Archive for December, 2015

Father Winter-Oral Tradition.

Posted in About me on December 22, 2015 by Tyrienne

These are the collections of stories and snippets I was told in my childhood, hence- there is no references or links to click.  This is oral tradition alone, and I ask if you have any stories of your own to share about growing up Heathen to please do so.  Our voice is still far too quiet.

European Heathens Especially:  We need you to write, in English, to prove to the Americans that we exist and have always existed.  Please have no fear to share your stories about how the Old Ways lived and never died, and how your family explained them!

Santa Odin
“He was St. Nicholas,” said the documentary, “”Who threw the dowry gold so that the daughters of the poor man next door could marry.”

“Oh, really? Eight Reindeer, Eight hooves:  It was fucking Sleipnir, what about all the Woten imagery?”  My dad would critique.

This was at least one good thing about Christmas.  I believed in Santa Claus, and honestly, the whole Santa thing was very, very impressive and imperative to the culture of both sides of the family for entirely different reasons in words, but not in ultimate action.

First, there was Christmas Eve.  German children see Grandfather Winter/Santa first before any other children, no matter where they live in the world.  Since we were German (Okay: Austrian-Deitsch/Latvian), He will come down the chimney during a long supper on Christmas Eve with many courses served at once.   It was a bit of an argument, I am told, until Nana Gloria passed on as to which family had the honor of Christmas eve and decided where their descendants would visit.   It was actually a good thing, in a way, because the sanity and strong personalities of these elder women took factors into consideration that looking on it now- are incredibly complex and absolutely without a doubt regarding how best to preserve the respective cultures of my family.  All two of them.

Nana Gloria went to my Uncle Barry and his two children, Tanya and Tommy.  I wish my Nana did not estrange that side of the family so deeply they fear re connection with my father and I out of how badly she hurt them in her slow dementia.

So.  Jason and Joey would spend it with the Austrians, but after Catholic mass most likely.  Jason was a second, what we call “kissing” cousin.  We were told we were “good luck” for being born exactly two months apart in the same year.  A story reconfirmed at a funeral by the daughter of the sister of  our great grandmother.  When I got that nervous, uncomfortable feeling I get when someone speaks of Pow-Wow in front of Christians, my Catholic cousin looked me in the eye: “I may be Catholic, but we come from the same family… I know what Pow-wow is.”

He also got to stay on family land until adulthood, and advantage I didn’t have until now… we will likely never meet again, but it’s okay, I’m back on “family land”… and we’re going to  replant the grapevines from Austria.  We already reclaimed the family musk roses from the garden.

I had my Latvian grandma, who was sweet and kind.  We lived with her and the entire period between Christmas and New Years her friends would arrive and prepare a series of dishes and strange activities such as melting aluminum or lead and pouring it into cold water.  The resulting sculptures were then held to the light of a lit candle and the shadow cast was interpreted as the future for the next year.

One of the more annoyingly aboriginal Latvian “Aunties” held her statue in mock frustration,

“Little Chicken, come here and tell me what you see..” to me.  All of us Latvian kids home and abroad were honestly somewhere between terrified and uncomfortable of her (“Little Chickens”…was apropos)…but felt a sort of obligatory affection despite all this.

I said I saw a man “hanging by his neck by a rope- like in the cartoons”- she laughed, my mother ordered me out of the room in anger, and my grandmother gently mewed I should stay.

I do not know if it happened that particular year, but someone of Auntie’s family committed suicide.  Then again, that is a pretty common way for Latvians to die outside of old age and literal assassination.

On New Years eve- you eat Saurkraut and pork for luck (both sides of the family) The Latvians had me run around the house clockwise and look into the windows to see the future. Obsessed with death, to see someone whose body was seen but the head hidden meant death of the person seen in that state.

(Never saw anything that I can recall, actually. I did do the running, though.)

The tree was not even a thought until Christmas eve:  “In the old days- they put candles on trees outside.  Why would you do that the day after Thanksgiving?”  Christmas Eve was when we decorated.  Not before.

And I realize at this moment, at the age of 33, that I worry the generations of children after my own mostly are tradition-less regarding family-legacy actions.

(I do not have children- so, I let my spouse determine “decorating time”- I actually am not a fan of the process!)

There was a pickle we had to find hidden in the tree to find to receive an orange no one really wanted.  There were calendars of chocolates, roses on the tables of odd numbers, pointsettias, holly, and Odin.

Oh yeah…Odin/Woten.   See…he’s Santa.  He’s had to hide over the years because the Christians wanted to kill him, but he won’t die.  That finger across his lips?  That is so all the children of Teutonic Europe were directly in on the best secret ever.

It was strange how only my father talked about it from his line- but grandma’s friends were all about Grandfather Winter.

Santa had to have a real beard.   My family was adamant about this.  My parents were barely adults in age and the pressures of many older peopls influenced the good part of the holidays.  They knew my mother was evil, but imagine a group of old herding dogs, who although may not run very well, had advantage in numbers in their influence on both sides…and proximity suffocated her a bit, but gave me some good Christmases.

When I have flashbacks, I cannot remember the good.

Grandma’s friends, Grandma’s house, Grandma, although terrified was able to leverage the influence of her culture upon my childhood in a positive fashion by utilizing strength in numbers.  The Latvian Lutheran churches celebrated both the Old religion and the new- still in the process of a half-finished amalgam that was the algorithm of the extinction of countless native faiths the world over.

The Latvians cared for Solstice more than Christmas- in church.  The German Lutherans paid acknowledgement briefly to the pre-Christian origins of our “German heritage”.  Even being German was something to “keep silent”… because hundreds of years of deep and beautiful history were now inexorably linked in the public consciousness to war crimes and genocides, yet no other culture has such prohibitions to the same extent.

I learned grandma’s ethnic group latest census concluded under 700 full-blooded people.   Who speaks about Stalin?  Who speaks up against Andrew Jackson veneration?  Both also killed indigenous peoples to the complete ignorance of most  Americans.  There is no exoneration for any of the three of them or any others whose names I do not know.  But only Germany suffers to the extent of having our traditions and culture verboten and censored over the misappropriation of our cultural symbolism by a single man for a single decade of human history.

The “Red Scare” did almost as much harm for those from anywhere near the USSR…but who even held Jackson accountable for inspiring both those men who came after him, and cited his extermination of the Native peoples of North America as inspiration?

(Severely endangered people…..HEATHEN people, with the only legacy strongly held by other’s is in Latvian and Latvalian language.  FUCK!)

Christmas day was conceded to the Deitsch, gladly.   The elder women of Dad’s side focused on youngest son’s children….and neither of those sons were particularly receptive to any sort of spiritual interests, much less interesting intrigues of cultural contradiction between our traditions and Lutheran church.  One uncle ended up trying to be Methodist.  Like the rest of our family, now sees the inside of churches only for funerals or weddings.

Santa then divided as I was older….grandfather winter had left us, leaving a vapid man in a red suit as my mother became more terrifying.

However, moments were still there.  A coffee mug with “Father Christmas” in the blue of Odin with ravens holding mistletoe and holy in their claws or beak against a field of snow.   I kept the mug for years until it was left with a former roommate by accident.

The memory of someone, somewhere telling me, “No, our Santa is different.  You tell him your secrets and wishes .  Only Krampus and Schwartzen Pietr are the one’s who care about goodness and obedience for toys.”

My mother confused and muddled traditions every year to the point I am surprised we didn’t attempt Sainta Lucia- that would require me having to have live fire attached to my head and low ceilings.  I wouldn’t go for it anyway, it would require me wearing a dress.

