A flyer through my letter box about 'regeneration plans' in my hood. Tis interesting reading, hence I post about it here for your delectation.
Our libdem/conservative coalition plan to:
Demolish a local play centre which has JUST been refurbished at a cost of £495,000. That's half a million pounds of your money razed to the ground. They plan to build a 'chain retail store' and 'flats'. (Bye bye Queens Crescent market then)
Demolish the local housing office and recently refurbish TRA Hall to build a "major housing development incorporating a large element of private dwellings." (My italics, Councillor King talked about this the other night and I just shook my head)
Replacing the recently refurbished health centre. (Why bother refurbishing it in the first place?)
If it all goes ahead, where will the people live? I'm "homeless" already with a future up in the air but what about those who aren't?
If you don't care about that, you might care that your money goes to refurbish something that is knocked down within the year. A recession they're saying? Cuts in public funding?
Just thought you might like to know.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Back to school
He was so excited to be going back to school, his pe kit on his back, clutching his new shiny red water bottle. All summer he's been saying he doesn't like his new teacher because "she's bossy". This morning he decided he did like her after all. Goodo, he's come round to my way of thinking. He's got the teacher he needs!! She takes no crap from the kids and the kids love her for it!
Piece of mind, that's what you want when you drop them off, and that's what I get with his school. It's worth fighting to keep him there.
Ha ha, just noticed... piece of mind!! What a muppet! Peace of mind is what I meant! Mind you, piece of mind isn't too bad a mistake as I want a piece of my mind not worrying about him as I do have lots of worrying about crashing through my head right now and putting some aside is just lovely.
Yes Mr Marley, I am trying as I watch two little birds outside my window.
Piece of mind, that's what you want when you drop them off, and that's what I get with his school. It's worth fighting to keep him there.
Ha ha, just noticed... piece of mind!! What a muppet! Peace of mind is what I meant! Mind you, piece of mind isn't too bad a mistake as I want a piece of my mind not worrying about him as I do have lots of worrying about crashing through my head right now and putting some aside is just lovely.
Yes Mr Marley, I am trying as I watch two little birds outside my window.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Defeating defeatism
I don't want to go to bed with that little post on my mind because I want to wake up tomorrow feeling ok. I've also just gone to the Home Connections site to see what's there to bid on and it's two towers far from the boy's school. The other three properties are housing association but not near me anyway. No street properties.
But hey, I've titled this defeating defeatism. This is how I'm going to do it.
I bought back my flute from my parents. I played when I was at school. I have two music books and recently, when I've been feeling glum, I've taken my instrument out of its case and I've played. It feels so good!
Earlier I looked in Argos' Laminated Catalogue of Dreams to see how much a keyboard would cost as I've bought back my old piano music. Be good to tinkle out a few tunes there, teach myself again with the foundation my parents gave me. Old beginners books I can give my son, give him a foundation too? At £100 the one I've seen is expensive but could the ex get our son one for his birthday if I chip in a little bit?? Could I move into a bigger place so there'd be room for one???? I have the flute, I have music I can make for the time being. I might even get lucky and find an amateur orchestra.
I bought another angel book off the internet for a tenner. Positive affirmations.
I have places I can go when I feel defeated which aren't at the bottom of a bottle. I should go to them more often.
I'm going to go back to Barry's Boot Camp.
I'm going to build up my strength.
The only way is up (Yazz and the Plastic Population)
But hey, I've titled this defeating defeatism. This is how I'm going to do it.
I bought back my flute from my parents. I played when I was at school. I have two music books and recently, when I've been feeling glum, I've taken my instrument out of its case and I've played. It feels so good!
Earlier I looked in Argos' Laminated Catalogue of Dreams to see how much a keyboard would cost as I've bought back my old piano music. Be good to tinkle out a few tunes there, teach myself again with the foundation my parents gave me. Old beginners books I can give my son, give him a foundation too? At £100 the one I've seen is expensive but could the ex get our son one for his birthday if I chip in a little bit?? Could I move into a bigger place so there'd be room for one???? I have the flute, I have music I can make for the time being. I might even get lucky and find an amateur orchestra.
I bought another angel book off the internet for a tenner. Positive affirmations.
I have places I can go when I feel defeated which aren't at the bottom of a bottle. I should go to them more often.
I'm going to go back to Barry's Boot Camp.
