My past

I found him; I have his address and phone number. I certainly won’t call him, but I've written a letter. It isn't accusatory and cruel, but it asks the questions I've had over the years. He’s had control of my life forever. I’m taking back my life. I probably won’t get the answers I seek, but I needed to do this. He’ll probably write back with excuses and how much he loves me – but I don’t know if I can believe any of that. What he did will never be okay. I’ll never accept what he did; it was horribly sick and wrong, but I forgive him. I need to let go, I need control of my life back. My life is mine, and only mine.

Finding my voice

I’m trying to find my voice, why can’t I find it. Why is it so difficult to sound authentic? I don’t want to sound fake, or use clichés. I find it hard, however; to come up with the words I want to say. It’s as if something inside me is resisting allowing myself to put my words into writing. Is it my depression or fear of being told I can’t write? Probably. I've wanted to write for so many years, I was even told years before I really considered writing anything by a psychic that I would be a writer. I thought the psychic was very mistaken at the time, but she assured me this would be my future. Now I’m putting my time and efforts into writing. I suppose it takes time to write with your own voice and not mimic other writers. I've read that the best thing to do is write as if you’re speaking to someone. Use your own words; don’t try to come up with big words that you needed to look up in a dictionary. Just write, or record yourself speaking, than transcribe it. I’m working on it, and hopefully I’ll get there. I know my voice is waiting to be heard.

Changes

When a major change needs to happen in your life, it never comes gently. It doesn’t tap you on the shoulder and say excuse me I’m going to cause havoc in your life today. It forces its way into your lifelike a hurricane, whipping everything in your life into the air. Some things may land nearby; others will be obliterated, never to be seen again. You try to reach shelter, but you don’t make it and get tossed through the maelstrom that is your life. And the question is, how long will it last? When will I land again? And when I do, will I be able to survive this?

It’s obvious that things need to change in my life in a big way. My pain condition isn’t from something physical that isn’t working right in my body, the myriad of tests and specialists I’ve seen as proven that. The theory is that all of this stems from psychological trauma I’ve been through. I was diagnosed with PTSD twenty years ago from childhood abuse; I’ve never dealt with what happened to me. I was told that this happens a lot to women my age. Something triggers the past trauma and brings it all to the surface, usually as very serious physical health issues.

My pregnancy and delivery of my son was very traumatic, this was my trigger. It started a rollercoaster that I can’t get off of. I’m struggling to keep my head above water, but it’s so hard. My depression and anxiety are getting worse, making it harder to get out of bed, making my pain worse. I can’t function or take care of my son. I love him with all of my being, but I’m not fully present in his life because of my pain, my depression. I just want to run away from my life.

The goal is to get me back to work, but right now I can’t see that in my future. I try to, but I’m not sure what it is I want to do exactly. I’ve realized that I actually hate being in an office every day. Even if I love what I’m doing – which I was for a time – I absolutely do not want to be stuck in an office all day. I want to write, which I can do from anywhere, I want to write novels and support myself and my son. I want to travel the world. I want to feel like the things I want are possible, obtainable, foreseeable. 

The joy of fall

I can feel fall in the breeze, whispering around the final tendrils of summer warmth lingering in the air. My favorite time of year. The crispness in the air; warm sweaters and steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Longer nights for stargazing, turning our breath into tiny white puffs. Children in costumes gathering their sweets. Pumpkin stew and red wine. A thinning of the worlds hailing our ancestors return, for one night. Thanksgivings and Yule tree’s, twinkling with baubles. Family and friends gathering with love and joy. A new year, a rebirth. A time for rest and renewal.

Alive

Live simply, don't let things define you, travel the world like gypsies, drink in sunsets, soak in the warmth from the sun, dance in the moonlight, plant a garden, listen rather than speak, watch clouds drift by, love unconditionally, forgive, meditate, be honest with yourself and others, feel gratitude for everything and everyone in your life, see hard times as challenges to learn about yourself, have a hobby, go outside every day, turn off the tv, listen to Mozart, help others how you can, spake when others would not, watch for shooting stars, look at the world from a child's eyes, tell your story, and breathe deeply.

