pocmothon

[pocmothon]

I F*cking HATE The UKgov

https://grumpyscottishman.wordpress.com/2020/02/19/the-new-slave-labour-is-on-the-way/

When I was in Scotland, and doing what I could to fight for independence, I warned folks this was coming. And that was *before* the last indyref.

Later, I warned folks about the destruction of the NHS, of dangerous foods and meds, “exempt” from the stricter health and safety regulations of the EU. I spoke of austerity measures that would worsen to the point they would kill people, and they have (disability deaths through policy sanction soar under the Tory regime, likewise deaths due to homelessness, poverty and Jobseeker Allowance sanction yet NOBODY holds them to account)

And I felt then like Cassandra. I still do, when it comes to Scotland. Because THE SCOTTISH PEOPLE ARE SOVEREIGN AND THEY COULD FORCE THEIR GOVERNMENT INTO UDI BUT THEY’RE TOO DAMN FEART TAE.

On yer ain heids be it, Scotland. Whatever the Tories put in the watter tae mak ye lie doon, roll ower and show yer soft underbellies in defeat, it’s fecking working just fine. Just you keep on complaining at Westminster, insteid o’ whar the REAL responsibility lies..yer ain selves, and the sainted “Dae feck a” SNP.

Meanwhile, there’s mair, much mair, o’ *this* coming your wey....

“Patel has said that basically the unemployment and feckless can pick the fruit and veg, probably for their starvation benefits. “

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Things I’m Giving Up.

Agonising over unintentional offences I gave out in the past. You know the kind of thing..you said something meant to be a compliment, cept you said it wrong and the person took offense where none was meant. You can’t take back words, once said, and if you apologise and the person still holds a grudge, there’s nothing you can do.

Apologising, almost, for who I am. I’m an older woman, I should know better. I’m weird, unconventional, strange, unlikeable (not self pity, been told so often enough to believe it) and reclusive. So what? The world’s got more folks just like me in it than others realise.

Self flagellation, metaphorically speaking, for my failures in the past. I wasn’t the best Mam in the world. I wasn’t the best worker (until I made myself self employed and found my niche) and I’m not the best cook. I wasn’t the best *anything* in the world. But certain folks expected me to be and told me I’d failed them. I now realise, I didn’t. Because I tried my best and though it wasn’t good enough, at least I tried. Now, I don’t try to be the best at anything...just good enough.

Trying to mend broken bridges..an example: many years ago I’d a friend, when I was still wed to my abusive ex husband. But she *liked* him (it’s that, I’m not likeable thing again..folks think I’m ok then after a while, I don’t know, maybe they realise I’m too weird/off the wall/not their cuppa tea/whatever) and when I’d to run away with my children and the clothes we stood up in, to avoid another beating because I couldn’t take any more, she quit speaking to me. Because the first person she’d spoken to was my ex husband. And he lied about why I left. And she chose to believe him. And cut off our friendship, dead. Years later we met again by accident. She was all smiles and friendly so I gave her my new address. Never heard from her. That kinda thing. You hope broken things can be mended but the glue rarely holds...and after a while incidents like this (when I split from my ex, and when my daughter came out as transgender and queer, we lost ALL our family and friends. All of them. I haven’t seen my other daughters or my grandchildren for many years now. Yes, it hurts. Yes, I tried to mend those bridges. No, it didn’t work. No, I don’t regret for one moment standing by Alice. But not going to deny, the pain of those bridges falling in will always hurt...

Agonising over being weird and a recluse. I worried for so long what people thought of me (sometimes I catch myself doing that again and mostly remember to kick myself in the arse for it, because, it’s stupid). I AM weird. I AM a recluse, a hermit. So what? Besides, you’d think those folks that think I’m worthless would rejoice at the recluse bit.....the world is full of so many different kinds of folks. Not all of us need to be part of a group to be fulfilled and not all of us need to fit in to feel valued. And that’s just fine.