(Seriously, fuck dresses. says past self with a smile.  Getting me into a dress was much like attempting to put clothes on a cat.  Much thrashing and hiding under objects..).

So, There is a man with a long white beard with a horse on 8 hooves who came during dinner and left presents for everyone.  But that’s “German Santa”… he wears blue.  “Red Santa” is Christmas day… or it’s the same Santa.

Christ-Allrighty, being raised by schizophrenics is confusing.

Fire was lit Christmas day, sometimes on Christmas eve.  Sometimes Black Peter was Loki from climbing down so many chimney’s first to tell Woten if it was worth his time, if the children were truthful and good.

His symbol was peppermint candy, good kinder got the candy canes, and bad- the whipping cane. Interesting how now that Heathenry is open now- so many Lokeans leave peppermints for Loki.

At that age in my life, there were enough elderly Latvian ladies around at Christmas invading the house no whip was seen, thankfully, nor ever.

Thank you, to you who are left.   Someone in Latvia is reading this- and I doubt you are a stranger to my grandma.

Chocolate oranges then became a rage.  Sure beat the boring, real ones…

Did Odin exist or  Didn’t he?  Did Santa have a real beard?   If so, did he whisper in your ear and ask you for a secret?

Real Odin/Vilanus/Woten apparently used secrets as currency.  Scary secrets, ones that hurt.  He wouldn’t tell.

I was asked once, “What is your SECRET wish”- we were in Wannamaker’s in Philadelphia, “I want to live with Daddy, I wish my parents were divorced like Maya’s” – a classmate at school.

He looked sad and smiled a little,

“I would love to! But that is a very hard wish for me to grant…”and he looked me in the eye,  “I am so sorry.” he mouthed.

My mom thought I asked for a pony like I did every year.  There was one or two years where I felt I had an intelligence and still Believed.

8 reindeer=8 hooves
Tree in the forest lit with candles= tree inside lit with lights.
Latvia invented the Christmas tree for Father Winter to find us better.
His secret is that he is Odin, and his finger to his lips is so German children know we are special to know it.
Don’t tell anyone at school… We have to keep his secret too.

Like we keep things secret from Church about what we do at home.  My mother tried Christianity, and nana was a church secretary who never prayed or spoke of Jesus…but would tell stories of the Hildebrandt Hexerei Witches of Lancaster from which we were both descended.

My mother tried the manger scene, and I never even saw a single Jesus at Nana’s house. She liked angels and snowmen.  Dad ended up with a baby Jesus from a church creche in his yard a few years ago during a storm.  It’s in his basement because he’s afraid to throw it out and his efforts to find the owner have failed.  It’s a bit like Ibn Saladin picking up the cross…but not knowing where the heck to put it.

Even Jesus exists- but his birthday is in August, you need to know Jesus because the people who pray to him?  The German and Latvian Gods and ancestors might not know them.

How do you pray?  Not in public.  We didn’t pray as a family and I still see prayer as a very private thing.  Very few people have seen me do it, and fewer still would know my own rituals.

Did anyone else every ask the Moon for “sweet dreams”?  Did the moon show a face and talk back to you once and tell you stories in a dream as a child you would recall forever?

My blankets were wrapped in a crescent framing my face and arms as I looked at the full moon through the window-  the pink curtains I hated as a child, through the dead branches of the winter magnolia.   I forget what He said to me, but I remember for years every full moon pulling my covers up into the shape of the moon and looking out the window to see if He would come to my dreams again.

Did Odin ride through the clouds all year watching the children of the world cloaked in silence?   Or did Santa listen through the loud dial tone of how awful of a child I was?

Hey, I had rich grandparents.  I vote Odin.

And as an adult, having that amount of wealth to get any toy I wanted (until my mother would stomp it), but yet, it never made my life any better from my mother….  It seemed that Santa did not listen to that gnarly bitch…while I also learned that love and family is more important than money.

Life only started to fall apart in my family when the Matriarchs died and my parents moved me away from the family.  That year, they also were mutually disowned by our extended family here in Berks county.   There is safety in family.  Children need to be raised by more than just two people, but the family and community if you want them to care when they are older.

I do.

The insulting gifts from my birth mother meant to either embarrass or terrify me?  My Christmas eve also had my father, my uncle, my grandma, and whatever random Latvian ladies around.  Christmas day was any toy I could possibly desire short of a live horse at Nana’s- the Pa Dutch side.

Money doesn’t solve the most devastating problems of life, it’s simply a band-aid.  I wonder how my grandfather feels that everything he ran away from in his life, the “poor life of a farmer” or “the factory work of his brothers” is now the only stable work to be had…and my husband is successful in everything he attempted to instill in me was “inferior” to a way of life that was less materialistic and based more on learned skills than intimidating others to do tasks that would mean nothing even a year in the future.

Then again, the synchronicity of  the good fortune I had to be born with so many unrelated “aunties” on one side and great-grandparents on the other gave a great deal of deep cultural immersion in those things I could have missed… and did miss.  It’s like Rumspringa was 10 years working in an office and being miserable.  I pleased certain family, but I hated myself and allowed myself to be disrespected and abused in the process by the very nature of culture itself.

Now, I write- I repair my home, I take care of our local wildlife flora and fauna and i care for my neighbors.

One neighbor passed last Wednesday in a car accident- her brother is “one of us”- meaning not to go to the family and help immediately would be in violation of what is honorable.  I went without sleep and gave the last of my smokes to the widower and stayed until I knew he would finally sleep.

I knew when he woke up the rest of his family and the pagans of her family would be soon in coming.  The funeral is tonight, it is not only proper to pay respects, but for my husband and I to make our appearance will be recognized by the few in  the mixed group of another family of mixed traditions of this county…that Ed and I are STILL present.

The “Heathen Community” is not entirely public.

I have had enough experience to believe more in ancestors who actually react, and phenomena that people who once lived explained to me could/would happen to and for good people.  Good people take care of their neighbors- they take care of our people, and they give what they can without overextending themselves.

Because Woten could be anywhere, even as Santa…because sometimes, that’s the only way he could talk to all his descendants.

Grandfather-Allfather knows when you’re sleeping, when you’re awake- his ravens are watching and his eye is in a well (the size of a lake…)


An Actual Post Regarding Loki: Archetypes.

Posted in About me on December 19, 2015 by Tyrienne



This Feather.


(Bear with me here- this post IS about Loki, it ties together at the end.)

re A homeless man and a strange woman unloading an El Camino draped in a white fabric.  Dead, bleeding bodies wrapped in white sheets and rope into our own backyard which they fenced in themselves.  Ed was dying missing both legs, and he was in a stupor leading to death.  I was begging him to stay awake when they noticed me… Ed is a former professional athlete who won second in the world in Shaolin Long fist kung fu.  Noticing me suddenly, the two psychos began to approach me and I panicked…. as I woke up to my phone ringing the solo of “Freebird”- Ed’s ringtone.
Never have I been so happy to hear from him!  I told him about the dream then.  When he came home, I retold the dream, and just before bed- I asked for his interpretation one more time.

I have no idea how the topic came to mind, but after describing the horror of this short scene ad-nauseum, I told him about another dream I had earlier in the night.

“It will make a good fiction story,” I voiced, “…it would make for an adorable story for a coloring book or something.”

Ed replied, “That dream is the one you should write about honestly…”

“But it’s just a fantasy!” I protested, “It’s totally on account of what I read before bed last night, it’s not important.”

