Suffer the Little Children

Alternate title: Jesus, Do You Smell That?

Content warning: Some references to childhood sexual abuse.

I’m settling in to this process a bit more every day. I don’t know how long it will take for me to forge a connection between my brain and my body, but i’m committed to and invested in it, even if i’m never quite done. I’m connecting parts slowly, a bit at a time, and i’m doing well resisting the urge to tackle it all, hard and head-on. When the Peanut Gallery pipes up with some judgey shit about how i should be further along than i am, i have plenty of examples of how terribly awry things can go when i push too hard. However, during my therapy sesh yesterday i realised there is an area where i could be doing a tad more, and i’m balking.

I try every day, all day, to stay present in my body and feel what’s happening to me physically; my aim is to dissociate as little as possible. I hold on to the face through the regular day-to-day sensations, like brushing my teeth, which can be triggery AF, and i’m hanging on through some awful body memory stuff, like phantom burning in my genital area. While i’m going through these intense body sensations, my Bits N’ Pieces are having various reactions to what’s going on, just like i am. I’m learning to care for the body memory stuff with warm drinks, blankets, binding, writing, and even talking about it with my hubs, but i’m hanging back when it comes to directly engaging my system and asking them what kind of care/comfort they’d like while dealing with this stuff.

Mutiplicity can be difficult to explain, and this is one of those areas that, no matter how i put it, it still seems inadequate; the words don’t communicate my reality sufficiently. Yes, i hear voices in my head. I know they’re all me, and yet they’re a little bit not me. Maybe think of it like we tend to think of things as natural or not natural: maple syrup gets the natural label, but Aunt Jemima doesn’t. They’re both made of ingredients that come from our world (some additives are man-made, sure, but it’s not like we folded space and travelled to another universe for the elements needed to make them), yet one doesn’t seem as raw or earthy – it’s not as much a part of the innate order of things. Unnatural? Not quite natural?

So it is with my system. I know the people that live in my brain, that chatter at me all day long and even into my dreamlife, that saved me when i was little and now help shoulder the minefield that is being a human living in a developed nation after severe trauma, by carrying my burdens, secreting my pain, and sometimes taking control of my body when i’m overwhelmed… Are all iterations of me – various versions of who i needed to be or thought i had to be in order to survive.
Yet they are not me.
There were walls between us for many years, borders that none of us would cross. They would not because they exist to care for/protect me, and i couldn’t because i hadn’t the knowledge or the space safe enough to do so. To step into the light and see my system – my big brain machine humming along, gears inside gears, turning alongside gears inside gears. A terrifically complicated and intricate psychic arrangement of snippets and gobs of personality. Actors that only exist between the green room and the stage. When i finally saw my face as a lit theatre and gained access to their dressing rooms, well, you know that not every actor whose work you like is a person you’d want to hang out with after the show, right?

Some of my people are not a good time. I might even say most of them aren’t, a lot of the time. I love them in a way that is only for them – not like i love my husband, my children, my friends. Not like food, or music, or art, or animals, or sunshine, or a cool glass of water, or my husband’s kiss. Not even like the characters in my favourite books. They’re more than these things, and less, too. Yet they’re closer to me than absolutely anyone else – no one, nothing else could get so close. They’re my saviours who occasionally get me into some serious scrapes. They’re my best friends and my champions. And they’re also my children who’re always getting into something and the only reason i don’t strangle them is they’re underdeveloped toddlers who can’t help it.

They remember awful things, sometimes as clearly as if they happened yesterday, sometimes as if they are happening now, in this moment, all the time. And i know i’m currently writing about feeling the physical sensations that go along with certain memories that’ve been locked away in certain parts of my body, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t also carry some physical pain. They feel the aching jaw, the bruises, the cuts, the headache like my skull is going to turn to dust, the swelling, the bleeding, the burning – all of it. It’s my hope that this work i’m doing will help them be free from pain. Perhaps even, that they can return to me as i return myself to homeostasis. They’ve told me their stories, now it’s my body’s turn. I see this as a housecleaning. I’m shining a light on all the dark places, removing all traces of black mould. But this house is currently serving as a temporary MASH unit, filled with sick and wounded soldiers. I have medicines and tonics and pills for them, and i have cleaners and disinfectants, tools and talent for cleaning a filthy home…
But the body has triggered my system, and i haven’t asked them if they want anything from me to help them bear it all.

