Renege

I have officially backed out of my plans to return to the Urban Homestead for Santa Day. By the original plan, I should have left yesterday. As it is, the contractors are scheduled to be here this week and I donae feel right trusting them to work that independently. The hope of having a dedicated aeroponics lab remains my current obsession. While plying therapy tools to the obsessing aspect, lest it tempt me to unpredictable impulses, I am hopeful that I will be making the drive to Texas in January and will be able to bring back the lab equipment I left at the aborted job site back in March. That collection willnae impress a vertical farm worker, but I am hopeful I will, at long last, be able to carry a body of my own work forward instead of continuing the lifelong pattern of *just* starting over. I am looking forward to setting it up in a space big enough to have room for growth. It isnae enough equipment to qualify as a serious enterprise, but it is enough to whelm the modest storage space I currently have available in this small cottage. I donae wish to bring it up until the new building is ready to receive it. Life willing, I will make the drive to Texas with real memories of the space which will hold it, along with memories of having sat in the space which will become the rooftop garden. Which of my imagined planter arrangements will I actually build? Driving is very conducive for such meditations.

Hubs was amazingly supportive of my change in plans. Santa Day is one of our bloodier marital zones. I had already been in therapy for 8 years when we married in 1980, but I was still defending my trauma induced amnesia as a good thing. Combat PTSD was still being called "Shell Shock" in 1980. My therapy had been for Manic Depression. We were both blind-sided when by my PTSD trigger reactions to the red-suited perv. There is no Christ in his family Christmas traditions. The red-suited perv is the reason for their season. Still, he only knew the sugar and spice version of Santa. He was thoroughly blown away when I started reacting to the still repressed memories of what's REALLY in Santa's lap. I find myself hopeful that my absence here in his first Christmas outside the parental dictates will allow him to sort his own priorities. Just hoping. . .

I didn't sleep so well last night. I do believe I am officially sleep saturated. Sleepathon over? We see. . .