had scheduled an appointment for him to see a neurologist, and had released him to the care of his friend – who turned out to NOT be a drug addict, for once… I walked him to his friend’s car, before leaving.
I told him that this meant nothing. I said, “I love you, but you’re a junkie. You’re still using drugs. You’ll never be clean. And you broke me. I don’t trust men anymore. I don’t trust anyone who’s even SMELLED a drug anymore. I don’t trust ANYONE anymore. I don’t trust me. I can’t commit to anyone, not even my own family. I can’t let myself feel anything anymore. I hate romances now… they piss me off because they’re all lies. And you did that to me. I gave you everything, and you tore me apart, and I let you. But I can’t do that anymore. So me being here… it means nothing. I don’t want to be a part of your life. I don’t want to know that you’re sick, or dead, or well, or alive. I don’t want to know you. I wish I didn’t love you, but because of me loving you, I can’t even love the people who are good for me… I can’t love the healthy people, the healthy relationships, because you broke me too much. I can see the good ones right in front of me… and I can’t touch them. I’m too afraid. And that’s what being with you has done. So go home. And don’t call me again.
“I’m tired of rescuing you. I’m tired of being there for you, when you’re so selfish, you’re not there for me. Even as a friend.”
He told me he wasn’t there for me because he was bitter. I told him he didn’t have the right to be bitter, not after everything he put me through. I was the only one who got to be bitter. He still has his drugs. I don’t have anything at all.
He told me, “No, not bitter with you. I’m bitter with myself. I know I fucked it all up. I know it was me, my fault, my actions. I’m not bitter with you at all. You did the right thing, leaving me.”
Bastard won’t even let me fight with him. I never even get to yell.
So I turned around and got in K’s car, and let her drive me home.

I told you once that I was a cutter. I suppose you thought I meant blades and blood. What I am is so much worse. What I look like under the skin is so much worse. What I feel like, bone deep, soul deep, is so much worse.
I can’t help wondering, on days like this, if there’s any hope at all for me. But I don’t think there is. I don’t think, when a person’s deliberately taken on this much damage, that they can heal from it. Even an act of God probably couldn’t fix it. Gods know They’ve tried. I’m still bleeding. Bleeding time, bleeding light, bleeding glory, bleeding feathers, bleeding everything.
Every day, the hemorrhage grows, the numbness spreads.

Are we all such broken people? Are we all just cutters?

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An Expecation of Privacy

Let’s face it – in this day and age, there’s really no such thing as an expectation of privacy. Not really. But still, when you’re in my line of work (yeah, I know I don’t get paid and don’t keep regular hours, or even a regular schedule but… you all know how hard I work – you know it’s my Job), even though it’s not protected by law, you have a responsibility to your clients, patients, flock, or whatever you wish to call them, to at least TRY for it.

You see, these students of mine, these people who become friends, all come to me broken, traumatized, wounded in so many different ways… and it’s my job to put them back together again… and for that kind of intensive work, there has to be trust. People in those situations have a very small supply of trust. That’s just facts. When the world beats the crap out of you, you stop trusting it to keep you safe… and when you’re been violated by the very people who are supposed to love you and take care of you, and when you’re manipulated or tricked into believing that it’s all YOUR fault, that you’re not a victim, but that, in fact, your abuser is the victim, well… that’s just so much worse.

So I am their teacher, their therapist, their priestess – and their one last chance. And often, I’m also the only person in a world gone mad that cannot and will not hurt them. I give them someone to trust, while teaching them how to trust themselves again. They come to me for healing, they come to be rebuilt into new people, stronger than before, cleaner than before, more empowered – and more aware of their inner strength and beauty. I teach them how to use their gifts, how to stay safe and sane, and along the way, they tell me how they got broken in the first place – how their gifts and their souls, their minds, their hearts all went rogue.

And I listen… and work very hard to keep the horror of it separate from me. Because the other side of it is… the people I work with are all psychics. So I have to listen, let their agony flow through me, stay calm and try my damnedest NOT to be affected by what they tell me. I have to be their rock. I have to be the psychic version of a mom’s hug.

