Full con review here.

First of all, Refresh.

Second of all, I realized why I loved the con so much:

You know those dreams or daydreams where you wish you could take all your friends and live under the same roof?

Well a furry con like Furthemore is as close as I'll ever be able to get to realizing that. It had that same comfortable camaraderie as the dreams do.

And the PCD is the waking up part, huh?

Furthemore was my first con. I was so excited. Not only was it going to be my first con, but my first furry con, in my city, organized by my friends. The symbol was even one of my totems. The theme was one of my favorites. (Next year's, Pirates vs. Ninjas, is great, too!) I was so excited to sign up, I was the first one to register, and I got the full godsdamned package. I am so glad I did. I am so proud of my best friends.

MY WEEKEND AS RAVEN GOD.

Panels:
I signed up to do TWO panels. A good handful of furs showed up for sign language Saturday at noon, but my totems one was a bit empty. Boo. Luckily my neighbors, the Sparks girls , came by to do some arts and crafts, as did my favorite kangaroo , halfway through. It was at Sunday after checkout and during Uncle Kage's, so it was kinda doomed from the start. Boners. Oh well. Next time I will do one panel, and if they schedule me during Sunday, I will know not to make 20 copies of everything. @_@ Anyone want like a thousand totem pole paper pieces?

Service, Room & Food:
Help. I forget how to god. I just. I don't even. Breakfast. I love you, breakfast. I always love breakfast buffets at the Cinnamon Tree, but I had never had a Gracie omelette. I Gracie omelettes. Nom nom nom. On Saturday I took to breakfast because I saw the silly vulpine attempting to put together a breakfast from a vending machine. wtf. I told him he was coming with me, he didn't have a choice. Leo had breakfast with me on Sunday, and he and I share a fondness of breakfast food and Sriracha. I shared my room with him and because he had a snafu happen last minute and I figured I could avert discomfort, but they didn't bring an air mattress! Next time I get Raven God, I will sign up for two beds, even if I think I will be by myself. Just. In. Case. The service people were SO friendly and joked with us when we were silly with them. The servers came to the con staff asking if they could wear ears and tails. Totally ballin'. I enjoy that hotel so much. It really conflicts with my desires: my wish to see the con grow, but not grow out of Hunt Valley Inn. Thank you Grace, Joshi, Keith, Lewis?, John, and the new guy at the bar Saturday night. =3

Staff/Volunteering:
I spent a good deal of time covering shifts for crazy staffers that kept forgetting they needed to do things like eat or sleep. I didn't log hours but I figured I was decorated enough, and didn't need any more ribbons to boost my ego (Even though I reeeeeeeeeeally wanted my purple and gold RAVEN GOD one XD) The staff worked together like an emergency response team. I wonder why that was c.c ...

Booty:
Glow sticks, t-shirt, cup, art badge from , leather feather earrings, and a purple bunny hat. And...

♪ I got the purple shiny egg... I got the purple shiny egg... oh yeah... I got the purple shiny egg... I don't care what's inside it, but I got the purple shiny egg oh yeah, baby, oh yeah! ♪

Costumes:
I didn't get to have so much of a costume as just some fabulous outfits. And I DID look FABULOUS in my DAPPER hat.

Talent contest & Auction:
The talent contest was very entertaining and my neighbor can REALLY sing! I didn't even know! I didn't know that we would be the judges, either. I thought there was going to be a panel of judges.
These were my favorite activities. The auction was SO exciting, and I'll be working on some things to donate to it next year that I want to go for big moneys. I think the "tails" and the lady that got "69" from Uncle Kage was the funniest. I wanted that number one badge so goddamn bad but I just couldn't afford Raven God next year AND more than $100 for it, too. =s Those were my favorite activities, but I was never bored. If I was milling around, it was likely because I could not decide on what to do next. @_@ Also: bothering Hoodlums.

Party all the time, Party all the time:
By the time most of the parties came around, I was so drained from bouncing from place to place and laughing and meeting up with friends that I couldn't last the party. I mostly went to bed early. *old person* 473 attendees the first con?! Outstanding. In fact, Furthemore had more attendees and donated more to their charity in their first year than Anthrocon did in it's first year. Going to this con and having it be both local and impressive struck a chord in me. It is easy for me online to assume that I am not popular, that I have few friends and know very few people and even less furs. At a con, however, I could SEE the furs. I could hear them calling me and see them waving and smiling at me and feel their hugs. It was undeniably concrete. I could no longer dismiss their loving existence as part of a dream or a childish fantasy that I imagined to make myself feel better. You are all real and I am so glad.


;_;
Try not to cry...
Cry a lot...

did this meme.

And tagged me to do it.

Comment here and I will...

1) Tell you something I learned about you by looking at your FA page for 10 seconds.
2) Tell you a color you remind me of.
3) Tell you my first memory of you.
4) Ask you a question.
5) Tell you something I like about you.
6) Tell you the object that is in front of me.
7) Dare you Ask you politely to do this yourself in your own journal!

Ripped from 's journal.

Where are you staying?
Hunt Valley Inn

What day are you getting there?
Friday mornin.

Departure?
Sunday evening

Transportation?
Either Light Rail or Chris

Who will you be rooming with?
I was gonna be lonely, but now I have and his friend camping out with me.