Back when i was first learning to listen and relate to the other people who live with me in my brain, it was a gross and disgusting ordeal. Once i acknowledged that some of my dreams were actually memories, it was like trying to live a normal life in a locked room filled with decomposing bodies. I felt like i was coated in filth – it slicked my skin and filled up my nostrils and sat in the bottom of my belly like an angry, acid python, constantly twisting and spilling over itself. I stank of evil, life stank of rot. I was surrounded by horror, sex and death roiling and foaming together like a cannibal’s cauldron. It was the closest to giving up that i’ve ever come, i almost lost myself in the viscous fluid of memory, losing form and definition and nearly dissolving into hopelessness and endless nothing.

As i write this i’ve suddenly seen that i’m parenting my Bits like i parented my real life children. From a fucking distance. Afraid to touch, to engage, to connect. I didn’t know how with my sons, but i do now. I learned because i saw how much harm it had done to me not to have it from my parents. I’ve been learning and practising since then because i believe it’s not too late to give it to them unless they tell me so. And i would keep trying even if they told me it was too late and would never be enough, because i believe it’s my responsibility as a parent, and because i experience that doing so helps and heals me, too.

Yes, parenting my children with connection, engaging with them emotionally and physically – that’s what my brain-babies need/want, as well. Of course they do. I know that, it’s just that the feelings they carry, the stories the snapshots the motherfucking scary movie franchise…
Bah. The last time i got up close and personal with it all it was years before i felt clean again. It was years of barely being in the face because i couldn’t take the slime and the stench.
But comparing them to my boys helps.
Writing helps.
Therapy helps.
Hubby helps.
Truth helps.

They’re broken off bits of me, and they need me to wash them, bind up their wounds, and soothe them, just as i’ve done for myself, the primary me. If they were real live children, covered in blood and shit and filth, smelling like sex and rot, i wouldn’t hesitate for a second to gather them to me and minister to their needs.
These children are all me; why is it so hard to give myself what i would give to any other human in my position?
I was taught that i only existed to be poured out for the consumption of others, but i know now that that was a wicked, selfish lie told me by evil people.
Knowing where i come from and who i am is good, but it’s not enough. I have wounds that need washing and stitches and bandaging, breaks that need mending, and aches that need warmth.

This piece may not make much sense, i’m not sure. This is so close to my core that i don’t think i’m able to edit/proofread this with a critical eye. If you’ve made it this far, i thank you. Writing this made me want to throw up most of the way, but here and now, at this sentence, i feel recommitted and more fiercely dedicated than ever. If someone hurt a child the way i was hurt, if someone hurt my children the way i was hurt, i would ruin the world to make things better for them.

Yes, it’s a contradictory statement. It’s hyperbolic. It paints a picture and conveys the intensity of my conviction.

So, i guess i’m heading into the trenches.
This could get…

<insertwhateverwordcametoyourmindasitprobablyapplies>

Take Care and Try a Little Tenderness,
I will, too.

~H~

Schmozzle

I usually write after the bad stuff has happened, but recently, i’ve been trying to write through it, to open myself up a bit more. I write for me, and for anyone reading this that might find benefit… The days following my last post were decent, i could feel myself settling in to what’s coming in therapy – going deeper and tuning in to the story my body wants to tell me about my childhood. I got back into some regular activities and regimens: housework, hygiene, communicating with family and even a couple of friends. Normalcy, and with it, some peace.

Unfortunately, my physical health has taken a nosedive. I’m in full fibro flareup, which is bad enough, but i’ve got some new issues as well and they’re sapping what little energy i have to cope. I’ve been handling it the way my therapist has encouraged me to, by tuning in to my body and listening to what it’s telling me: i’m hungry feed me, i’m aching rest me, i’m upset soothe me… It’s that last one that i struggle so hard with, though. I got through this last crisis and returned to my schedule, not pushing too hard, but doing my best. If i was too tired, i might skip my nighttime skincare, and i only brushed my teeth perfunctorily, rather than my full 2 minutes, because it was making me retch and triggering me. When sexual activity came up, my body went completely numb, and i heard and honoured the NO.

These are good things and i’m proud to be accomplishing them, but my physical issues are getting so big i’m having trouble hanging on to even this amount of progress. I arranged to see the doctors i need to, but i’ve a week left to wait, and i don’t know where i’m going to find what i need to hang on until then.

