Everyone is waiting
but every day’s the same.
but the questions still remain.
I cashed in my chips at the first sign of trouble, now I’m running out of room.
I found my heart at the bottom of a bottle
and then I broke that bottle in two.
Will the earth keep on turning,
long after we’re all gone?
And will the beggars still be choosing,
a path of righteous songs?
Better grab your spades, keep digging,
until rock bottom comes along.
And hope to Hell repenting,
will save you from your wrongs.
Cause my broken mind is sold,
on the future where I don’t grow old.
No matter what we’re told,
guess I’ll still sabotage my soul.
And we’re still casting histories mould.
Still Fighting wars that won’t grow cold.
And if I’ll never again be whole,
guess I’ll just sabotage my soul.
Why do I still need a reason,
to fight against this demon?
When it’s taken all my feelings
And locked me in it’s Hell.
What’s the point of standing?
Watch the people all demanding,
an impossible solution,
to save these crumbling walls.
So I’m making bitter lemonade,
from the fallen fruits of our loins.
Wishing things went a different way
But the vicious cycle carries on.
It’s too late to hope for redemption,
in this world of toxic thoughts.
When inclusion became the enemy
and common sense so rarely brought.
Now my broken mind is sold
On the future where I don’t grow old.
And no matter what we’re told,
guess I’ll still sabotage my soul
And we’re still casting histories mould.
Still fighting wars that won’t grow cold.
And if I’ll never again be whole,
guess I’ll just sabotage my soul.
I just drowned two Valium in a glass of rum against my better judgement, but we need to sleep tonight. Last night was one of those nights. The tossing, turning, ruminating, shaking kinda nights. One of those nights where you think too hard about whether calling a crisis line is quieter than committing suicide while you try to sob into your pillow without waking your sleeping husband.
Things have been rough lately. We’ve been struggling with eating disorder feelings again, the familiar thoughts, familiar patterns, intentional triggering. These habits creep back in hard and fast. It’s an addiction and I’m an addict. Recovery isn’t a destination you reach but a never ending journey along the edge of a cliff. Sometimes you fall. Sometimes you want to jump.
I went into that scan expecting it to show a recurrence of the cancer. When they weighed us beforehand I should’ve told them to weigh me backwards and not tell me the number. We don’t keep scales in our house, it’s akin to giving a withdrawing junky a syringe full of heroin to look at but not touch.
But right now, we are not strong. So I said nothing.
When I saw the weight I saw that we had put on 20kg. 20. and then two things happened, firstly every insecurity I’ve ever had about my body came crashing onto me at once, secondly, I completely accepted that I was going to die.
It was self protection. The weight? It didn’t have to matter, the cancer was back and I’d be guaranteed to lose it again soon enough.
Yesterday we got “good” news. Our PET scan was clear, whatever these aches, pains and lumps are is irrelevant because we are still cancer free. I should have been celebrating. I should have been happy. But all I could think about were those numbers on that scale and how I’d just leaped right off that cliff without any harness whatsoever.
I was free falling.
Last night as I lay in bed sobbing because I had no idea how to move forward if I did not find a way to lose this weight. I can’t run anymore at all, I can barely walk more than a kilometre without suffering for days afterwards. My body is battered and broken, my mind is shattered and exhausted. I don’t want to feel like this.
I’ve spent my whole life either planning to, or expecting to die. I’ve never needed long term goals or entertained thoughts of a future because it’s never been relevant. Death gives me purpose, stops me questioning my bad decisions, saves me from leaving my comfort zone to express my own needs and the needs of those who live within me.
By losing my death sentence, I’d lost my guarantee, my little safety blanket of doom and I realised that when it comes down to it, I don’t just not know what I want from the world, I don’t know how to live at all.
Financially we’re beyond fucked. We’ve been relying on making a profit from the sale of mums house to pay off debts but while lots of people have expressed interest in the place, offers are way below what we’d hoped for and it looks like we’ll be lucky id we break even.
The back up plan was my life insurance attached to my superannuation policy which will pay out when I have less than two years to live, but now that I am in remission, that safety net for my family is gone too.
I slept fitfully for around an hour. My dreams filled with a combination of fears and dreads, flashbacks and uncertainties. I awoke, once again with puff the magic dragon whirling round and round in my head. The comfort song for one of my young alters, I’ve heard it a lot lately, there was a bad trigger for her recently and I don’t know how to shelter our past from our present, let alone the other way around and now our whole system is in turmoil.
