It wasn’t time to sail…

I didn’t know how to re-start writing again.

I tried, then, I stopped. Then, I tried, then, I deleted. THEN, I was like, “Omfg just fucking WRITE! Something, anything…anything at all.”

I always seem to pop on to write when things are really snafu’d and weebly-wobbly, timey-wimey levels of bat-shit crazy, or just plain shitty. Like, spring cleaning of a yard of dog-shit, levels of shitty.

Now is that time. Just fair warning.

But first!! Let’s start with how this little cyclical  writing is gonna throw down:

  1. Lupus
  2. Fibro
  3. Attempted Murder
  4. A boat

“Wait, what?!”

The problem with wrapping oneself in the germanic concept of time, I have no idea what happened when. Fair warning.

( Well and the Tree: World and Time in Early Germanic Culture )

I finished my second set of experimental chemotherapy dosing back in May. I think. Pretty sure. Brain hazy (we’ll get to that, later).

I over-pushed myself doing All The Things and that’s what I do. I keep on keepin’ on. It’s a Thing. I do remember thinking about All Things Lupus and I’d thought to myself, “Okay, this is bullshit. A purple butterfly? Hells no, we need a mutha’ feckin’ purple DRAGON!!” because we’re all warriors and shit. Right?!

Anyway. It’s been on my mind a lot, Lupus. My healthcare team and I are really hoping that this intensive and tweaked set of pharmaceutical poison will push my Lupus into remission longer than the 17 months I’d previously experienced. It was awesome.

What was not awesome, was the resulting “appearance” of all the bullshit fibromyalgia issues, given that I could no longer “feel” any active lupus activity.

Ouch. Like, NAPALM levels of OUCH.

Anyway. Life was going on. Got my medical marijuana prescription, dealing with those stigmas of my own (having had an addicted eldest son), yadda yadda.

Trivial.

“Well, that’s not really all that trivial, eh?”

Oh, just wait.

I’d gone to some work weekends at the campground I call “Home.” and was thrilled to have been able to actively participate in the goings’ on of cleaning and such for upcoming festivals and gatherings. Even went and spent my birthday there, working. Best. Decision. Ever. 😀 There I was, all purple dragon-y, doing The Things, hanging with the people I love……………….

And then.

June 27th. About 11:00pm.

Doorbell.

Panic.

Police.

I thought one of my two eldest sons was dead.

No. Oh, thank gods. All of them, of every pantheon.

No, they stayed in my home until about 3:00am telling me how Fucktard who punched me in the face last year? Yeah, him…

Hey, Who Killed The World?

They had received a call and had interviewed two friends of his that he had, apparently, solicited to hire to kill me.

I’ll let that sink in for a second.

Because of the nature of what eventually transpired, I am not currently at liberty to discuss particular details due to a required internal investigation because…at the end of the day: Monday, July 10th, approximately 10:30/10:45pm ish…Fucktard got to me just before they got to him.

LONG story short…my older twin (10 years old) started to sob when he saw me the next morning. My younger twin stared blankly at his toy. My daughter has hardly looked me in the face until about yesterday, because most of the bruising is gone and you can’t see cracked ribs. My eldest boy (21) withdrew and started using hard drugs. My second eldest (18 at the end of this month) hasn’t spoken to me since, because I’d never told him of the impending threat because last year he lost his shit and went into a rage. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. They were supposed to apprehend him and my son would have been no worse for wear for never having known.

Again, I found myself sending text messages to daycare parents.

Again, I found myself having to call my mother and then call my father (they’re each married to other spouses). My mom broke down when she saw me. She’d not slept since hearing about the night Fucktard tried to cut my throat with that knife whose image will forever be burned into my brain cells.

My dad, ex-military officer of high standing, saw me and he hugged me and he didn’t let me go.

My friends are managing their own range of emotions varying from rage to anger to sadness and, I’m sure, cycling through all.

Then, there’s Me.

I am existing. I am wondering and pondering about everything and nothing at all. I cannot process between my brain (cognition) and physical function.

Violence against women is not a sole-victimization. Children, parents, friends and family are affected…

Twin 1: “So, if he’d killed you on the driveway, would he have come in the house and then killed us, too?”

Who the fuck, as a mother, has to answer these kinds of questions??? RAGE-Y. Like, purple dragon breathing NAPALM all over this green and blue orb hurtling through time and space.

Moving on.

So, I have a boat.

“Are you kidding me? You’re going to leave us here and talk about a boat?”

 

I am. Because what is done, is done. My process now is to focus on the psychological healing as my physical proof silently disappears. I could list off all the reasons why I feel like I’m not keeping on keepin’ on…but I know it will be yet another journey to add to the chapters of the book I’ll one day pen.

This boat. MY boat. A long ship. It was crafted by my chosen family and gifted to me in the same fashion. ” Vikings of the Metal Age ” They are my family. Where I have no blood brothers, nor sisters, they are an integral part of my chosen tribe.

I’ve whispered my wishes and intent to my ancestors…for when I see them next…

One year ago, almost to the week, they gifted this boat to me, in my favourite colour, no less… purple… because I fight and keep fighting this dastardly disease that was, at one point, making me save a “Death Files” onto my laptop. Lupus kills. I’ve spent since 2010 fighting back. It’s tiring. I’m so fucking tired I can’t even articulate the level of bone-crushing, “please don’t let me wake up tomorrow”, passive-suicidal thoughts I have continually had since my diagnosis.

Last year, with my brothers and sisters surrounding me, they carried my boat to the shores of the Bonnechere River near Golden Lake, Ontario, on the land I call “Home.” at Raven’s Knoll…And I stood on the shores and watched my boat float.

In the real.

The ancestors do not yet call my name…

But it didn’t move! Current was running nicely. But it did not move. It just…floated. Then….THEN…it turned to me. No wind. No pushing. No guidance from physical hands.

My ancestors do not yet call my name…

 

And then.

“Do you want me to hold your pouch?”

And I dropped my belt with my pouch into the hands of my sister and I walked straight into the Bonnechere River to swim with my boat.

“Um, okay….I fail to see the…..”

My boat is going to carry my cremated ashes upon it’s deck after I die and be set alight somewhere…special.

July 10th. The day I almost required my boat.

My boat will be my funeral pyre.

(boat photos & video taken by Timothy Johnston)