Queen Buttercup Speaks

0405 Confession

December 2nd, 2022

Late at night, my trauma wakes up. When I’m sleepy, my memories turn into current visitors. Late at night, I don’t make big decisions about myself.

I used to spend time thinking that because my thoughts involved multiple layers of “true statements,” that the entire argument about my value, must be true.

I’m learning that much of the things I thought about myself, both good and bad; I literally am not capable of determining if they’re true or false. I’m almost 44 and feel like I’m starting over, learning what left and right is. Moral foundations and good, bad … so many heavy things come up so late at night.

Please, when it’s late and no one is there to help correct an incorrect thought. When that thought then becomes a thought PROCESS, and it then becomes a determination … remember the time that you first felt that thought.

Remember when you cannot be trusted to determine your worth. It’s usually late at night, or when you feel alone. That person isn’t you. That person is a collection of memories deciding if they’ll dream or be nightmares.

Your past is not you. It is merely chemical firings triggering impulses of shame; shames you’ve been forgiven for. Shames never once even remembered after you felt more whole with sincerity.

Late at night, when you’re closest to alone, look at the clock and see if it is betraying you. Clocks often are man made. Most of the clocks are. You are loved. You are valued. Your worth has no limit. Your potential is significant.
Be kind to men and the unmen …

November 30th, 2022

The longer I advocate for women and women’s issues, the more inflamed I feel towards men. This isn’t shocking.

The shocking thing is that the strongest voices that only speak in soft methods and in secret words of support for women’s issues; many of those voices are men I admire, trust, or adore, and seek out.

I’ve befriended traumatized boys who can no longer see menus without glasses, but who ache for a mother’s soft protected lap. They should retire soon. The boy isn’t alone anymore. None of the traumatized or fiercely loyal boys are alone anymore.

Some boys were likely nervous to share that the ogre under the bridge in your oversized, but also over-dogged bed’s hell scape of sleepless hours… the ogre was also called “daddy,” under his bridge. He is now your brother for life.

One broken toy, I now call Father Christmas. Santa wouldn’t quite do, as he is softer, but fiercer like Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I do know, Aslan was no tame Lion. While they’re both bearded, he is a Dog man, so Father Christmas had to do, instead of Aslan.

Aslan is inside of the dog man, too. He roars softly with blindinly loud empathy. This dog is a soft place to land, even before one falls down. All the misfit boys are.

Some boys edit your ideas, some boys tell you which camera will be lightest since they helped you through a torn shoulder. Some men are still mainly men for practical things like gadgets, pluming, and dishwashers.

These men know you struggle to leave the safety of home and that these gadgets, pipes, and machines ease your burden. These men value you with lighter tasks. Sometimes they help you take off your laptop cover and find cheaper cooling fans.

These Lords of mildly malicious mischief, they entertain the women fighting and also dying. The fuckery and dad jokes, the “I don’t know, but ME TOO, me too’s,” those boys ache with the angry, weary, women.

Those scared boys always ending a conversation first, they don’t know what to say anymore than the gutted women. Their voices are stifled with impotence. What does one do when their world is also threatened with extinction and worth, but they cannot say the same words out loud to even relieve their fearful ache?

I’ve befriended warriors of respect. Fierce mythical space creatures who rejoin apps they HATE to support a queen begging for the weight of her crown to feel easier. Ease coming more than once in ways only a Wookiee can do. Sometimes furry space creatures gift you the friend of their wife, and they make being a mother much easier to sculpt into being.

I’ve befriended genius smart asses who dorkily trust you with DuhSantis jokes while waiting lab results for dire medical issues. Some of those men support women enough to say when they truly think you’re spinning out of control. Those men watch you, tell you, wait with you to return to your vehicle’s correct gear, and act like it never happened.

Some men respect you with intentional silent respect that’s never unseen. It’s never unknown.

Sometimes those men show so much respect, the only thing she can do is rename safe men her brokenly whole family. Sometimes she changes her first freely given nickname because she now feels like “Queen Buttercup.”

She now finds family without begging. Begging isn’t fitting for any Queen.

So as I was saying, the kindness is due. As some of the fiercest warriors defending women’s voices; those warriors, they’re MEN. ♥️

Long love the queen. I know, I said love. ♥️
Consider this Late, late night Twitter … sun’s coming up Twitter type Twitter.

November 30th, 2022

So … Twitterer, basically.

I haven’t come close to attempting to sleep and it’s after 0502.

I replay mixtures of confusion, misinterpretation, terror, misperception, violation, loving disappointment, fear of hardening harder, achingly precise visions of worsening loneliness, panic over once celebrated visitors and I somehow, can’t quite feel my Benadryl just quite yet.