We desperately need to see M. But Covid restrictions leave us stuck with Telehealth as our only options, zoom doesn’t work for us, not in any real way. We don’t have the privacy. I’m tempted to quit therapy all together. I’m so tired, I feel so drained and at the point where everything seems so hard and utterly hopeless that really I’m not sure there’s much point in even trying anymore.
In a life that isn’t linear, we just need to find a way to move forwards.
We’ve got a PET scan today. It’s sort of something we’ve been putting off for a while. We were supposed to have an MRI last year but Medicare wouldn’t cover it and we couldn’t afford it. We were unable to see our oncologist because of Covid and hadn’t seen him since finishing chemo in June. We had the follow up CT scans (they were clear) but when we were initially diagnosed we ended up being riddled with cancer and the CT had missed all bar the grapefruit sized tumour on our ovary, so I haven’t got a whole lot of faith in them.
It’s not so much the fear of what the scan might reveal (although that’s definitely up there), but the cannula. Blood tests and needles had never phased any of us to my knowledge, we grew up around needles as our father worked in a pathology department back in the days when you could take your kid to work and I know we spent a reasonable amount of time in the lab and going on ward rounds.
So, PET scans involve a cannula and an injection of a radioactive isotope (unfortunately not one that gives any sort of super powers). You have to fast before the test which can make me feel kind of queasy already, you have to wear a gown (can be triggering for us) and then they stick you in a tiny room where you have to sit perfectly still for 45min (can’t even take your phone in) while the isotope – which is delivered through a line coming in the wall sci-fi style- does it’s thing, then they do the actual scan which involves going into a tiny tube the top of which is inches from your face.
I’m not a big fan of small spaces. Closing your eyes and not opening them until it’s over can help with that though. Unfortunately chemo has really messed my ambivalence towards needles up. It isn’t so much the needle itself, it’s the smell of the alcohol wipe. It instantly transports me back to the hospital and I am immediately nauseous. In that tiny room, the smell lingers and… ugh. I’m really not looking forward to it.
DID unfortunately doesn’t work like the movies, so I can’t just call out some braver more patient alter to deal with it all on our behalf. I remember past scans & procedures quite well so I seem to have been present for most or even all of them, there’s no reason why this would be any different.
The last PET scan we had was clear, with the ( potentially unreliable) CT scans as well, that technically means we have been considered in remission since chemo. Unfortunately in the last several months a bunch of symptoms we felt pre cancer diagnosis but had gone away after surgery, have come back and are getting slowly worse, along with a small lump. Due to Covid, we were only able to communicate this to our oncologist via Telehealth at the end of January and our GP was only able to order CT scans.
I’d been totally off pain killers since recovering from the surgery but I’m back to needing them everyday along with meds to sleep (although that is a combination of pain is more noticeable at night and a generally overactive brain). We have been overdoing it the last few months getting Mum’s place ready to sell but some of the symptoms like bladder issues, the lump, bloating and feeling full really quickly don’t seem like they could be related to that and are classic of recurring peritoneal metastasis.
On the bright side, if the cancer is back then we’ll be eligible for a terminal illness payment from my insurance which means we’d be able to just pay off our debts and maybe go on a holiday with the family (Covid pending). I don’t know how long those things take to pay out though so there’s the fear of being too sick to actually go on a holiday or dying first.
But I’m jumping ahead. Maybe there’s just a lot of scar tissue and some other simple explanation for the symptoms and the Cancer is still gone. I could be worried over nothing. The PET scan should tell us anyway. We have an appointment with the Oncologist next Wednesday so I guess we’ll find out then. Fingers crossed.
It’s been a while since I learned something new.
It’s been a while since I took a chance on you.
Let me breathe, take a minute or two.
Because It’s been awhile since I knew what to do.
The older I get the less I fit in,
Perpetually stuck inside a teenager’s skin.
The world grew up around me while I stayed in, only wrinkles in the mirror show me where I’ve been.
I laugh about the old days when we were all so free.
But cry for all the yesterday’s now lost to me.
I’m living out my days like a recurring dream
Still writing songs about tomorrows, sewer rats and trees.
But how many tomorrow’s will I still get to see?
The world I thought I knew lost to history.
Syc is but a fragment in a distant memory, but in my head we’ve still got futures & hope and dreams.
Always tomorrow but never today,
Memories of yesterdays keep fading away.
Always tomorrow I’ll know what to say,
Yet tomorrow never comes, it’s an impossible day.