Who will you hang out with during the convention?
I didn't think about that. I assumed everyone would be busy.

Will you be suiting?
I never finished a suit.

Which suits?
... :(

What is your gender?
Female

How tall are you?
5'5"

Are you taken? Are you looking for a 'mate'?
I am not looking for a mate.

Can I talk to you?
You can, but I am not responsible for the consequences. Last time I started a conversation with a stranger, she peed herself laughing.

Can I touch you?
As long as it is not my hands, face, or bathing suit area, and I have told you it is okay ahead of time.

How can I find you?
I bet I'll have a cool hat. And be purple.

Can I visit your room?
Why the hell not? Won't be anything happening in there though: party's out there!

Can I buy you drinks?
If they have no sugar or alcohol... ?

Can I hug or snuggle with you?
I will have a button that says FREE HUGS or HUGS OUT OF STOCK (try back later). Then you'll know. Snuggles are for my mates.

Are you nice?
Not really.

Do you have an artist table?
No; this is my first con. Didn't want to overdo it.

Will you be going to parties?
Unless people start being overly drunk or otherwise asses.

Will you be performing?
Nah.

Do you do drugs/drink/smoke?
Fuck that noise. Don't bring it in my room. Don't do drugs or smoke in front of me; I'll leave. Drink in front of me, eh... but if you're sloshed, just know I keep Sharpies on me.

If I see you, how should I get your attention?
"Archadia!" "Mary Hope!" or text me.

What/where will you be eating?
I will be celebrating my sister's birthday on Friday and eating sushi at Hunt Valley at the sushi restaurant there, but the rest of the time I'll be using my RAVEN GOD powers to eat at the hotel because HELL YES.

Can I come with you for food/fun/etc?
I bet I could invite you to some. Ask me for my phone number and text me.

Can I draw in your sketchbook?
I guess I should get one of those...

Can I take your picture?
Why would you want to do that?

What's your goal(s) for the con this year?
Find out what a furry convention is like, try not to be too angry at drunk people, and not be too boring at my panels I am doing.
Also eat sushi.

(I don't have time for extra voices when I take my medication as directed, but when I am lonely, all I have is extra time that I don't want to be doing the other responsibilities. So I let them all come.)

At 5:30 am, the light rail train comes every day. It's busier there at the station before that moment: there's no dark, empty echo of traffic against the concrete like a television program might make you think. A woman in a wrinkled business suit clops over to where she thinks the second train door will stop, but it doesn't. It never does. I am already standing there. The first door stops at the handicapped access ramp. The second door will stop two concrete blocks to the right of the trash can next to the new blue bench that the MTA put up. No one sits there. No one sits there especially in the morning because it's not under the train stop shelter and it's made of blue-painted metal that's very cold in the morning and leaves bars of freezing cold along your back and legs like you'd sat in death's hand for a minute.

Well I lied. I sat there once. That's how I know.

Anyway I am hiding my smile from the wrinkly-business-suit lady by chewing on my jacket zipper behind my scarf while she checks her tablet in her rolling suitcase. I have her spot.

She shouldn't do that, I think to myself. The cold breath I draw in between my teeth hurts my gums.
I know.. I think in reply, remembering all at once, in flashes, dark fingers snatching my phone from my hands, a pair of hands grabbing my bag followed by a splash of hot liquid, and, more recently, arms ripping mine from my coat, slashing the pockets, the crushing of my limbs against his shins and the burning of anger welling up...
Settle down! I reminded myself.
I shook my head to clear it and passed it off as a sneeze to the other people at the train stop. No one said anything or noticed, not even the man wearing the traffic vest pulling his daily aluminum cans out of the trash bins. He just kept rattling and rummaging. The construction workers were coughing and leaning against the clear acrylic of the stop shelter, spitting on the rock-salted sidewalk. Either I can feel the train grinding against the rails and sliding along the wires above before the others can, or they don't particularly care to get on it as fast as I do.
I shouldn't be this alert... by all rightful calculations, I haven't slept since Sunday at 11-o-something, and it now being Tuesday five-thirty... I mused, looking at my mismatched, one-black-and-one-purple-gloved hands, as if they were supposed to help me calculate.
I rolled my eyes at myself, Around forty-two hours. Not breaking any world records.
Yeah, well, you came back, so obviously I am hurting for something!
You needed me. You can't even do simple math.

Then I remembered as the train screeched in front of me that it wasn't Tuesday. It was Wednesday.
Holy shit.

I heard an impatient huff to my right. Wrinkly-suit lady was trying to get on the train and I was in her way and wasn't pushing the button. Oops. So much for being in a hurry to get on the train. In silent apology, I pushed the button and let her get on first.

I know I must have gotten on the train, because I remember shuffling around a spilled cola slushie whose straw, lid, and cup must have gotten off at another stop, however, I regained consciousness when the conductor cheerfully announced "Lexington Market... next stop... Centre Street... This train's destination: Hunt Valley."

Why?

Now I would have to get off at State Center. I wondered how different that was in the morning. It really was different than Lexington Market. First of all, it was devoid of all signs of life, and most activity except for the traffic lights. The traffic lights directed very little traffic compared to later in the day. I was impressed. No piles of corn feed for the pigeons. It was even cleaner here. This must be where the richer people work. The rich people don't want homeless people pissing in their Metro escalators. I considered coming to this stop every day just because it didn't smell like human urine, but it was so dark, it scared me.

