November 13th, 2020

anatomical beat

those were the days of roses, poetry and prose

It's the menfolks's annual deep sea fishing weekend. Four days, three nights. 

It's funny how adapted I've made myself, how accustomed I've become, to these types of forays. As a younger woman, I was shredded. For years, I could not understand why he wanted time away from me, long stretches of time with "the guys." 

Before The Viking, I had come out of a four-year-long relationship where we were 24/7. We lived together, worked together, played together. And it became stifling. It ended in dramatic fashion and when I left, I left my LIFE behind and it took me over a year's time to find my center again. I was like a wounded crippled animal. I swore I would never ever ever involve myself in another co-dependent relationship. There are songs, smells, and a certain slant of light that will rush me headlong backwards through the decades and into those days of roses, that relationship, and my breath leaves me and I find myself swooning with the emotional pain as it wrenches through my body and my mind.

I didn't want that again, and I made sure I didn't have that again. Still....I protected myself but at what cost?

I've been crazy busy as of late. My East Coast sister is coming out for Thanksgiving. We are getting ready for that week. Winding down our jobs for the year. Winterizing the house. It's raining today but could snow. Knitting. Playing Survivor Idol. And taking care of my mother. She's requiring more and more constant care. I can't see how she can be in her home this time next year. Her short term memory is suffering and her loneliness an open wound. She dreams of my father nightly, sleeps very poorly. The nights I stay with her I hear her talking to him all night long, or worse, calling for him, in her sleep. Three years this month and there is no healing. Life is a strange experience. 

Back over at Dreamwidth! Survivor Idol is a thing! And it's at Dreamwidth!