Always tomorrow but never today,
Been searching for myself, guess I got lost along the way.
We still make plans to dance & write & play,
but if they’re only plans, we’ll never change anyway, because they’re always for tomorrow but never for today.
And tomorrow never comes, it’s an impossible day.
Funny how I’m dying to live now after so long living to die, guess I’ll never just be happy and I don’t really know why.
I’m just hoping someone will rescue me as I look up into the sky, and ask a God I don’t believe in if it’s still alright to cry, ask a God I don’t believe in to give me a reason why.
Maybe I’m following a broken map of the stars
Chasing satellites not northern lights & never getting far.
My therapist told me not to work so hard,
but obsessing over everything might just be who we are.
If you had only one more tomorrow, what would you do?
Let go of everything or pull it closer to you?
Where would you go, Who would you call?
Or would you just close the curtains & tell no one at all?
Always tomorrow but never today,
Memories of yesterday keep fading away
Always tomorrow but never today,
Yet tomorrow never comes, it’s an impossible day
Always tomorrow but never today,
Memories of yesterday keep fading away
Always tomorrow but never today,
Yet now’s the only moment they can’t take away.
Clive died today.
Also known by the names “Guinea Rat”, “Squeaks”, “Piggles” and “Mr Piggy”, Clive was our pet Guinea Pig and an important member of our family. He had patchy brown fur and a little cowlick rosette on his head, but other than being extremely cute, Clive was by far the coolest Guinea Pig I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.
Clive was approximately a year old when he moved in with us in early 2017. Having always lived as an indoor pet, Clive came with an air of confidence that was unusual for Guinea Pigs. He was friendly and out going, Clive loved people talking to him and patting him and when our German Shepherds sniffed at him through his cage to say hello, he always sniffed right back without blinking.
Like most of his species, Clive loved food, carrots in particular. When we would open up the vegetable crisper in our fridge Clive would rush out of his little house and start squeaking to get our attention and he would keep on squeaking until we gave him something.
There is now an empty space in both our living room and our hearts. Rest In Peace little Clive, we hope you are enjoying all the carrots Guinea Pig heaven has to offer 💜
Rest now, little one.
The time to say goodbye has come.
Scamper now, little one.
Along rolling hills and under gentle sun.
Safe in our heart until our time too comes. Rest In Peace now, little one.
I talk too much. Always have, and as I have been trying very hard to accept and be okay with in recent years, I always will.This has been one of the biggest causes of our internal conflict as someone living with DID.
My alters struggle with my personality and the way it impacts them. I am an extrovert, I talk too much, I unintentionally interrupt people and I am extremely annoying to be around for any length of time.
I am very aware of my faults. My alters and other outside people in my life have been pointing out these character flaws to us our entire life. Unfortunately, knowing my short comings hasn’t given me the ability to change them.
I loathe that I am like this. I hate how it hurts my alters and affects the lives of those around me. I promise you if I could be different I would be and I have tried to not be like this, God how I’ve tried but I am completely unable to stop it. I might last five minutes while consciously trying to act ‘appropriately’ but inevitably I get distracted and fall back into these annoying character traits.
Suicidal ideation has come and gone throughout my life in varying intensities since early childhood. Different factors play their roles as to ‘why’ but fundamentally, the reason I have wanted to cease to exist is shame.
I hate who I am as a person and I always have.
I wonder if this is one of the reasons I developed DID? It is naive of me to think I was the ‘first’ and yet I can’t help but wonder if they were created by our brain because I am so shit, and in order to survive, there needed to be less shit versions of me so the people around us didn’t go crazy and leave.
I mean, realistically, a lot of the cptsd traumas we experienced in childhood could have been avoided if I wasn’t like this. Not everything, but a lot of it was brought upon myself – it seems my alters were very much aware of this and have been understandably frustrated by me since the dawn of time. I always fucked everything up for them.
I had an amusing conversation with my niece recently – this is the niece who came about via egg donation, for the purpose of this post I’ll name her Giggles. So Giggles is 8 and lives interstate. Her grandmother (my mother in law) was visiting over Christmas and so Giggles had to stay in her little sister’s room and she was telling me how her little sister, let’s call her Mischief, was “OMG Aunty Kate she is soooo annnoying to live in a room with!”
I thought the way she said it was funny and cute so I relayed the story to my mother in law this morning. My mother in law has always been a bit funny about Giggles. She has never said anything specific, but it’s been pretty clear that she wasn’t happy about the way Giggles came into being (genetically related to me) and when Mischief was born (not my egg spawn) it became obvious who the favourite child was.
