The Seasons change, and, still, I sing.

LJIdol: Week 14

solstice_singer — Thu, 10 Jul 2014 21:52:44 GMT

I've often wondered how to define myself. I'm a social worker who is mentally ill. I have been both client and therapist. In many ways, the role of therapist is one I fall into with more ease. I'm not vulnerable when helping someone else. However, when I'm the client, I feel torn wide open, nothing hidden, my every thought, feeling and action called into question.

For the past fifteen years or so, I stayed out of therapy. Now though, as my agoraphobia worsens, I find myself sitting on a couch in a small office with a man I refer to as the "Nervous therapist". He knows a great deal, but isn't the world's greatest communicator. It takes him several minutes to put what's in his head into words. He's not intimidating, which is a huge plus for me.

He wants to get to the root of my fear. He asks me for answers I've never had. I delve as deeply as I can with limited success. My brain holds many secrets, and it doesn't seem to be willing to release them easily.

For an hour a week, I sit on the couch, responding to the questions he asks. It's the only time all my inner walls are down. I feel transparent and afraid. Do I fear the transparency? I suppose I do, but, without it, I don't know if my illness will ever be something I can managed. I know it will never leave me completely. Asking for such would be unrealistic. After all, fear has been my constant companion for the past thirty years. All I can ask for is a way to manage it. Perhaps that's what I'll find on the couch of the Nervous Therapist.

This is my entry for week 14 of:
therealljidol

Thank you for taking the time to read. It's always appreciated, even if I don't manage to respond to every comment.

LJIdol: Week 12

solstice_singer — Thu, 19 Jun 2014 18:06:31 GMT

Yes. Yes. I know you want to hear about monkeys, but I'm far superior to any monkey you're likely to encounter. Therefore, I feel it is my duty to explain the concept of feline fun.

Hmmmm. I suppose I should introduce myself first. After all, it will benefit you to know who I am. I'm called Winter Solstice Cat, the only cat with initials. I have lived for a decade with my slave. I've managed to outlast some dogs and some other humans. I am permanent. Everyone else is just temporary. People and dogs would do well to realize this.

Okay! It's time to talk about fun. I'll give examples, since I've heard humans like that sort of thing.

It's late at night, and the house is very silent. Humans and dogs are sleeping at the top of the house. I've slept most of the day, so I'm awake, but being awake and alone isn't good. I decide to amuse myself. I start with a meow. Just a normal meow, you understand. Not too soft, not too loud. I want to know if they're even aware of me. Obviously, they are not, since the house remains silent. I raise the volume, and change the meow up a bit. Now, it's one long meow, but broken up. The other human says it sounds like I'm stuttering when I do this. That shows how little she understands. This usually gets results. Humans begin to stir, but they aren't getting up. I know what to do about this. I put on my speed, and charge up the stairs. I race into the bedroom, and pounce on the slave. She tries to get rid of me, but it doesn't work. Now, I can walk around on the bed, play with the blinds, and walk on the heads of the slave and the other one. Success is mine!

I also play a really awesome game with the slave. Well, I think it's awesome. She shrieks and squeals when we play, so I'm not sure she likes it as much as I do, but who cares? She's my slave, and here for my amusement. The slave thinks cleanliness is very important. I agree with this. I'm the cleanest feline around. Anyway, she goes upstairs and removes those things she wears since she doesn't have any fur. This leaves her vulnerable. She starts to leave the bedroom, and I'm on her. I wrap my paws around her leg, and give her a little nip. She tries to get me to go away, but, of course, I do not. I follow her into the bathroom, biting all the way. She's only safe once she's behind the shower curtain. I must sit and wait for her to get out. Sometimes, I do, but, other times, I decide sleep is more rewarding.

Here's the best example of feline fun. Last year, the slave got a new partner human. I am never fond of these partner humans. They mess with the slave, and disrupt my life. This partner human was worse than the others because she had a huge dog which she dared to bring into my domain. I was most displeased. I spoke in the voice of hiss, but no one cared. This partner human wasn't very smart back then. She left her suitcase open. What's a disgruntled feline to do with an opportunity like that? Well, in case you can't figure it out, I'll enlighten you. I used the suitcase instead of my litter box. The human didn't know about it until much later. She carried my gift home with her. I was very pleased with myself.

So, humans, these are just a few examples of how one feline enjoys herself. There are many more, but a cat must keep some things a secret.

Courtesy of my fabulous feline, this is my entry for
therealljidol
I hope you enjoy reading this. I always enjoy writing from her perspective.

LJIdol: Week 11

solstice_singer — Mon, 09 Jun 2014 01:58:59 GMT

"Love is never wrong."

Melissa Etheridge: Silent Legacy

Same-sex marriage is one of those issues most people are tired of hearing about. You see it on TV. You read about it in the papers, or in your favorite online magazine. References to it pop up all over social media. I know how you feel. There are plenty of things I feel have been discussed to death, but they come up again and again.

As a lesbian, I can't get tired of the subject of marriage equality. After all, it affects me directly. My partner and I, along with millions of others, are denied the right to marry. We are given none of the benefits awarded to heterosexual couples. If I asked people why, very few of them would be able to come up with a good answer. Some would quote scripture. Others would say they just don't believe it's right. However, if I asked how my marrying another woman directly affected them, they would have to tell me that it did not. Why would they be forced to tell me this? Well, because it's true. Who I choose to marry has no impact, positive or negative, on you. It might offend your sensibilities, but that's as far as it goes.

I lived in New York when same-sex marriage was legalized there. I'm not ashamed to admit I cried. I never thought I'd be living in a state that would openly grant me the same rights as my heterosexual counterparts. It was incredibly empowering.

Sadly, I'm no longer living in New York. My partner and I live in a suburb of Detroit. Michigan recognized gay marriage for about a day, before it was banned again. We're waiting to hear the outcome of a case to overturn the ban. I'm cautiously optimistic. After all, New York did it. Iowa did it. Just two days ago, Wisconsin did it. So, why can't Michigan? Hopefully, the courts will view it that way. Hopefully, Michigan will follow in the footsteps of the states that have chosen to recognize same-sex marriage. I'm not asking for much. I simply want equality.

This is my entry for week 11 of
therealljidol
If you are so inclined, please show me some love in the polls. I appreciate everyone's support.

LJIDOL: Week 10

solstice_singer — Thu, 29 May 2014 01:24:26 GMT

Sometimes, even when you're supposed to be helping people, you end up feeling helpless. Not an ideal arrangement, to be sure, but I guess that's just how it goes when you're dealing with people, especially people in crisis. You simply cannot help everyone, and you have to get used to that.

For several years, I volunteered at our local Rape Crisis center. I took calls from people who were victims of sexual violence. Sometimes, I gave referrals for therapists, emergency housing, or domestic violence shelters, but most of my time was spent talking to people struggling to make sense out of what had happened to them.