Last night i was short-tempered and weepy, and today i hit a wall. I’m panicking about the wait. I’m worried that i can’t hold my system together and function properly until i see my therapist and my doctors. My pain level is too high, and my compulsion to take off and walk is almost too strong to resist. I don’t want to do this anymore.

I’m trying to listen to my body, but i don’t know how. My body terrifies me, and today i’m not sure if i can bear what it wants to share with me. I’m feeling sorry for myself, i know, but goddamnit why do i have to have the mental AND the physical? Haven’t i been through enough?
I feel young and small and i’m stomping around in my head with balled up, chubby little fists, doing that pre-Kindergarten angry cry.
I feel angsty and awkward and my delicate, teenage heart cries crimson tears.
I feel emptiness gnawing inside, a yawning pit where i lay at the bottom and am slowly consumed by the ache of fear.
Any desire or inspiration i have to deal with all the brain stuff, is being steamrolled by all this motherchristing pain. It’s taken 3 1/2hrs to get this much bashed out, and my head is thumping so hard it feels like my skull might pop off.

There is something, though. Writing this has made me calmer. I had to settle down enough to gather together a few words that made sense. This isn’t dissociation either, which is what i’ve been trying to avoid. When things are this tumultuous in my thinking, and then the physical piles on, the temptation to hide in the insensate is strong. It beckons me with the safety of nothingness.

I want to stay present, so i practise mindfulness, which, lemme tell ya, ain’t a helluva lotta fun right now. There’s a whispering behind a door inside me, and it’s practically swelling in its frame with its desire to open for me. I can open that door, go through and disappear for a while. It’s not restful, because the rest of me is still conscious, and my Bits N’ Pieces use up more energy than i do. It’s not safe, because a number of them can, and ohmygod have, gotten me into some dangerous situations.

Behind that door lies nothing.

I step into a void where i stop existing, only to step back, more tired, and often with some kind of mess to clean up. Damaged relationships, sometimes property (although not for a loooong time), almost always my body. Then comes the shame and anxiety, which must be handled carefully. If i’m not careful i can push myself into another hard switch. If i don’t consciously deal with the feelings at all, a switch is likely. Switching is not what i want. I love my people and i’m grateful for their care and protection, but i’m ready, willing, and mostly able to take the reins and drive this wagon full time.

I suspect this is what the next few months are going to look like:

I can do this. It’s gonna be fine.

OMGWTFICANTDOTHETHINGBBQ!!!!

It’s okay. I can do the thing.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

**********

I held onto this over the weekend, because i wanted to make sure that posting it was what i wanted to do. I know it’s not much of anything, because i’m scattered, enough so that, i think, it’s obvious i’m not quite all here. I’ve lost my voice. Whatever it is that identifies my writing as mine has slipped a little. I’m unsettled; rudderless. I’m anxious AF.

I want to edit/rewrite/punchup the entire thing, but i think that’s the wrong way to go. Reading my other stuff and reading this, may give you some insight. This is rambly, it’s trying to say something, but it doesn’t get there. It lacks cohesion.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but i am also currently lacking cohesion.
I’m scattered, and not quite all here.

I know i’m going to get through this and be better when it’s done. I also know there will be times when i’ll doubt that and be afraid i’m going to fail. I know that sometimes the pain and fear will be so intense that i’ll want to stop.
I have learned from being in the weeds many times before, that it will be okay. I will be okay. I lived through the actual experiences, anything after that is at least bearable.

It’s like when i used to smoke marijuana and hashish. Over the years i became more and more paranoid, but i could always handle it, because i knew, based on experience, that the high would end, and the feelings of paranoia were drug-induced.

So, with that in mind i’m going to post this meandering piece of weirdness, because i think it helps illustrate how my brain works. I think it could be a bridge between moments of clarity. How do i get from panic to peace? My brain isn’t always full of pithy observations and poetic imagery. Heh. Sometimes it’s on the mouthbreather setting. I’m fumbling around in here, trying to find meaning, trying to find something solid to stand on…

I’m not having much luck folks, but i’m not overly concerned at this precise moment. I think that writing has been instrumental in getting me from where i was when i first began writing this around 60hrs ago, to here, just about to smack that “publish” button.

This is part of my process. I recognise this place; i’ve been here many times before.
I can do this.

Pithiness will follow.

