Fake it ’til you can make it – Chez Badass: Christmas 2016 Edition
Jingle Bell Rock on,
The WB
(Almost) Wordless Wednesday
Author: Widow Badass
How to Create a Badass Woman
When I get a puppy, I spend a lot of time and effort exposing the young dog to every possible alarming (to a dog) situation.
The pup accompanies me in the car on long and short drives. I walk the dog in all types of situations – nature trails, busy city roads, and everything in between. There is lots of time spent around people and other dogs, and other animals if at all possible. The more noise and confusion, the better. I wade into rivers and streams to get the puppy to follow me and lose fear of the water. We go to the groomer and the vet.
The puppy learns it can survive all of these scary situations and gains confidence.
The result of these early months of exposure to new things means this: Congratulations – you have a dog that is afraid of nothing. And…condolences – you have a dog that is afraid of nothing…hehehe. A total badass of a dog.
My favourite breed of dog is the miniature Schnauzer. This is a dog that is already possessed, pound for pound, of more courage than any other breed. Of that I am convinced. I am also 100% certain that when my Lucy looked in a mirror she saw a Rottweiler staring back at her. Miniature Schnauzers are the badasses of the dog world.
Women, whether they know it or not, are the badass sex. They are the Miniature Schnauzers of humanity.
The patriarchy knows this too. Which is why women are portrayed as weak, illogical and in need of protection. It is why women are chronically underpaid and their work is undervalued. We are so strong that extreme societal measures have to be taken in order for the patriarchy to continue.
We are dressed in pink and frills from the day we are born. We are put in clothes and shoes that limit our movement and our play. We are punished for expressing traits males are praised for. We are praised when we are gentle and nice; when we are “pretty”. We are ridiculed and put down for being smart and sassy, and for not conforming to society’s expectations of beauty. We are told men’s violence towards us is our fault.
And when we age, we lose our value in this society. But the truth is this: when women age we become even stronger, smarter and sassier.
And this is how we are raised. This is the culture I was raised in.
I’d like to think things have changed, are changing. Recent, revealing events such as those surrounding the US election are making me doubt this.
Men are victims of this misogynistic culture as well, whether they realize it or not. They need to conform to society’s expectations of male behaviour or face ridicule and persecution. People who present as mixed or opposite or fluid gender…well, we all know how cruel this society can be to them. This is why feminism should be important to all people. It is not “just” about the rights of women. Feminism means ALL PEOPLE ARE EQUAL.
Like my puppy, I have been put through a lot of scary situations and I have survived.
On my journey to becoming a badass widow I have survived:
- A long first marriage to a verbally abusive, controlling man who did his best to isolate me from my family and friends. Whose chronic bouts of long-term unemployment meant I had to pull the financial weight a lot of the time, in addition to the bulk of the parenting and household duties.
- More than a year of stalking and harassment by the same man when I exited the marriage after 17 years. A restraining order and multiple visits to jail had to happen before this criminal activity finally stopped. I thought nothing could be worse than remaining married. I was wrong.
- A second marriage to a man who initially presented as the answer to a prayer. Who wasn’t afraid of my intelligence and work ethic – who praised and complimented me and supported me. Who I thought was a soul mate but instead was a soul-less mate. Who turned out to be mentally ill. Who turned out to be a world-class liar and hypocrite. Who cheated on me. Who put me through OCD hell and severely strained my relationships with family and friends before the cancer finally took him out of our lives.
Somehow I survived these torturous situations and learned and grew.
And now I am fucking fearless. Congratulations Life, you have created a woman who is afraid of nothing. Also condolences, you have created a woman who will no longer be subdued.
And I know I am not alone. Where my dangerous, badass women (and men) at? The world needs us now.
Rock on,
The WB
Fake It Until You Can Make It
I think I have mentioned on ye olde blogge already this year that I am having a hellacious time getting into the Christmas vibe, spirit, what-have-you.
Nothing has really changed. But today instead of wallowing in a sweaty funk while barking like a seal due to a chest cold, I did make up my annual (3 years and counting!) Badass Christmas letter and put my cards together for mailing out tomorrow. YAY ME! (OK, still was in sweaty funk and barking…but got my cards done too!!!!)
I have always loved giving and receiving cards at Christmas, and actually enjoy reading people’s Christmas letters.
Even when the letter is full of humble-bragging or outright bragging! So far I have received only one like that and it was many years ago, from someone I am no longer acquainted with. A lot of fun was had mocking it with my friends as it epitomized why Christmas letters have such a bad rap. I almost wanted to keep up the acquaintance just to keep getting those letters. I said almost.
