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Sure glad I did my first kill with witnesses and back up. Well. . . I still feel responsible for every beloved critter who has died under my care and the ones I have eaten, as well, however unrecognizable they were when I placed them in my shopping cart. My White Trash Whore Shame Demon rears its ugly head often within that sense of responsibility. Sigh. . . Those PTSD shame demons are a gnasty pack. . .
The poultry processing class was delightful. The profie set a class limit of 8. Smart lady. Even 8 of us ran the class into a drawn out affair. It made for a total of 10 "dispatches," as our Culinary Arts student called the kills. The rest of us latched on to the term like psychobabblers at a political correctness rally.
My first kill is now fully processed and ready for cooking. In the company of classmates, it felt like part of the cooking process. There is no way I could count how many birds I have processed for the oven. I never was under any delusions to where they came from before they were fit for the grocery aisles.
In the company of classmates, it felt like just a new step in the cooking chore. Here in the dawn meditations the next day. . . Perhaps I better get that bird in the pot before I obsess it into a psychotic break?
Processing. . .
Still feeling like I am in a place I have never been before. . . Advice welcome.
The poultry processing class was delightful. The profie set a class limit of 8. Smart lady. Even 8 of us ran the class into a drawn out affair. It made for a total of 10 "dispatches," as our Culinary Arts student called the kills. The rest of us latched on to the term like psychobabblers at a political correctness rally.
My first kill is now fully processed and ready for cooking. In the company of classmates, it felt like part of the cooking process. There is no way I could count how many birds I have processed for the oven. I never was under any delusions to where they came from before they were fit for the grocery aisles.
In the company of classmates, it felt like just a new step in the cooking chore. Here in the dawn meditations the next day. . . Perhaps I better get that bird in the pot before I obsess it into a psychotic break?
Processing. . .
Still feeling like I am in a place I have never been before. . . Advice welcome.
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I haven't written in my diary on my computer since May because I thought that my computer was dying. I got away from writing but my computer is hanging in there. I think that I will start writing in it again. It's so therapeutic.
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First, I hope everyone is doing well, and continuing to fight that good fight! Keep up the great work on yourselves; I'm rooting for all of you!So, I started doing therapy at the beginning of the year, when I was in my most depressed state, but with my therapist, I made big changes and steps in the right direction. But, over a month ago, she couldn't take my insurance anymore, and I had to stop...
It's harder, when you've seen the animal alive and well, raised it, because it makes the dispatching process *personal*. You're not removed by several layers of industry and packaging. It's difficult. I think as a society we'd still regard meat as a once-weekly treat if we all had to do the whole process ourselves. It either lead sto a greater reverence for life or a disregard for it, and the schism between my mom and dad can be clearly defined by the fact Mom took it as a reason to have more care, and my dad took it as a reason to be "god".
that's just what I've got, being a farm kid.
Soft blessings and support. Sort gently, Arfie.
Apologies to all. . .
I am, indeed, in a place I have never been before. . .
J.