One of my most memorable calls was from a young woman who had pledged to a sorority. She was ordered by sorority members to walk across her college campus in her nightgown. She did this, but did not reach her destination safely. She was assaulted along the way. She called and talked to me later that night. I urged her to go to the hospital. Even if she didn't want to press charges, she needed to be checked out for any kind of infection or disease she might have gotten from the man who assaulted her. She refused to do this, saying she didn't want anyone to know what had happened to her, and the members of her sorority needed to know exactly where she was for the next several days. We talked for quite awhile, but I was unable to change her mind.

I also received a call from a mother who wanted her nineteen-year-old daughter to go to the hospital to have a rape kit done. The young woman was reluctant to do this, and her mother hoped I could talk sense to her. What she didn't realize is that I would not try to force someone to do what they were unwilling to do. The examinations women are put through after an assault are incredibly invasive. Even though they're necessary in order to press charges against one's attacker, many women choose not to subject their bodies to further invasion. This is something I won't argue with. So, when I spoke to this woman, I explained her rights to her. I also explained what the exam would be like, something she seemed to already know. She said she did not want to go to the hospital, and thanked me for letting her know she didn't have to. As you might guess, her mother was not pleased. She snatched the phone away and thanked me rather coldly for my help. She also made it quite clear that she and her husband would get their daughter the help she needed. I wanted to tell her she wasn't really helping. She was just forcing her daughter to something else she didn't want.

There are many other instances like these, but there are also a number of callers to whom I did make a difference. Sometimes, I can't keep myself from wondering what became of those I couldn't help. Hopefully, they're living happy, healthy lives. Unfortunately, I'll never know.

This is my entry for Week 10 of
therealljidol
If you are so inclined, show me some love in the upcoming poll.

LJIDOL: Week 9

solstice_singer — Mon, 19 May 2014 00:52:13 GMT

I'm sitting alone on a train. You approach, but you have no interest in me. Instead, you're intrigued by my disability, and you lack the necessary filters to keep your interest in check. So, we chat. Well, it's not really a chat. It's more like an interrogation, or, at the very least, an extremely intense game of twenty questions. It never occurs to you that I'm a person with feelings. You have no idea that I might be offended by the liberties you take. The things you see as compliments are things I find insulting, but this idea is out of your reach.

I am not a Q&A session. I'm a person with a life to live. I do not know every other blind person to walk the earth. The fact that I have a dog at my side doesn't mean he's there to give you your daily doggy fix. My existence isn't an excuse for you to blurt out all the things you've ever wondered about blindness, and, honestly, I don't care that you can't imagine what life would be like for you if you couldn't see.

Am I harsh? Maybe so, but I'm also tired of being viewed as "the blind woman", the person who symbolizes that which so many fear. It's true. People have an irrational fear of blindness. I've heard about it for years, and, recently, I was unfortunate enough to read a book about it. So, you're scared to lose your sight? Well, hopefully, that won't be your reality, but, even if it could be, don't look at me as the thing you fear. We both lose out on so much if you do.

Try not to feel too badly about your behavior. You're not the first person to subject me to such things, and I doubt you'll be the last. People look at me and "BLIND" jumps out at them. It happens to strangers all the time, but the really sad thing is that it happens when I'm among my family too. So, your lack of consideration really shouldn't surprise me all that much. I suppose I should be used to it, no matter how distasteful I might find it. Still, it's hard being the symbol of something that induces pity and fear in equal doses. It's disheartening and dehumanizing, but you don't stop and think about that. Of course you don't! To you, I'm not human. To you, I'm only blind! And yet, there are so many things you cannot, will not see, but it's my blindness you fear? Look in the mirror and face the fear that looks back at you. Then, the next time we meet on this train, maybe you can view us more as equals. I'll keep waiting for that next meeting

This has been my contribution for
therealljidol
Thank you so much for taking the time to stop by and read. If you're so inclined, please remember me when the polls open tomorrow evening.

LJIdol, week 8

solstice_singer — Tue, 06 May 2014 00:57:48 GMT

It was another crazy day on the streets of New York City. I needed to get to a certain theater where I was scheduled to perform. All around me, masses of people moved in what seemed like every possible direction. Horns honked and street vendors shouted to be heard above the noise of traffic and pedestrians. I was terrified.

You might wonder why I was so afraid, or, you might think you know the answer. You're probably thinking I was afraid because I was a blind woman alone in such chaos. That wasn't it at all. To be honest, I'm afraid whenever I go out because I suffer from agoraphobia with panic disorder.

I would not have been able to travel the streets of New York at all if it hadn't been for the black dog at my side. Caroline, a black lab/golden retriever cross, knew her job very well. Not only did she have to guide me safely through the obstacles the city put in my path, but she was also responsible for keeping me out of areas that were likely to cause me to panic. Most guide dogs are trained to walk straight down the middle of the sidewalk, moving their people around obstacles, and returning to the center. Caroline didn't work like that. Instead, she hugged the building line as closely as she could without letting me run into it. When the buildings ran out, she picked up her pace, minimizing the time I spent in open space.

Of course, New York was a little easier than some places would be. Since there are always people walking around, there's not a lot of open space. Plus, there was the added benefit of knowing I was far from alone. If I reached out, I could have grabbed hold of someone passing by. Granted, they probably wouldn't have liked it, but the thought that I could do it was very comforting.

So, on the afternoon in question, I had gotten off the train, and been hauled through the hell known as Penn Station. There was no way to avoid open space in there, which meant my dog was literally dragging me through the building. When I panic, I freeze. Once that happens, we're finished. I become convinced that something very bad will happen if I take another step, so I remain rooted to the spot, waiting for someone to rescue me. Luckily, Caroline knew better than to let that happen. She weighed close to seventy pounds, and had quite a lot of strength. The fact that I'm very slightly built made it easy for her to keep me moving. This is very counterintuitive for most guide dogs. They do not drag their people. If the person stops, so does the dog. However, Caroline was taught that this was not an option. Stopping in an open area meant nothing but bad things.

Finally, we were out of the station and on the street. Despite the people around me, I could feel the panic building within me. I'd done this for the past five months, and it was taking its tole on me. I felt like I was reaching my breaking point as we wove our way through the people on the sidewalk.

Sounds began to recede. I felt like I was hearing everything from a great distance. As I walked, the ground seemed to move beneath my feet, creating a sort of floating effect. I became very lightheaded, and awareness of my surroundings was quickly deserting me. I just knew I was not going to make it to the theater, and, if by some chance I did, I wouldn't be able to perform. All I wanted to do was crawl into some very tiny hole and stay there for as long as I could.

Dogs are very attuned to the emotions of the people they love. Caroline had been taught to be aware of my anxiety level. I don't know exactly what went through her mind. All I know is that her stride became more purposeful. I might not know where I was, but she knew, and she knew the location of the theater as well. As long as I hung onto the harness handle, she'd get me there.

