Thanksgiving 2018: Gratitude for Pain

The holiday season is in full swing in America. Christmas items have been in stores since before Halloween, but I haven’t seen much of them because I haven’t done much shopping. In fact, I don’t know what kind of money I may or may not have for Christmas. I might not have anything at all to spend.

            We’re fast approaching Thanksgiving, an extremely American holiday dedicated to feasting, or, as it’s rather commonly imagined, absolutely stuffing your face until your stomach screams in protest and you pass out in a food coma. Naturally, this is followed by Black Friday, which has essentially become a holiday all its own, arguably more American than Thanksgiving itself. Black Friday is a true ode to consumerism, and ever so American as people literally assault one another just to spend less money for products they don’t really need, than they would have spent otherwise.

            At this time of year, the paradox is this: We give thanks for what we have, only to wake up the very next morning and buy more things. It seems quite contradictory to me, and that’s why I don’t participate in Black Friday. I don’t participate in Cyber Monday, either, although the idea is rather brilliant for targeting people like me who would rather die of suffocation or drowning than ever be caught in a Black Friday crowd at an outlet store.

I’d like to dedicate this entry to gratitude.

            Often, people who have been through trauma as I have find that this is an exceptionally difficult holiday. Family dysfunction throughout our lives throws a cog in the gears of attempted joy on a day dedicated to, well, food. That’s why I think it’s important that I talk about my past as I say what I’m grateful for.

My father has never hosted an event for Thanksgiving.

            He’s seldom had his own residence, but more than that, I have no memory in my life of my father hosting Thanksgiving, with or without roommates. He always sees his mother, my grandmother, for the holidays. This isn’t a bad thing until one realizes he wasn’t there for a lot of Thanksgivings. He broke a lot of promises and made me feel very small when he would see me. He’s been one of the most dismissive people in my life of my dreams, my desires, my goals, and my personality—my own essence of being.

I’m thankful for my dad.

            The abuse and neglect have taught me a lot about forgiveness and human nature. No, it’s not human nature to be the way he was, but given his own background, the explanations exist. The reasons are there, and they have nothing to do with me. I’m not convinced my dad loves me the way a father’s supposed to love his daughter, and there’s no way to go back in time to give him another chance to be my dad. But he’s doing better with his new kid than he did with me, and even if he doesn’t contact me very often, it seems he’d like to have a relationship with me. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

            He’s my father. I respect him for his experiences and wisdom, for what they’re worth.

Thanksgiving with my mother is never a great time.

            I’m sure she’s hosted Thanksgiving in my lifetime. I’m almost sure I have refused to attend them if she’s hosted. More often, she would take us to her uncle Ken’s house, with her mother. These days, Uncle Ken doesn’t seem like much of an option. He seems to be losing his marbles much the way his late mother did (dementia is a beast), so my mother told me the celebration this year would be like last year: hosted at her mother’s house.

            The problem is, it’s always awkward. The good news is, it’s only awkward, now. The reasons for the awkwardness aren’t great, though, as my mother was a terrible parent. I can’t speak for how she parents now, but I have a hunch it’s only marginally better. She makes a lot of poor choices, and has for most if not all of her life. She’s certainly made poor choices and poor judgment for the entirety of my life.

I’m thankful for my mom.

            Let’s be real. No matter how much of a fuck-up my mother may be, she still gave me this life. With the trials, tribulations, and exposure to opposing and coexistent worlds, I wouldn’t be here without her. It’s a hell of a trip, living life. It’s not easy, nobody gives you any shortcuts or manuals, and anyone who gets those things is only lucky to those who do not know better. The truth is, even the silver spoons and life manuals only do so much, and nothing beats the hard, hands-on experience that comes from bumbling through life without instructions.

            My mom’s been through trauma at least as much as I have, if not more. She didn’t have the best mother in the world, either, and she didn’t have the best father. I would never speak ill of the dead, much less the grandfather I never knew. I met some of his family and they never spoke badly about him, but I know what my mother and uncle have told me. While I’m thankful for my mother giving birth to me, I’m more thankful to her for letting me go when she did. I’ve often wished I could go back in time and take away the two years I spent with her. I’ve thought, I wouldn’t have developed such anxiety, or I wouldn’t have developed an adjustment disorder, if only she’d never had custody of me.

            Even so, if I hadn’t lived with her, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to live in poverty. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have an abusive, dysfunctional household. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be yelled and screamed at instead of spoken to, or what it’s like to beaten with a wooden spoon. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have lice, to be outcast and treated like shit for things you have no control over.

Thanksgiving with my grandparents is a wholesome family experience.

            Throughout everything, I remain most thankful to my grandparents. They took me in, gave me shelter, provided me with everything I needed: food, drink, education, clothing, healthcare, and even vacations. Thanksgivings and Christmases with my grandparents is almost always a great time. Still, it’s occasionally been something like your typical American family Thanksgiving: awkwardness and some fighting.

            Year before last, when I was married, I didn’t enjoy Thanksgiving with my grandparents. Part of it was that my ex-husband had ruined my daughter’s and his own appetite before we arrived.

I’m thankful for my grandparents.

            They’ve always had my back. They’ve helped me more than anyone else in my life. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay them, and that’s okay, because I’ve learned throughout my life thus far that it’s more important to pay it forward than to pay it back. I didn’t learn that from my grandparents, or my mother or father. I learned that through the myriad of experiences I’ve had, and it’s something that’s confirmed every now and then as I continue living.

