Old Habits, Die Hard

Isn't that the saying?
If not, I'm sure it's close.

I find myself doing it again.
Falling back into old patterns.
Listening to the same old excuses in my head
telling my why I can't or shouldn't do a thing.

Forget the painting, you suck.
Forget it, the paint isn't cooperating.
Oh look, you messed up that spot.....AGAIN.
Ha, you've had that tube so long the paint's
almost too old to use. (Nevermind that I've
had issues with this brand before on a brand
new tube...but those gremlins........ya know)

Or, well if you haven't completed a book by now,
goodness knows you never will.
How many of these "stories" have you started and
abandoned?  You suck you know.
That one site says your blog posts are like it was
written by a 7th grader.  What happened to that
college level writing you used to do?  Yep, you suck!

Or now the new additions about photography.
How all my pictures suck.
How almost all of them have some sort of
"shake" in them.
Or how I only have one lens and will probably
never have enough to be even close to good.

Oh.My.Gods.......do they ever shut the fuck up?!

I finally watched "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel
Pie Society" movie last night.  One, I immediately loved
it the moment I saw five people from Downton Abbey
in it.  I knew "Rose" and "Isobel" and "Henry" were in it.
But why I saw "Sybil"...that cinched it for me.
What I didn't realize, was that the main character "Juliette"
was an author and that it was partly a "writing movie".

This is going on my list of movies to watch again and again.
Right up there with "Julie and Julia" and "Eat, Pray, Love".
But I need more.  I need more inspiration movies like this.

Once again, while watching Potato Peel, I found myself
thinking about my love of words and writing.  I found myself
longing for a typewriter.....again.

I started thinking about how I got one for Christmas when I was
a kid.  I remember going into a store called Darlings.  They were
a neighborhood store that sold toys and baby stuff like cribs and
such.  It was blue and white. It was a fully functioning toy
typewriter.  I remember my mother buying and saying
something like I'd have to wait until Christmas for it.
I'm not entirely sure I realized it was for me or understood why she
bought it with me there.
But I was just as excited when I unwrapped it a few days later.

I don't know what happened to that.  I don't recall it being thrown
away or breaking.  My next typewriter was a big heavy lug of a
thing that "HE" brought home from his office.  I used it for college
reports and the like.  I was supposed to be his office secretary, when
he moved the office to the apartment.  I don't know what happened to
that one either.
I can't say that I  had another after that one.  Or at least, I don't
remember having one.  I've always wanted another though.
While electric is great, the idea of a manual is so romantic.  I might have
to keep my eyes open for ones at a thrift store or yard sale.

All I know is I used to be like most kids...artistic in that I always wanted
to color and I always wanted to use the cheap try of kiddy watercolor paints.
I was always told I was doing it wrong or ruining it, whether the crayons, the
paints, or the coloring books.  After awhile, you just stop wanting it.

I've always been interested in the camera.  But once again, it was one of
those things that my mother was sure I'd ruin so I wasn't permitted to
use her little 110 Kodak.

And writing.........once I found a love for reading, I wanted to write.
I wanted to be Laura Ingalls or V.C. Andrews.  Goodness knows how
many stories I abandoned as a kid. How many "It was a dark and stormy
night" I left unfinished or barely started.

The very first story I think tried to write was something like "Letters From
My Sister".  I fantasized about receiving letters from her after I found out
she existed.  I my mind, I named her Barbara for some reason.  I don't think
I got very far with that story.  I didn't know what a 22 year old would write
a 12 year old.

I think I am doing a hair better fighting the art demons.
I went to the canvas yesterday and picked up the brush despite the voices.
I am already finding myself thinking about NaNo in November, wondering
if it is too early to start preparing for it.
And, I have been actively looking into learning how use the lens that I have
so I can get good photos out of it.

I saw something earlier that said something like "If you can't walk away
from writing, then you ARE a writer."

Well then........
I can't put the brush down.
I can't put the pen down.
I can't put the camera down.

So I guess that makes me all those things I dream of.

Who Do You Say You Are?

I've already written about this topic on my WP blog. But I wanted to come here and write something as well.  This is still "home" for me, where my blog journey began. Before I dive in though.....

Full Moon Blessings!!
We're out of the Mercury Retrograde and it's shadow phase? I think they call it.
There seems to be some talk of this moon bringing about things coming to an end, releasing, etc.
Yet I feel like I hear that every other full moon too.

I am sad.  I found out via FB that my oldest aunt passed away.  Others knew hours before I did, but no one let me know.  It was by luck I saw my cousin's post.  If anything made me feel less a part of my family, it was probably this. 
My Aunt J was my second god mother, meaning she was my sponsor at my Confirmation. It was at her house that I spent about two weeks every summer with my parents.  She is the one who taught me how to crochet.  It is from her that I get my love of crafting.  I wish I had learned more from her, especially the finer points of crochet.  I used to marvel at how she didn't even have to watch her stitches. She used to just watch TV and hook away. It was like magic.  She was 94. 

