Little Voices in My Head

I spent the weekend communing with the deities at the Blot. For those of you not in the know, the Blot is a seasonal ritual of celebration and honor that my Boys began observing a few years ago. While I will not reveal the structure or details of the ceremony to you, as I feel that is sacred and not to be shared outside of those intrusted with it, I will say that no one faith is represented, ignored, scored, disrespected, or unheard of during a Blot. Even a faith such as mine, which has no name, was not only respected, but honoured by all gathered. I am most thankful for that.

On with the story! The Blot weekend began a BIT behind schedule. This was no big shock to me, as I have been conditioned from YEARS of preparation for trips with the EED to not expect to leave on time…for anything…ever. My Boys, (Ian and Robbie) and I were all going to drive to Greenville in Ian’s truck with the camping gear together at noon. They had told me to be prepared for camping, drinking, and a bit of unsavory weather. I, being the outstanding former Girl-Scout and former military child and wife that I am, came loaded for bear. Not only did I bring a poncho liner, med-kit, duct-tape, changes of socks and clothes, toilet paper, aloe wipes, a survival blanket, and my utility knife, but also brought my purse…just in case. When we were packing the truck, the boys THEN tell me that the campsite is over a MILE hike from where we will be parking and we have to carry in all the firewood we’re going to need, as we’re going to be in a no-cut zone. Wonderful. Time to re-evaluate the weight of my pack. No problem, I was married to the world’s most paranoid survivalist. If I absolutely have to, I can survive a night in the woods with my wits and my pocket knife. (and yes, before you ask, I HAVE done this. It wasn’t pretty, and I don’t wanna do it again, thankyouverymuch)

We meet with Henry and John in Greenville and caravan to the campgrounds. Along the way we had ‘borrowed’ a certain wheeled conveyance from a certain super shopping store that rhymes with hall-cart…yeah…to cart in the firewood. We load up the shopping cart, I mean, the wheeled conveyance, and set out on our hike to the site. One person pushing, one person guiding the front. We have to stop and switch pushers often, as the sheer weight of the wood is pushing the wheels into the now sodden trail (as it was steadily drizzling). Half a mile in, both Robbie and Henry get hyperthermic, their heart rates spike to over 150bpm, and I am forced to call a halt while they take a breather. So I continue to push the cart alone. Of the five of us, I am actually the most physically fit. Don’t mistake me, the boys all did their fair share, however, I suffered the least for it. We finally arrive at the site, and discover that yes, we are going to need to return to the vehicles and pick up another load of wood, for the temperature is steadily dropping and we’re going to burn through much more than anticipated. John, Henry and I set off for the return hike while Ian and Robbie set up camp.

An hour later, the Blot commences! The ceremony was absolutely beautiful and John, our leader, was inspired. Many rounds of Mead were consumed and honour given where deserved. As we burned the bonfire into the night, and fried up some steaks on the grill, (Henry is a master grill man, he may have become my new best friend. That man can cook!) the drinking continued in earnest. About 2am, I notice that not only am I NOT shivering, but that my lips, when viewed in the light of the moon in a hand mirror, are blue. Strange. I feel absolutely frozen, and yet, I am next to a fire, surrounded by 4 human furnaces, and still cannot get warm. Uh oh…hypothermia has reared it’s ugly little head and bitten me squarely on the ass. Time to get me into the tent and wrapped up in a blanket and Man-Sammich. Ian and Robbie are more than troopers going above and beyond the call of duty of friendship cuddling up next to me to keep me warm. The party still goes on though!

A few minutes later, a voice from across the tent inquires as to what he’s holding in his hand. It’s John. He says, “What is this? It’s so soft and wonderful feeling! But WHAT IS IT?!” and Henry, being the ever helpful guy he is, takes the object from him and says, “It’s a bra John.” Apparently one had fallen out of my bag, and John, in his drunken fumbling, and placed his hand upon it. Who knew that silk could make a man so happy? I think he slept with it.

My internal alarm goes off at 630am, of all times. and will not be silenced. Fortunately, it was my turn for fire-watch anyway, and I had a roaring headache. One should not imbibe Mead on an empty stomach. Now it was Robbie’s turn for some Hypothermia fun. Wrapping himself up in a fleece sleeping-bag like a giant fuzzy condom seemed like a good idea at the time. We did not think about the immobility factor. So I kindly helped him smoke a cigarette, drink some water, and sit down on the bench near the fire. I should also mention that Robbie had spent the night topless because his shirt had become SOAKED by the constant drizzle, and was useless while sleeping in the Human Sammich. So I loaned him my Winnie-the-Pooh Sweatshirt to wear until we purchased him a new one on the way out of town.

As we packed up camp, all of us feeling much warmer as the sun came up, if not hung over, we discovered that the cart was MUCH lighter without all that firewood to convey. It still took us over an hour to trek to the cars. We were all exhausted. Unbeknownst to me, the Blot tradition does not end when the camping does. There is breakfast. At Golden Corral. Oh yeah, buffet style dining when hung over? Can it get any better than that?! I’d say not. I do have to mention that we DID take the cart back to it’s proper home. We’re not thieves…well, at least not today.

All in all, I’d say I left the Blot with happy memories, a clear mental attitude for the first time in a long time, and yeah, a small bout with hypothermia…but if you can’t take a bit of the risk, it’s just not worth the experience. And the Blot is worth it. The fellowship is worth it. Hail!

Carissa the Elated.

I DID write a rather lengthy blog last week, and fully intended to post it. However, after I had edited it for the fourth time and it was STILL too mean, nasty, and dry, to post publicly *in my opinion*, I decided silence was golden. Tonight, that opinion has changed.

I’m not posting that original blog, but rather, the reason for the change of opinion. I decided to just roll with my mood today after reading through some message archives I had stored on my lappy between my bestest gal-pal Shannon and I. In it, the comment of “You know how I roll. Fuck with me? Shame on you. Fuck with my friends? Knife in your liver.” was made by me to her, and I realized that: 1. Yes. Yes, I am capable of extreme emotion when the situation warrants it, and 2. I haven’t felt anything akin to an extreme emotion in awhile when it pertains to me and my life, only that of those peripherally involved therein.

Ponderous.

I still feel emotions. I haven’t become a drone. I still love, laugh, smile, frown, etc. But when confronted with an extreme situation lately, I have reacted with an almost computational logic that defies my norm. Even the Little Voices have toned themselves down to a rather dull and almost aching roar rather than their usual constant siren wails. Until something upsets the applecart of my family or friends or a patient of mine, or even a stranger whom I see as being wronged in some manner. THEN I am capable of emotional swings that would make a manic-depressive man’s head spin. Heaven forbid someone make the mistake of upsetting my Pammie. Can you say “momma grizzly bear”? Yet, I cannot seem to muster up the emotional energy to feel anything resembling “Umph” for myself.

Perhaps the reason for this blank slate is that I’m just too busy caring about and for others to give two wits. There is nothing I’d like more than to just curl into a little ball and wail for my own problems, yet the tears just won’t come. The nightmares do, and my poor sweetie probably deserves a medal for putting up with more than his fair share of those, but even in the dark the thing that scares me the most is that I just don’t care enough to take care. Someone I love hurt me deeply, and I don’t care enough to do anything about it. Someone I trusted betrayed me, and I don’t have the energy to confront the lie. Someone I respected dishonoured me, and I can’t summon the ‘umph’ to react. I just don’t have it in me.

Carissa the Numb.