"Doubt begets all sorts of ill begotten self-destructive doings..."

 The fog that has settled here in the PNW is eking into my mind. Not helped by long delays in getting money settled and a knee injury from earnestly practicing yoga and belly dancing. The cycles of these nonmoving events boggle. I feel a slipping that I know so well and have to let go into, but the hypo-mania was far too short and it did nothing for my disordered eating. I can usually count on mania being a wonderful equalizer when it comes to all my binges. This time I’m left wanting.

When I find myself here, I wonder each time, how am I going to make it? But in the last three years I’ve been feeling the deep sting of aloneness. There is simply no one for me to tether to and ache for it so. It isn’t like I lack awareness of being alone when balanced for a second or the longer standing mania, but obviously depression blatantly reminds.

Mystifyingly, I find me falling for domestication. I left behind the consumer in me, the one that must have fucking Cost Plus snowflakes because seemed styled just for me. I want to gobble them all up and put it in the holiday bins for future usage. I want to cook turkey dinner, pumpkin bread, and lots of soup. But again this is not the new Michelle; this is just the filler that I’m filling me with because I’m empty.

Came to me like a shock that this is THE issue. Yes, there’s a new Michelle but her identity is in flux, in the embryonic empty stage leaving me vulnerable to the influence of doubt. Doubt begets all sorts of ill begotten self-destructive doings, which I already hold expert level like prowess. I don’t need outside pressures to catapult me down this well-known path. The “fuck it” moment becomes so doable on this path, which unfortunately “fuck it” begets “why bother?”  I’ve spoken already of the redundancy of suicidal ideology, but as I feared, the stealthy storm of depression simply follows its path of ‘being’, and I simply am the passenger waiting out the storm.

I wrote this yesterday and paused in its publication because I knew I might regret this pouring out, of what amounts to…self-pity. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but I know that today I am tired of being mired. So I start doing what I can do, what I do have control of despite the arrival of limitations.  Like for instance, I can walk. Oh how it’s going to be a freezing affair, but I had to my chance to walk in the sun, and chose self-pity instead. So this is what I get for not finding a way before this, a bloated gut and a frozen atmosphere.

Eat My Way Back To Death...Yoga My Way To Knee Injury

 This eating disorder thing is prevalent so soon after having lost so much, that to have gained so much back again, is a pain I cannot bear any longer. I do not want to eat in quantity, and yet in a state repulsive awareness, I compulsively continue as though possessed. Food is a necessity; and so this is where drug and or alcohol addiction part ways.  But after recently speaking with a 20 year sober AA participant, came to realize that addiction is indeed fucking addiction. Only again, you do not require heroin to sustain life.

I recently start yoga after a long absence. Body and mind has loved me for it, my knee however is not pleased at all. But this was certainly not going to stop me so I got my flexible band/brace out to support the knee and was icing when necessary.

Then yesterday happened. We have very steep stairs to the finished basement and where my room dwells. Going down the steep and narrow stairs my large booted feet stepped down awkwardly but my nifty cat-like reflexes moved into action grapping the railing. I would have fallen a long and hard into the litter box, still I stumbled hard in the knees and now my right knee declares it officially injured. This makes me very fucking irked, reminding me of a pattern that plagues my attempts at psychical exercise beyond walking, which then leads to the rapid cycling of intense moods of all sorts.

Eating disorder 101: knee injury begets binge eating.  The cycle of stress inducing food frenzy is clear, what is not, is a way the fuck out of the pattern. I am not a 12 stepper, I fundamentally disagree with nearly all the steps as I do not believe in giving up power to any one thing. Yes yes yes…I let go and allowed my bipolar to be what it is rather than trying to make it be like everyone else thought it ought to be…something to be controlled. But this is not something I want a part of me, I do not wish it a home within and therefore must be expunged.  This is how my mind functions; get the fuck out since you serve NO purpose!

My eating disorder is learned behavior and therefore I know can be rewired. I have successfully managed this with many other nasty aspects/demons deeply settled in my subconscious; I can kill this off as well. Really this rearing of ugly heads is timely, the shit and muck we wish not to face bubbles up when we are ready, even if we feel otherwise.

This is where I’m at, the in your face ‘deal with it and stop being a pussy’ stage of transforming eating disorder into health consciousness. Take into myself eating mindfully of the global impact of food distribution, not just my impulses towards corn chips. I am what I eat, so I must stay aware of the cells taking up temporary residency in my liver and other organs. I must alter my relationship with food. Right now I am wounding myself to new self-destructive glorious heights because…fuck I don’t know, a plethora of reasons I’m sure.

What I can assert…Namaste Fucking Eating Disorder…you are SO fucking out of here!!

Blood Moon Magic Makes For A Bloody Burning

 Blood Moon Altar

Blood spilled, dragons blood burned, cords affixed, songs sung, dances danced. All alone with me, myself and I…we merried our way to wholeness. 