I'm going to build up my strength.
The only way is up (Yazz and the Plastic Population)
I might be moving close by?
I've been feeling a bit under the weather these past few days and feeling absolutely defeated about life this evening I went to the residents meeting. My "Notice Requiring Possession" in hand, I thought I'd ask Mr Gray for help. He has contacts in the council. I've fought, fought, fought alone but now I can't. I want someone to fight for me. Housing is my Death Eater and to think of it sucks my energy with tremendous force. That's why I've been feeling so defeated, if you've been wondering. I want to give up but right now, for example, it's late, but I hear my son coughing in his sleep. My son, my sun, my son, I can't give up. Defeated I've forgotten how not to give up.
Mr Gray tells us all Mr King is coming along later to talk about security issues. Mr King is a councillor. I've given up on councillors. The news makes me abit unhappier, if that is possible.
Mr Gray chairs the meeting and it's through one ear and out of the other I'm afraid although I do pipe up when the subject is anti social behaviour and tell everyone about the fire incident two weeks ago. The council has one outdoor camera up for grabs for one of five different estates. Will we get it? Only if ours is the most crime ridden. You don't want a camera on that basis but you want one because there is crime.
Then talk swings round to two people in the block who have left recently. Two two bedroom flats are currently empty. My heart sinks rather than swells but remember, I've been playing this game a long time now.
I give Mr Gray my "Notice Requiring Possession". He is shocked to discover that mine is an "Assured Shorthold Weekly Periodic Tenancy." Everyone is quite shocked. He tells me to get a solicitor. This I was going to do next week anyway (boy back at school, have time then) but I still don't get excited when he tells me he knows someone. My problem may be I've got too excited in the past. Hope has been extinguished.
I mention the two empty properties and how unpleasant it's going to feel in a few weeks when I put a bid on for one of them and someone else gets it. Yep, that's happened before. Quite a few times actually. I mean I wouldn't choose to live in Papier Mache Towers if I won the lottery say, but better the devil you know than the devil you don't.
Anyway, Mr King arrives and it turns out he's an executive on the housing board. I stare at him wishing I could articulate something, but nope, just keep staring.
As he introduces himself and what he does he mentions the Government withholding cash as he quickly skims the need to sell of a small number of properties.
"It's not a small number," interrupts a voice. Mine.
"I'm sorry?" he says.
"It's not a small number."
"It is, it's up to 500 properties, that's a small number."
"It's not a small number. There are 500, more than 500 homeless families, that could live in one of those."
"But it's for repairs to existing properties," he says, glaring at me. Oh! He thinks I'm a tenant waiting for the Decent Homes programme to knock on my door! Then rapidly says there's a surplus of temporary housing and that's mostly what they're selling. My mute button hits, damn it but another resident is there, a man, who moved into a studio here three weeks ago, from a hostel and he takes up my lead. Goodo goodo because I'm quite exhausted from my little outburst.
The conversation gets quite heated when Mr Gray interrupts and says that the reason "she (looking at me) feels so, erm, so passionate" is that I am a homeless family and I have in my hand a Notice Requiring Possession of my property. He's suggested a solicitor, can Mr King suggest anything different I might do?
Sadly for you Reader, Mr King talks to me but little reached me apart from "don't think I can pull strings for you" and I, knowing more that he won't pull, rather than can't, just says "It's been a long journey for me, so let's just say I don't feel....(where's the word, where's the word??) positive about anything" (wrong word but who cares...)
He tells me he'll get my details at the end. I whisper to my son that if he keeps making a blinding racket he won't have a birthday this year feeling profoundly guilty as I say it because he's not being that bad. It's late, he's bored, I'd be worse if I were six.
I shake Mr Kings hand at the end. He seems quite surprised as he takes my extended hand. I suppose it is quite surprising given I haven't enthused over a thing he's said, but then my experiences of border controls in Asia taught me plenty about 'saving face'. I clearly went on automatic pilot.
As we wait for the lift I ask Mr Gray if I can have the name of the solicitor and he says: "Wait a few days, wait for him to get back to you and see what he says. You said you wouldn't mind living here?"
"Well I bid for places close to his school," hugging my son to my legs.
"There are two empty properties here," he says with what I can only describe as a glint in his eyes.
"Yeah," a blank look in mine.
