Late Night Comfort

Published October 25, 2015 by insufficient mums

I am at that time of nightShout out to my arms
when profound memes are too deep to digest.
I am at that time of night
when nothing seems more legitimate than old skool punk
I am at that time of night
when I know that my desires were the only thing that ever really got me into trouble
I am at that time of night
where my decision to become a parent would not hold up to cross-examination
I am at that time of night
where I would ask for closer support
But that same proffered ‘support’
has broken me too many times
to ever rely on ‘other’.
And so, I rely on me.
But, it’s that time of night…

Louder Than Words (a love poem)

Published September 13, 2015 by insufficient mums

StupidHe said

I can’t stay over at your place anymore
Animals, allergies

~ But I like being with you


He said

We won’t being going out like we used to
I’ve made other financial choices

~ But I like being with you


He said

You sure do think about sex a lot
So the sexy texts stopped

If I sent one, it was ignored

~ But I like being with you


He said

Every other woman I’ve every met or known is the same or better

You are easily replaceable
Actually, you could be any one of them

~ But I like being with you


He said

I’m not visiting your house any more
No transport
And I’m not good around children and animals

~ But I like being with you


He said

I need to stop renting movies when you stay over at mine
It’s a financial thing
We’ll just watch what’s here

~ But I like being with you


He said
You sure do think about sex a lot

Sex is off the list now
I have other priorities
~ But I like being with you


He said
I never wanted you to get hurt
He said that a lot

But it would have been easier if he’d said

I don’t like being with you

Work Life Balance…

Published August 7, 2015 by insufficient mums

Just a wee bit crappy. Maybe a wee bit sicky. Certainly tired.

Just crappy enough to know that seeing a Suzuki Swift just irritates me. Nothing wrong with the car, but the people who choose to buy them seem to be the same people who just need a kick up the backside in general.

Temper is also short with the non-compliant minions…

It’s been a long season. Courts, and death, and funeral… and some of the women I treasure the most have been through hell, just this season.

I am exhausted, but attempting to restart my life in small ways now.

Physically, I’m attending to my Green Prescription, and quite shocked at how unfit I’ve become so quickly now I’m older. Mainly joints and ligaments… anything that stretches or clicks, and probably shouldn’t.

Energetically, I’m sleeping. A lot. I figure I should trust my body.

Emotionally, I’m shifting away from some of the causes I pursue, because they bring me low. Even on my wee political page, I’ve always tried to post not only about the problems, but also about potential and practical solutions. But Cecil nearly finished me. I gotta recharge.

Environmentally, I’m just concentrating on home and hearth. Still decluttering while I struggle to maintain Flylady cleaning in the face of daily (and unreasonable) opposition.

Politically, I’m looking further into Socialism, as the New Zealand movement seems as deeply environmentally focused as it is socially. Their main focus seems to be combating injustice on all levels. And that suits me just fine.

Creatively, I’m hoping that my tiny bit of blogging, maintenance of my pages, and my wee tarot business are taking care of that. I know I need to be writing and even drawing more. But hell, I’m finding I just cant do everything.

Academically, I’m still learning about tarot, Jung, and archetypes – and likely will be forever. I read across a wide range of material every day – political, social, and spiritual.

Spiritually, I’m more in contact with the Moon and the seasons than I ever have been. I run my life to that clock. And that keeps me in constant communion with my Gods. Just being of the Earth.

And sexually, I’m being treated just fine! Thanks for asking.

Socially – that’s the big one for an introvert like me – I got out last night for a couple of hours for a meetup with my local Pagan group. It was bloody hard to get out of this house of small wild dependants by 5pm, but do it I did. And I will do so again every month. I love socialising, but need time to recharge after interacting with people. So as a friend I can be problematic. “Come here, I like you. Now go away for a month.” Not everyone’s cup of companionship.

So, there it is. My recovery programme.

I have come to replace the word ‘balance’ with ‘inclusivity’. These areas of my life are never in balance – they can’t possibly be. There are to many of them. But I include a little of each in my schedule – more of some as the Moon waxes, less of some as the Moon wanes. It’s not a balanced diet, because I can’t eat that much. But my intention for living as busy and as well as I do is that, over time, no nutrient is completely left out.

Sucking Back Crazy

Published February 15, 2015 by insufficient mums

I think I may have been a bit crazy this weekend…niceffects1

Certainly negative, with PMT-like mood-swings.

I just caught myself thoroughly dissecting every negative thing in my life, whilst driving. Rather than concentrating on the good, I was thoroughly analysing the difficult.

And it has been a challenging weekend. One where I’ve obviously been the house elf while everyone else treated me with disdain.

But I think it’s more than that. I think its cos I’ve run out of my nicotine lozenges.

