Masking the Issue

I started this project in my room. I wanted to give it a new look, a fresh start. I figured it would take my mind off the matter of being ill, and make me feel more comfortable.


You know your room is a sacred place. It should depict your character. My room is my special place. Each and every piece of furniture, picture and accent means something to me and my companion. Even the shape and style of the clock we purchased is a piece to our secret puzzle.


I so enjoyed creating this sanctuary of peace and it helped me feel as if a life with cancer can still be filled with productivity. Only thing is now that the project is over I am filled with the ill feelings of having simply masked the issue.

I guess I didn’t really do this project to make myself more comfortable. I did it so that I could avoid dealing with some of the issues, I had with my recent bouts with illness, and the many worry’s I have for my family.


I think it best to find productive ventures we can get into to help us along the way. Whether it be that we are dealing with cancer, death of a loved one, or change in life circumstance.


We can’t go on masking the issues. It will only make you crazy. You will be walking on a dangerous line. I think that is one of the many curses hoarders and obsessive shoppers are faced with, simply buying to mask the issue.
Seriously, You ever go to dollar tree or the 99 cent store, and buy up a whole bunch of stuff that you don’t need simply because it was a dollar. “Masking the issues,” (singing in my high pitched voice).


Take a moment to cry, it out. Wipe the tears away and begin rational thought processing. After which, there may be a solution to some of your problems. If not a solution a calm and lucid spirit.

Excerpt from A Journals Diary

Flip the Script, My Halloween Revelation


So its just hours before the Haunted Halloween Howling, and I am just about done with the hullaballoo of the costume hunt. My children were like savages searching the party papers for costumes that peeked their interest. For about a week now, my daughter has been asking me what it was I was going to be for this bewitched night of treats and trickery. I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t planning on dressing up that is. I love to make cute and spooky treats for the kids, but I don’t dress for the occasion.

Well after much pondering on the matter, since my daughter refused to let the subject go, I began to list a few of my alter ego fantasy’s just to see what I could come up with. It wasn’t hard to list but, after reviewing its contents I found that none of the costumes were fitting. I thought that maybe, just maybe it was time for me to be just plain ole me, no sugar added.


I decided that perhaps I would ditch the old lace front and glossing lip gloss in exchange for my natural curls and CarMax. Yes the true me, hidden under the new age Hair Does as opposed to the Hair Don’t. Truthfully, I could have ditched the old additions a while ago, but the idea of hairloss due to kemo therapy plagued my mind. It does so every time I attempt to wear my natural hair. Just a psychological issue, weird maybe, seriously yes.


Well in these last hours of the night before the ghosts and goblins come out, I will flip the script. Instead of running out to get a costume for the party I will merely take the one I am wearing off. It’s high time I embrace the scars of my survival and learn to accept me. After all, I can’t expect anyone else to do so, if I can’t accept the many pieces of me, now can I?


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copyright by Aija M. Butler
a Journals Diary

The Twitter Experiment, "The Truth and Nothing But..."

So I wanted to find out what the big deal was with this Twitter business. I set up an account months ago but I had yet to test out its true function. With all the opposing social networking sites I got confused to tell you the truth. I am a working mother, with whom just started a new career. I am in school, and dealing with terminal disease. My mind is on its way out the door. So you can imagine my thoughts on all these sites for dating and networking your business as they say.


“Google me…” I think that is such a cute line. Be careful you may want to type in your name and check that out. You never know what your nemesis will exploit. So any who. I decided to conduct a small experiment with Twitter. Face book was no good. All my friends were persons I actually knew, and I wasn’t that bold yet. I wanted to vent yes. I wanted to talk trash, yes. But I wanted to do it where the opinions were non-biased.


Venting to strangers is always a breath of fresh air, for all party’s considered. The person venting doesn’t expect much just for a good listener, or shoulder to cry on. Perhaps a oh or wow, here and there; but never a solution. The listener, has no real pressure. All he or she is there for is an ear, and adlib, when necessary. Comments are welcome, as well. Its not like you know the people right?


Would you believe my publisher approved such garbage? Such a gamble on the exploitation of someone’s life. I can. Who doesn’t love a good scandal.? As long as their dirt isn’t dished. Many will sit back and say that I have completely lost my mind. Perhaps, this is an attempt at social suicide. A cry for help. Maybe you’re right. I’d just ask that you have mercy on me since I’m technically a sickly woman and reduce your urge to throw rocks to perhaps the use of cherry tomatoes or rice. I thought that was funny.


So it began. My quest for release. A chance to take up some group counseling to render the pain of depression and uncertainty. I felt as if my head was about to explode. I made an appointment to see my mental health doctor. Just my luck, it was canceled the day before the appointment was set. That’s the county for you.


So there I was with an old pill bottle that had 2 refills left on them. I didn’t feel much like being sedated. I was too blah. What ever happens, happens sort of attitude. I felt like I had been a victim of a bad batch of botox. Not pretty at all people. I couldn’t smile, laugh, or show emotions of anger and sadness.


A resolution was in order. I thought why not tweet my issues. Everyone does. They tell either what’s on their minds, or dinner menu, who looks best or worst on the red carpet, and bad mouthed whom ever they so wished. It wasn’t a fashion show or popularity contest. Everyone was invited to tell what they were up to. So I decided to take 7 days of my life and do just that.


Tweet! Tweet for 7 days 100 tweets a day, exploiting my thoughts and happenings of my day. Whether embarrassing or contrary to popular opinion, I would tweet the truth and nothing but.


During which time I would journal my thoughts, see if writing out my issues help to rectify some of them. By my venting to the public about my problematic mental instability, I could get to the bottom of what was really bothering me. I could be going through the emotions of accepting my illness. I fight daily with this notion. For If I surrender and accept my fate. I admit to defeat. I’d rather live in denial. I am worried about my children, their well-being. What happens after I’m gone. My husband is saddened. He lives in fear. He never sleeps. I am a burden to him, if only he would admit to this he could leave and heal before he grows to hate me.


The twitter experiment was my only out. I am the cure to this disease. Writing my thoughts must be my voice of reason. I make this plan to use twitter as members of my group therapy session, my peers. Once strangers and mere cyber associates will become my friends. The friends I will now entrust with my deepest and darkest secrets. To be judged or not to be judged. I plunge forward. Mentally unstable, battered and bruised by disease. Haunted by the dreams of loosing my career, life and husband. I am loosing my mind, but not without a fight.

My true nemesis is me. So long I have fought with my fear of success, by stifling my own abilities. Today I know that it is truly my fear of failure that inhibits my growth. My heart beats fast when I am under stress, My blood pressure rises when I come too close success. The eyes bring forth fear, the eyes that may rest upon me, as I am responsible. You see how disoriented I am? How disheveled my thoughts and mind state? My children may kill me before this disease does.


My stress may be do the same. At home I am in constant battle with my conscience. I speak to God often. The thoughts that I ponder tend to focus on my future, and how my life may be ending soon. It is this fear that causes me to false start. I rush my goals, and get flustered when they fail at first try. Frustration is nurtured when I express my doubt to friends and family. They tend to stir the pot, and bring my fears to a boil. Thus I sit and lie to myself about how I truly feel. I say that I am ok. That I could care less about the put downs others spew. When words of comfort and guidance, is needed there is nothing. Nothing but the quiet winds against my back. As if left out in the dead of winter, freezing in the cold of night.

Day one begins soon. The Twitter Experiment, The Truth and nothing but….