So MIL says, “Bah! Giggles is far more annoying though. She’s exactly like you. She looks like you, acts like you and talks like you. Faith (SIL) hoped raising her in a different environment would help but it seems to definitely be genetic.”
Okay cool. At least I know where I stand. Thanks MIL. Now I know MIL never exactly loved me marrying her son 20 odd years ago,but I thought we’d been on better terms. I try really hard to rein myself in around her but I am like I am and can’t stop it. Unfortunately none of my calmer alters want anything to do with her so they very rarely seem to front around her.
So I struggle with the whole egg donation thing. I mean I agreed to it during a hypomanic episode that had been going for months. I decided on a whim, without considering my mental health issues and without consulting my husband or family. I recognise that’s not okay.
I hadmade peace with that to an extent because well, I love Giggles. I get random text messages from her parents telling me how much they love her and how thankful they are and that seemed to make it all worthwhile.
But now giggles is eight, they think she has ADHD. They take her to therapy every week and while frankly I think therapy should be mandatory for everyone, I can’t help but wonder if they see our similarities and assume she’s going to end up crazy.
When things happen like MIL making these comments I get anxious that Giggles is being put into a “just like Kate” box and not getting an opportunity to just be an extroverted kid who loves music and animals and talks too much.
I worry that I did the wrong thing by doing the egg donation in the first place. I was trying to help, but perhaps I’ve just brought someone into the world and doomed them to a life of suffering and failure? Doomed her to a life of thinking something is wrong with her and that she’s fundamentally “bad” because she shares my DNA.
I’m sorry Giggles.
One of our little parts, Isabella, feels this even harder than me. She’s crying because she remembers how lonely she was and how nobody liked her. I’m sad because I never kicked the habit that hurt her. V is annoyed because she says MIL’s comment was really rude. Catherine is apologetic for not dealing with MIL more.
Giggles is just a little older than Isabella perpetually is and We all see their similarities. Suzi try’s to comfort us from inside the way she did as we grew up. Suzi was Isabella’s only rock. I worry because Giggles doesn’t have a Suzi, but then again I hope to dear God she never needs one.
I’ve always had a thing for artists.
I’m a lush, in particular, for wordsmiths.
Writers, poets, lyricists, those who can craft meaning from madness and immerse you into a whole new world simply by scratching markings upon a page.
Sometimes art is so enticing it’s hard to breathe.
A picture, a texture, a sentence takes you away on a journey so personal that you lose yourself, within yourself, until you are elevated somehow; connected to a higher plane of existence, floating far above the world.
You know lust when it hits you. You are instantly intoxicated by it, addicted to it, lost in maze of mirrors reflecting the truest desires of your hammering heart until you know you must tear yourself away or your mind will disappear into it’s vortex forever.
Lust will own you if it gets a chance, it will rob you of your senses and masquerade as love, tricking you into believing it’s wishful promises and fantastical tales.
Lust holds no boundaries. I may never lay eyes on an author and yet I can find myself so entranced by beautiful words that their creator takes on a physical form in my imagination. Lust gifts me with tantalising waves of light and energy so immensely captivating and desirable that my heart forgets it’s rhythm and I find myself flustered in a way I can only compare to a cliché Hollywood film.
It took me a long time to understand this intense level of connection I felt to creators and to learn the difference between lust and love and what attracted me to verse and story above matters of the flesh.
Perfectly crafted sentences can make me tingle and squirm orgasmically in ways I have never otherwise felt. Published authors however, have never impacted me in the way those anonymous wordsmiths toiling away on their personal blogs in the forgotten corners of the internet have.
I found my most intense pleasure came from the tragic biographies of these authors who had felt pain the way I had. Authenticity, honesty, bravery all tied into poetic phrases cutting in such a deeply relatable way that they branded me with permanent scars and then left me begging for more.
The stories themselves didn’t turn me on, certainly not the pain or the horror. It was the magical way in which they shared them. The openness. As someone so lost for so long, with so many confused selves all trying to live together in one mind, my life had been a desperate attempt to blend in. A lifetime spent closing parts of myself off, trying to adapt and survive, wearing masks and hiding in plain sight.
A woman I never even met stole my heart for the first time. She was broken, strong, frightened, kind, fierce, dreamy, brilliant and above all else, honest and open in a way only the anonymity of the internet allows one to be. The way she crafted her sentences left me breathless. She could break my heart and give me new life all within the confines of a paragraph.
