Evolving?

Is there such a thing as a strength which doesn't have its counter-productive uses? The very quality which makes what my road friends refer to as my "5 Generation Band of Wild Texans" the rock of ages for my rootless life drives me up the friggin' wall on a routine basis. How long do you Townies need to decide on and execute a course of action? Do you freaks have a clue on how many years your suburban paradise has been a toxic stew pot? Closet cleaning needed!!!! Your hoard piles are growing mysteries that creep out this Creep Queen of bio-hazard clean-up volunteers. Don't expect me to buy into your bullshit about things being fine the way they are.

Yesterday was a two call day for Hubs and I as he continues his yaddahs at the Urban Homestead. I hung up on him during the morning call. His stress tones were escalating to Tit for Tat skirmish levels over the mind-fuck load of details which go in to keeping house for dependant middle aged children. Welcome to my world, Busy Man. Have you been at this for enough years to gain some clues on why I don't believe the not-working-job should even exist, much less be treated like business as usual? It ain't the funnest hobby on the planet, Bubba.

After I hung up on him, he texted that he needs to feel safe discussing those gory details. I texted back, "Ditto. Holding the love sacred." When I don't even like the apathy-prone morons in that band of wild Texans, I hold my Arfination reflexes in check by "Holding the Love Sacred." I ain't a-feeling the love, but I can still hold the love as a sacred mystery which should be honored, whether I feel it, or knot.

The second call later that afternoon came at an eeriely good time. The phone rang just as I finished tapping the lid on a paint can for a break. I drew a deep cleansing breath to calm the anxiety which worried about which way those stress tones in my Busy Man's voice had exploded this time. To my relief, the stress tones were gone when he asked if he had caught me at a good time. The fact that he *cared* whether it was a good time for me was a good indicator, all by itself. When Hubs is wearing his Busy Man tones, other people's convenience doesn't even register on his radar.

A mantra which grew out of my now obsolete psychotherapy is, "Making ^it^ easy to talk about." In the strictly personal recovery from child sex trafficking, the context was disarming the psychomechanics which had created my Trauma Induced Amnesia and all the gnarly snot knots attached. Those gory traumas are still not easy to talk about, but at least I no longer trigger into La La Land at the slightest reminder. I no longer feel a need to go kamakazi on a person who happens to quote my birth family's Atheist dogma. Common verbatim quotes are what qualify ^it^ as dogma in my mind. There are entirely too many dogma-peddling Atheists in the world for me to react as if they are ALL incestuous baby rapers and pimps. It remains a tough equation to juggle, but it's getting easIER to talk about. Works in progress. . . I find it much easier to discuss the symptoms than the disease. Political views of the disease still get me uzi-shopping. Healing hopes for all. No exceptions.

Somewhere along our 38 years together, the "Making ^it^ easy to talk about" wove its way from the independent psychotherapy which had already been underway 7 years before Hubs moved into the apartment building where we met and into the partner talks between Hubs and I. Yesterday's second phone call was far more about making what I have come to call, The Long Fucking List of Details" than any of the details on that long fucking list. The fact that it takes longer to read those lists than to do any of the jobs attached gets my vote as the mind-fuckiest part of those long fucking lists. Either everybody feels safe talking about ^it^, or nobody does. Domestic tit-for-tat skirmishes seem to be the natural result of nobody feeling safe talking about ^it^. Defining ^it^ in a domestic tit-for-tat skirmish is like trying to identify which dust mote made me sneeze. Good luck with that. Go ahead and start without me. I'm not much of a sports fan.

I doesn't know, but my wife-sense believes my beloved is ready to let go of his Urban Homestead. Yes, Dear, there are several long fucking lists attached to the move. A different set of long fucking lists for every player involved. I still hold it is far more important to feel safe talking about ^it^ than doing any of the jobs on those long fucking lists. We see what grows.

Today's work day starts with a paint run. I am pretty sure one more can will finish the box room in the honey barn, but it will be cutting it close. Do I get one cans or two? I enjoy paint runs allot more than I enjoy storing left-overs. Think I'll just get one for now.