“The point is in this whole wide wicked world the only thing you have to be afraid of is me.” ~ Fiona Goode

Happy Halloween to the friends, readers, and those who dare to tread in these treacherous stretches of the internet without ever having met me. The latter is likely the luckiest of them all, and Halloween is the most harmless time of the year when you consider how much hurt I’ve caused the rest of the days. Yes, I said it. And I know it. The day doesn’t seem all that scary anymore.

… The who’s who of “Who’s that?” is poised for the attack
But my bare hands paved their paths
You don’t get to tell me about sad

… If you wanted me dead, you should’ve just said
Nothing makes me feel more alive

… So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street
Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream
“Who’s afraid of little old me?”
You should be…

… The scandal was contained
The bullet had just grazed
At all costs, keep your good name
You don’t get to tell me you feel bad

… Is it a wonder I broke? Let’s hear one more joke
Then we could all just laugh until I cry

… So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street
Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream
“Who’s afraid of little old me?”

Halloween used to begin with such innocence and end with such guilt. In my secret heart of hearts, I always wanted to be a beautiful witch – in a costume layered and rich with flowing robes, hidden jewel tones of royal violet beneath velvet as black as the darkest night. Boys couldn’t be witches then, even if we really were on the inside. The rage stayed contained – it whirled and spun and ravaged all that was inside me. It ate me up before anyone even noticed I was disappearing. The most wicked among us were devoured long ago. 

I was tame, I was gentle ’til the circus life made me mean
“Don’t you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth”
Who’s afraid of little old me?
Well, you should be

… So tell me everything is not about me
But what if it is?
Then say they didn’t do it to hurt me
But what if they did?

My potions are perfume. My spells are words. My broom is the straw-man in my head, taking me away to anywhere but here. My exorcism is your antidote. You’ve come for relief or relapse, and I have nothing to offer of either. Long ago, I learned to forge a way separate from whatever you wanted me to be. There was always disappointment in that. I know there was. I felt it too. Maybe that’s why some of us turn into witches – the world is too wicked to make it through being anything else. 

… I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me
You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me
So all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs
I’m always drunk on my own tears, isn’t that what they all said?
That I’ll sue you if you step on my lawn
That I’m fearsome and I’m wretched and I’m wrong
Put narcotics into all of my songs
And that’s why you’re still singing along

Let them call you those names – the ones that rhyme with ‘rich’ and ‘hunt’ – as they reveal who they are in their vain attempts to skin you alive. It’s going to hurt, and we shouldn’t pretend it won’t. Yes, I’m sorry to say, there is going to be much pain in this whole wide wicked world. And there is much reason to be afraid.

… You caged me and then you called me crazy
I am what I am ’cause you trained me
So who’s afraid of me?
Who’s afraid of little old me?
Who’s afraid of little old me?

… on you… watch out.

A witch rarely makes superfluous movements.

Every twitch, every touch, every nuanced side-glance of a shifty eye – they all move a witch toward their prescribed destination.

Sometimes it is a place, but not always. 

Sometimes it’s a state of mind, but not usually.

Often it’s simply a nod in the direction of survival – witches being in just as dire a strait as anyone these days. 

When a witch turns their back to you, it is intentional. It is intended and designed to unnerve, disarm, and transfix. All tricks of a witch’s trade. 

It is a determination to leave a chill in your heart.

Play this song – an incantation without words – as if such a thing could exist, as if words were nothing and music could make you feel something without meaning. 

Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Maybe you are not quite ready to assume the mantle just yet. 

My mantle is heavy, black velvet and purple lining, but it propels me into the night in ways you will never understand, gripping madly to a rough piece of wood like a talisman or hatchet or broom. 

I don’t think you know how many witches populate the world ~ which world? ~ and who among us might they count as brethren? A declaration of doubt turned into a question, or two. There, now you’re learning the ways. 