“Maybe it is.  I think it is.” and now, he’s sleeping quietly beside me holding Natasha-dog as she is watched me type this for a while before falling to sleep herself.

The dream:

The world had changed.  I always promised myself if the world changes enough and that political and social climates shift dramatically I want to visit Iran.

Here is the background why this Heathen has this entirely random-appearing desire:

In my waking life, studied the region immersively for four years concurrently while I absently completed my degrees in religion and philosophy as almost an afterthought in between several distinct tutors in language, etiquette, culture, history, and diplomacy regarding all things Persian.  Exasperated by being the sole provider of my meticulous notes to every hung-over asshat in my classes by order of each professor…
…I worked on my understanding of the Persian alphabet by transcribing English words into the calligraphy that is Farsi (along with scathing commentaries regarding certain lectures and professors..)

My BEST professor in Persian was humble and brilliant.

His own mentor, an American political scientist, was one of the professors whose personal philosophies at times frustrated me the strongest.  Where we agreed, we were in total concordance, where we clashed it was utter opposition.  However, I wrote my papers to serve the independant audience that is each respective professor.  I sought a college education to earn a degree that would improve my life, not impose my personal opinion.  I saw my job was to understand the position of each professor on each assigned topic requiring some sort of ethical judgement, and making an educated guess at their own world view to write back to them in my own words like a keenly trained parrot.  In philosophy and religions, regurgitating a point of view with five-dollar words found only within academia without a single, legitimate personal opinion attached was the norm.

People fail college entirely for not making that connection in the Liberal Arts.  The soft-sciences, however, are a different game altogether.

Both political scientists recognized my “pandering” immediately and asked for my actual point of view on assigned topics instead of “Writing what you think we want to hear.”

“Let me see that, Ren… Wow, you did not like that lecture at all, did you?
‘Gary, you are an idiot to believe this idealistic Utopian bullshit’.

… Well, at least your handwriting is improving significantly.” he commented puckishly.  “That’s not how those three particular character’s are pronounced, though… I think you meant to write this…” and proceeded to correct my scathing criticism of his own mentor and indicated I was far too nihilistic for my health.

I loved the history of Iran.  I loved learning that topics and religions that interested me throughout my life turned out to have Iranian origins.  If you are a Heathen or Odinist reading this blog, imagine learning that “Caucasian” means “from the Caucus mountains which separate Iran from Turkey” and that “Aryan” is nothing more than a cognate of “Iranian.”  I was awed there were Futhark runes carved into the ruins of Persepolis which indicated a long history of peaceful trade between the Norse and the Persian peoples.  They sent scholars like Ibn Fadlan to study our ancestors, and I even learned that my tiny, obscure Latvian ethnic group had it’s origins in the second Luri migration of the H12 Haplotype.  Which explained why my deceased grandfather resembled Shah Reza Pahlavi, and when my hair grew in dark and I tanned learning Islamic history during a semester in Spain that I was frequently mistaken for more-recent-than-ancient Middle-Eastern descent.

I loved the religions of  Baha’i’, Sufism, and Zoroastrianism- the first Pantheistic and the last two easily classified as Panpolytheistic, respectively.   The Iranians explained the cultural influences of Zoroastrianism, but finding solid information on the actual religious practices itself were at best vague… even with the advantage of archaeologist/theologian who specialized in Judaism and of the religions prior to Judaism of the  ancient near East.  Zoroastrianism was just out of reach (Uruk was the furthest East he went) and slightly past his time of expertise (Cuniform), but he sent me every resource he encountered.

Only now with the resurgence of people over the entire region of Daesh/ISIL/ISIS showing a renewed interest in Zoroastrianism and the pre-monotheistic traditions of the Yazidi, have I really had the ability to learn more.  These cultures are blood-based and secretive in nature- distrustful of strangers and low in number from abuses from all religions of the region newer.  Now I can read about the details of the practices and traditional beliefs of this ancient culture- and like anything else, it will remain a hobby until I am satisfied I have learned all I could have found without outside assistance and just add it to my internal inventory of “Practices, history ,and etiquette regarding interactions of people of [x] religion”.

Sorry for the boring lecture.  To the dream.

I was in Iran, outside of a city that was in the process of being bombed as I watched.  I was floored, but unharmed upon the grass.  I could not discern if I was in Tehran or at the ruins of Persopolis, the smoke was thick in the distance obscuring structural details to mere shadows of the fires and thick black smoke.  Where I stood, the air was clear.  In front of me was a body of water- too foggy to see across. behind me was the burning city, and I was on what seemed to be a peninsula.  Although I could breathe clean air, the visibility was atrocious but clearing very slowly.

To my right I saw a dignified-looking older woman dressed all in black- straight in posture and beautiful in a regal sort of way. She was extraordinarily pale.

However when I approached her I realized her eyebrows were painted on and heavy cosmetics created the illusion of beauty at a distance.  Her posture was due to a stiff black corset, she wore a black pillbox hat with a small black veil that hid an updo of yellowing white hair.

Her face was unlikable in the sense that she seemed aloof, critical, and unfriendly. But she smiled broadly  (falsely) when she saw me.

In front of her was a bridge that bowed in a way that reminded me of the famous Gateway Arch of St. Louis.   She indicated she was old and sore and she brought out a huge wad of folded American hundred dollar bills to offer me to assist her to cross the bridge.  She clearly was too fragile to make such a steep climb alone, and I told her I had no interest in her money- she earned it, I don’t need it.

She indicated she was from Khorasan and knew of a Sufi lodge there, that she herself was Khorasani- and “recognized the touch of their religion upon {me}”  I was mentored to a former Khorasani Sufi, the sect is so obscure I never could find much information on it, but I was informed by some Turkish Sufi in real life that “The true Khorasani remain in Khorasan”- the place where Rumi/Molavi was born- a large former province of Iran that either borders or includes Turkmenistan and/or Afghanistan.

She offered me a place in “her home for as long you a desire of great luxury, exotic foods, and beauty.”

I was interested in seeing Khorasan to her description, but I still found her off-putting.

I did say I would help her, so at a silence in her conversation, I felt a tug on the bottom of my t-shirt.

There, behind me was an adorable Persian girl with curly dark hair, a bright smile, and large, beautiful eyes. She was in a simple, but pretty white dress that had a few layers of soft skirts she seemed to like to “swish” to and fro.

“Are you police officer?” she asked, in English.

I kneeled down to her eye level, “No, I’m afraid I’m not.  I wanted badly to be one for a while, though.”

“You look like police officer to me!” she exclaimed, then, looking sheepish,”But…can you speak Farsi? ”

To my surprise, I replied “Man Farsi baladam, bale-” [I speak Farsi- yes.]

In real life, I’ve lost my fluency except when I have severe flashbacks episodes.  The “black places” in my memories also include useful things as well that I lose when I am stable.  In the dream, I was both speaking Farsi AND stable.  something that never happened.

In Farsi, the little girl explained that her parents lived across the other bridge I had not noticed before. Directly on the opposite side of the Peninsula on which we were standing from the first bridge.

Entirely different in structure, It was wide and paved as a Chicago major highway and completely desolate- the fog extended about a quarter mile out so all I saw was the flat space of empty asphalt and concrete with marked lines like normal, highway bridge.

She said the bridge went “for miles and miles” (Kilometers?) and although she spoke well, she was so small she looked like she could be maybe 5 or 6 years old.  They were both in Western dress.  I wouldn’t go to Iran ever without the severe clothing restrictions were removed entirely to the level of freedom of pre-1979 revolution-Iran.

