"Je dis que ça soulage"

En mode "Tontons flingueurs", je n'ai peut-être pas été juste envers le vétérinaire que nous avions appelé quand notre matou est tombé malade, mais le gars n'a jamais rappelé et notre chat est mort.

Et puis, quand on dit dans la description de son cabinet qu'on se déplace - et même de nuit, on se déplace. Sa secrétaire/épouse nous disait de venir au cabinet, mais, sans voiture, c'était coton, surtout pour faire dix bornes sur une départementale hyper-fréquentée avec à l'épaule un chat malade dans son sac de transport.

1- SOS lancé. 2- Pas de nouvelles. 3- Un chat mort.

Mon adorable boule de poils était peut-être condamnée de toute façon, mais je ne le saurais jamais maintenant et le véto n'a JAMAIS pris la peine de rappeler.

Il est mentionné sur "PagesJaunes", "VetClic" et... Google. Comme j'étais connectée à Google, j'ai pu mettre un commentaire où je raconte ma mésaventure avec ce professionnel. Injuste ? Peut-être, mais quand on dit qu'on rappelle, on rappelle. Quitte à mentir et dire qu'on a trop de patients à voir.

Ça, c'était pour le véto qui nous a ignoré... 

Le gars à cause de qui mon chat est tombé malade... Là je n'ai pas fini de faire des offrandes régulières aux dieux, histoire de lui pourrir son karma - et là, je m'en tape de savoir si c'est injuste, ça soulage.

Winter News

Work is a bit mad these days, and I'm oddly tired.

Perhaps what happened to me yesterday was exacerbated by my exhaustion... I don't know. What happened was that, last summer I'd mentioned to a relative a plot for a comedy that had popped into my head, and - for once - the answer was, 'Oh, that sounds interesting!', so I stored the idea in my "plot bunny pen" (aka the idea folder on my computer) and I let it grow.

This month, the comedy plot bunny managed to tackle me, and I wrote the play. It may not be unforgettable, but it's a good comedy... which is going to stay in my desk drawer.

Last night, I was talking about my current Sci-Fi plot with the same relative, but this time, I got a 'You're really weird you know. Not in a good way.'.

I usually brush off my relatives' negativity because I know why they're being so manipulative and such bullies... Sometimes, their words hit where it really hurts (last year, I ended up being so hurt that I stopped everything, and it was my brother who convinced me to not stop writing).

So, last night, I decided that my relatives wouldn't get to see the new play. Ever... and I don't know what I'll do with it in the long run.

On top of everything, I was listening to the radio last night, and a song I'd forgotten made me cry.

It's the chorus that got me (roughly translated it goes 'Each new day is a day too many. I'm about to collapse'). 

Truly beautiful song, but it broke my heart.

I still miss Him. I'll always miss Him.

PS: I'm really not looking forward to Christmas with the family...

Still Missing Him

After watching a series I really love tonight, I started changing channels, firmly convinced that I'd turn the telly off to go back to my computer. There was a channel showing episodes of The Mentalist; I found myself watching because I'll always associate the last episode of that series with the last time I was happy before He left for the island with no phones and no Wi-Fi.

It's been 568 days, and I'll keep counting until I start packing to go to the island myself...

Apart from the fact that I can still smile or cry thinking about Him, there's a Cole Porter song that makes me think of Him.

Here's a version of it with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire:

Walk in My Shoes

It's funny how people on Twitter (I'm not on Facebook, but I guess it's the same over there) retweet and like things, but they seldom actually chat. I'm not such a big fan of silence, so I try to talk to people when they send something that touches me one way or the other.

Yesterday, Louise Brealey sent a link to a video about abuse. Even though I'm fine these days (that's a wonder with the amount of stress generated by the launch of our company!), that short video made me cry because it reminded me that my own mother is either in denial about what my abuser did to me or she really believes that I should have been back to normal five minutes after he left.

This is not how it works.

My soul is scratched - but healing.

My heart was broken - but I've found some glue to repair it... though the tiniest pieces are fucking hard to put back where they belong.

When I met my abuser, some people I knew could have warned me against him. They didn't.

It took him six hours to worm his way into my coat of armour and toss me into a tiger trap where I woke up, broken, hurt, lost. Lost... important part of the issue in my case. I couldn't figure out what was going on.

One day, I remember thinking, as it's often the case with victims, 'Why do I allow him to do these things to me?' and then... it hit me. It was the wrong question.

The right question was, 'Why does he think he has the right to treat me like this?'

He had no right to hurt me.

