I never realized how squeamish I was until 10th grade, learning about the human heart.  I got so sick, my handwriting got worse and worse in my notes, and then stopped because I couldn't hold the pencil.  My wrists felt sensitive and frail.  I wanted to smack my head against the desk.  I wasn't going to puke, I felt I was going to pass out at any second.

I always thought that people who got sick in health class or biology class were stupid or weak.  But then it happened to me, and I couldn't help it.  And no one else was affected.  A video about a girl breaking her arm got to me when it came to the healing process involved.

And it's stupid.  Really stupid, because I can talk about gore all day long.  *I* can.  But something like an academic lecture about heart valves?  Um.

I made this diagram so maybe the non-squeamish people can get a sense of how I feel when I get enervated by talk of blood.  And it's pretty much always academic or medical talk that gets to me.


I suppose I have an overactive imagination.  It bothers me, I think, because I start thinking about me and my blood and how it is pumping away in my veins and, oh dear...

A thread came up about vampires and blood loss.  I could answer the questions, because I've donated blood before and I read the pamphlets.  But as I wrote on, I started getting the above symptoms.  I had to bow out.  I keep peeking into the thread, but each time I do, I get sick again.  Never been such a problem.

Now, me, I loved dissecting in high school.  Except for the worm dissection because worms are just gross.  I loved cutting up the frog legs.  I could shove my whole arm into a dead sheep in real life.  I don't mind getting my blood drawn at a clinic.  (Last time I donated blood was a bit different, though.)  But lordy, I can't handle someone else talking about it.

It sucks, one of my favorite things is gore.  I like looking up those old medieval torture methods and devices.  But halfway through an article listing and describing various tortures, I'm so badly affected I can't function.  I have to go lay down... for a few hours.  Pretty stupid, huh?

So because I haven't officially commented on it yet, I'll comment on it now.

I had three previous posts about my step-dad's condition.

September 20th, 2010 at 12:30 am, he died.  Yeah, I'm not into the "passed away" nonsense.

He was gasping for breath, like a fish out of water.  My mother called it a "death rattle" and she knew he was going to go because she worked in a nursing home for years.  It's a horrible thing.


I'd never seen anyone die before.  I have to admit, it is as terrible as it is rewarding.  I'm glad I was there to say goodbye.  Unlike some people, I didn't feel anything when he passed.  He kept getting quiet now and then, and Steve and I would look at each other wondering, is he gone?  Then he would breathe again.  This happened a few times, and the last time it happened, needless to say it was the last.  It's a long moment wondering, will he breathe again?  Now?

There's not much of a difference between someone who was just alive and someone who is dead.  Maybe I feel that way because he was already so close to death.  There was no change, just a lack of breathing, and time.  His eyes were closed, his mouth was open.  There was a fly in the room, already stalking the scent of death.  I would have done anything to kill that fucking fly.

My mother was hysterical.  She was so mean to him the last few days before he died, mocking him because he thought he could get from point A to point B, and he would fall down in between.  I'm amazed that she managed to absolve herself so quickly.

I had to call the people from hospice, aka the vultures.  I told them who I was and that Harry had passed away.  I hate that phrase.  She said in the most unbelievably patronizing tone of voice, "He is (Pronounced "eeez").  I hung up on that bitch.

I didn't want anyone near the body except for close relatives.  It wasn't right, but they came anyway.  They brought their fucking children.  They said, "Give him a kiss."  That's just freaking sick.

It was along wait for someone to come.  I felt like I needed to guard his body.  We had to wait for paramedics to come and confirm that, yep, we're not stupid - he was dead.

They took him and the bed sheet he was wrapped in.  We all  stood outside on the ramp that had been constructed not even a week ago just so Harry could get around easier.  It was cold.  We were crying and cold from crying.  We stood outside for a long time, thinking of what to say, and trying to laugh whenever we could.

I went back to bed.  Didn't dream. Went to school in the morning, but not to class.  I hid in the music area and cried and called my dad and his family.  They didn't understand.  I found my friend at lunch and took her to a private bathroom and told her, and we cried.  That was good, because I realized that usually when you cry, you fucking cry alone.  I learned that later that night at marching band practice, when it hurt to keep going, and everyone else laughed in their own world, even though they knew, and I screamed.