I have no idea how long it took to reach the theater. I have no memory of stepping inside. All I remember is the blessed peace of backstage. Sure, people were tuning their instruments. There was a certain amount of commotion caused by people in charge of lighting, but I was no longer outside. I was pressed up against a solid wall, and I could breathe again.

Sadly, Caroline is no longer with me. She retired in the summer of 2012, and died of unknown causes the following winter. Acelet is my current guide. He doesn't work exactly like Caroline did, but he too has learned to guide me as well as to keep me safe from my inner demons.

None of my guide dogs have guided in conventional ways. Instead, their trainers were forced to improvise, to think outside the box. I will always be grateful for their willingness to do so. I don't have as much independence as some people, but, with a dog by my side, I have more than I otherwise would.

This has been my entry for week 8 of
therealljidol
Thank you so much for reading.

LJIdol: Week 6

solstice_singer — Sun, 20 Apr 2014 01:44:59 GMT

Last night, I dreamed. I dreamed of a life in which food was not my enemy. I could eat without fear, enjoy the things my friends and family raved about. My weight was not an obsession. The idea of weighing 100 pounds did not frighten me. One crack had been healed.

Last night I dreamed. I dreamed of freedom. The outdoors did not scare me. Malls, airports, and busy supermarkets were places I could traverse with ease. The idea of being alone wasn't frightening. My home could really be my home, a place where I was free of fear. Another crack was healed.

Last night I dreamed. I dreamed of self-respect. No longer did I shrink away from compliments that were paid me. No longer did I fear being someone's victim. I was strong and proud, a whole person. Another crack healed.

This morning, I woke up, crushed to discover that my dreams were nothing more than my imagination playing games with me. I'm still an agoraphobic, anorexic, sexual assault survivor. My cracks are still there, still quite easily seen. I might fool people for a little while, but it isn't long before someone uncovers the truth. I'm defined by the cracks mental illness has carved into my heart, my mind, and my spirit.

I have hope for the future. I know the effects of my illnesses. I'm aware of my fate. Still, I have hope. Maybe it's silly. Perhaps I'm drowning myself in illusions of wholeness. Maybe it's a survival skill. I, however, choose not to view myself and my situation in any of these ways. Instead, I choose to think of myself as someone who is doing the best she can with what she has. I choose to hope for the day when I no longer have to fear stepping on my own cracks, plunging myself into a world of darkness and despair.

This is my contribution to week 6 of
therealljidol
I apologize for not answering last week's comments. A nasty ear infection made me sleep a lot. I'm hoping this week will be better. I appreciate everyone's support.

LJIdol: week 5

solstice_singer — Sun, 13 Apr 2014 23:55:10 GMT

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and prayed I would not burst into tears. Sidewalks are for walking, but that was not what my guide dog and I were doing. Instead, we'd take a few very hesitant steps. He would stop, look back, and refuse to move forward. I coaxed him. i corrected him. I broke the golden rule of guide dog use and actually stepped out in front of him, hoping this would convince him to move. None of it mattered. He wasn't moving, and that was all.

My friend, who is now my partner, and her guide were up ahead. She knew Acelet and I were struggling, so she turned around.

"Do you want to go back?" she asked me.

"I'd like that, but who knows if he'll move." was my rather curt reply.

Somehow, we made it back to her house. I unharnessed my dog and began to sob. I was done. I simply couldn't handle any more of this dog and his stress and all the things he refused to do for me. I wanted a dog who wanted to work, who was a willing participant in the partnership. Obviously, Acelet was not that dog. I had to let him go.

I called the school, and had a tearful conversation with my instructor.

"Bring him back," she told me. "Working is too stressful for him. We'll find you a better match."

I heard this, and a part of my heart soared. If they found me a better match, I'd get the female dog I'd really wanted. My previous guides had been female, and bad experience taught me to be wary of large, male dogs. Granted, Acelet isn't very large. He doesn't even weigh sixty pounds, but, to me, he was large and male and scary.

As part of my heart soared, another part began to break. He wasn't very good at guiding, but his psychiatric assistance work was wonderful. He was a male, but he wasn't aggressive. He didn't growl at me, or try to bite other people or dogs. There was something about him I found myself loving, even as I hated all the ways this match wasn't working.

We made plans to find me another dog. I would keep Acelet with me until I returned to Long Island for training.

I cried that night. I cried for myself, and for this dog who had seemed like such a good match for me. His trainer had pushed hard for the match, working hard to help me overcome my fear of male dogs. I felt like I had failed, or he had failed, or someone had failed something.

As I cried, the lovely Kristeen's mind began to work. Her previous guide dog had developed the disgusting habit of eating his own fecal matter. Not only would he eat it, but he would strategically plan where he would leave it for easy eating. She solved this by having him wear a relieving belt, and she wondered if this might prove helpful for Acelet. True, he didn't eat his poop, but he was extremely concerned about pooping while he worked. This was the reason for all the stopping, all the looking back, and the refusal to move forward no matter what I did.

Are you wondering what a relieving belt is? It looks like a collar with two buttons on the top and a clip hanging down. You attach the handle of a plastic bag to the clip, fasten the belt around the dog's backside, and put the tail through the other handle of the bag. You then pull the second handle up, and hook it to the buttons that are now resting close to the dog's tail. When done correctly, the dog wears a plastic bag on his butt. The poop falls in. You take off the bag, and throw it away.

We had no way of knowing if this would help, but we figured there was no harm in trying. If it didn't work, things would continue on as planned, but, if the belt could be the answer, Acelet could keep working.

With great trepidation, I put the belt on for our first walk. He'd worn it around the house, and didn't seem to mind the rattling of the plastic bag, but would it be the same once we were outside working?

We walked out the door, and I gave him the forward command. Amazingly, he began to move confidently down the alley toward the street. He didn't hesitate. He didn't look back. He just kept walking like he'd worn the belt and bag all of his working life. I was amazed. My dog was working like a real guide dog. Was it a fluke?

It's been almost exactly a year since Acelet wore the bag for the first time, and I am pleased to report that it was no fluke. I can't tell you why, but I can tell you that the bag has made a world of difference. He still walks by my side, and he does it with confidence. We live near an incredibly busy road, and it doesn't phase him at all. What was once so stressful is now just another part of life, no big deal, certainly no reason to be stressed.

I'm not sure what people think when they see me walking down the street with my little black lab with a purple harness, and a plastic bag covering his butt. My family has laughed about it, and I imagine we get more than a few questioning looks as we zoom by, but I don't care. My dog works for me. He may not work the way most guide dogs do, but he keeps me safe, both physically and emotionally. I couldn't ask for anything more.

This is my entry for week 5 of
therealljidol
Thank you for reading, and, if you think I deserve it, remember me when the polls open tomorrow evening.

LJIdol: Week 4

solstice_singer — Sun, 06 Apr 2014 17:28:38 GMT

There are places my mind refuses to revisit, places my heart yearns to forget. I've worked hard to build walls around them, sealing every crack, every chink in what should be impenetrable. Sometimes, despite my efforts, I find myself thinking of you. I find myself asking questions that will never be answered. Maybe it's just part of being human, but exploring the parts of me that are broken has never been high on my list of enjoyable pastimes.