I figure if that ever happens, the name will go back to “Persia” anyway.

“Will you take me home, please? Misses Police Officer?”  (okay, she said “Shoma”- not “Misses”- but there is no closer translation I can think of.)

She basically called me a police officer in the absolute most formal Persian possible…and she held her opinion as stubbornly as any other young child I have ever met.

Reminded me of when my Goddaughter told me with absolute certainty several years ago when I tucked her into bed: “Unicorns exist now, they are just hiding from us.” I really couldn’t refute her if I wanted to (despite logic).

I replied, again, I am not a police officer- and wouldn’t her parents be upset if she walked with a complete stranger?

“Na,” she smiled, “You do good things, you judge bad people.  Only Police do that.”

I thought to myself: ‘Wow, this country has changed entirely… I was told the police in this country were the most corrupt  and feared people when I went to college in 2012.  Everything must be fixed after all…’

Oddly, the burning city behind me didn’t phase me much except that it was unsafe to stay much longer- I felt that it was almost an isolated, expected event, much like one would view a major earthquake in Los Angeles. Bombing in Iran?  Just as predictable.  In the dream my identification of the city kept changing between ‘Tehran’ and ‘Persepolis’-  it wasn’t Kerman or Naraq, Kermin was too far South, Naraq was not a large city.  Those were all places I wanted to see most, so I figured I would be in a place that I had particular interest.

I kept looking for Mount Damavand to prove one way or the other if I was outside of Tehran.  I wondered if the body of water was Chitgar lake or if the Sivand dam was actually constructed despite the outcry that it would “drown out” the ruins of Persopolis.

She was so innocent and trusting and my protective instinct was overwhelming.  I explained to the older woman that I needed to take the little girl home as my first priority.

I knew we were not the only three people around- even though there were what appeared to be ruined buildings in in the shadows of the smoke of the wreckage, when I looked back at the city I thought “Abandoned.”- as if when I looked at the city itself I thought it was uninhabited Persepolis rather than the Irani capital of Tehran.  When I looked at the water, I questioned if I knew where I was at all. (Note:  I have never seen Iran in person, I had to look up the names of the lake near Tehran and the name of the dam on Wikipedia.)

I explained to the older woman in English that, perhaps, the next person to walk by needed the money she offered me- and that few would refuse such a generous offer. (Okay, this part I paraphrased- Every Persian I ever met was magniloquent- so heaping on generous, positive compliments when giving a negative answer I was taught is customary…  add three paragraphs about  ” her generosity”, “The kindness of the Persian people” and “predestination” and that is more accurate.)

Despite trying my hardest not to upset the woman- my instinct proved correct.  She was enraged, screaming at me at how I was “throwing away the greatest of opportunities” how I was “Abandoning a respected elder without any care!” and other frothy insults.

It was fortunate the older lady could not move very well.  I even asked her if she would be content if I gave her one of my rings to hold as a promise I would return and help her as well-  she was older, wiser, and so much more able to abide alone for a short time over this very small child.  She refused.

“You know the money I have on me, if I get robbed it was your fault.”

I replied, “You offered it all to me to help you across the bridge- if you give the same offer to the next person to help you how can you be robbed?”

She was still pissed off at me, so I asked the little girl if she wanted to take my hand.  I never asked either the names of the old woman nor the child.

As we were walking, the little girl waited until we were pretty far away from the peninsula and city.  Fog was behind us and ahead of us- and she stopped.  “I want to give you something special too for helping me.  Here!” and she gave me a blue feather- obviously a body feather of a bird with blue plumage.  “I like this feather because it is magic.”

“Magic?” I questioned, indulging her.

“Yes!  Look!  If you cup your hands, the feather turns brown in the dark…but when you hold it up, it’s blue!”

I am an avid birder-  I am aware that all blue pigmentation of bird feathers is actually an optical illusion produced by the structure of the feather itself.  If you are really bored, here is an article on the phenomenon. 
Destroying the “magic” of her feather would be as horrible as telling an American 5 year old “Santa’s Presents” came from your uncle.

The feather was as pretty as you see in the picture above- but I don’t recall the green.

I stated, “This feather is really pretty, birds that are blue are rare and hard to find- are you sure you want to give this to me? You might never find another feather like this.”

She was already walking again,
“Oh, I can get as many of those as I want.  That feather comes from our Angel- he runs the city and he’s really nice!   He will be happy to meet you and thank you for helping me too and he always gives me his feathers!”

And suddenly, I realize I am a complete idiot, I died in the blast, and the little girl was taking me to the Yazidi Peacock Angel.

In Zoroastrian and Yazidi tradition- upon death, you are to cross a bridge to the afterlife.  Below the bridge are hungry soul-eating creatures.  Those who live by kind and good thoughts/words/deeds are met by  “a beautiful maiden who leads them across a bridge so wide you cannot see below”

But those who are unkind and prone to negative thoughts/words/deeds are met by an ugly, pissed off crone who leads you to a bridge that narrows until you fall into the chasm below to be entirely erased from existence by being devoured.

I woke up then, and in just researching sources right now, i found a further article on this entity.

Apparently, Zoroastrians believe The Peacock Angel is in all religions- to the Babylonians, He was Enki.

To some theologians,  there is a theory that the genesis of the Lokean archetype was first recorded in the Babylonian stories of Enki– a wholly benevolent God without the same stigma as Loki or Coyote. Here is a wiki-link that directs the Enki page to Loki’s definition page.

My personal belief is He is the earliest form of the archetype of the “Trickster”-  the basis for Lucifer as well as Loki, Coyote, Inari, and countless others.

To me, as an archetypalist, I believe the Gods go through “phases” much like we do as we age and change.  Trickster’s are shapeshifter’s- a great book on the entire archetype is called Trickster Makes This World by Lewis Hyde.  Within it- he shares a similar perspective on this matter in great depth and detail.

In conclusion- what set me on the ENTIRE path of Persian studies was a dream where the Judaism/Archaeologist professor told me there was a Heathen professor in the English department who wished to meet me.  I wrote about the dream in more detail here.

I walked to the English building, and in the corner office was an office filled entirely of full bookselves and a young-ish red-haired man with a patchy beard who pointed out his window at my now-former mentor:

“See that man there?  He is very wise, protect him, you will learn much from him.”

I believed the God to be Bragi for 4 years, I was not corrected….and the professor I was charged to “protect” spent his last two years devolving into a completely disingenuous, atheistic asshole to a life-destroying intensity. (I’m being kind)

I almost didn’t allow myself to live through the experience, actually…

…and at the end of it all, after my degrees were finished and I regained the smallest amount of stability of having a clinically classic Narcissist as my primary influence in my life,  that God came back 4 years later in a different dream. (Paraphrased for those who didn’t click the link to the prior post on these particular dreams)

“You….are not Bragi.”
“If I said who I was, you wouldn’t have listened to me.”

Which lead to an apology from a God for not predicting the caustic potential in the life path to which He lead me.

This was the night prior to the first date with my husband- and as his apology, he gave me a rose on fire that glowed with a cool flame, but did not burn up, and promised that Eddie would protect me in Midgard.

And… here I am, I married Eddie- he does protect me, and he turned out to be correct.

My life doesn’t consist entirely of bad dreams and flashbacks.  I just need to learn to appreciate the bright and beautiful parts of my life as well.

Like the blue feather- when I am in the darkness  of my mind, there is no beauty.  When I am not, my life and experiences are lucky and extraordinarily beautiful sometimes.  Like the stops at each majestic vantage point on a road trip of uncertain length.