Wouldn't that be wierd though? Wouldn't it be WIERD? "We won't get a garden though" I tell my son as I kiss him goodnight.
"Oh," he says.
"But wouldn't it be wierd, to just move upstairs?!"
I am too defeated to hope but wouldn't it be great if the wheels of fortune started turning this evening. Wouldn't it just be fantastic to get a secure tenancy and know we don't have to move if we don't want to? (Although Mr Gray did ask if there were plans to demolish this block in a 'regeneration programme' and Mr King said "Not that I've seen")
Maybe there is a bit of hope there, that the wheels of fortune will turn. But wouldn't it be wierd if we ended up in a secure two bed here?! Very little surprises me about my life these days. I'll let you know.
Mr Gray tells us all Mr King is coming along later to talk about security issues. Mr King is a councillor. I've given up on councillors. The news makes me abit unhappier, if that is possible.
Mr Gray chairs the meeting and it's through one ear and out of the other I'm afraid although I do pipe up when the subject is anti social behaviour and tell everyone about the fire incident two weeks ago. The council has one outdoor camera up for grabs for one of five different estates. Will we get it? Only if ours is the most crime ridden. You don't want a camera on that basis but you want one because there is crime.
Then talk swings round to two people in the block who have left recently. Two two bedroom flats are currently empty. My heart sinks rather than swells but remember, I've been playing this game a long time now.
I give Mr Gray my "Notice Requiring Possession". He is shocked to discover that mine is an "Assured Shorthold Weekly Periodic Tenancy." Everyone is quite shocked. He tells me to get a solicitor. This I was going to do next week anyway (boy back at school, have time then) but I still don't get excited when he tells me he knows someone. My problem may be I've got too excited in the past. Hope has been extinguished.
I mention the two empty properties and how unpleasant it's going to feel in a few weeks when I put a bid on for one of them and someone else gets it. Yep, that's happened before. Quite a few times actually. I mean I wouldn't choose to live in Papier Mache Towers if I won the lottery say, but better the devil you know than the devil you don't.
Anyway, Mr King arrives and it turns out he's an executive on the housing board. I stare at him wishing I could articulate something, but nope, just keep staring.
As he introduces himself and what he does he mentions the Government withholding cash as he quickly skims the need to sell of a small number of properties.
"It's not a small number," interrupts a voice. Mine.
"I'm sorry?" he says.
"It's not a small number."
"It is, it's up to 500 properties, that's a small number."
"It's not a small number. There are 500, more than 500 homeless families, that could live in one of those."
"But it's for repairs to existing properties," he says, glaring at me. Oh! He thinks I'm a tenant waiting for the Decent Homes programme to knock on my door! Then rapidly says there's a surplus of temporary housing and that's mostly what they're selling. My mute button hits, damn it but another resident is there, a man, who moved into a studio here three weeks ago, from a hostel and he takes up my lead. Goodo goodo because I'm quite exhausted from my little outburst.
The conversation gets quite heated when Mr Gray interrupts and says that the reason "she (looking at me) feels so, erm, so passionate" is that I am a homeless family and I have in my hand a Notice Requiring Possession of my property. He's suggested a solicitor, can Mr King suggest anything different I might do?
Sadly for you Reader, Mr King talks to me but little reached me apart from "don't think I can pull strings for you" and I, knowing more that he won't pull, rather than can't, just says "It's been a long journey for me, so let's just say I don't feel....(where's the word, where's the word??) positive about anything" (wrong word but who cares...)
He tells me he'll get my details at the end. I whisper to my son that if he keeps making a blinding racket he won't have a birthday this year feeling profoundly guilty as I say it because he's not being that bad. It's late, he's bored, I'd be worse if I were six.
I shake Mr Kings hand at the end. He seems quite surprised as he takes my extended hand. I suppose it is quite surprising given I haven't enthused over a thing he's said, but then my experiences of border controls in Asia taught me plenty about 'saving face'. I clearly went on automatic pilot.
As we wait for the lift I ask Mr Gray if I can have the name of the solicitor and he says: "Wait a few days, wait for him to get back to you and see what he says. You said you wouldn't mind living here?"
"Well I bid for places close to his school," hugging my son to my legs.
"There are two empty properties here," he says with what I can only describe as a glint in his eyes.
"Yeah," a blank look in mine.