Not that it matters, soon, anyway, I reminded myself, come the twenty-second, you'll not be working at this piss job any more, and you won't have to walk through early in the morning and get mugged three times in three months.
"Yeah," I accidentally whispered out loud. It echoed off the walls in the underground stop. A whisper? It was so empty here, it was easy to hear even the wind blowing around the sculptures. No... That was the train coming. I reached inside my pocket and raised my jacket, slid the underside against the contact of the gate, didn't even wait for the resulting "beep" before busting my way through and taking the stairs by twos to see which one it was. Hopkins. The alert and marquee started to blink, so I took my position at the back of the platform; I wanted to be close to the hospital entrance when the Metro got there.

I blacked out again, but I know I must have boarded the train because I got to Hopkins and regained consciousness at those terrible, revolving, automatic doors.

I had never seen an automatic revolving door before John's Hopkins. I can't think for the life of me what use they'd have. They're annoying; they move on their own when they sense people near them and, at about 6:30 in the morning, there are a LOT of people trying to get into the hospital to get to work. So of course only a few people can fit in at a time. Usually how this works is a line forms, some people go in and shuffle slowly and cattle-like until they reach the opening in the other side and scatter from each other. Once in a while, a person tries to squeeze in, even though she knows she can't possibly fit in before the space closes and the door, sensing that it may squish someone, stops. Everyone stops. Everyone turns around to stare at the person who has stopped the bloody door. The door, in a spaceship's computer voice, pleasantly says, "Please move forward..." Of course, no one can. So everyone listens to the door tell them to do the impossible until someone snaps and pushes the "push in case of emergency" doors in the middle, effectively making the door broken and just a plain corridor, which is more effective anyway, really.

Today the doors were 'broken' again. They are broken pretty much every morning unless MTA or hospital staff resets them. So I regain consciousness to an endless loop of...

"Please move forward..."

"Please move forward..."

"Please move forward..."

So I whispered, "No..."

And I turned around, numb, slow...

and I went back home.

---

Since that day I have been back in the emergency room, but not to go through to go to work, and not to get my breast lump removed. (Yes, it was removed. No, I did not need to get chemotherapy. No, do not dwell on it. No, do not send me awareness or survivor ribbons.)

Chris and I were in the middle of an argument [of which there have been many since last winter when we moved in with his grandfather and father] and I started having chest pains, so now I am on a blood thinner and being monitored for heart problems, on top of everything else.

I am taking my medications as directed now, but still having a voice keep me company, especially one that I hear that randomly tells me "I love you." I see this as harmless, so far, though peculiar, but I will keep an eye on it. The resurgence of the voice (one so far) probably has occurred because of a great amount of stress. Chris is asking for more 'me time'. When he is depressed I am increasingly annoying and unattractive to him. His grandfather is imposing absurd curfews because he thinks he hears us walking on the floor. Family members are sick. I am sick. My blood sugar is out of control. People at work are getting away with wretched things and every time Chris comes in I am the only one working with the kids while everyone else is sitting down eating or on their phones. I break out in hives when I go to the place...

Chris said something has to change.

So we decided that I am going back to school. I'll go for web design. Business. Something not dealing with the parents and other lazy teachers and adults getting away with things that they shouldn't because they're friends with someone.

And I'll be on his insurance for a while.

Hopefully things will get better. We can't keep spinning around in circles in this same spot forever.

We have to move forward.

"Entitled"

[Cross-posted from LJ]
[ Dwelling in | Baltimore, MD ]
[ Feeling | Intermittent ]
[ Hearing | Ally Kerr - Sore Feet Song ]

♪ ♫ I'm tired and i'm weak, but I'm strong for you.
I wanna go home, but my love gets me through.
La la lalala la lala la lala... ♪ ♫

It will have to get me through. I don't know where home is.

It can't be my domicile: Pop is having a few disconnects and starting to invite strangers into our private areas to throw things away. I shall write on it later. Right now, I have a rather important message for everyone.

I got pretty tired of Twitter the past few days and put myself in a Twittercoma. A few people were concerned I'd quit everything. Let me let you in on something:

If I had a plan to end me, which is still tempting from time to time, nonetheless, I would not tell you or announce it. I get exasperated with people that constantly complain on their social networks about one little problem or another that they can't handle, then announce, with great dramatic flourish, that they wish they were never born and want to die. That's great. So do most unhealthy people.
The secret is not that this annoys me, but that I would keep my plans a secret. When I am truly depressed and unmedicated and suicidal, I am a machine going through motions with the objective to delete program and all affiliated files. I am erasing myself step-by-step. I will give away things to people who can use them. I will slowly fade on social networks. I will remove friends and unwatch and unfollow. I will spend days thinking on how to make it look like an accident so that I don't leave people that depend on me with more problems than before - regardless of how foolish I might think it is at the time to depend on me.
The other secret?

There's not a shitting thing in this universe you could do to change my mind.

Even if I love you.

So when people clamber onto their social networks, shouting and threatening to end their lives, it's not that I don't care when I don't respond.

I just know that, if it's true, there's nothing I can do.