Feeling like I should apologise for not being young anymore. Listen: I’m a full ten years older than my lovely hubs and he *still* loves me anyway. No, I can’t keep up with the latest trends/fashions/whatever, but who cares? Really, who cares? I never was beautiful (my younger sister got the looks in the family) so I haven’t the pressure to keep looking young but I’m aware it’s around and I hate it, more so when even I catch myself thinking “gosh, maybe I should start dyeing my hair/consider a facelift/lose some of that middle weight/whatever” I give myself another kick in the arse and tell myself to quit. Nobody’s looking at me anyway! And if they are and are shallow enough to judge me based on the way I look, I don’t want to know them anyway.

Couple of things I *wish* I could give up but can’t...depression and anxiety. I’m on meds for them. Over time, they lose their impact and I dread the day I’ve to come off them or they simply cease to work. But there’s no magic bullits for either condition and no, I’ve no faith in therapists because the bulk of them have never been in the circumstances that caused my issues, so what advice can they give that would be of value? Exactly.

I’m not perfect. Nobody is.

And the one thing I really wish I could give up...fear of the future. For the past few years we lived with the fear of losing our wee family, of being torn apart (and for over six months, we literally were) and being in exile.

Irrational though it is, I dread the knock on the door to evict or exile us, or the letter through the post telling us we can’t stay here, we must move..knowing there is literally nowhere else for us to go. I crave security like others crave heroin or whatever the latest modern drug is (I’m old..like I said, I don’t keep up with trends) and can’t have that.

When I was a bairn, I tried so hard to make friends, to fit in. Never worked. Poverty made me outside their clique. Being heathen made me an untouchable. As an adult, I tried to make friends, then found out those friends hung around because of the partners I was with, not me. Now, if I can spend the rest of my days snuggled in our wee cottage, just my husband, daughter and our dog, I’ll be happy.

Life is too short to worry about what others think of you. I’m not an unfriendly person, and I *do* try, even now, to make friends, but it rarely works out in the long run. And I know it’s down to me. Not anything I do! But who or what I am.

If you’re reading this, then take a piece of advice from an older woman, if you will....do your best..that’s good enough. Make friends but don’t rely on them. And if you are a recluse, a hermit type, don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for it. Because you’re living *your* life, no-one else’s. And since nobody knows if we get another shot at it, live the life YOU want, and make it a good one. Don’t be a sheep for the sake of it, for “fitting in” because trends pass so quickly and have little substance. If you’re that solitary wolf or fox, set your nose to the forest path and find your niche within it or past it, in the blankets of snow and silence.

And give up giving a fuck about stuff that isn’t important.

[pocmothon]

Our Story

Brexit almost destroyed my family before it’d even begun.

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2019/feb/02/brexit-scotswoman-forced-part-with-belgian-husband-leave-daughter

In the end we spent over six months apart from Alice, who has Asperger’s Syndrome and serious depression (she is still on Sertraline).

I don’t know if these pics are “readable” but they’re from the article in iScot about us..

So nope, they don’t look readable but if anyone’s really interested I guess you can download and enlarge them to read the article.

I lost our fight. For two years I fought with the only weapon we’re allowed, these days..words. I begged openly and shamelessly at Nicola Sturgeon’s door, at the feet of anyone who’d listen in authority. But for those in our position there was no help, there IS no help, and EU disabled people are not welcome in Britain, in Scotland, today. Both governments, Scots and English, want only those that are considered “lucrative” to the economy. Highly skilled and paid workers. Never mind that ALL my husband’s disability income went straight into the Scots economy for the eight years he was wed to me.

Many Scots..those who *still* have faith in the SNP to procure independence (not realising, or too apathetic to accept that it’s only the Scottish PEOPLE that are Sovereign, NOT the government or Parliament) will attack ...and have in the past..my castigation of the Scots government for not fighting for those in our position.

I don’t give a shit. Because in my opinion, any government that lets another government throw people out of their own nation, their own homes, and splits families apart, is not a good one.