            If it weren’t for the time I had with my grandparents, I wouldn’t know that it’s possible to improve my station in life. I wouldn’t know anything about the possibility of a person to overcome their past, their heritage, their own culture. If it weren’t for my grandparents, I’d never have joined the military, and if it weren’t for the military, I wouldn’t have as open a mind as I do.

            A lot of fear remains. I’m not married anymore, and I’m grateful to no longer be in an unhealthy and toxic relationship. I’m grateful for my daughter, who wouldn’t be here if not for my ex-husband. I’m grateful for the lessons I gleaned from my relationship with him, the character wisdom I gained.

Life is a journey whose end you can’t see, and whose beginning varies in meaning and importance.

            I’m in a better place than my parents have done. I’m relatively stable, with every opportunity to keep what I have and continue to improve. It’s overwhelming, and difficult. I can’t survive on a single income, unless I manage to increase my VA disability to 100%. I believe I qualify for such a rating, but it’s not something that’s been high on my list of priorities because I’d rather push myself to do better. I don’t want to lie around doing nothing, collecting a check just for having a pulse.

            Life is about the struggle. It’s about the journey, the ups and the downs. It may be true that we don’t have a choice to have it any other way, and showing gratitude is a great way to cope.

A Deadly Mistake

The worst mistake man ever made was to speed everything up. As the old man in The Shawshank Redemption said before hanging himself: “The world went and got itself into a big damn hurry.” While at that time he referred to the abundance of automobiles and the sudden speed with which business was being done, today that speed has accelerated even more.

            Today, we live in what appears to be an instant world. Instant food, instant communication; the only thing that’s not instant is our transportation, and even then we’ve managed to speed it up in many ways and for many purposes, though our freeways remain jam-packed at rush hour and stand completely still any time a collision occurs. The Internet, it has been argued, has had many benefits, but perhaps if we step back and examine the evidence to these “benefits,” we will find that they are only beneficial in the context of a fast, instant world wherein any task can be done instantaneously as long as it can be done digitally. In fact, I would argue the Internet has done more harm than good, for despite the speed with which processes can be completed, people feel more like they have no time to do things—to create a coherent thought, to research a point as completely as it can be researched—even to relax and take a break from all the pressures that have resulted from the breakneck speed to which we have developed. The more we connect in the virtual world, the more we demand immediate results, the less we connect in real life and the more alienated we feel from our peers.

            Relationships build over time. They are a natural process like the rest of life. The Internet, in many ways, is destroying the very foundation of a relationship. No longer do people take time to get to know one another. They group together online and share things, but often times when someone shows a point of view that disagrees with the group, the person holding the opposing position is ousted from the group itself. The more connected we feel in the virtual, instant world, the less connected we feel to and within real life. People don’t touch each other as much anymore; their fingers are too busy swiping and tapping screens, pressing keys, clicking mice; their eyes are too occupied by a screen; their ears are so preoccupied with electronics that they fail to pick up sound waves that emanate next to them from partners, family members, friends, colleagues, etc.

            Naturally, one might ask me, “If that’s your argument, why do you use the Internet?” The answer is simple: I grew up with its development. I began using computers in 2001, at the age of 9. I played the hell out of The Sims and I spent more time online than I did talking to my family, every chance I got. Suddenly, the world seems so much bigger for the addition of the World Wide Web, and so much smaller when we remain rooted in reality. My experience in the military expanded the world greatly for me, and also showed me that as big as it gets, it is only so big. The thing is, I think that’s okay.

            Our population on this planet is such that there is no way any one person can meet every single other person on the planet. Still, I think that our goal in life should be to make connections, to communicate, to learn and grow from one another. Our purpose should not be to drive a sales bargain, to find the bottom line of a deal, to cheat and swindle our way to the top of an imaginary ladder or the front of an imaginary race. The Internet has done me much good in my life, it is true, but to connect this to what I said before, I would wager that the benefits I have experienced have been a direct result of the desire in our society for immediate results. Research papers are due in just enough time to find as many sources as possible, and most of those sources today come from the Internet rather than a library. Printed books are going out of style in favour of digital copies that can instantly be downloaded, eliminating the need for people to get out in public and interact with other bookworms in shops, or shopkeepers themselves.

            Pokémon GO was the best technological advancement in gaming since Ingress. It got more people outside than did Ingress, and even now, as it continues to update, people can come together within the game, make friends, and trade Pokémon. These are new developments and while I can talk all day long against technology, I can also talk all day long in support of it, because this kind of development is just what we need to get people outside and interacting with one another in real life again. Further advancements must be made, however. We cannot allow ourselves to be limited to these games to explore the outside world and meet people face-to-face. The problem still exists that everything in this world today is moving too fast.

            People today are literally working themselves to death. This phenomenon has been reported by Forbes in this article, and Time covered it in their own article. It seems that overwork is most common in Japan, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the cardiology-related deaths in America are caused by the stresses of overworking.

            It’s time to slow down. The Internet may have many uses, but it’s so large it’s literally uncontrollable. There are proxies and workarounds for the most censored nations. Truly, unless a person lacks a connection, the Internet is nigh unavoidable in today’s age. Still, I think its development was in many ways a mistake and I wonder how we might be able to change it so that it could be used more primarily for research purposes, or more accurately, how we might slow down the frantic rat race of our society while maintaining the use of the Internet for all the good it does us.

