All posts by justcallmetaco

About justcallmetaco

I don't fuck around --- not in my writing --- and not in my life. I'm a powerful woman who has finally found herself. I hope you find me too. I'm a Bitch who simultaneously wants to make everyone's life better, every day. I hate everyone until I breathe. It's good that I breathe, like, all the time so far in my life.

I’m A Free Bitch, Baby

Valentine’s Day.

The day that stores and shopping malls everywhere try to get rid of their Christmas inventory by repackaging shit as “a gift from the heart.”

The day that tortures the men who care — only to be met with lack of appreciation.

The day my most recent ex went to get a card last year and ended up chatting with some girl who he basically described as “hot for someone in her pajamas” and “stupid for caring since it was almost 5:00 P.M. and men don’t care about or want, cards,” so he was one of three of the most last minute douches on Valentine’s Day.

I, last year, colored hearts for people, like this one:

This one went to my ex’s married friend. She likes the beach — so I did a sunset kind of thing for her. She’s dead to me now, though. Her choice.

Can we just pause for a second? Every day I get sicker. Every. Day. And maybe it’s not as bad as what some people go through, but it’s still fucking bad. And my friends don’t understand. I can tell they’re growing tired of my handicap.

I can’t do the things I used to be able to do. I fell down three stairs on Sunday night, carrying exactly three bags of cat litter to the laundry area for the cats’ litter boxes at my Mom’s house. I slipped on plastic I couldn’t see due to said bags of litter, fell on my knees, bags fell on me, and immediately started crying. It fucking hurt!

Gross, right? Hard to bend too. It hurts all the time — so I rub burn gel on it so it goes numb and I can pretend I have a normal life.

Just like I numb everything else.

And I’m thrilled this happened the way it did, because I didn’t get an infection, like when I was cleaning up after my Christmas tree and DID, from a pine needle. No joke.

Lately — I must be especially stressed or miserable because my esophageal spasms, another forever condition that doctors know almost nothing about, are flaring up like frat boys on during spring break. (That simile makes more sense in my head.)

For those who want to know what esophageal spasms are, here:

“People who experience esophageal spasms may have the following symptoms:
  • severe chest pain, as if the chest is being squeezed or the person has a heart attack.
  • difficulty swallowing.
  • heartburn.
  • feeling as though an object is stuck in the throat or chest.”

Link info here: https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/320926.php

In other words, HAVING IT — SUCKS.


I love so many people. I sent out as many Valentine’s as I could afford.

What do you do when you’re me, and you’ve gone through HELL and you’ve endured more than the people in your life even care to ask you about anymore, because “it’s always something,” and they’re busy, bored, or just don’t care that much about you just so you could be in a PERFECT PLACE in your life right now, instead of stuck?

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. RAGE more.

I’m going to get my huge Polish nose pierced. I’m going to get tattooed. I’m going to write a book that tells my truth, with the support of my number one fan.

I’m going to stop giving a fuck about being conventional, and do it my way.

I’m going to forget the haters — y’all keep doing you — and I’ll keep thinking you suck, or worse, are proper shit friends, who feign interest in the only things keeping me going.

I’m bitter. And? What?

I’m sorry if the only chance I have to be happy doesn’t fit into your perfect fucking life where you have everything I’ve ever wanted.

We don’t need to keep seeing each other if it’s too much for you.

Just don’t bother being my friend anymore.

I REALLY get NOTHING from you.

I’m used to going it alone.

Between my Dad dying five years ago and my ex leasing me to die inside for the five years subsequent to that, I’m good.

I’ve got this.

I get it.

I don’t get a win.

I never get a win.

I do whatever I can for everyone I can, and I’m tired of THATfeeling pointless.

Time is funny. It’s our most valuable commodity. We can never get it back once it’s gone.

And all these thoughts just because I’m single again on Valentine’s Day.

I can’t let that affect me though. Everything in the past is in the past, right? It’s been six months! It’s like, so annoying that like, I can’t just like, snap out of it already.


Today is also my Dad’s Birthday.

Happy 81st in Heaven, Podgey.

I miss you — my best friend, the man who taught me to treat everyone like family, and the guy who would give the shirt off his back to help anyone — every day.

Every day is a little bit darker because you’re not here.

But, I know that the man who you conversed with at Rocky’s for years and years and years — you know who — the one who looked up our last name online when you just stopped showing up one day — and then went to where Mom works to find out what happened to you — but no one could help him because Mom was also in the hospital — the one who died before Mom got better so she never could give him the information to see you — THAT man — is shooting the shit with you while you sip your morning coffee with Equal, NOT Sweet-n-Low, (which is for posers) — and reading the funnies and political sections of “The Ledger” this morning up there.

I can’t wait to see you again.

I love you,

Goose

Ten Things I Know About Me (And I Guess Now You Do Too)

1. I always have to have a beverage in my bag/purse/car/hand, etc. at all times OR I cannot stop thinking about it and get thirsty and scared.

2. I am always dehydrated. I literally cannot hydrate myself and it occasionally causes a lot of cognitive and/or movement problems.

3. I’m going to be getting more tattoos. I never thought I would, after the last one, but the idea of having them in personal, weird, and secret places — entices me. I love great and creative tattoos. They’re hot. On men and women. It’s a personal preference; I understand that but God damn if I don’t enjoy objectifying a tattooed man.

4. I love the car air freshener scent, “Black Ice,” so I get packs as a gift very often from friends and family. I have about fifteen of them unopened in my glove compartment right now.

5. I am hyper sensitive to smells and scents, (and who am I kidding…everything else) both good and bad. (My high school boyfriend had the best smell. He always insisted it was just his deodorant, which lead to a very interesting conversation starter for my friends about me. “She loves smelling men’s armpits!” It was not awesome for me, in and of itself, but, it did lead to some pretty great smells.) Whatever smells I smell – go a very long way in choosing a partner to hold on to. I hope someday soon I’ll find a man on the same page as me, who will want to get married (and be pampered every chance I get since that’s just what I do — for — reasons), AND wants children as much as I do, and now that so many of my friends have babies, or are pregnant, now, already, every time a smell bothers me, I think, “I wonder what this is going to be like when I’m pregnant.” Maybe I’ll get lucky and everything will smell amazing!

6. This is me in 2007, with now Patriot’s player (boooooooo) Devin McCourty, (yaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy), 2018-2019 season’s Super Bowl Champion. I was reminiscing about this with my college roommate. She convinced me to go to the Spring training “game,” and I remembered there being a looooong line for Ray because everyone wanted Ray Rice’s signature!!! And I had already heard some pretty bad things about his character, so I was like, “fuck that!” and I now I have a picture with a Super Bowl champ (who is also my Facebook friend, as is his brother, Jason, soooooo, go Rutgers! All because my roommate and I took a chance on the love of the game). (I’ve also only slept three hours in two days so I think I’m funnier than I am.)

7. My cats, the kittwins, below, are named after Peyton and Eli Manning. It took me three months to name them. I rescued them in August, so being an Eli Manning fan and all, the timeline checks out. Fur color makes obvious who is who.

8. I SERIOUSLY, like SERIOUSLY, reject everything sprung on me. “Do you want to go to the movies in an hour?” No! “Do you want to go to Target in an hour?” No! “Will you help me with reaching that item, Dear?” Yes! I get used a lot in ShopRite, hahahahaha. If it’s helping someone thing, I guess I always say, “yes.” But don’t just be like, “let’s spend Christmas in North Korea this year,” AND expect happiness. At least I’m aware of it? The thing is, though, if you give me a bit to consider a proposal of sorts, I’ll usually agree the second time you ask. I’ve been in therapy for 15+ years and I have no idea where that shit comes from, so if you have ideas — let’s hear ’em!