It would help if I didn’t automatically equate “nice” dreams as insignificant and ignore them in favor of obsessing over my nightmares.

After actually sitting my ass down, writing this all out, and finding sources that explain terms and concepts…

…I realize I just wrote my first post about Loki in months.

Actions, Words, and “Trigger Warnings”

Posted in About me on December 17, 2015 by Tyrienne

“My Beautiful One” by Olaf Erla  When I first saw this picture I thought: “This is what my mind looks like from the inside.”  That, or the 10 of swords.

As an individual living with C-PTSD, I am becoming increasingly frustrated by the misuse of the word “Triggered” in the use of the context of people mildly annoyed with the right of free-speech of others.

To show a comparison of what a REAL trigger is, I am currently in-state right now and will describe to you what someone with an ACTUAL trigger experiences as I am experiencing my flashbacks.  I have tried every therapy available to me and the only thing with any positive response thus far has been “sedation”.  I am a medical cannabis patient with a high-dosage Valium prescription to take as-needed.

I am writing this prior to taking my “emergency medications”.  These are my memories and my train of thought while suffering from  C-PTSD.

Fuck any of you who ever used the word “Trigger” for anything less than a medically diagnosed condition.

My father, although having a great heart and wonderful words has failed me.

In a text to my husband, he wrote the following: “I would have saved her from her mother if I could have.”

No.   You did quite the opposite.

When she got knocked up at 17, you allowed yourself to be manipulated into marrying her “or else {i} would be aborted”.  That did neither of us any favors for the 17 years of abuse I suffered after.

Yes, you pulled her several hundred pound stinking body off of mine several times as she attempted to strangle me, but did you ever call the police?

No.  In fact, when I was 12  “The Talk” to me was “I cannot defend you anymore or she will leave me- don’t worry, it’s only a few short years before you can move out legally.”  From that point forward, you would hear nothing of what I experienced.  You worked overtime so you wouldn’t have to see her starve me or beat me.

You came with her when she drug me away from award ceremonies celebrating accomplishments I achieved in school- SHE determined that I “did not deserve them because..” usually something banal like “Not doing the dishes properly”… the guidance counselors called me “Cinderella”- for if you didn’t notice- I was doing the chores as she sat on her fat ass and demanded glasses of water, as she left large embroidery and quilting needles everywhere to the point where we all were pulling them out of our feet and asses each time we dared to sit or walk without protection.

You allowed her to buy me turtleneck shirts to hide the bruises around my neck, you watched her smile when I opened the boxes at Christmas.

One year she bought me anthracite thinking it would hurt me, and she was so angry I thought coal was “pretty” she fucking threw it at me and stormed off like she always did.  You were there for that, too.

You claim you don’t recall.  Everyone else does.

When I was 12, the county was in the process of removing me into the custody of my grandparents.  My mother, in true Narcissist form, suddenly decided we “had to move”- far from the rest of the family and neighbors who protected me and over an hour away from your place of employment- for her reputation’s sake.

She was enraged she was no longer allowed to work with children because I had the courage to speak out.

At 15, we all came to the decision I was finally allowed to move in with your parents.  You, yourself stopped the process.  Why did you do that if “you could have saved me”?

I was emancipated at 17, it was the first time I had privacy in 17 years and I was apparently difficult to live with for my host family and friends.  I loved the basement room they gave me to live in.  I loved not getting yelled at.  I still talk to everyone who ever gave me shelter in that time.  I never knew what “safe” was before for any consistent period of time prior to that other than time with your parents, which was always limited and would come to an end and be met with abuse to “correct their spoiling of me.”

“Spoiling” to your ex wife was another term for “treating like a human being worthy of love.”  Something she cannot ever be capable of, and you know it.

I joined the Americorps at 19 and applied and was accepted to University of Colorado- full scholarship.  That year, you claimed me on your joint taxes and it called my FAFSA into question making it over 6 years until I could attend Moravian… and even then, your NEW wife decided the small 5k loan you took out to help me was “too much” and you demanded I quit school when I had a 3.8 GPA in 2 majors, a master’s thesis and graduate programs were courting me.

You wonder why I hate your new wife?  That is reason #1.  She spent your money to bumble through a low-level nursing program for several years but could not abide me completing my last semester of a real college.

You claim “she bounced from job to job”- do you not recall that she told several people she “never intended to work again” after marrying into your 6 figure salary?

She envies me for what she imagines is a lazy, stress free life on disability.

Don’t you think after I was making over 60k a year in a failing travel agency that I would prefer to have the ability to contribute more than 12k worth of disability to my own household?  Do you understand I changed jobs in my 20’s so frequently not because I was ever fired:  I wasn’t… It was the only fucking way I could increase my pay.

They don’t give real raises in retail…and not having a college degree in this age meant my resume’ ended up in the garbage as I watched inferior people flunk out of positions I could have excelled at long term with actual career potential.

When you divorced my mother, you said “I will not date anyone with children- I have neglected my own enough.”

You lied.  You were so fucking lonely you got engaged to any woman who dated you a month.  You were engaged to two women with children.  Hell, I didn’t even mind the first one.  Her children were sweet.

Sorry she dumped you.  Julie was sorry for me she dumped you too.

Now you live with your new wife who checks on you every hour like you are a child when you spend time with me.  Her children are unapologetic sociopaths and have turned my grandparents against me.  HER daughter is looking forward to attending the most expensive school in the region to be of all things: A Spanish teacher.  A community college is more than sufficient, that’s what you would have told me, if that at all.

In fact- all those years I spent living under your roof?  You said nothing when your ex said ad-nauseum “You better get scholarships- you don’t deserve college”- and you did nothing.

You said after the fact that “you had a plan”.  It’s easy to say words- you never had any such “plan” to help me with school and your income demanded contribution that fucking yeti would never allow.

That would mean being kind to me.  That was rule number 1 of living with your ex-wife:  Never be kind to me.  Bryan is a God, I am garbage.

Yet…which one of your biological children lives in literal filth?  Can you honestly still believe the lies your ex said that anything and everything was somehow my fault?  Her hoarding? That I deserved her abuses and punishment?  That I deserved to be ignored by you because that crazy, ignorant bitch was jealous of a CHILD’s relationship with her own father?

Why have you never accepted your role in everything that occurred to me?

And here, it is nearing Yule/Christmas/Whatever-  My mother still terrorizes her side of the family making it so I can’t even have my Heathen grandma and my uncle share in our first real holiday in our newly purchased home.  If Jan and I call Elder Services again, then I get the wrath of the entire family who is terrified of a 50-ish mentally ill woman.

I was the one who was the most abused. Why do I possess more courage than all of you combined to fight her back when she tries to abuse my grandma?  Why isn’t anyone else but the fucking NEIGHBORS fighting for my 84 year old blind grandma but me?

You and my husband get offended when I say “I wish I was aborted.”

But, if I was, this is what would have happened:
1. You would have attended college.
2. You never would have been in a 25 year long abusive relationship with a woman who reeked of menstration and cheap perfume- her broken black teeth, the hairy pores of her face and her beady little eyes and voice that could not speak to me in anything less than profanities.
3. You wouldn’t get hurt when I remind you of the ways you continually hurt me…. for I never would have been hurt in the first place.

Your parents wonder why I am on SSDI, why I cannot “let go” of the past… it’s easy to let go as a bystander  Who among them was actually starved and beaten?  Only myself.