Image: Convergence, Jackson Pollack

The Push and the Pull

Get away from her, you bitch!
~Ripley, Aliens (1986)

I saw my therapist today, and it was both easier and harder than the last time. It was more uncomfortable, and also less. I hated going and i was anxious, but i was glad to be there, and relieved to be doing the work. I go about every 2wks. I’d like to go weekly, but man, that ain’t cheap, so i’ll take what i can get. About 3 days before my next appointment, feelings are bubbling up, percolating. I’m anticipating and fretting and winding up. I put it somewhere in the background, but not too far back. I need to be tuned in to what’s going on, but i keep it far enough away that it won’t keep me from seeing her. The day before can be dicey – my skin is thin and my restraint, low. The drive in is both a buildup of emotional tension and a hopeful sort of intellectual relaxation.

Today is the first day since i resumed therapy that she hasn’t asked me why i think i’m there. Last week i commented on it as i answered her -again- and added that i’d guessed her doing so indicated that i wasn’t getting it. I can’t remember what followed after her acknowledgment that it was so. She asked me if i’d done the homework she gave me last week, and i couldn’t remember what that was.

When i get to her office, the disparity, the ambiguity, the ambivalence, it’s all intensifying. When i see her, i’m standing on the 3m dive tower, and she’s the lifeguard at poolside telling me i can jump. I hold my breath and step off, landing in the rocking chair (is it a rocking chair?) as she closes the door. I’m holding my collective brain-breath as i’m putting my knapsack and my coffee down, my whole body is thrumming, fuzzy, like a heavy bass line played through shitty speakers.
She always asks me how i’m doing and i never know. I say “okay” without conviction, or “meh”, or i shrug, or just say “i’m here”. I now how to look inward and check in with my feelings, and i’m a decent communicator, but i’m suddenly unable to come up with anything that seems satisfactory. Nothing fits, or rather, nothing fits everyone, and i have a lot of Bits N’ Pieces paying attention.

Some of them are only barely there; they’re groggy, drugged, sleepy, and when they turn their attention her way, parts of my body feel the same. Some areas are numb, some are warm and buzzy-fuzzy, but it’s not in a pleasant way. It’s like bees all brushing up against each other, and i don’t like it and i’m afraid.
Others are laser-focused on her, but from a minimum safe distance. They are afraid, and angry too. They are Ripley, ready to nuke her from orbit.

Don’t misunderstand me – it’s just a literary device for comparison, delivered via an injection of humour, which is always appropriate in my world. I am not, nor is any part of me, a physical danger to my therapist.
But i can feel them glowering at her from their hiding spots. When the people who made you rape and beat you, it wrecks you in catastrophic ways. With few exceptions, they are not well-developed or sophisticated. Some are moments in time stuck in my brain, playing over and over. Some are emotions that i could neither bear nor process. Some are a bit more, like flat characters – they aren’t intricate or well fleshed out, and they don’t change or grow. Like the good little girl in the frilly dress that always does as she’s told,  or the troubled teenager that hides in their room, listening to dark music and writing darker poetry. No matter who they are, how tangibly they exist, or what affect they have on me, those who hide and glower trust no one outside of my brain. Hell, they barely trust me, and i’ve been working hard at it for over a decade.

She checks in and asks how/what i’m feeling every few minutes. I sit there, combing through all the words, trying to say any of them, say one of them. Keep it simple: sad, mad, bad, good, scared… But the answer is YES and so, which one? I try to say just that, what i’ve just written here, and i can’t. I’m bombarded with opinions/feelings on what words to say, or if i should say any. I stumble and sputter and end up not saying much of anything. This is not like me. I regularly deal with explosions of emotion and/or chatter from my people. Even those who know me well often don’t know when it’s happening.

Before i knew i was a multiple, and long before i’d accepted it, i would have these explosions in my head and they’d cause me to act out. There were times i’d disappear. My mother mostly didn’t notice, but other people did. I got separated from my aunt in a Sears department store once, when a man approached me. I remember running outside and then walking around the neighbourhood for hours. I don’t know how i got home, but i do recall that it was late in the day, and the front room was filled with people and murmuring voices when i returned (was returned?) to Auntie’s house. I was 5 or 6. A year or less later i remember punching the glass of a framed print of my mother’s. Big red flowers with spiderweb cracks and my own fresh paint. I can see myself now, sleepwalking it into my bedroom and hiding it under the bed. She beat me when she found it. Then there was the time i put the kitten in the fridge. I was trying to hide her from a bad man who was coming and i knew he’d hurt my kittens. I can’t remember where i stashed the one, but i found the other in the fridge, mewling and covered in spilt Tang.