9. I don’t eat, or rather, don’t eat like anyone I’ve ever known. I told my Mom that since it’s definitely not anorexia (I obvi have a hot bod and happen to like my own softness over bones —– OMG I already hate myself for writing that statement out loud in my blog — and maybe even paper if you print my blogs to enjoy during your morning commute on the train or something — hey, a woman can dream), because food is good if you want to be healthy, and I do. But I essentially need prescription drugs just to get me to eat. This really sucks, because food is exceptionally delicious. I really love food. I also really hate the process of eating. (I would say it is because I’d rather talk than eat when with others), but I’m hella single now, AND a middle child, so I feel like that anyway.

10. If you’re a man and you’re grossed out by a woman, women, or anyone at all — talking about periods or menstruation, you are probably not mature enough to be having sex. I could never be with a man who was that immature.

Peace and love y’all! ✌️❤️

Sex Sells To The Distracted (E.G. I’m Sleeping My Way Out Of This One).

Editor’s Note: My original post made little sense. Don’t fall a bunch, get a chronic illness whose main objective is to give you pain and exhaust you and confuse you, or fall asleep and hit “publish” before final editing. But I’m done apologizing for myself. Even if it’s uncomfortable.

This whole post was supposed to be kind of ironic. I wanted to complain about how men judge women based on their ability to sext correctly WHILE using Charlie Hunnam as a visual sex object.

Hey y’all!

So I wrote last night and I guess the blogging bug hit me….OR, maybe I am looking for your advice, dear readers.

Stay tuned next post to find out which one is true. April Fools, Bitches! (What a dumb joke at 3:00 A.M.!!!)

First, and to get it out of the way, I’m looking for advice.

The thing I want to share is that I’ve decided to remain celibate until marriage — for now. And, before you freak the fuck out — this decision has nothing to do with any sort of religious beliefs. It’s far more about me being true to myself and wanting to know 100% what I want in the bedroom.

Let’s face it, women, we could send 100,000 “sexy” pics to an honorable, yet horny man, or, just do it for fun (seriously, I swear on my life, I’m not saying that’s in any way wrong, trashy, asking for “bad news,” slutty, etc.), those are just the names I’ve been called since posting last night’s picture (and the worst thing is I didn’t expect anything less), but mostly, that’s not really our thing. Guys, however, seem to really enjoy it. I think coupled with online dating, this is especially but not exclusively true.

I’ve been told that’s because men are “visual creatures.” But I have eyes! In fact I quite enjoy using my eyes too.

Second, Charlie Hunnam is the most gorgeous. Just EVER. 6′ 1″ ladies! Look:

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(King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword. Accent + best body ever — why can this dude not knock on my door? Like — if he were my mailman I would definitely sleep with him.)

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God DAMN —– he IS sex. Add a man bun and a love for me and we’re in business!

Now that that’s over with.

I posted a picture of myself that I’m proud of, in my last post. I did it my way.

My ex always used to try and make me feel as bad as possible which also meant killing whatever else was peaking through to compliment me.

So I’ve been talking with the cute guy I met at the cover I went to alone – Mr. O.A.R. – since December 7th – over two months without exchanging pictures that I am not comfortable seeing nor showing…could it be?

My O.A.R. friend whom I met at the concert works and calls me sexy while I’m dressed!!! Without seeing me naked?! WTF?

I’ve never been even close to promiscuous…probably by God’s standards. But of course I’m not angelic. And that matters in any relationship.

So, Mr. O.A.R., (whose name I know but you won’t for now) – who IS freaking HOT – and by the way – I like my men kind.

Mr. O.A.R man hasn’t said he can’t be with me because I don’t want casual sex, which he has mentioned that’s what he’s looking for, himself. Anyone who knows anything about me knows why that’s not for me.

But this hot 🔥🔥🔥 29 year old still texts me and asks me about my life, and feels me how sexy I am.

So the advice I need reader, is whether you think I’m crazy for standing by my weird new celibacy thing? Is it super abnormal at my age? Do I care about my age when it comes to this? Could this help me heal?

Help me help myself!

But if you find Charlie Hunnam, single again, dibs. I called dibs. So, I get him. Sorry to sexually exploit one of the hottest men on planet Earth, but we’re all human, sometimes.

Peace ✌️

How’s It Gonna Be Cause Oblivion?

I’ve been off the grid for a minute. Not at all writing blocked, just really sad. Thinking about my ex this time of year sucks. It was just his 37th birthday. Who cares, right? But I always tried for him. Appreciated or not. I never thought we wouldn’t be together forever. Not in a million years.

The good thing about my thinking about the ex lately, is how much I respect myself now compared to when he was here. For instance, this picture:

So, aside from the lower left hand corner of the image, which is just my bare leg, I felt confident and carefree. I felt awesome.

Could it be?

My bad habit stopped almost as soon as he did. I have lost more than twenty-five pounds. I’m feeling healthy about my body. I feel clear. Or maybe clean?

I must also note that I have started a personal journal just about sex, and about my relationships, and it’s helping me process a lot of difficult shit.

So yay for words(!!!!!) and letting go of what I can only describe as “a forced me.”

Although I know he’d never read this blog, in fact, because I’m counting on that, all I have to say is: I miss you G-bear. It never mattered who was wise. We were both assholes.

I just don’t want to be an asshole anymore.

(For the most part — I mean a woman’s GOT to get HERS.)

But I don’t want to be anything resembling an asshole — EVER — in a relationship again. Even though it’s looking like it will never be ours.

Peace ✌️

10 Reasons 2019 Is Already Better Than 2018.

1. I can sleep alone with the window open all night long in the winter under 8 blankets, feeling SAFE, for the first time in years, and breathe in the fresh, amazing, cold January air without anyone complaining.

2. I’m happily single. So when the cute guy I met at the O.A.R. concert texted me on Christmas to politely ask if I am single, I could happily reply, “yes.”

3. As a happily single woman living on her own, I make my own rules. And no one can judge, criticize, or otherwise tell me how stupid those rules are. For example, naming things whatever I want to name them.

4. Music, all the time. Music I love, music that’s new, music in the shower. Music.

5. On demand, and books. I’ll never, ever, be lacking in the story department.

6. I have a land line now. And I don’t get criticized for it every time I bring it up. And all my calls come through!!!

7. I’m pursuing my dream FINALLY and saying goodbye to something that only ever brought me misery. Telling my parents I passed two BAR exams on my first try — and their being proud of me — only good thing that happened regarding my career choice since going to law school. I know my Dad would be just as proud of me for finally pursuing something that makes me happy. My Mom supports me every day.

8. I can cook. And not just for me, but for my Mom too. (Probably the biggest shock of this list!)

9. I cannot THANK ENOUGH THE PEOPLE who reached out to me from all walks of life after my recent darker post. The LOVE, KINDNESS, and WILLINGNESS TO HELP, and to tell me you CARE that I’m here, and everything else that you said, was beyond AMAZING. I am blessed and never feel otherwise. Depression brings significant lows. I can’t and will never apologize for the reality of that. Thank you all for your amazing kind words and for checking in on me in whatever way you did.
Likewise, if you think you know better than me, that you can teach me a lesson, or that you can pretend to know my circumstance in some arrogant, preachy, out of touch way, I don’t need you in my life. To quote a very good friend, “comparison is the thief of joy.” I know people are in worse circumstances than mine, but reminding ANYONE with depression of that is probably on the top ten list of the WORST things you can say to us. So I’ll pass — on all forthcoming condescending idiocy. But I wish you good luck in your own life, truly. Just take that log out of your eye.

10. I’m optimistic.

Peace ✌️

Give Me A Reason…

My second threat happened within then last two years. I went to see my therapist who is “stationed” in a “BAD NEIGHBORHOOD” — some bullshit label I fucking hate to use in the first place. People are circumstances of their surroundings — so fucking whatever.

Anyway. I was walking as usual from my car through the alley to the front door where I get buzzed in. You see, it’s locked due to the “BAD NEIGHBORHOOD.”

By way of background, I usually only have to wait five long seconds, at most, to be buzzed in by the receptionist, who I consider a friend, at this point.

But not this day.

My safety was compromised this day.

