The 5th Horseman

And he rode a horse named Mumple.

There's so much to complain and whinge about, each deserves it's own post. And each shall have it's own post...someday. I will begin at the end and tell you that head lice is rampant in the school.

And, dealing with it aggressively means we're doing upwards of 6 loads of laundry a night, since Monday night.

Monday night was 2 freaking hours picking through the Howler's head. While she bitched, and I bitched back.

It also meant that Tuesday we all spent scratching more than is normal--whether we needed to or not.

So far, in the last 40 days, we've had death, famine, and pestilence. I can only assume that war will show up on Friday.

Oh, yes, and you'll wait patiently for those other posts--probably to be named after those horsemen.

Fear

Growing up, I was afraid of the dark. My sister, brother, and cousins made fun of me. There was nothing that was more terrifying to me than the deep darkness that was bedtime at my house.

By the time I went to college, I could sleep elsewhere without a light, but at home, that abiding terror still reigned. I was in my 20's before I could sleep without a nightlight.

But this isn't about the nightlight. Or about the dark. In an entry for Scribbit's Write Away Contest, I'm going to tell you about true terror--undefinable, all-encompassing, terror.

I have no other way to describe it. After the upheaval of the news of what was coming; after preparing, and managing to wrap my head around the inevitable--even after having similar experience and surviving it relatively sane--it's final arrival left me breathless with awe. Dumbstruck. Terrified beyond help.

The pain and stress leading up to the moment was, mostly, normal, given the situation. Even the firm knowledge that modern technology was able to give us as to it's form seemed to help keep the fear at bay.

Ah, the fear. It was merely nervous energy, I thought. Not quite so frightening as it turned out to be for me. And no one uttered a word about it.

It's said that "knowing is half the battle" and "the more you know, the better you can deal." Those are lies. There was no amount of information that could have made it better. There was no way to prepare myself.

Even now, I have found no one who has experienced such a thing. The awe, yes; the terror, no. At least, at this point, years later, I have no choice but to believe that it's not simply the impropriety of acknowledging the terror--that terror does not exist for others.

It is unique to me. This is not a comforting thought.

The pain increased in intensity and frequency. Stubborn to the end, I almost didn't make it. Start to finish, it lasted slightly more than four hours. At the end of that time, they handed me this thing--this terrifying baby girl.

I looked at her...she looked at me. In that moment I was struck with the most primal terror I have ever experienced. She scared me--hell, seven years later, she still does. It's not a fear for her, I've tried to justify it as that, and believe me, that doesn't even come close. There's nothing "wrong" with her--she was, and is, fine, really. I have moments of fearing for her, and it's not the same.

This fear was of her--she was like some deep-into-the-universe unknowable to me. She still is.

Grrrr Argh

This whole PTA thing isn't making me happy.

What now? Well, I typed in 4 freaking pages of meeting minutes and then promptly started typing in something else...and saved the something else. Dammit!

I had to retype the 4 freaking pages.

I may be suffering from PTA induced dementia.