Well, that’s the way it is.
The picture is from Lake Matinenda in Ontario.
Well, that’s the way it is.
The picture is from Lake Matinenda in Ontario.
Qia is in her first year of college, 1200 miles from home. She joins the ski team, hoping to ski. There really aren’t mountains in Wisconsin. They are hills. She doesn’t have a car so she has to get rides to the ski hill. She does get demo skis, because she is on the team. It’s mostly guys, a few women. The guys chug a beer at the top of each run. The runs are ice after the first time down. It is very poorly lit and very cold. Qia is afraid of the ice and the guys and the drinking.
At Christmas she goes home, to Virginia. She really wants ski pants, she tells her mother. She is cold. She is still skiing in spite of the drinking and the scary guys and the ice. They yell at her to go faster but she goes the speed where she will not die. It doesn’t matter anyhow. She goes to a formal race and they have three foot tall trophies for the boys and nothing, not even a ribbon, for the women.
At home, her father is laughing. He is giggling, silly. He doesn’t make any sense. He gives Qia the creeps. Her mother sails along like nothing is wrong. Qia’s little sister has gone from the extroverted life of the party to locked down so hard that her eyes are stones. Fungk, thinks Qia.
Her father loses his down jacket, leaving it somewhere. Then he borrows her mothers and loses it too. Qia’s sister has out grown hers. On Christmas morning there are two down jackets and a pair of ski pants.
The ski pants are two sizes too small. Her father laughs. The down jackets are the ugliest colors, cheaply made, junk. Qia watches her mother and sister try to smile.
Qia leaves the ski pants and returns to Wisconsin. She gets a spider bite. It spreads. She goes to the doctor. He gives a laugh of relief and says it is shingles. He has to explain what shingles is. “It either means you are very run down or have severe stress.” Qia laughs. Worst Christmas of her life so far.
She realizes the problem. Her father has been abducted by fairies and a changeling put in his place. She reads everything she can find about changelings. Adult changelings are rare but not unknown. She pulls out every stop on top of her heavy schedule to learn about how to fight fairies. She can’t afford to hire a fighter. She finds an iron sword at a second hand shop. She hangs around the gyms and watches the fairy fighters fight. She goes home and practices every move. She collects herbs.
She sets things up before spring break. She arrives home and asks her mother and sister to go with her to a specialist in changelings and fighting fairies. Qia is sad but confident. Her mother and sister both cry after watching the movie about the behavior of changelings. Qia asks her mother and sister to help her.
They both refuse.
Qia can’t understand it. But she has studied and read the books. She will do it alone.
She meets with her father. She tells him how awful and frightening Christmas was. She tells him how ashamed and scared she was. She reads him a letter that her sister wrote to her, emotionless, about having to watch him when he is curled in a fetal ball at the top of the stairs. Her mother asked her sister to watch him, so he wouldn’t hurt himself. Her sister says that she wanted to go out with her friends. Her sister is in tenth grade.
Her father doesn’t say a word.
Qia begs him to tell her the key. The word that will open the portal. She shows him the sword and lists all of her herbs and describes her training. She tells him that after she defeats the fairies he will go home and her real father will be returned. She says that she knows he isn’t happy here, with mortals.
He doesn’t say a word to her for the rest of spring break. Her mother and sister do not say a word about it either. Her father drinks more heavily. Qia returns to college.
Qia refuses to come home for the summer. She stays in Wisconsin. She does not want to be around any of them.
Her sister is three years younger. Qia wishes that she could scoop her up and take her to Wisconsin. Qia frets and is in pain. Qia’s second year starts and her sister is in eleventh grade.
Qia’s mother calls. Qia’s sister is on her way. 3000 miles away. “At the last minute, C invited her to live with them in Seattle.” says Qia’s mother. “C was leaving the next day. Your sister decided and went with her. It’s a relief because your sister was getting A’s on tests but refusing to turn in homework, so overall she was getting D’s. ” Qia is relieved. C and S have a son named after her father. He is younger than her sister. Qia also has a cousin 6 years older who lived with C and S and still lives in Seattle. Qia wishes her little sister the best.