I walked with my pepper spray out, quickly, walking “with purpose” as my Middle School Chorus teacher used to say, eyes pealed for predators. I knew by that time not to trust anyone. Not someone I knew, (had been raped the first time already), and not someone I didn’t (I had learned enough from the Rape Crisis Center I volunteered at by then).

As I approached the building, and thus, door, to be buzzed in, I saw two men across the street from me. I said to myself, “don’t make rash judgments based on bullshit, you’re paranoid.”

Then they crossed the street.

They had no discernible reason to cross the fucking street.

“Fucking fuck,” I thought. “Don’t lose your shit,” I thought.

They regarded me in a way that I can only describe as unnerving.

I pushed my button to be buzzed in. I waited.

Nothing happened.

Next, I heard, “we can take this bitch.” Then, “yeah man.”

Great. pepper spray out, I was ready to throw my bag one way, spray one of the guys with that, then jump into self-defense mode with the other. I knew I might have to run to my car to avoid being hurt — or —- raped — or worse.

I prepared myself. I knew I had to be ready to fight then flight.

And I was buzzed in.

It’s not okay.

I’M NOT OKAY. I won’t be. Maybe ever. Thanks, exes.

This isn’t a “happy ending” to my “story,” okay?

Sure, I avoided a situation and maybe a tragedy I didn’t want to deal with. Thank God, right? But the fact that it happened at all is a problem.

There are women you know who don’t have pepper spray, who don’t have self-defense training, who aren’t paranoid because they haven’t been attacked before.

And if no one was there to buzz me in, I might not be here right now writing this shit.

Feminists want equality, definitely. But we also want fucking safety when we go outside.

Women don’t do to men the shit men do to them. We just DON’T.

So I’m not the shoulder to cry on to complain about inequality between feminists and men who think “equality” means allowing a woman to get raped.

Grow up.

Fucking whatever.

BREATHE — TAKE A SHOT — A SMOKE — FUCKING WHATEVER.

Totally new thing.

How do YOU deal with missing someone you don’t even really know?

Can you tell me how I’m supposed to deal with it?

Because I just can’t stop crying. So. That’s really [not] fucking helpful.

This guy — who I really admired and liked and appreciated and thought was attractive and looked at beyond “the whatever friend etc. zone,” died this past summer. It was not a suicide; a freak accident — health related.

When I went to his Wake with my Mom, I tried to be strong — my Mom knew the Mother of the deceased since High School — but I saw one picture of him in Uniform (Iraq) standing between his Mother and Father and it was over.

“Sobbing.” doesn’t do what happened to me then, justice. I was one person away from giving my condolences to his Mother.

There was NOTHING I could do.

I grabbed her, hugged her, and said through sobs of gasps, “I am so sorry,” and eventually, “he was such an amazing person.”

She replied, “he always wanted to ask you out, and I told him you had a boyfriend.”

I said, “I would have gone out with him anyway. I wish he had asked me.”

We held onto each other like we were holding on for life, literally.

Have you ever hugged someone like your life depended on it? THAT’S what this was. And we’ve been very close ever since.

FUCK.

He deserves better than this lame ass written bullshit here.

There’s a song — on all of my playlists now — all of them — and I’m decorating a Christmas tree tonight. So important, right? And this song comes on. And at an important part of the song, something in my vicinity moves.

So I start talking to HIM. The “dead guy.”

Because why the fuck not?

And all of a sudden I break down and can’t stop crying.

Maybe for the life he should have lived.

Maybe for the life we could have had together.

Maybe for what I missed out on.

Maybe because I’ll never be able to talk to him again — maybe hoping he just hears me and regards me.

Maybe because I’ll never ever ever ever ever ever know that love.

Maybe because this season fucking sucks for broken families.

Maybe because I’m completely unstable.

But I talked to him for MINUTES through tears until I gave up decorating my tree and came here to write, for you.

I’m so depressed I don’t believe in anything good right now.

If you care, you have my contact info.

Give me a reason to care.

Give me a reason to keep writing.

Give me any reason if you want me to be here.

Author’s Note: I am not suicidal.

I appreciate everyone who has reached out to me. I didn’t mean to scare everyone, and I apologize and feel very bad about that.

I’m clearly having a very difficult time with the season. I know it is a difficult time for a lot of other people. I will be okay. I was writing perhaps a little too honestly.

I promise I won’t give up on myself.

Sorry for scaring you. Thank you to those who reached out to me. It is everything.

Peace.

I’m Just A Person

I promised I’d always be honest here, for you, reader.

The truth is — I am too depressed — and — I’m hating myself too much right now — for so many things — that I’m not capable of putting my shit out there for you to read.

I’m sorry, but.

I’m not okay.

I will live — that’s a promise.

But, I’m not okay.

And I don’t know what to tell you except that I’m miserable enough to have given up on everything I wished for — through my writing — which may mean nothing to anyone — honestly — to the extent that I don’t believe anything good can happen in this world, no matter how hard I try to help others.

I know life’s not fair.

I fucking know that.

But a little sprinkle of appreciation once in awhile would be greatly appreciated and would go a really long way.

If I have to leave this apartment — I’ll likely end up being the person I was when I moved out in the first place. And I guarantee you don’t want to know her.

God speed ya’ll.

Hopefully I check in tomorrow.

One Foot In Front Of The Other.

It was getting late. Almost 11:30 P.M. This picture had been taken at least a full hour ago:

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The friends I met up with were starting to get incoherent, and, although I never mind not drinking around people who are, I don’t love staying around people who are drunk and keep drinking anyway. Especially in bars. I had driven myself to New Brunswick, so I had to drive home. Since I had driven, I hadn’t had anything to drink. That’s my rule and I always stick to it. I would never want to risk hurting anyone.

“I think I’m going to get going, everyone,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s getting late, us too,” another member of the group seemingly gratefully jumped on board. She was the designated driver for two other women in the group. They parked outside the bar. I had parked a bit away, but had always felt safe walking around New Brunswick alone, even at night. I was a smart kid.

“Hey! Where are you going?” the DD asked.

“Oh, I’m in the deck by the hotel. I didn’t feel like dealing with circling the streets and this deck is free and always has spots,” I answered.

“Hop in, we’ll take you,” she replied.

“Are you sure? I’m really okay,” I promised.

“Yes. Besides it’s freezing. Come on,” she convinced me.

She dropped me in front of the hotel as our two other friends drunkenly laughed and sang. “Thank you so much! Drive safely!” I said as I grabbed my purse off of the floor.

“Will do!” she yelled, and they were gone. I started walking to the front of the hotel, the best way to get to the elevators to the parking deck. My keys were out, the longest between my knuckles, just in case.

I walked through the lobby to the elevators which connected the hotel to the parking garage. Unlike when I had parked earlier in the evening, a party of some kind was going on and/or wrapping up in the hotel’s main room.

I waited patiently for the elevator. Soon two other couples joined me, waiting. And then, two men who had clearly had too much to drink and were looking to instigate something. I could literally feel it in my gut as they approached. They started to get louder and louder, looking for an audience. As they looked at me, I regarded them with caution, afraid at this time of night they might take an acknowledgment as an invitation.

The elevator finally came, and the two men went in first. Then the couples.

I hesitated, thinking to myself, just wait for the next one, you’re already nervous. Then, they are clearly watching me, so if I don’t get in, it might actually be worse. They could get off and try to wait with me, and then I’d be alone. At least right now there were four other people who would surely keep them calm. I’m the last in so I’ll be the first out. It’s only three floors. I reluctantly stepped in the right side so I could select the floors myself.

I hit “3” which lit up and asked everyone else, “which floor?”

“That’s us too,” said one couple. I relaxed a little.

“Us too!” said the second couple.

“Yeah, that’s where we’re going too,” said one of the two men, speaking for both of them.

I waited for the doors to close.

Then.

“Damn, girl, what you doin’ tonight?” I heard the man behind me say. My back was to him so I pretended he could have been talking to anyone.

“What? You gonna ignore me lookin’ like that?” he went on.

“Yo, check this out. She’s looking for attention too. She’s got that cute little outfit on. You like purple?” The same man asked.