I have been, will be, FOR Scots independence my entire life. But thanks to Brexit I no longer have Scotland to call Home.

In time I *will* be happy and settled here in Ireland. It’s an astonishingly beautiful island, the people are generally fabulous and we have a cottage here nobody (I hope) can throw us out of.

But that fight, that “war” I fought and lost, it’s what’s responsible for the worsening health, the copious sleepless nights and nightmares, for all three of us.

And back in Scotland, and in England which rules Scotland still? Nobody gives a damn. So long as you have enough money to satisfy UKgov Tax Office you’re welcome there.

Small folks like us, on a disability income paid for by my husband’s native Belgium, we’re unwanted and that was made clear at the very beginning of my fight by none other than Michael Russell MSP and Nicola Sturgeon’s right hand  man, who corresponded with me over the issue.

I *want* to be happy here, to be settled and if not forget, put the past to rest somehow. But the endless nightmares, the constant anxiety (am still on Diazepam) and feeling of absolute insecurity won’t let me.

I’m beginning my book soon on our experience. I hope it’ll be cathartic and leave behind a record of those nobody gave a thought to in the drawing up of the Withdrawal Agreement despite my constant and public “yelling” at the relevant authorities...”Hey”! *waves frantically..”You forgot about European disabled folks and their families! What about us?” to be met with silence. Always silence.

Frans and I boarded the trains to Belgium in only the clothes we wore, nothing with us. Alice left behind with our small belongings and Bran, our Collie.

Twice, I considered, seriously, suicide. Only the impact it’d have had on Alice and Frans kept me going. That’s all.

I’m glad I didn’t in the end. I love them both and want nothing more than a healthy, happy life with them for however long I’ve got left.

But Brexit has been the most harmful clusterfuck of a political machination since the Union itself was “formed”, when Scotland was threatened with trade sanctions, land seizure and outright war if it did not join with England.

And it’s been one hell of a mindfuck for me and mine. I lost my fight and have the scars to show for it. They’ll remain with me the rest of my life. I’ve had no-one to turn to over this, no-one to lean on, no-one to talk to about it. I suspect there are so many others in the same boat, drifting where Brexit has sent them, lives irrevocably changed, families torn asunder, jobs lost, ties broken, hearts likewise....

Everyone is sick of hearing about Brexit. But for some of us the damage it brought began before it even occured, and will impact us the rest of our days. And nobody cares.

[pocmothon]

Age

Just browsing Tumblr to take my mind off last night’s nightmares, and realising almost everyone here is very young compared to me.

Are there *any* middle/old aged folks on Tumblr?

Freely admit to getting lost in the language of youth. I don’t know what words like “canon” and all the fandoms mean in the context they’re used here. I don’t know any of the shows folks keep talking about (except The Witcher. And I only watched that because my daughter plays the game. Liked the scenery, the actors, the props, etc, hated the script and the time-frame jumping all over the place) and, well, I was just wondering if there’s anyone my age around?

Anyone? Please?

When I looked to start blogging again, I tried what I’d used before, Wordpress, but they no longer offer free blogs. I tried Wix and others but couldn’t get to grips with their set ups and layouts. Tumblr seemed simple and fun so  thought, I can do this.

But I feel like a dinosaur here, gotta admit. :/ Am I in the wrong place?

[pocmothon]

Nightmares.

Since the effect of Brexit on us, I’m prone to them. Tonight (woke at 3.30am) I had a doozy, one which woke my poor husband up with half smothered screaming...as in, in my dream, I was screaming at the top of my voice. What came out was groaning so horrible he thought I was having a heart attack or a stroke.

I get too many of these. Night after night, dreams of “what if’s” and nightmares that’d do credit to the most frightening jump-scare movies.

I can’t go back to sleep after tonight’s. I’m terrified of seeing and hearing what I saw, again. My heart is still pounding, and I had to sit in the bathroom, muffling tears of fear and despair. Keeping as quiet as I could so as to not disturb Frans and Alice.