Too bad for me, he was a manipulator, and he'd found all my buttons within hours of meeting me, and he could abuse me all he wanted.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm healing.

Yesterday, someone at @BoxRoomFilms tweeted me with kind words after I mentioned being a survivor. That was quite nice. It was 'Hey! Stay strong, fellow human being!'

And this morning, I got this:

Ah.

So it's my fault if I was stupid enough to pick up a snake. I was bitten, and I'm the only one to blame - because me, myself, and I, we picked up a snake.

That was a lovely punch to the gut.

Miss Valicia thinks victims are the only ones to blame.
Miss Carla felt the need to remind me that I was stupid enough to pick up a snake, so I deserved being bitten.

Thank you so much, sisters.

No wonder my friends in town don't want to hear what I have to say when I feel a bit low because of the long-term consequences of the abuse, and no wonder my own mother wants to forget about the whole thing.

As I told Miss Carla, this is victim-blaming AND my snake looked like a bloody canary when I met him. He was delightful until he morphed into his own version of Mr Hyde. AND, to the rest of the world, he was ALWAYS Mr Charming.

I'm not stupid.

I wasn't stupid back then.

I was targeted by a sick wanker, who, unfortunately, was twisted enough to find a way to control me long enough to do with me as he pleased.

It's frigging easy to say 'Don't pick up a snake if you don't want to be bitten!'. These creatures don't show their fangs until it's too late and the VICTIM cannot escape.

I wish we could eradicate all forms of abuse, but it seems that there's still a lot of education to do if we don't want the Valicias and Carlas of the world to hand out useful advice to not pick up the snake, but it seems that people who haven't been walking in the shoes of a victim of abuse simply cannot understand how devastating and paralysing it can be to find oneself into the clutches/fangs/whatever of a gifted abuser.

We're not stupid.
Our abusers are twisted. They're the ones who must be blamed. To keep working on the snake image, the issue isn't 'Why did the girl pick up the snake in the first place?', but 'Why did that snake think it had the right to bite its rescuer?'.
Victim-blaming isn't nice. There's no need to pile up more negativity on the backs of victims.
I suspect that Miss Carla is in the US. I'll see if she answers when she gets up, but I doubt it...

My first play will be out in June, and I must say I'm 'happy' that it's about abuse and the dire consequences it can generate.

The Planet I Want [John Lennon & Yoko Ono: WAR IS OVER! (If You Want It)]

I dream of a planet where we're not killing our children. A planet where soldiers are paid to rescue kittens up fir trees, rebuild houses and schools (or build them from scratch in remote places), go deliver babies in the mountain, and dig wells (for water, not oil).

When is our species going to grow up and get rid of greed? We all kick the bucket, and no one takes their gold to the (non-existent) afterlife.

PS:bloody onions! It's getting worse...

Opposable Thumbs Aren't a Licence to Kill

I'm quite furious, so don't mind the cosmic-sized growl (and do click back if you believe that bipeds are the crème de la crème on our planet - oh, or if you like politically correct crap).

I recently signed a petition to try to save a Mamma Bear who was accused of killing an off-trail hiker. I've just read that she was slaughtered.

This is what happened and here's a very good statement on the topic.

The first to say that 'she was just an animal, and a dangerous one!' gets Gibbs-smacked with a rolling pin to Kingdom come.

She was a good mother, who was executed (and her two orphaned cubs may be killed or sold to slavery).

The whole situation made me furious: the arrogance of the bipeds, who think they own the rock (no, you don't, Cupcakes; you share it with all the other lives on it), and the officials hiding behind pseudo-science in order to sell their 'We had to kill her' to the average sheeple who'll think "Oh, well, if there was no other way... They know what they're doing; it's their job" (I want to cuff the idiotic sheeple and bite the officials for resorting to slaughter).

And then, there's the first comment on the page of the second link I just gave you, where a delightful biologist resorts to comparing apple and cheese by mentioning a story where a bear, in town (fake gasp & Sarcasm font firmly on), invaded someone's house. Hashtag Crikey.

I find it revealing that the first comment talks about a completely different scenario.
If I were to find a bear in my flat, I'd wonder how he got in (we don't leave our doors open where I'm parked), and then I'd run outside before calling people equipped to deal with him (we don't keep firearms either - we have no need for them).

It must be cool to think that you're so special that you can invade an animal's territory and have it killed if it nibbles you, but the animal cannot visit your house. 'Oh, nooooo! It's an animal that must stay where it belongs!' Well, sorry, Cupcake, but it belong on this planet, just like you. You're not special because you can hold a can of soda or load a gun - not in my book, at least.
If I were to venture in Yellowstone, I'd be on the bears' turf, and they can do whatever they want. If I'm stupid enough to not follow the safety rules and I end up turned into bear snack, that's karma (and probably a spot of Darwinism).