Beginning to Untangle Gender Identity and the Law

            America is riddled with fear. We see it every day: Violence, apathy, confusion, and fear. It doesn’t matter where you’re from or who you are; in America, you’re afraid of something. There are intelligent people on both sides of every argument about policy. Whether you consider yourself liberal or conservative or somewhere in between, there’s something you’re afraid of. Some people would use this to your advantage. Others would use it to limit your freedoms and imprison you, whether in a facility or within yourself.

            We begin to untangle these issues by talking about both sides. Communication is a two-way street and I have witnessed first-hand, second-hand and third-hand how poor communication can ruin a perfectly good friendship. People can be friends no matter what side of the fence they are on, as long as they are willing to listen to each other’s points of view.  

            The gender identity debate seems to be strong, these days. The thing is, it’s not a very important argument. It doesn’t really matter what someone calls you as long as they treat you with dignity and respect—as you deserve based on your behaviour. It doesn’t matter what or who you say you are, or what or who you actually are. What matters is what you do with what you have. Are you making things around you better, or worse?

            When it comes to the gender identity debate, this question comes into play frequently. On the Left, the idea seems to be along these lines: “Anyone who doesn’t recognize my self-identity is making my life worse by disrespecting me.” On the right, the idea seems to be something along the lines of: “People who claim to be something they’re not are making my life worse by taking my attention away from things that matter.” Both of these ideas are expanded upon in many ways all over social media and society.

            Let’s start with the idea outlined above for the Left: “Anyone who doesn’t recognize my self-identity is making my life worse by disrespecting me.” It has been seen in some universities that there are people who believe this idea means that a person who uses the wrong pronoun when talking to another person is committing assault or harassment against the other person. This has legal implications and, if implicated, would have real ramifications in the legal world. People could be arrested for harassment or assault just for calling a transgender woman “he,” even if it was an accident. It implies that a transgender person would charge someone with such a crime just for using the wrong pronoun.

            To another degree, less extreme, the idea above simply means that everyone should make an active effort to use “proper pronouns” when addressing other people. The people who think this way and can articulate a reasonable argument tend to phrase their opinions in a way similar to: “Once you know someone’s preferred identity and pronouns, you need to use them when you’re talking to them. It’s disrespectful not to because you’re refusing to accept who they are. Centrists can also think of things this way.

            The Right tends to see things a little differently. “People who claim to be something they’re not are making my life worse by taking my attention away from things that matter.” Many intelligent people who think this way believe that gender identity isn’t even slightly important. They may believe there are only two sexes and only two genders; they may believe that sex and gender are the same thing, and they may even believe other things that have nothing to do with gender identity but are often seen by the Left as bigoted, prejudicial, and inaccurate. The point here is that with this argument, gender identity shouldn’t be a priority. It shouldn’t matter what someone calls you or what you think you are, and people on the Right tend to see those who prioritize pronouns and “special” identities as just wanting to be “special” and get special attention.

            Many reasonable people, Centrists and those on the Right, see bigger issues as more important. By “bigger issue,” I mean an issue that affects everyone, regardless of what, where, or who they are. These issues include climate change, corrupt government, capitalism, big banks, voter fraud, and pollution. Many people do not want to spend their time figuring out that their friend Jon wants to be called Catie now and doesn’t want to be referred to as “he” or “him,” anymore. They’d rather hang out with Jon, be free to make the mistake of using Catie’s old name and pronouns, and still have fun or get work done together.

            The universities are a place for concern for people who do not prioritize gender identity as a problem that needs to be fixed. I know many people who are more than happy to use Catie’s new name and stop calling her Jon. They might make a mistake sometimes, because Catie still looks like Jon and is pretty hairy and bulky, but these are genuine people who do what they can to be sure their friends are comfortable.

            It is a fact that gender and sex are not the same thing, even in science. This does not mean that gender and sex are completely separate, however. On Tumblr, there can be found more “genders” than an ordinary or reasonable person would want to count in a day. Many of them do not make sense and may include alien or animal qualities, or both. Tumblr is an insane spot of the Internet and the gender identity debate runs as deep as it gets unreasonable. Just because a person with a male body can have the mind and spirit of a girl, and a person with a male body can have the mind and spirit of a boy, does not mean they are not human, and “animalkin” genders and genders that “change” regularly are not acceptable in the world of law.

            So, we transition into our talk about legal consequences of ideas presented within the gender identity argument. This also brings hate speech into the discussion here, where we detangle the mess that is this whole debate when it comes to law.

            In many places, including universities, there’s an idea that “hate speech” should be considered a crime. There is some debate and discussion over whether to classify “hate speech” as harassment or assault, but make no mistake: harassment and assault are crimes. They are also torts (civil wrongs), which naturally have lighter implications of law, but when these discussions are being had at these high levels, they’re talking about crimes.

            First, a person must define “hate speech.” In this case, we’re talking about gender identity. In this case, the Left might say “hate speech” is when a person doesn’t use the “proper pronoun” while talking to another person. Therefore, by calling Catie by Jon and addressing her as “he” or “him,” Catie could theoretically charge the person with harassment or assault for “hate speech,” by not using Catie’s preferred pronouns.

            In the legal world, the ramifications of this limit free speech. It’s reasonable for a Centrist or someone on the right to worry about freedom of speech from government prosecution when people talk about enacting laws that would classify “hate speech” in such a way.

            An argument from the Left concerning free speech in terms of hate speech and gender identity is as follows: “Free speech can and should be limited.” They’re absolutely correct to say this, but that doesn’t mean it should be limited to the point of infringing on liberty—another Constitutional right wherein the interpretation is often debated.

