christmas. I want the holidays to be over with.

Just a lot of different things...

The Holidays, and the rest of stuff ..sigh

A sappy Christmas song on the TV.

It's the first Christmas without Dad and each and every sappy Christmas song has me in floods of tears.

I feel so stupid. He was hardly the perfect father but he was the only one I had and I miss him so damn much.

And now I'm fucking crying again. I hate this. I really and truly hate this.

Words

The song plus the story plus the quart of ice cream in front of me lead me to believe that the waterworks I've experienced aren't accidental. But still, they are here and this set them off.

I am always emotional this time of year. It doesn't take much to make me cry. Today was... feeling lonely, homeless guys in the freezing cold that thanked me for working with the disabled, my dad calling for his yearly memory that he has a daughter and inviting himself and ultra religious wife to my house xmas day.

#26randomacts - pass the love on.

---A casserole dish. It was given to me many years ago by my best friend. She lost her life in December 4 years ago of lung cancer. I cherished her. I cherish this dish.

The appropriate question, for me, would be 'What DIDN'T make you cry today?' I seem to be an emotional mess right now. LOL

my sick dog
Christmas in a strange place
broken promises
my own stupidity and naivete
smugness and malice
people who take pleasure in the pain of others
that stupid Sarah McLachlan commercial with the frightened and hurt animals
over 300,000 deaths since 2003 due to our conflict in the Middle East
over 4 trillion dollars committed to that same conflict
impending bankruptcy and student loan default
the loss of a cherished memento
homelessness


reality
reality made me cry

Good tears: A completely unexpected and exceptionally generous and compassionate offer from a new friend, which brought forth a wellspring of emotions from deeply realizing that I am surrounded by love in my life, from new friends and old. It gives me hope at this rough time of year at the end of a brutally rough year, that there is hope of my finding that one special someone that I dream of - and deserve to have in my life.

I woman contacted me to care for her older dog while she went out of the country for 6 months to do something she always wanted to do. I gave her a fair quote and she said it was too much and that she would try and find someone to watch him. He's 9 years old and she's had him all his life. A week goes by and I emailed to just follow up and see if she found someone. She and her vet decided it was best to put him down because if she took him to the pound or in foster care he could spend his life in a kennel and she couldn't bare to do that to him.

I swear if she was standing in front of me I would have assaulted her.

Tears....so many tears....
 

4 firefighters were shot this morning here in Rochester...2 have died, one has a shattered spine and pelvis...responding to a fire...the shooter was a convicted felon. He opened fire on all first responders...O.M.G...The fire spread to 7 homes....innocent peoples lives destroyed for no reason at all...I am so incredibly sad.... sad beyond belief, stunned. Families displaced, no home to be safe and warm in....one person is still missing and they are hoping there were no more victims in any of the homes.....please send prayers up if you would.....

Watching the magic leave a child's eyes when they were told by their grandmother that there is no santa claus........

(F*ck bio-family. Next year me and my kid party in Vail, Steamboat Springs, Tahoe, etc....anywhere where "family" isn't....)

Katniss~~(experiencing the last holiday from hell borne of guilt and obligation)

Music. If nothing else loosens the tap on the waterworks for me, it's music. Whether it's because of grief or sadness, happiness or pure appreciation for a voice or lyric that grabs you by the jugular and won't let go until you give into it, music has the power to move me like nothing else.

it was earlier this morning...
listening quietly to music streaming
through to my ears and wandering
through photos and albums of things
my sons have given to me over the years
and the song below, was in the playlist
and tears spilled... funny how music
gives us the ability to connect more deeply
to our feelings...

Watching Dear John, I bawled.

My son acting like an a** and screaming at me over stinking politics. Is this really the same person I raised? He was such a sweet child. Grown children can really break your heart.

Remembering my father and my best friend.

I picked up a favorite book of mine, Merle's Door...I read the last page...

That book was one of many that I read in preparation for losing my dog, Matty.... it was all I could do in the form of self help...

I loved the book...but it made me profoundly sad...both the story and the memories it evokes.....

:moonstars:

.....
 

Knowing there won't be another Christmas with my lil sis.

Seeing my Dad, and the state he is in. All alone and in a horribly abusive relationship and not willing to do anything about it. No wonder he's going half cookoo. I wish I could force him to come home with me, but I know I can't. He needs to make the first step. I'll be here when he is ready tho.

Today, I stayed away from the news of the day and thought of my deceased Mom and Christmas past. I also enjoyed some of the now of today's Christmas with my now family. All of this, tears of sorrow and joy.

These were good cries:

My Mama called me! I know my brother dialed the phone and held it for her, but my Mama called me!!!!!!

Later on, I was listening to one of my kids talk about this gift he was given and how he didn't expect it. Well, he left the room and I was alone, everyone is asleep, and I hear a noise behind me. I turn to look but no one is there. Then I realize I see the Methodist symbol on the floor on a white note atop a red card with a green ribbon.

I got up and before I picked it up, I immediately thought of my Dad who died 2 years ago. I picked it up and said to the room, "Do that again." The noise re-occurred and I knew it was my Dad saying here I am. You found the card, you didn't need me to make that sound again but I obliged you.
I cried like a baby.