“Whoooo-hoooo, she definitely likes purple,” echoed the second man.

I looked to my left and saw that the men had moved to a different spot on the elevator. How did they do that? And what is taking so long?! I looked at both couples. All four people, staring straight ahead.

“You got plans tonight!” said one of the men to me.

I looked at the couples again. No reaction.

They’re not going to let anything happen to me, I thought.

Okay.

Fuck.

You already know where you parked. You always memorize it. Keys are out. The second the door opens, you’re going to have to act not scared. Head straight for the car. Hit the button on the remote, get in, and lock the door. You can do this. You parked fairly close to the elevator. You’re the only old green Accord in the lot. Maybe only six to ten cars away. You know what to do.

I had a plan.

While I was thinking more heckling had been going on. The couples were getting more and more uncomfortable. The fact that they were between me and the guys comforted me. They would stop any attempted pursuit, right?

It was extremely clear by now that these men planned to try to talk with me — at the very least once this ride was over.

Floor three. This was it. The doors opened and I started taking large steps toward my car as fast as possible.

“Where you goin,’ sweetheart?” I heard a man say.

“Yeah, don’t play us like that. The night’s not over,” said the other man.

I looked back. The couples were almost out of sight heading in the opposite direction, there were other people walking in the lot but nowhere near me at the moment, while the men — were gaining on me!?

I snapped out of asking myself what kind of people, riding the elevators with their wives, or dates, or girlfriends, or husbands, or boyfriends could possibly let this happen exactly like it was happening.

RUN.

That’s all I felt. I went into complete flight mode knuckling my key even tighter hitting my remote over and over and over again until I could see my car’s lights blink, indicating it was unlocked. I kept clicking it just in case, moving as fast as I could. I didn’t look back again. But I could hear them. My running must have caused them to run too.

This is how I die, I thought. I’m going to get raped and murdered and no one will ever find me. My Mom, my Dad. Jesus.

GET TO THE FUCKING CAR.

I turned into the driver’s side nook cursing the car next to mine for parking so close. I got in and pushed down the lock holding it there as one of the men tried pulling open the door.

Put the key in the ignition. You’re getting out of here. Turn the car on.

The man outside started banging on my windows and hood. His friend had caught up with him but didn’t touch my car. The guy on my car was getting angrier. Screaming worse and worse things to me that I cannot remember. I was numb.

Holding down the lock with one hand (knowing that really wasn’t doing much) and having turned on the car, I used the other hand to put the car into reverse.

“Yo!” the further away man said.

“What?” the guy on my car yelled back. He put his hands on my trunk and stood there, looking at me through my rear view window. He wasn’t moving.

“Dude, let’s go find something else, she ain’t shit,” the further away man said.

Please work please listen to him oh my God please get the fuck off my car and go away oh God help me please God don’t let them get in.

The man on my car slammed his fists on my trunk twice.

“Yeah, fine! No one needs this shit anyway,” he said, and he walked away heading toward the other man.

I breathed for the first time since I saw the other people in the elevator letting this happen. My hands were shaking. I was terrified. When I was sure they were out of sight I exited the parking deck, certain they would jump out at any point while getting out of there. I couldn’t stop looking in my rear view.

You don’t want to wake Mom and Dad, I thought. They would be asleep by now. Don’t worry them. You’re fine. You’re fine! You made it. You did exactly what you needed to. You survived.

Still, I thought these guys might be tailing me all the way home, so shaken and paranoid that I couldn’t relax even after getting inside my house. I locked the door in two ways, something we never often did in my home growing up. I left my parents a note so they wouldn’t worry about the chain (or break it) and taped it to the doorknob in case they woke up before me.

And then, alone in my room, in disbelief, I drank.

I wrote the following Facebook post at 1:26 A.M., still completely shaken:

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Re-reading that, I remember signing up for the self-defense class my first semester of my freshman year of college. I had dated a guy very briefly who, as it turned out, had excessive control issues and major anger issues. I told you, I’m an anxious person. I wanted to make sure I was ready just in case. I remember coming back from class having bruises on my arms and shins from practicing so hard against myself.

And yes, all of the thoughts of self-defense came into my head at some point. Since there were two men, I knew that even if I was lucky enough to disable one by putting my key through his neck I might have to use the other techniques I learned on the other one.

I kept drinking. And drinking. Until I finally fell asleep.

How many times do self-defense moves ruminate in your mind while walking anywhere throughout the day? Are you always watching others? Getting a grasp on your surroundings, potential weak spots, people who don’t look safe, etc.?

Now, I say, “people who don’t look safe,” because of the second time that I was almost attacked. They didn’t look safe. And as it turned out, they weren’t.

But first, I promised you the responses to my Facebook post:

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I numbered (poorly) “1,” “2,” and “3,” because those people were out with me earlier in the night. “2” and “3” were in the car that dropped me off, if that’s at all relevant. The rest of the comments:

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Number “4” up there is the friend who dropped me off in front of the hotel.

I wrote the thing at the bottom with the yellow cover-up over it. My response was prompted by the person who I have written “nickname” near, above. (He used a nickname which would give away who he is — to probably more people than he’d like — so I had to kill it.)

But what the actual fuck?

Yeah, I should have done something differently. <– SARCASM INCLUDED. Jesus Christ.

I tried to walk to my car.

That’s it, people! I didn’t provoke, invite, or otherwise suggest I wanted any part of the rest of the evening of these men. So that was a totally fucked up response.

Unfortunately, it, and those like it, are not uncommon. A lot of people do this. It’s almost never appropriate. Victim blaming is NOT okay and it NEEDS to stop PERMANENTLY.

A couple of things.

I am SO MUCH MORE VOCAL online about things like this NOW than I was six years ago when this happened. I was still in shock when I wrote it. I had over 800 Facebook “friends” at the time. This matters only insofar as getting only eleven comments was pretty pathetic, I felt, especially at the time.

I’m not Facebook friends with ANY of the people numbered anymore. And I’m not friends with them in real life either. They know one of my rapists. And I couldn’t deal with that. Especially after I told number “2” about the rape, and subsequently saw her in photos with the rapist on Facebook afterwards. (See earlier blog posts for that rant.) Just like I’m not about to be “friends” with the rapist who sent me that request, I’m not going to be friends with people who are friends with my rapist, ESPECIALLY if you know he raped me.

So now, I protect myself. It is legal to carry pepper spray of a certain concentration and below in New Jersey. So I do. And every time I feel unsafe I walk with it out and opened. And one time, I thought it was going to be the only thing that saved my life. But one bedtime story is enough for tonight, kids.

Reliving all this trauma takes a toll on me that needs to be monitored.

I’ll share my second experience and my run in with “security” at the O.A.R. concert next time (probably).

NO ONE should have to exist in this world feeling unsafe just because they are out alone. Women don’t need escorts anymore, although, sometimes I think to myself, I sure wouldn’t mind a friend to make me feel safer walking everywhere I go. Maybe that’s why I pick larger men to date. For safety. Except they can turn that on you too, as I well know.

Just know, if you’re reading this, and you’ve never had to experience something like it, worry about it, etc., count yourself lucky and blessed. I have friends who get harassed weekly, if not more, on the street — merely for existing in public as women.

I ask that if you are a woman especially, but if you are a man as well, that you stand up and don’t allow that shit to happen. If you’re with someone who says something he/she shouldn’t to someone going about their day, take control and make it right.

All we have is life.

Peace ✌️

So I Walk, Yeah I Walk.

Okay. I wanted to tell you why Friday night’s concert experience started off with a very livid me. I was going to start this post with all of the reasons I have to walk down the street with pepper spray out “just in case” — you know — because I was born with ovaries — and identify as a cisgender woman.

But.

My scheduled programming is interrupted as I just got a Facebook friend request from someone who I KNOW fucking RAPED someone I deeply care about — some years back.

Soooooo. THAT actually happened, in real life. This “friend” request. Jesus Christ.

