I'd been looking after my aging parents for years. Along the way I became an old woman myself. My parents became unwell and died and I thought I would have some time to find my life and get it back again after all these years. My siblings had come for the funerals. I was glad to see them, and some of their families again.

It had been a long time since I really had time to myself. So, I went out for a coffee, walked there alone, read a book for awhile and then came back home again.

My siblings had a dumpster in the driveway and were tossing everything into it. Everything, my parents belongings and my own. "What do you need all that stuff for?" "You just have too much stuff!" "Won't you feel so much better without all this useless, old stuff?"

They had also planned what would be done with the house, forgetting that I was included in the will and would have half of the value of it as payment, or thanks, for looking after our parents for so many years.

They planned what I would do, what I was allowed to keep... even all my decorations for Halloween and Christmas were disposed of. My books, all but the one I had been reading that day. My kitchen appliances, the French press coffee maker and the coffee beans, my furniture, even my bed and all the sheets and blankets. They had decided to throw it all away.

I was devastated. Years of looking after our parents had made me quiet, almost dormant. In shock, I was silent and stunned. I didn't say anything.

Then... they pulled out a large box with the local discount department store logo on it.

"Look what we found... its so comfortable looking and takes up so little space. It could fit in someone's garage, though we haven't decided who will take it."

It was a coffin.

"It's big enough for you to live in. Isn't that something?!"

They had taken away everything and expected me to live in a coffin, until I died.

Some days this is how I feel. Family keep making decisions for me, deciding they know better. They throw out or give away things that matter to me. With no family of my own, no children, husband, not even a cat... what I have is literally all I have. I do feel it would be just so convenient for them all if I just lived in a coffin until I died.

Activity - Joined in September 2008, last active this month

Interests - ASCII art, built heritage, Ontario history and unexplained.

Favorite Books - Ideas about the future, utopia/ dystopia and survival of people and culture. I've been reading science fiction written 100+ years ago, predictions from the past. Horror, but not bloody, gruesome stuff with killers etc.

About Me - Writing non-fiction for my own site thatgrrl.com Some fiction but I mostly start ideas that I don't find an ending for.

Photographing old rural places, buildings, and built heritage, around Ontario. Not as much as I used to.

Quietly and unapologetically, Canadian, a Witch (no worshipping anything, certainly not devils), and an ASCII artist - asciiartist.com

Volunteering with Ontario Barn Preservation, a non-profit. Also, Curlie.org which used to be well known as the Open Directory Project. I have written about almost anything for a lot of sites online, and one zine in print.

I do not use a mobile/cell phone. I am pretty much anti-phone. My Father was phone obsessed to the point of madness. Growing up with that obsession/ anger... I don't have words for it. Also, its almost never good news. I would rather write an email, or a an actual letter or card to mail (snail mail, imagine that!).

Season's Greetings! Its always one season or another. Why save it for just one?

Lady Banana posted this plan... you look up your name in the Urban Dictionary for the true meaning. Or something like that.

I like this one:

a young woman, typically associated with romantic themes. Though the name originally came from the Roman tradition of placing a wreath of laurels on victors' heads, it has developed more emotional ties in recent years.

The most famous Laura is from Dr. Zhivago in which she is a star-crossed lover who leaves her true love to marry another man.

Petrarch's muse is suspected to be the mysterious Laura de Noves (1310–1348), who was the wife of Count Hugues de Sade (ancestor of Marquis de Sade). Petrarch wrote hundreds of poems dedicated to her.

She is also mentioned in Walter Raleigh's poem, A Vision Upon This Conceit of the Faerie Queen as well as Martin Farquhar Tupper's poem, Laura (from Petrarch).

• "My Laura, my love, I behold in thine eyes twin daystars that Mercy has given to teach me on earth to be happy and wise and guide me triumphant to heaven."

As a writer, at the worst, when I'm hating myself the most... am I thinking this as a story I could create or is it what I really feel? But, I realize I'm thinking it all. I'm not writing any of it down.

Until just now as I'm sitting here. A midway point in self hatred. Is this to prove something to myself? Is it real or just an excuse. Do I hate myself as much as I think I do? One day I will find out. Prove and know myself.

Go to bed, stop thinking... watch a disaster movie to shut up my thoughts. Wake up sometime later, still here, on the planet, still here in my brain. What do you think brain, is it me or am I writing a self monologue for myself or about myself?

One day I won't be here, it will be peaceful, it will be over.

To be fair to my Mother, no one in my family reads anything I write. So, this shouldn't just be about her. I've sent stories to family and get no feedback, or no acknowledgement really. I think this must happen to writers a lot. But, it doesn't make it feel any better.

Mom has found the Facebook account of Corey, the man who stole from us, continued to trespass here, being an unwanted person as the police called it, and set fires around our house. Corey who returned to steal even more months later, after he was out of jail for breaking a peace bond with the police. Corey who caused over $600 in damages to the garage he lit on fire next to the home we live in. Corey who I stayed up all night in case he came back to set more fires. What a pillar of the community, that Corey.

Corey is a brilliant writer. Mom is enjoying reading his posts on Facebook. Photos he has had taken lately while he recovers in hospital from being hit by a car or something... I don't care enough to have paid attention. Corey, the man who I have phoned the police to remove from our property at least three times. Etc, etc etc.

Mom has been asking me to read brilliant Corey's posts. Over and over this morning since she found them. She went looking for them, and found them, and read them.

She hasn't read mine. Not here. She says the link doesn't work. Not the newsletter which I emailed to her, the full contents of the newsletter in the email. She said it looked good. She didn't read it. None of the sites I have written for online since about 1998 when I began writing for other networks/ sites online. Not stories, poems, fiction or non-fiction which I wrote any time in my life - none that I can remember. Did she ever read something and just not mention it, or have I forgotten an event when she did read something... possibly. It would be nice to think so.

I got some kind of emotional listening to her go on about how I must read Corey's posts. How much I would like them, how Corey writes about so many interesting things.... On and on and on.... I don't know what the emotions I felt were. The longer she went on the more emotion I felt. But, I kept it to myself. When I didn't want to listen any more I did say something about how she doesn't read anything of mine. I left then. No point in saying more. Not worth it. She went outside to her garden and I'm here.

She made an effort to read Corey's posts. She had to find him on another Facebook account, the young man downstairs had/ has him as a friend. She spent time scrolling through Corey's feed, at least an hour I would guess. It takes time to read.

I think she wanted to know that Corey is ok after being hit by a car, or whatever it was. Corey is after all, quite a guy! Mom still talks about him. Months after he did all he has done, and is likely to continue doing. Why not? Police... oh what's the point of writing about all of that again.

I'm not going to send her any more links to anything I write. Am I bitter? Possibly, maybe disappointed but not surprised. Not really surprised at all. I'm sad, I'm letting myself feel that much. Mostly I'm blocking everything I feel out. What does it matter? What is the point of having emotions or caring? Who cares, not even me in the end.