I don't mean to be a bitch

I'm just tired. I'm tired of being understanding to others while not feeling understood myself.
I'm tired of searching but don't know any other way.

Several months ago I paid as a gift to myself, to speak to a angel speaker.
Kind of like a medium who says she also speaks to your personal guides.
Anyway.
It was a 30 minute call.
Per usual, many of my husbands dead people came through to speak. And per usual I wrote the information down and passed it along to him.
More often the dead want to tell him things or what feels kind of worse, is when they want to speak to my sister.
The gal said a man was there who felt like a father soul. I asked so is he my father? She asked her guides and they said yes, this was my father.
I had imagined him to be dead so it was not like shocking or anything.
She said he was an addict, lots of addictions.
Again, no shock there.
He's able to give me tips but warned me I won't like what I may find and that my paper trail is dead, done, not going to find any hard facts of paper proof.

As we head into winter I find myself feeling more and more detached. Detached from physical items as well as relationships.
My husband continues to do well in building a relationship with his newly found daughter as well as grandson. She will be having a daughter soon as well and I know he will forever be a part of their lives. I encourage him and help him with the little things like picking out gifts and such.
Again, I feel detached.
One of Shannons dead people made the comment "She saved him" and I had to giggle.
So many people see it the other way. So many people feel that he saved me. I know this for a fact, it's not just a feeling.
And so I head into this winter feeling detached from life. My purpose at this point seems to be to care for our aging dogs, and that's just about it.
Maybe this is just the way people get to feeling at this age. Maybe more "work" will come my way.
Most of the time I'm ok with the feeling. It's kind of nice knowing that no one needs to hold onto me for any sort of survival, you know, outside of my pups.
Be loved.........the person or two who actually reads my blog ;)

But doesn't it hurt? You know it'll sag

Ink. Tattoo's. The once only a sailor gets it figure of art.
Yes, I said art.

Lets see, the basics. I currently have 6 tattoo's. I'm not happy with that.
Why?
I don't like even numbers, I want a seventh.

What are they?
In order of when I got them as well as a brief "why".

Bugs Bunny.
My orthodontist used to say I should use the Warner Brother for my stationary since I grew up with WB as my initials (and yes, then I married a B so it would work!)
My ex husband told me "You will never get a tattoo, I won't allow it."
Nuff said.
He was away and I grabbed a friend and got it done.

Tribal band around my ankle.
I wanted something not off the wall and the man who gave me my Bugs had designed a tribal. He asked me if I would want it, I said yes.

Artist drawn pig.
I went through a very long "pig" phase, this finished it out.

Three daisies on the top of my foot.
A daisy a day was written in my first mothers funeral book.
I've always like the flower, any of them, but most the wild ones you least expect to see.
Top of my foot so I can always see.

Dark angel on my shoulder, 4 daisies beneath her.
This is on my shoulder blade. It's my largest and was by far the most painful. I brought in a couple of photos and said "I need her to be sad but free, and some sort of daisy under her."
When we went back a month later to get the work done I was immediately hit with tears when he showed me the photo.
4 daisies beneath her.
Dottye had a total of four children.

Always hope on my wrist.
My sister had sent me some photo copies of old holiday cards with Dottye's writing inside.
I took the two words, which in her cards were not together, and had them put on my wrist.
By it's side is a aqua daisy, aqua being the ovarian cancer color.

It doesn't matter to me if they are not attractive to someone else.
The pain was part of the process.
You know people I am sure, though you may not know it, who hurt themselves.
Physically.
I used to be one of those people.
I wasn't a cutter. I didn't use knives or blades, never saw blood.
I used a hammer or my fist. I would leave myself bruises.
It's hard for some to understand and I thank goodness for that. I would hate for everyone to understand. For me, hurting myself in that way was a form of control. It was also a way to bring out my stuck pain, the pain I could not speak of. As my self inflicted bruises healed, I felt like I did too.
Until the next time.

So you can frown at my tattoo's but for myself they are another form of bringing out the pain, owning it, seeing it and making it something that to my eye is beautiful.