And I don’t know how to process it all quite yet. I wanted to immediately reply via message “are you fucking serious? I know you raped __________. I’d rethink wanting into my life.

But I stopped myself.

It’s not my place.

It wouldn’t help anyone at this point.

And it’s not my story to tell.

So I won’t.

I just can’t fucking believe people.

I won’t click on his profile, but from the picture alone it looks like he has children since we were friends in real life. If my father was a rapist I’d be pretty fucked up, I’d think. I hope they NEVER know that part of him.

We have a number of mutual friends in common. I’d love for them to know what kind of person he is — BUT I keep secrets I’m asked to keep.

To be 100% clear — I am not making any type of threat to him — about him — regarding him — however it needs to be heard/read/said to you. Because I will not let that shit into my life.

So, as I “pray” on THAT — so to speak — I need some time to finish writing my post about what I have to do now to feel safe.

Basically it starts with an incident not that long ago.

December 8th was the six year anniversary of me getting chased to my car by two men — in a parking deck.

People could have intervened but did not — and one of the men almost caught me. He wouldn’t get off of my car for what felt like an eternity.

I had never been so terrified in my entire life. Now, I know better. Well, to my credit — I already knew better then.

I am extremely anxious by nature which makes me super observant and hyper vigilant and a quick thinker in emergencies — situations which you never want to be in — well — at least I certainly don’t.

I was lucky I was able to make — and execute — a plan.

I’ll share the full story when I’m feeling less angry at all the above, but believe me I’ll share it soon. I hope tomorrow if I’m up to it.

I intend to share snapshots of what I posted on Facebook about it six years ago, and what my Facebook friends commented in reply to that post.

I will, of course, protect their identities.

But it needs to be seen to understand the full story. People accidentally, I believe, or at least unintentionally, blamed me in some ways in those comments. And that wasn’t okay then, and it’s not now.

People say it’s the fault of a victim for what she was wearing. Here’s me that night. Think I was asking for it?

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I was only a victim of attempted assault then…damn.

Peace.

Of A Revolution.

O.A.R.

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Kings of live performances.

I don’t have the best pictures, and I won’t apologize for that, because it’s a lot more important for me to experience them than to capture them on my phone. I happened to have the best seat I’ve ever had to date which conveniently had a plexiglass barrier in front of it, so things wouldn’t fall over the balcony, I’m guessing, which made it really easy for me to record some of their songs without having to pay attention to my phone, so that was really a win win for me.

They have a cult following which I have recently (see: my Friday post) described as what feels like a religion. Marc, the lead singer, will, during “That Was A Crazy Game of Poker,” put down his mic, and hear a packed venue recite the lyrics, “gotta throw it all down and kiss that shit goodbye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Kiss it goodbye” are the original lyrics. But if you’re a fan, you know you should be singing “kiss that shit goodbye” by now.

As far as concerts go, I’ll never love seeing a band live more than O.A.R.

(Although seeing Eminem with D-12, Lil Jon, 50 Cent, etc. on The Anger Management Tour 14 years ago — (fuck me!) — was a dream come true, and I will always cherish getting to see D-12 prior to Proof’s death, boy-band dancing to “My Band,” Em showing his ass to the crowd, and the electricity when the entirety of Madison Square Garden was pulsing to “Lose Yourself,” an experience I shared with my sister, and will always treasure.)

I used to wonder why people would see a group so many times, especially a group that plays as many old songs as it does new ones — a group that sings things they wrote when they began, twenty-two years ago. Now I know. I get it.

Here’s me, alone, pre-show, taking an obligatory selfie:

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ON GOING ALONE

Well, like I mentioned in my Friday night post, I really wasn’t “alone.” As I said, I forgot that you’re never really alone when you go to see O.A.R.

And guess what! 🎶I met a guy, and I liked it!🎶 (Sung like Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” — just imagine it all right?! Hahaha, ahhhh I crack myself up.)

Actually I met several guys, all of whom ended up sitting near me and were also alone due to a variety of circumstances. They were all super receptive when I started conversations with them and, I think, grateful for the company between the opening acts. The show started at 7:00 but I left just before midnight — I’ve NEVER been to a show that was that long. It didn’t feel like five hours, but it was boring before my companions showed up.

The first guy I spoke to had never seen O.A.R. before so I told him I’d been to a bunch of shows and tried to explain what they were like. I think I did a pretty good job. I told him during certain songs people were basically going to go completely insane because it’s just like that. I told him I couldn’t really do it justice but he would experience it once the show started. During “That Was a Crazy Game of Poker” he leaned over to me and said “I get it now!” He really enjoyed them, which made me happy. It’s normal to be happy when someone you like — likes the thing you told them they would like — right? If it’s not that’s also okay because I’m cool with not being normal, as any of you who read this blog on any kind of consistent or semi-consistent basis by now well know.

The guy that I mentioned in my Katy Perry parody arrived, like, as O.A.R. came on stage. He was really awesome. He’s been to over sixty (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) shows! The man put me to shame! Although it had previously been my conversation starter with the first guy I met, I don’t recall exactly how being alone came up with him. Maybe he just noticed. But I must have said something because after the show he asked me if I was in a Facebook group for fans who basically just meet up and know each other and get together because they’re fans. I, of course, looked at him like a deer in the headlights, so he asked if I had Facebook at all. I said yes, so he pulled up the group and told me I should totally join and I did, when I got home. He was super sweet, even saying, “from now on, even if you’re ‘alone’ at a show you’ll never actually be alone,” and he smiled. Not that I needed taking care of, but it felt like he was taking me under his wing, and not in a condescending way. People who are fans of O.A.R. like he is, aren’t bad people.

So between the two of those guys especially, I didn’t actually feel alone except when I first arrived. We were on our feet dancing, singing, and really getting into the show together. I LOVE it when I’m near fans that aren’t afraid to go where their bodies take them during a set, because that’s just what happens to me naturally when I see O.A.R., and sometimes I feel self-conscious about it — something the superfan and I bonded over after the show was over as well. He made a comment that he was really happy to be between me and the guy on his other side because he’s usually on the floor where that’s pretty normal behavior, and in getting a seat he was afraid it wouldn’t be like that but it totally was. I completely agreed.

I would say that going alone, even next to this friendly cute guy I was vibing on, (is that a phrase? “vibing on?” — doesn’t matter) I have never felt less self conscious at one of their shows.

I just was. I existed. I moved how and when I wanted to and I sang how and when I wanted to, and it felt fucking amazing, truly. I just let go — so to speak. And nothing bad happened when I did. And THAT? Is beautiful.

Even if you went into a show pretty grumpy or pissed, I don’t think it’s possible you wouldn’t feel elation by the time it was over, whether they’re your jam or not. I actually did enter the show pissed for reasons I will detail later in this entry, so take my word for it.

Unless you’re like my ex who would (not unlike every other time I was around him) be on his phone the whole time and only told me after several shows that he didn’t even like them. I was surprised. Apparently he only liked one of their songs. I’m repeating myself but we never shared the same taste in music. Again, although I was open to his music, he hated the music I shared with him and would often tell me how terrible everything I shared with him was. Asshole. (It was a five year relationship, people. It still lingers. Especially the things like that which hurt me pretty deeply.) Like I said, I’m trying to quit writing about him, clearly I’m not there yet. But he was SUCH a buzz-kill at every concert I went to with him. I never understood that. Why go at all? It clearly wasn’t to “be” with me or try to enjoy it because he was never really “present” and he acted above it all.

I am so happy I finally have music back in my life almost all the time since he’s been gone. It helps me think, create, feel. It does what it does!

Although I LOVED the set — NO complaints — really — they did not play my “favorite” song of theirs. Favorite is in quotes because it’s not always the same. I like to hear them all. And I have 40 favorites. So, yeah. But, my “favorite” song to see them perform live is called “City on Down.” This post is so long even I need some visual stimulation right about now so here are some of the lyrics:

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I just took that pic for ya’ll. Sorry not sorry for my Christmas lights kind of being all up in the glare there. Sorry the picture itself isn’t good. I keep this around my apartment. It’s important to me for a lot of reasons. It’s not my best handwriting by a long shot but truthfully I was probably crying while writing it. I have a few others like this around, and here’s why: when someone close to me dies, I usually send their family some or all of the lyrics on a card just like this one, because it is a nice, and, I believe, calming, idea. Whenever I read it I get chills and it grounds me, and, well, to be blunt, encourages me to stop acting like a punk ass bitch when I’m acting like one.