I Am From

I am from the ancestral emerald isles, from those who fought and loved their land with a passion few today understand,
I am from slave owners in the east,
I am from farmers, who lived through the Depression,
I am from travelers, who want to see what lies over the next hill, or mountain, or body of water,
I am from gangsters who ran whiskey and guns with Al Capone, and thought Bonnie was a sweet girl who lived for a time just over the bridge,

I am from Mormons who abused those they said they loved and felt that their faith put them above all others,
I am from Methodists, who weren't particularly religious,
I am from abuse, violated by the man who should have been my fiercest protector, and a mother who says she never knew,
I am from a family that would rather hurt each other than love, scattered to the wind, never to apologize or make amends,

I am from drug abuse and promiscuity, anything to escape what is hidden in the recesses of my mind,
I am from depression and anxiety, isolation and mistrust, uncertainty and fear,
I am from a lost childhood, memories locked away in the unconscious, leaving gaping holes throughout my past,
I am from pain, reaching every inch of my body, never ending,

I am from warm potato soup, fried chicken and potato salad, stroganoff and warm bread,
I am from comfort foods and Friday dinners at moms,
I am from friends who became family, to fill in some of the missing pieces,

I am from good times and bad, love and hate, laughter and grief,
I am from a past rich in darkness and light, conviction and strength, pain and suffering,
I am from lifetimes of triumphs and failures,
I am from many things and many people,
I am from my past, but only I control where I am going.

Assuming the worst, how is fear holding us back?

I can not tell you how many times I have seen someone on the side of the road and immediately wanted to pull over to see if they needed help, but didn't. My fear stops me every time. I’m a short, little white girl and scared of being attacked. Even if I can see it’s another woman, I don’t stop. I've heard too many horror stories of attackers – men and women alike – who have used this as a ploy to get someone to stop and ask if they need help. Then I immediately feel guilty because I shouldn't think the worst of everyone, but my personal safety keeps me trapped in my illusory cage of safety. I realize this isn't exactly rational thinking, but I’m just flat out scared.

Do you notice if you do or don’t look others in the eyes when you walk down the street? I usually don’t. I think if I look at you, I’ll be more noticeable, even though I know from numerous news reports that doing just that causes attackers to notice you more. Luckily I’ve never been attacked, even though I probably look like a juicy morsel of a victim. Lucky me.

I’ve just sold a few furniture items on craigslist for the first time, and I can’t tell you how scared I am of letting people know where I live. I don’t trust the honesty in people. Even thought both items sold were legitimate. The first was a single mom with her daughter who purchases old pieces to refinish them and resell; the second a middle aged guy who wanted new blinds for his home . Nothing scary about either of them, but after we agreed to meet so they could see what I was selling I locked all my doors to make sure there was a barrier between me and them until I could get a good look at them. Size them up – see if they “looked” honest – what ever that means.

It’s really ridiculous because all the serial killers look like the nice guy next door. But it’s just as ridiculous to automatically assume everyone is going to hurt you. I know that isn’t true, I know that if I needed help I’d want someone to stop. Is it the media? Our culture? Terrorism? Or maybe it’s a combination of all of them. What is it that fosters so much fear that we can’t open up to each other and trust that human beings are for the most part good people?