My mind travels back to the first time you said you loved me. I remember the silver charm, half a heart, that I wore to symbolize our love for one another. I stayed home to finish school, even though I yearned for Texas, for freedom, for you. Those were the longest two years of my life, but I survived. I graduated, and flew to be with you as soon as I could.

Was it your intention to break me? Did you want to clip my wings? Was I supposed to remain housebound, dependent on you for everything? If I look back at those early days, my honest answer to all of these questions would be no, but what would yours be? Once, I thought I knew. Once, I could say with great certainty that you wanted me to grow, to flourish, to become all that I was capable of becoming. Now though, so many years later, I'm less sure. Maybe my dependence made you stronger, even as it weakened me.

You were by my side as I fought my way through graduate school. You stood by me through countless battles with university officials. I was blind, but that shouldn't stop me from becoming the social worker I knew I could be. When I cried, you held me. You reassured me. You loved me through all the hardships graduate school put me through. Truly, you were my rock.

What tore us apart? Was it the fact that I had achieved so much, while you, a sighted person, had achieved so little? Did you resent the opportunities that were offered to me? When I asked, you swore it wasn't like that, but time and distance might cause you to tell a different story.

Finally, I knew we could no longer stay together. You had begun to drink. I was thousands of dollars in debt because of you. What had once been beautiful was now tarnished, bent, and broken. I couldn't fix it, and, honestly, by that time, I'm not really sure there was anything to fix.

So, I left. I ran 2,000 miles to rediscover me. I needed to know who I really was. Where did you end and I begin? What parts of me could be salvaged? These were the questions I answered on Long Island. It was a painful time, a time full of tears and self-recriminations. Slowly though, things got better. I owned the things I'd done wrong, and let go of the rest.

It's been almost four years since I left you. So long a time, and yet, so very little as well. The ten years of my life that were given to you are years I'll never get back, but they are years that have taught me so many things. I can stand tall now, flawed, but beautiful, broken but fixable, I hope. My spirit flies free in a way it never could when we were together. You bent me. Our relationship battered me. In spite of all of this, I am still here, still fighting, still loving, living, and making what difference I can to my small corner of the world. If your intent was to break me, I am pleased to report that you did not succeed.

This has been my entry for week 4 of
therealljidol

Please remember me when the polls open on Monday evening.

LJIdol: Week 3

solstice_singer — Fri, 28 Mar 2014 19:45:06 GMT

The door slams, and she shrinks into an even tighter ball on the floor of her walk-in-closet. It's only a matter of time before he finds her, but, for now, she can allow the illusion of safety to surround her.

"Bethany!" he bellows. "Where the hell are you? I told you to be here when I got home. You'd better get your ass down here now. You won't like what happens if you don't."

She chokes back a fit of hysterical laughter. Five years ago, she would have believed him. She would have hurried down the stairs, ready and willing to do whatever she could to stave off his anger. Now though, she knows that to be an effort in futility. He'll do whatever he wants, regardless of her actions. In truth, what she does, says, or thinks matters little in the grand scheme of things. Her time as his wife has taught her that much.

She can hear him moving around the house, opening doors and slamming them shut. With every slam of the door, his anger grows. She hates the thought of what he'll do when he actually finds her. For the briefest of moments, she considers standing up and walking into the light of their bedroom, but fear immobilizes her. For now, she's safe, and she'll take every second of safety she can get.

He's coming up the stairs now. Closer and closer he comes. Her heart begins to pound, and her breathing grows shallow. He's near the bedroom door now. He'll be upon her in a matter of seconds.

"Bethany!" his voice is sharp. "Don't make me hunt you down. You know it will only make things worse for you. Honestly, Babe, I wouldn't have to do these things if you'd just listen to me. I hate having to punish you. I'm sure you know that, but you don't give me any choice."

By the time he's done speaking, he's on the other side of the closet door. He throws it open, and reaches in, dragging her out by her long, black hair. She knows better than to struggle. She goes limp, allowing herself to become nothing but dead weight, but Mark is strong. He drags her to the middle of the bedroom floor. He lets go of her hair, and her head slams into the floor.

"Bitch!" he hisses, leaning down so his face is only inches from hers. "You defy me all the time. You never learn, no matter how hard I try to teach you what's right."

He begins to hit her in earnest then, his fists landing with great force on her face, her arms, her stomach. She just lies there, as still as she can manage. Hopefully, he'll get bored soon.

He starts to kick her then. Her vision is growing blurry. The grunting sounds he's making grow more and more distant. Her last thought, before the darkness claims her, is that a man's home is his castle. Things would have been so much better for her, if only her life could have been lived in another castle.

He's finally done with her. He looks down at her, his disgust plain to see. He gives her one last kick before turning away, leaving her bleeding on the floor. Maybe after this, she'll finally learn to be the wife he's always wanted. If not, he has no problem continuing to teach her.

This has been my entry for week 3 of
therealljidol
Please consider voting for me when the polls open on Monday evening.

LJ Idol: Week 2

solstice_singer — Fri, 21 Mar 2014 17:45:14 GMT

The snow fell heavily. She worried about her wedding dress. Her father carried her from the house to the car and from the car to the church. Once inside, she was surrounded by her friends and family. It was a bittersweet day, for the bride was barely seventeen and pregnant. This was more a marriage of necessity than of love, although, if you asked her, she'd swear she loved him more than words could convey.

Four months later, her daughter was born. They lived in the basement of her childhood home. Her father had been kind enough to make it into a kind of apartment for them. Her husband worked full-time, and she prepared to start her senior year of high school, knowing her mother would care for the child.

Time passed. They bought a house. A son was born. She worked as a hairdresser, a waitress, and a bartender. Her husband worked long hours as a truck driver, and spent Friday evenings in whatever bar he could find.

As the kids got older, an air of discontent settled over the household. This marriage of necessity was holding her back. Her daughter was disabled. Her husband wanted to live in the wilderness. She longed for a normal life, a good job with benefits, enough money to do the things she loved. Instead, she depended on her husband for insurance, and the tips she made to buy extras.

Eventually, her children left home. Her daughter went to graduate school and her son got a job. Both were out of state. She and her husband were finally alone. Both realized they were unhappy, but neither could do anything to fix it.

Today, little has changed. Her children have returned to the state of their birth. Her son lives at home, and her daughter is just a few miles away. Her husband dreams of living far from civilization. She only wishes her house wasn't falling down around her. At fifty, she is a bitter, lonely woman. Sure, she has friends, but that's not enough. Those who know her well are afraid of her dramatic mood swings, her anger, her contempt. All she can see is her own unhappiness, and her inability to fix it.