Years later, after her mother has died, Qia asks her father about it. By now her father is back and the changeling is gone. I was angry, says her father. But your sister was getting into lots of trouble. Really bad trouble. What could I do, locked in fairyland. He does not go into what Qia’s sister was doing.
And after her father dies, Qia finds a letter. The letter is from C to her mother. It is talking about her sister going to live with C and S. My mother lied to me, thinks Qia. I am not surprised. I wonder why she lied to me. Qia thinks it is probably because her mother set it up with C and did not tell her sister. Qia thinks that her mother lied to her sister. Qia thinks how much that would have hurt her sister: that her mother chose the changeling over her. Her sister would have been terribly hurt and angry.
But so many are dead, what does it matter? Qia’s mother is dead. Her father is dead. Her sister is dead. C’s son is longest dead. S is dead. Even the changeling is dead. Friends in fairyland let Qia know. Actually, Qia and C are the only ones left living.
C did not lie to Qia or her sister directly. She let Qia’s mother do the lying.
Qia does not talk to C again.
Qia is tired of liars.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This is not a story about fairies. It is about alcohol or any addiction. We must support families, because the whole family becomes ill. Triangulation, lies, competition, enabling. In my maternal family, the enablers die before the enablees. I have chosen to leave the system and I refuse to be either an enabler or enablee. If you are in that sort of system, you may find that the family resists you leaving and tries to draw you back in to it. When you do finally succeed in leaving, there will be a strong reaction. When the pirahnas run out of food, they eat each other. Stand back and don’t get drawn back in. The newest victim will need to make their own decision to stay or leave.
Two days ago I am at a friend’s house. I am encouraged to go through a couple drawers, since my OCD ADHD is acting up. I open a cigar box and find… matches. Beautifully arranged. Color abstract.
I wrote this poem in 2014. Sometimes you know things without knowing them. Or you know them before you are ready to know them and so…. you forget.
broken
I think you said
“Break her.”
And you told them how.
You told them my weaknesses
and my strengths.
You told them that I twisted your words.
You said, “You twist my words.”
K said, “You twist my words.”
S said, “You twist my words.”
Ko said, “You twist my words.”
and on everything2
they, too, twist my words.
Twist
twisted
fisted.
When the outer is charming and perfect
the damage is inside.
I wear my spikes on the outside.
No one, to date, has been allowed more then
visitation rights
inside.
No one except
you
and my children
and all children.
Only they are allowed inside.
Twist
twisted
fisted.
I am broken.
But I was always broken and knew it.
I hope that no one cut their hands
when they tried to smash me.
Pretty on the outside
deadly on the inside.
Yet I think a spark in you said,
“Break her.”
What you didn’t tell them
is that I don’t bother to lie
because no one listens anyhow
no one ever listened
and so I can always tell the truth
until they stop listening.
because they don’t believe me
but you knew
I tell the truth
And I was already broken.
8/22/14
And this should connect to this: https://drkottaway.com/2014/11/
Anyone can report to the VAERS system.
Doctors may be a bit nervous about reporting covid-19 reactions. Doesn’t matter. You can report on your own.
That being said, I don’t recommend reporting if you feel like crap for a couple of days after the second shot. If it is severe, you need an ambulance or it goes on for more than say, five days, report.
The first shot is about 80% effective. So, 4 out of 5 people are protected, and 1 in 5 doesn’t take. After the second shot, about 95% are protected. That means 1:20 is not.
So if you responded to the first shot, you will have an antibody response to the second shot. I ran a fever of 102 for an hours and cancelled my day of work and the next day. You could have fever, chills, muscle aches, joint aches, whatever. Take a hot bath or sauna or hot tube, because you can sweat the antibodies out.
I would report reactions that last more than two days or are severe. You can fill the form out yourself online and send it to the CDC.
For the folks refusing the vaccine: Hello. Are you going to have covid-19 parties to infect each other? If you do and you get covid-19, I can tell you that I am glad I am not your doctor. Also I don’t want you in my house. I don’t want to be around you at the Farmer’s Market either. And I think that once everyone has had the opportunity to get the vaccine, if you refuse and get covid, you might have to pay your own doctor and hospital bill. Yeah, that is what I think. And if it bankrupts you: well, you had the opportunity to get the vaccine. Why should insurance have to pay? Or you might die. Death rate for world is holding at 2 out of 100. In the US it’s “only” 1.78 out of 100. That is a fungkload. It’s a lot of people. Choose not to get your vaccine and you could be one of them. I just found out this week that a friend from medical school died in November: age 59. Do not tell me it’s all 80 year old “who would have died anyway”. Each of us will die anyway and I don’t want to die of covid-19.