So now, I’m on the sofa. I lit the fire (very early, a luxury but necessity. I need something to ground me.) and I’m online. And I’m going to do comforting things like look up growing food in raised beds, scroll Tumblr for CottageCore and generally try to feel as if I’m not losing my mind.

[pocmothon]

Irish Unification

I wish Scottish independence was as likely....

https://www.irishcentral.com/news/politics/irish-unification-likely-the-economist?utm_campaign=IC+Fav+-+Feb+15+-+2020-02-15&utm_content=Story1&utm_medium=Email&utm_source=Mailjet

[pocmothon]

Non Fiction

I’m about to begin writing my book. I have all my notes/appropriate correspondence backed up, logged. It’s non fiction.

I’ve never written a book before. I’ll self publish. I doubt many folks will read it but Brexit almost ruined my family and forced us to move from two nations so I want to leave a record of what happened.

Here’s the thing: Here on Tumblr and elsewhere online, there is heaps of advice and info for writers of fiction. Non fiction? Not much... :/

I’m not expecting anyone to write the book for me, but I’d love to find some tips, advice, anything that’d help.

People generally aren’t keen on non fiction, particularly if it’s political. Crafts, hobbies, creative arts etc, aye, they’re popular and have their fans and help groups for getting started.

But for the kind of book I’m about to write, not much help exists.

So, what to do?

Wing it. Get on and write the bugger. Publish it. See what happens. Not much else to do....

[pocmothon]

My Heathen Home.

I already posted pics of the sword I gifted to Thor and the Mjollnir at the heart of the cottage. Here are a few others pics. I don’t think there’s any point explaining them but if anyone wants to know anything feel free to ask.

[pocmothon]

Viking Age Love Poems.

Fi

[pocmothon]

Ancient Women Shamans of Ireland.

“The links between the fairies and the dead are well recorded by writers such as Walter Evans-Wentz and often the two become blurred in traditional Irish folklore .When the Celts and other later people arrived in Ireland, they used these ancient sites to bury the ashes of their own dead. We can speculate about other ritualistic functions based on commonalities with other cultures, but it is hard to definitively state what these were. “

Article found here: https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends-europe/ancient-women-shaman-ireland-0011006

[pocmothon]

Speywife

I used to be what’s known in north Scotland as a Speywife...commonly thought of as a Fortune Teller but in reality a great deal more.

I say “used to be” because I no longer read runes, knucklebones or Tarot. Mainly because Brexit caused my family to have to move from my own Scotland and my husband’s native Belgium and it’s been an incredibly stressful issue...still is.

But also because (and frankly, not giving a shite if this sounds like bragging..) I was *good* at it, particularly runes, fire scrying and Tarot. And it got so too many folks would visit (I never charged anything) and I couldn’t get on with everyday life. Then there were those of the “tell me everything, even the bad stuff, I can take it all” kind who, in fact, couldn’t. And me being the blunt kind, I *would* tell them, the bad events would happen, and for some unknown and ridiculous reason, they’d blame me. Didn’t matter I’d try explaining, listen, if I had THAT much control over life I’d be a damn sight richer/happier/morefamous than I actually am. They needed a scapegoat for life’s ills, I suppose. So I got sick of that and quit, with the exception of readings for relatives and a few close friends.

Anyways, here is a link to a blog that might be of interest to those likewise interested in runes.. https://dmrbooks.com/test-blog/2020/1/25/rune-magick but in all honesty, I recommend both reading the relevant Sagas and installing in your mind, over time, the meanings of each and every rune and how they relate to life. There are many good books out there that can teach you rune risting and casting.

Among the other talents of Speywives are whistling or knotting up winds, blessing crops, hexcraft, herbalism, healing (though that was never my forte, sadly), dream interpretation and various other crafts.

