A couple of days ago, there was a post in _survivors_
that had a very unpleasant last line. The way it was written (which may or may not have been the intended meaning), it said that "maybe [survivors] should have fought back or done something instead of crying."
I found that quite offensive, because of the sweeping generalization. It's one thing to say that you feel you should have tried to fight or should have done this or that or the other; I think pretty much all survivors (of whatever sort of trauma) second-guess their actions, later, in retrospect. But the way this was phrased, it was incredibly disrespectful, at least in my opinion. I posted a reply, as diplomatically as I could, sympathizing with the original poster's issues (of feeling physical pain for no reason that a doctor could explain), but suggesting that s/he label the cut more clearly because of the offensive statement, and explaining why I found the statement upsetting.
The post is no longer there; I don't know if the original poster deleted it on his/her own, the original poster deleted it at the request of sistahraven
, or if sistahraven
deleted it in her capacity as moderator. In any case, I have no intention of starting drama about it, which is why I'm grousing about this in my personal journal rather than taking it to the community.
I totally did not need that. I really didn't. I'm having enough trouble being in pain from my injured feet and my continuing female problems, having had to deal with that horrid doctor and the "just statutory rape" remark (which still pisses me off, nearly three months later), and being off my meds for another two weeks plus. Semi-good news on the med front: a friend of mine also takes Zoloft and may be able to spare me some. But that hasn't happened yet, and I'm still having the dizziness, headache, trouble falling asleep, and weird "zap" feelings if I move "wrong."
I'm also having weird, vivid dreams. My best friend is being handfasted next weekend; the rehearsal was yesterday. Last night I had a lot of bizarre dreams about the ceremony, including things that are extremely unlikely. I dreamt that my daughter was being an utter brat (which she generally is not), to the point of peeing her pants, once accidentally, and once on purpose, just to be defiant. In the dream, I was so angry at her that I slapped her across the face, so hard that she staggered back (something I would not do IRL). And all sorts of things were just going wrong; the torches fell to the ground and caused a huge fire, I fell and re-injured myself, Jen's dress tore, you name it. In the dream, if it could go wrong, it was going wrong.
I was cranky all day today. I think I didn't sleep well because of the weird dreams, and I spent more of today on my feet than I really should have.
I'm to be in the handfasting as one of Jen's attendants. We are to wear a white blouse (of which I have several) and a flowing black skirt. I didn't own a flowing black skirt; the only black skirt I owned when Jen told me this is a knee-length straight black skirt (very office-y). So I went shopping with my friend Tiff (who is another of Jen's attendants) and we found these cute little cotton crinkle-gauze skirts. The only problem was that they didn't have one in my size in black, but they had one in my size in dark brown. Okay, no trouble. I'll just buy the dark brown skirt and some black dye and dye the silly thing.
Except that dyeing the damn skirt was WAY more stress fuss and trouble than I'd anticipated.
I spent most of today in my bathroom dyeing the damn skirt. I didn't want to dye it in a washing machine, as laundromats don't like you to do that, and my mother would probably kill me if I dyed something BLACK in her machine. So I spent HOURS today bent over a big plastic bin full of hot water and black dye, agitating the skirt.
I just hope the dye took; if not, Jen's just going to have to take me in a dark brown skirt.
And I wound up having to fix supper AND Cliff's work lunch for tomorrow, because he was "busy" swearing at the computer and trying to play Warcrack. GRRRRR.
I really am ready to delete that goddamn game from this machine.
I shouldn't be standing up washing dishes and cooking with one broken foot and one sprained one. I've now been told by TWO doctors (the ER doc and the orthopedic guy) to stay the bloody hell off my right foot, but can I? Nooooooooo.
On his shift days, there's just no help for it. I'm home alone except for CC and Tessa (his dog and my new kitten), and so I have to get my own food and drink, but I stay on the couch or here at the computer as much as possible.
But on his days off, I shouldn't have to spend so damn much time in the kitchen.
Under normal circumstances (i.e. when I don't have two injured feet), I don't mind doing the cooking and cleaning and so forth. I'm not working, I have no income of my own, so it's not a big deal to me to take care of the house.
But damn it, right now, I am NOT SUPPOSED to be on my feet.
And that bloody fucking computer game is most of why I have to be on my feet on his days off. GRRRRR.
Oh, and I'm nervous about the handfasting. We ladies (Jen's attendants) are to call (and later, bid farewell to) the quarters, mainly because Rip's attendants are physically unable to do so, and for whatever reason, not as familiar with ritual. I'm to call and "dismiss" (I hate that term, but it's quick) Fire/South. This will be my first public ritual work. EEEEEEEEEK!!!!
Memorizing my lines isn't the hard part; I don't have that much to say, even with the ritual part. I'm just worried that I'll somehow screw up, having never performed even part of a ritual with an audience. (I've done private rituals, as in, JUST ME doing a ritual for my own purposes, usually to ask for help.)
I think I've rambled quite enough now. Tessa keeps trying to chase my rapidly-typing fingers.