Next came the shattered angel, desperate to be free. The thousands of miles that separated us disappeared into nothing when we wrote. They were electric, her words and mine. The sparks between us flew like fireworks and while we never saw each other’s faces, our unspoken lust was intoxicating. But we were too powerful, too intense and we sent each other into the depths of madness.
After that, The Jester. His cloak of wool and words of silk taunting us until we succumbed to a deep enough depression to choose between self reflection and death. Awareness, a parting gift from his sparkling ghost.
I was trapped and craving freedom, lonely in a crowded mind, disoriented in a world that didn’t understand me.
I didn’t know anyone else felt like I did, I thought I was alone, crazy, irreparable.
As I read the tormented writings of other lost souls, I felt seen for the first time. I felt as though somehow I was the answer they were looking for as they had seemed to be for me and I fantasised how together we could dance blissfully off into the night, no longer held captive by our traumas and magically healed by our mutual understanding of what it meant to survive.
But I was not really feeling romantic love for inanimate words, or even the authors of the haunting memoirs I still drink down like an elixir of life. I can see it now for what it is, an erotic transference of sorts as one may find in a close therapy relationship. I’m a human being wired for connection who didn’t easily find it as a child.
If I thought someone connected to me, I felt like I need to give some sort of payment for that connection, like I owed them something for acknowledging my existence on this planet.
As a child I had learned that sex buy’s attention, particularly from men, even from those who normally disregard you. To a child, attention is love. A disconnection with my self and a life time of feeling worthless and undesirable made any approval, kindness or sense of connection seem like potential love and I would often start looking at the situation through a sexual lens.
Once I made this realisation, I was able to begin the painstaking task of un-shaming myself for my very natural human need for affection and attention. This allowed me to become curious about what I actually found attractive in another person rather than my usual play of desperately trying to fill their needs in the hopes that they’d find me just useful enough to keep around.
Authenticity. The quality I was so desperately seeking in others, was indeed the quality I was lacking and so desperately searching for within myself. The writers and poets were in fact mirrors to my own deepest self-needs and self-desires.
By freeing my own passion for writing and setting aside my deep fears of allowing us to be authentically “us”, I was able to begin learning how to love myself and all the parts that make up “me”.
By the time The Story Teller arrived, possibly my favourite writer of all time. I was educated in the ways of my heart and mind. With years of therapy under my belt I no longer mistook my need for relatability and connection as ‘love’ and the pangs of lust remained firmly with the pages of elegant words and did not extend to their creator.
I finally allowed myself to raise my head and look around at the world in which I lived through my own eyes, not the eyes of fear, judgment, stigma and expectations and I realised that other than authentic well formed words, it was in-fact the beauty of the female form that stole my breath.
I was gay.
I find myself here, writing this as a middle aged woman with dissociative identity disorder. I’ve already been married a long time, a gay woman married to a man who is lying next to me snoring. I find myself sharing a dying body and mind with others who are a part of me yet some do and some do not feel the same way about life love and the world in general as I do. I look around at my life, filled with traumas and contradictions and yet I feel incredibly blessed because I’m finally not confused.
I’m not sad for what I will miss out on, but glad, elated even, because I finally understand who I desire. I know what I like, I know how I feel and I know where I stand.
I finally know who I am.
“Let’s go for a walk!”
“What, now? It’s raining!”
“And I don’t have an umbrella.”
“So what? That’s the amazing thing about being a human, we’re waterproof!”
Her eyes danced as she grabbed my hand and spun me playfully around in a twirl towards the door.
“The neighbours will think we’re crazy…”
“Who cares. Maybe we are!”
She flung the door open and pulled me out into the garden with her. I screwed up my face as the rain got heavier.
“I just don’t think…”
“Oh no I’m meeeeelting!” She screeched cutting off my reluctance mid sentence before throwing her hand across her forehead and dramatically falling onto the grass.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Shall we then?” She leapt to her feet grinning, linked her arm in mine and marched me off towards the road.
It was absolutely pouring now, big, icy droplets drenching us in seconds, but I could feel the warmth radiating from her body as we continued arm in arm down the steaming street.
I looked over at her, long hair plastered awkwardly to her forehead, bits of grass stuck on her wet jeans. She was absolutely glowing.
She met my gaze, her eyes twinkling, and as she smiled that devilish half smile that lit up the whole world, I realised she was the most beautiful person I had ever laid eyes on.