Seriously, do read Dr Bekoff's page (still link #2); it's enlightening on many levels.

A very good mother was massacred because some bipeds wanted to punish her for being a bear.

All bipeds stepping outside (parks and forests aren't just enough, as the average plonker will go scratch the head of a cobra for a good selfie) should sign standard waivers to prevent future slaughters.

I really wish I could keep Curiosity company; things must be quiet on Mars!

More Tears

I hate being right about some people.

Yesterday, I was already saying that I was dreading what I would be told about the piece of news that broke my heart. And I was right. 

I was told, in order:

- It happens.

- That's life.

- You had to be expecting it.

- That's not your family, so don't be sad (read: you're not allowed to be sad).

Oh, I knew...

I knew that unless I blew a fuse and ended it all, that day would happen.

And why would I be sad?

In order:

- He's been the most important person in my life - for 3/4 of said life (and I don't remember much about life before him).

- One thing leading to another, if it weren't for him:

     * I wouldn't be the person I am today

     * I wouldn't be a teacher

     * I wouldn't be a writer

     * there are so many things that I'd never have discovered

I know there's nothing I can do.

I know I'm not a relative.

I am sad.

I am sadder than I've ever been.

It's not an act; it's a fact.

I can't decide if I'm dealing with people who have 'Stiff upper lip in all situations' imprinted in their DNA or if they enjoy adding to my sadness - and I don't care. I'd like a hug and a dose of empathy for a change.

Tears

My Morning Star is gone.
Everything's in such darkness now.
Breathing's so hard.
My heart's missing a piece.
My soul's crying.

失  あ  空

恋  な  虚

と  た  で

。  を  。

逃 

す 

、 

Emptiness.

I miss you,

With a broken heart.

©Drusilla de Lanor [February, 28^th, 2015]

It's Not Quantum Physics...

This is a post about idiotic bipeds who cannot take care of a pet properly.

Let's talk about imaginary people (not people I know and I have to refrain from Gibbs-smacking because they deserve it every other time they open their mouths - no, not at all, and you do realize that I'm going to growl about people I do know, though the situation applies to the whole category of plonkers). Let's say that; not knowing a single thing about cats, they adopted a kitten because their offspring wanted a cat oh-so-much, and it turns out the kitten is female.

Did the kitten win a trip to the vet when she became old enough to become a beacon for all the full male cats around? Nope... They wanted her to know the joy of motherhood.

A- she's not a biped with longings.

B- they can't frelling use the Internet to find tips to take care of their pet

Grown-up kitten has a first litter, a second, and a third. The resulting kittens from the third litter are quickly sent ad patres, and therefore, grown-up kitten, who's not stupid, takes to hiding her kittens until they're old enough to fend for themselves.

Half a bonus point for the bipeds, when they got most of the kittens adopted, and in the end, they got grown-up kitten neutered (they must have finally registered that it was more expensive to feed the hordes of cats than have mama finally meeting the vet).

My family had to learn how to properly care for our cats, but neutering our cats has always been one of the first things that happened to our feline friends (better for them and for us) - and since the operation is more expensive for a female than for a male, yes, we've adopted and rescued more males than females. Guilty as charged.

Why am I growling now? About imaginary people?

Maybe because the last daughter of grown-up kitten was old enough to become a mama in her turn and there's a tiny meowing kitten in our garden and I don't know if she's super clumsy or if she's abandoned it. I'm not even sure they noticed that the last daughter was expecting kitten(s).

These imaginary people are quietly sleeping, oblivious that a kitten needs its mama or is dying - and I cannot tell you how much I loathe such imaginary people because I may not know a whole lot of things, but, when you let your pets wander in the country, it's not quantum physics to take them to the vet to be neutered - and if you can't afford it, you do not take a pet.

Frelling stupid not so imaginary people!

Happy One Year Anniversary to Me... Or Not...

Back in Autumn 2011, I decided to launch a blog (and a Twitter account to go with it) in order to train my new literary voice and share things with readers.

I decided to launch both on 11/11/11. It would be, I thought, a good date...

So what's the general assessment?

Two friends and my brother are talking to me. The rest of the world is merely clicking and hopping by in complete silence (naming my blog counter "I Can See You" was a good idea: I can see clicks, but no one takes a moment to say anything).