I read the lyrics to this song during my Dad’s repast following his funeral (one month shy exactly of five years ago, today). My Mom remembers it as the song I wrote out for her after one of our most beloved pets died and I made, like, a memory frame for her. I guess I do a lot of really weird things. People always seem to classify them as “thoughtful,” though, so, no harm no foul?

Although I have been planning to get an “Of A Revolution” tattoo for a few years now (and I will as soon as I am certain on where I want to get it and how I want it to look), I don’t own a single piece of “merchandise” of theirs other than their albums — no t-shirts or stickers or anything like that. Just ticket stubs and albums. So I decided that since I was alone and wasn’t affecting anyone by browsing what they had for sale, I would. I am finally the proud owner of my very own O.A.R. t-shirt! I’ve never seen it for sale at their events before, and it’s all about the song “Peace,” another favorite. The lyrics to this song have always made me emotional, and I have this thing with gardening and my Dad and Mom so it was kismit:

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Speaking of kismit — my Mom, encouraging me to go to the concert had said to me, “maybe you’ll meet another guy there who is also alone and it will be kismit!” In many ways she was right. Thanks to the kind superfan I gained a lot which I did not have prior to going! So I guess I also get my E.S.P. from my Mom.

END OF SECTION (UNTIL TOMORROW’S POST — A TEASER FOR WHICH WILL BE AT THE END OF THIS POST)

People who I try to tell about seeing O.A.R. live often react by saying, “so they’re like Dave Matthews Band.” No. Hard pass. I can’t speak for all of us, but there are at least two of us who feel insulted by that comparison for some reason. One person who I met at this last show and I laughed about having had similar conversations.

I guess what I’m trying to express, and not as well as I think I did in my Friday night post I might add, is that those of us who are basically addicted to going to see O.A.R. live do not have anything else in our lives that compares to those experiences.

I’ve NEVER left a show disappointed.

I’ve NEVER not felt better after seeing them live.

It is, in fact, a high that I cannot keep from seeking time and time again. And I don’t drink or drug at concerts. A lot of people do and that’s cool as long as you act right, but since I’m usually driving I just don’t. And I really don’t feel the need to relax more than I do through listening to their music. And that feels pretty fucking amazing.

I went to a concert to see Dan + Shay open for Rascal Flatts this past summer at PNC Arts Center. In my opinion it should have been the other way around, but whatevs.

Anyway, I only mention this concert because a funny thing happened that I think is one of the many ways you can tell a superior band from an inferior one. Rascal Flatts started singing, “Just a small town girl…” and the entirety of The PNC Banks Art Center sang the rest of the first verse and chorus of that song, even though the band had stopped playing the music behind it WELL before we stopped. Then, the lead singer of Rascal Flatts said something like, “Wow! That was insane! I was not expecting that. Now let’s hear that kind of enthusiasm for one of ours!” and they began to play. I didn’t know the song, and apparently I wasn’t the only one. It was nowhere near what had happened moments before, and I felt embarrassed for them.

One of my FAVORITE parts of seeing O.A.R. live is when Marc stops singing during LITERALLY ANY SONG in the set — ANY — SONG — and lets the crowd sing for ourselves. I like to think that there isn’t a better feeling for the members of O.A.R. than standing back and listening to hundreds and hundreds of people singing their lyrics back to them verbatim, in unison, with such passion. We have studied, memorized, and even worshiped their work.

This is the video I recorded of “Shattered,” on Friday, a song played on the radio, so even if you don’t really know who O.A.R. is, you may have heard it before. If you’re not interested in watching the whole thing — (shame on you! — just kidding) — go to minute 2:43 in to see what I’m talking about. You can hear the crowd almost as loudly as Marc throughout the whole song though.

You might say, “that’s true for any band, fans memorize lyrics and like to sing along.” It’s not like that for “any” band, or every band. I feel like I’m coming off a little elitist writing about them this way, but it’s not meant to be like that. I’m just trying to tell you how I experience them. And I know I’m not alone. I’ve been to dozens of other concerts, and it’s never the same. Not. Ever.

For a song you’re not going to hear on the radio, “That Was a Crazy Game of Poker,” well, it’s twelve minutes long so I’m having some issues uploading it (tonight anyway), but if I could, you’d be able to hear the fans sing alone to a song that most people cannot even figure out the words to, particularly non-fans (I mentioned it above). It is usually performed during the Encore, not always, but it was on Friday night, and this is what the floor looked like after the show:

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Yup. That’s thousands of playing cards because it’s a thing we do. The insanity that breaks out when the band let’s us know, (coyly playing with us before breaking into the song through a series of “maybe this is it!!!!!!!!!!” chords) that yes, it is in fact this song — is indescribable. It’s everything I ever want to feel. It’s better than the best feeling you’ve ever felt. (I guess it is a little describable.)

Thanks for reading! I’ll leave you with a few things. I wish you “Peace”:

🎶I just wanna make you laugh
I just wanna see that smile
Babe we’re only here, oh, for a little while
I just wanna hold you till, we fall asleep
I want love, I want us, I want you, I want me, and I want peace🎶

On a totally unrelated note, I locked myself out of my apartment tonight (car keys attached to the house key) right before I was supposed to meet my Mom for our weekly grocery shopping trip, and successfully “broke in” by climbing in through a window that is NOT close to the ground, but WAS my only option. I’m extremely proud of this as it was not easy and I definitely could have broken a lot of body parts. I didn’t even think I’d be able to hoist my fat ass but did. So, suck it, “haters!” I wouldn’t recommend trying to break in the same way if I were you. Fight Club Rules up in here, that’s all I’m sayin’.

So, it was a perfect night — that is — once I actually got past “security.” And do I have a HELL of a story for you about THAT for tomorrow. Pepper spray WAS involved, party people.

Depression; it’s what’s for dinner.

I forgot to have dinner!

I didn’t get to finish my O.A.R. post tonight because of extenuating circumstances. I was doing good deeds and got home really late. My brain hurts and I need sleep.

Plus, going to that concert last night really kicked my ass.

Fucking chronic pain. Fucking depression.

Stay tuned tomorrow night for the real deal.

Peace and love.

And The Way It Used To Be, It Was.

I’m too to write a full post about the O.A.R. concert tonight. But I will say this: I forgot. I forgot that you’re never alone when you’re at an O.A.R. concert. It is an impossibility. There is so much love and camaraderie between the members of the band and those of us who paid to come see them, all united in a vibe that is almost, if not actually, inexplicable. It’s the best therapy ever for those of us who follow them. I try to see them at least once a year, but, if I remembered how I feel right now more often then maybe I would try to see them more than that.

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Experiencing O.A.R. live for those of us who “get it,” is like experiencing religion. It is like everything is better. It is like a pep talk through lyrics and music and understanding. It is what I hope dying feels like. It’s the best feeling in the world when they play a set you love (and you always love the set if you’re a fan, no matter what it is). It is like a Holy experience, if one ever existed. I definitely feel like humanity is worth investing in after seeing them. Every single time. It renews my Faith in everything. Seeing hundreds of decks of cards being thrown around is a better Communion than any I’ve ever received at church. If that doesn’t make sense to you, I’m betting you’ve never been to see O.A.R. live. If it does mean something to you, we should be friends.