            Law can be debated. Liberty can be debated. The definition of “hate speech” can be debated, and it can even be debated whether or not a person can be transgender. What is fact, however, is that gender identity is not something that should shape our laws. The Left is right to fear the slippery slope of infringements of rights that could easily come after a piece of legislation passes to condemn “hate speech” in an extreme way.

            This fear can be seen with the Canadian bill C-16. This bill is sometimes cited in debates about “hate speech” and “free speech.” Those who may not understand it very well think that this law, in Canada, allows a person to charge another with the crime of harassment or assault because that person uses the “wrong pronoun” when talking to them. This is false.

            First, you can read the bill C-16 at https://openparliament.ca/bills/42-1/C-16/. Here, it is described as an act that amends a previous statute and applies to propaganda. A reasonable person might then look up the word “propaganda.” Here is where even a reasonable person may be confused. If they go to Google first, the definition that comes up is as follows:

prop·a·gan·da

ˌpräpəˈɡandə/Submit

noun

1. derogatory

information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view.

"he was charged with distributing enemy propaganda"

synonyms:       information, promotion, advertising, publicity, spin; More

2. a committee of cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church responsible for foreign missions, founded in 1622 by Pope Gregory XV.

            A legal definition for propaganda can be found at https://thelawdictionary.org/propaganda/. Someone who reads Google’s definition might think that it can apply to anything. This is especially true if someone doesn’t understand that propaganda must be published, or if they do not understand what a publication is. Essentially, a publication is anything put into written form, with or without pictures (but typically with pictures), and distributed to other people, or third parties. The legal definition at the link above explains that propaganda is a persuasive publication with a targeted message. I have used propaganda throughout this blog entry to influence how you take the information I present.

            Ultimately, I think gender identity has no real place in the law except for anti-discrimination laws. Beyond that, the idea that a person who calls a person by the “wrong pronoun” should be charged with assault or harassment seems like an extreme response to a social situation that could be handled with more effective communication. I think that we have bigger fish to fry. My goal here was simply to give some information that might help people understand that Canada is not, in fact, arresting people for using the wrong words.

The Newest Outrage

            Every time I look at my Facebook news feed, it’s like I’m gazing into a battlefield. On one side, we have people screaming—and I do mean that these people are doing everything in their power to be loud and be heard—about the inhumane treatment of children in family units coming to the American border to seek asylum and/or citizenship. On the other side, there are people saying, “Get over it.” It’s constant.

            I got a new phone and I am grateful for one thing about it: The Facebook app is not built in. I haven’t downloaded it, either, because it’s a large app and it takes up a lot of space. It takes a lot of time, too, as it’s a major distraction. I dislike working for free and I don’t like coming into a conversation and being the only level-headed person who uses real reason and logic to support the points I make.

            It’s important to me to make the distinction that most people in these arguments online have no idea what’s actually going on in the situation over which they’re crying for their perception of justice. I’m of the opinion that the Americas need an agreement similar to the European Union that allows citizens of these neighboring countries to enter and leave one another at will. In the European Union, a person can live in Germany while working in Belgium. I don’t see why someone close to the border shouldn’t be allowed to live in Mexico and work in America, or live in Canada and work in America, or vice versa for either place.

            At the same time, the enforcement of our laws is nothing new. It was the Clinton administration that put into place the policy that separates children from their families at the border, but now that Trump is in office and it’s somehow national news, everyone on the Left is in an uproar and a tizzy. Especially noted by those on the Left is the hypocrisy of the Right, wherein we marginalize and stereotype Latinxs and use them for cheap labor at the same time. We don’t want them in our country, but we take them and pay them under the table for jobs regular Americans don’t want.

            What happened to the uproar over gun laws? What happened to the rage over school lunches or the obesity epidemic? What happened to the rage over the anti-vax movement? Well, somehow, it’s all pretty well buried under the newest outrageous sensation: Border control. Now we’re focusing on the inhumane treatment of illegal immigrants and the putting of children into cages.

            Don’t get me wrong. People don’t belong in cages outside of the kink community. The Americas, in my opinion, should have a border agreement much like the European Union. But we don’t, and the policy that is on the chopping block now is not new.

            I’m tired of the smoke screens and distractions. I’m tired of being fed a line of shit, expected to get into a tizzy over it, and ostracized and belittled by those who are outraged when I remain calm. There are many more important things happening behind the scenes that nobody wants to look at. I’d rather go live with Tibetan monks.

A Letter to A Sperm Donor

Dear Biological Father to My Child:

            You vowed to eat me. You challenged me to bring my army, and I did, but I expected you to bring your pack, small as it is. You brought no one and stood alone, the true mark of a sickly wolf cub, unlike the “wolf” you call yourself. I walked into the room of battle fully prepared and equipped to handle any questions lobbed at me by the Judge, by you, or by anyone else for that matter. And I didn’t need any of it. I was so shocked, I forgot to ask the Judge to order you to pay back the money you stole from my daughter’s savings account.

            Of course, you’ll say you didn’t steal it, and you’ll have some excuse, some story to tell me about what that account is “really for,” as if you think I would have forgotten. But that gives you too much credit for forethought, I’ve come to realize. So I suppose I should take a step back and go through my perspective in its completion.