He didn't live long enough to see his birthday in October, or my 18th in November, or my graduation on June 3rd.  Goals I had jokingly held him to when he was alive.  Sometimes you just can't make a goal.

I didn't dream of him for a long time.  The first time I did, he called me on the phone.  He wanted to let me know that he wouldn't be seeing me on the other side, because I didn't have a soul.

I think that's true.

My mother didn't want to sleep in the bed where he died.  She slept in the lazy-boy for a while.  But eventually she went back to her bed.

It took weeks and several strips of flypaper to get rid of the flies.  They could smell death somehow, even after he was gone.  I fucking hate flies. They are the true harbingers of death.  You cannot comprehend how evil they are until they invade the area where someone died, searching for a place to lay their spawn, pissing all over your sense of reverence, reminding you that everything is filth.

Another thing I realized about death, is how unfair it is for someone to become past tense.  You no longer are, you were.  It's the worst injustice imaginable.  I can't see how someone stops affecting the world.  Some last longer in our memories than others.  It feels like cheating them.

Some people get upset with the fact that I can still joke about death.  Crudely.  That's just too bad for them.  Life goes on, even if it shouldn't.  Too many people die for it to be offensive.  Respect the people themselves, but death is not something that isn't worth laughing at.  If only because we know that none of us will escape it.

Yes, a wish.

True fucking story.

My mother has a history of mental illness.  Most of my childhood is filled with memories of her convulsing in a seizure that never seemed to end, or schizophrenic episodes, or her trying to kill herself.  And I was spared from most of it, being very detached from reality as a kid.

I remember eating jelly beans as a kid, and sorting out the black ones for my mom to eat.  Except that she fell asleep, and wouldn't wake up.  And then she started shaking.

I remember having friends over for the night, and watching with them from my bedroom window while my mom was put into an ambulance for what felt like the millionth time.

I remember her losing her memory and me having to follow her through a strange city with no shoes on.  She wanted to go for a walk and wouldn't wait.  She stopped at a house I'd never seen before because we'd never lived in that city, and her insisting that she lived there for years and planted the tree in the front yard.

I remember her freaking out because she thought that there were locusts and rats all over her body.

And her swallowing all of the pills in her prescription bottles.

This went on for YEARS.  It started when I was seven, as far as I even remember, and going on to junior high school (8th grade).

In 8th grade I met my first girlfriend, and consequently, I met one of her long-standing friends.

He was a lanky kid with shoulder-length greasy hair and a pimply face.  The first thing he ever said to me was, "Will you go out with me?"  I said "No."  He cheered, explaining that he was on a hot streak of rejections.

He told me that he was a druid.  He and my girlfriend very much enjoyed a variety of things that I can only describe as Tolkien-ish.  It was beyond my understanding, but it seemed very high fantasy.  It's still beyond my understanding.

One day he explained to me about wishes, and that for some reason or another (I might have done something to earn them, but I'm not sure) he owed me three wishes.

He begged me for days to make my wishes, but I waited.  Because even though wishes seem impossible, I wasn't careless enough to just throw them away.

Finally I told him one thing that I wanted.  I wanted my mom to be cured.  Medication was like a wild carousel of Not Helping.  She was either going to have a seizure and never wake up again, or she was going to kill herself.

He drew some symbols on the ground and did his thing.  Then he asked what else I wanted.  I told him I'd wait and see if my mom got better first.

I lost contact with him.  I have no idea where he is and haven't seen him again.

Since then my mother has never had an issue.  No seizures.  No schizophrenia.  No more chasing a woman who doesn't remember who I am.  She's gone from completely unstable, having her driver's license taken away, some sort of episode once a week at BEST, to having a job, living a normal life, just being... totally FINE.

I didn't even connect the dots until earlier this year.  I realized my life used to be a whirlwind of ambulances coming every damn night for my mom.  None of that happened anymore.  I told my friend about it.  He was skeptical, but he couldn't deny that my mom had gone from a total jar of rocks to a normal human being.  Coincidence, you could say, but f*ck you, it's magic!!!

