The Start of a Journey

Circumstances sometimes happen very quickly and they always have the potential of changing our lives in dramatic ways. Sometimes one needs to leave home and everything they knew in order to find something better. This is a story that gets repeated so often that it is considered to the basis of the epic tale. There's entire books written on The Hero's Journey. It is a good solid format to follow for a story.

It is also the current definition of my life.

Daddy told me that I needed to move forward in my life, to stop settling. I have settled for surviving for so long that I'm not certain I can do that. My family has always been a phone call away. Hellfire and brimstone, aside from about a year and a half when we lived with my mother-in-law and her fiance and the three months Grandpa and I lived in KC, all nearly twenty-eight years of my life has been in the same three mile radius. The idea of changing that is, frankly, terrifying.

I love my girls and I would do anything for them, but risk would seem less terrifying if I didn't have to think about their welfare first. I look at them and I see so much potential. I want to give them the world. I want them to have the opportunities that I did not. I know my mother felt the same way about us kids, and probably still does.

I don't want to move. So many things are happening here that I feel I want to be a part of: Daddy getting released, my disability claim, PJ buying a house, Spiral Scouts starting a troop in KC... I have a life here. But I can't survive without funding. To get funding either Alex or I need a job that pays decently.

We have reached the point of something had to change. Something had to give. We can't continue here.

Thus we will be moving from Missouri to Kentucky. It's happening faster than I would like. Alex will be leaving on the first with most of our stuff. The girls, Johnny, and I will be staying with my mother while we wait to hear back on my disability claim as well as for Alex to get settled into the new place and the new job.

I don't deal with moves well at the best of times. Alex calls me his beloved tree because I don't transplant well. This in no way counts as the best of times.

Seriously, does anyone have a million dollars that they are willing to just give over to me? Alex and I have a budget for what we can do with a million dollars. That's a house, a car, college for all four of us, and trust funds for the girls.

Barring that, does anyone have the numbers of the five white balls for Saturday's Powerball drawing?

Strange Trolls

I am a witch. This should come as no surprise to anyone reading this, considering the name of the blog. I usually don't make a huge deal about it. That being said, I do not make any move to hide it either. My Facebook page has it featured in the public details that anyone can see and a fair number of my posts reflect it.

Despite the diversity of religions featured amongst my Friend list, this has never truly been a problem. If we see something that offends us, we all just scroll past unless it is factually wrong such as an assumption that witches worship Satan or that Christians eat babies. If we do have a problem, we discuss the issue, sometimes ad nauseam. There is certainly a great deal of sarcasm and most of the time nothing is truly resolved despite the amount of words used.

My family has our issues, but we work. We've learned the hard way what happens when we don't. It used to be far worse; we had too many trees and not enough reeds. No one bent except to break.

The problem seemed to be when we started branching out from our family to include others on our Friend Lists. You know how it happens if you have a Facebook account. Everyone starts to include friends and associates from their widely varied activities. A friend of your mother's ex-partner's current partner has a back and forth with you on something and next thing you know, said individual has sent you a Friend Request. You enjoyed the conversation, so you accept the Request.

That's my story.

The problem that I had with him was that his decision to not scroll by and to make derogatory comments on my pagan posts. He mocked the concept that there could be a universal patterns, call it superstition. I asked him to just scroll by if he was going to spout of ignorance on my Wall. He tried to say that arguing was an excellent way to educate himself. I further suggested that he learn to do research instead and even gave him several topics with which he could begin. Arguing doesn't solve anything after all; if you want exposed to new ideas, learn to discuss things. He likened me to a Young Earth Creationist and maintained that arguing was best. He was under the impression that he was being very open-minded.

I ended up having to unfriend him. That was after going back and forth with him for about an hour, his tone becoming more belligerent as we went. It became obvious that he was more after proving that he was right than he was discussing anything.

Is nowhere safe from trolls?

Presumption

We are saturated with news. It seems like there’s some new tragedy every day, some new horror story of Man’s crime against his fellows. We see it on the television. It’s on the plethora of news sites, and in our Feeds. We can’t escape it.

Since we are cornered by it, we must react to it. We cry. We mourn the victims, especially the children. We get angry. We demand justice. We demand legal protections against this happening again. We bicker and argue over every nuance that we can find, and some that we get from the imagination of fictional prose authors.

Then the news reports that the police are looking for someone in connection to the event. The police media correspondent uses words like “person of interest” and “possible suspect”. Within five minutes, we are posting pictures of this person using words like “freak”, “bastard”, “monster”, and “piece of filth”. We are posting demands for the person to be “fed into a wood chipper”, “drawn and quartered”, “hung from the tallest tree”, and “burned alive”.