Never turn your back on a witch. Back away if you must, or wait it out – usually it’s better to wait it out. Witches appreciate those who appreciate patience. Waiting is a dark art. Patience is often disguised as a virtue. 

You only think the witch hasn’t seen you.

And you only think the watch hasn’t seen you because the witch wants you to think that. 

Already behind them, and they’re already gone. 

Rest tonight, dear reader, for tomorrow we fly…

This space was originally slated for a very different post. 

It was a post that needed to be written, but it may need to be revised.

It was raw, painful to write, and painful to re-read. I put it down several times, and that was after shutting it off many more times in my head. It was a family post, one that tried to explain all the icky things I’ve felt of late but have largely kept quiet. My therapist knows. Andy has seen it. And a few close friends are aware. It’s the same things that have been fostering the dysfunction that’s gone on for almost five decades – and it’s literally taken me that long to see the overridden arcs and patterns as they repeat themselves in different ways. I’ve addressed it directly, in various ways over the years, as I’ve repeatedly had opportunity after opportunity of being hurt to do so, and the last time it happened I tried again. Exasperated, I blurted out at the end of an extended silence, “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” my Mom said.

“You’re right,” I said, speaking out in a way I don’t think I’ve ever done. “It’s not fine. But it keeps happening, and here we are again.”

I realized then that it was a familiar scene, and in its familiarity I realized it wouldn’t ever change, and there was nothing I could do to ever make it change. I’ve seen my parents and how they interact with their grandchildren – it’s startlingly different from how they interacted with me and my brother – and that’s absolutely how it should be. It only stung when my Mom let it slip once that she may be treating them differently because she wanted to make up for what we went through in our childhood. That felt like one of those back-handed compliments and acknowledgments – it’s wonderful that she dotes on her grandchildren – it’s a slap in the face to make it up with them when I’m still here and still getting hurt.

That probably sounds quite silly, and I’ve been told to grow up for saying far less. It also doesn’t much matter, other than in my own need to let it out. It won’t change anything, and after 49 years I finally get it. I’ve also been told that distancing myself might be helpful, for my own mental health and protection, and so I’ve been removing myself from those who have kept this cycle going. Not in a petty or mean way, at least I hope that’s not how it’s perceived, but in a self-preserving way – a resignation to how things have been. In place of that emptiness I once feared I find myself curating time with Andy, time with friends, planning for Boston holiday visits with old friends, and reading classics again – the way I would find comfort on scary high school nights when I felt isolated and alone, nights in which I wrote out in rage “I WILL LEAVE HERE AND NEVER COME BACK” on my bathroom mirror – losing myself in literature and trying to find a way out through words. 

And yes, this was the kinder post. Enjoy the detour.

Nothing sacred or special about this recap – just an end-of-October romp to get us into the week wherein we cross over to November. That’s a sordid thought of sorts, so let’s not dwell on it – the sooner we move through this dark path of woods, the sooner we may find a way out – on with the weekly recap.

Now… a warning.

Pumpkin season.

One last swim?

Kamala, obviously.

Skateboarding up a hill.

Perils of fall.

Sweet Ogunquit autumn.

Hold my nuts.

Super graphic ultra modern girl like me.

Five years of sober living.

Happy 30th Anniversary to Madonna’s ‘Bedtime Stories’. 

Sisters of the moon.

Marble and mud.

Dazzlers of the Day included Christian Siriano and Jon M. Chu.

While ‘The Scarlet Letter’ exemplifies the atmosphere of a New England autumn, and all those other ‘A’ words, this season I’m reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘The House of the Seven Gables’ for the first time, and it’s reinvigorated my love of classic literature – those tried and true works that have withstood the test of time as much for their written beauty as their evocation of how humans interact with one another. 

