Mighty Rowan, kära rönn

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Our house lies in between two big old rowan trees. You can see one of them in the picture above, in bloom as they are in the earlier days of summer. Today there are no flowers, but plenty of bright red berries.

The rowan, in Swedish is called rönn, may not be the grandest of trees – often it grows to be no more than a shrub. Nonetheless it has a mighty powerful place in folklore, ancient mythology, and yes, magic. Protective as well as runic magic, most of all. According to an old myth a rowan tree once even saved the life of Thor himself, which is no small feat.

The young leaves can be used for tea, and the berries are edible. Not particularly tasty, but edible. They are completely packed full of vitamin C, so much that three a day will cover what you need. Luckily you don’t have to eat them raw, they can be made into jelly or jam, or even wine. Or you can dry them and add a bit in bread baking, or use in your müsli or whatnot. The birds love them too, and for good reason – rowan berries, or rönnbär, makes up their most important food source in wintertime, at least up here.

One day the two mighty rowan trees by our house will wither and die. It’s alright, there are already young shoots coming up to take their place. We will take care of them, and perhaps they will take care of us.

Now on Facebook

It is decided, I will not delete this blog. What I will do however is try to separate it more thoroughly from my IRL name – because too many people are idiots and while I am not the slightest bit ashamed of my heathen ways, I am too fragile to deal with trolls, racist jerks, and judgemental pricks having access to my private life.

So, here’s a bit of new information:

You can now find me on Facebook under the name Fny från Östra Aros. If you want to see my blog posts popping up in your Facebook feed, toss me a friend request there!

I am also on Twitter since a while back, under the name The_Fny.

For one-on-one contact, my email adress is contactfny@gmail.com.

Busy busy, no time to waste!

I have had a number of blog posts almost written this last week. One about the most marvelous wild raspberry jam I made, and one about a this year’s disastrous blackcurrant jelly (it didn’t set, so basically I have lots of sweet blackcurrant sauce). And a couple of cat posts for Katzenworld!

But alas, I have been unable to write properly since I got back from the Netherlands. The reason is no great unknown –  next week is Medieval Week in Visby and I am busy sewing. While navigating a chaotic world of panic and anxiety, as I’m still not really recovered since my last downfall. So basically my days at the moment look something like… this:

Breakfast -> short burst of sewing -> mini panic attack -> short burst of sewing ->anxiety attack -> short burst of sewing -> go outside to pick some berries in attempt at not panicking again -> panic anyway -> collapse, feeling like I just ran a marathon.

 

Yeeah, it’s not great! But it’ll be alright. I’m so far pleased with how the sewing project is coming along, and I think I’ll manage to finish it before Visby. (It’s that or go nekkid! I can’t fit in my old clothes at the moment. *sadface* )

 

So now, blogging will have to wait. Or well, I did manage this little update! That’s a success, I believe. Now I need to get back to sewing, wish me luck!

I’m only sleeping

A few days ago, on Monday morning, I crashed. The night before I was crying myself to sleep after some unwelcome news and in the morning everything felt dark and dull. I poured myself a cup of  tea and sat down on the couch. Had a sip and looked out the window. And everything just stopped.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there.

My husband got worried of course. I wanted to tell him it was alright, but I couldn’t get the words out. It was difficult enough just to move my eyes to look at him. Stuck, I felt stuck in my own head.

He drove me to the hospital, to this emergency psychiatric place. Thoughts kept spinning in my mind, it may have looked like I was half asleep but it was quite the opposite. I was aware, fully aware, painfully aware of every little detail. My uncombed hair. My husband’s concern. The chatter of others in the waiting room.

There was a woman there, waiting for her turn, who started talking of babies. On and on she went, describing her previous pregnancies and how giving birth was the best thing ever, the best, the best. Husband told me not to listen but I couldn’t stop it. I listened, and felt close to blacking out. My head was about to explode it seemed, I couldn’t breathe and everything hurt. I hurt, the world hurt, the woman’s words hurt.

I couldn’t sit there listening. In a full panic I fled into the nearest bathroom and sat down on the floor, in a corner, crying.

We were at the hospital for half a day. I talked to doctors – or rather they talked to me while I merely managed to whisper a few stray words in return – and got pills.

Once home I slept.

The day after I slept.

And the day after that.

Despite sleeping all day I’ve also been able to sleep all night, so my waking hours have dwindled to barely more than a handful per day. I’m exhausted, absolutely exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.

I wish I could just make it stop. I wish I could be normal. I wish I wouldn’t hurt my husband like this. I wish the pain would stop.

 

They call me from the hospital every day now, to check on me. They keep asking if I want to kill myself. Every day they ask. I keep saying no. They don’t seem to believe me. But I keep saying no. I won’t. Even though I feel worthless, even though I’m sure my husband would be better off without me, I won’t. I want to live. I want to grow old. And I want to see this hell through and come out victorious on the other side.

Hurting

I  am not doing great. It is Friday and I should be happy for the upcoming weekend, for the summer warmth and for the chance to simply hang out with my husband. To enjoy the garden, cuddle the cats, keep writing, keep working on that embroidery too that I’m so proud of.

 

Instead I just hurt. I cry. I do my job but without pleasure, with every minute stretching out to last an hour.

 

By necessity I am trying to face and accept the possibility that we won’t ever have a child. Wondering when to say stop, when to give up, when to decide that it won’t happen. But that acceptance does not come easy. The questions hover over me like a dark cloud, blocking out the sun.

 

I’m not doing great. It hurts, badly.