I have another issue with that last one, but we can come back to that.

Who here remembers the Fifth Amendment? I’m looking for its exact wording, not the summary from Born Yesterday, and pretty much every single crime show out there. It has a lot going on in it, so I don’t blame you. I’ve looked it up for you though.

“No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.”

How about the Sixth Amendment? I’ve got that one as well. Be mindful of the British spelling in the last sentence.

“In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.”

What you have above is the basic outline for our criminal justice system. It has long been held that our criminal justice system also upholds the principle from the common law of the time of our founding. This being namely Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat, or rather, “The proof lies upon the one who affirms, not the one who denies”. The Supreme Court upheld this assumptive interpretation of the Fifth and Sixth Amendments in their ruling for Coffin v. United States, 156 U.S. 432 (1895). That is where we first see the phrase “presumption of innocence”. In layman terms, we have a system based on the principle of “innocent until proven guilty”.

You want to know what this means? It’s really quite simple. I almost don’t want to spell it out for you, because you are sure to think I’m taking the mickey out of you for doing so.

It means that until a person has been convicted by an impartial jury of their peers under due process of law, they are considered innocent under the law. Terribleness of the crime does not matter. Ethnicity does not matter. Religion does not matter. Suspicious activity caught on camera does not matter. Resisting arrest does not matter. Until the foreman of the jury pronounces them guilty, they are innocent.

With that out of the way, I would like to discuss the Eighth Amendment.  This one is really short. However, I know a lot of people who can only tell me the last half of it, so I’m quoting again.

“Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.”

Justice William Brennan defined cruel and unusual punishments in his ruling on Furman v. Georgia, 408 U.S. 238 (1972). He listed four principles with which we may determine if a punishment was cruel or excessive. He has some good ones, and they are as follows: a punishment by its severity degrading to human dignity, especially torture; a punishment obviously inflicted in wholly arbitrary fashion; a punishment clearly and totally rejected throughout society; and one that is patently unnecessary.

Let’s assume that you don’t need to have the arbitrary nature of the demanded punishments pointed out to you. Let’s assume that you know they are degrading. We’ll even assume that you know that getting creative with a criminal’s death is rather unnecessary.

Do you know how many states allow death by burning? If you answered zero, you are correct. Do you know how many states allow death by drawing and quartering? Yes, the answer is the same. I’m not touching death by wood chipper, but how about death by hanging? There are a grand-whooping two, both of which have it as a secondary method only. Washington does it only for an inmate who chooses it.

I don’t know about you, but I consider that clearly rejected throughout society.

I understand that you are angry. I understand that you are hurting. I understand that you want to get even with the perpetrator of whatever crime is making headlines at the moment. I really, really do. Trust me when I say that I find the molestation of a child, sexual assault of anyone, and massacres as horrendous as you do.

However, when we allow ourselves to become blinded by our desire for revenge we become blind to justice. When we become blind to justice that is when it gets lost. When injustice becomes law, rebellion becomes duty.

Justice is blind. You shouldn’t be.

Writer's Journey

I am a writer.

To me, these are not simply empty words. This is how I see myself. I have other labels that I apply to myself, but if someone were to ask me what I was, the first thing that would come to mind is that.

I am a writer.

I do not truly remember when I made the decision to become one. It has always been a part of me. I wrote about as much as I read. I made up stories to entertain my siblings and my cousins. I collected quotations and trivia. I had enough books that it was hard to navigate my room because they spilled over every surface of the room. Every scrap of paper was a canvas for the words and thoughts that spilled out of me like water overflowing from a cup.

I do remember the first person to ever use the word writer to describe me. Mrs. Summers wasn't even speaking to me. She was speaking with the Arts teacher, Miss Mac. Miss Mac said that I had a way with words and Mrs. Summers agreed with a casual "she's quite the little writer". I wonder if Mrs. Summers knew the effect that those words would have upon my impressionable fourth grade self.

I wrote my first complete story that year. It was flat and juvenile. I was disappointed in it even as I felt pride in the accomplishment of finishing it. I wanted the polished edge that my favorite authors had in the books that I devoured. I checked out books on writing from the library and devoured them just the same as I had the fiction ones. I took notes and did the exercises suggested. I convinced my grandmother to get me a grammar text for Christmas and set about memorizing the rules therein.

I wrote so many stories, each just a bit better than the last. Each one was just a bit longer. The characters were just a bit more substantial. I learned just a bit more. I saved up and bought a typewriter secondhand, but then I couldn't afford the paper for it. Then the library gained computers that had free usage. They even had free typography lessons! It got even better when my middle school offered the classes as well. Typing out a story was so much easier than having to rewrite it every time that I wanted to edit a scene.