Last night was a magical bursting long in the making. Looking long into my past has always been a peeling back of scabs long to heal but never quite getting the care required. I have healed a bit here and there, but with a pinpoint in my map of life that’s been denied attention.

Mother.

The wounding of my mother is a sticky tricky thing that is so pervasive that it easy to get lost in the history of it. So with the help of a friend I found the answer in the reduced to the simplest of magics by the cutting of cords. I am cutting the cord of attachment to my mother. When I say this, I do not mean I’m cutting her away because I find that a dangerous and uncomfortable thing. She is my adopted mother to be sure, there is someone out there (maybe) who gave me birth, but she is not the one who so poorly raised me. So I see no way out of this simple fact, she is my mother.

Cord magic is very powerful, but one must be careful not to cause harm. You have to be clear that you are cutting away the past, not the now. The now is still forming so it an unwise act to sever what is unformed. At least this is true of parents, children, and the like. Boyfriends/girlfriends of destructive forces must be cut away in a complete and utter fashion. You have no need to keep threads of energy  between you.

So be careful how you cut the cords, threads, and even whisper like connections. The lite ones are easy and may not require actual cords worn to be cut at the moment determined. But threads to ones that do not serve our greater good may require this commitment. Wearing the cords, or in my case twine, is a commitment that creates a reminder of the work you have commenced. You must know when you literally cut the cord at the predetermined time , that this connection will be no more.

More on cords; they can be used for you to cut away a habit long learned or a recorded message running over and over again in your mind, most likely given by parents trying their best, but ending up causing a corded connection of malcontent that follows long into adulthood.

The whole point of this type of spell/magic is to set yourself free from what feels like a itch on the brain, that one you cannot scratch. But you can exorcise it. You have the tool to do so. So use it at will.

Also, be honest when pouring your intent into the cord; make sure you are clear about your part in the creation of the situation that is being let go. You want to know it’s there for you to pay attention to. I wear mine on my wrist where it is an often reminder of the work I’m conjuring. When I get to them  to cut it off, I will feel the literal release. It will become a burden to bear, one that must become an annoyance to the level where you cannot wait to be free of it. 

I believe that covers cord magic. 101 level at the very least. I hope someone reads this, works the spell, and releases themselves from some misaligned connection.  That would make me very happy and surge power into my works as well.

Sharing is caring, especially if it’s a bloody ritual born from pain endured, but liberated in love for you.  So pass it on….

Rainbow around last nights Blood Moon

Bloody Blood Moon Blessing

The Blood Moon is here and she is eclipsed and in opposition via Libra and Aries. I feel none of the friction, rather I feel deeply connected to the Other-world leaving me able to "see/feel" deeper than I usually/always do. On this day I feel messages burning in me, so to this end I am offering readings for $25.00 for thirty minutes.

I want to give the message more than I want to charge my full price for readings. Though making a bit of money is not a horrible thing either. I look at this to be a Win/Win!

Take a peek at the my "So You Want A Reading" page for details how we can make this happen!

Fuck The Divine Feminine, The Divine Masculine Is Bleeding Out On Our Fucking Stilettos.

Attempts at writing today are futile as I took many drugs to rid me of a migraine. Which has work moderately but it has rendered me dull and boring. Still I have thoughts on how we should be focusing on the Divine Masculine as that energy force is all fucked up and in deep need of healing.

In my opinion, this is the core and if we can heal the masculine energy...then we can come cycle back into a place of equality, but as long as there be battle, there be casualties. I would like to see in my lifetime a transformation of all human beings into a state of respect, honor, and love.

Yes, I love the honor code of the warrior and well, we women have need to engage and embrace our male. Denying is as futile as my creativity today. The point is that men need to embrace their feminine and women need to embrace their masculine. Then we get that neato yin/yang thing going on.

Oh and don't go thinking it is the male that is darkness, oh no. Any pagan will tell you that when you light candles to represent the God and the Goddess, it is black for the girls and white for the boys. We women are of the dark womb, we understand death as we have the power to give birth to it. But we need be fertilized, now don't we? that is why God is light, he is life. He is the Sun and we are the Moon. This is a global knowing that most just don't want to see.

But it is time. If truly a healer, then you must understand the value of healing men. We are all human animals in need of healing/balancing and I look forward to having relations with a man on that level.

No matter what, know that the Divine Masculine is indeed bleeding out and we need to triage that shit! We were the funerary priestesses that washed the bodies of the dead in preparation of the pire. Men walked away as they could not face their fallen. We anointed the bodies as we would our freshly born babes. We understand the cycle of life, death, and rebirth in ways men do not, so why not show them? As we are upon a double edged sword, why not let go into our warrior spirit allowing us to forge forward...together.