Stressor — brain overload — hide
By the time i was 8 or 9, i’d developed this way to cope, and before i hit junior high, i’d stopped breaking stuff and hurting myself.
I still went for long walks, though. Always with the walking. The internal imperative to GO HOME, but it was never the place i lived.
As an adult, even that stopped and was replaced with other things: food, booze, sex.
When i finally, officially met my internal roommates, i hit the road again with a goddamn vengeance.

She’s asking me how i’m feeling, and i don’t fucking know (ALL the feels! NOTHING!) and i can’t fucking say (too many WORDS!!) and i WANT.
the FUCK.
OUT!!

She sees and knows my head is exploding.
She draws my attention to my twitching feet, or my bouncing knees, or my arms crossed over parts of my body, or hands balled into fists, or switching tics. (If i can’t/won’t leave physically, you’d best believe i’m going to get out/away from this, regardless.)
She asks me what i’m feeling ( *eyeroll* FUUUUCK!)
-no-
Not an emotion – what physical sensations am i currently experiencing?
-oh-
– in my feet (walk! get away)
– in my arms (cover up! hide)
– in my fists (punch! protect)
– in my head/face (cantgetawayhideprotect SWITCH!)

So she says, Let’s give your body what it’s asking for, and she brings my attention to that part of my body and gives me something physical to do with it: movement of some kind, like stretching, or an object to use, like a pillow or blanket.
Then she asks, How does that part feel now? and i can get out a word or 2 like, “good”, “okay”, “better”.

When i was seeing her regularly before, one of my favourite things was that she almost never spoke to my system, even indirectly. In my long, storied history with mental health professionals, they all started out with having me talk about my childhood, which always led to what i saw as playing with my brain. When one of them would suspect i was a multiple, they would ask for their names and then ask to speak to someone. They looked at me like a cartoon mouse staring at a piece of cheese.

I know now she let me leave therapy, knowing there was more work left to do.
I wonder if she thought i’d be back.

I’ve come back to her, anxious and losing control because there are some voices that i haven’t heard for a while. My system and i all thought they were dead, and now we’re afraid that is to be the fate of them all. They don’t want to die, and i can’t imagine how life would or even could be, without them.
They saved my life, and helped me navigate being alive. Is getting better killing them?
Does being well have to mean being integrated?

She says: I want all your people in there to know that i have no interest in hurting anyone, or making anyone go away. I want them to know that it is impossible for them to die, or otherwise disappear.
She’s talking to them like a mother would talk to the room where she knows her child is hiding. Like, “I wonder where H could be? I hope she comes to the kitchen soon, because i’m making her favourite – peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!”

Before, they were watching her, watching how she treated me and watching my reaction. Now, some have moved beyond observation and are actively listening to what she’s saying. Some have had to move to be within earshot.

She asks me how i’m feeling, and i cannot speak.
But i can cry.

The push and the pull has been my whole life. Feeling one way but also it’s opposite. Knowing what is and yet that it is not. Not believing what i know to be true. Trying to keep back the things that would consume me. The encroachment of age and the return to innocence. Walking into the light, towards the black promise of entropy. Living on water and dust.
There is no dark or light side, only the force.
There is neither devil on my shoulder, nor angel – it’s just me.

Anyway, i’d better get back, ’cause it’ll be dark soon, and they mostly come at night… mostly.

Image shown: The Defiance of Entropy, Andrew Netherwood

I’m Listening

This was an intention statement that i made a year ago today.
I’m proud of my conduct and progress in this area, and i intend to continue.
To that end i share it even with those that i don’t personally know or interact with.

Happy Thursday.

**********

Dear People-that-i-personally-interact-with,

I wanna tell you something. I have a lot of thoughts about this and more than a few things to say about it, but i’m gonna keep this short (ish).

The reason i’ll be brief is because this stuff is super important for me regarding what kind of human i want to be, and also how i see the other humans in the world, but based on how my husband’s eyes have rolled up into his head a couple of times, i think i have a tendency to drone on and on about it. Pity the poor man when i’m trying to figure something out. Heh.

I was raised “right wing” but would currently be considered “left wing”.
I’ve decided that, with respect to interpersonal relationships, i don’t know what the hell those terms mean.