I just have to wait until, like me, something snaps them out of it. Some memory scribbled on a notepad. A piece of art. A song lyric. Knowing that no one else will clean the fish tank. A promise that would be broken. A button. The taste of my favorite tea. A butterfly in winter. Rain. A nostalgic game. A birthday present stashed in the closet, un-given.

But there's not much anyone else can do. I have to find that thing myself.

Until then, I'll have to jump from one reminder to the next and, if, for some reason, I never find my secret reminder?

There was nothing you could do. I was sick. It was not your fault.

I will probably ignore you if I don't like it hard enough.

As much as I adore my friends and their friends and enjoy having a forever-expanding social network full of interesting people...

My doctor has finally told me that reducing my stress is very crucial to my survival. I need to cut away the souring parts so that the rest of me can be healthy (literally and figuratively).

So if you are sad that I do not watch you any more, it does not mean you are not my friend or that I think you are below me or any number of horrible things you could say that it means. There could be a few of several reasons:
• I cannot keep reading your very aggressive, political, attention-/money-panhandling, or just plain upsetting journals.
• My blood pressure increases as a result of your poor spelling or grammar. A few mistakes are okay, but for the love of anything holy, please pick a language someone else speaks.
• The Cards Against Humanity card "a big black dick" can sum up most of your art.
• I can't put past transgressions between us behind me.
• I can't remember who you are or how we met, indicating that you don't talk to me at all.
or
• Put simply, you drive me crazier.

(Most of the people that apply to that last one aren't even on the Internet, so I have no idea how to 'unfollow' them.)

So. I could very well still be your friend, but not want to follow you on one network. The world is still whole and good, in general.

Everything we're passing by in the car or in the car is making me fantasize. The eighteen-wheeler ahead of us suddenly has it's doors jerk open and drops a load of fatal objects through the windshield into my shaking and awaiting heart, or the windshield scraper is the perfect size and shape to deal me an appropriate level of suffering.
I know I'll get over it. I have to give presents after all and look presentable to family and friends.
I also know I am not the only one to want to deal myself a deserving level of suffering, or at least one worthy of such crimes as I've committed. It's just a matter of time until I realize I have too much to do to go through with this right now.

I am lucky I wrote it down to remind myself. How arrogant, though!

♪ ♫ Where are you romance? Why can't I find you? Why have you gone away? ♪ ♫

(Cross-posted from LJ)

I was making the lasagna bake, whipped eggs into the ricotta. Salt. Oregano. Basil. Parsley. Black pepper. Parmesan. Fold in mozzarella. I mumbled to myself. I patted it onto the tomato-sauce-and-penne with all the coordination of a 2-year-old making a mud pie. I couldn't help it: I was distracted. I knew why Chris's father wanted to meet with him. We both did. We worked about the kitchen in silent dread. Without my saying a word, Chris picked up the hefty casserole and slid it into the oven. Heat ruffled his shirt and brushed over my hair and face. I glanced at Chris. He sadly looked at me and pulled me into a hug. Some of my anger evaporated. More silence as we put the dishes away. I fumed silently as I shuffled things from counter to fridge or trash.

Chris's half-sister makes up the most terrible trash, I thought, and all for attention. Didn't she know she can ruin lives lying about this kind of thing? I knew it didn't really happen to her the way she was melodramatically recounting it to her friends, either. If it had, she wouldn't want to remember it. She wouldn't... Brag. I took out my frustration on an innocent glass jar by breaking it against the bottom of the recycling bin. The sound made me shudder. I tried not to remember why.

The whole ordeal worsened in a moment because I remembered that, before his dad mentioned he had to have a word with Chris, my poor husband had revealed that he did not really enjoy our intimacy and he just preferred to go it alone. I could no longer pretend it was his OCD flaring up, or because it was because I was so very sick, or because he was just tired after work.

We sat at the table. The only sounds coming from the rhythmic, mechanical sloshing of the dishwasher and the periodic hiss of Chris's blade around the coupons. I shoved them unceremoniously into my coupon wallet folder labeled "December". The forty minutes went by in this way, a garlicky, tomato-basil-scented blur.

I looked through my ring, sparkling at me from my left hand, which I had wrapped around the serving spatula with vengeance. I executed the casserole with jabbing, terminal cuts. I simply can't focus on feeling homely tonight, I reminded myself. I couldn't. Even though the word Desire seemed to burn itself into my ring finger, I couldn't make tonight about how sorry I felt about myself. How sorry I was to Chris and his putting in over-time and toting around a woman for whom he had no physical attraction. I had to feel worth it. I had to do all the other things right.

If you can't at least be attractive, I told myself, at least be a good wife. You can't be a mother, at least be a good cook and homemaker. If you can't be well, at least stop complaining about it.

He told me it was good. I am a good cook, he says. Thank you so much, sweetie, he says. It was a flat reading of his internal script.

I knew he was saving energy to prepare for the wall of his sister's lies he was going to have to dig through.

I feel like even more lies. Desire, I scoffed. I had chosen it for my engraving inside my wedding ring because it was important to me. Desire makes me live. If I did not stir in him a desire for anything, for life, for communicating, yes, even for sex, then, well... I failed him. I'd lied during my vows even. I couldn't finish eating. The big ugly lie burned in my stomach. I tasted the disgust from it. I am the disgust from it.

