I started my usual walking-update post on FB this evening. For those of you not on FB or not friended/following me there, today’s info was:

Walk? Yep.

Distance? 1.6-mile loop, flat.

Time? 31 minutes.

And then I emailed my manager and direct supervisor and said I wouldn’t be in today–woke up sweating like I’d already taken my walk and feeling like last night’s dinner was contemplating a…return appearance, let’s say.

I think it was my body’s way of enabling a mental-health day. Because last night’s coaching call dredged up rather more than I was expecting.

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366 Days of Gratitude and Good Things: Day 77

That video. The one I mentioned yesterday. It’s about daring to have the conversation about child sexual abuse, because we can ignore it if we want but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And it won’t go away on its own. It’s difficult to watch, but necessary, I think.

On the other hand, I’m not going to force you to have a conversation you don’t feel ready to have, either as an observer or as a survivor, nor do I wish the video or this post to bring up anything in your life you’re not up to dealing with at the moment. Having enough spoons, is the phrase folks use on Making Light’s Dysfunctional Families threads, based on a novel example used by a woman suffering from lupus to describe her life to a friend.

Anyway, if you prefer to spend your spoons elsewhere, do so with my full support. I promise I’ll still love you if you give this post a pass. However, if you’re willing to take a step in this direction at this time, here’s the link. I’ll wait…

The only reason I’m willing to go into this now in a forum this public is that, other than yours truly, the other players in the events are dead. So.

I never told my mother.

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366 Days of Gratitude and Good Things: Day 4

According to my mother, I started reading at age three and a half. (One of my favorite authors started reading at age two, which makes me jealous for some reason.  😉 )

Regardless, I quite literally cannot remember not being able to read. I do, however, remember being rather frustrated in the hospital after my tonsillectomy (age four, I think, or a little older) because I wanted to read my book to the nurses — even though it hurt to talk.

Yes, I apparently have always liked to talk…but that’s another post…

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Not the dog. The drink.

I follow a blog by a food writer and occasional chef named Michael Ruhlman. I don’t even remember how I found his site now, but I like the way he writes and he has some interesting things to say about food and cooking (as you’d expect). Every Friday, he posts about beverages of the spiritous sort, everything from aged eggnog to new cocktails to the classics. Today, he wrote about a vodka-and-grapefruit-juice cocktail called a greyhound. And I had a rush of memories about a friend who drank greyhounds — only he drank them with gin rather than vodka, as I recall.

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Life & History, Part the First

There’s this website called Making Light (often abbreviated to ML). I’ve been reading it so long I don’t even know when I found it, or even how, although it was probably by way of either Neil Gaiman or John Scalzi (both of whom are terrific writers and both of whom you should check out). At any rate, a few years back on or near the autumnal equinox, one of the moderators there, abi, started what she called the Dysfunctional Families Day thread, based on the idea that not everyone’s family of origin (birth, foster or adoptive family, whatever structure it was that raised them) was the basis for a Norman Rockwell painting or a gooey-sweet greeting card. That some people, in fact, had had it rough, and some had had it horrifically, terrifyingly bad, and many of them were still dealing with the fallout. So she started that thread as a safe haven, where people could talk without judgment about what they’d experienced, share coping mechanisms, ask for advice, or just…talk. Get it out of their systems, because sometimes just being able to do that, to talk to people who weren’t going to immediately say, “Oh, but you have to forgive [parental unit/sibling/other relative] despite the fact they did [horrific thing] — they’re your family!”

Well, no, being family doesn’t actually give you the right to fuck up someone else’s life, even if you didn’t mean to do it.

And every year around the first day of autumn, a new Dysfunctional Families Day thread would go up, and a couple of months later, it would essentially peter to a halt and abi would close it until the next year. Until 2011, when the thread filled up (reached nearly 1,000 comments) in just over two months and abi started another. And then another. And it stopped being an annual thing and is now ongoing because people don’t, it seems, only deal with family fallout during the holidays, although this is a particularly fraught time of year for a lot of people.

What I’m leading up to is that I posted on those threads quite often, those and the various Open Threads, when I was losing the fight to keep my house two years ago. I posted there because it was safe, because if I wanted advice I could ask for it, if I just wanted to vent, I could do that too, and it helped. My life was falling apart in ways I’d never imagined, and it helped to go to ML and write about it.

Things are so much better now. I just passed the one-year mark at my job, had my first annual review (of many, I hope), and they still like me, they appreciate me, they consider me an asset. Oh, I have room for improvement, I always do — and hell, if I ever did get a perfect review, where would I go from there? 😉 — but it’s good.

What follows began life as a post on Making Light, bad poetry and all. It’s been edited to add font differences in an attempt to make it easier to read, and proofed for the most obvious punctuation mistakes, but otherwise, what you see is what I wrote one dark night in 2011.

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