That’s not an easy task. But I accomplish it. I really think the reason I am able to do so, and do it so well, is mostly due to trust. It’s not just that I’m a good teacher, or a good listener, or a good priestess/therapist with a knack for understanding psychology, or a good healer or psychic. I’m nothing special – lots of people have my hobbies, and even get paid to do what I do for free. No. It’s because they can trust me.

I don’t freak out when they tell me their worst thoughts, their deepest darkest emotions and desires. I don’t freak out when they tell me the experiences they’ve had – the horrors that live on in their memories forever. I stay calm, I listen, I offer them honesty and real friendship, and I love them. I never judge. They have suffered, and sometimes that suffering has done so much damage that they need someone to help lead them out of it… and all of them are psychics – so they need more help than modern medicine can give them. And I DO help them. I’m very good at it.

I’d tell you to go ask them… but I can’t. Because that would breach their trust… in more than one way.

Firstly, I’m their therapist – without a license, but in spite of that, I follow the rules. Unless they’re actively causing harm, I can’t tell anyone – and people don’t get sent to me because they’re beyond hope… I get really difficult cases, true, but not people who cannot be helped. So some of them talk about fantasies, such as confronting their attackers, even doing violence in return, but most of their fantasies are harmless… we’ve all thought about shooting the in-laws every now and then – and saying so to your therapist is protected speech.

Secondly, I’m their priestess. Confessions are protected by law. So is religious therapy.

Thirdly, I’m their teacher… and some gifts are more volatile, more dangerous, than others… and whether their gifts caused the damage to their psyches and their health, or they were damaged so much so that their gifts were blasted open, they need to be able to trust me to help them get the situation under control. Without that trust, they won’t do what I tell them to do to fix the issues they’re having. While not keeping my students’ secrets might not affect this process, they will trust me less, and my knowledge, my wisdom and understanding, across the whole span of my service to them, will carry less weight.

And lastly – I’m their friend, some of them even call me mother or sister. What they tell me, even if it isn’t in confidence, is still a private conversation. I don’t spread it around. I don’t start rumors. I don’t tell other people about the conversations I have with my clients. I don’t tell other clients. I might discuss it with my OWN therapist, when I feel stuck and need some extra advice. But… these people come to me with their deepest, darkest horrors – and if they had the thought that I might betray them in any way, I could not help them, because they would not trust me – and you have to trust your therapist to keep you safe, and to allow you to process your experiences in a safe place, in a safe way. So beyond a lack of judgmental behavior on my part, my clients need their expectation of privacy to mean ACTUAL privacy.

So. I don’t talk without permission. If I have to, I try not to go into massive details. Unless I’m working in a team, I do my best not to discuss my clients at all with anyone. And when I’m working in a team, my clients need to know that the other team members will keep their privacy too.

Very recently, I made a new friend… or I thought I had. Not a client, no, but an actual friend – which is quite rare for me… I don’t often meet friends outside of my work. He shared a lot of his life and thoughts with me, trusted me with personal fears and traumas… and even offered his expertise in strategy and planning in a case I have been having a lot of trouble with lately. I agreed to let him help, after getting permission from my client. I enjoyed conversing with him, and was really looking forward to having help on the case – I usually work alone, and it’s always a pleasure to have assistance.

However, in the course of our friendship (outside of work discussions), we had a very private conversation about my ex-fiance Jake and his… indiscretions and the permanent end result for me because of it all, a memory that I will never recover from, and one I will grieve over for the rest of my life, one that shames me even though I know I did no wrong. After all… this friend had shared many deeply personal things with me, and we were working together. I thought that, as I would never betray his confidences by telling anyone the things that he told me, and as I expected the privacy of my client to be likewise respected, my OWN privacy would also be safe.

I turned out to be mistaken. He shared the information with another man. Who shared it with his girlfriend. Four people do not a secret make.
So now a very painful memory, treated as a joke by a person I thought was a friend, has been used to rake me through the coals again. So much for friendship. Real friends don’t share your personal worst horror, the day your world crumbled and everything changed, with their other friends as a joke.