Statistics on NationMaster.com show that in the US only 44% of people are trusting, compared to Norway at 65%, and France at only 23%. I’ve heard many wonderful things about Norway, and some not so great things about France so is it really a part of the culture we’re born into that decides how trusting we are? I think it does. I also think a lot has to do with the media. Horror and mayhem sell, violence gets our attention like a car accident the freeway, you just can’t look away. How many good stories do we hear about in the news, I’d be surprised if it even comes close to 5%. That’s why I refuse to watch the news or any of the political shows blaring 24/7, except on Fridays. My grandfather insists on watching news and politics the entire time I’m there during our Friday dinners and the volume is up loud enough to be heard no matter where you are in the house. I love the man dearly, but I can’t understand why anyone would willingly subject themselves to drivel, outright lies, blatant misinterpretations, hatred, bigotry, crime and violence, and the political mudslinging of politicians. Why would anyone want to put themselves through that kind of torture is beyond my understanding. And in the end, it only perpetuates the mistrust we have in our fellow Americans, regardless of nationality, age, or sex.

Why do we listen to it? It seems so ingrained into us that our immediate response to anything is anger. No one – including myself much of the time – stops long enough to really think before we open our mouths, before we decide our actions, and because of this – we all suffer, the entire world suffers, because the loudest message getting through is hate. Will there ever be a time when that loudest message is love?

What I'm writing about

My novel takes place in Ireland, my ancestral home. I’ve travelled there once. The first thought that came to me as I’m looking around at the scenery as our bus drives along is how green everything is. But green isn’t even an adequate word for the color. Emerald definitely fits; they come in so many different shades but are all so brilliant and breathtaking. That’s Ireland, breathtaking, brilliant, and otherworldly. I would love to live there, but I don’t so my heroine does.

Aideen Kelly, my heroine, is an Eolande. A race of Fae/human I created. She’s rare because she can call on the element of fire, but above all else she’s just trying to find her place in this world. Struggling just like the rest of us. Her life is disrupted by learning that her elemental gift is more than what she thought and bargained for, and her mother’s killer is now after her.

I enjoy reading paranormal mysteries and romance, but I wanted something different for Aideen. The murderer’s in my series are the Leanansidhe (Lay-nan-shee) or Dark One’s. They were once Eolande, but violence and bloodshed has transformed them into vampiric Fae. Their humanity lost to them, they murder, feed, and cause destruction wherever they go. Not unlike what we are all capable of allowing ourselves to evolve into. If we allow the violence and hatred in our lives to control us, we become no different than those who hurt us. The difficult part, is allowing ourselves to see these monsters for what they were, not what they have become. No one is born evil, we must be taught to hate, as were the Leanansidhe.

Aideen struggles with her gifts – or curses as she begins to see them – loses people she loves, tracks down her mother’s killer, finds her long lost father, and in the end, realizes she has exactly what she has always been searching for: family. She’ll continue to struggle with her elemental gifts and learn about them in future novels, her love interest will grow, her relationship with her father will have its ups and downs, and she’ll be frightened of what the future holds. But this uncertainty will keep her going, keep her moving forward; and as she does, she’ll slowly come to realize what amazing gifts she has in her life.

My novel has vampires and shape shifters, fairies and mystical lands, but I didn’t want the typical vampire or shifter. My vampires aren’t the mysterious, exotic, dangerous creatures from other paranormal novels. You don’t change from being bitten or drained of blood. You change from the hatred and vengeance you allow yourself to feaster within. It isn’t a simple change; you have to literally be consumed by your hatred. This is what creates monsters.

My shifters are the warriors and protectors. They are also Eolande, but rare in that they can shift into an animal. The type depends on their culture. They are called Kailen, and are sent to protect the Eolande with other rare gifts. Aideen and her Kailen, Einar, begin a romance which will continue to grow throughout the series. Something her long lost father will have some difficulty dealing with.

I want my novel to be entertaining, but I also wanted to include life lessons. Sure, you could read it for its entertainment factor alone; but you can also identify with the life struggles and fears, and see deeper into the story, to find different ways of looking at life and the people that find themselves in your path.

So, without giving my entire story away, this is what I’m writing about.