They call me a “loser”-  How does the city of Philadelphia feel that they are paying the pension of a former college administrator who held no higher degrees of education himself?

Better to be a Loser than a Liar.

I was expected to reconcile with my brother who had a psychotic breakdown so profound he emulated my abuser down to the exact same insults and tone of voice- and yet, you cannot understand why I really was not interested in welcoming him back into my life.I didn’t want him back because he acted just like her…and it took SEVERAL people to convince me he was “safe” and his own vouchsafe word he would see an endocrinologist since his emotional disturbance actually stems from a real physical condition…to which he is willing to acknowledge he harmed others and has taken multiple steps to get help.

In fact, both my brother and I have always striven to improve our flaws and to work exceptionally hard not to live in denials or fantasies.   This is why we listen to our doctors.

Your attitude regarding your mental health is only rivaled by your disregard for your diabetes.

What it boils down to is on account of the mental health diagnosis’ you refuse to accept and receive treatment,  you instead would rather feel the innate inner sense that  CHOSE to stay with her out of “logic”- where truly, there was no logic to be found in the situation: Furthermore,  you chose to aid her in “covering up” all the abuses when child services were called.

If you are REALLY so concerned and love us all- then perhaps you should consider NOT throwing out your medications prescribed (except for the ones you feel immediate, tangible benefit) and if you don’t want to fucking die like my Nana Gloria perhaps you should cut way back on the Pepsi considering she died of a diabetic stroke…and you have diabetes.

This is an example of cognitive dissonance.   Don’t worry, your second wife can not even pronounce the term much less understand it outside of exploiting it for the gain of her own blood family to the exclusion of your own.

You. Are. Cognitively. Dissonant….and you refuse help time and again- before Nana lost her mind she theorized with me that you refused meds/treatment because the reality of your life would overwhelm you and “drive you to suicide.”

But…that was years prior to her dementia and the steady campaign of alienation your wife and her brood have worked so hard to accomplish successfully.

It was nice of you to build a shower in the bathroom downstairs after THREE YEARS of the creature you married forcing me to wash in a sink in the unheated laundry room.  Your compassion is ever-bountiful, how kind.

Your step-daughters whine for money and have no ethics- yet when I picked up my box of old awards/trophies from your house you minimized my old achievements so that the little sociopathic butterball didn’t have her poor, fat feelings “hurt” that I was pretty damned good at my sport.

…where for her, you pay hundreds because she is too fat to be a real cheerleader so you pay for her to go to cheer classes to stand and clap like a downs-syndrome recital every month, but with $30 hair bows.

You and the teenage-bride you married refused to even pay for field trips.  I had to ask your parents, always.

“David Winter Cottages” were obviously a more imperative financial priority in the house in which we lived, and her obsessive QVC spending sprees.

When I confront you with these things, you cower and say “you do not understand”.

This is what you need to understand:  I have been scarred in ways that no medicine can ever heal; from the childhood of atrocities and abuses that have made therapists cry and my brother, the golden child, feel such bystander guilt from watching me get abused that he, himself is actually in psychologically worse shape than I am as a self-harming hoarder with some form of psychosis- that evidently even WITNESSING what occurred to me on a daily basis was “too traumatic for him”.

(Which I also think is bullshit.  If he was so “Traumatized”- why speak to the bitch who did it? It’s offensive to me on such a deep level words cannot convey my intolerance for the contradiction.)

Of course you say you “didn’t see it”- you were either working overtime or don’t want to look reality squarely in the eye.

I want you to understand and express that you let me down.  I don’t want you to fix my fucking house as much as I would like it if you called me.

You hurt me further by saying I “look like her”- funny, but most people say I look like you.  If I “look like her”- it’s because you stuck your penis into a psychopath and expected a miracle.  Genetics is a bitch, as much as I would love a new nose and chin, I would rather pay off the house.

I am not a hoarder, I do not scream… I am more highly educated than anyone else in our family especially and including your father who ascended the ranks of Academic Administration with nothing more than a questionable associate’s degree, and yet- you let your parents treat me like shit as well as your “new” daughter prances around in her new clothes Nana bought for her as she cheerfully exclaims:

“Oh, I don’t like Nana- I just like shopping!”

You know who actually DID love your parents?  I did.  I loved them the best I could even after they stopped loving me.  The only reason I do not and cannot be in closer contact with them is that they intentionally provoke me ad-hominem attacks every time I communicate with them.

You claim it is the same for you- but yet, your new family seems to have taken the place of the old.

You do not call me, you claim you “don’t have the time”-but you visit your inlaws several hours away at least monthly.  Visiting me?  Is that too painful or uncomfortable for you?

Do you realize your discomfort is 100% your own guilt and responsibility?  That I am an uncomfortable reminder of every single failure of judgement for 25 years?

Isn’t it just so easy to just “walk away” instead of facing this?  You say I should as well, but here is the rub.  I have C-PTSD because of this.

I don’t have a choice but to relive every. single. painful. memory.

and Again.
And forevermore.

I have attempted every single treatment.  I have allowed myself to be abused as an adult because I did not know what “normal” was- leading to further traumas any “normal” person would have known to avoid.

Despite being selected for an online think-tank at the age of 18 run by a professor of UCal, I honestly did not believe in my own intelligence until I was assigned my own nurse at a psychiatric facility who had to explain to me “The problems of genius”.  My college sent the hospital my thesis on time theory.

My thesis was published.  You not only never read it, you never asked for a copy.   Everyone else’s parents who wrote one have their child’s proudly displayed, I’ve noted.

My teenage years: Your 80 hour weeks, fast food stops prior to coming home, and your ability to visit the rest of the family while I remained trapped with the monster you married….and you claim you were the one “harmed”….and that you “didn’t see anything”

How could you not see when you were STILL pulling this rabid rhino of a woman off of my body as she tried to strangle or smother me for any imagined infraction?

That never stopped… you pulled her off of me repeatedly.  Why didn’t you call the police if you loved me?

Did you really love that beast more than me?  Then why do you blame me for your marriage?  You are a contradiction.

Our conversations which used to be intellectually deep and mutually rewarding are now flat and monosyllabic.  Is that because of your guilt about every lie you tell yourself?  Is it because you realize that you married an honorless woman who had two illegitimate children and an entire bookshelf on how to “capture” a “rich man”?

Is it because you do not realize the distances and slights you have allowed your new wife to leverage against me all proved to be false?

Do you know when I came from from my broken engagement in Canada your woman asked me if I was “with him for the sex?”

I was so appalled I just said “yes”- a woman like that would never understand what love is, and frankly- it wasn’t her business to know I left for Canada because John was neglectful and his parents were extraordinarily abusive towards me.

Morgan was the first real relationship I had where I felt cherished.  Then his ex did to him what my mother did to you… and you encouraged him to stay with the woman who used a fetus as a bargaining chip.

Morgan spent 3 months in an institution- he was raped repeatedly as a child so the stress of the entire situation brought out his latent Disassociative tendencies devolving him into a fracture of conflicting personalities.

Can your wife understand anything so complex?  No.  She could not even understand our most basic of conversations…so, you stopped having them with me.

Do you realize I am the only person related to you who places more value on my relationships with those I care about than anything financial?

I have no credit cards,  the television downstairs came with the house and has never been connected to any service- it’s just too big and heavy for me to push it up to the curb.

If there are wills I am included in (which I doubt); there will be no “battle”- I will choose a charity and allow that charity to fight for “my” money for whatever they need…. and no, I won’t pick a charity of MY interest, it would be one appropriate to the deceased.