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Look, I’m not trying to shit on church. But ESPECIALLY lately, after this new “‘priest’ in charge” came to the church I have belonged to for thirty-three years, that is, my entire life, I don’t believe in anything that is said or goes on there. I just don’t. He has killed my Faith in church. (I used to be a member, independent of my Mom, and because of this “priest,” and how he handled several situations, INCREDIBLY poorly, and not at all like “a man of God,” I killed my membership, and he was HAPPY. What a fucking horrible way to be.) Forget that asshole. He’s not a good person. All he seems to care about is politics, like the politics of the town — not being political with the parishioners, otherwise he would not have been so happy to lose a member of a church who takes pledges from only about twenty people a year. THAT’S IT! TWENTY! So why the HELL would I listen to ANYTHING that came out of his hateful, self-serving, stupid fucking mouth? I wouldn’t. I don’t. I couldn’t respect him LESS.

So, when I go listen to O.A.R. sing “Heaven,” a favorite of mine, I kind of think about my life and where I am and what I’m doing, and aside from cursing, a lot, and hating people like this “priest,” I think I’m doing pretty fucking okay as far as being a good person goes. If I died tomorrow I’d be okay with that. (If you’re surprised by that, feel free to tell me why. I welcome commentary as long as it’s reasonable.)

And when you’re at a live performance like I was tonight, that’s Gospel right there. I used to have a Priest whose teachings were in line with the below lyrics. That’s why I’m so angry about what is going on right now with the church I used to know. Those lyrics are fucking beautiful. That’s how we SHOULD feel (whether we go to church or don’t. NO MATTER WHAT!!!!!!) That’s how I want to feel. And when I see O.A.R., I do feel that way.

Bedtime for me. But a little teaser for the full O.A.R. post, I absolutely loved being there by myself.

And a VERY SPECIAL shout out to my very best friend, who literally tracked and watched me walk to and from the venue/my car via an app to make sure I was safe. You are truly an amazing human being and made me feel so loved and cared about tonight. I cannot believe I am lucky enough to have you in my life. I know that if you could have been there with me tonight you would have. You’re THE definition of THE BEST <3!!!

Some of the lyrics of “Heaven” as I heard them tonight

“Maybe I should take my time
And build this life by my own design
With no direction that is in between
Everything I love and everything I need
So bring it back, all I want is understanding
To live my life the way that I planned it
Wouldn’t change a thing
Man, it feels like Heaven underneath my feet
So you take the left, I’ll take the right
Under arrest, we’re undivided
Oh oh oh oh
I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in
You take the low, I’ll take the high
You lock the gate, I hear the cry
Everybody got a problem with the way I live
I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in
So raise ’em up, raise ’em up
All I ever wanted was a shot at your love
I know, and I believe
Everything we got is everything we need
Oh, love will get you higher
I set my heart on fire
I know, it’s what you see
Don’t wanna go to Heaven if they don’t want me
‘Cause I’m no criminal
I’m not your enemy
All I have is life
And I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in”
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Peace.

In-ie or Out-ie?

This is going to blow your mind. But I realized something today.

When we are lighting candles on a birthday cake we are told to light the candles farthest away from us to the middle candles finally to the candles closest to us.

But.

I realized, when I was pouring my Pedialyte powder into three water bottles tonight, that it’s essential to put the caps back on the water starting with the bottle closest to you, and working your way out to the bottle farthest from you.

Opposite.

So that’s a thing I thought about.

I think I’m wiped out considering I find the above interesting. And also because I thought about it at all.

Weird until the end, folks.

I Did A Thing For YOU, That I’ve Never Done For ANYONE — When I Wasn’t Drunk

I took elicit photographs of my body for the explicit purpose of this post.

I’m no longer writing this anonymouslyif I ever wasso there’s my face!…for the world to see. The jig is up. This is me. I covered my new scars for you. You’re welcome.

If you know the people written about in this blog, well, I’m sorry if it bothers you — and by that — I mean my honesty about those people that maybe you think is untrue, unfair, or incredibly self-serving — but fuck you if you don’t believe what I write here.

I’d never lie here.

This is what I do.

I write gritty, honest to God fucking facts about things that happened to me. Check the naturally curly hair, if you will. And ballin’ boots.

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Like, I’m COMPLETELY NAKED under those clothes!

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Oh, so sexy! LOL!

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These were taken in my bedroom mirror. You can check my super cool boots, jeans, tank top, scars, tats, whatever — but I’m not letting ya’ll into my bedroom just yet.

Unless I can somehow make my Mom RICH by getting naked for a camera, I’m afraid, at least at this point in my life, that’s the nakedest you’re probably going to get — all up in this blog. Sorry not sorry AT ALL.

Those pictures are about you needing to see my body — in order to, like — quiet your questions about the fact that I’m about to write about my eating disorder that isn’t an eating disorder at all — except for the fact that I don’t ever want to eat, and — I would guess — four to six days of the week — I don’t. If you do not believe me, I can literally prove it.

I don’t know if it is my medications, my vitamins, or Pedialyte that keeps me going, but “thanks” to whatever it is.

So, the pictures above are of me dancing in completely different states of dressed. (That’s the saying, right? LMFAO.)

I really don’t care what you think of my body.

I don’t maintain it, utilize it, or worship it, for anyone but me. ACCEPT THAT. It’s a fact — between now and when I’m with — “the one” — who I may marry — or will call my partner for life — that it’s all mine. It’s my best asset.

If you want to call me fat, that’s fine by me!

Fact: being fat doesn’t mean I’m not beautiful. Fact: I know I’m not “hot,” and I’m not trying to be, in any of these pictures; I actually took them FOR YOU, READER, while I was dancing today in my bedroom. Fact: Bears beat Battlestars.

My/The point in sharing ANY of these potentially embarrassing photos is to prove to you that I am aware that I’m not skinny — especially for someone who doesn’t eat.

And there’s a reason for that, probably.

I guess I’m showing you that I’m chubby and I know it (and I own it) — so my incredibly ridiculous failure to eat isn’t because it’s going to continue to make me thinner. It hasn’t yet. And this has been going on for a long time. Look at that chub! I’m not thinner. It’s been suggested that my body is holding onto everything it can because I don’t eat.

Whatever, man. Life. Am I right?

On a kind of a different but similar note, I am not into “really skinny” guys — which sucks when I imagine fucking movie stars like Ezra Miller (https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3009232/?ref_=tt_cl_t5)! Jesus Christ his face is beautiful and I want to have him.

But, I’m into a bit of the chub.

Some extra loving.

Muscles instead of chub also works.

But straight up skinny or short (I’m 5′ 8″) — I can’t. Sorry not sorry.

Very importantly, I also want you to know that I HATE wasting food because of [infinite reasons here]. I never waste food if I can at all help it. So, that means, if a Blizzard hits, I’d be a pretty good person to know. Get it? I have lots of non-perishables, because I don’t eat, so perishables would be wasted on me.

Once again, I have several conjectures as to what is going on other than those written above. Maybe I’m not mentally healthy enough to feel like I should take care of myself insofar as I need sustenance to survive. Maybe I wish I were a size four again, although, as I’ve said, I really hated being hit on so much when I was skinny (and thus to many of those who are not me — “hot”). Maybe something else is going on. I don’t know.

What I DO know is that I don’t crave food. I don’t enjoy eating.

I don’t care about it at all.

Meals are not a priority to me, unless I am making one to feed someone else. I will open my fridge, see limitless possibilities, and close it again, unable to even utilize my microwave to feed myself — oh so fucking easily.

I feel the need to once again remind you that this isn’t about weight — CONSCIOUSLY.

I try so fucking hard to cook and feed myself. Every day, it’s a fucking nightmare of a struggle.

I. Just. Don’t. Care.

Living alone also means I can FINALLY fucking walk around in my underwear and t-shirt when I am home without my ex grabbing my ass.

“Oh, that’s sooooo horrible!” men and some women may sarcastically react.

Well, although I get your point, it was actually horrible. I’m a sexual assault victim.  Like, period. I’ve been sexually assaulted at least three dozen times. So — that shit? — fucking matters.

So what did Mr. Ex do? He would wait until I was up to my elbows in soap and water washing his dishes (he ate a LOT — and I don’t eat…remember?), and he would come up behind me — stick his junk into my backside — and grab my breasts — because, duh, I was helpless to stop him(!!!!!!!!) with a glass in one hand and and a sponge in my other.