            I didn’t like you when I met you, but I saw some kind of goodness in you that I allowed to take root, and I chose to believe in you with my whole heart. Your coworkers and your NCOs told me that you couldn’t do anything right, that you broke everything you touched, that you were incompetent and refused to ask questions about how to do the job right. When I mentioned these things to you, your response was that you had gone through your career development courses faster than anybody else and that you had memorized them completely because you read each one more than once. I believed you; what reason had I not to do? I defended you against your coworkers and I talked to your NCOs on your behalf, urging them to get your paperwork in order, but they weren’t the ones failing on some front. I know this because you weren’t the only Airman I knew in your shop. You were neither the first nor the last newbie I met in your shop and I knew a little bit about how things ran there.

            And so, when the base mental health clinic gave your diagnosis and started your medication, I held my faith in you and I kept my belief. I decided that your lack of performance was due to the diagnosis and I kept talking to you. But you didn’t talk to me. You opened your mouth and words came out; you spoke, but you did not communicate.

            And you burnt bacon. Who burns bacon? I tell my friends this story to this day and every single time, the reaction is complete shock and horror. Who burns bacon?! Every time. But that wasn’t the real problem, after all; communication was.

            Some of your favourite things to say were bad things about your family, especially after we visited them for some holidays. We went home, and you held a grudge against everyone, especially your mother. Multiple times, over the course of years, I encouraged you to forgive your mother and re-establish contact. You refused, every time. But then you would suggest we separate; you said I should take our daughter and stay with my grandparents for a while; you suggested I go stay with my grandparents for a while on my own; you suggested that you find a hotel and stay in one alone for a couple of weeks. I always said that was not the solution; that we needed to work together. But you never wanted to work together with me, and over the last two years of our marriage, you said no less than three times to me: “If you just want to divorce me, get it over with.” The first two times, I said I never wanted that. The third time, I finally agreed that separation may be best for both of us.

            I talked to many people over the course of our marriage. I watched you deliberately act against my desires as a wife and as a mother. I told you how I wanted things to be and you failed to perform. The same thing happened when we were together in the house my grandparents own. My friends told me that what you did was deliberate, that you were an asshole. They were right on one count and wrong on the other.

            You are an asshole. But I do not think everything you do is deliberate. You posted online that you were prepared for trial. You acted really tough and you really made it out like I’m some villain and you’re a poor, wounded animal who has been kicked while he’s been down. You called me vindictive and spiteful. You claimed I was hateful against you, and when I was angry and hurt, I was quite hateful. I was quite spiteful. But I have not once been vindictive, and I have not once said a single untrue thing about you or your behaviour.

            When we were in the courthouse, you said you didn’t know who I am. It struck me strongly as the truest statement you had made in a whole five years. You certainly lied when you told me you’ve died. You certainly lied when you said I was your soulmate, that you had been searching the cosmos for my energy. You are a liar of pathological tendencies, sperm donor, and I am here to tell you what I see. I already know that if you read this, you won’t make a change, because you don’t really know what you’re doing. You demonstrated that in the room of battle.

            “I am prepared,” your status read. But when the Judge addressed you, you stuttered and stumbled over your words. You outright stated you did not know what your requests were. You vindictively demanded that I pay bills that you chose to take care of on your own volition. You cannot have realized how all of your actions leading up to that day were working against you, but I think your mother noticed it since she didn’t come to your defence. Or did you tell her to stay home? Regardless, I was better prepared. My paperwork was all together and my requests were simple. And the Judge ruled in my favour more completely than I had dared to hope.

            I overestimated you the way you have underestimated me for ages. I had thought, perhaps, you walked in thinking you would razzle dazzle me, throw me for a loop and win your way with sheer presence. But I realize now that gives you far too much credit, because you are a sick, sick man. I do not believe your initial diagnosis from the base mental health clinic was complete. If you do have that personality disorder, then I think you have a second or even third personality disorder, as well, among them Narcissistic Personality Disorder. A tall claim, perhaps, but characterized and standing out from regular narcissistic traits by a Narcissist’s absolute refusal to communicate.

            I expected you to have at least one witness. I expected you to come in with a residential plan requesting that our daughter live with you for part of the year, but rather than doing something so thoughtful and likely to succeed, you instead went in with a vindictive residential plan that asked the Judge to uproot the child from her life and withhold her from me for all but two weeks a year. I was shocked; how could you be so stupid? I expected you to have your paperwork together better. I thought you would demand that I pay for the World Books, and I thought you would have a better-organized case to plead wherein you would claim that I am abusive and horrible. But you didn’t. The Judge didn’t want to see your Facebook evidence and I didn’t offer mine, because social media was irrelevant to this case—except for the part where you threatened me in a status and your mother joined in.

            It’s adorable that your mother thinks I should be committed, because really, the one who should be committed and monitored closely is you. You claim to love your daughter, but you don’t show it.

            You send a message once or twice a week to ask “how she’s doing.” I have shared with you her school schedule and yet you send these messages while she is at school and you never ask any deeper questions. You show no interest in her development, in school or at home, and you show no interest whatsoever in my ability to care for her. I wouldn’t expect you to care about me at all, but I am the mother of your child and as such I deserve a minimal amount of consideration since I am the custodial parent and I have full control over her development—development that has accelerated significantly and is going so well, I wonder how I managed to let you hold us back for so long.

            I would give you a list of questions you should ask about your child, but they’re really common sense for fathers who want to be dads to their kids, a role you have repeatedly demonstrated a lack of interest in filling. I will not spoon-feed common sense to you when you have previously indicated a lack of ability to digest it.

