complain, complain, complain.

“Maybe blood does not matter to the gods. Maybe blood matters to us. Maybe we’ve made it the vehicle of Divine Transmission. Maybe that’s something the world can move beyond.” –from the book Merrick, by Anne Rice.

I’ve been away awhile. More than a little while, to say the very least. I’ve spent more time promoting others, than I have sharing my personal thoughts, wishes, and concerns in regards to the gods.

And then, it was as if someone snapped their fingers in my face (thanks, Sannion and Galina for your honesty the other night on the Wild Wyrd radioshow!) You were right, as was everyone else. It’s fine and dandy to appreciate others’ talents. It’s a fucking TRAGEDY to dismiss one’s own. But my dismissal of my mastery of the written word wasn’t without reason. Much had happened to me, since November 2011 and now. What’s that, you say? Do tell? Alrighty then…

I lost my way for a bit. First, as usual, I became wrapped up in other folk’s bullshit instead of taking care of myself and my health. In my quest to make everyone else around me feel WHOLE, I yet again gave away more pieces of myself than I should’ve allowed. This is the curse of the Empath.

Second, I gained writer’s block so strong I couldn’t see over the wall to get to the other side of it. I lost my inspiration from the gods, because I let the outside world influence my blind, newborn joy of rebirth in their favor. And I’m not talking about non-Pagans. I’m talking about other Pagans of all ilks. The damned dirty bitterness of disillusioned Pagans is overwhelming these days. We are the ones ruining our own way of life. All we do is complain, bitch and moan about who’s right and who’s wrong. That’s the truth of it, plain and simple. We’re the ones that were still feeling our gods’ presence, when most other religions were going thru the motions. Yet because we all have to be RIGHT, we’ve lost the very reason we fought so hard to be Pagans — because of our love of the Wheel of the Year, the circle which binds us all so tightly to our gods and goddesses’ love of each and every one of us.

Lastly….lastly, why I stopped writing? Love. Love, luv, LURVE. The pain of loved unreturned. The pain of hurting someone that I do love, and am in love with. The pain of purposefully torturing someone I used to love. The pain of watching someone I do love, refuse to return my adoration of them, yet physically give it out to any and everyone else regardless of my abasement and begging to them, to spare me humiliation of knowing everyday that someone else was receiving the adoration I once was given freely but no more. The bitterness of this thing called love caused me to start.starving myself. You see, I’m a pure narcissist, pure megalomaniac. I won’t cut myself or commit suicide, not my style. But if I can’t control my feelings, I won’t try and hide them either. Therefore, the energy I had left was committed to wallowing. I starved myself for nearly 3months, in order to physically become the ideal of what I thought my beloved wanted. And in return, all I did was make myself sick and aggravate my Mitochondrial disease.

Fast forward to today. I’m awake, for the first time since November 2011. This week, after lying roses out for Aset…and drinking vodka straight to Dionysus…and burning candles for Sekhmet…and crying softly to Mother Lilith for my shame of becoming so weak — I realized it was time to stop complaining. No more complaining, metaphysically, metaphorically, emotionally, physically vocally or otherwise. Walls were built to keep shit IN. And it’s beyond time I started spending more time building mine, vs. Lowering them in worship and shame over the wrong people & things.

…so I left my job this week, to return to what really matters. My WRITING, my study, worship, work and sharing of what I’ve felt and learned from the gods…Right or Wrong.

Until we meet again…

~P