Now, I haven’t really smoked for a few years now, but I still LOVE those nicotine lozenges and they love me. I believe I have a triple overdose every day.

Nicotine was the drug of choice for my family. Yes, there were others – particularly alcohol. But nicotine was the key in the lock that took all the crazy away. While stop smoking programmes told us that nicotine actually created the crazy, and if we stopped using it we’d stop desiring it – for my family it was like being told that the other humans get by without blood. Nicotine worked. And when I let go of every other addiction in my life, I kept my nicotine – for decades.

And this weekend I ran out of nicotine replacement lozenges – and THINGS SUCKED BIGTIME!!

I have had a therapist look me straight in the eye and tell me he doesn’t believe in PMT, but I can tell you, these are the same symptoms. And I don’t care if I’m keeping my balance hormonally, glycaemically, or with nicotine. The control substance is irrelevant.

Even if it turns out that my natural state is that of a crazy person, and nicotine allows me to “pass” – irrelevant.

The point is, I need it. It works. I don’t have any. And I really shouldn’t be allowed to parent, drive, or generally interact with the humans without it.

Drowning. Slowly.

Published November 28, 2014 by insufficient mums

I’ve been drowning for a long long time.slowly

The struggle against being pulled under is as hard as it ever was on day one. Harder, truth be told, now that I’m trying to stop three other humans from going under. And I’m the only one who can.

I’ve called for help. Against my will. Because it’s the right thing to do.

I’ve called for a lifesaver – any sort of floatation device. Just to help me when I’m too tired to swim anymore. In response I’ve been thrown plans to build a boat. But I’d have to stop swimming to read the plans, buy the materials, and build the fekking boat. My children would drown.

I have received advice to stop swimming. Float and enjoy the air.
But the current gets mighty strong, and it pulls us all under if I don’t keep swimming.
I did stop treading water for a while, before I had the children in tow. I went under, and when I managed to struggle back to the surface I set off in a different direction. A more promising direction. But the tide is the tide, and the current is strong everywhere.

I just get so tired.

I don’t want anybody to save me. After all, I chose to get in the water.

And I’ve had people offer to save me. Or at least swim beside me. Always they got tired quicker than me, and I had to save them too – or let them drown. Some even tried to pull me under.

From the shore occasional voices have called to me. That my swimsuit is outdated. Or I should be slimmer if I’m going to swim.
Or even congratulations and support, cos I’m doing a really good job of swimming…

The current is coming at me from all directions at the moment. Has been for a while. At some point it becomes impossible to parent lovingly when you constantly have to swim so hard.
These small humans don’t cling to me while I save them. They thrash about endlessly, in joy or panic. And they’re older now, so they now have luggage – not packed in nice floaty suitcases, but floating loose while they try to keep track of all their bits and pieces, while insisting I should. Because I’m the adult. I’m the responsible one.

And every time I get my head up, I can see endless storms brewing, bringing crashing waves – forever…

Today I decided to get out of the water.

I sat on the shore for a while – trying to decide if I really wanted to continue trying to swim. Or just walk away.
I’ve watched everything I care about float away.
I know what I should do.

But diving back in…? I’m so bloody tired. Even if I can save the little ones, they’ll still grow up with the scars of a lifetime of drowning slowly.

If I stay on the shore, evaporating in the dry air…
I feel numb. The pounding in my head from endless waves crashing down on it has gone. The waves that battered me about for years and years and years, while everybody said “Keep swimming. It’s worth it in the end”.

There is no end.

Scrot Mother

Published November 10, 2014 by insufficient mums

I am a Scrot Mother. It has taken me half a lifetime to work this out. This does not mean that my son is a scrot – nor will I let him be. What it does mean is that there are sockets in me that a scrot can plug directly in to, and the fit is so perfect that a scrot can attach himself to me and it feels like home.

losermagnetSo. What exactly is a scrot? Many many of the men in our population are scrots. Not all. I have not met them all. I don’t know about the worldwide population. My experience is limited. But the concentration in the men I have met, or those who have partnered with the women I know, is strong. These are men who ‘try’ to be men. They often present as staunch, or strong, or angry. They may talk up fighting with other men, and either show up for it, or cower from it. Their testosterone is on show because either they don’t feel manly, or have a need to ‘show’ that they are. All the time. At any rate, it feels like fear.

How do you identify one? This is where the haters gonna hate. Scrots wear a uniform. In New Zealand it is frequently some form of black jeans and black jersey. Often there are tattoos. Everything is masculine. And their friends all dress the same. Yes, there are other types of scrots – many disguised as ordinary men. I am sure there are also females who fit this criteria, but never having dated any I couldn’t comment.
My friend and dharma sister told me about scrots. Not too long ago. I wish I had known 20 or more years prior. I was always attracted to the ‘hard’ men. Angry men. What I saw as strong men. A counsellor once told me if the perfect man fell from heaven and hit me on the head I wouldn’t even see him, because I only had eyes for one type.

