peevishmandible

[peevishmandible]

Recovery is like cleaning out a house that’s been through a hurricane.  There’s mud a foot thick on the floors; some of the windows are cracked; there’s leaves stuck in cracks you didn’t know existed.

So unlike in the movies, there are no “breakthrough moments”, where you suddenly realize one thing and the whole house is clean.  Oh there may be important turning points – moments when you realize that those aren’t frosted windows, that’s dirt, and you need to clean it off, and that’s why it’s so fugging dark in here.  And that is an important breakthrough, in the sense that without it you would not succeed in cleaning the house, but then you still have to clean the windows.

Therapy is just someone who’s had experience with post-hurricane cleanup, Consulting over the phone, recommending tools and giving you advice. “Start with the floor,” they say, when you’re too overwhelmed to even begin, and they tell you what shovel to buy.  So you start shoveling, and it’s HARD, and you’re exhausted all the time, and you’ve only shoveled out the front hallway, and it feels like it’s never going to really get better.

But you do get good at shoveling, and slowly you build up your strength, and after a few months you can shovel as much as you need to, but there’s still a LOT of mud here, so it takes a year to get that shoveled out, and your house is still muddy and the windows are cracked (and frosted), and there’s still debris everywhere, and every time you walk around you’re stepping an a quarter-inch of mud, but you CAN walk around, you can get anywhere you need to go, and the house is still a fucking mess, you’re a fucking mess, a disaster not fit for human habitation, but on the other hand you can no longer convince yourself that “nothing’s ever going to work”.  It can get better.  You can point at things that used to be super-fucked-up and now are only moderately-fucked-up.  Progress is possible.

But then again, you’re not making any progress anymore. You thought you had the hang of it, but now the shovel isn’t working, and every time you shovel mud out of one place it slides into another and you’re not making any headway and you can barely pick up any mud with your shovel anyway and so maybe that was it – you had a nice run, but this is as good as it’s ever gonna get, you’re still gonna be fucked up forever, and you finally bring it up to your therapist, and they nod, and tell you to buy a hose.

So now you’re hosing down the floors, and that’s a new skill set to learn, and it splashes everywhere, and now you’ve got mud on your walls, but it does get the floor clear.  But you hosed out the front hallway, and then realized that to clear out the living room you’re gonna have to hose it out into the front hallway, which means the hallway’s just gonna get messy again, so then you have to redo the front hallway, but you start planning out which rooms to do in which order, so it goes pretty smoothly after that, until the day when you’ve got all the big mud puddles gone, but there’s still mud on the walls, and stuck in corners, and no matter how hard you spray you still end up with this thin coating of mud-dirt-dust on the floor after it dries, and honestly you’re making more of a mess than you are cleaning up a mess at this point. And you express your frustration, and the therapist tells you where to find, and how to use, a mop.

So you mop all the floors, and it’s actually looking pretty good, and you remembered to start mopping from the inside out, so that’s not a big deal, until you open a door and realize you forgot to shovel out the pantry. You didn’t think it could get into the pantry, with the door shut, but there it is, mud 3 inches thick, and the only way to get it out is to shovel it, and you’ll have to take it through the kitchen, so you have to shovel out the pantry, and then hose down the pantry, and then re-hose the kitchen, and then mop the pantry, and then re-mop the kitchen, and EUUURGHHHJHH.

But you’re really good at it, at this point, so it’s not like it’s a big deal.  It’s irritating af, and you’re sick to death of doing this, but it’s not scary, or overwhelming, or horrifying.  It’s just really, really annoying.

And the fact is, you will never be done cleaning.  Even if there’s never another hurricane, there’s dishes, and dust settling on counters, and spills, and mud tracked in after snowstorms, and laundry.  There’s not some magical moment when you’re “done”, and you can stop working forever (except possibly, depending on who’s right about the afterlife, after you die).  But you do reach a point where you it transitions from “impossible” to “meh, just a thing”

You do reach a point where you look around, and you’re kinda proud of what you’ve done You do reach a point where you recognize that your current tools aren’t doing the job you need, and you research and find and learn how to use a tool all on your own. You do reach a point where, when you see a storm coming, you know how to prepare for it, and you purchase and lay out all the supplies you need, and when the storm finishes, you can get your house back up and ready in practically no time at all. You do reach a point where storms aren’t so scary, because you know how to weather them and you know for a fact that you can recover from them. You do reach a point where friends ask you for tips on how to clean their houses You do reach a point where, every time you need a tool, it’s one you already posses. You do reach a point where you’ve replaced all the windows and sealed up all the cracks and replaced the insulation, and for the first time, you’re comfortable all the way through a winter. You do reach a point where someone compliments you on how clean and comfortable your house is. You do reach a point where you’ve done all the remediation, and you can start remodeling the house to fit your needs.