Anywhoodle, I love the annual Christmas letter/card tradition. If that makes me old-fashioned or weird or both, so be it.
What I didn’t expect to happen was this: as I finished off the letter and addressed and filled envelopes, I could feel my mood lighten considerably. I’m not saying I’m ready to decorate the tree (still naked despite being up for weeks, by the way) or throw a massive open house party (although that was/is my dream, but now slated for 2017) but I think I will get through the season without having to white-knuckle it.
And that, my friends, is HUGE. Or YUGE. Or however you want to say it.
Rock on,
The WB
Living With And Loving Someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
I had someone recently remark that they didn’t understand how JD’s mental illness manifested itself. That is a very fair statement. Having lived with OCD for so long, I have forgotten that most people would not have a clue as to what this means. If you watch Hoarders on TV, you will see what the outcome is (as hoarding can be one of outward manifestations of what is going on inside the person’s mind) but that show does not even begin to touch on what it is like to live this way.
Since I have of late begun to speak more openly of my late husband’s mental illness and behaviours on ye olde blogge, I think it is only fair that I flesh this out so that people reading can have a better understanding of what this was and how it impacted our lives together.
From what I have researched, OCD can manifest in many different ways. I don’t claim that what I experienced is the definitive experience of OCD in a loved one. It is just my story.
I knew JD was quirky already from when I knew him in high school. But that attracted me to him. That he was unafraid to be himself. That he was not a conformer. That he thought for himself instead of accepting and following the status quo.
So when we became reacquainted in (much) later life, I was not surprised that he was still quirky. Although I didn’t know it during those early stages of our courtship and romance and even eventual marriage, JD was a savant when it came to deception and manipulation. He possessed a genius-level IQ. Apparently I am no slouch in the IQ department either, but he could think circles around me. And I let him. Because I came to love (and with that, to trust) him so deeply, I believed what he told me about why he did the things he did. He always had a rational, somewhat believable excuse for his irrational behaviours. So I over-rode my inner voice – my gut, my intuition – and believed him, for many years.
And to be fair to JD (and me), his OCD was not as pronounced when we first became reacquainted. But it progressed over the years and became much, much worse. To the point that I did not believe I could continue to live with him if he did not seek treatment. But then the cancer struck and I never did take that step.
Towards the end of his life, JD’s OCD manifested itself in the following ways (“Reader’s Digest” very condensed version):
- Contamination fears – there were times his hands were red and chapped from incessant hand-washing. He had long and involved showering rituals to cleanse himself before performing especially stressful (to him) tasks, such as opening the mail that came to his building. Mail was not opened for months or years at a time due to this, and only after a lengthy set of showers and only in the nude, his skin glowing white from the dried soap film. He was hinting that when we finally moved house to his building (my current residence) that we shower and change clothes before entering the apartment and that no one else be allowed to enter…ever. We were to have 2 sets of clothes – one for the outside world, and one for the apartment. He wanted us to set up a visiting lounge downstairs for friends and family and to keep the apartment “clean” from contamination. Anything that touched the floor was contaminated and could no longer be used…but couldn’t be thrown out either – it had to be added to the hoard. Animals were contaminants and anyone that had animals was contaminated. If I visited someone who had animals, the clothes I wore had to be segregated so as not to contaminate any of our possessions further. He took over the laundry duties so as to make sure it was done well enough for his needs. However “un-contaminating” an item was impossible to do, according to him. Because of his OCD, our washing machine and pipes were often blocked due to his overuse of laundry detergents (and soap when showering). Our water bills were pretty impressive for only 2 people. His clothing had to be washed differently and separately from mine. Eventually I too was considered a contaminant in his mind as I was no longer allowed to enter some rooms he considered “clean” at his building. I was banned from cleaning – especially dusting and vacuuming as this could stir up contaminants and blow them around our house. So I had to resort to “stealth-cleaning” when he was not around…cleaning just enough to keep me sane but not enough to alert his hyper-vigilant awareness of everything around him.
- Superstitious/Magical Thinking – JD saw omens and portents in everything. If he saw a certain transport company’s trucks pass us on the highway, that was a sign that something bad was going to happen. I learned to try to distract him if I saw those trucks before him, in the hopes he wouldn’t notice. If something fell (on the contaminated floor!!!!) or broke, that was a portent also. He thought he was communicating with dead relatives regularly (mine too!) and that they were sending him these omens and signals to warn him or help him.