I weigh those muddled mixtures inside my no longer tired, but now WEARY mind; all while feeling the need to listen to Christian music at an 11/10.

The need to bathe my mind and ears in harmonies crying out to God, right now at 0509; I cry for hope I was wrong, but “Sir stranger,” was not also dead because I could have been right, could have been guilt ridden, and currently my guilty burden.

I pray for strangers on Twitter without a second second. I’m autistic. Being disingenuous is difficult.

This part please read quite slowly, as I’m working hard to mean it severe, harsh, and with intention; you’ve heard that voice and you know it’s aching scream.

I, promise, I forgive you. Eventually, soon. I release you from fear of misunderstanding. I release you from month old autism in a lifetime mind of abuse and trauma.

The trauma I type of almost hourly online, the trauma I also share privately, then in a supportive environment with dear friends; it causes me to believe you are not fit in my kingdom.

I hope you stay well. I will forgive.

Buttercups, when they forget; get crushed without warning.

Queens with painfully known tragic memories, those queens die if they forget.
I will remember

November 29th, 2022

Not for long. I write in disappointment. The sun sets on disappointment. I won’t remember, if misunderstandings mean just that. I forgive you.

Today, I didn’t shave or primp more than yesterday. I wore granny bloomers. I wore two bras. I never do that. I wore a sweater with pearls. I wore an XL cardigan over it because I was cold.

In between I wore a silly sash. The sash was to make a poke at me being “royal.”

The sash had been held together by an antique brooch. The brooch was of a tiny Christmas tree. I’ve had it my entire life.

I was going to say that I was a gift for Christmas. Friendship is a gift. Even if the queens face has swollen eyes from weeping in exhaustion from the night before.

The royal queen’s small pocket had an antique pocket watch fob with November’s birthstone. She decided that jewelry she had made, a citrine keychain, a stone 120 years old and scuffed, would be a nice token to remember the day.

She even selected an anthem to remember the day, “I will remember.”

I hope the sundowning causes mild memory losses as sun rises.
Sight

November 29th, 2022

I walk around with one blind eye,to overlook what others hide.The other eye is wide opened,observes what goes unnoticed. I ask myself, “which is …
Sight
Thoughts (Published at Spillwords)

November 29th, 2022

Today I will let it all ride,no rhyme or reason kept inside.Disgusted by how I see life,the give and take is a big lie.Built to just give but never …
Thoughts (Published at Spillwords)
November 29th, 2022

One sets one up for divorces when one believes this is what love looks like and speaks like and sounds like and feels like … and MOVES FIRST like. Love moves first.
A year ago this compliment would have broken my heart …

November 23rd, 2022

Now I see this for the amazing compliment that it is. A friend sees me in all my flaws and wondrous ways, and follows my silly ass, anyway.

Don’t sane your madness if only a “sane” few feel you should be diminished in such a way. Your madness is not mad to those who see you correctly.

I feared being judged. A year ago, I still felt fear of judgment. “Madness,” a brain like mine would have misinterpreted that. I’m healing so I’m seeing humans correctly now. ♥️
Contributors

November 23rd, 2022

I’d prefer this blog have CONTRIBUTORS and not followers. Let me know how you can share. I’d love to be a group of royal subjects loyal to one another.

This is your queen first thing in the morning. Trust me, you want to support one another! 😂

Even the cleaned up queen has dirty dishes and needs your support over the holidays. You can tell people to be kind, but often times you are telling them that in your mind, alone. It’s not easy being the queen.
The pets that own me

November 19th, 2022

Peavey is as old as my daughter. Twenty-one beautiful years old. I adore this queen.

Khaleesi is affectionately known as “psycho,” “asshole cat,” and “stop doing that.” She’s feral. She owns me.

This is my Raven. She’s the most sensitive dog I’ve ever met. She allows me to go NOWHERE alone. She could be a therapy dog, if she didn’t need so much therapy, herself.

This is my pit bull, Nala. She’s only slightly more ridiculous than her mom.

Khaleesi, the she demon, has moments of being insanely adorable.

I have never left the house unnoticed by Raven and Nala. I’m their sun, moon, and human mattress.

When I die, should Heaven not be what I believe it to be, I hope I come back as my own dog.

This photo accurately sums up what the dynamics are between Khaleesi and Nala. They’re best friends who adore torturing one another.

My sous chefs have had dog beds moved into the kitchen. They have a strict union representative and I was forced to comply.

At the end of the day, these guys are all good friends. They allow me to observe them. I am a big fan!