Ok well I am not going to edit this, it is what it is. My brain is that of pudding (chocolate if you were wondering) and so thoughts expressed are either profound, or likely gibberish. You decide.

Keep The Good Days To Use For The Fuckered Days To Come

Allowing the good days to wash all over you even though you may know as I do, they can fleet away just as fast as they rushed in. I find it unwise to deny the pleasure that a good day offers. Fleeting or otherwise, you want to take it in and use it for all that it possesses.  

I am undeniably having one of those “good days”. I think that I can give credit to my yoga and the belly dancing I've found me doing for 3 days now. Amazing it is that breathing and bending can bring such speedy results, which is my preferred way. I’m not known for patience so do have a need for a noticeable alteration as result of the changes I make. And yes, I decided to move my body because I have the energy to do so. Here lies the trick, without the energy I sit lost in the other-worlds awaiting the swing.

For those that sit worrying that these “good days” will pass and so why bother to take in the joy, well I have been there and I can tell you that it does not serve you at all. When young and so unhappy that I felt “the sea of sadness” would never end, I would tighten up in any happiness feeling like it was not “real”, just mania passing by. Again, this did not serve me well at all.

Set to memory how it “feels” to be here, this is for everyone, bipolar or not. I burn incense, light candles, and send love/ healing to those I know are in pain. I watch the cold rain so dark it dims the light in the house as though night time has come at only 11:22 AM. I breathe deep in the beauty making it a solid memory that I can recall later when the darkness internal comes for me. This is a challenge still, but I practice as best I can and there are moments it works quite well.

I hope this will find those in need of knowing they too can contain their bliss for later days when it’s all fuckered up.  Cause shit happens and having tools such as this can make the difference between coping, and falling down hard.

Falling Deep...Getting The Fuck Back Up

Read this article. http://www.rebellesociety.com/2013/10/07/embrace-the-fall-the-happy-landing-can-take-time/

It speaks to me and may to those of you that contain the deep knowledge of The Fall. Those in the know, also know about the getting the fuck back up, the finding you’re your way to movement forward when there’s the risk that at any moment, you will fall again. My acute knowing of this fact is the hardest part of my being bipolar. But it is true; I do find the tangible meanings of things each and every time spent in my own personal pit.

As this is Monday and traditionally a day of discontent, and being sensitive to the masses that I often lay blame at the feet of all those that loath it so, I thought I would change a bit. Grateful Thursday has not worked for me as Thursday is a day easily forgotten, but Monday is a thorn in my brain so it is decided that I will be grateful today, each and every Monday. Why the fuck not?! Maybe I can turn this curse into a blessing by doing so. I found that Monday Madness found me even in Belize where days blurred into the next. I would be having a disjointed day and sure the fuck enough…it was a Monday. But no more this curse…today I declare that Monday is about the being in a state of gratefulness and in the service of others.

When I was practicing my newly embarked upon yoga routine this morning, I found myself speaking “prayers” for those I love that are in distress. It easily became a mantra that morphed into a form of meditation, for which is a kinda miracle as I find mediation a futile act. It reminded me of the scene in Eat Pray Love when the main character is struggling with her prayers in India, when she dedicates her prayers to a friend in need, it is then when it comes easily to her. In the end this simple act benefits me as well as to the people I love, it comes rippling back to me as much needed fresh energy.

This is my moment ago found (after time in the pit) state of grace. Stating a state of grace is a bit unusual but then again, so am I. I know I will fall again, but next time I hope to fall with graceful acceptance and perhaps the letting go phase will come to me on speedy wings rather than in lethargic anguish.

Monday Gratfullness…I am loved. 

The Queen Of Transformation Does La Push

Please Note: this is more like a travel journal and I have not gone over it and changed it. So I suspect it will be after I hit "Publish", is when I will regret this decision.

Why do I not write when inspired? Why do I still use excuse that I will get to it later when I never do? I had a wonderful “idea” formulated in my head for the beginning of my book and did I write it down? No. Instead I mentioned it to my friend as my newly realized brilliant beginning but that I would write when here at La Push. Well here I am at La Push and not at all inspired. My mood was setting the scene and I must learn to go with that. It might make for bipolar writing, but it was always going to be that way so why the fuck fight nature!?

I am just so tired of my self-sabotaging antics when it comes to writing my book. Yes I need to focus on building my brand TQOT but even with my focused turned, I come up with ideas to write, and that again, I never fucking write!! This is becoming as redundant as my suicidal ideology; I will never do it, so why fucking even go there? Well the book will indeed exists, so why not just get on with it?