Before falling asleep each night, she looks back on her life. She thinks of all the things she could have done differently, wishing she could go back and find the step she missed. One misstep on life's road to happiness has eluded her. Unfortunately, no one is able to go back in time and fix things. She knows this, and falls asleep with the taste of resentment on her tongue. Tomorrow, she'll wake up and begin a day just like the one that came before, a day filled with unhappiness and bitterness. Nothing will change. Thirty-four years ago, she began to walk this path. Her only option is to see it through to the end, no matter how unappealing it proves to be.

This has been my contribution for week 2 of
therealljidol
If you enjoyed this, please consider voting for me when the polls open on Monday evening.

LJ Idol, Week 1

solstice_singer — Sat, 15 Mar 2014 13:03:57 GMT

It's a typical morning in Arlington, Texas. I'm reading, and Susan is watching something or other on TV. I can't tell what it is, since I'm not known for paying attention to such things. The air conditioner hums in the background, doing its best to keep the oppressive heat from entering our apartment. It's peaceful. I feel myself starting to drift toward sleep, not really because I'm tired, but because I'm relaxed. I'm almost there when she looks at me and says, "How are you, my pinnacle of shit?"

I'm immediately jolted awake. What the hell is a pinnacle of shit? Well, I guess I know what it is, but why did she refer to me that way? She didn't do it nastily. In fact, it was rather like an endearment, albeit a strange one.

I have no idea what expression I'm wearing, but she starts to laugh.

"Wow!" she says through the laughter. "I don't even know what that means. It just came out of my mouth."

Her laughter is infectious, and, before I know it, I'm laughing right along with her, despite the fact I'm pretty sure I've been unintentionally insulted.

This is my entry for week 1 of

If you enjoyed this, please consider voting for me when the polls open on Monday evening.

Here I am again

solstice_singer — Thu, 06 Mar 2014 00:43:39 GMT

It's hard to believe I'm doing this again, but it's even harder to believe this is the last season of LJIdol. I've participated for the past five seasons, met a lot of stellar writers, made some friends, and, basically, enjoyed myself. Many of you already know me, but, for those who don't, I'll do my best to give you a bit of an idea of who I am.

I'm Shannon, 33 from Michigan. I can hear people repeating it. "Michigan?" Last season, I lived on Long Island. Before that, I was in Texas, but, in the summer of 2012, I moved back to Michigan where I was born and raised.

I share my home with my partner of almost a year, two dogs, and, of course, the Winter Solstice Cat. One must never forget the feline. You know the horrible winter we're having? It's all due to the wrath of this very aptly named cat. Just ask those who know her. Her power knows no bounds.

I'm a voracious reader, a High Priestess of the Feminist Dianic tradition, an audiobook reviewer, and a sometimes writer. I have a Master's degree in clinical social work with an emphasis on mental health. I'm a strong advocate for those who struggle with chronic mental health issues. I know some of what they struggle with, since I've battled similar demons most of my life.

So, that's a bit about me. I look forward to the start of the season.

This is my contribution for week 0 of
therealljidol

Am I insane?

solstice_singer — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 16:06:59 GMT

Maybe I'm insane, but I can't resist this last opportunity to participate in LJ Idol. So, here is my declaration to participate in Season 9 of

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Maybe I'm insane, but I can't resist this last opportunity to participate in LJ Idol. So, here is my declaration to participate in Season 9 of
<ljuser=therealljidol><lj user="therealljidol">

Good luck to all who participate. Let's make this final season count.</ljuser=therealljidol>

Caroline

solstice_singer — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 20:29:04 GMT

What do you do with a grief that steals your breath and weighs down your every movement? How do you bear a loss so great that it seeps into the very marrow of your bones? What can be done about the dreams that wake you in the night, leaving you confused and alone? To these questions, I am seeking answers. To these questions, I fear answers cannot be found for there is no instruction manual for those of us who grieve.

She was born on December 15, 2003. Eighteen months later, I met her for the first time. Half lab and half golden retriever, she walked proudly by my side until the summer of 2012.

Another is by my side now. Another guides my steps, keeping me safe from passing cars, overhanging branches, and all other obstacles that are in my path. He is not as confident as she was, not as assertive, not as self-assured. Very simply, he is not Caroline. I've felt her loss every day since I officially retired her. In some ways, I've been grieving since late July. Now though, my grief is so much more than I ever thought it could be.

On the twentieth of February, she drew her last breath. No one could tell me why. She hadn't been ill. Her vet visit had yielded nothing out of the ordinary. She was a perfectly healthy nine-year-old dog. Even so, she died in the early morning.

One week later, I do not fully remember that day. It comes to me in bits and pieces, everything clouded in a strange kind of fog. I remember kneeling by her side, my hands in her fur, my body convulsed with sobs. Talk of cremation, of cleaning the carpet where she had died, of other inconsequential things all runs together in my head. I heard it then, probably even answered, but now, it just rushes over me, an ocean of indistinguishable sound.

Sometimes, I stop whatever I'm doing and wonder how I'll manage without her. With Caroline by my side, I became more than I ever thought I could be. I felt so little fear as she guided me, and, for me, so prone to anxiety, lack of fear is truly a priceless gift. She gave that to me, that and so very much more. With her, I came as close as I probably ever will to becoming a professional opera singer. She became accustomed to curtain calls and even learned to bow on stage. Some nights, I think the curtain rose and fell for my retrievador more than it did for me. Quite the diva was Miss Caroline.

For her, I wished every happiness in retirement. I wished I could make her understand that she hadn't been replaced, that my love for her was solid and deep as it had ever been. Sadly though, I doubt she understood these things. She learned to enjoy retirement, but a part of her always yearned for the harness.

As I sit here, one week to the day after her passing, I find myself struggling to find words for what I am feeling. Usually, words come easily, but I just don't know how to describe this incredible loss and the grief that has come close to crippling me. I feel as powerless today as I did last Wednesday. Despite what people wish, my grief has not lessened. In fact, there are times when it seems to have strengthened, for I'm no longer quite so enveloped by the fog that protected me right after her passing. I am forced to go through each day with the knowledge that she will not greet me at the door. I am forced to remember that I am responsible for the care of only one, rather than two, black dogs. Above all, I know she's gone, and I wonder if the loss will break me. I'm told that it won't, but I can't honestly say I believe that yet. Someday, I might come to realize the truth of those words, but that simply isn't where I'm at now. At this moment, my grief is strong and all-consuming. My days are measured in minutes, for one minute at a time is all I can manage.

Flying away

solstice_singer — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 15:28:54 GMT

This evening, I'll fly away, my body weightless in space, my spirit heavy, longing to be back on the ground. Usually, I hate this place, and I long for nothing more than to flee as fast and as far as I can. Today though, I'm torn, for a piece of me will be left behind, and I'll be even more tightly bound to this place, the place of my childhood, of some of my greatest joys, but also my most crushing grief. It's the place that stole my innocence, that sent me running 900 miles as soon as I possibly could. It's the place where I found and lost and found my voice again.