The silence used to take its toll, but now... Now, I just know that communication is mostly dead, and it's not that I no longer care; I merely got used to the absence of communication. I mean, after my last post about that young artist who died, which is something that still makes me feel extremely sad and empty, something happened in Real Life that warped me at the speed of a neutrino into a nasty bout of Void (definitely getting used to that particular Sword of Damocles that, one day, is going to get me for good). When the Void strikes and takes me, I stop trying to interact on the Internet, and what happens then? Nothing. I was off Twitter for a fortnight, off here since my last post, and, in another literary incarnation, off another site since October 19th... and all I got is silence.

I've sent two SOS over the past months. It is now clear that my being here (I mean, on Earth, and alive) or not is uninteresting to most people.

A little something has changed in me; I'm not planning to walk back to my prior incarnation's haunting places. I'm done with that.

From now on, I shall be focussing on this new part of my life.

P.S.: BBH! If you read my posts and you're not my brother or the two aforementioned friends. Take a few seconds to say something. I. Can. See. You. (And normally, I don't bite, but I feel as if I'm living above rivers of slime and I'm the only one around being - remotely - unaffected.)

My Stupidly Broken Heart

A while ago, a young artist I barely knew died.

I never met that person, so I know that my next sentence is going to turn me into a candidate for Bedlam, but ever since I heard about that passing there's been a tiny hole in my heart.

I miss that person more than I miss some of my blood relatives who died.

I know it's weird, but that person was a very interesting artist, and I really, really wish I'd discovered more about that person's works before it was too late.

Last night, something odd happened. I was looking for some info, and as I often do, I hopped from link to link, and I eventually found myself on a page that mentioned that artist - a page that mentioned a Facebook page and a Twitter account.

Now... don't call Bedlam just yet, please, but, yes, I do find myself reading the frozen timeline of a young artist we've lost, and the few things I read have widened the little hole in my heart because that person was funny, witty, goofy, interesting, challenging, and now that I'm on Twitter, I really wish I could have tweeted that person.

I know that I'm somehow sorry for myself because I never even was on a stamp-sized map for that person, but what a bloody loss.

I'll keep reading these tweets from months ago. They're going to make me happy and sad, but I want to know more about that person, even now that that person's gone forever.

In my book (and no need to tell me it's silly; I know it is), the world became a tad darker and sadder the day that person died. I'll keep the tiny hole in my heart for as long as I'll live.

I've got no right to miss that person, but, hell, I do.

The Lost Child

There might well be a Sordid Fairy Tale in the making with this entry, but I first only need to say what I saw on my way to work last Wednesday.

I was on my usual bus (the direct one that stops two streets away from work), and I had one eye on my book, and the other on the scenery around me.

At one point, we drive by a smallish garden where there are two nice playgrounds for the many children who come there with their mothers or nannies.

First, I saw a young man near the smallish slide (it’s built for children no older than about 6, I’d say).

Since there’s a bus stop right next to the garden, I had about a minute to observe the young man. I saw him climb on the smooth surface of the slide (which was odd and made me take a closer look at what he was doing), take position on the small platform and then slide down it as if he were riding an imaginary static wave, run once he reached the ground, be stopped by the railings and smile like a Bedlam resident high on something.

My first reaction, with one eye still somehow on my book, was: ‘He’s nuts!’, ‘He should be stopped.’ And ‘Good thing there aren’t any children here today.’

And then…

Then I tried to really pay attention, and it hit me like a ton of latinum. There was one child: the “young man”.

I really looked at him, and, though he was somewhat tall, he couldn’t be older than 17 (my money’s on barely 16).

And then there was the way he looked: decent clothes, but somewhat dusty – the kind that’s given by charitable associations to people who need them and that's worn until they fall apart.

And he looked Afghan.

His game took an entirely different meaning.

I know that there are many Afghan boys, who fled their country and ended up in various European countries where they’re like ghosts. I know that they try to gather in groups at night in order to protect one another, but by day it’s a different story.

Of course, I could be completely wrong, but I bet this teen was a lost boy, and when I came to that conclusion, I was disappointed with myself for my initial reaction [and even if he’s a local boy who was having some fun, he wasn’t destroying the playground, and I was denying someone a bit of fun for being too “old”. I’ve already slapped myself, thank you].

I could well be a victim of my wild imagination, but his boyish grin is haunting me, and I fear I spotted some sad tragedy right in my district.

Now, I imagine this boy alone, miles away from his country, fending for himself all alone, and claiming bits of normal childhood even if he looks too old for that.

