january 8th journal

Don't Give Up

I did not write here yesterday because I was recovering from the tweetstorms about the FUCKING COUP that very nearly happened. And today is full of everyone laughing and opining about a certain orange person who has been permanently banned from Twitter.

I’ve had a migraine today and that does make it more difficult to write or to string my thoughts together in a way that makes sense enough to say them aloud. I have, however, been reading a lot of tweets and enjoying everyone’s hot takes. I realize that there are likely to be more of these brutal events in our future, but at least just right now things feel a little bit better.

This week has felt like an entire six months, and I can’t believe I posted about Bean Dad IN THE SAME WEEK as the assault on the Capitol.

I wonder how long it will feel until January 20th arrives, and how many more awful shit things that awful shit people do will have happened.

Today my eleven year old daughter is now my twelve year old daughter. It wasn’t a phone call day, but I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I hope her day was bright and special. When I told her that she’d be staying with her dad for longer than we originally planned, she said she was sad because she wouldn’t be coming home with me, but also happy because she gets more time with her dad. And honestly, that’s what I have wanted for her. To feel a sense of balance and comfort in the position she finds herself: a person navigating a torn-in-half world with parents who split up and who has A Lot of Opinions on a great many things, with an intelligent mind that sometimes just gets completely overloaded and ends up leading to words she can’t take back.

The adrenaline and cortisol of this week, culminating (for me) on Wednesday, means that I’m in pretty rough shape physically and I’m having trouble mentally as well; it’s like a panic attack that hasn’t arrived yet, but you can feel it coming. I hope that I can find some peace that isn’t contingent on every new thing I find out about.

january 6th journal

black lives matter

WHAT EVEN.

If you were on Twitter today, you may have noticed that it was a fucking nightmare for most of the afternoon and that only because they were WHITE PEOPLE they didn’t get teargassed, tasered, shot with rubber bullets, beaten with sticks, and/or any other kind of violence you’ve seen at BLM protests.

FUCK THIS SHIT.

I’ve taken two doses of my rescue meds (yes, they are prescriptions and things like this are why I have them) and I am trying to be as calm as possible because it’s not like this is the end of this foolishness.

That’s my post for today SEND TWEET.

january 5th journal

dying flower

It’s Tuesday, which is phone call day, so I had a bit of phone time with my soon-to-be-twelve-year-old. And ordered her birthday gifts so that at least some of them will get there by Friday, which is when she turns twelve. TWELVE. I’m getting old!!

There’s a weird sort of disconnect I feel, not having her here — especially not for her birthday — but I know in my bones that this is best for her right now. And if I can enable her to enjoy her time no matter where she is, I think I’ve done a good job at parenting. Also, I ordered chocolate frosting to arrive on her birthday because I can’t get her a cake, but I can still give her a treat.

I listened to an audiobook all the way through earlier this afternoon — The Dispatcher by John Scalzi — and the book in the above Instagram photo is one that I finally picked up and started reading last evening. I have a nice collection of books on death, dying, and grief, since that’s part of my self-assigned homework. And yesterday I finally picked one up and opened it.

One of my friends on Facebook asked me recently (on one of the rare occasions that I’m actually posting anything there) if I had a Patreon. I used to have one, but I closed it when my Work dried up and I needed to go into hibernation so that I could deal with a lot of my grief. I don’t need to ask my friends for money to survive right now, and I recognize that as a privilege I’ve never had up until recently; but my death doula work could be supported through Patreon or something similar. There are so many underserved communities where deathwork is needed, but there’s no access to it because of cost or other factors. This is part of what I am working on understanding better, so that I know what my role should or shouldn’t be. I want to be able to serve the dying and their families no matter their circumstances, and having the resources to do so would be a huge deal.

I’m still thinking it through, to make sure I am looking at it from all angles and to be certain that I am not just asking for money for the sake of asking for money. As a wise friend of mine said to me not too long ago, if a business is only sustainable through owner capital, it’s not sustainable; and it’s worth a look into WHY a person would choose to run a business based entirely on their own ability (or not) to cover all the expenses. Because that’s not sustainable, not really.

What I need to do, really, is find an accountant who can help me think through these things from a logistics perspective. I’m pretty good at squeezing pennies and making grocery shopping my bitch, but larger amounts of money and legal frameworks for them? That is not my field of expertise. And it’s not my comfort zone, either. Anyone who’s grown up in and lived in poverty would have a difficult time dealing with more than they need to survive, and that’s where I find myself when I think about this topic. It makes me feel really uncomfortable and I’m working hard at not sticking my fingers in my ears and yelling LA LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU until I can manage to change the subject.

If I’m honest with myself, this is part of the reason that I’m struggling to begin to establish a death doula practice: I don’t understand how there are people that can afford a service like that, and how much money a dying person, or their family, is willing to pay in order for there to be support, comfort, hope, and maybe for some loose threads to be tied off neatly before the time comes for them to slip away. I’m not uncomfortable with death. I’m uncomfortable with capitalism, and the way it’s shaped my mind to see everything through a binary lens of how it can be commodified or not. For me, capitalism necessarily includes conflict, and I and my CPTSD try to avoid conflict whenever possible. I would rather take a burden on myself (whether I can actually carry it or not) in exchange for never having money conversations that are actually pretty normal and can happen without the horrifying awkwardness that I assume will contextualize it all.

Only in silence the word,
only in dark the light,
only in dying life:
bright the hawk’s flight
on the empty sky

– the Creation of Ea

Ursula Le Guin, Earthsea