To that person I say this now: “I said I was not a forgiving person. I said I had no pity for people who wronged me, no sympathy. There is no way for you to fix what you’ve done. You cannot un-break and unscramble these eggs. You took the moment that ruined my life, changed the person I was, and took my future from me… and then you put it out for public display, as if I were some cheep harlot, and not your friend.

“To say that you just hurt me, just hurt my feelings, is not enough. You did the emotional equivalent of taking up the bloody stump that Jake carved out of my insides, carved out a few more chunks, and handed them all out to your friends so all of you could beat me with them. You showed your friends my wounds and handed them the salt. That is not a friend.

“And that you tried to shift the blame onto the friend you spoke to, that you got so defensive, so angry at him… well, that was the final straw. My pain exposed to the public was YOUR doing. YOU spoke out of turn. YOU started this. You have no one but yourself to blame. Then again, neither do I, I suppose. I TRUSTED you… and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have wasted myself, my precious time and energy, on you.

“So. We are not friends. I tried to be one to you, but you clearly were not interested… You’ve proved your point quite well. So you get nothing from me anymore. Done doesn’t even cover it. I don’t even want to know you. Thank the Gods I have such a shitty memory… I don’t have to worry about remembering you a year from now. You won’t have ever existed… and ignorance IS bliss.”

I think from now on, before I discuss ANYTHING – with anyONE – client, friend, coworker, lover, God, demon, or even tree – I hope I remember to get my expectations of privacy in writing. Preferably signed in blood.

There’s only so many tears in a human body…
Did you know that?

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Feel Free to Bitch Here.

So, Facebook has changed everything. I can’t find anything I use on a daily basis. This blog is usually posted using a browser application (courtesy of my browser, Flock) that also posts a notice to my Facebook page so people paying attention are reminded to check my blog to see what new goodies I’ve intellectually vomited today.
Seeing as how FB HAS changed EVERYTHING (and I hate it, not only because I hate change but also because now I have to learn where everything I love is hiding – dammit) I’m concerned that my blog application through my browser may not post to FB when I’ve written a new blog.
Thus the testing.
Here’s hoping you’ll all see on my FB page that I have posted a blog you don’t actually need to read, bitching about the changes to FB.
Hey… you know there’s a comment section on my blog?
You could bitch, too.
Hell, there’s a comment section on each post my browser app. makes to FB… you can bitch THERE, too. 😀

Like I said. Feel free to bitch here. 😛

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Dirty Work

Salts of the earth,
Gifts of the sea,
Herbs of the moon,
All cleansing me,
Center of power,
Blood of the core,
Washed from the soul,
Out every pore.
Salt of the earth,
Gifts of the sea,
Herbs of the moon,
All cleansing me.

A sudden flash of understanding. What have you DONE?! But it’s too late. Hardwired.
All those days I felt like I was suffocating, terrified to sleep…
All those moments I got up to check, over and over, to make sure he was still breathing…
Hardwired.
Trapped.

I have to keep my charges alive. All of them. They have to keep breathing.

No matter how much I hate them. How much my need to be free of the trap might turn my power against them. No matter how much my desire might seek to cause their death by the mere fact that I wish it to be so.

And now the obsession is obvious. I’m hardwired to keep him alive, because that’s the job.. and because they knew it would be hard, that love wouldn’t be enough in the end… they altered me.
And now keeping him breathing is an obsession. A poison that spreads – I have to keep breathing, so I can keep him alive. My familiar has to keep breathing, because the loss of him would take my focus away from the primary job. And the job himself – well, he has to keep breathing because the gods will it so.

GODS… WHY? He has no respect for the life you give him! Do you really need him that BADLY? WHY?

You charged me, changed me, to keep him alive, and I have no choice… and it’s all so POINTLESS. Because he doesn’t want it. And neither do I.

I gave up love for THIS?
The Gods must be crazy… and me too.

Somewhere, a long way away… my sister and an angel must be weeping. Because there’s NO WAY I’m getting paid enough for this. She was right… we’re all Their whores.

It never bothered me before, you know… I didn’t know about the light, so how was I to know that it was dark? But I know now.

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Hate

So let me get this straight. You‘re pissed off at me? For having no hope? Are you freaking SERIOUS?