I caught sight of his wedding ring on the doorknob, before the door made a terrible and final click, and felt the corners of my eyes tingle dangerously. I felt even more ashamed to be a lie, then, especially after he had braved the anxiety of my reaction to tell me how he actually felt: how he only was intimate to make me happy. It was like a duty or chore to him. I had felt angry and betrayed at first. Once I realized I never asked him if he enjoyed being intimate, I was crushed. I had been selfish. I felt terrible to be such a lie. I had not filled my duty. I hadn't even filled my own desire to know how he'd felt. I had not been "Desire".

His ring engraving, inside, says "Honesty."

I sealed the leftover food away. My body felt cold and weak and sick again. All the things he does for me and I thank him by being undesirable.

I heard the rain cry softly on my window. I softly cried myself to sleep on my pillows.

(Cross-posted from LJ)

I light a candle early this morning just to look at the flames. I'm waiting for the doctor to call back. No work again today. Rain pelts the window as I sit in the bathroom with no lights except the candle reflected three times in three mirrors.

I am remembering the fire. Well, as I am dragging my finger through the soot of this candle, I am remembering cleaning up after the fire. Lots of aloe was used on flesh, metal scrapers on floors. I would step on a lump of hardened polyester for a few weeks after. I couldn't get them all up.

We didn't lose many things.

Of course, the quilt that his mother made for me on my last birthday had some melted spots. For decorative and comfort purposes, it's ruined; it has black, scratchy, hard borders around the burn sores. Chris still uses it now. He couldn't throw it away and run the risk of his mother possibly finding out what had happened. I think he partially uses it to punish himself for what had happened. That realization makes me wince.

Lost three feather pillows and a jersey fitted sheet. My silky comforter has some rough spots, too. The plastic lamp beside the bed... melted.

He has regrown the patch of hair on his head that burned away. I have a scar on my breast, and tiny ones on my belly that's slowly fading. I have a rumpled sense of trust now. Now, when he drinks, I can't sleep. I have to run away now even if he's just having a few at home.

All that is lucky. We're lucky it wasn't worse, right? So why am I still thinking about it?

I'm drawing a heart with the ashes and sitting here, talking about drawings with other people... suddenly I feel my eyes burn at the corners. I push the candle away so hard it goes out, in a key-lime-and-paraffin spiral of smoke rippling to the ceiling. I can see ripples of my pencil drawings, even in the dark. I close the ripples out of my eyes and guard each eye with one of my fists. I relive finding the sketchbook.

The whole place smelled of melted plastic and made my throat hurt even worse than it already had before I'd went to bed early. It was like I swallowed permanent markers. I was still panicking, but triumphant - I'd put out the fire. Me. I did. I huffed and puffed on the fire alarm to silence it. I did start to feel big and bad. Then, the corner of my eye, a faint glow and more dark smoke. One more pillow was still on fire. I picked it up (and the books under it, still smouldering) and put them in the tub, too. Put the shower on again. Ugh, I hoped the black parts would come out of the tub. If not, this was coming right out of our safety deposit. I looked at the books that were now wet and burned. Chris's Game Informer magazine fell apart, a soggy piece of periodical toast in my fingers. No big loss. I think he'd been done reading it anyway. Then I saw what else was in the pile.

"God, please, no..."

Yes. The hundred-page sketchbook floated, wrecked and pillaged, in the bathtub flotsam. I snatched it, not caring for the moment how threateningly hot it was (especially the spiral part, which burned my hand and forearm in a few places), but wanting to save the drawings. No... no no no..." I leafed through pages stuck together, big bites taken out and browned. Some pages were just gone. Some were black. I couldn't even count all 54 drawings, the water had mixed with the ashes and glued them together. I finally flipped to the last drawing. It only had one burn spot. I ripped it out of the book with surgical precision from each wire in the spiral. The empty pages were mostly unburned. At this, I may have snorted aloud.

Just a few minutes before, everything was on fire, and rushing, and urgent. Now everything was wet. I don't remember how I felt as I hung up the drawing to dry in the dining room and fetched the garbage bag. I don't remember doing that part, but I must have. I remember the wetness and the moist, poison-tasting air. Opened all the windows, my feet slow, waterlogged even though I hadn't gotten them wet. My face was wet. A tear splashed against the new hole in the flesh of my breast. I remember thinking that it should burn, but it was a small thought that quickly evaporated. I stuffed soaked pillows into my black plastic sack. Burnt feathers, now, and burnt hair, slowly started to take over, and I blew the smell out of my nostrils at the sacrifice of taking in more scratchy air through my throat.

It was gone. I don't even remember giving first aid to Chris (but I did because he was in no shape to have done it), but I remember drying out that picture and re-drawing it on printer paper. I hadn't even scanned in most of those pictures, if any. It was supposed to be a surprise. It was supposed to be a gift. It was going to be 100 pages of six-horned dragon in graphite and a few colored pencils. That book was older than... well, it's gone, now. But the wet, smouldering anger isn't.

And now I know... that's why I still think about it. I am still really very angry. Even if you boiled it down to work-hours, I'd worked on that longer and harder than anything I'd made in years and years. I'd put love into that book. I never told Chris everything we lost, just cleaned up after him and swallowed that anger down. It's been growing like a cactus inside me ever since.