So, I'll fly away, returning to a place that isn't quite home. It's more a shelter, I suppose. It's a place that has allowed me to heal in some ways from the grief that brought me there. But, as I fly away, my soul will yearn for her, the one who remains on the ground, by my choosing, not hers.

Today scares me more than I can say. I'll navigate the airport with just a cane, and the not-quite-adequate sighted guide of one of my aunts. I'll board a plane alone, and sit for 2 hours. Something will be missing, a part of me will be empty in a way it hasn't been in so long.

How do I walk out the door today? How do I leave her behind? What does she understand about my leaving, and why she's not coming with me? Will she feel abandoned? Will she adjust, and, will I? A new person for her, a new dog for me. Two, blended into one, now torn apart by her retirement, and my need for a dog to walk beside me, doing the job that Caroline has done so well for so long. Part of me is afraid he won't measure up. I know every dog is different, just as no two people are exactly alike. Still, after seven years with such a stellar guide, I'm frightened by who I'll be receiving next. He works so differently from her. He seems so submissive, so subtle, where she has always been assertive. The transition will be difficult, I fear, and, today, as my emotions are raw to the point of something approaching a physical pain, I question my strength to do what I know I must do.

Today, as I prepare for what is the hardest day I've faced in a while, I ask Goddess to give me strength and to grant me peace. May her love encircle me, and keep me close, for I fear only that will keep me together.

Seven years, and then goodbye

solstice_singer — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 04:31:14 GMT

For seven years, she's been by my side, slightly ahead, leading the way as she was taught to do. For seven years, we've read each other's body language through harness and leash, navigating airports, university campuses, stages, and city streets. For seven years, she's been my constant companion, never more contented than when she could press her body against me. I nicknamed her "Velcro Dog", so strong is her need to be close to me.

We were an unlikely team at first. I was twenty-five, and still very bonded to my first guide who waited for me back in Texas with my partner. Caroline was a spoiled diva dog, raised by a class of seventh graders in a Baltimore boarding school, trained by a man who saw her as more than just another dog in the string he trained every day. We were brought together, woman and dog, neither one feeling much commitment or connection to the other. She worked for me because she was supposed to. I went through the motions, giving commands, offering praise and corrections, but it took us a good seven months to become the confident, inseparable team we are tonight. There were days back in the summer and fall of 2005 when I wanted nothing more than to give her back to the school. Now, seven years later, the thought of traveling without her breaks my heart.

And yet, that time has come. We'll do our last working walk tomorrow. She'll guide me confidently through two airports, only to have her harness removed for the last time, and her care turned over to someone else. My grandmother will adopt her, and I hope they bond. Well, in a way I do. In another, more selfish way, I hate the thought of being forgotten by this large black dog who has taken such good care of me for the past seven years.

In just nine days, I re-enter the halls of Smithtown's Guide Dog Foundation. Another dog will soon occupy the place that once belonged to Caroline. I will have to learn to work with him, to love him, and to read him. Hopefully, it will come naturally. Hopefully, we won't be such unwilling partners. I've met him once, and he seems sweet, but only time will tell. I never thought Caroline would turn out to be such a stellar guide. I must remember that things happen as they are meant to, and not necessarily as I might will them to.

Retiring Caroline has been a bit of a traumatic process for me. So many have shown me kindnesses. I thank them all for their support. you are too numerous to name, but I thank all of you who have listened to me cry,, calmed my hysteria, offered an ear or a shoulder, or continue to send me positive thoughts and energy to get me through the day. That's how I'll make this transition, I realize: one step, one thought, one day at a time.

A part of me remains with each dog I retire, just as a part of both of them lingers with me. Caroline has taught me confidence, a skill that is hard-won for the woman who prefers to fade into the background with her head in a book, rather than to be noticed by a crowd of people. I'm not sure what I've taught my Caroline dog. I don't know what part of me will be left behind when I leave her in my grandmother's care. Whatever it is, I hope it allows her to enjoy the happy retirement she deserves. One who worked so hard and so well deserves nothing less, after all.

a voice in the darkness

solstice_singer — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 21:31:42 GMT

Eighteen months ago, I made a journey, and a complicated journey it turned out to be. A cat, a dog, and twenty-eight boxes made this journey with me. I was leaving one life behind, and traveling nearly two-thousand miles in order to start a new one. There was nothing easy about this. Cats don't like change, and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not a huge fan of it either, and this journey was filled with nothing but change.

Even now, so many months later, my life is filled with various uncertainties. My guide dog is retiring. I'm planning another move. Jobs are hard to find. My family is filled with crazy people. In fact, before I sat down to write this, a good friend of mine sent me a tweet that said, "Nothing in your life is stable." Truer words were never spoken. For me, stability is a thing of the past. Do I like it that way? Not really, but I can't change it. So, I'm just doing the best I can to live with it.

Over the past two seasons of
therealljidol
I've found myself moved time and time again by the writings of
dakotawitch
In many ways, we've traveled similar life paths. When I read the stories she shares, I'm reminded that I'm really and truly not alone. Somewhere, not all that far from where I used to live, someone has been where I am now. She shares her experiences with grace and eloquence. I don't get the sense that she does it to make people feel sorry for her, or in order to get mountains of praise heaped upon her head. Instead, her telling is straightforward and factual, and it reminds me that, even in the face of so much uncertainty, there's a chance I'll come out of this in one piece.

I've received support from many people these past several months, both on and off LJ. However, it was through the words of a virtual stranger that I realized that there is a hidden core of strength somewhere deep within me. I may not always feel strong or capable. I may be afraid, depressed, or beaten down, but, at the end of the day, I'm where I'm supposed to be at this precise moment in time. Things will change in time. Until they do, until I'm able to take the steps that are necessary to bring change about, I'll be okay. Waking up in the morning, trusting in Goddess, loving my animals and my friends. All of these things will keep me going.

Thank you
dakotawitch
for helping me to realize this.

This has been my entry for
therealljidol
I've made it back into the actual competition. Thank you so much to all of you who have helped me get here.

The Second Look that never came

solstice_singer — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 22:53:39 GMT

She cowers in the recesses of the walk-in closet. Outside, the sounds of his rage penetrate this most precarious of havens. She buries her face in the satin of her wedding gown, and begins to pray to a god she's no longer sure she believes in. She has prayed before, countless times, but her words seem to have fallen on deaf ears. God, who is supposed to be her savior, has never protected her from the brutality of the man she married.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time, although she really can't recall how long ago it really was, when he claimed to love her more than anything in the world. Their marriage was blissful. She couldn't have been happier.

Then, things began to go wrong. The cases he worked weren't solved. The chief of police grew angry, and her husband grew bitter. The man she married had begun to change. He still said he loved her, but only after he'd hit her.

This house used to be her shelter, but now, it serves only as a reminder of the hell her life has become. Her head has made contact with every one of its walls. Her blood and tears have stained the floors. It's a prison now, and escape is something she only dreams of.

In the beginning, she held out some hope. Surely, as the wife of a policeman, she was entitled to some assistance. Maybe he could get counseling. Maybe they both could. Surely, resources were out there. All she needed to do was reach out.