One thing I learned, though, is that my mother is a massive bitch.  :/  You can't blame bipolar for everything.

So, you're welcome, mom.  I cured you with a druid's wish, and you don't even know.

Seriously.

I've had creepily accurate horoscopes before, but this one takes the cake.  Today I made the mistake of calling someone out for their points of view and blah blah blah it's impossible to argue anyway.  Like any debate, you're never going to change the person's point of view.  I'm just not smart enough with words for this shit.  All it ended up doing was raising my blood pressure to RAGE because, surprise, they didn't listen to what I was saying, they just basically heard what they wanted to.

My horoscope:

Although interactive Mercury comforts you while it is visiting emotional Cancer, your words seem more confrontational today than you intend. Your key planet Pluto is in a passionate tug-of-war with the cosmic messenger, allowing harsh words to easily slip off your tongue. The consequences of your current honesty could stir up a hornet's nest of complex feelings. Unnecessary stress can be avoided if you stop to consider other people's reactions before you speak.

 I'm a little bit freaked out.  I think I have discovered my Religion.  Seriously, I need to start reading these every day and plotting my day accordingly.  It even warned me a day in advance:

Fortunately, you are able to avoid a needless argument if you simply remember to tread softly. It just isn't necessary to get bent out of shape over something that ultimately isn't that important.

but I wasn't reading it because I never thought too much of horoscopes, even though I do relate to my sign.

So, yeah, I think that I need to start planning my days according to these horoscopes.  Like, decide if I need to lock myself in my room for a day to avoid confrontation.

Seriously, I think they sell handcuffs at the local sex shop.  Seems like a good investment right now.

I haven't done my Wiccan Rede Study for a while, so let's get back to it.  Even if you're not into it, I hope you can appreciate a bit of knowledge. ;)


I would bet that you, the reader, can remember some nursery rhymes or lessons taught in school, such as "I before E, except after C."

"There once was a man from Peru..."

Very simply, the use of rhymes makes something easier to remember.  All of the power in a spell comes from the person speaking the words, and giving them a meaning.  If you do not concentrate on your words, and the meaning behind them, then the spell will likely not work, or will work incorrectly.

Like prayer, spells can be a simple offering of thanks to a god, or a wish for more money.  One may cast a simple money spell, and soon realize that they come across more money than they think.  And when they do, they will hold onto it.  But don't think that money will materialize out of thin air for you.

One quick note: Love spells that force someone to love you are bad. You can make yourself more open to love, or even make them more open to love, but you cannot force them to love you. Just watch the move The Craft and see why it's bad.

Let's talk about supplies for spells

Now, technically you don't need a thing at all.  Wicca is a really flexible religion, because no one thing is the right or only way to get something done.  If anyone ever tells you otherwise, they probably just want your money.

That being said, there are things that can improve your spell casting.  Writing the spell down on paper, for example, and then burning that paper while you say it. (Be careful with fire!)

Candles can be used to set the mood, and their colors can also help relate to what you're doing a spell for.  White is fine and multi-purpose for all spiritual occasions, and is also popular for protection spells.  Red is good for love spells, fertility, power, strength, etc. Green is a good color for money spells, health, luck, etc. Yellow is good for wisdom, creativity, happiness, mental energy, etc. Blue is a good color for peace, truth, protection, and communication.  Black is also a color for protection, energy, and power.   Finally I will add that purple is said to be the color for the goddess, and gold the color for the god.  For more colors and more meanings for each color, try looking here.