            I look forward to this summer break, to see if you follow the court’s order for visitations. I look forward to our weekly video calls, because my daughter doesn’t want to hear you talk and she doesn’t want to see your bullshit. She doesn’t care what you’re doing, she just likes that she can boss you around and do what she wants when you’re around. This is demonstrated by our video calls lasting less than two minutes every time. This happens at home and in public, as I have tested multiple times now.

            When I was overwhelmed with emotion upon our separation, I thought perhaps I would always hold love for you. I can see now that such is not the case.

            Goodbye.

-A

The Queen and the Wolf

THE BEGINNING

Once, there was a young Queen who had struck out on her own, far away from her kingdom.  In her kingdom, she had felt as though she didn’t truly belong.  In the foreign land to which her nation sent her, she felt much more at home, but only when she mingled with the locals and visited the neighbouring lands.

            The young Queen sought a young King and found a Knight.  The Knight was mild-mannered, fun-loving, and all-American.  The Queen could feel her secular, Euro-centric values cringe around him, but she largely enjoyed his company and found herself fall in love with who he was.  Eventually, though, she realized that the Knight was not interested in sharing things with her the way she did with him.  He complained a lot about things that could easily have been fixed, and the Queen felt herself drained of investing time and energy into the relationship.

            One day, the Queen met a sickly wolf cub wearing a mask.  The mask was lopsided and dishevelled, and the Queen’s heart was struck with sympathy upon looking at the poor creature.  With pity for the cub in her heart, the Queen spent time with him, getting to know him and letting him know her.  The longer the Queen spent with the cub, the more he looked like a grown wolf, as if the mask he had worn when she met him had straightened out and become his being.  The Queen was fooled, and the cub’s Glamour caught the Queen under its spell.

            The time came for the Queen to move to another land.  Terrified of losing the cub who had appeared to treat her so well, the Queen held a ceremony to bind herself and the cub together. In so doing, she remained in the foreign land for another year.  It was not an ideal situation, thought the Queen, but she thought she would be happy with her Wolf.

THE CREATION OF A FAMILY

            The day came when the Queen realized she would be having a baby.  By this time, she had begun to notice that the wolf did not behave as a wolf should.  He had no pack, only a mother in a far-away place.  He was unclean, and any task he took on in the home the Queen had chosen for them to share was accomplished without completion and without propriety.  Clothes to be washed shrank in the doing; dishes to be cleaned came out crusted and oily.  The Queen had been depressed from the subconscious realization of the wolf’s inability to function as an adult, but hadn’t wanted to recognize it.  Once pregnant, it was unavoidable, but the Queen had a great deal of fear.

            A baby was a terrifying concept to the Queen, who had thought she would live out her days barren, forever a maiden.  The idea of raising the baby alone so terrified her that she left the foreign land and returned to her kingdom, with plans for the wolf to join her there.  She knew, with the support of her family, a retired King and Queen, she would find the strength and serenity to adjust to such a major change in her life.  And she believed that the sickly wolf would benefit from the same.

            The Queen’s family welcomed her back with love and support, outlining expectations for the Queen’s behaviour during her stay in the family home, in addition to expectations for the wolf upon his arrival.

            The wolf was to find work.  He was to move forward in such a way as to support the Queen and the new-born babe.  He was to keep his money and put it away in order to find a castle for himself and the Queen, in which to raise the precious infant. The wolf did none of these things.

            Instead of looking for work, the wolf slept throughout the day.  Instead of putting any monies aside for a castle for the Queen to whom he had been bound, the wolf spent his money each time he left the family home, waking up too late to engage in breakfast and going out during dinner times.  Even when leaving the house, the wolf was in a state of partial undress.  The old, retired King spoke to the wolf and informed him that he needed to demonstrate modesty and remain clothed in their home.  The wolf refused, and instead walked about the Queen’s family home as though it were rightfully his, his clothing largely missing or in a dishevelled state of disorganization.  Additionally, the wolf decided to stay up every night and remove the new-born baby from the Queen’s care, feeding the babe artificial nutrients behind the Queen’s back and undermining the Queen’s nursing schedule with the infant.  By so doing, the wolf knew that he was sabotaging the bond between the mother Queen and the new-born princess, a deliberate act the wolf perpetrated to gain control over the infant.

THE DECLINE OF HEALTH

            The Black Queen caught the wolf in the lie.  She confronted him about feeding her princess artificial materials and was quite ready to throw the wolf—the sickly cub that he was—out of her family’s home and out of her life and the life of her princess.  But the retired Queen told her that perhaps, just maybe, the wolf truly did act in this way with her best interests at heart, and so the young Queen found her heart softened yet again, and she stayed.  She allowed the wolf cub to stay, and he poisoned her mind against the retired King and Queen, so that they left the family home much too soon.

            Years passed, and chaos abounded.  The Queen engaged with her tiny princess every chance she had, preparing activities for the baby as she grew that would help her learn what she needed to know to grow into a queen of her own. Still, the Queen fell into severe depression as the wolf exercised his covert control methods over her and the baby princess.  With every activity the Queen commenced, the wolf would take the baby away.  He held the infant child away from the Queen, poisoning the princess against her mother.  The Queen tried everything—she encouraged the wolf to find work, but when he did, he didn’t hold the position for any significant amount of time.  The Queen and the wolf each attended school, though the Queen had much difficulty due to the wolf’s behaviour at home.  The Queen made multiple attempts to find work around her, but all failed due to the stresses she faced while dealing with the sickly wolf to which she had bound herself.