There were a couple of times that I tried giving it up. After all, writing was something that I had done as a child and one must grow up eventually. Each time I would find myself scribbling down an idea or telling someone about a story that would be interesting to read. I found myself writing a scene out in my journal or stringing together words in a lyrical format.

I tried giving up on my writing. It never gave up on me.

I write because I can't not write. I'm a writer because I write. I have my own quirks and foibles. I have what is most likely an unhealthy coffee addiction. I have more dictionaries than are probably necessary. I have my little rituals for writing.

I am a writer.

Why am I Doing This?

My father suggested that I start a blog because I'm passionate about writing. I think that he's been watching too many movies. He countered with I just need to move forward on everything. He doesn't want me to settle for anything. Those were his words: "don't settle for anything."

I know that the accusation has merit. I have been settling. I settled for a job that I eventually grew to hate because it was a nice stable paycheck that covered my bills. I had beaten the odds, after all: a person with bipolar disorder who had held a job for longer than six months. Never mind that I felt its tedium almost immediately, I had managed not to be fired for not being able to focus or keep track of all the little nuances that it entailed. I settled.

Then they fired me for not being able to keep track of all the little nuances that it entailed.

I was crushed. I tried to find positives about it and succeeded for the most part. The environment had been really stressful, especially the last few months since my faith came out to the team at large. Well, that was over. I had been only seeing Lily three days a week. Hey, now I could see her every day and read both the girls bedtime stories!

But there was no way I could afford a house now, not that I really could before. I didn't qualify for a loan on my own, due to having no credit score. If someone tells you that having no credit is better than having bad credit, laugh at them. There are programs for people with bad credit; there are procedures. If you have no credit, then the only answer you will hear is "no thank you".

I spend months applying for every job I came across and each one gave me one of three answers: "you are not qualified", "we cannot accommodate you", or horrible silence. If people were hiring, it didn't matter because they weren't hiring me.

I even applied for disability, something that I've been staving off for years. I didn't want to be one of those statistics. I want to work. I enjoy being useful. I just need to be able to shift freely between tasks and be able to call in sick occasionally. Between the migraines and the down cycle, I'm not always fit for work.

I spam out my resume to every available job in my vicinity. I can't drive (my meds give me random dizzy spells, so it isn't safe), so my vicinity is limited to my immediate area. As months passed without a job, I branched out after a promise from friends and family that we'd work something out. I started duplicating job applications. Still, I received nothing for my efforts.

Now I've exhausted my unemployment benefits. Well, it's nice to know that I no longer statistically matter. Unemployment is now down just a tad bit more.

The last of my benefits went to rent this month--rent that my landlady is claiming that she didn't receive. Considering that she's also claiming that I falsified documents when I moved in (because she cannot find the private government facility that I worked at), I'm not prone to believe her. She didn't know what the Department of Homeland Security was when I moved in, and still didn't understand when I tried explaining why I didn't know the address. I have my doubts about this woman's intelligence.

Come to think of it, this place was settling as well. We had to move out of the tiny apartment that we had been living in before this place, and this place was right down the street and accepted our cat. Alex saw it, and the landlady didn't require any kind of application. We were signing papers within twenty-four hours of calling her.

Sure, there was only two grounded plugs in the entire place, and it was wired extremely oddly--oh, and I mustn't forget issues with the plumbing or the driveway--the point is that it was a roof over my family's head. That was a good thing. Yeah, it was close to the maximum of what I could afford, but it was an entire house with a large yard to ourselves. Plus, it was easy walking distance to an elementary school! Really, it's a steal.

Except now, it's over.

None of our friends or family are able to take all of us. The family that I had fought so hard to forge (eleven years with the same person--take that, statistics!) will be forced to separate in order to survive. The girls and I will be moving in with my mother while Alex will be on his own.  I don't even want to think about it, but I can't think of anything else. Every statistic is against us. We started out young, and both from single parent homes. I have bipolar disorder, a very severe case. I have tried so very hard to do the impossible.

And now...and now, it's all falling apart.

Dad says that I have plenty to blog about between all the things that have happened to me and my family. I just need to pick one. How does one pick only one facet of themselves? Do you pick your family? Or your disability? Or is faith more important? Should I chronicle my misfortune in every depressing detail, so that others may be miserable with me?

Then I came across a post on Facebook about every writer having a unique voice.

So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to move forward in my own way, with my own voice. I may not be heard amongst the din of others shouting, but at least I will have said my piece.

I will settle for that.