Wouldn't that be wierd though? Wouldn't it be WIERD? "We won't get a garden though" I tell my son as I kiss him goodnight.
"Oh," he says.
"But wouldn't it be wierd, to just move upstairs?!"
I am too defeated to hope but wouldn't it be great if the wheels of fortune started turning this evening. Wouldn't it just be fantastic to get a secure tenancy and know we don't have to move if we don't want to? (Although Mr Gray did ask if there were plans to demolish this block in a 'regeneration programme' and Mr King said "Not that I've seen")
Maybe there is a bit of hope there, that the wheels of fortune will turn. But wouldn't it be wierd if we ended up in a secure two bed here?! Very little surprises me about my life these days. I'll let you know.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
10:10
A simple idea to start saving the planet; cut carbon emissions by 10% by 2010. Brain child of the Age of Stupid director, Franny Armstrong (I think, my G2 copy got lost in the crowds yesterday)
I took my son to the Tate Modern yesterday where they were launching the concept. Annie and her lot had told me about it at the Big Chill and I thought it would be great to take along my boy. I texted some friends to see if they were interested in coming but none could make it. Then single dad Fletch texted and he said he'd come along, with a friend.
The launch was brilliant . The first thousand to sign up would get a glass of champagne. Mine got blown over by the wind. They were giving out 10:10 tags made from a recycled boeing 747 and they do look very cool.
There were speeches - Franny Armstrong is an empassioned speaker and very funny, honest, brave. If anyone could whip up the nation she could. Music from Stornoway and Reverend and the Makers (the Reverend was quite gorgeous must say), Sara Cox introducing it, all made for a fun afternoon (don't know what's up with me this morning, I can't write and my son wants my attention. I'll come back and edit. That's the beauty of blogging. Though will say you won't see my son in the picture in today's Guardian or on their website as he picked his moment to go to the loo just as the crowd were called up for their photo. I can't do website links on this, I am a luddite. Shame my son missed it. Everyone was given a piece of pink card to write their 10:10 wishes. My son had written "Save the bees, look after nature" on his.)
http://www.1010uk.org/
Sign up! Go on!!
I took my son to the Tate Modern yesterday where they were launching the concept. Annie and her lot had told me about it at the Big Chill and I thought it would be great to take along my boy. I texted some friends to see if they were interested in coming but none could make it. Then single dad Fletch texted and he said he'd come along, with a friend.
The launch was brilliant . The first thousand to sign up would get a glass of champagne. Mine got blown over by the wind. They were giving out 10:10 tags made from a recycled boeing 747 and they do look very cool.
There were speeches - Franny Armstrong is an empassioned speaker and very funny, honest, brave. If anyone could whip up the nation she could. Music from Stornoway and Reverend and the Makers (the Reverend was quite gorgeous must say), Sara Cox introducing it, all made for a fun afternoon (don't know what's up with me this morning, I can't write and my son wants my attention. I'll come back and edit. That's the beauty of blogging. Though will say you won't see my son in the picture in today's Guardian or on their website as he picked his moment to go to the loo just as the crowd were called up for their photo. I can't do website links on this, I am a luddite. Shame my son missed it. Everyone was given a piece of pink card to write their 10:10 wishes. My son had written "Save the bees, look after nature" on his.)
http://www.1010uk.org/
Sign up! Go on!!
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
TFL make a killing from the carnival
I blame Transport For London and my own stupid fecking principles for the gash I have on my cheek following an assault on the 24 bus.
On Friday I put £10 on my pay as you go Oyster card. This will generally last me a long time for as you know, I'm a cyclist.
On Sunday I joined Kelly and her Red Stripe crew at the Notting Hill carnival. I took the tube but when I got to Westbourne Park, owing to the sheer number of people, there was nowhere to swipe my oyster which meant the whole single fare would be deducted (£4) I asked an attendant where I could swipe it and he assured me that it didn't matter and I would not be charged the full fare.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes," he responded.
I believed him.
(The usual oyster fare is just over £2)
Later, after much mirth and merriment, it was time to go home. Jumped on the tube then in Camden hopped on the bus, swiped my card and sat down.