So yeah, it’s a lot of hard work that’ll never be done.  But it’s also so, so worth it.

[peevishmandible]

I have trouble with a certain triple digit number. I am Catholic. You know what number.  Anyways it just turned 5:55am here and that is problematic you see. Because 5:55 or 2:22 and most especially 3:33? They could just be PRETENDING not to be the other number. Just being SNEAKY about it.  And that’s worse isn’t it.  That displays INTENT.  Listen, this is the first day in about two months or so that I haven’t thought about cutting off one of my fingers. SO I’m doing ok, relatively speaking.  Except for that 5:55.  I see you, bad number that shall not be named. 

[peevishmandible]

#youcauseasmuchsorrowsineado’connor #positivelyfourthstreetbobdylan #bothsidesnowjudycollins #babybelugaraffi #snugglepuppysandraboynton #squaredanceeminem #bullsonparaderageagainstthemachine #runningtostandstillU2

reblog and put in the tags: without giving any reason behind it, what are songs that have a significant meaning to you?

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Here you go, @ourimpavidheroine 

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In case you were wondering...

I am a font of merriment and good cheer. 

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People who’ve had a near death experience or believed they were about to die, what were your last thoughts? UHhhhhhh... trigger warning for suicide? Did I do that right?

I think the closest I've come to dying was when I OD'd on tylenol and advil when I was 13 (I don't recommend it!). My last thoughts as I chugged the handfuls of pills down with chamomile tea were very calm, I was mostly just relieved. Also I was probably having a bit of a psychotic break as I very much believed that when I died I would be re-incarnated as a vampire along with Lestat, a boy I had known from grade school, and a girl I knew very distantly from highschool (who is actually my SIL now - she and my husband's brother are married).

There were more thoughts later in the ER and ICU before I was stabilized but they are blurry and incoherent. When I was sure I was going to die I was just really relieved... almost happy. I was grateful.

There've been other times I thought I might die but the thoughts were just fear and adrenaline. Nothing coherent. ___________________________________ A question I just read on Reddit.  My daughter turns 12 in a month and a half. 12 was when I started cutting. I was 13 when I had my first serious attempt at suicide (there was a clumsy and half hearted one at 8). But 13. Lord. So young. And so very very fucking screwed up but I was so conditioned to hide everything that I just never pushed for the help I needed.  If I could go back to my self as a child I would tell myself that I have the power and ability to say NO. I would tell myself to TELL.  TELL.  Even when I was psychotic and suicidal and puking my guts out full of black charcoal tar and having to poop on a mobile toilet chair in front of nurses even then, I protected my family, my dad, by not telling on him. By not telling the truth. By smiling and making things ok for HIM when he visited me in the ICU.  My mind... boggles. I just. It has been... 21 years. 21 years since this. And I still... can’t really process it. Bits and pieces, sometimes. I understand them or have insight. Sometimes I remember a piece that I have forgotten or that had been suppressed either by the fact that I was tripping BALLS for several days and dissociating like crazy. But it’s rare that I perceive this whole thing as a WHOLE thing. My mind doesn’t go there.  When I do it’s distressing in some interesting and varied ways.  My daughter is turning 12. 

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Due to corona we have 3 days of the week now:

1• Yesterday

2• Today

3• Tomorrow

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It’s 5:30 am and here I am eating a hot dog in a white fluffy bun with ketchup, mayo, and raw onions because FUCKITALL.  No, I mean. I’m happy. I’m safe, my dogs are here, my kids are healthy, my husband will wake up soon to come down to work - because we are insanely fucking lucky.  But I’m awake see because I had a dream about a very scary man hurting ladies, hurting me, hurting my friends. I dunno. It was some weird fucking Marvel movie, Black Widow thing, torture chamber bad basement thing and there WAS NO ESCAPE. And the guy had flesh mittens for hands and lots of hypodermic needles in his skin? I don’t know. It was awful and I couldn’t sleep so I’ve been down here since about 3:30.  I went out yesterday, and people were stupid and awful. I cried on the way home. Just straight cried.  I’ve been sending more stuff to my mum lately, pictures of the kids and stories about them. Opening myself up to hurt is basically what it is and if I was SMART I wouldn’t DO THIS but well, she got laid off and my shit fuck dad hasn’t worked in like, 6 fucking years and my brother is isolated so much that he can’t even see my parents - which honestly is a good thing because fuck knows he’d just stress my mum out and my dad would eventually make things so bad that they’d come to physical blows. But it’s sad and he doesn’t understand.  Meanwhile I am left to panic about my organs failing and my feet needing to be amputated and my uterus rotting out. Because if I was scared to go to a doctor before, well, HOW BOUT NOW JAC? IS THIS BETTER? It’s a strange thing - I’m USED to be being scared all the time. It’s not pleasant. I mean, it’s not like “Oh I’m used to it, so it doesn’t bother me” No, it’s fucking horrific. It’s legit fucking torture. But I”m used to it. And I can STAND it see, because deep down it’s not real. But now the fear is all around me. Usually it’s like... I can get out of my head maybe. Take a pill, wait it out, go for a walk, the kids come home, tomorrow will be different - but not anymore. The fear is REAL now. I can take a pill (no I can’t! I’m out of pills! And I don’t have a doctor who knows me enough to give me anymore!) or have a drink but the threat is still there, still real. I can’t look at my husband and see that HE isn’t scared - because he is. I can’t read the news to distract myself - it’s all fear.  I can’t tell myself it’s all in my head anymore and that that’s ALL it is, that it isn’t real.  It’s like... huh. You thought you were scared BEFORE!? At least you knew you were crazy. Now I’m crazy AND this shit is real and no it WON”T stop when your panic attack ends.  SO yeah, that’s how this has been going.  yesterday I was paralyzed. I slept. A LOT.  Today... I dunno. I”ll do something with the kids. Make bread, dye my daughter’s hair I guess. Make them some Kraft Dinner and sliced hotdogs for breakfast because WHY THE FUCK NOT.  Also not talk to my mum. Fuck her.   ___ OK. So. I made coffee, breakfast is ready for the kids, junky as it is, the house is pretty clean actually, and I have ideas for what to do today. I clipped the dog’s nails. That’s a big one especially with the little scaredy cat baby dog one. He’s VERY scared of “clip clip” but even he let me get his dew claws.  Today I will do tangible things to improve our environment. Laundry. Clean the kids’ bathroom (because holy jesus FUCK). Clean our bathrooms. And get the kids to vaccuum and pick shit up. Clean the windows. Make pumpkin bread or cookies or some such bullshit that I won’t eat. Seriously for the amount of dessert shit and quick breads I make you’d think I actually enjoy this shit but I don’t. Quick breads are bullshit unless it’s to shove quick carbs into my kids.  Everything is going to be ok.  Maybe I’ll get some fucking sleep, too. 

[peevishmandible]

#my mother and father were 30 #my mil was 21 when she had my husband #i was 22 with my first #husband was 30 #I was 25 with my second #21 and 25 is very young #I did not know that at the time #no regrets though 

okay i’m curious bc my parents were relatively young having me but idk what age difference is “normal” between parents and kids as i’ve met people with plenty of variations. so if you want, reblog this and tag (don’t comment) how old your parents were when they had you. my mom was 25 and my dad was 21. 

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Today my son got an ECG and cardiac ultrasound.  it was ok! more than ok. He got teary, event hough I showed him videos about what was going to happen and told him lots about my own ultrasounds and told him he would be able to see his heart and everyone there was nice - though Very Professional. It’s a brand of Kind, Bordering on Brusque that honestly... I get it and it would be fine for me but it would have been nicer for my son if they’d TALKED to him but I’m not gonna complain because...  Well. This is Canada this was free. And it was needed and good and fine. We got him icecream and a cheeseburger and fries after and he had his pokemon video game in the car and he had a nap with me afterwards when we got home.  Seeing him there with the fucking stickers and wires and the ultrasound and the tears in his eyes and holding his hand and his foot that wanted to jitter off the bed oh my god I was just. Listen I can make it about me here in this space. I was so sad. I had to take very calm deep breaths because no matter how calm and deep I was for him I could only see my brother. He didn’t have his head shaved and electrodes and he wasn’t having a seizure those were just normal leg jigglings that even *I* do and it was fine but the tears in his eyes my god.  And then all the big traffic stuff on the way home. The big rig drivers, the RVs starting to come in. My husband so calm and capable on the road but my white knuckles while I keep up the banter with my boy in the back.  He’s wearing his favourite shirt - it’s flannel deep forest green plaid and buttons down the front I got him to wear it because he gets cold and I thought he’d be able to keep it on but when I got there he had taken it off because I had to pee and even though we got in 20 minutes early they’d had a cancellation and they took him in while I was gone and.  My husband is downstairs doing modeling. It’s the first time ever he’s been able - with space, time, money, and no baby children or cats who will be endangered by or fuck his shit up. I am happy for him. He interacts with people for his gaming. He enjoys his crafting. It’s great. I like watching him concentrate and work.  He uses scalpels for his modeling.  Oh boy oh jeeze oh golly gosh oh me oh my.  I cannot look at those scalpels. Without coveting them.  I’m going to go be.  A good housewife.  And mother.  And make soup. And toast. Asparagus. Tomato cheese.  Instagram that shit. And be quiet and calm.  And not think about the Shrike. Or knives. Or electrodes. Or seizures.   