And, last but not least, my youngest teen. We made chocolate cherry cheesecake together. She never wants to cook with me. It was the best! Yep, you guessed it, I cried.

I just got home from seeing Les Misérables in the theatre.... :bigcry:

This did....and while I was at work too!


http://shine.yahoo.com/healthy-livin...171500313.html

This made me Cry today!!!
 

Written by Nila on Dec. 29, 2012:


That girl, the one without the name. The one just like us. The one whose battered body stood for all the anonymous women in this country whose rapes and deaths are a footnote in the left-hand column of the newspaper.

Sometimes, when we talk about the history of women in India, we speak in shorthand. The Mathura rape case. The Vishaka guidelines. The Bhanwari Devi case, the Suryanelli affair, the Soni Sori allegations, the business at Kunan Pushpora. Each of these, the names of women and places, mapping a geography of pain; unspeakable damage inflicted on women’s bodies, on the map of India, where you can, if you want, create a constantly updating map of violence against women.




For some, amnesia becomes a way of self-defence: there is only so much darkness you can swallow. They turn away from all the places that have become shorthand for violence beyond measure, preferring not to know about Kashmir or the outrages in Chattisgarh, choosing to forget the Bombay New Year assault, trying not to remember the deaths of a Pallavi Purkayastha, a Thangjam Manorama, Surekha and Priyanka Bhotmange, the mass rapes that marked the riots in Gujarat. Even for those who stay in touch, it isn’t possible for your empathy to keep abreast with the scale of male violence against women in India: who can follow all of the one-paragraph, three-line cases? The three-year-old raped before she can speak, the teenager assaulted by an uncle, the 65-year-old raped as closure to a property dispute, the slum householder raped and violently assaulted on her way to the bathroom. After a while, even memory hardens.

And then you reach a tipping point, and there’s that girl. For some reason, and I don’t really know why, she got through to us. Our words shrivelled in the face of what she’d been subjected to by the six men travelling on that bus, who spent an hour torturing and raping her, savagely beating up her male friend. Horrific, brutal, savage—these tired words point to a loss of language, and none of them express how deeply we identified with her.

She had not asked to become a symbol or a martyr, or a cause; she had intended to lead a normal life, practicing medicine, watching movies, going out with friends. She had not asked to be brave, to be the girl who was so courageous, the woman whose injuries symbolised the violence so many women across the country know so intimately. She had asked for one thing, after she was admitted to Safdarjung Hospital: “I want to live,” she had said to her mother.

We may have not noticed the reports that came in from Calcutta in February, of a woman abandoned on Howrah Bridge, so badly injured after a rape that involved, once again, the use of iron rods, that the police thought she had been run over by a car. We may have skimmed the story of the 16-year-old Dalit girl in Dabra, assaulted for three hours by eight men, who spoke up after her father committed suicide from the shame he had been made to feel by the village. Or some may have done something concrete about these things, changed laws, worked on gender violence, keeping their feelings out of it, trying to be objective.

But there is always one that gets through the armour that we build around ourselves. In 1972, the first year in which the NCRB recorded rape cases, there were 2,487 rapes reported across India. One of them involved a teenager called Mathura, raped by policemen; we remember her, we remember the history and the laws she changed. (She would be 56 now.)

Some cases stop being cases. Sometimes, an atrocity bites so deep that we have no armour against it, and that was what happened with the 23-year-old physiotherapy student, the one who left a cinema hall and boarded the wrong bus, whose intestines were so badly damaged that the injuries listed on the FIR report made hardened doctors, and then the capital city, cry for her pain.

She died early this morning, in a Singapore hospital where she and her family had been dispatched by the government for what the papers called political, not compassionate, reasons.

The grief hit harder than I’d expected. And I had two thoughts, as across Delhi, I heard some of the finest and toughest men I know break down in their grief, as some of the calmest and strongest women I know called and SMSed to say that she—one of us, this girl who had once had a future and a life of her own to lead—was gone, that it was over.

The first was: enough. Let there be an end to this epidemic of violence, this culture where if we can’t kill off our girls before they are born, we ensure that they live these lives of constant fear. Like many women in India, I rely on a layer of privilege, a network of friends, paranoid security measures and a huge dose of amnesia just to get around the city, just to travel in this country. So many more women have neither the privilege, nor the luxury of amnesia, and this week, perhaps we all stood up to say, “Enough”, no matter how incoherently or angrily we said it.

The second was even simpler. I did not know the name of the girl in the bus, through these last few days. She had a name of her own–it was not Amanat, Damini or Nirbhaya, names the media gratuitously gave her, as though after the rape, she had been issued a new identity. I don’t need to know her name now, especially if her family doesn’t want to share their lives and their grief with us. I think of all the other anonymous women whose stories don’t make it to the front pages, when I think of this woman; I think of the courage that is forced on them, the way their lives are warped in a different direction from the one they had meant to take. Don’t tell me her name; I don’t need to know it, to cry for her.