There are also a variety of herbs or incenses you could include for a spell session.  One could use a protecting herb like bay to begin every spell.  There are far too many choices to begin to list. I recommend Scott Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs.  It's really handy and has so much to offer, such as alternative names for plants, a way to look up which plants will help make it rain or other things, and some interesting facts.  (Did you know that witches supposedly chewed celery seeds to help them fly on broomsticks?)  Otherwise, good luck searching on the web. :)


There is no wrong way to cast a spell.  One thing I do recommend is making a ritual out of it, to give the occasion some significance.  A common way to do it is to start by cleansing your area - literally and figuratively sweep out negative energy - and then casting a circle.  Make sure you have your supplies beforehand, and spell in mind.  Then you could open by calling on the gods you pray to, and even doing a North East South West thing.  Say your words - you may want to repeat them a few times (choose a significant number, like 3) - and light any candles or burn any incense that you want to.  Spend a while visualizing what you want to come from this spell session.  Maybe just some serenity for yourself.  Do whatever you want to to reinforce your visualization of what you want.  When you're done, thank the gods and dismiss them, then visualize your circle closing.

Remember that a spell is more powerful when it is written by YOU.  It doesn't have to be long, and it doesn't have to be award-winning.  It actually doesn't even have to rhyme.  Just get out the words that have meaning to you.  GIVE them meaning, and believe in it. :)

I wrote earlier about how people can have some conflicting things about them.  One of mine is that I don't identify with a religion, don't believe in a God, and yet sometimes I really wish that I could believe in a religion.

I don't want to start a debate about religions here.  It's kind of pointless in my opinion, and just ends up bringing out the worst in people.  That's part of the reason why I don't like religions... the people involved, and the fact that it seems to tear humanity apart.

I've looked at the theories behind a lot of religions.  I find that I can respect pretty much all of them, and find them admirable.  In theory, at least.  I've even looked up exactly what Satanism is.  I found out that the only real difference between a Satanist and a Christian is that the former believe that if someone does you wrong, you strike back.  It made me think about how many people I knew who called themselves Christians, but would without a doubt strike back.

Far be it for me to judge someone.  I just wish that when a baby is born in the US, it isn't automatically assumed to be straight and Christian.  It seems like a lot of people just go with what they consider to be the "norm" rather than actually choosing it.  My biggest sign of respect to religion is to not call myself a practitioner of anything.  I refuse to become a hypocrite and further give any religion a bad name.  I studied Wicca for a full year, and decided not to call myself anything of the sort because I knew I couldn't live up to the "harm none" belief, while I still thought it was funny to laugh at other people's short comings. I was only 11 then.

My life would probably be fine like this.  But I still have restless nights when I really think about the reality of DEATH.  It's not a trip to fluffy clouds for me.  For me, that's pretty absurd.  Also, I acknowledge that I'm not a good person.  If Christianity is right (sorry, others, but it's what I'm raised with) then I'd be going to hell.  I've even had a dream in which I received a call from my stepfather and he told me that he wanted to let me know that I wouldn't be seeing him again, because I don't have a soul.

For me, the thought of death goes like this... What will happen?  Will it be like falling asleep, but I never wake up again? Will I see new things, like in a dream, or will that be impossible because my brain stops working?  I guess that it wouldn't be so bad, because if it's just like never waking up, then it won't be painful.  But that's so sad at the same time, to never wake up, and never know.  Just to stop existing.  And then I think, but at least it won't happen to me.  And then I think, No.  It WILL happen to me.  Like a roller coaster you really don't want to be on anymore, but you can't get off, and there's no turning back.  It will happen to ME, whether I'm ready or not.  And it's so scary.

I wish I could believe in a god, any god, and a happy afterlife to look forward to.  But I really can't.  I even wish I could lose enough brain cells to get myself to believe in something that sounds like a fantasy land.  I already have trouble connecting with reality, so this shouldn't be so hard, you'd think.

I want to believe in you, oh sparkly ghost!

People have such interesting brushes with the unknown.  This whole question is why I'm so fascinated by the paranormal, I think.  But those superstitions and religions have existed for years, so I know I'm not the only one.  The question for me is, did they find something real, or are billions of people just desperate enough or foolish enough to believe in a story that someone made up?  How does it feel to be one of the people who say that they can look into their hearts and know these things to be true?  I may find it ridiculous now, but I bet it'd feel pretty good to have faith in something.

And then I remember that it seems like too many people only believe so they can feel morally justified, or other selfish reasons.  I know that doesn't describe everyone, and it shouldn't stop me from finding a religion, but it does.