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I've been having some extra issues with anxiety the last week or so and I've actually had to snooze three people on my FB feed since about Friday. It was just too many posts about Corona (I am actually deathly afraid of landing in the hospital if I get it and that would be really hard on my family with my son going through all his stuff regarding ADD/ASDdiagnosis/newmeds/doctorappts/hosebeast teacher right now) and stuff about health issues caused by foods and you might get heart disease if you do/don't do this, political memes and such... it was just too much and I realized it was triggering constant small stress responses that were snowballing. I've felt better since I contained those posts, and I've stopped clicking on things that I used to read "just for the info". I have enough info and I'm letting that rest. It's hard to police myself because I *like* to have constant info input and I'm a magpie about reading things. The internet and a handheld internet device is addictive to me for sure, and I've been trying to identify when that is unhelpful and keep myself accountable for what info I consume. I'm not good at parenting myself that way but it's really important. I can still read those people but keeping that out of my scrolling feed is really important, this way I can choose what I do and don't pay attention to when I visit their pages. The way I explain it to my kids - especially my daughter because she LOVES horror stuff and LOVES to push boundaries including her own! And like, yes that’s fine that’s who she is, and her dad and I let her push up AGAINST the stretchy boundaries but when it comes down to it we err on the side of protection. So as I explain it to the kids - I write the way I speak I think and yeah I jump around a lot in conversation it’s REALLY FUN FOR EVERYONE - you need to be careful about what you put into your brain. Once you put something in, you can’t take it out. So, because we love you and know you, and because you trust us and know we want the best for you - we make the decisions about what you watch/play/read/use the internet for  just like we make the decisions about who’s house you can go to, how far from home you can go, and what park you play in etc etc etc. It’s safety.  SO! LIke I said. I’m trying to be that parent to myself right now, at least as it pertains to what media I am consuming, what articles I read. If I want to know something I can look it up - I do NOT need a barrage of constant and oftentimes dissonant input.  I’m sorry to think I may have needlessly contributed to anyone’s stress by linking stuff and this is a good reminder that my friends might be experiencing the same issue, so I won't be posting anything else about it. There's enough out there and everyone can google, right? 

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I wish more people knew how affected our emotions and emotional responses are by ADHD. Everyone will experience their ADHD differently, so feel free to cross out what applies to you! I’ve only recently started externalizing emotions again and..it’s crazy how much energy I put into holding it all back - without great success. Here’s my patreon! (is this a smooth topic change?)

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I haven’t been posting my thoughts about my family and all that shit here, but I’ve been thinking on them A LOT. And talking both to my friend and my husband when things come up. But here’s a thing. Maybe writing it down will help that’s why I started this isn’t it? So here’s what I’m thinking this morning, quickly, before everyone starts getting up and I have to parent and then go get school lunch groceries and dye my daughter’s hair for the first time (It’s gonna be red and I think she will be so very very happy with is and I’m excited for her! I was about 13 when I dyed my hair red and I remember being so very proud. Oh my goodness she seems so much younger than I was at that age but really, is she? No, she’s just different. I am looking fwd to doing this with her and for her. Just in time for her Valentine’s Day Dance!)  OK SO