I took the photograph in medical school: it’s my fellow doctor who was found to have covid-19 after he died suddenly, age 59.
The photograph in my Quimper Family Medicine home clinic and guest room is of my grandmother and my daughter, in 1988. I took the picture. My grandmother is Evelyn Ottaway. The other picture is one of my mother/baby or parent/child pictures. I like the juxtaposition.
It’s not just parent/child that is important. It is parent/child, grandparent/child, great grandparent/child.
I am reading a book that appeared in my little free library box, about grandmothering skills. It’s got some very interesting ideas and I am enjoying it! Radical, man.
My grandmother had amazing organizational skills. I think that my daughter got them from her.
The photograph is me and my younger sister on our mother’s lap.
I have a collection of mother/child art. I think it’s because I was born in a tuberculosis sanatorium, because my mother coughed blood at eight months pregnant, and I had to be passed around while she got well. I went back to her at nine months. I acted pretty independent at that point and was not very trusting of adults.
I am taking photographs of the mother/child art for this part of my blog.
I can’t attribute this photograph. I don’t know who took it. Both of my parents and my sister are dead, so I cannot ask.
It might have been my grandfather, but I don’t know.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt today. My prompt, heh.
This is a picture of me with my mother. I am two. I think she is so beautiful. She is a bit careful and distant, though she is smiling….
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: fault.
I realized last night that I had not put up the prompt, and got back up to do it. My daughter called while I was thinking and told me about segmentation faults. I wrote the poem this morning.
cracks
people talk about me
whisper gossip
social skills aren’t right
they only see now
I had to grow in cracks
hold on tightly
find nourishment where I could
not fall
survive
if they could see my roots
if they could see
where I had to grow
no choice
maybe they would be kinder
I get to start again
I have always seen the monsters under the bed
I have to
to survive
you don’t tell people about their monsters
I learn that early
they get angry hit punish send away
and anyhow they leave you even if they love you
when I am alone
we play
the monsters and I
they are so happy to be seen
they cry often
why doesn’t he love me?
why won’t she hold me?
why does he throw me out?
why?
I hold them
dry their tears
cuddle them
wrap them warmly
they cheer up
and play
they never forget
they alert
their person is near
they rush back
sometimes one rejected
returns with seven friends
hoping to storm the person
that doesn’t work
the monsters never lose hope
never
sometimes I see
a person see their monster
let it be conscious
the person is grown enough
to love
I am so used to the monsters
I work with them in clinic
visit after visit
the monsters weeping on my lap
while the person refuses refuses refuses
and sometimes a crack opens
like a portal light blinding
and the monster
is loved
that’s why I am here
what makes it worth staying
Beloved
now I think
I am new again
it’s hard to date
when the monsters are yanking at my skirt
crying howling distracting
and I am hopeful
but it is not my role
it’s not ok
it’s antisocial
to ask about the monsters
I am new again
I won’t date anyone with monsters
that I can see
they must love them first
BLIND WILDERNESS
in front of the garden gate - JezzieG
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Or not, depending on my mood
All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain!
An onion has many layers. So have I!
Exploring the great outdoors one step at a time
Some of the creative paths that escaped from my brain!
Books, reading and more ... with an Australian focus ... written on Ngunnawal Country
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
spirituality / art / ethics
Coast-to-coast US bike tour
Generative AI
Climbing, Outdoors, Life!
imperfect pictures
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
En fotoblogg
Books by author Diana Coombes
NEW FLOWERY JOURNEYS
in search of a better us
Personal Blog
Raku pottery, vases, and gifts
π πππππΎπ πΆπππ½π―ππΎππ.πΌππ ππππΎ.
Taking the camera for a walk!!!
From the Existential to the Mundane - From Poetry to Prose
1 Man and His Bloody Dog
Homepage Engaging the World, Hearing the World and speaking for the World.
Anne M Bray's art blog, and then some.
You must be logged in to post a comment.