            In the beginning of the chaos, the Queen and the wolf took the princess to visit the wolf’s homeland.  So it was that the Queen first laid eyes upon the domain of the wolf’s mother, a wolf who kept her pack close yet was nearly as sick as her son.  The visit was disastrous, and the sickly wolf disowned his mother upon their exit from the land.  As time went on, the Queen encouraged him to forgive, for this was his mother.  The sickly wolf refused.

            “She told me I’m a bad father,” the wolf cried.  “I cannot forgive her. I’m not ready.”  And when the Queen brought guests to the home, the wolf would tell them, “My mother is a two-faced bitch.  I hate her.”  And he would tell them about how she had screamed at him, and at the Queen, during their visit to his homeland.  How she had screamed in front of the new-born princess and thrown the Queen out of the wolves’ den, unprotected and distraught.

THE RECOGNITION

            In the midst of this chaos, the Queen met a Priestess.  The Priestess was powerful and kind, and the Queen felt an immediate warmth within her heart upon meeting the spiritual leader.  But the wolf was not so keen.  The wolf growled at the Priestess and snapped at her, doing everything in his power to keep her away from the baby princess while the wolf continued to hinder the tiny child’s development.  The wolf’s behaviour caused the baby princess to cry for him when he was not near her.  He carried her everywhere, insisting she be on his back when she was able to walk and not once teaching her any of the things a new princess ought to know in order to deal with the world around her.  The Queen hired the Priestess to keep an eye on the princess, to help teach and guide the little girl so that she could have a normal childhood and grow up to be strong, independent, intelligent, and wise.  But what the Priestess witnessed in the house the Queen shared with the sickly wolf so disturbed the Priestess that she could not continue in her position with the small child.  And so, the Queen was at a loss yet again.

            It took longer for the Queen to realize just how sick the wolf truly was.  She did not want to believe she had made such a grave mistake in binding herself to him.  She did not want to believe that the wolf would deliberately sabotage her relationship with the princess, or that he would deliberately infuriate her and do things wrong on purpose.  The Queen and the wolf were set to leave another home prematurely, when the Queen saw the Priestess for what she thought would be the last time.  The Priestess knew something was very wrong and looked the Queen in the eye.

            “The wolf is not grown, my dear, he is merely a cub.  And he is very sick.  Notice how he has found no pack to join while you two have lived in this land.  Notice how little contact he has with his pack in his own land.  These are bad signs for a wolf, for wolves are pack animals.  There is nothing wrong with loving a wolf, but if you do not let this one go, he will corrupt and poison your whole life.  He will poison your relationships and corrupt your mind further than he already has.  You must leave him, and take your princess with you, for he can do no good for her.”  The Priestess was insistent and passionate, holding the Queen’s hands in her powerful palms and fixing her amazing gaze upon the Queen.

            When the Queen returned to the home she and the wolf had shared and were now leaving, she presented him with her thoughts.  She said, “I do not wish to leave this land again,” and even as the words passed her lips they surprised her, for she had once wanted nothing more than to be free of her own kingdom.  Now, she found, she needed to establish her place within it and rule where she fit best.  The wolf had nothing of substance to offer, instead doing everything he could to turn conversation around so that he could use his words to fool the Queen again.  He wished for nothing more than to give her any words that she wanted to hear, just so he could think she felt better and wouldn’t pester him again.  But the Queen knew what to look for, this time, and she noticed the sickly wolf’s desire to say nothing of true substance and answer no questions legitimately.

            She considered the affair the wolf had had, in her own bed, in the home they shared.  She considered the wolf’s mother, telling her prior to his arrival in her land that he had had an affair with someone in his own kingdom.  The Queen sat quietly and looked with sadness at the wolf, seeing his Glamour falling away and yet still wishing she could make him better.  But she now knew that she did not have the antidote for whatever ailed him, and she knew that it was best for herself and her princess to let the sickly wolf go.  This was further confirmed when the wolf said:

            “If you’d be done with me, then be done with me.”

            With sadness, the Queen gazed at the wolf and replied, “I have never said I wished to be done with you… yet this is not the first time you have said such a thing.  You’ve said things like this many times in these years, and I think it is time to explore the option and for us to go our separate ways for some time.”  The Queen was filled with sorrow as she gazed at the sickly wolf, his face emotionless and his body language guarded.  It had always been guarded, she realized.

THE SEPARATION

            The Queen returned to her family home, broken and distraught, with her young princess.  The wolf fled the land, first running to a foreign land to visit distant acquaintances, then speeding back to his homeland, where his pack licked his wounds while he dismissed their unyielding tolerance, support, and coddling of his actions.

            The Queen watched as the sickly wolf’s mother defended his egregious behaviour.  The mother wolf accused the Queen of lies she had never told.  The mother wolf accused the Queen of slandering her sickly cub, and she made veiled threats against the Queen from the safety of her homeland and the surety she found in having her cub back in her den.  The Queen learned much in her observations.

            Among the lessons, the Queen found her power, the power she had vested into the sickly wolf and now could take back for herself.  She learned how to deal with the pain of her mistakes and move forward, and forward she moved.  She was finally able to create a bond with her wonderful princess, and she even found school for the little girl as she, the Queen, resumed her own education with much greater focus and determination.