If my grandparents die- the money goes to the Philadelphia Zoo.
If you do, and you don’t die in the massive debt-hole you found yourself: The Tesla Museum.

If grandma dies, Gods help me- All I care about is that her library of books written in Lettish find a home with any Latvian group who will take them, preserve them, and keep them as a library in her name.  That is the ONLY battle I am willing to fight for.

…and that battle, I will likely and sadly lose unless I keep pushing to try and speak to the Bērziņš… but the Latvian community stands aloof from me out of a combination of fear that I am the spawn of the worst of their people and also my misguided former affiliation with American Asatru- you know, Americans that believe in the old Gods?

The appeal of being around people who wore funny clothing and worshiped Gods I was familiar with welcoming me?  Of course I would gravitate towards them until I realized they were nothing more than Christians making Woten into Jesus and Loki, Satan.

So, I moved on- found more Heathens like our family, and now I am their chaplain whenever they need me.  It’s sad I live the contradiction of existing in a Philosophy that places such strong emphasis on ancestors, family, and home- but the homes of my own family are “closed” to me.

Because I am told I am a failure by your parents, because your wife is upset her bipolar, molested daughter (whose abuser she also kept in the home) didn’t get on SSDI.

She didn’t get on SSDI because she’s a dishonest whore with a drug problem.   The insinuation I was addicted to painkillers last time I visited did not go unnoticed.

If you would be so kind, next time you see me- read my patch.  It says “Estriol”- it’s what they give people who have no ovaries.  Thank Gods I do not, bearing a child is the absolute worst nightmare I can imagine.

Painkillers are rather normal for someone who had major surgery.  I haven’t touched one since I had a kidney stone over a month ago.  I weaned myself off of morphine in a week.  Also- did you not realize you were at my home the day I came home to keep an eye on me while my husband picked up the list the doctors gave him for my aftercare?

You became bored- you went home and left me alone.  The entire purpose for you coming up was so I wouldn’t be.  You failed me then, too.

The next day, we got Natasha- my dog, who has honestly been kinder to me than most humans, and I spent fucking weeks training her by myself while I recovered from surgery.  She bypassed two levels of classes because of that.

You treat her like she’s disgusting when she offers you her favorite toys when you visit.  Are you the same way with the slimy toys your sister-in-laws infants handed you?  My dog at the age of one at least knows how to crap in running water and obey more basic commands than most 5 year olds.  You treated her like she was something gross.  She’s one of the most beautiful things I have in my life.  Yes, I am one of those people who sees my “pets” as thinking, feeling creatures.  It’s easier not to fuck up a cat or dog.  For the most part, they spend more time helping me than I ever do them.

I used to cry in elementary school every single mother’s day when we had to make cards “appreciating” what, to me, was a creature more terrible than anything I could imagine under the bed or in the closet.

I used to hope I had monsters living there= I figured they would eat her if they saw her.  Win/win situation- she was much, much larger and my life could have been happy!

But, sadly, even the “monsters” failed to save me.  However, grandpa’s secret passages in grandma’s house?  They were great until you decide to “Yes, dear” into a move to fucking Deliveranceland where the people were ignorantly Christian to the absence of all logic and reports of livestock molestation were frequent.

I am not suicidal… I wish you made the wisest decision any man or woman could make:  Choosing someone who was worthy of bearing children.

In failing to do so- what “failings” you see in me, everything that makes you “uncomfortable” can be directly attributed to being screamed at by a female yeti for the entirety of my formative years… with the only “good parts” being the time I spent with you at work or the short time you were stay-at-home, or time spent with your parents.

Your parents who have also chosen your “fresh start” over the past you actually created yourself for me to suffer forever as if I deserve the mental anguish I go through every single time I am personally Triggered.

Triggered is a real thing.  Did you know when your ex-wife would have me prepare the meals I was not permitted to eat I learned to eat raw meat?

Did you know that’s why I still do?  The taste of anything less than “practically raw” is another painful reminder of what I lived through.  So is lasagna, so is meatloaf.

So many things “normal” people enjoy that I never can.

I will never “get over” that the day of my birth was considered “The worst day in the history of your family”- pretty much by every blood relative close to you.

My birth stifled your potential, and it has made you a man of shame and guilt.

So, next father’s day when you are kayaking on the lake with the older step daughter who had three of your ribs broken by her ex-boyfriend, who left her targets from the gun range with “Dave” written at the top in large letters on your dining room table- will you wonder about the daughter who is your intellectual equal?

Or…do I just make you too uncomfortable and dealing with her mishappen life is so much easier for you because you are blameless in its inception.

Her problems come from her mother’s whoring around.  Don’t try to tell me a woman with two children out of wedlock is less than an irresponsible whore.  Even you got married and abortion was 100% legal at the time of both births.

Apparently, what your ex won with you, your new wife lost the gamble in trying to “tie down a man” for herself.

Ask yourself this:  Was it really worth it to get engaged to three different women with the same ring in the entire 6 month period you were “single”?

You lied to your pastor on your wedding day to your second wife- saying the divorce was finalized, when it was not at that time…and further, you adopted her youngest daughter whose father was dead….not only dead, but while still alive, molested the oldest daughter to make her the mess she is today.

The girl who wanted to marry her coke dealer, but the coke dealer wised up and dumped her ass.

The girl who threatened to kill herself because she wanted you to buy her a car.

This is what you replaced me with.  You tell my husband “I wish I could have saved her.”

See, the problem with that is you could have…and you chose not to.  Instead, you chose regret, and even that I am not certain is genuine.

You claim you were “abused for 25 years in that marriage” to my mother…

The difference between you and I is you could have walked out at any time and called the police on her for every violence inflicted against me, with every neighbor in Haverford and every school teacher I met acting as witnesses to save me, to save my sanity, and ultimately any chance of future happiness…

…instead, you chose someone other than your daughter.

It doesn’t matter how “good” or “honorable” of a life I attempt to live to any of you.

And people wonder why I hate Christmas.  Every strand of lights, every tinsel, every fucking pickle hanging in every fucking tree reminds me of how this holiday was when the abuse was at its worst.

It reminds me of how if I showed that I “loved” any toy I was given, it was broken in front of me by your first wife.

It reminds me how I was treated like a slave to put up all those indoor decorations and punished if even one of those fucking fragile-ass tacky glass ornaments broke.

It reminds me how I was forced to shop with you for the woman who made my life not worth living for 17 years.

And this year- it reminds me how I cannot have a real family like “normal people”- because you broke your promise and “started over” with this new woman and her fucking evil offspring and that my mother still terrorizes my innocent Latvian grandmother to the point of tears and assault…but that “is no longer your problem.”

…and then, you get pissed off at me when I have to join her neighbors in calling the police yet another holiday on that sub-human you decided to breed twice with.

What I want is for you to prove in ACTION that you love me.  Not reluctant visits only if something breaks I cannot fix (and I can fix a surprising amount of things!)

I would like it if you actually shared your life with me- instead, it’s “none of my business” – Why?  Because you are being “Superdad” to a new family that you didn’t even donate the sperm to produce?

Is it because I told you that your new wife was a gold-digger before anyone else had the courage to do so?

Are you truly happy?

I am not.  I am literally triggered the entire month of December, every December.  My neck still aches from all the times those ham-hock fists of that female sasquatch were around my throat when I smell the fake-pine she sprayed on our fake-tree.