But reaching out had only caused her more pain. His fellow officers refused to believe her stories. They would cover for him, protect him. She was collateral damage, not worth protecting.

And so, here she is tonight, hiding in a closet, as chairs are overturned and dishes shattered. Every crash signals the crumbling of one more dream, the dashing of one more hope. No one has bothered to help her. They looked at her, took in the bruises, the blackened eyes, the marks on her throat. Just as quickly, eyes were averted. No one wanted to see. No one wanted to get involved. So, she's alone, praying he won't find her, praying the alcohol he has consumed will incapacitate him before he makes it up here. All she can do is hope for one more night of safety.

Her tears fall as she realizes, not for the first time, just how bleak her circumstances truly are. She's alone. All she can hope for is one more night of safety, and, if she doesn't get it, who will really care?

This has been my entry for week 3 of Second Chance Idol. Thank you for reading.

Finding the balance

solstice_singer — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 22:08:22 GMT

Ringing phones, whispered confessions, angry outbursts, and hysterical questions. All of these things were part of my graduate school experience.

Starting in 2005, I was a first responder on a local sexual assault line. I often took overnight shifts, as my partner worked nights, so the ringing of the phone wouldn't bother anyone but me, and, as someone who is all too familiar with insomnia, I would probably be awake anyway. So, as I took classes that were supposed to teach me to be a competent therapist, I also talked people through their various crises.

You might find this a strange thing for me to do. Not only am I a sexual assault survivor, I'm also a person with a number of mental health issues of her own. Often, people asked me how I thought I could help others when it was impossible for me to help myself.

At first, I found this attitude discouraging. Maybe people were right. Maybe someone as broken as I am has no business trying to assist others. Obviously, I haven't done so well with improving my own life circumstances, so what would make me think I could make a difference in the lives of others?

Slowly though, I came to understand one of the most important lessons I have ever been made to learn. It takes more than textbook learning to make someone a good, helpful, competent therapist or crisis line worker. It takes an innate sense of compassion, good listening skills, and the ability to help people problem solve. I learned to sit back and listen to the outpouring of grief, anger and disbelief. I learned that answers weren't always expected or even desired. I came to understand that I wasn't there to fix people. Instead, I was there to help them make it through the night.

It has been said that the darkest hour comes just before the dawn. During my time on the phones, I realized this was true. Our demons come out to taunt us at night. Sometimes, they come in the form of nightmares or flashbacks. Sometimes, a body deprived of sleep falls prey to the tricks of the mind, and a person finds themselves reliving some of the most horrible experiences they were ever forced to endure. I can't tell you exactly why this is so. I can simply attest to the fact that it's true.

Although crisis line work came naturally to me, I did have to find a way not to let it affect me too deeply. Because I have experienced similar things, it was often very easy to become triggered myself. If someone talked about being raped, it wasn't hard for me to drift back to my own time beneath the body of my attacker, and the helplessness those memories evoked. Those experiences could be a help, rather than a hinderance. I just had to learn how to let that be possible. I found that, having experienced some of the same things, I was able to empathize with them very easily. I could understand their fear, their self-loathing, their helplessness. I had been there. Did I admit this? No. I was taught early on that crisis line work was not about me and my experiences. Instead, it was about the callers. However, I feel that, had I not experienced some of these things, I probably wouldn't have been nearly as effective as I proved to be. Sometimes, you just had to be there. Sometimes, you have to have walked a similar path to truly grasp what another person is going through. Simply reading about the effects of sexual assault isn't always enough. On the job training is all well and good, but it can't instill the emotions that true experience instills. And so, if there can be a positive side to the horrific events I've lived through, maybe it's the fact that I can now bear witness to other survivors, and help them make it through just one more night. One night at a time. This is how I first began to make a difference.

This is my entry for week 2 of second chance idol. The polls will go up later this evening. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider voting for it.

The missing piece

solstice_singer — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 20:28:37 GMT

"Her name is Caroline." They told me on a June afternoon.

"Caroline?" I repeated, the name feeling strange on my tongue. Such a long name, a little unwieldy, even. It wasn't something that rolled off my tongue. I couldn't imagine issuing a command preceded by such a name.

I went back to my room, and called my mom. I told her I had learned who my next dog would be. Her response was similar to mine. She asked me who would name a dog Caroline. My response was that I didn't know.

I met the Caroline dog later that afternoon. She was a lab/golden cross, solid black in color. She was bigger than my first dog, and I could tell right away that her temperament was very different. As soon as her trainer left, she let out a pitiful whine. She didn't want to be left alone with a stranger.

For the next two and a half weeks, Caroline and I engaged in a battle of wills. I told her to lie down. She obeyed, but would pop back up within a minute or two. Then, she got smarter. She would lie down until my hands were full, or until I was busy with something else. Then, she would pop up, knowing full well I would have a hard time correcting her. Once, as we walked down a hallway, she leapt into the air, landing neatly atop a table, where she stood quite proudly, until my correction brought her down.

I couldn't understand why I had been given such a dog. Obviously, she didn't like me, and, to tell the truth, I didn't think she was all that great either. However, her guide work was flawless. I couldn't fault her for that. We just couldn't bond. What was wrong?

Back in Texas waited a little black dog, sedate and obedient. She had been by my side for the past seven and a half years, and it was her retirement that had brought me back to guide dog school. How I wished Caroline would obey me the way Rachel had. True, Rachel's work wasn't quite as stellar, but I missed the effortless ease with which we could run an errand. Everything wasn't a fight with the Rachel dog, while Caroline and I waged a seemingly unending battle.

You may wonder what the problem was. It took me several months to figure it out myself, and I lived through it. Caroline wasn't Rachel. She didn't work like Rachel, think like Rachel, or act like Rachel. She was a completely different dog, complete with her own strengths and weaknesses. The trick was appreciating her for who she was, rather than longing for who she simply couldn't be.

As the months passed, things got easier. Now, six and a half years later, Caroline and I are the same kind of effortless team Rachel and I once were. We still have the occasional fight, for Caroline is nothing if not strong-willed, but I adore her now. The missing piece wasn't exactly found, but I learned how to live with a configuration that wasn't quite the same. It isn't necessarily better or worse. It's different, and I have come to the realization that different doesn't have to equal bad.

Now, I stand on the brink of life with a new dog. My Caroline will retire sooner rather than later. One day very soon, I'll be back in that lounge, listening to the name of the dog that will do the work started first by Rachel and continued by Caroline. Another piece will fall away. Hopefully, experience will have made me wiser. Hopefully, I won't resist the good qualities of this new dog because I long for the one who came before.

Obviously, I'll miss Caroline. Rachel passed away in 2008, and part of my heart still aches for her. The same will be true for Caroline, but I've learned that there is room in my heart for all the dogs who will touch my life and guide my steps. I'll have many missing pieces ahead of me, but the gaps will be filled with slightly different pieces, and I'll learn to appreciate that. It won't always be easy, but it is what I must do. Life as a guide dog handler leaves me no other choice, after all.