In search for my querencia

Querencia is the place you feel the most secure. I’m 35 years old and am still looking for this illusive place. I’m an artist, an aspiring writer, a mother – but right now none of these places gives me my querencia. My home is cluttered and in desperate need of remodeling; so no querencia there – and dealing with chronic pain insures that I can’t find my security within my own body. So where is it hiding?

I’m not sure how to find it. I don’t even know how to start looking. My life feels so chaotic and cluttered with random thoughts, pain, anger, hopelessness – where do you start? I read blogs and get emails on the law of attraction; the techniques to implement these ideas in your life – but I can’t get it to stick. My thoughts always run back to the negative. Right now, I can’t even imagine being able to dig my way out of this hole. I’ve heard the saying, “Keep saying it until you believe it”, but I can’t even bring myself to say it. I’m asked how I’m doing – I can’t answer that question; there’s just too much.

There are so many things I want in my life; I want to feel better so I can function again, I want to dance again, I want to create again, and I desperately want to write. I have so many ideas and stories running through my head. I have pages of notes and ideas, partial thoughts – but I can’t find my voice. There’s an ache in the middle of my chest that never goes away. It’s like my anxiety, fear, anger, and pain are all tied up in a knot that just sits there in my chest 24/7, waiting for me to feel too overwhelmed so it can wreck havoc with my thoughts and feelings.

I do what I’m told by doctors and therapists; PT, yoga, meditation, take my meds, drink lots of water, get enough sleep. I try to eat right, but my meds screw up my appetite so most foods make me sick. So where in all of this do I find my querencia? I know there are people in this world that have it far worse than I do. Sometimes I feel so petty, but I still can’t get motivated. The house sits in a cluttered mess, laundry doesn’t get done, food goes bad, friends aren’t spoken to, the dog doesn’t get her exercise, the garden isn’t taken care of – and I sit here alone and in pain. How do I stop this cycle? Querencia – where are you?

I'm a writer!

This morning is the first that I’ve actually realized that I can call myself a writer. I’m no longer employed at ASU, my disability has been approved and I have a year to work on myself. To get to the point where I can manage my pain so I can relearn to function on a daily basis, support my family, do my part. But this morning it just hit me – I can write. I’m a writer. I can finish my novel, work on getting an agent, see if I can get published. I don’t have anything standing in my way except myself. And I realize that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for so many months – standing in my own way.

Yes, I have issues with pain, and I can’t sit for long periods of time, and typing makes my fingers cramp up and burn. But nothing says I can’t take a lot of breaks, do some yoga stretches, drink some tea, lie down for a bit – and then go back to it. It may take me longer than I’d prefer, but it doesn’t mean I can’t do it. I just need to try. I can get a tape recorder and record what I want to write if I’m in too much pain. I can do this – I’m a writer.

Mabon

Day and night are in balance again. Time to finish what we’ve started, harvest what we’ve reaped. Honor God/dess, as the year turns towards darkness. A time for family and friends, to give thanks for what we have. Drink wine, toast ourselves and the gods, look forward to the future.

Once, darkness scared us, but now it brings hope. Hope of what will come, of the turning year, of a new start. New ideas, new projects, new hopes, new dreams. Contemplation and meditation on what the future holds for each of us. Our friends, our families, those we love, those we don’t even know.

We control our fates and futures. Now is the time to reflect and rest. Death and re-birth, the cycle of life. Think, honor, and rest. Celebrate, rejoice, and anticipate. The equinox is upon us.

Love of mystery

I want to write mysteries; paranormal mysteries with a bit of romance thrown in for good measure and spice. Life shows me over and over again that things aren’t what they seem. There are layers of events to any situation in life. People come and go from our lives, stresses enter and leave us, we become overwhelmed with work, then something at home explodes, then your kid gets sick, then your grandmother takes a fall and breaks a hip – all within the span of a week. Mysteries are no different. You see a person who solves mysteries, but there are so many layers left untouched if that is the only event you write about. What of their personal life, friends, family, mental stability, love, anger, disappointments, history? There’s so much more to delve into in addition to the actual mystery and those involved. That’s why I want to write mysteries; so I can delve into these layers and write about them. I want to catch a reader off guard so they say to themselves, I didn’t think of that.

