All things melancholy · Musings · Strong Woman · Uncategorized · weak woman


there are days when everything hurts, this, fibromyalgia, but I refuse to take pain medications.

i walked alot on Saturday, i mean not alot compared to what i walked five years ago, but alot for now.  just two short miles.  this week has been horrible.  my knees, my right outside edge of my foot, my lower back, my trapezium and my neck.  last night i woke myself many times crying out in pain.

words no longer have the power over me they once did.  but words, damn they can be hurtful and mean spirited and cruel.  words like, lazy.  words like, you are just like ______ (fill in the blank) for a person you strive to not be like, you aren’t __________(fill in the blank) for things that you are, words thrown as weapons, when wit cannot pull up things that are thoughtful and reflective, words that show a person that they have not seen your growth, only bringing up the past to smash you.

and i find myself not floundering and wretched but instead empowered to continue being who i am.

lazy ____ no i do not do as i once did as i sit here recalling scraping and painting the house all summer, mowing the lawn, raking leaves, putting sealant on the driveway, gardening, cooking, doing dishes, taking care of the animals utterly by myself, cleaning, laundry, taking out the trash, taking the trash to the road, literally everything that needed done the house i did or i left a short list for my daughter to do as well.  my grandparents called me lazy when i was about 8.  i wasn’t lazy, i was just being 8, but it stuck, it was used again and again, and still to this day people like to use it on me.  did i mention i am in pain? always?  i still vacuum, sweep, clean the bathroom, cook, do dishes, hose detritus off the deck, garden, shop for the household, which for me as a single person was literally one quick trip a week, but now is a two hour ordeal.  am i a stay at home mom who works two hours a day outside the home and carrying the weight of the whole household in chores?  no, and i have never been.  instead i work 7 hours a day, babysit 10 hours a week, and work on my art which i sell probably another 20 hours a week.  lazy.  that’s me.

when i am angry i tell people.  i don’t sulk and seethe quietly, i don’t pretend like nothing is wrong, i don’t throw out hurtful words, i am smart, i am creative, i am self aware, i try hard to be kind though i fall short at times, i acknowledge my mistakes, i am not ashamed of who i am, i don’t feel inadequate, under appreciated and psychologically and emotionally lonely yes, but not inadequate, not ever.

this blog is a great example of my growth, i try to move beyond my blockages, i try to learn, and grow emotionally, and when i am angry, i don’t try to push my old hurts onto others as labels, and name callings.

pain. inside.

pain. outside.

pain swirls.

the more i hurt from external resources the further i withdraw.  that is what i guess i should be my newest area of growth.

or i could just become reclusive.

i am already halfway there.





My mind is like a pool of water on a river, ideas are swirling around me but the mind is still and calm, like a deep well, a river pothole, cold and dark.

My eyes, they are clouded, by long strings wrapped in a circle, by small black dots that I track as flies and realize later they are not, by short eyelashes swirling in my field of vision.  Eventually, your brain will stop noticing them.  Or perhaps, I think, I will paint them on top of everything I paint.  A final glossy layer separating my eye from my mind.  Can I have those photos of my retina? I ask.  Sure, but you have to show them to us when you are done. I wish I had time to paint, I think, with college graduations, spring gardening and commissions, and perhaps the newest obsession of knitted Christmas stockings.

My ear, it was bleeding, I did not know why, with my eye now a clear pool with autumn leaves floating on top, I feel frightened.  Later, after I am told its just an abrasion, I blame the black flies.  Which is more vicious? Black flies or Yellow Jackets?

My skin, it itches, black flies again.  My nails embedded with dirt as I plant medicinals, bee friendlies, dye plants, cooking herbs, and annuals where Tom has dug up my perennials with the snow plow too many years in a row.  I envision thyme oil, lavender oil, beebalm tea, pokeberry colored wool, and stinging nettles as I dig.  A. helps me pick out the annuals, and plants rocks in the dirt to make them grow.  I lament the absence of bees.  But orioles stab at orange halves and hummingbirds hope I haven’t been lazy about filling their feeders.

My heart, it is no longer strong.  It echoes empty.  It trudges through the sludge.  It aches with each step.  It loves more than it should.  It is just enough to get me through.

So I drink expensive Scotch, and Honeyed Whiskey, and seek out the best less than one hundred calorie beer I can find.  And only drink wine that tastes good.  Even if it is less often than I would like.

I have paintings in my mind though.  And my fingers ache to paint them.

Instead, I paint the yard with flowers and plants.  I paint the world.