What good would it do to tell him, anyway? He can't change it now. He can only change what he will do.

I could start over, be more careful this time and not leave my sketchbooks on the cushions. It's been hard for me to draw with a pencil and not taste the wet, sulky ashes, but I can heal. I will. Maybe I will draw them again.

I light a candle early this morning just to look at the flames. I'm waiting for the doctor to call back. No work again today. Rain pelts the window as I sit in the bathroom in the dawning light, the candle reflected three times in three mirrors.

(Crossposted from LJ)
I was up until 2:30 last n-... This morning. Woke up sweating, scratching at fleas, then the alarm screamed at me: 4:15, time to throw up, cover the taste of that nightmare in your mouth, purple one.
Honestly it tasted the same as the nightmare; sage green curtains with bubblegum trim hanging from the ceiling. White walls reflecting pink. White, crunchy hospital sheets reflecting pink. Pink absorbing into my skin and through my body and overflowing my mouth. Ugh - pink.
I never used to really mind that color.
Not until October.
Awareness month.
Forget aware. I'm paranoid.
I go to bed every night hoping it was just a nightmare. Wake up and it's still there. I want to sleep - to escape it. I don't want to sleep - the nightmares taste terrible. The worry tastes acid pink, like my insides, turned to vinegar by the rest of October. So gross.
I brush my teeth. No use going back to bed, now. At least it doesn't taste like pink. Thank you, research foundation, for making me hate that color. Ohgods! Think of SOMETHING ELSE! Elaine said try to limit the worrying about that to ten minutes a day. While I make Chris's coffee, like I used to do, I scolded myself.
Think about anything else!
I thought about what I would put in Chris's egg wrap. Feta cheese and chicken and olives. Tomatoes. Nothing pink... NO! Stop! ... Fold them in to the green spinach wrap, diagonal slice.
The same shade of green as that bastard that tried to take my bag yesterday... I thought about what I'd done, sliding the hot measuring cup of soup out of the microwave, pouring it into the thermos. Still-bubbling broth hit the wax paper underneath. I smirked.
Stupid fuck had it coming. The thing about picking a distracted-looking target when you're trying to purse snatch is you never know if they're distracted because they're crazy. Plus you can't tell on a purple beach bag if it's full of electronics or shoes or a wallet or... Just a bunch of preschool drawings and cut-up magazines.
I must have been smiling then. Chris came out of the shower pulling on socks, whispering, "Nice to see you so happy, honey. Thank you for breakfast and coffee and lunch." I put down the thermos and twisted the stopper on it. Hah.
Not happy: satisfied. I didn't correct him, just mouthed 'you're welcome' and made the hand sign for it. He kidnapped the egg wrap with an approving look. Coffee. It was finished brewing. I looked into the steam creeping up and away from the sides of the travel mug and grinned like a villain at the reflection of my eye in the blackness.
Steam had risen off the concrete when I'd got him. I got him good! I don't remember when I decided I wanted hot tea that morning, but when my thumb involuntarily flung off the lid and my right arm whipped around, discus-style, I was thinking about that kid that took my phone two Thursdays before. Not this time, bitch! I may have thought it, I may have said it. Success smelled like bergamot and dirt. Cursing. His. Mine. It sounded like curse words. I turned his curses right back at him. My speech reverted to street; 'Yo, bitch, ain't nothin' even IN there, you stupid fuck!' Insult to injury, impulsive, threw the cups at him, too, as I turned and ran, fear overtaking anger. Run, bitch, run! I screamed to me. It was hot tea, not a bullet!My chest burned with rage and strain, I skidded down the metro escalator. I slowed down at the gate. Beep.
Looked behind me. He'd have been an idiot to follow me down here with the MTA cop here. Good. I hoped he was blinded, still holding his stupid face with both gloved hands. Dirty nails poking out of each cut-off finger. Gray strings. Why can I remember these tiny things, and not his face?
I set the travel mug of coffee next to Chris and put the soup, salad, and chips in his lunch box. "You gettin' another Earl Grey this morning?" he smiled a bit as he whispered.
How did he know I ... "Nah. Varying my route. I want to wear my other coat so I look different."
"Good idea."
We moved about Pop's kitchen as silently as possible for the next few minutes. I scolded myself, meanwhile.
The thing about fighting back when someone steals from you is you never know if they're CRAZY. I could have missed. He could have ended me. I could have...
Hey, I said to me, if he had, you'd never have to find out about... You know. Your appointment on your birthday.
I was doing so well NOT thinking about it. The ten minutes is up. Stop.
Ugh. Pink.
There's the taste again. Oily, acid, salmon pink. Think of something else.
My eyes settled on my Figment keychain. My whole body settled and softened. I didn't realize I had been clenching every muscle I could.
Disney.
If I didn't find out, and I gave up... The only two good days in October... I'd never have them again... Or anything like them.
I'll go. I'll go even though the appointment is on my birthday. I'll go and find out. Whatever it is, I'll kick it. I want more days like those two days. Fireworks and roller coasters and special effects and even flying were nothing like listening to you sing and falling asleep on your shoulders. I need it... to last.

I have already been a ghost.

I wish... I wish...

A gentle voice.
A slow dance.
Loving whispers.
Peace. Safety. Calm.