The nicer my husband is to me, the kinder my friends are, and the more I want to change and be better and do the best by and for my own children - the more I realize what absolute fucking failures my parents were. ARE. In this respect.  There is more grief behind every stage of realization, and anger, and guilt, and oh god such a sense of abject worthlessness. Do they have ANY fucking idea how awful they’ve made me feel for my entire fucking life? I mean... god. If I made my child feel THAT I would want to kill myself. I just. Words fail me when I consider my children going through the mental fucking torture I did. I’m not perfect and I’m not even as good as I SHOULD be! But fuck sakes, I give them a bit more care and consideration. At my daughter’s age my father still beat the shit out of me and watched rape scenes and laughed in front of me, made me kneel on rice on hard floors and dragged me out of cars to beat me in the ditches. Made me go to the bathroom with the door open as a punishment. Came into the bath and shower and ripped open the shower curtain to humiliate me, or take giant shits while I was bathing. I mean. Tsk.  He started drinking liquor with me when I was only 2 years older than my daughter is now. Started smoking pot with me a year later. It has taken me YEARS and years to realize that that wasn’t normal or ok. Looking at my preteen kid now and thinking of it... seeing my son and his struggles with ADD and anxiety and imagining what I had to deal with on top of all those very very familiar problems he had without even the help he is getting... it’s so. I don’t know the name for what it makes me feel. It makes me feel a lot. And I’m drinking and avoiding things to dissociate from that. It’s too much.  What’s funny about it really, when I can face it, not head on but obliquely the way I am doing right now, is that. Like. It shouldn’t matter. I understand that they’re trash and I should not worry so much, I should let it go - if not forgive then Let It Go. Accept it and move on. But. Hhh. To me that’s like asking me to walk properly with a broken leg.  I'm 34 and their only child who will ever be a whole person in the world and I  hurt and they hurt me and I have their grand children and they don't want me. They don't. Want. Me. They don't want me. If they did they'd change. They'd say sorry. They'd stop. Or at least maybe my mother would. But they won't. Because. They don't want me. They don't want me enough. They don't want me at all. And. Straight talk, realizing that is liberating, sure. In a way yes. It's also awful and carries a whole new set of fucking muck to wade through. Anyways. I have a lot to do this week. I really just need to accept things.  (I can never come here and write coherently. I guess coz I’m always upset about something when I come here. Manic catharsis? The first and only internet message my husband ever sent me before we even really knew each other. Ha. Manic catharsis. BOY DID HE EVER NOT KNOW HOW MUCH OF THAT WAS IN STORE FOR HIM) 

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Basically my whole attitude regarding my mother right now yep yep KEEP IT CLASSY LIKE PICARD

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From dhmt on reddit 

Fundamental attribution error.

Some people have a highly exaggerated version of it. The smallest social faux pas made by someone else feels to them like a horrible mistreatment. So all this pain inflicted upon them requires punishment, which they deliver amplified by many degrees. Sometimes, they cannot inflict the revenge their boss so richly deserves for fear of losing their job, so in frustration they inflict the revenge on some nearby powerless person.

In their mind, any pain they cause to someone else is somewhat deserved; but any pain someone causes to them is a terrible miscarriage of justice. Because of their exaggerated sense of attribution error, the pain received and the pain inflicted are forever out of balance. The world is always horrible to them, and they have the right to take a little revenge once in a while.

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From MonsteraDeli on reddit : In domestic violence, yes, the perpetrator is usually aware that they're abusive, or rather, that their actions would be frowned upon were they publicly known. At least in societies where violence against partners or children is not considered "normal" and appropriate behavior.

Injuries are in easy to hide spots. Victims are threatened to stay silent and/or cut off from unsupervised social interactions where they could tell. Some of the controlling behavior, never leaving the victim any money or easy transportation is not "just" to keep the victim helpless, but also a way to keep them from resources where they could talk about what's going on.

The other part is mental gymnastics to justify their actions. Beating children is usually wrong, but this child is so terrible it deserves it, or "needs" such treatment to behave. Or the victim "provoked" them. What counts as a provocation tends to get smaller and smaller over time. From not agreeing with the perpetrator in public, to simply asking a question at home. Perpetrators will find slights in everything to use as a justification. After a while there are often no "safe" options left. Speak and get beaten for being annoying, stay silent and get beaten for pouting, f.ex.

Perpetrators tend to be "good" at what they do. There are of course the openly violent, uncontrolled drunks (as one common stereotype), who simply don't care and do whatever they feel like whenever they feel like it. But many are more subtle with their abuse and "ease" into it. Small acts they apologize profoundly for, more abuse that they rationalize and explain away, and as the victim is conditioned to comply, and there are no consequences to the hidden violence, things get worse and worse. Sometimes it's not fully conscious and simply a gradual release of control, with others it's a meticulously planned and enjoyed process.

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imperial Radch characters and their personal notebooks

Breq: Ledger Of Perceived Slights

Seivarden: Mostly Just Whining

Tisarwat: Strange Ideas & Impure Thoughts

Mercy Of Kalr: Analog Memory Backup

Kalr Five: Hot Takes

Awn: Classified Information

Skaaiat: Dope Rhymes

Sphene: Obsessive Lists

Station: Meeting Minutes Of The Woke AF Club

Anaander: I Regret Nothing

notebook designs for sale by this guy [link]

I had more but tumble limits pics at 10 >:(