And that type have a uniform. They dress ‘street’. They dress for credibility. They are frequently criminal class. In my own culture they often own dogs, big cars, or motorcycles. They advertise on the outside of their bodies that they will not treat you well, and still, all I saw was ‘my tribe’.

“Scrot”, my friend said to me. Her father, who had been a policeman, had pointed one out as they drove down the road. She had been young and she’d heard his warning. “He’s wearing the uniform” her father had said. “When they dress like that they have no good to offer”. Or words to that effect.

As she told me this a light went on for me. And it was very recent. And I am 45.

All I had ever seen in that uniform was someone who had come from the same places as I had. Lived the same life. Someone who would ‘get’ why I am how I am. And if one of them came into my life showing signs of potential, showing signs of a brain, I would invest my life. I commit firmly, in the face of opposition. I don’t cheat. I don’t leave. It’s part of who I am. And it’s not helpful.

Here’s what I get from this. I get a man who won’t judge me for where I come from. There was a time in my life where I got to be Queen of a whole community of scrots. Queen of the losers. But still a Queen at least. This is wholly unrewarding, but when you feel you have nothing to offer the world it’s nice to be Queen of something.

Here’s what they want. They come into my life seeing a strong woman who lives with determination. They want this. But they want more. What they do not want is to be a partner. Not at all. They want a mother. Someone who will cook for them, clean for them, and wash their socks. Someone who will make a phone call for them when they can’t get in to work. Someone who will pay their bills when they lose their job. Someone who will accept them unconditionally.

They want this for a while.

Then like all teenagers, they begin the process of individuation. They begin to rebel against their mothers. They want to live as single men. They don’t want to fuck you, cos who wants to fuck their mother?? They will find other women for that. As their mother, you are still expected to pay their bills and remain ferociously loyal. But they do not want you as a partner. That is not your role. They will cheat. They will steal your stuff. They will break your stuff. And they will hit you.

But they will not leave. You are their mother. And they love their mother.

Let me tell you right now, those of you with your tribal blinkers welded to your heads – your bad boy does not have a heart of gold. He is simply a three-year-old throwing tantrums. He has never grown into manhood, and he is afraid that if anyone sees him without his uniform they will recognise that he is a frightened little boy. That is why the armour is so obvious. It is not that the bad boy uniform is an act. It is the heart of gold that is an act. A pretence. And it will fall away with ease given time. And he will blame you.

You cannot train a scrot to manhood. No-one can but him. And he doesn’t want to. He is an empty scrot – no balls. You cannot wait for the ‘potential’ you saw in him. It is hollow. It is pretence. He will use you for comfort. For stability. And then rebel against you. If he eventually has to leave – if you do get that Protection Order – this is the point where you earn the label “crazy ex”.

In conclusion – do not doubt what I now share with you. Scrots exist. They are recognisable as they feel exposed without their tribal regalia. Do not engage with them. They will charm the pants off you till they feel you’re in the right place to tidy up after their disasters. It will NEVER be your turn to fall. They will NEVER catch you or let you rest. It will always be your fault for being too fat too lazy too stuck up losing interest in sex whatever your low self-esteem comes from they will take it and use it.

Scrots cannot be managed. Only avoided or discarded. Using whatever means necessary.

Do NOT breed with these people.

You have been warned.

I haven’t been punched in the face for ages!

Published September 18, 2014 by insufficient mums

As a little girl my life was somewhat untidy.
Without anyone to bounce my thoughts off, I decided I was too sensitive, too caring, too goody-goody, and that I used my brain too much – which embarrassed me severely.
There was a lack of adult guidance in this, but in the decades that followed I ceased to care, or behave well, and certainly buried my brain.
This worked to an extent. I had a hell of a lot of fun (from what I can still recall), but I did have to keep the ‘thinking’ hidden – so I shamed myself to some extent.
Yes, I crippled my own life path – and the path I did take took me to some really dark and brutal places. For a long time.
The hardening process lead me to becoming a really nasty piece of work. There are people from parts of my life who will likely despise me forever for the things I did.
But when your shell hardens, you no longer bend with the winds. You become brittle. And you snap.
I did.
It took a long time to grow a new skin. A flexible one. An honest one. A kind one.
And yet strong enough to withstand being hurt sometimes. If I could feel, I could hurt.
I’ve been growing for a while now. And I like her. I like me.
I can be trusted. I can be lead into temptation and make choices that are caring, loving, and honest.
I’m quite proud of adult me.
And I haven’t been punched in the face for ages! 😀