i've only ever seen a handful of pictures from the inside of blair, and anyway, dream, so my mind filled in blanks with my memories of the mansion on o street, here are two links, and know THOSE DO NOT REMOTELY do justice to the weirdness of there. the only place that's infiltrated my dreams deeper is wisconsin's house on the rock, and that has the heft of childhood behind it.
we were right outside one of the hidden entryways in o. there was a cabal of 10 gop legislators having an extremely disagreeable anti-accountability ritual behind the sliding panels. i could hear them chanting. i think the cat heard them too, because she kept turning away from our game to hiss and snarl in that direction.
i knew the cat had a residual pulmonary disorder from COVID-19 and anxiety spikes could be extremely dangerous for her, so i tried to keep her happy and engaged with the flat braided cord i use as an anti-anxiety fidget. it sort of worked, but i eventually decided it would be better for both of us if we went to another part of the building. i coaxed her onto my lap so i could cradle and comfort her as we walked away. "i'm sorry, sweetheart," i told her. "we deserve better. it's who they're choosing to be. it's not our fault and we can't fix it.* now let's leave those awful men to worship the devil."
i snapped awake at that line and stared at the ceiling, thinking about it.
postscript: our current apartment is in the attic and the ceilings are slopped at sharp angles. earlier this week it snowed, then sleeted, then snowed again. as the accumulation of skystuff reaches critical mass it slides down the roof with an utterly CATASTROPHIC CACOPHONY. every time my partner or i hear it, all we can do is laugh, it's so bad. an auditory horror flick. so that happened, right then, as the words "worship the devil" still rang in my head.
i haven't laughed that hard at something my brain did for weeks.
i don't even know how to fit this on one of the 2x1" slips for my gratitude jar, so i'm posting it here.
*i have a long history of taking emotional responsibility for abusers. maybe it's a sunk cost thing, the result of repeatedly violated boundaries i never learned how to establish in the first place, unclaimed agency, i dunno it's a major issue that repeatedly comes up in therapy and there's always another fucking level. a few years back, in crisis, one of my guides broke in on a shutdown episode and gave me this affirmation: "it's not your fault and you can't fix it." i've been working with it since.