            So it was that the Queen grew into her power and became the Black Queen.  With the support of the Priestess and the retired King and Queen, the Black Queen moved to sever the tie she had created with the sickly wolf.  There were doubts, and the Black Queen thought she should take it as far as she could and remove all right the wolf could have had to seeing the princess.  But she knew that it would not stand, not for lack of justice but for lack of evidence, and so the Black Queen ultimately came to settle upon simply ensuring that she would always have her Princess in sight and care.  The princess had a right to know the wolf, and so the Black Queen would do nothing to hinder that, despite her own knowledge and reservations concerning the sickly cub.  She persevered, trudging through the judicial system, juggling the case with her classes and caring for the little princess.  All of this was in the face of veiled threats made by the sickly wolf and his mother, the two of them overestimating their abilities against a Queen with an army.

THE WAR

            The Black Queen took the sickly wolf to trial.  The wolf made every attempt to beguile the Queen, flashing his Glamour to the best of his ability, but the Queen was far above such trickery, now.  She had seen the signs, she had recognized the sickness within the wolf.  She now knew that no wolf who walked alone was a healthy one, and she knew what she needed to do to ensure her princess’s safety and well-being.

            The wolf’s trickery nearly worked when the Black Queen attended a pre-trial conference.  The mediator, who existed only to determine whether an agreement could be reached between the wolf and the Queen, warned the Black Queen that the Judge could rule more favourably for the wolf than desired.  Worry set in the heart of the Queen and she returned to her home, the home she established with her princess, and she prepared for battle.  The wolf had dared her to bring her army, and the Black Queen was happy to oblige.

            So, the Black Queen assembled her army, an army she wasn’t quite sure she had.  She called upon the powerful Priestess, the retired Queen, and the Duchess, the Harlequin, the harlot, and the bard.  She had six people at her side when the Black Queen walked into the Judge’s domain to face the wolf, and when she laid eyes upon him, she realized how truly sickly he was.

            The wolf sat alone with poor posture.  As the Black Queen strode into the room, he informed the Judge’s assistant that he had no one with him, no witnesses to support his claims or requests.  The Black Queen felt her heart swell with relief while her eyes widened in surprise at just how truly alone this wolf was.  Despite his pack in his homeland, none had shown with him to help him fight this battle.

THE FINAL BATTLE

            After some time, the wolf and the Black Queen were finally before the Judge.  No one was present in the room but the Queen, the wolf, the Judge, and the Judge’s assistants.  The Black Queen’s army waited outside, prepared to fight for her.  The sickly wolf sat alone, as he had.  The Judge first directed her questions at the Black Queen—the process was not quite what the Queen had prepared for, but that did not mean she was unprepared. And so, her response to the Judge was as follows:

            “This case is about the custody and care of the young princess.  She has lived with me since the wolf and I parted ways and she is thriving.  The princess is a wonderful, sweet little girl who is speaking much more clearly now and attends preschool full time.  She sees the retired King and Queen twice a week, as needed for my school schedule, and we really have a good support system here.”  The Black Queen spoke with her head high, her words clear and concise and well prepared for this fight.  She would ensure with every fibre in her being that the princess remained safe and maintained her developmental momentum.  She would fight against the uprooting of the princess from the life she had built.

            But the Black Queen never had to raise a sword.  Not a single soldier was called to the stand for the Queen.  The Judge directed her questions to the sickly wolf, who fumbled and fell short.

            The wolf stumbled over his words, stuttering over his requests and alleged demands.  He presented paperwork to the Judge that requested the princess be uprooted from the life to which she had become accustomed.  The papers suggested limiting the Black Queen to two weeks out of a year in which to see the princess, and further papers claimed the Queen owed the wolf monies for bills that had been paid without her knowledge. The Judge looked the wolf in his face.

            “It seems to me you’re being vindictive in these requests.”  The Judge asked the Black Queen about the debts presented by the wolf, and while she had been unprepared for such allegations, she responded clearly and without hesitation that those bills were solely the wolf’s responsibility due to the circumstances under which they were paid.  The Judge agreed.

            “The princess will remain with the Black Queen.  You, wolf, will return to this land three times each year to visit the princess.  These visitations will be during the daytime only, and they will be supervised.  The Black Queen will approve of the visitation location, provide for transportation of the princess, and determine who supervises the visitations.”  And with a swish of her black robe, the Judge was gone, and it was so ordered.

THE VICTORY

            With relief filling her being, the Black Queen accompanied the sickly wolf to the clerks who finalized the paperwork, her entourage trailing along.  She could feel the wolf’s self-pity, his indignation at the justice carried out.  The Black Queen could feel that the wolf felt as though he were surrounded, ganged up on, and she couldn’t help but wonder why this poor, pathetic creature would dare challenge the Black Queen to bring her army only to face it alone.  She realized, without weight on her heart this time, that the wolf did not realize the extent of his sickness.  This wolf thought it normal to walk alone, without his pack.  And the Black Queen thought of how, in an earlier age, she would have pitied the wolf.  But now, she thought only of how foolish he was to have issued a challenge he couldn’t have hoped to prevail over.

            The wolf left the courthouse prematurely, the final paperwork yet to be printed.  He flew back to his homeland, to the sickly pack that did not properly care for him, licking his wounds all the way and whining of injustice.  The Black Queen sat alone and graciously accepted the finalized papers, still warm and smelling of toner from the press.  And so the Black Queen made her exit from the Judge’s domain and from the courthouse, and shared her victory with all who had arrived to support her for the battle that was won without a weapon.