The driver comes up to me and tells me there's no money on my oyster. I tell him that can't be true. I swipe it again, see there are insufficient funds say I don't understand this and sit back down asking him to take me home anyway (oh thou invisible spirit of red stripe - Othello)
So yes, here the story gets murkier as I say I'm not moving, Transport for London has lied to me, Transport for London can cover the cost. Another passenger offers to pay my fare. The driver won't accept it but I also tell her to hold on to her cash. There's a girl at the back telling me to "get off the fucking bus". I tell her that I won't because this morning my oyster had lots of money on it, enough to get me home.
The bus isn't moving. Eventually, the girl at the back, sitting with her boyfriend, moves to get off the bus. Before doing so she comes right up to me, her nose millimetres from mine and starts threatening me. I don't know what she's saying because I am saying "get out of my face, get out of my face, get out of my fucking face."
Eventually I push her away and she swoops down on me. My own hands are no match for hers as I'm seated and she's standing over me so I defend myself with the only thing at my disposal. My feet. She lunges, my legs push her off, she lunges again, my boots meet her chest. It's effective, her boyfriend grabs her away, but the damage has been done, my cheek is all wet. I wipe it and my blood wears me like a glove.
I decide to call the police. I'd had my run in with them after I'd separated from Kelly to go to the loo and they'd cordonned off all the roads back to her. "Turn right then right again," would say one set of police, which I did only to be met by another set saying the same thing, on and on (so yes, I actually spent a few hours of the festival on my own) Now though, I wanted them to keep me safe.
The police come on to the bus and on discovering I've been at the carnival, ask how much I've had to drink. "Oh is this what it's going to be about?" I ask, quite crestfallen. Then I hear someone say, the driver I think, that I've been "aggressive". I want to laugh but my cheek feels tight. I tell the police I won't report the assault because the girl has fled. They tell me to "get off the bus."
"I called you you know, not the driver, not another passenger, me but I will get off the bus because you won't help me so there's no point." Kelly texts asking if I'm home and I call her and cry. I blub as I walk the two miles home.
Why did I call the police? Because I wanted the driver to know, I wanted the people I'd held up to know, that I didn't feel that what I was doing was wrong. Admittedly, had I not been drunk and tired, I'd have got off the bus spitting my own personal nails at Transport For London, wouldn't have sat on it defiant.
How much did I drink? It doesn't matter. The cut on my cheek was still bleeding yesterday morning. My son came home asking how I did it. "I fell," I told him. My ex laughed: "Did you keel over?!" I shook my head. "It's a long story."
On Friday I put £10 on my pay as you go Oyster card. This will generally last me a long time for as you know, I'm a cyclist.
On Sunday I joined Kelly and her Red Stripe crew at the Notting Hill carnival. I took the tube but when I got to Westbourne Park, owing to the sheer number of people, there was nowhere to swipe my oyster which meant the whole single fare would be deducted (£4) I asked an attendant where I could swipe it and he assured me that it didn't matter and I would not be charged the full fare.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes," he responded.
I believed him.
(The usual oyster fare is just over £2)
Later, after much mirth and merriment, it was time to go home. Jumped on the tube then in Camden hopped on the bus, swiped my card and sat down.
The driver comes up to me and tells me there's no money on my oyster. I tell him that can't be true. I swipe it again, see there are insufficient funds say I don't understand this and sit back down asking him to take me home anyway (oh thou invisible spirit of red stripe - Othello)
So yes, here the story gets murkier as I say I'm not moving, Transport for London has lied to me, Transport for London can cover the cost. Another passenger offers to pay my fare. The driver won't accept it but I also tell her to hold on to her cash. There's a girl at the back telling me to "get off the fucking bus". I tell her that I won't because this morning my oyster had lots of money on it, enough to get me home.
The bus isn't moving. Eventually, the girl at the back, sitting with her boyfriend, moves to get off the bus. Before doing so she comes right up to me, her nose millimetres from mine and starts threatening me. I don't know what she's saying because I am saying "get out of my face, get out of my face, get out of my fucking face."
Eventually I push her away and she swoops down on me. My own hands are no match for hers as I'm seated and she's standing over me so I defend myself with the only thing at my disposal. My feet. She lunges, my legs push her off, she lunges again, my boots meet her chest. It's effective, her boyfriend grabs her away, but the damage has been done, my cheek is all wet. I wipe it and my blood wears me like a glove.