How many times, over the last six years, have I forgiven you for your various chemical indiscretions? How many times have you come to me and told me that all that BS was over, finished, done with… that you were going straight and I didn’t have to worry about any of it ever again? How many times have you cottoned on to the next doctor, the next program, the next solution to your problem… and how many times have you been wrong?

I’m FUCKING TIRED!

You get clean. You get rid of all your trashy friends. You go to meetings. You take your psych meds. You stay sober… for a few months, if I’m lucky.

Then you stop going to meetings. You make new friends with the same hobbies as yourself. Your psych meds stop working, you stop taking them… and then you start using again.

Over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

Excuse me for my lack of faith in your current schemes. Excuse me for being Debbie Downer and raining all over your parade. Excuse me for my lack of hope. I’m SO sorry you killed it all. I’m so sorry that dealing with all of your drama is so exhausting that I have no energy left to believe your bullshit.

I’m sorry that I’m the bitch you’ve made me become.

Deal with it… or get the hell out of my house. I don’t care either way anymore. I’m too tired to care. I’m too tired to love. I’m too tired to cope. And I’m too tired to edit myself anymore.

You don’t want to hear my lack of faith in your latest snake-oil?

Then don’t tell me about it.

Shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

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You want to know a truth? It’s one I whisper in my heart of hearts, and nowhere else.
I do not love you. I do not want you. I know you’re dying – and I wish you would hurry up and do it. Because then, I wouldn’t have to face you anymore. I wouldn’t have to hate you anymore. I wouldn’t have to fight with you anymore. I would’t have to save you anymore. I would be at peace.
The truth is, I’m a coward. Because I know I cannot say this to your face. Because even though I hate you… I cannot bring myself to hurt you. I cannot bring myself to walk away.

Who’s the sick puppy now.

You know why I took up with an angel? Because he was worthy of me.
You want to know why I left my angel? Because I am not worthy of him. 
Because I hate.

And Your Little DOG, Too

My toilet is broken. Not your ordinary “grab the plunger, apply elbow grease, problem solved” kind of broken, either. I haven’t peed all night. Apparently, the toilet has been broken for TWO YEARS. It’s been lifted, and the ring replaced. It’s been snaked. It’s been plunged to DEATH (I know, because it was MINE). A month ago, it seemed to be working fine… except for one small detail. The damned bowl couldn’t seem to hold water. I’d flush. It would swallow and fill up, but half an hour later, no water in the bowl!
This went on for a while, so I decided to compound the problem by asking someone to please fix it. I told… and listen to the sound of doom and muahaha in my voice here – because the sound effects ARE necessary… the manager. He handed me Rid-Ex. Rid-ex, if you’ve never heard of it, is a biological agent that you put in your toilets when you have a septic tank, which has live bacteria in it that LOVE shit. Really. They eat it. And anything else that might be in your tank. Only one problem. I don’t have a septic tank. I live in an apartment complex in the middle of town, and we have city water and sewer. However, for whatever reason, my sanity failed me and I did what I was told, and dumped the junk into my toilet.
Needless to say, the problem promptly got WORSE. Now, my toilet won’t flush – no matter how much I plunge. It SLOOOOOOWWWWLLLLYYYY sucks the water away, after filling up to nearly overflowing, and the bowl, once empty of water, sits there, the monster in the bathroom. Filled with toilet paper and… you don’t want to know what else. Sometimes, when it’s slowly draining, there are bubbles. Mostly not.
Oh, and when the maintenance guy tried his hand at making my toilet behave like everyone else’s does… when he was finished, it leaked all over my nice clean floor. You know what he did then? He caulked the base. Which DID stop the leaking ONTO my floors, but I suspect it also drove the leak UNDER my floors. Oh well, at least my floor-mats (newly washed… over and over for OCD’s sake) aren’t wet.
Someone… and perhaps this is my exhaustion speaking, because I’ve been up since around noon yesterday, so forgive me if I seem to be over-reacting to a never-ending problem here… but SOMEONE hand me the sledgehammer. I can fix this. I KNOW I can. Pay no attention to the demented grin, nor the yodeling war-cries.