I’m Scots born, but also have Swedish blood in my veins (hence exploring that lineage through Viking Age archaeology, reenactment and heathenry). When I was young, if any ancient mythology at all was taught in the schools I knew, it was that of Ancient Greece or Rome. Yet, ignored, was the fact that Europe and the British Isles have their own mythology, their own history and legend, their own magical traditions. To walk on a path of discovery through them is a beautiful thing to do.

[pocmothon]

Thanks for this. I’m about to start a book on how Brexit impacted my small family (we’ve had to leave both our nations, hubs and I...Belgium and Scotland respectively, in order to remain together due to Brexit) and I’m finding the prospect of even starting it kinda terrifying...:/

tbh, non-fiction can definitely qualify as creative writing, and anyone who thinks otherwise should probably just try it. making “boring” shit interesting for the general public is what science journalists do for a living (myself included), and I think it makes my fiction-writing stronger by extension… so, if you’re feeling stuck on your WIP today, pick a current event — preferably one that you think more people should care about but is difficult to understand for the average person — and write something compelling about it. the power of persuasion is so prominent in non-fiction writing, and I sometimes think folks writing fiction forget that it can be a powerful tool in a short story or a novel, too.

[pocmothon]

These Scots Still Fish Like The Vikings.

https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/scottish-viking-fishing

When I was younger, my dad taught me to poach for meat and fish. He taught me to use an otter (specific type of net and board) to catch river salmon, and how to guddle fish using your hands, lying on the riverbank, in the twilight hours.

People, even when I was young, often hunted and caught their own food. My parents both believed a person had a right to feed themselves from the land of their birth. Abstentee English landlords believed differently and dad went to court because of it.

But I still know how, and even though age and health means I’d struggle with an otterboard now, if I had to, I can still feed my family from the wild, so long as there’s fish and game there.

[pocmothon]

PTSD? Aftermath.

When Brexit was announced, we were living in far northwest Scotland, my native country. My husband, Frans, is Belgian, and permanently disabled, receiving the disability income I’m included upon as carer from there. So we never cost the UKgovernment a penny. But UKgov, after deciding on Brexit, also decided to not take those in our situation into account. And refused to co sign the Reciprocal Agreement necessary for exporting of such benefits.

So *that* means, Frans can’t live in Scotland any more. In fact this was the case even before Brexit happened, as De Voorzorg, the authority that pays the disability income, gave us a deadline of April 1st 2019 to leave Scotland or lose our sole income.

So I began to fight, to remain in our home, to remain as a whole family. DWP wouldn’t even help us. UKgov wouldn’t even respond. Scottish government said their hands were tied (cowardice on behalf of all those in our situation, the most vulnerable, the disabled) and the Belgian authorities wouldn’t budge..unless UKgov co signed, they wouldn’t provide the income.

I approached many MSP’s, MP’s and authorities in Scotland, England and Belgium. I still have the correspondence from them all. It will go into the book I’m writing, telling the story of how Brexit affected one disabled family and nobody gave a damn.

Two years I fought, and fought, publicly (articles in The Observer and iScot magazine and actively on Twitter, Facebook and blogging) and privately, through email after email, phone call after phone call. All the time knowing nobody gave a shite about the disabled or their families. In fact knowing that it was, back then, EXACTLY as it is now...for the British, ONLY those worth money are welcome in Britain, if they are non native Brits.

But this was my *family*...and we were being torn apart by Brexit before it even happened. I even tried to see if we could move, as a family, to my husband’s Belgium. They said No. Refused me residency as, because Brexit was so close, I was treated as a test case Post-Brexit “Brit” (they are seemingly unable to tell the the difference between the English who voted to Leave and a Scot who voted to Remain...) so I was given a Temporary Leave to Stay which ran out last September, which is when we returned to Scotland..and the daughter we’d to leave behind (no passport, no cash, no time). Afterwords I was given an apology, by phone, to my husband..not me..but still no Residency.