Maybe I'm over reacting. Maybe I'm being too sensitive. Maybe it's that I never felt like I was a part of the family, like I was an outsider.  I don't know.  I'm not making a stink over it or a fuss....hell I this is the first I'm even saying anything about it. I don't feel saying anything would be useful.  So I let it all go, I release it.

        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alrighty....so........that question.......

It was posed by a lovely lady named Cynthia Lee.

I saw the question come up last night in my feed. 

And it was like a light bulb. Or a slap in the face...like a "hey you! wake up!"

If you have followed along here for awhile, then you more or less know my story.

I grew being told I wasn't enough. That I was an accident and shouldn't have been born.

My father believed that my mother tried to "loose" me in her pregnancy but having

"accidents".  I've been told I'm stubborn, and I must be to some extent because I'm here, she

couldn't get rid of me if his beliefs were true.  I've been told I'm stupid and gullible. That I'm

not good enough, that no one would ever want me.

Move onto my marriage where I was also told I wasn't good enough. No one would ever want 

me. That I was crazy, lazy, and stupid. That I didn't do things the right way because they weren't

his way or how his mother did them. That everything was my fault, even when it wasn't.

So this question, to me is asking me "WHO DO I THINK I AM?"  

I have struggled with this for some time.  I always try to push to the back corner of my mind and

try to ignore it.  I don't have the confidence to answer it with conviction.

Whenever someone asks me what do you do.  I will notice myself shrinking.  I'll kind of bow my

head and look around at the ground or away from the person.  I won't make eye contact at this point.

Then in a small voice, I might say "I'm an artist" or "I'm a writer."   And immediately, I feel guilty and like I am a fraud. How dare I claim those titles?

I struggle and flounder when I call myself a survivor or try to think of myself as a warrior.

I find it near impossible to call myself an advocate or think of myself as a potential one.

I mean how many times have I been told or implied that what I went through is nothing. That

others experienced way worse than I did. Basically they fall short of saying that any of what I've

been through was any form of abuse.  I'm usually considered to be over reacting.  Making a mountain

out of a mole hill.

I feel like I have block so much out of my memory, there is so much I can't remember.  And then, there will be vivid snippets of things.  I think people think that I'm not a survivor because of the 

numerous times I went back to my physical abuser.  And people that know the not yet ex, find it 

impossible to believe that he was emotionally and psychologically abusive.  Around others, he's such a charmer.  Even when he'd make remarks to me, they laugh at it and act like it wasn't anything.

But  they had no idea what it was doing to me.  When I finally understood myself that it was abuse, I tried to open up to people I  thought I could be open with.  But my cries for help fell on deaf ears.  I got the "you made your bed, you lie in it" vibe.

In the last year, as I've gotten closer to turning 50...I feel like I am shifting.

All my life, I've been told who and what I am.  And I let that define me and be my story.

But those things aren't true. They are lies I was told.

I've been trying to find the path to what my true story is.  Who am I without what I was told I am?

All my life, I did what was expected of me.  Have a "real" job, get married, have kids, have a house.

The time in church tried to make me believe I was to be obedient and submissive.  Tried to tell me who to be friends with and who not to. What I should and should not believe.  Don't question the pastor.

I was made to feel less than because I didn't finish college.  I was made to feel less than because I enjoyed working in fast food over working in an office or even retail.

I was made to feel less than because I have dental problems and am paralyzingly terrified to get it taken care (besides being unable to even afford it).

I was made to feel less than because I didn't fix up my hair and put on make up or because I didn't dress a certain way.

I think I have finally made it to the point where I can say FUCK IT!  

No, I don't usually wear make up.  I prefer not to. But on an occasion, I'll put some on.

I'm tired of dressing how I'm supposed to or to please someone.   I like my black clothing!

I like my dark colors.  But  I also like things flow-y, almost hippy or peasant like.  I've never been 

comfortable showing off my goods so to speak.

I would rather where my hair up in a messy bun or in braids.

I'm not quite to where I can boldly speak my truth or what is on my mind.

I feel guilty whenever I do and second guess for days or weeks.  But I'm working on it.

I am working on confidently calling myself an artist, a writer, and a budding photographer.

These will take time, and hopefully eventually I will become more comfortable and confident in calling myself these things.

I often shy away from calling myself Pagan because people automatically assume you worship Satan and sacrifice things.   I've considered just telling people I'm Catholic and leaving it there.  

I'm struggling to find balance in what my path actually is.  

I'm a wanna be Druid, who has eclectic witchy leanings, who wants to worship the Goddess, but yet honor Mary and Mary Magdalene.    Talk about pot luck, eh?

I know my path and my beliefs are my own, and I owe no one any explanations. 

It's hard unlearning all the things you were ingrained with that broke you.

But I think, little by little I am evolving into the person I was meant to be.

So...in a rather shaky voice...I say that I am a survivor, a warrior, a healer, an artist, a writer, a Nature lover, a budding photographer, an aspiring Druidess, a Goddess loving worshiper, a Mary and Mary Magdalene honorer, and so much more that I have yet to discover.