We interrupt this blog for a brief service message……………

OK… the manager just brought me a different kind of plunger. I plunged. And plunged. And plunged. And… you get the picture. At least there’s nothing but water in there now. He’s promised that if the maintenance guy can’t lick it (oooo, can I watch?), he’ll call…. dun dun dun… A Professional. Now why wasn’t that done two years ago? A month ago? A week ago? Last night?

How many angry phone calls must a girl MAKE??? And you know me… I’m English. I’m polite to a fault. Until you piss me off. And then I make my mother look like an angel. And she knows bitchy… WELL.

Although I suspect that today’s promise to call someone who actually knows what they’re doing when it comes to toilets has a lot to do with the fact that I finally told the manager that if he didn’t fix my toilet, I and all my friendly guests would be using his until mine worked again… and I would make sure he wouldn’t like the hours we keep. >:)

Oh, and I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before but… you know those bad tempered overly-territorial dogs the size of dust mops? The ones that wet everywhere but where they should, bark and bite everyone who gets close enough to breathe on, attack cats larger than themselves, hump random legs, and generally make absolute nuisances of themselves whenever possible? I hate those dogs. The manager does too… which is why he owns one. His dog is worse than most – mostly because he treats it poorly and never bothered to get it trained up and properly socialized… and I hate that damned animal enough that I don’t care. The first time I met that monster, I tried to make friends, and it let me know that it hated my guts and would kill me the first chance it got. Matricidal Stewie is a sweetheart by comparison.
Does returning hate for hate make me a bad person?

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I Will Not Interfere.

OK – I know that when you ask me for advice or information, you don’t actually expect that I will give you my honest opinion. You’re hoping that I will give you YOUR opinion. I get that. I really do. But… I can’t help but be honest, and I can’t help but be tactless. It’s a flaw. I admit that.
Right now, I’m doing my damned best NOT to slap you. I’m trying, I really am, not to bring the ice-cold bath of reality drenchingly down upon your head.
Could you PLEASE not make it so hard? Could you please not put me in the position of being the one to apply the breaks? Could you PLEASE use a LITTLE common sense here?
You know, you could speak up. You’re intelligent. I know you are.
And I really do get that you are so lonely, and despise your own company and your own thoughts so much that you’re willing to take any distraction available, but… I have to ask (even though I said I wouldn’t)… where exactly do you think this road is going to end up?
How is doing the exact same thing you’ve always done, in exactly the same way, going to give you what you want NOW, if it’s never given you what you wanted before?

And since I’ve already broken my vow of silence anyway (damn it) if you really want my opinion (which I’m sure you don’t, but you’re getting it anyway) I think that he’s slow, selfish, self-centered, narcissistic, boring, boorish, uneducated, and that he lacks both empathy and intellect. The fact that he doesn’t listen to you any more than he listens to himself DOES NOT BODE WELL.
In other words, it is my professional opinion that he’s got every flaw in the book – in fact, the only thing positive I can say is that he’s got nice hair. And you’re allowing him to rush you into a relationship so fast that you’re going to end up just as trapped and miserable (because you WON’T TALK to him about this crap he’s pulling and will continue to pull with worsening strength) as you were before. This Will End Badly. I mean, seriously, how can you NOT see every red flag imaginable here?

So when I say to you both, “Slow down, son, you’re making me nervous!” what I’m really saying is… “Please, Gods, will someone instill in these people the amazing mental acuity and intelligence and sheer good sense necessary for them to bring this headlong rush into fantasy to a screeching HALT!”

However, you are my friend, and I will support you in your decision (no matter how much I consider it to be folly), but… Oh, I hope I don’t have to pick up the pieces later. Because I really feel that this is going to end up really messy.

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Help, Help, I’m Surrounded by Idiots!

So two weekends ago, my former roomie M. demands that I listen to a CD he’s burned of a radio show he listens to called "Coast to Coast Radio."
It’s about the bloody Mayan calendar and the bloody end of the world.
What follows is a rant of things I would really like to be able to beat into my ex-roomie’s head with one of his own severed limbs.

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