The recent political campaigns and elections i’ve seen in my province, in my country, and in my closest neighbouring nation, have all been contentious and divisive. I’ve seen so much fear and anger and hatred amongst people on both sides of the political spectrum and i get it.

I SO TOTALLY, TOTALLY GET IT.

You do you. Say your piece. Trim your friends list. Make your ultimatums. Draw your lines in the sand. Curate. Block. Plant your flag at the top of your hill and defend it against all comers.

I want you to know i believe in your right to do that, and i have no judgment about whether it’s good or bad, or you should or shouldn’t do it. It’s your life and you should live it as you choose and do what you think is right. I support you in this respect.

This is a belief and intention statement from me, about me.

I have thoughts and beliefs about things like religion, politics, sex, family, the law and law enforcement, the rights of other living beings, the environment, the planet, the universe, what’s right, what’s wrong, who’s right and who’s wrong… all of it. Just like you do, and i can guarandamntee that there’s not a single human with whom i completely agree with about everything out there. If there is, it’s because neither of us have the time or the inclination to discuss ALL OF THE THINGS, and our jaws are starting to lock up and we’ve got a headache from nodding so much.

What i believe is that there is room enough here for everyone, conditionally. Those conditions would include tolerance for differences of opinion and points of view, and a willingness to be wrong and to see things from another perspective. And the earth could stand a chance of being a truly transcendent place if everyone actively tried to understand everyone else.

Maybe that’s just me. Anyway…

Maybe it’s also just my perception that the divide between “sides” is getting wider and deeper. However, maybe there are others out there who’ve been watching it happen and are becoming more and more concerned for our future. And maybe, like me, you’ve also been wondering what in the name of all that’s good in the world, can little ole nobody me do about it?

This is not the part where i tell you. I can’t because i don’t know.
I think that most of us by now have gotten the message that we all have a voice and we all have something to say, but there is another piece of that message, a yang to its yin, that i believe has been lost.

If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

Although that was initially intended as a philosophical thought experiment regarding observation and knowledge of reality, i can use it to illustrate the point that i’m trying to make, which is this: Have you really spoken if no one has listened to what it is that you said? Does it matter what you say if no one listens? If everyone’s clamouring to be heard, who is left to hear?

I’ve decided that i am. I’m left to listen, and listen i will.

Look, i get frustrated, too. I think everyone should think what i think because i’m clearly right.
But i read the same tones and hear the same inflections in the words of people espousing various beliefs that in my opinion go from nonsensical to repugnant. So then WTF? I used to go to snark pages to blow off some steam about how incredibly ignorant and stubborn some people can be, but i quickly found that i didn’t feel good about participating. Over the past few months i’ve found myself not going to those pages at all, not even just to read them, because i don’t even feel relief anymore. For me those groups are just echo chambers, and i think they gave me a false sense of security, and gave me an excuse not to think for myself, not do my due diligence, and close my ears to opposing opinions, beliefs, and points of view.

This does not mean i’m suddenly open to changing my mind about all or even any of my beliefs. I have good reasons for the things that i believe to be right and good, and i can back it up. What i’m saying is that i’ll listen, even if i disagree -and more than that- i’ll listen respectfully. I will tell you bluntly though, i may not find your beliefs or opinions worthy of any respect, but as long as you can have a civilised and relatively reasonable discussion with me, you will have my quiet attention.

I will try my best to understand where you’re coming from.
I will not patronise you, neither with my demeanor nor with my responses.
I may believe you to be dead wrong. I may even find what you’re saying to be morally reprehensible.
But i will hear you out. I will listen to you and try to understand where you’re coming from, unless or until you either become intolerably disrespectful or aggressive, or i perceive to my satisfaction that you’re being intentionally or otherwise wilfully ignorant, at which point i will end our interchange in as decent and quick a manner as i can manage.

For myself, i cannot see how i can do otherwise, and not be contributing to this increasingly wide, deep, and treacherous divide between recognisable and appreciable sides of any and all issues. I don’t know how good i’ll be at this, but wherever this place is that i’m starting at, it is my sincere promise that i’ll get better at it.
Listening.
Understanding.
Communicating respectfully.

Okay, so maybe you think this isn’t short or even ish. If you don’t believe it, just ask my husband, and be vigorously assured.

Have as good a day as you’re able.

Love and Peace,
~H~
P.S. Isn’t one expected to be dropping resolutions rather than adding more at this stage?