I decide to call the police. I'd had my run in with them after I'd separated from Kelly to go to the loo and they'd cordonned off all the roads back to her. "Turn right then right again," would say one set of police, which I did only to be met by another set saying the same thing, on and on (so yes, I actually spent a few hours of the festival on my own) Now though, I wanted them to keep me safe.
The police come on to the bus and on discovering I've been at the carnival, ask how much I've had to drink. "Oh is this what it's going to be about?" I ask, quite crestfallen. Then I hear someone say, the driver I think, that I've been "aggressive". I want to laugh but my cheek feels tight. I tell the police I won't report the assault because the girl has fled. They tell me to "get off the bus."
"I called you you know, not the driver, not another passenger, me but I will get off the bus because you won't help me so there's no point." Kelly texts asking if I'm home and I call her and cry. I blub as I walk the two miles home.
Why did I call the police? Because I wanted the driver to know, I wanted the people I'd held up to know, that I didn't feel that what I was doing was wrong. Admittedly, had I not been drunk and tired, I'd have got off the bus spitting my own personal nails at Transport For London, wouldn't have sat on it defiant.
How much did I drink? It doesn't matter. The cut on my cheek was still bleeding yesterday morning. My son came home asking how I did it. "I fell," I told him. My ex laughed: "Did you keel over?!" I shook my head. "It's a long story."
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
I bought JK Rowling's final installment of the Harry Potter series so I could find out how the story ends, having seen the Half Blood Prince at the cinema. I started reading it when I got to my parents.
Flip, the nightmares. Oh marenights as my son calls them.
The first night I felt squashed by some invisible pressure. I'd get these alot alot alot in my teens and twenties, often accompanied by a full bodied paralysis but luckily it didn't get that bad.
The second night there was a bright flourescent green amoeba like thing descending from the ceiling, breathing in and out as it descended. Fortunately the act of jumping out of bed to protect my son bought me to full consciousness and awareness that this was just my imagination.
The third night metal spikes came out of the wall by my bed. Fear gripped me and again, the act of sitting up to protect my son changed these spikes to long silvery light beams that I could swish with my hands (not unlike those lamp things you could buy in the 80's, don't recall what they were called)
The fourth night they were dark clouds, not unlike death eaters, swooping in from the ceiling again and once more, the leap to my son's bed beside me, made the cloud disappear and my breathing regulate itself in long large bursts.
I finished the book after that.
Moving house, they say, is one of the most stressful experiences for people and my mother was not exempt. Tension permeated the walls. I won't go into details but suffice to say I had my 'patronus' out at all times.
I limped back to London exhausted, not least because emotionally it was hard to say goodbye to so much of my stuff.
Came home to a letter from the housing association: "Notice requiring Possession".
I have not dealt with this. I do not know how I will deal with this. I would scream but don't have the energy to scream. I meander through my days with an 'I don't give a fuck anymore' attitude. This is not good. My angel cards tell me to look after myself. Easier said than done.
Flip, the nightmares. Oh marenights as my son calls them.
The first night I felt squashed by some invisible pressure. I'd get these alot alot alot in my teens and twenties, often accompanied by a full bodied paralysis but luckily it didn't get that bad.
The second night there was a bright flourescent green amoeba like thing descending from the ceiling, breathing in and out as it descended. Fortunately the act of jumping out of bed to protect my son bought me to full consciousness and awareness that this was just my imagination.
The third night metal spikes came out of the wall by my bed. Fear gripped me and again, the act of sitting up to protect my son changed these spikes to long silvery light beams that I could swish with my hands (not unlike those lamp things you could buy in the 80's, don't recall what they were called)
The fourth night they were dark clouds, not unlike death eaters, swooping in from the ceiling again and once more, the leap to my son's bed beside me, made the cloud disappear and my breathing regulate itself in long large bursts.
I finished the book after that.
Moving house, they say, is one of the most stressful experiences for people and my mother was not exempt. Tension permeated the walls. I won't go into details but suffice to say I had my 'patronus' out at all times.
I limped back to London exhausted, not least because emotionally it was hard to say goodbye to so much of my stuff.
Came home to a letter from the housing association: "Notice requiring Possession".
I have not dealt with this. I do not know how I will deal with this. I would scream but don't have the energy to scream. I meander through my days with an 'I don't give a fuck anymore' attitude. This is not good. My angel cards tell me to look after myself. Easier said than done.
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