And so here we are, applying for residency in the Irish Republic and hoping with all  our hearts they’ll say yes. Because if not, there is literally no where else we can go. We haven’t the cash to country-hop. There is nowhere else we’d be likely to be allowed to live. Frans would have to return to Belgium, and myself and Alice? We’d probably kill ourselves before we’d return to post Brexit Britain, given how they are treating both Scots and transgender folks there now.

So, it’s a stressful situation. And it is telling. Nightmares, night after night after night. Never ending, all the same “theme”. You can probably guess what.

Health issues..both my husband’s disability has worsened and led to new health problems, and my own health issues have worsened (particularly the depression) and Alice, who has Asperger’s Syndrome, has become more insular and reclusive than ever.

We *need* a happy ending..the security of knowing that we have a country we CAN call Home, one that nobody will threaten to throw us out of. We need to be settled, to know we can stay.

Some mornings, when I sit in front of the fire, looking around at this beautiful wee cottage, I begin to feel comfortable then realise that if our request for residency is refused, we’ll be torn apart as a family, and at least two of us likely won’t survive. That’s no exaggeration.

Because, I can’t take anymore.

Someone, somewhere, needs to do some research on the impact of Brexit on those like us, those the governments involved never gave a thought to..the ones who aren’t “money-valuable” to the economy. Someone, somewhere, needs to know the cost of Brexit on the most vulnerable. The true cost. The one that is lasting, still, in nightmares and failing health, in depressions, anxiety and suicidal thoughts.

But, in the end I guess folks not worth cash income aren’t important enough for that, huh?

[pocmothon]

Living Amidst Irish History

In our nearest village is the bench you can see in the pictures below. It’s dedicated to Irish Freedom fighters, including Bobby Sands, who died on hunger strike in British prisons.

There’s no doubting the IRA were not *always* the “good guys”…But, as a Scotswoman who has never known what it’s like (til now) to live in a country free from English rule, I know what they were fighting for. I know the longing for self determination, for freedom, for dignity.

I know what the English have done, are doing and will do, to any nation it rules. Scotland, *meant* to be an equal partner in the British Union, is anything but. The so called Barnett Grant “given” to Scots by the English government is, in truth, a returned portion of OUR OWN TAXES. NOT a grant. And Scots pay higher taxes than their English counterparts.

I could rant on forever about the way Scotland is treated by Westminster, by English rule, but take a look around online..try reading such folks as Wings Over Scotland, or Bruce Hosie (Grumpy Scots Man) and others. I know firsthand what generation after generation of media lies and manipulation, theft of resources, belittling and degrading of our culture and more, does to a people.

It’s why I’ve always believe every nation has the absolute Right to self determination, to independence, to going their own way. Yet Westminster refuses to let Scotland go…because to do so would be economic suicide.

So, I’m proud, in a way, to be living in an area where those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for Ireland’s freedom are not forgotten. Where the Irish are unafraid to remember those of the past with pride, unlike most modern Scots, I’m ashamed to say, who when you mention the Jacobite Wars of Independence begin to sneer, or mention the likes of Bruce or Wallace and they accuse you of being a “Braveheart Scot” and no, it’s not a compliment. And this, from my own people. The same people that are allowing another Clearances, at Westminster’s behest, of all non native Brits. Like my Flemish husband.

I don’t know if I’ll live to see the day Scotland regains her freedom, or even if she will. I’ve always known freedom is never given on a plate. It’s always had to be fought for.

Scottish people, unlike the English, are Sovereign. We have the RIGHT to choose to quit the Union. Yet the SNP, Scotland’s ruling political party, refuse to consider another independence referendum without Westminter’s approval (never forthcoming) and Nicola Sturgeon, a woman I once had faith in, will never consider UDI, which, despite it’s problems, IS a legal means of achieving independence over an oppressive regime.

And if the UKgovernment, with it’s austerity measures, it’s disability deaths in the thousands, it’s starving children and multitude of homeless, is not an oppressive regime, then I’m damned if I ken what is.