I decorate minimally- because I do not ever want to see another “fragile” ornament remind me of what it felt like to be 100lbs and to see fists come down upon my body again, and again, and again…

I cannot abide by hearing anyone at all raise their voice in anger- including myself.  You will notice I discuss and NEVER raise my voice in emotion.  Why?  Because I am not her.

…and if there ever becomes a time that I do “become her” I would do the world a favor and swallow the end of a gun for the sake of those I do love.

Now you see my brother- he is like her.  You paid for him to flunk college three times when I could not go at all until I was 27.

You are proud of Morgan and her “accomplishments”- when she herself admits she uses people “and pretends to be their friends” to gain whatever thing or goal she attempts to achieve.   She is truly a despicable goatling, and her sister is no better.

But, you know- I’m just on SSDI and a chaplain.

And yes, I miss my dad- and he’s not even dead.  He just “started over” his adult life, and I am left with the broken shards of an incomprehensible childhood- and the only people who understand are the friends who have stood beside me since I was 12 years old.

Does he even know their names?  My best friends may come and go in and out of my life as they please- they do not need to call me daily or “check-in”.

Did you know when your wife forbid you on taking out the last 5k loan I needed for living expenses I was homeless?   Did you care?

I called you for help on car insurance 4 months later, I begged even…and you refused to help.

I ended up in a head-on collision and that bitch you call a wife had the audacity to tell you I “did it on purpose”

When I was waiting on SSDI to clear, I defaulted on my student loans- you accused me of preventing you from “taking out your third mortgage”- on a home you owned less than 5 years.

Whose credit was more ruined?  You didn’t believe me when I told you my loans were forgiven over my disability.

I showed you the papers showing all debt has been discharged, so why do you still treat me as if I was the one who wronged you?

Why are you so hot and cold with your involvement and alleged “love”?

The only conclusion your indiscrete therapist has given (and every therapist I have seen after to whom I have described you) is that your schizoaffective disorder is the root of your fractured reality.

The reason you and my husband get along so well is you have the same condition.  He’s medicated, if you were medicated you would have a nervous breakdown to see the reality you have created around you.

This is your reality:

You live in a house you hate.  You were not able to reform the sociopath-child.   Your son lives in a house of filth and gouges out his flesh with his fingernails and is starting to show signs of his mother’s profound list of mood disorders that make him entirely volatile and unpredictable- and he has serious physical health issues that have not been addressed properly.

He is borderline-to-most likely abusive to his own wife.  Who he refers to as “poop-head” and treats like a motherfucking slave.

You allowed my mother to treat her own mother like a servant in her own home while you lived there.

You allow for your wife’s daughter to take advantage of your mother who has severe dementia.

Your adopted brother asked for you before you died- you let him down because it was too hard for you, when HE was the man on his deathbed.

I was the only person who was able to start the process to get Steven into hospice BECAUSE of the college degrees your new wife poo-pooed.

I know less than a handful of people in our ancestral religion who are recognized as LEGAL clergy, and I am one of them.  No, I do not make money from this, but my legacy will be far greater than that of someone who spends 40 hours of each week punching a clock.

The only good thing to occur from my childhood is compassion for the suffering of others- because I have suffered.

However, I cannot rationalize why I continue to “suffer” because I was so deeply harmed in such almost cartoonish ways under your watch that I can never, ever experience “normal”.

The only mother figure I had prior to my awesome mother in law was YOUR mother….

….and your mother is getting robbed blind by your new family- and you do nothing.

You claim you “do not remember”;  go back to the old neighborhood and have them kindly remind you.

If you think it was “Just because I was a teenager”- then go back further to the neighbors of my grandmother.  Ask Jan how many times her husband came home from a long-ass day of painting and set up the bad-mitten net to get me away from the woman you married to “save my unborn life”.

The only normal years I had in my childhood were when you stayed home working on VCR’s while my mother bounced from job to job fired for being absolutely intolerable as a human being.

And yet, you continued to fuck a that woman.  Those broken, black teeth, the stench of menstrual blood always upon her, those beady, colorless eyes and her lank, dirty hair on your pillow when you were raised in cleanliness.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

What the fuck is wrong with me for still loving my father despite all this, and still making excuses after all these years when at any moment, he could have just walked out the door with me, called the neighbors, the school, my grandparents, and done what was best for his eldest (that I know of) child?

I know if we stayed in Haverford township, I would have ended up living with your parents, remained in the best school district in the state, and I would have had a chance.

Even though you didn’t enjoy your childhood with them- could you at anytime say to yourself with honesty that it would have been worse than being trapped by that monster you married?

Do you think Nana would have accused me of being a “changeling” and beat me to “bring her real child back”?

Would Pop pop have asked houseplants if I was “telling the truth” about some inconsequential knick-nack being broken by my mother’s elephant feet storming through the house- to where I could tell simply from the sounds of her heavy footsteps how badly I would be beaten?

Would I ever have had to push furniture against my door to prevent more beatings?

Would I have been able to keep my door hinges?

Would I have been allowed to bathe in a real shower or bathtub without being punished for it in Middle School?

Do you know what it feels like to be shoved against your will into support groups in k-12 schooling with other “abused kids” and feeling deep envy that THEIR parents were “only alcoholics”…and could get better and my situation had no hope?

Are you aware that my condition is so severe that I have permanent damage to my heart from tachycardia?  My blood pressure is naturally low- the only medication for it gives me narcolepsy?

Do you even know what a flashback feels like?

It feels worse than wanting to die.  It feels like never wanting to have existed at all.

Merry Fucking Christmas.  This is called “Triggered”- if ANYONE believes  otherwise, you have my permission to give them a REAL trigger.

I suggest starving them for a couple of years, forcing them to wash in a dirty sink in an unheated laundry room, and frequent beatings by something large, ugly, and totally irrational…and then have the one person they love most completely and totally abandon them.


This is “Triggered”.   It’s a record every shitty memory playing on a gramophone in the mind inaccessible behind bullet proof glass.

Because I survived an interrogation, at least I have veteran-friends I can commiserate with who have been through interrogations as well.

But overall, the total sum of my life trauma could have been avoided with a simple procedure at Planned Parenthood.

Our family ways hold no stigma against abortions.  Your parents offered repeatedly to pay for it.

That is one time you should have taken the money, Dad.

The words “I love you”:  As Nana Gloria would say: “Put that in one hand and shit in the other- see which hand fills up first”

If you loved me, fucking stop what you are doing, re-evaluate your life, and take responsibility for the harm that is continuing to occur instead of shrugging your shoulders and placing the blame on the other people you have in your life and other faux-responsibilities to these strangers who give you the illusion you didn’t completely and totally fuck up 33 years worth of me..

…by your inability to have courage to “act” on the love you claim to have.  Pick up a phone.  Admit you fucked up, admit you keep fucking up.  Consider getting medicated so you don’t get taken advantage of.

Stop blaming me for the pain that was inflicted upon me that makes YOU uncomfortable.

This is a fucking disease that could have been avoided with a phonecall at anytime from elementary school up.

You could have saved me.  You chose not to.

The absolute most pathetic part of this post is the only family who MIGHT ever read this is a second cousin I met at Aunt Shirley’s funeral.

Sorry Jon.  My line of the family is completely shitty as well- I changed my name too.

If I could create a life for my father it would be working from home in a nice pre-frabricated house on a lake-front plot of land so he could kayak…his entire living room would be a work bench and my brother and I would find an accountant to manage his money and give him an allowance for hookers to keep him from marrying poorly once again…

Since he cannot be trusted to actually pick a spouse who isn’t some form of malignancy.