“Nevertheless, if we look through all the heroic fortunes of mankind, we shall find the same entanglement of something mean and trivial with whatever is noblest in joy or sorrow. Life is made up of marble and mud. And, without all the deeper trust in a comprehensive sympathy above us, we might hence be led to suspect the insult of a sneer, as well as an immitigable frown, on the iron countenance of fate. What is called poetic insight is the gift of discerning, in this sphere of strangely mingled elements, the beauty and the majesty which are compelled to assume a garb so sordid.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne

“It is very queer, but not the less true, that people are generally quite as vain, or even more so, of their deficiencies than of their available gifts.” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

“I’m as provocative of tears as an onion!” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

Five years ago today, I had my last drink of alcohol. At that time, and in the ensuing years, I’ve always said that it was relatively easy for me to stop drinking. For me, that was the case, but what’s easy for me is not usually easy for most people, and I state that without any hubris. In truth, I did have to work at it, but that sort of work – a challenge and a goal – has always been somewhat enjoyable to me (or I wouldn’t do it). My main hat-trick, one of which I’m not even certain why I keep playing, is to do the hard work but make it look easy. Maybe it’s my penchant for wanting to make this world a little prettier; I just never wanted to reveal the effort and machinations involved because they’re rarely very beautiful or interesting. A swan is graceful because it floats and glides effortlessly across the smooth surface of the water – even when in reality it’s paddling like a crazed cyclist on the Tour de France. We don’t need to see the frenzied paddling, but it’s important to realize it’s there.

In the case of the elimination of alcohol from my lifestyle, it was a deliberate choice to be healthier and improve the relationships in my life. It worked on both fronts, but to say it was easy may muddy the waters for others who may be wondering why it was so easy. My case, as a good friend pointed out, is singular and rather rare, though there are components that others might find helpful, so here they are:

The first step – and the key step – is also the most difficult and intangible to describe. It was the realization that I was using drinking to mask/aid social anxiety. While on some level I always knew and understood this to be the case, I didn’t fully put the connection together. That came in therapy, which was the second major step.

Once I explored that, along with the other ancillary reasons for why I drank – family issues, social expectations, boredom – the real need for drinking suddenly dissipated. Superficially I got it, and the image of a drinker always seemed more interesting than the non-drinker, cloaked in wit and bonhomie and the sort of cutting persona I like to, well, cut (“I drink to make other people interesting“). Beneath that, though, I had to get to the core reasons and address those in ways that didn’t involve the band-aid of booze.

The third thing that helped was an intentional removal from social situations for a while, and the support of friends, who were cool with my decision/evolution and who completely understood without question or ribbing if I stopped joining them for a bit. A few months after that, COVID arrived which put everyone in the same isolated place, and that also helped since it afforded me a break before we all started hanging out again. Everyone was changed after COVID, and my not drinking, by that time, was not very much of note.

Fourth, I began meditating. First for two minutes a day, then three, then five – gradually increasing the minutes by one per week so it didn’t feel at all onerous or daunting – and soon enough I was up to half an hour a day of pure meditation – where I sat in silent, deep breathing, allowing thoughts to come until they didn’t come anymore, and finding a baseline of peace and calm that saw me through more stressful moments. 

The last piece that I implemented was that free online Yale course on finding happiness, which filled my time and alleviated any boredom that drinking might normally fill. Any hobby or occupation would likely do – it just had to be something I could focus on to keep the mind occupied and engaged. That’s sort of the purpose of life too I suppose. Taken together, that’s why it was easy for me to simply stop drinking.

Finally, a caveat (as in, NOW a warning?): my drinking was never to the point of chemical dependence. Was I on the verge of that becoming the case? Quite possibly. But when I stopped, I didn’t have any cravings or withdrawal and my medical tests didn’t reveal any issues caused by alcohol, so I feel confident in saying in those respects I wasn’t yet a full-blown alcoholic. I just realized that drinking was no longer serving as the solution for the issues I used it to solve. I was lucky to have supportive friends, and the privilege of being in a circumstance where I could concentrate on becoming healthier.

Five years later, it’s still one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

This helpful squirrel loves to hold my nuts.

Well, mine and Andy’s. 

Something for the booty and the mind at the same time.