My therapist raised her eyebrow at me. "I hope you're writing this down," she said. I said I do, sometimes, but I should write it more.
She typed some notes in her summary report before she printed it out for me. There were some supplement names that might help me get, well, keep myself together. As if on the same train car of thought, she added, "You seem to have things organized. You have things together, but your stress levels are really complicating things for you."
Really? "Yeah. I keep saying... I just couldn't make this stuff up if I tried." Nor if I wanted to. I didn't ask for any of these problems. I didn't even get to tell her that I was splitting apart again, and talking to myself and arguing. It's a matter of three, now. I have nothing nice to say, and neither do I nor I. I/We just argue around in circles and worry.

See, usually I catastrophize. I collapse in a pile of self-loathing and, from my low vantage point, all of the molehills look insurmountable. This time, things were really... truly happening to me. In a row. And I didn't cause them for once. It was all stuff that wasn't my fault.

When I got back from Disney, I visited the doctor. Labs were unimpressive. Medications switched around. My kidneys aren't doing so well. And then I found out...

that there were mysterious lumps in uncomfortable places. I waited a week. It did not go away. It was no mosquito bite. It was not a rash. It was not menstrually related. I know what those lumps feel like. I was also not keeping down food again. Hmm. Maybe it was a cyst? Yes, that's it. It has to be that. It would be too stupid for me to find a lump there during Breast Cancer Awareness month. No way. Stupid, hokey, all that.

The doctor felt around. "Is it sore?"
"Nope!" I said, a bit too happily. I figured out from her expression that... this was not the 'right answer'. Fuck. I was so used to pain being a signal for something else going wrong in my body that I suppose I thought if it didn't hurt that it was harmless. She looked concerned.
"Well, it is red, let's put some heat on it for about ten days and let the antibiotics run their course." She must've seen my eyebrows sink in worry, because she added, "Women get lumps that look like this very often, and, most of the time, it's nothing serious to worry about; treat it with heating pad and take all of the medication. If it seems to get worse, or if it's still there after ten days, then we can rule out a skin infection."
I didn't want to rule out a skin infection. It was nothing. It's nothing. It doesn't even hurt.
And then the attack of the pink AWARENESS. Ribbons. Posters. Bracelets.
AllRIGHT I am fucking aware. OKAY?!


Therapist says, "Spend about ten minutes of pre-allocated time thinking about it, and making your list of worries, and then you can be done with it for the day."
Ha. She's funny. I would say I couldn't leave the house, but even if I don't... people are posting pictures and motivational posters and advertisements feature pink ribbon BAGELS.

I. Am. Aware.

Painfully. Make it stop. I can't do anything about it right now except worry, and that agitates everything else that's wrong with me. I think they're wrong about that, too. I feel so broken and worn. I lost so much weight in the hospital. I am tired of the hospital. I am tired of the blood tests. I can tell them EXACTLY where to draw the blood. "No... that's too high... there you go." I am sure that eventually that spot is going to be unusable.

"Are you testing your blood sugar?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Why should I?"

Well whatever. Then there's the Big Fight. He had too much after he had done so well. I was a fool to ask him to choose between me and beer when he was already drunk, but I didn't expect that, even drunk, he'd EVER pick beer over me.

Ouch.

Just ouch. So? So I left. I packed my computer and meds and a change of clothes or two. I surfed couches for what ended up being only a week, but felt like forever. Making it to work was a challenge. I felt utterly ridiculous, but I wanted him to feel his decision. When my Chris came back, he'd ask for me, right? He'd admit he was wrong. He'd be sorry. He'd get help.

We argued over text throughout the weekend. Sunday I went to the RennFest with Kit & Irime. I wore my wedding dress. I hoped I didn't look sullen, but it was one thing that I hadn't kept down much food that week, got bad news at the doctor, and then had Chris choose beer over me. I am sure I smiled a few times. I am lucky to have local friends now. Even so, it was a bit hurtful to have people that were taking pictures of my fursuiting friends motion me out of the pictures. Damn. Didn't belong there either, huh? Sorry to ruin your picture. I bought Kit & Irime some water. They are good friends and didn't like to see me excluded, but it's really not their fault I look and am out of place in most places.

The weekend came and went and Chris didn't say another word to me. He posted with sarcastic pride on his status, I'd learned from someone else, that his wife had left him, does anyone feel like going on a nice, long trip? One of his co-workers 'liked' it.

I knew it would be a while. I kept sneaking back for clothes and toiletry refills and to feed the rabbit.

Then Monday I went into an art chat for the new Baltimore con coming up in April. I just knew that this was the distraction I needed. Friends I could make jokes with and be silly and pretend nothing is wrong, right? Wrong.

In fact, I was kicked out of that chat room. Booted from it. For the first time ever. Wow. I hadn't even said anything vulgar or even rude.

I think that's when I started to crumple. My spirit was very worn at that point. I was tired. I was tired of being ... anywhere. I didn't belong at home, with my friends, or even online. If only I were a genie, I would think, then I could be around when people wanted me, and not around when no one cared.

But I am a very lucky dragon, and I forgot that people cared about me very much. It is easy for me to forget these very important things.

I got a text from someone special. It reminded me how lucky I was. I'd had two beautiful nights to treasure. If I gave up, even if I lived longer than that one loose-lipped nurse said I would, I'd never see him again. As it was, I knew it'd be years, but I can't deteriorate now. I have to last.