Okay, so I may be a touch pessimistic but I refuse to come here and say “next year can only get better” because I started saying that in 2015 after our suicide attempt then in 2016 I broke that mirror & Robin Williams died (for the 1000th time I’m sorry) and it started the snowball of bad things that turned into the avalanche of death and destruction you are all familiar with. I’m pretty sure, in my narcissistic mind, that I am totally cursed and have accidentally taken the entire globe down with me.
All our daughter wanted for Christmas this year was for us to be together as a family with “nobody sick and dying”. This request came after last year when we were in the thick of Cancer surgeries and her Grandad died. This year we have been hyper focused on getting our mothers house ready for sale after she’d moved into a retirement place and were a tad Scrooge like about the impending Yuletide. So my poor little cherub ordered her own Christmas presents online and then wrapped them and put them under the tree she’d set up one night while I was busy painting.
So, feeling suitably guilty about my neglectful parenting I ordered a ton of good Christmas food online and organised a last minute Christmas family extravaganza and promptly came down with Covid and had to cancel the whole shebang.
She took it well. Too well really because she just sighed that ‘of course something was going to go wrong’ sigh and good naturedly opened the Christmas presents she’d wrapped herself and took selfies with them while I tossed and turned feverishly in bed complaining about everything being crap.
Well 2022 is a mere 12 hours away now, and if my pessimistic legend is true, my assigned 7years of bad luck should be about coming to an end. I’ve already given the rest of my household Covid this week (Merry Christmas) so at least that’s out of the way (for this varient at least).
My New Years resolution was going to be to try and be more Martha Stewart like (preferably excluding jail time) so I decided to bake raspberry muffins with the fresh berries from our garden, but the oven wouldn’t turn on.
After a woe is me meltdown about my “curse” destroying the entire world as we know it, Hubby walked over to the oven pressed something magical and it whirred to life immediately, proving to me that it was not in fact “also fucked like the entire planet” and I was, just maybe, slightly over reacting. He then assured me even if it had of been, life was not about to end because I couldn’t bake a batch of muffins at that exact moment.
He gently suggested that maybe, just maybe, my pessimistic attitude is the real problem here. Then he told me to “breathe” and so I threatened his life and grumbled off to my room.
I mean EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE! Right? So much *insert laundry list of shitty things here* has happened, shouldn’t I be entitled to moan complain and whine all day, every day?
Then one of the wiser parts of us pointed out that maybe we are entitled to be frustrated, annoyed, and to complain, but what exactly is that helping us achieve? It’s certainly not curing our cancer or bringing Robin Williams back to life. Really it’s just slowly driving away the people we care about and then what? We’ll have more to complain about and nobody left to complain to! Except maybe M, but technically it’s her job to listen to us whinge for an hour a week so she signed up for it.. (Love ya M!)
She’s right of course. Yes, it hurts me to say that. So I’ve decided my New Years resolution this year, rather than try to find my inner domestic goddess and drag her kicking and screaming to the kitchen or saying for the 7th year running that I’m going to finish my book (one day), my goal is to try and change my attitude.
Less wallowing and more appreciating. If I at least try to play the positive reframe game, even if bad stuff keeps happening, I should feel a bit better about the little things that go on between crisis’. Catherine wants to learn new sciency things, Ezzy wants to draw more often, V wants to “actually finish” our Mums place, Callie wants “twinkle lights” and Gregory wants to meet a dinosaur. These things actually feel achievable, except maybe Greg’s, but maybe he can play with a lizard or something instead.
So bring it on 2022, nothing shocks us anymore and we’re ready for you! And a massive HAPPY NEW YEAR to you, our dear readers and your loved ones too. May you all have opportunities to cherish the little things that make the world worth living in, laugh at a meme, listen to a great song, admire the stark beauty of a dead tree at sunset. And whatever this year brings you, the highs and lows, may you learn things about yourself that help you to grow as a person.
I’d love hug you all in celebration but I’m infectious as hell and kind of sticky (raspberries), so metaphorical hugs all round.
See you next year!
Tis the season, so they say, in which to be jolly. Despite the abundance of masks, the check in’s, the delta, the omicron and the bumblebee’s, you lovely people out there in blog land have followed along my little adventures and held on through thick and thin. You’ve listened, offered tidbits of sage advice, shared a laugh and a tear while generally making this world we live in an easier place for us to wander.
So from the bottom of our heart we thank you for coming along on this ride with us and from our house to yours may we wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!