- Lateness – We were chronically late almost everywhere but specifically for social events involving his family. These were stressful for JD and he usually had some “very important tasks that had to be done” before we could go, and these would take forever for him to complete due to his need to check and recheck things. I would become very anxious about being late and by the time we got to the event we were both frazzled and exhausted as a result. It was easier to find a reason not to be social, because of this and everything that went with the whole contamination issue. This, along with JD’s requirement for absolute secrecy about what was really going with him and us, on was very isolating for me.
And last but certainly not least:
- Hoarding – most items of JD’s (and then by association, mine) had a memory attached to them and could not be thrown away. Even if he forgot the so-called importance of an item, it could STILL not be thrown away because he thought it might have been important at one time. I had a bunch of old margarine containers full of food his mom has prepared for him, taking up valuable space in my freezer. She died in 2002 and I have no idea how long before she died that she made these meals. Eventually this meant I could not throw any OTHER containers of prepared food out of the same freezer because it might have come from his mom but he had just forgot about it. He was skeptical when I affirmed that I had prepared the food in question and I had to defend it by saying those containers did not even exist when his mother was alive. He sorted through the household garbage each week to ensure nothing of “value” was being thrown out so I often found items I had thrown out reappearing in another section of the house like the basement or sun porch (where he kept most of his stuff, and where I was allowed limited or no access so as not to contaminate their contents and stir up dust). Food waste was allowed to be disposed of, but little else. And especially not paper, unless it was shredded first. Even if it was blank paper, it had to be shredded first. And of course he had to view it first to decide if it COULD be shredded. Which he never had time for, so the papers just piled up and up.
Here are some visuals of the clean-up of the hoard at his building in the year following his death. They don’t really do justice to the reality, but it gives the reader an idea. There was a proportionate (to the time spent there) level of garbage at my house (mostly basement and garage) to clean up as well, in first 2 months of widowhood. It took 2 very full rental truckloads to the dump and putting out about a hundred bags of garbage to clean my house up enough to put it on the market.
I could go on (and on and on and on) about the impact of JD’s OCD on our lives and the lives of those who knew us. I hope this is enough for now to gain a better understanding of what people with OCD and their loved ones might be going through.
Rock on,
The WB
Word for 2017
Dear Blog,
A very tired and brain-dead widow reporting in tonight on this last night of NaBloPoMo 2016.
I’m back home from my evening event – a movie night put on by my downstair’s tenant, the museum. I drifted off during the show a couple of times for a second or two. And I really enjoyed the movie and had been looking forward to it too! Grrrr.
As I am so brain-dead I had to log onto Facebook to see what the writing prompt was for today as I GOT NUTHIN’, dear Blog.
The prompt was: Have you chosen a word of the year for yourself for 2017?
Hell no…but I’d guess I’d better if I ever want to get this post down and hit the sack. So here goes:
My word is REACH. I will be reaching down deep inside as I start my year-long mandala and art journalling course. I will be reaching up high at work if the opportunities I am currently researching the hell out of do become reality. I will be reaching all around to push my body back to better health and fitness once I get the all-clear from the doctor.
Rock on and reach on,
The WB
Everything is Hard
Dear Bloggie,
After giving myself a stern talking-to, I did manage to haul my ass down the street to yoga class tonight.
Didn’t go last week ‘cos I thought I was coming down with the plague. Still feel that way but no plague in sight so no reason not to go. It’s the plague that cried wolf, clearly. Last week it was in my ear tubes. Now it’s made my throat feel rough – hot and sandy. Like I was screaming my lungs out at a concert the night before. Feels just like the beginning of the flu but it never advances into full-blown disease. Weird.
As I knew would happen, I was glad I went to yoga once it was done…but the gettin’ there?! Oh man.
Received 2 Christmas cards in the mail today. Reminding me that I need to do mine – especially the ones for overseas. I usually love doing this (as I love going to yoga) but right now Everything is Hard.
Yoga, Christmas, writing this blog post…you name it. Everything. Is. Hard.
I’ve had a tree up for over a week but nary a decoration on it yet. And no inclination to hang any. I will have to force myself to do this, as I forced myself to put the tree up in the first place, and forced myself to go to yoga. And will force myself to send out Christmas cards.
This is not me.
But obviously it IS me. For now, for this time. I am sure this too will pass.
But right now, I accept that Everything is Hard.
Rock on,
The WB
The Start of the Whole Dragonfly Thing for Me
Dear Blog,
Today’s NaBloPoMo prompt is “What was your most precious possession when you were a kid?”
That reminded me of something that – while not exactly qualifying as a precious possession to me then (although it is one now) – certainly captivated me as a kid and started a little obsession that is still going strong today: dragonflies.