So I kept going to work.

Then Thursday. The thief made off with my phone.

I was at the metro about to go into the gate. I was texting someone that I loved them. No signal. I'll just put it away until later and...

They never got the text. No. No. No! Give it back! and then a stream of obscenities so wretched... in that moment, I don't think any English or intelligible words came from my body. It wasn't that they stole a thing from me. I was tricked. They were laughing at me like it was a game. It was funny to them. They didn't need that phone. All I heard was their laughter. Laughing at that poor stupid white bitch that doesn't have her phone now. I chased the bastard up the escalator and around the bend for a block and a half, screaming like some kind of monster. People parted out of my way. I don't know what I was going to do if he'd not outrun me, but I think it had a lot to do with my hands-made-into-claws around his throat and feeling his skull hit the pavement until he no longer moved.

That's why guns shouldn't be allowed to people. If I'd had one, there'd be three dead black juveniles in the metro. And it'd have been called a hate crime, because that's the way people think in Baltimore.

In retrospect, their clothes were probably worth more than that phone. They probably have more money than I do. I seethed. The rest of the police helping me was a blur, but I remember they'd spoken with a witness who had thought they heard someone trading an iPhone for two bags of weed. GPS tracked them until they turned the phone off.

Seeeeeeeethe. That phone was like an extension of my brain. I was angry. I am still angry. I am quite sure I would have killed him for daring to humiliate and steal from me.

Given my set of conditions, there's about a 50-50 chance that if you attack me in the city, that I will curl up into a ball and cry or come after you like a wild thing and murder you with my bare hands. That day it was the last thing.

And I am very very lucky. Lucky that I did not catch up with them. Lucky that the MTA police had already been called because those boys had looked suspicious to the gatekeeper. Lucky that Chris had a replacement phone that only needed a screen repaired. Lucky that I password protect everything on my phone and shut it down and blacklisted it immediately after I knew the police could no longer track the rat bastards. Lucky that I have supportive friends.

I didn't get to tell my therapist about the theft, yet, but I think she'll disagree that I am lucky. She'll tell me I am holding it together.

I think, though, that for every terrible thing that has happened to me this month, a wonderful thing has happened. My medications were changed and I don't burn inside as much any more. I might get this other medical thing taken care of and find out I don't even have Lupus, after all. My friends supported me and let me camp out on their couches. Chris is going to get the help he needs. People love me.

I am the luckiest dragon.

(crossposted from LJ)

My phone was stolen and it had all my contact info, numbers, etc in it, so I can't contact anyone except through IM for a while. Until I get a replacement, because I doubt that it will be found, I can't call or text anyone.

Worst part is they laughed at me as they ran off with it. They didn't even need it. They wanted to pawn it off for drugs or something.

I needed it... I used it every day.

Couldn't he have just shot me instead? Gotten it over with? Each day is getting worse and worse.

If you had just ... one wish...?

What if you were one of THOSE people.

The one that, well... you're on their follow lists so that they know when to switch into invisible mode.

How would you know?

What could you DO?

The past whole weekend has had a theme of just me not belonging anywhere. The thing I want the most, I can't have, no matter how much I whine for it, so it's really not worth getting upset over, but I would settle for just hearing that voice, instead. I belonged there.

I had so much fun at RennFest with and . I think it would be so much more fun to have gone in a suit, though. Can you believe one lady actually motioned me out of the picture with them? I scooted away for most of the rest of the pictures. (One lady was nice enough to take my picture, too, but I willingly bowed out of most of them. I was kind of the odd one out. As much as I admit that I do participate in the occasional drama, I admit, it was fun making the pouty face at that first lady and making everyone else go "Awwwwwwwwwwh that's terrible D:" and call her a mean ol' bitch... mwuhahahahaha!!!) XD

For reasons I really don't want to get into on here, I am hopping from couch to couch right now, and not living at home, and kind of stressed out. (I never know where my next shower will come from, but I know I will get one, so no worries.) Because of this, I was really happy to get out and be at the Festival. I wasn't my usual self, but I needed to be with friends very much. I am very very lucky to have such great friends. Maybe I am a luck dragon!

When I finally get back to a stable home environment, I need to start working on my partial. I am all excited about one now.

[Unabridged:]
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
1:48 PM

Mom: Hope ur havin a good time boober


Me: thank you mom


Mom: i liked ur hotdog stick


Me: Chris didn't like it but I did.
I put it in too long he said


Mom: its all in fun


Me: yep!

I need to make a ref of myself, but bah.

What do you guys think? Please leave tips and suggestions for making a ref that is useful. I already have 'weird' and 'unique' covered.

So I'm looking at snowshoe hares on Google images and Chris says...
"Oh, that one is definitely me..." and goes into all of the similarities between his personality traits and traits of snowshoe hares (winter jackrabbits), wrapping up by saying, "I mean... those are my favorite rather than the Belgian... you know. Just... I like them. You know."

I was just very quiet... but you know inside I was thinking...
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA YEAH YOU FUCKING FURRY!

I'm going to make him salad tomorrow.

Don't cry to me. If you loved me, you would be here with me.

You want me? Come find me.

Make up your mind.