I’m going to sound like a fool, but it broke my heart. He was grinning after he slid down and reached the railings, but no one was there to share that with him. He may be almost an adult (and I have no doubt that the authorities would treat him as an adult), but, right then, he was such a child. A lost child, alone in a foreign country.

My bus drove on, and I’ll probably never see him again, but he’s changed something in me.

I’ve got just enough money to take care of myself – and my cat – but this is with encounters like this one that I wish I could protect a few children and take them in or something [Note to the universe: never make me Dictator of the World, or I’d treat all the children on the planet as “mine”].

We’ll be a good species when our children don’t have to catch up on their childhoods in their teen years (or later, if at all). We must fight so our children can be children, and nothing else.

Another Encounter with the Void

This is probably going to sound like a bit of a whinge, but if I can’t pour my heart out on my own blog, where could I do it? 

It’s more a statement that I need to get off my chest than anything else, really… Maybe it’s another testimony of my broken heart I want to post, like a message in a bottle. 

Here’s what happened:

When I finally managed to watch the British Academy Television Awards 2012, I was expecting some fine entertainment (and I wasn't disappointed!), but I wasn't expecting to cry when Monica Dolan made her speech.

What caught me by surprise was this:

'Twelve young women and girls, that we know of, were  lost in the Cromwell Street murders, and some of them were taken from  their families and some of them were in and out of care and I think the thing that affected me most working on this was not the  appalling violence actually; it was the fact that some of those women,  some of them, were never reported missing, and it seems that some of  them, no one noticed that they had gone for twenty years, and I would like to live in a world where everyone is missed.’

Of course, I haven’t been abducted and murdered, but I’ve discovered that I can become silent in a few of my Internet spots and, basically, disappear, and no one notices (nearly no one – I got one flare from a far-away friend, who did wonder what was going on [if you’re the one, and you’re reading this, you’re glomped again].).

On most groups, I’m not that active, so it’s not a surprise, but in the group I started, I was posting very, very, very, very, very regularly, and when a nasty bout of depression, a bit of Void caught me, I just couldn’t post.

Void and darkness left bit by bit, but I’m now coming back to a place where I can be MIA for two months, and I could have been decomposing on my linoleum, and I have the feeling that no one noticed.

I really feel as if whether I’m on this planet or not makes no difference, and it’s not the best of feelings. I’ve recently read things that explained the lurker phenomenon, but I really feel like a piece of furniture that’s forgotten against the backdrop – all the more since, in the past, I’d already explained that my health problems tend to take their toll (being half-paralyzed for years will do that to you) and I’d warned that a sudden disappearance might well be a sign that the Void was calling me (if, by any chance, someone is reading this and thinking “Pft! She’s just crying wolf to make herself interesting”, I’ll answer that my mantra in most of April was “I want to die, I want to die”). Yet, in spite of my earlier call for a bit of e-warmth, I got nearly nothing (just one message from the other side of the globe).

I see some good things happening; some people caring and being good.

And so, I end up wondering if there’s something wrong with me and if I’m invisible or something.

I know I’m not the only one having problems, but I can’t imagine that I’m dealing with hundreds and hundreds of lurkers, which is why I do feel like a piece of furniture. Since this is happening to one of my other literary incarnations, I tried a little experiment and took down all my works from the archives (no one noticed, which tells me that I could disappear for good and it’s the smell of decomp that’d inform neighbours of my fate – if they cared enough to mention it to the landlady!). 

I feel as if I’ve been dumped by the site I started. These readers haven’t realized yet that they’ve killed my muse, and I’m not going to write anything else for them (it's not to punish them; it's just that my inspiration for their plots dried up and died. My silver lining is that I’ll focus on my original works from now on).

This is what happened to me in that particular zone of the Internet, but when I met friends in town and basically sent an SOS, I was ignored. I came to the conclusion that it’s fine if I’m around to help them with something, but I’m not worth a quick hug (which is all I need).

The conclusion is that there’s nothing wrong with me, and some of the people I know and e-know are just not on my wave length. There’s no need to ask for a hug or even just a smiley in an e-mail, I’ll never get that. I could make it my sig line (“If I suddenly stop e-mailing for several days in a row, something’s wrong; please, wave, send the cavalry, beam Captain Kirk, or something…”), and the message would still not go through.

In fact, the one who’d send the cavalry is my brother. The handful of friends who’ve got the address of this blog would notice too, but for the rest of the planet, my fall would be quieter than the breaking of a twig in the heart of a huge forest.

I think I’ll try to exorcise a bit of Void with a new Sordid Fairy Tale on the topic.