Raven warrior day

Today I feel like a warrior, the raven warrior I used to be.

I feel like dressing up in my old black clothes and wearing my raven feathered necklace and rethinking about designing that raven feather cloak I have always wanted to make.

I miss my gothic make-up today; I used to be a Goth as a teenager and into my mid-twenties – a big contrast to the semi-kawaii style I like these days.

I was the Gothic Jock type at school, but also sort of nerdy – because I was an A & B grade student mostly and I was teased for it some of the time, though I never flaunted it and tried to conceal my grades wherever possible – because in my family, nobody got grades like that it is a sort of anomaly, a weird thing which I held close to my heart in shame.

My dad and his side of the family was the only people I felt comfortable knowing my grades, because on dad’s side of the family there are teachers and government workers, so education is important to them and it’s not a cause for shame there.

But today, I am the raven warrior again – or at least it’s the first time in years I feel like she’s been awakened again.

At least I do have some black clothes, though no make-up – at least I can sort of feel like my old self again, in part. 

A black lace cami, a long black skirt, a back flowing shrug, black socks though ruined by pink diamonds, but you can’t have everything in this place.  It’s a cheerful day, despite the kind of poetry I am producing and despite looking mournful – to me it’s a brighter day in my heart.

I wonder why the raven spirit in me is so strong today?

I used to be called Raven Mother by some people in the past – sometimes The Raven Warrior – sometimes The Vampire – sometimes the warrior goddess  and I tried to get people to call me Raven but they didn’t do it, because I guess they didn’t like my sense of humour in being known as The Raven Lunatic, haha.

Some people have no sense of fun – in fact most, don’t.

I had lots of interesting nicknames before I moved in with Paul and every ounce of my identity in all of them has gone, you wouldn’t recognise me now from what I used to be.

I may have been abused badly in my past and mostly isolated – but to be honest I did still socialise on my mother’s terms and I did so more often than I do now I live with Paul.  I may have been living day to day scared for my life with violence and unpredictable people and living day to day with loss after loss – but strangely enough, I was happier then than I am now.  I still don’t understand it.

Maybe I was happy because of how many people used to visit?  Maybe I was happier because I was a lot richer back then and never had to wait months between necessary non-food purchases?  Maybe I was happier because I had more personal freedom around the home, even though I had copious amounts of duties and chores to do between them?

I don’t know.

As I said, I am still puzzled by it.

How can someone be so happy in a situation where day to day they are not sure if they would be alive by the end of the day?

Food for thought I guess?

Yet when I was in that situation I was desperate to get away because I was under so much stress, I often had black outs because things got too much for me and I had to constantly make excuses to non-family people about why I can’t be normal, why I can’t just take their invitation on the spur of a moment etc – because there was often a violent backlash if I did.  Not from them or from me, but if my mother found out she’d go nuts and literally hunt the person down.

So the raven took her flight and said “Nevermore” to that situation and came to live with Paul.

Thanks for reading…

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