jay_moose

 "We're frightened of losing all we have, even if we succeed in winning this war"- Jim Beaver 

I have a tendency to joke about myself and my emotions. That i'm able to stand tall in bad situations because the medication cocktail i've been on for nearly a decade somewhat inadvertently makes it so.

I'm able to stand in the face of the deaths of those nearest  to me, while family and friends hold on and cry without breaking. Feeling muted.

I used to abhor change, and fight it tooth and nail, until change became a part of life, and instead of fighting, i just let the current take me.

Yesterday, i went with Mom to the Scottsdale Civic Center, where the Native Trails Native American Festival has been held. We watched the singing and dancing, and listened to a man who, to this day, relies on droughts and monsoons to feed his crops. About a time where attracting a woman wasn't about the size of your wallet, or the shine of your car, but how you carried yourself as a person. How healthy you were, how you cared for your horse.

As i listened, sprawled in the Arizona sun, i imagined a time where someone's life was Nature Nature Nature. And i was kind of...envious.


We went inside a bit, and found a small art gallery tucked away in the Civic Center. A plaque outside cautioned those entering that many of the artworks may not be suitable for anyone under 18 years old. This confused me, as the artworks all appeared to be by children.

They were. The point being, these artworks were by children created during art therapy sessions. Children who were mentally, emotionally, and physically traumatized and abused. These pieces of art were their outlets. Fear, solitude, loneliness. A 5 year old witnessing and depicting their mother being beaten by a bat by their father. Another drawing of a child's 'room', a dark closet with buckets so they could use the bathroom. A child being left to sleep on the streets. These were only a few, through the perceptions of children as young as 5 years old.

It was dark, it was graphic. The gallery was small, lighting muted. The ambiance never gave you the inkling of the festival outside. You were wrapped up in this world people don't want to know existed.

Next to me, Mom's eyes were bright and wet. Everyone of these anonymous children were hers. The types of children she looked after in school since i was little. These were her kids.

I think it was in this little gallery that i started to unravel

I broached my feeling of disconnect regarding Grandma's death. How the ever powerful realistic part of me knew she was gone, but the emotional part, the important part, that laughed and cried with Grandma, who helped her through the death of her beloved sister, who ate and teased and talked about the world. Who giggled over Hugh Jackman, and danced to Fame and Dancing Queen in Florida and NY. Who would get up when Grandma was visiting/living with us, and sneak into Grandma's room for a talk and a cuddle. Who shared the love of old movies and Frank Sinatra.

The important part of me.

I expressed my pressing confusion over our current life, after overhearing Mom comment on needing summer job. New York is not as close as it once was. We can't afford to leave. We talked about school for me, and jobs.

I know what i need to do, but i still feel...disconnected.

We discussed getting me a good therapist, then kinda laughed it off. In Arizona, there's really no such thing. Maybe i'm just spoiled from the therapist i had for 9 years in NY.

We went searching for one when we first moved here. We glossed over my issues. The woman looked me in the eyes and suggested i found God in my life.

That ended that.

By the way, I checked...just in case. And God is not on any flatbread

I was up Saturday night because Charlie was sick. The other day, Dillon let out a yelp, and has been stumbling around like he was just out of sedation. Then he got sick.

Last night, my parents wished me a good night, and hoped i got a good night sleep.

I didn't. Both dogs were up sick all night.


All. Night.



Right now, i'm reading Jim Beaver's 'Life's Like That.' It's a journal he compiled of emails and entries from when he learned within a 2 month period of time that his wife had advanced lung cancer, and his 2 year old daughter had Autism.

So, in the scheme of things. I could have it worse.

 Heather and Matt returned to NY tonight, which means i was liberated from sleeping on the couch, and returned to my bedroom.

Well, after 10 days of sleeping like a baby in NY, and 3 days of restful sleep on the couch in AZ, i joked to mom, "Watch. I'm going to revert and be unable to sleep."

I think she tutted at me.

Well, it's 2:35 in the morning. And i'm writing this. What does that tell ya?

Also, it doesn't help  that Dillon had an upset stomach before we went to dinner. When we got back, there was a pretty bad..smell. I thought it was..well..anyway. Been pretty consistent.


Anywho. Started that damn SPN fic. Hoorah Wee!Chester. 

Then...it warped. Now i've got a TW/SPN fic going on...and it's muuch easier to write.

Time to attempt sleep again, methinks. And Charlie has taken up residence on half my pillow



ETA: God called. He wants me to go to sleep.

I hate Toshibas. My laptop just overheated and shorted out. There goes a paragraph of writeringz. 

It was interesting, to say the least..in lieu of plans to move back to NY with at the end of May.

Tonight, we're in the kitchen, and mom says to me, "Listen, if things work out in NY while you're there...if you can manage okay...stay there. I'll send you the dogs."

She was rather....dead serious. She told me while i'm there...get a job...don't come back. Stay in AZ