You did it, Ireland. Where Scotland lost her backbone, you kept yours and you fought for your freedom. And aye, it was worth it.

[pocmothon]

Solitary.

Folks generally do not like me. No, that’s not a whine for sympathy, it’s just a fact. First noticed when I was a wee bairn. At school, like most, I tried to fit in, to find friends. Even those who I had things in common with, however, made it clear I didn’t fit in.

I came from a poor family, two alcoholic parents. Money spent on drink meant often, I went to school almost literally in rags. I remember so often winters, when we had decent snow, standing at the end of the track waiting for the school bus, no socks, just wellingtons. Feet so cold they hurt, badly. Thing is, wellies weren’t allowed in school, so I’d to “borrow” gymshoes from someone else and I was mercilessly bullied for my appearance, for my heathen family, for my poverty, for being crushingly shy and reclusive....

When I would go home after school, if Dad saw me crying, he’d beat me. The pivotal moment came when a much larger than me girl beat me badly at school..I returned home trying to explain I could find no reason why, only remembering the other jeering, urging bairns watching, cheering every time she landed a punch. And a teacher walking past, ignoring the “dirty little heathen bairn”.

I was covered in bruises, crying in pain. Dad beat me then told me if I ever let anyone do that to me again, he’d give me more of the same. This was after the other girl’s parents turned up at the door with the police to complain I’d broken her glasses in the fight! (I *did* try to fight back but she was a lot bigger and harder than me). Dad, at least, stood me beside their daughter and said to the policemen “Look at the size of them. Do ye REALLY think my bairn’s the one that won thon fight?”

After that, he taught me to fight back. See, dad wanted a boy for his firstborn. He got me, a girl. (He was so disappointed, he walked out the birthing room in disgust). So he began to teach me things he’d have taught a boy.

So bearing in mind he was a hard hitting, hard drinking Highlander, I got taught poaching, fishing, hill walking/climbing, more poaching (for food for the table but because of it I learned more about wildlife than most folks do by watching documentaries about it...) and how to fight dirty, in a man’s pub brawl manner.

So the next time the same big girl picked on me, I punched her fucking lights out. And the next girl that tried to pick on me, I did the same. And after that, I was, finally, left alone.

Truly alone.

That isolation has lasted all of my life. I gave up a long time ago trying to make friends. Don’t get me wrong..I don’t go through life snarling at folks! I’m polite, well mannered, trained myself to hold decent small-talk conversations and so on. But friends? I have none, nor need them.

If they’d been able to when I was a child, I believe I’d be, like my daughter, diagnosed Asperger’s. So, isolation and reclusivity is where I “fit in”. Solitude is balm, peace and pleasure.

I haven’t been a recluse *all* my life. I spent time in a Viking Age reenactment group, studied field archaeology, travelled back and forth to Belgium with Frans, my husband, meeting his friends (who remain solely his friends, not mine, though I tried *really* hard, because, well, my hubs, y’know?)

And I used to run and admin an online Pagan forum.

I was told by my parents I was unwanted. I believed them, still do. I’ve been told by people there’s just *something* unlikeable about me. And, I’ve made my peace with it. I’m unsure if it’s undiagnosed Asperger’s (sometimes, like my daughter, I just want to hide away from the world and find it VERY difficult to communicate face to face with others) or if there’s some flaw in my personality that just makes folks back off from me.

When I was a child, and a teenager..particularly when Mam died, and I was left to be raised by Dad and Uncles, none of whom really gave a thought to what I needed, nor cared overmuch when or if I ate, what I wore, where I went, etc...just so long as I “looked after myself” (which in Dad’s books meant poaching to bring meat or fish home to eat, and fighting my way out of any trouble I inadvertantly got into), well, then I felt self pity for myself. I saw other girls in pretty clothes, makeup, at discos with boyfriends, living lives I could only dream about as too often, I would sneak out of the crofthouse at night when Dad and his friends got roaring drunk, and go hide in the woods. There was a rock with a flat surface among the silver birches I would sit on, shivering, waiting til daylight when I knew they’d be asleep. I was molested by more than one of his friends. When I told him, I got beaten for “leading him on”. I didn’t tell him anything else.