Last week I had a little person (and parents) visit me at my place. Dad pointed out the dragonfly symbol to be found all over the house, and encourage the young man to seek them out in all the rooms. Then came the inevitable question: “Why do you like dragonflies so much?”
Well, here is how it all began:
When I was 2 years old, my mother took me to the Netherlands to show me (off) to all the relatives, being the first grandchild in the family and all. To keep me amused, my grandmother (Oma) let me play with her teaspoons and apparently I became especially enamoured of the one with the dragonfly on the handle. So much so, that it was given to me. And I still have it to this day.
I don’t know for sure the origin of this spoon. I do know that there was (and still is) a women’s magazine in the Netherlands called Libelle. Which is the Dutch word for dragonfly.
I think this may have been a promotional item for the magazine but have no way of knowing for sure as both Oma and Mom are gone now.
Since that time I’ve had a fascination with dragonflies. Across the street from my childhood farmhouse home was a pond and some abandoned fields. As kids, my sisters and I spent hours playing there – exploring the ruined foundations of old buildings and chasing tadpoles, frogs and bugs, including dragonflies and damselflies.
When I got older, dragonflies came to represent various things to me – creativity, adaptability and transformation/rebirth. Dragonfly nymphs start out living under water and only leave the water to become the flying adult form. Quite the change of venue and form! I’ve had to start my life over a couple of times already so transformation resonates with me.
In some native cultures, dragonflies represent the souls of the departed.
People that care for me love to gift me with items that include a dragonfly motif. I happily accept these and as a result, I have many, many dragonflies everywhere in my home and my life.
I’m not sure if this means the dragonfly is my spirit animal…but hey, a girl could do worse.
Rock on,
The WB
Sunday Night Follies
Dear Blog,
OMIGAWD, why didn’t any one tell me the Flower of Life was going to be so fucking hard to draw? I mean, it’s just a series of circles you don’t even really draw because the compass is supposed to do all the work for you? Okay, technically Julie did say it was challenging. But I didn’t really believe her. Or I thought yeah, “challenging for other people”. Not I. Hah, I was born with a compass in my hand, or so I thought. (Ouch, sorry Mom).
Bloggie, it took me 4 attempts to get the damn thing drawn. Four. And did you know that if you don’t hold this compass exactly right, the circles can get bigger or smaller because the fucking pencil lead magically starts moving from its predetermined length and suddenly your circles are off-kilter and not matching up any more after the second or third rotation?
Maybe I just do not have a good compass. Maybe. It looks like a good compass. See:
By the 3rd attempt I tried holding the compass differently – very lightly, by the very top of it only – so that my apparent death grip on the compass would not change the size of the circle’s radius inadvertently. Success!
Having re-mastered the compass, I moved on to the kitchen to try to make a lasagna for the first time in many, many years…AND without pasta.
I thought slicing zucchini very thin and layering with it would be an acceptable substitute.
Here is the finished product, ready for the oven:
Blog, it’s either going to be amazing or a soggy mess.
Wish me luck.
Rock on,
The WB
Another One Bites the Dust
Dear Blog,
Argh…this one was a toughie but it’s done. I might go back and add in some forest animals but I need to let this one rest for a bit, for now.
I can see me doing this again, on a bigger scale and with paint.
On to the Flower of Life!
Rock on,
The WB
TGIBF?
Dear Blog,
How I wish I could say I spent Black Friday out in the forest – meditating and eating only vegetables that willingly sacrificed their lives to nourish me – to karmically balance the rampant consumerism of yea (yay!), this very black day.
But it was just another Friday for me, in the True North Strong and Free. I got up, did my morning thing, went to work.
And found an email in my Inbox with a 55% off coupon at Michaels! Fifty-five percent off!!!!
So, at lunchtime I decided to brave the big box store shopping centre near my work. I was resolute in my determination not to let the size of the crowds sway me in pursuit of this extraordinary deal.
Blog, it was very anticlimactic. Not only did I have no problem with parking, the line up for the check out at Michaels was 1/4 of the size of the one I had to deal with last week.
Emboldened by my success, I printed off another coupon when I returned to my desk and hit the Michaels in my home town at the end of the work day. Again, somehow I missed all the Black Friday Crowds O’ Frenzy.
I am pretty damn excited to try out these inks, let me tell you Blog. I’m planning to use them in my next mandala exercise – the intimidating and apparently sacred geometry of the Flower of Life. Cue choir of angels singing.
So to sum up – I did cave on my high ideal of NOT EVER SHOPPING ON BLACK FRIDAY.
But at least I didn’t come home with new shoes.
Rock on,
The WB