This has been my entry for the first week of second chance idol. The polls will go up this evening. If you enjoyed this, please vote for it. I'd love to rejoin the regular competition.

A second chance for the solstice singer

solstice_singer — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 20:21:31 GMT

I was voted out of
therealljidol
last night. However, second chance is here, so I will hop on the bandwagon, and see if I can get back in the competition. Wish me luck.

Barbarians, Unite

solstice_singer — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 21:46:23 GMT

There is a day that I dread above all others. Luckily, this day comes only once a year, for I honestly do not think I could survive if it appeared more often. Others are baffled by my dislike of this day. Most people find it quite enjoyable, and the fact that I do not has led to much confusion. I shall explain.

Yesterday, many men gathered on a cold, wet field. Millions of people watched them gather. Some were lucky enough to watch in person, while others had to rely on the TV. So, these men gathered, and they played a game. Well, they say it's a game. I say it's barbaric. They fought over an oval-shaped object known as a football. Apparently, they find it fun and invigorating to tackle each other, sustain injuries, and become muddy messes just to gain possession of this ball, or, in many cases, to keep members of the other team from gaining possession. My solution is quite simple. They should just get another ball. That way, they wouldn't have to fight. Very sensible, yes?

Alas, most of the world does not find this idea the least bit sensible. They say I would make this game very boring, that this game was invented to stop wars (that doesn't seem to be working so well), that I'm just no fun because I don't understand the appeal. They're right. I don't. What could possibly be appealing about all of this? My answer, absolutely nothing!

I currently live in New York, and the New York team won the barbarian ball tournament last night. Am I proud of them? Of course not. Why should I be? I had nothing to do with it. Am I happy they won? Um, no. It's not like it benefits me in any way. I mean, if someone was going to give me great sums of money because New York won, I'd care, but, since no one is likely to do this, I just can't be bothered to drum up enthusiasm for this sport that, in my mind, serves no purpose.

and I care, why?

This has been my entry for week 13 of
therealljidol
I hope you enjoy my zany take on football.

No Assembaly Required

solstice_singer — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 20:20:11 GMT

I lay it out before you. My life, made up of secrets you cannot or will not fathom, my heart, my mind, my soul, all tarnished and broken, bearing scars both visible and hidden. You may wonder how to fix it, how to put the pieces back together, to create the life you think I deserve, the heart that you think should be filled with joy, the mind you wish wasn't set so firmly on the path of self-destruction. But, as you examine what lies before you, I ask you one question? What do you see that is really worth reassembling?

I live a life of secrets: secret loves and longings, secret pain and sorrows. Some secrets I willingly keep, but others have been forced upon me, creating a burden that has become too heavy to bear.

For every piece you pick up and examine, I could tell you a story. Some, you won't want to hear. You'll turn away, pretending not to see, not to hear, for that which is ugly is not worth your notice, and so much of what lies here for your inspection is so very, very ugly. Some things will make you smile, for, as in all things, the good is mixed with the bad. You'll find a few shiny things within the rubble of my disassembled life.

I once shone beneath the spotlight of a stage, my voice soaring to heights I never thought I'd achieve. I was once warmed to my very core by the applause that greeted the end of each performance, and I was once filled with pride at my accomplishments. Now though, it feels as if music has been wrenched from my soul, leaving behind these memories to remind me that it once existed.

My being was torn apart by violence. The hand over my mouth didn't just silence me for a moment, but for a lifetime. As my innocence was stolen, so too was my freedom to speak my mind and share my sorrows. The words that were spoken and the names I was called have seeped into the very marrow of my bones, causing me to question the value of my existence.

My heart has been warmed by those who say they love me, but, as a lesbian, I am not free to fully embrace this love. I cannot tell everyone of my happiness. I must keep it close to me, lest society's intolerance tears it apart. When I was handfasted, it was a secret. My family wasn't there. I did not receive their blessing on my wedding day, both because my marriage wasn't considered legal by the state in which I lived, and because I was not taking part in a Christian marriage ceremony.

My spiritual path is shrouded in secrets. I'm comfortable with this, for it is a path steeped in tradition. It was once a path that could cause its followers to be beaten, burned, or drowned, and so, the secrecy lives on. I cannot tell you what I do within my ritual circle. I cannot share the power or the beauty of my initiation.

Now, I look upon my life, as I ask you to do, and what I see isn't worth putting back together. The time and energy it would take to reassemble it could be given to other, more worthy tasks. A life lived in secrecy is a life that makes you feel dirty and ashamed, for, if all these things must be kept secret, they are most certainly bad, wrong, punishable. And so, I bear the burden of my secrets. I hope to one day let go of some of it, but doubt this will occur. For now, all I ask is that you not try too hard to reassemble what you see, for your efforts will bring pain and sorrow when the fragile structure falls to ruins, not strong enough to bear the burden it has been given.

This has been my entry for week 12 of
therealljidol
Thank you to all who have supported me this far.

The stones Speak

solstice_singer — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 22:08:43 GMT

In the corner of my bedroom sits a small table. In a previous incarnation, it was a TV stand. Now though, it has a more noble purpose. It has become my altar, the center of my magical life.

I follow a path known as Feminist Dianic Witchcraft. I worship Goddess in all of her various aspects. I practice with women, and women only, not because I hate men, but because there is something very powerful to be found in woman-only space.

So, the altar sits. Sometimes, my cat decides to perch upon it. Other times, the Bast statue is the only feline there. However, stones are never in short supply. In fact, I have so many that they needed shelves to be built to accommodate them.

Are you wondering why stones are so important? Most people do. They think I'm going to cut them up to make jewelry, or that I use them as decoration. Neither is the truth. Yes. I do wear stone jewelry, but it is made from stones who were content to be ornamental, and, in their role as ornaments, they still manage to pass along their secrets and their wisdom.

Yes. Stones have wisdom. I've found them to be incredible teachers. Rose quartz reminds me to love myself and to open my heart to the love of others. Amethyst reminds me to pay attention to my intuition. Carnelian lends me courage. Lepidolite calms my anxiety. Smoky quartz, obsidian, and jet work very nicely together to offer protection. Citrine is cleansing, and does a fabulous job of clearing away negative energy. Blue lace agate reminds me that communication is important, and best when clear and concise. Hematite keeps me grounded, especially when I become overly worried about things beyond my control. Bloodstone helps with menstrual cramps.

I carry these in pouches, sleep with them beneath my pillow, keep them around on shelves, dressers, and my altar. Wherever they are, I can feel them. I can sense their energy, and it helps to center me when I need it most. The stones really do speak. The trick is to open oneself enough to hear their voices.

This has been my contribution to week 10 of
therealljidol
I apologize for the lack of commenting last week. I had an out-of-town guest, and I'm afraid idol was neglected more than it should have been. I'm fully present this week.