That self pity long ago died, along with my dreams of what life would be for me when I grew up and could get away, be out there on my own.

Fast forward some decades...I had three children, two girls and one boy, to that abusive ex husband. My son turned out to be transgender and because I stood by her, one of my daughters literally hounded us off the small Orkney island we were living on. Literally paid for us to go, threatening me with sending “some boys” round to “visit” if I spoke about it to anyone. I haven’t seen my grandchildren for many years now. I grieve the loss of my daughters and grandchildren but will NEVER regret standing by Alice. I’d have stood by whichever one of them it might have been. That’s what a mother does.

So sadly Alice, like myself, learned what it’s like when folks dislike you, and what it’s like to be truly alone.

And like I taught myself, I’m teaching her it’s ok to be alone. It makes you stronger than folks think. And you become accountable to no-one.

I was lucky with my husband, though I found him late in life. He had no qualms, no hesitation, in accepting Alice as his own daughter, in accepting me, weird quirks and all.

I hope Alice, one day, finds her soulmate too. Til then, I’m here for her, WE’RE here for her, as long as we’re able to be.

If you’re like me, then here’s a word of advice..you don’t NEED to be liked to be a valid, unique and important person in the world. Everyone has the right to exist, so long as they’re not hurting others. And if you’re not a physical fighter? Learn a few good old fashioned heathen curses. They work.

But, brutal though it sounds, my Dad did one thing right...he taught me to fight back. Don’t let those that’d put you down do so. Fight back until they stop. Fight for all you’re worth until they get the message that not liking who you are because you are different does NOT give them the right to mistreat you. That it says more about who they are, than it does about you.

And be proud of that.

[pocmothon]

First Post, Second Blog

Well, my main blog is largely about our life in our new cottage in Ireland. The fixing up of it, what it’s like living in Ireland, etc.

This though? This’ll be a retelling of some of my life shit, of who I am (a heathen pagan witch, getting long in the tooth now but though the body ages by degrees, the bite remains sharp) and, just, a mix of thoughts, ramblings, workings, whatever I feel like writing at the time.

I’m married to a Flemishman. Took me a while but I finally found my anam cara. He’s permanently disabled (subtotal colectomy took most of his innards and left him with various issues for life) and ten years younger than me. I have an adult daughter who is transgender..and I’ll talk about her journey on occasion too, because it was an horrendously difficult time for all of us...and who has Asperger’s Syndrome, though she’s high functioning with it. Like her mam, it makes her reclusive though.

I’ve been heathen all my life, as in, pagan heathen, not simply “not christian”. Raised on tales of Celtic and Norse myth and sagas, on household magics and landscape and wildlife lore.

I’m fifty eight years old, with a heart arrhythmia, COPD and osteoarthritis.

Apart from that, I’m fine! Oh wait..I’ve also suffered with depression since my teens (alcholic parents and an abusive ex) but, I cope. Had to. And I’m blind in one eye. Ok, scrap that “I’m fine” shite..I’m obviously falling to bits by degrees!

I’m a fatalist by nature. Also an animist by “faith”.

My main blog is what I’m doing. This one will be what I’m thinking, what I’ve done, and how I feel. I don’t expect anyone to *find* this, never mind read it, so it’s almost like a diary.

One thing about me? I can pretty much discuss anything. I’m not easily shocked but am often easily saddened.

I’m a Thor’swoman. Always will be. When we moved here, I planted one of my best swords into the ground at a foot of a tall fir tree, for Thor. It has the story of Sigurdr Dragonslayer carved across the crossgaurd and pommel.

And the stone carved Mjollnir has travelled a long way with me, and now sits in the heart of the cottage, next to the Range.