I love the research, the ideas just pop out of me as fast as I can type them out sometimes. There are definitely times when it isn’t easy. My hard part is once the research is in place, the basic outline and ideas are there – then I have to start writing the story and dialogue. I don’t want to sound like other writers of the same genre, but at the same time, they’re being published so they obviously know what they’re doing. I read them because I enjoy the stories, and I write down ideas and writing styles I recognize. Things I can try to use in my own writing; in my own voice – hopefully.

I second guess my writing. Is it good enough? Did I say that right? What other words can I use? I’ll reread my writing so many times and edit it to the point of utter exhaustion. Then, when I get back to the actual writing I don’t have anything left to say. I’m trying to stop doing this and just write what’s in me at the moment. I can always go back later to reevaluate the specifics to make sure I’ve said what I want and how I want. And I’m finding that I can try to write an outline for my novel, but stories really do take on a life of their own. I’m 85 pages into my novel; I’m not sure where the ideas come from, I’m just going along trying to keep the dialogue going when a completely new idea pops into my head and I find myself rethinking where I want the story to go, adding new characters, getting more in depth in some areas and cutting others out completely. But at some point I realize I’m over-thinking everything. My original outline is pretty much trashed, but to be honest, I really like where the story is going so I’m going to try as best I can to enjoy the ride. But again, that can be the beauty of mystery. There are so many avenues to travel, so many twists and turns, so many inner stories to discover; trying to create individuals with colorful characteristics that make readers want to read about them. Conflicts that mimic real life so readers can identify with them; love them, hate them. Every character needs an internal struggle to make them real and interesting in addition to what is going on in the story. It can be fun, or utterly frustrating trying to give characters there own separate and uniqueness from the other characters, but that’s the only way to make your story work. Mysteries are great, I love them, and now – for better or worse, in good times and bad - I’m going to write them. I’m a writer.

To ignore...or not to ignore; that is the question

This picture seems to adequately show how things have gone in my life thus far. If there's a problem, we don't speak of it to the person involved, see it for what it really is, or hear the underlying truths of the problems. This needs to STOP! No matter how uncomfortable it makes us. Ignoring the issue doesn't make it go away - it just sits there, festering until it finally bursts and then no one can ignore it any longer. That's kind of what's going on in my life; all the issues I've let fester have burst and I have no choice but to deal with them all at once - to the detriment of my own life.

So what's the best thing to do in this situation? Run at it head on? And if so, where to start...
Or, do I just keep ignoring it and let everyone else think all is well when in fact it isn't?

When you know something is wrong

What do you do when you know something is wrong? Go to all the doctors and specialists, talk to someone, try medications. But what if everything just keeps getting worse? The medications don't work, the doctors can't come up with answers; or the answers they think may be it can't be fixed with a pill. What if the theory is everything is stemming from past traumas? PTSD from childhood abuse, a traumatic pregnancy and delivery, an abusive marriage - all of it comes roaring back in your face and says "Deal with me!" There's a point when all of this starts to affect you physically; chronic pain, migraines, depression, anxiety, weight gain, an inability to concentrate and function. You can't keep your mind on one task, can't remember the simplest things. Tasks that before you could finish in just a few minutes take days. You can't take care of your family, including yourself - and it just never stops.

What do you do? The ache in the middle of your chest never stops, your temper blows at the smallest thing. You procrastinate about everything. You feel like your body and soul are being torn in two. You can't work and have to go on disability. There are so many things you want to do but you just can't get anything done. You hurt so badly that you feel your body has betrayed you. What do you do? How do you even start to dig yourself out of the hole you've fallen in? You've tried everything and know you need to start from within - how do you start? What do you do?