So to those worried about being in the book, it is likely because you are going to be. I figure anyone “concerned” is so because they know the truth is not as pretty as fiction and that they do not wish to be viewed in any other way than they see fit. Well my message is this: get over it! If I decide our story together speaks to the human condition, mainly MY human condition, well its going in. And I am pretty certain of one thing, if this book succeeds as predicted, you will go from embarrassed to wanting the lime-lighted attention a book like this can garner. This isn’t me bragging, this is a real possibility, one I have pondered at great length and I know many will turn to wanting the attention for the 15 mins or even 2 mins of notoriety. Fuck there is a chance that’s exactly how long my mins will be. And another thing, no one will be exposing the juggler like myself. Not anyone.  Remember you are characters in the carnival of my life; you are a part of my story. It will be told from my point of view and if I get shit wrong, oh well, I am changing your names so get the fuck over it.

Oh and another thing, to those I actually give a shit about, I will not be holding back. It will not work otherwise. Please understand that again if you are player in my play, it’s because I think people will want to read about it. We all have lessons to dispense in Poor Impulse Control; I mean if you make the timeline cut. Though many of you will be in one of my books, blogs, and one of these days…articles. I can easily see my future just writing about me, people around me, and the experiences we have. Like Sex in the City and Eat Pray Love…only totally fucked up, dark, twisted, but with puppy love endings and shit.

This is me just journaling my thoughts as they pop into my noggin as I try real hard not to smoke. My lungs hurt and I smell bad. I hugged someone the other day I had not seen in a long while and I was embarrassed because I knew I stunk and could see in his face that he found it repulsive, which not that fucking long ago, I did as well. There is a combination of acts that has led here to the demise of lung health and lets just add, my liver health as well.

Let’s start with smoking because that was becoming a thing straight out the fucking gate in Belize. It starts with joints. Rolling is how it’s done in Belize and the weed lends itself to it well and though I could not roll to save my life at first, in the end, even with endless practice,  I was no better. Still I rolled and smoked dozens of ridiculous looking joints that led to a growing sense of smoking cigarettes. I could feel a shift but I still had no intentions of making the leap from joint to filtered cigarette, since I had not smoked in YEARS and wasn’t going to break my record as I still found it, icky. Well that’s till I met The Irishman who offered me a cig every time he had one, which was numerous and who was I to say no to those freckles and deep voiced accent? Apparently not I and so inclination was then anchored with copious amounts of rum punch. Oh Mayawalk and your 2 for 5.00 BLZ (that’s 2.50 US) rum punch. It is almost certain you are the real reason why my liver function tests found some…dysfunction.

Fuck! All this talk of smoking is making me want to…SMOKE!

Don’t look….

Whilst outside not smoking I made note that there is no better score for sea gazing than from the movie The Piano. I can observe the ebb and flow of the sea for hours but when dark and rainy as it is now, nothing is more perfect. Though truth be told, I can watch nature for endless hours in general, just as I did in Belize. I watched a few times over the plantains outside my window bloom flowers looking to be from a Jules Verne novel. These large purple plumes would open and unfold tiny baby plantain growing and awaiting the neighbor’s machete. They would come from their tin roof shack to hack down the fruit, lugging the burgeoning bunch over their shoulders on their bicycle to the market for profit. Belizeans are experts at balancing heavy parcels on bicycles.

Oh look, a seagull with what appears to be a large piece of fried chicken in its beak….cannibal. 

The Sun just had to make an appearance, prompting me to take a million snaps I said would never be. Never say never in matters that concern Mother Nature and her awesome ways.  I even worked on my tan basking in cold rays on my deck as I drank Irish creamed Early Grey.

The Milky Way!! Even beer swilling red neck hunters with their porch light pollution cannot ruin…the fucking Milky Way! Sitting there wrapped up against the cold, drinking hard cider with my neck bent way back (ouch) I realized this is always a constant and just because I cannot observe it, doesn’t mean the stars not observing me.  It’s like those moments of sadness when I am sure I am alone, I’m not. It’s the grandest of illusions, just as the cloud cover and light pollution veils the Milky Way from view. Oh how I know how hard this is to put into practice in the everyday. How do you connect,  to feel it when you are in a room in the basement alone and cannot even see the sky? You breathe through it and fake it till you fucking make it if need be. And when you can, push you out the fucking door and find a tree.

Nature never fails to amaze and rejuvenate, even if it be just your tiny urban garden, stick your hands in the soil. Go to your local park and sit at the base of a tree. If luck shines upon you and on Caribbean island, bury your toes in the sand and splash the water like a child. Were ever you find yourself, just close your eyes and feel the connection. The connection is there we just have layers of veils distorting our view, leading us to the united delusion that we are alone, separate, to the point we believe it’s not there.  Well it is. You cannot even disconnect if you wanted, you are a part of everything, and everything is right the fuck back atcha!  

Shit I guess that makes us all Gods/Goddesses…well that’s not scary at all.   

If you want to see the pictures I took..."like" my Facebook page! Here be a sneak peek.