Still think I’m a Bitch and he’s a great guy, those of you who did?

That behavior is fucking RIDICULOUS. It’s pathetic and sad. If he was SO HORNY he really should have just fucking left and fucked all the (of age) teenagers he’s into in the ass so I didn’t have to deal with his disgusting dick.

EVEN AFTER I TOLD HIM HE WAS LITERALLY MOLESTING ME (definition: “sexual assault or abuse of a person, especially a woman or child,” or, “the action of pestering or harassing someone in an aggressive or persistent manner“), his reaction was, “I don’t like when you put it like that. Don’t say it like that. That makes me feel like a creep.” He’d complain that if I would just let him touch me “normally,” he wouldn’t have to do things like that. MOTHER-FUCKING ASSHOLE of a GUY.

So, yeah. That’s basically the meat of the onion of this post.

Oh, and if I dated or hooked up with you in any meaningful capacity, you should expect you will at some point — if you have not been already — part of this blog. Everything is “game” now. I’m doing this for real. It’s my life.

Sleep well, everyone. I’ll write more tomorrow.

Denial – It’s Not Just Limbo Anymore — REVIVED

An August 4, 2014 Revival.

In college I dated a guy who was obsessed with preaching that “being happy” was a stupid goal. In interviewing me for the position of His Girlfriend, he asked me if I thought I deserved to be loved by someone else. Although now I look back at that with condemnation, at the time, I suppose he was just projecting issues from former relationships.

But, it always stuck with me. Since when is believing you deserve to be loved a prerequisite to relationship status? In fact, I believe this question comes from laziness of the purest form: if you ask me if I am worthy of you and I say “yes, I believe I am,” then you can hold that against me whenever I need reassurance in the future, forever, and ever Amen.

Of course I’m conflating two issues. The first is that our partners have become lazy. We date people who expect us to maintain our own emotional needs so that they can go on with their lives without worrying about us.

The second is that happiness is not something to be desired. I’ll never know what that old boyfriend wanted out of life in place of happiness. Although I could just ask him, I no longer care enough about his opinion to bother.

The thing is — for all of my anger — I am a remarkably happy person. There are things that are awful that happen in life. Accepted. But I’m happy. I’ve never been less than grateful. I’m privileged and well loved. I have had opportunities others haven’t. I can make decisions for myself.

My problems only inflate when I look to others for recognition or acceptance/approval. For example, I had been accustomed to doing something that no one I knew thought was acceptable — as this post is a revival — and I’m owning my self-harm — in talking about cutting. It made me feel better (and still fucking does), every time I engage in it. I was taught that this behavior was unacceptable and would have “serious consequences.” So I did it better. Secret-er. (Sic.) Guess what. I still feel better when I do it and there are no consequences. But when it peaks beyond it’s secrecy, I can become ashamed. And I ponder over this. I can’t not care. It’s not in my DNA.

So why do we lie to ourselves and pretend that the status quo will suddenly, out of nowhere, make us happy? I myself advocate that I shouldn’t care if my boyfriend(s) have thought someone else was beautiful when they hadn’t told me I am in…as long as I could remember. But you know what? It still felt shitty to hear it. I still cared…and I resented that tremendously.

First of all, because I’m not here to be pretty for anyone. So, I hate that I feel bad about not feeling pretty.

And second, because — damnit — I’m not a robot. I have feelings. I want to be maintained. And I expect my loves to read my very intricate and perfectly logical/emotional mind.

Let’s be clear:

1. I simultaneously do and do not care what you think.

2. I want to be loved and happy and I want to create those things for myself. Your disapproval or detrimental commentary makes me violent.

3. “Justified” is the best television show you’re not watching.

4. I get to determine what makes me perfect – and you get to determine what makes you prefect.

5. If I’m worthy of anything, it’s self-love. No one else on this planet gets to define, outline, suggest, or ANYTHING otherwise – that I could be better “if….” And that goes for you, too.

Feeling numb – by your own hand – only works to some extent. It’s helpful in getting by moment to moment. But really. When you wake up in the morning and face yourself…the numbness is gone, and getting it back won’t fix a thing you have in front of you. I have always believed I’m my own worst enemy. But it scares me that I could be someone else’s as well.

Pinch Me, From A Bare Naked Lady

Fresh out of the shower, (well, I finally put clothes on. — for someone who engages in self-harm I sure cannot stand the touch of most clothing to my skin — if I could be naked  24/7 and only interact with the fabric known as terrycloth I’d be a happy woman) I sit here, writing this: my first “Shower Experience.” 

To define “Shower Experience,” I can only allude to scenes from movies or television shows where a character is SO FREAKING HAPPY to be under the water of his/her shower head, FINALLY able to wash his/her HELL of a day OFF. That’s all I really mean.

To my recollection, I have not had THE “Shower Experience” until tonight…which is kind of incredible…considering I have had a lot of days from Hell. 

Let me set the scene. I had a day from Hell. I could go through all of the painfully stupid details but I’ll spare you if you promise to trust me on what I’m about to tell you.

I HATE showering. It’s a thing that started up about a year and a half ago. I used to love showering. I don’t know what it’s about.

Conjectures are that: it’s part of my chronic pain — just the idea of the pressure of the water hurts — but I think that’s because getting under the water does hurt; or maybe it gives me PTSD remembering being in the shower after dozens of assaults (performed by the same person); or maybe — I’m just clinically crazy.

My ex, to his credit, bought us one of those “rain” shower heads pretty soon after this began for me. It makes the water pressure a LOT less intense (and takes some getting used to, because, for me, it means a longer showers) but it is supposed to make it feel like you are showering in the nice, non-painful rain — rather than, I guess, like, a slightly bigger hose nozzle.(? LOL?) Unfortunately, it doesn’t help my anxiety about showering. It doesn’t make showering more bearable in any way, but it’s not worse.

The point in sharing, basically all of the above, was to try to prove to you that I must have had a REALLY had a day from Hell to take a shower. I promise I’m not gross. I force myself to shower. I just kind of have to work myself up to it. So, to decide, without planning, that I was going to shower on the fly, was a HUGE FUCKING DEAL for me.

Four paragraphs later, our story begins. I turned on the water trying to set the temperature to “tolerable.” I grabbed my JBL speaker and turned my Spotify station “Post Trauma” (yes, that’s it’s real name) up loudly. Loud enough for my upstairs neighbor to hear it if she were in the room above me…and also maybe from her bedroom where she is sleeping…I don’t care. Sorry, not sorry, but a little sorry. Because of her, I was already walking around my apartment with blinds open in my bra and underwear. My ex and I never used to have even one single strand of a blind open. Not one. (Jesus I have to believe there is someone else out there for me.) The place looked like a hoarder’s paradise before he left. Now, I’m proud of what I’ve done with it. The thing is, I used to walk around naked — kind of as much as I could — especially since my ex wasn’t home a lot and I felt safe — and I am not super happy with changing that pleasure, so it is what it is. Either “sorry,” or, “you’re welcome,” neighbors who happen to see me naked through my open windows. Dealer’s choice.

I took off all my jewelry, then took the meds I’m supposed to take at that time, and got totally naked. I adjusted the temperature of the water, and slowly, forcing myself, stepped under the water. 

It is in fact super fucking weird thinking about my shower habits yet alone sharing them with anyone reading this. I have never put my head under the water a lot. Only as needed. I don’t know if that’s weird because I don’t remember being taught “how” to utilize the water while showering — except that it is meant to wash oneself — kind of a broad concept now that I’m writing about my “Shower Experience.

The first song that came on my playlist of over five hundred songs was Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel.” I know…but I dug it. I took a deep, “this is happening” breath, and put my head under the shower head, the water covering my ears and head completely, (so I could barely hear my music playing) and breathed out with the thought, “this feels perfect.”

I FINALLY FELT THE “SHOWER EXPERIENCE!”

THE “Shower Experience!

I instantaneously felt better in every way. It was as if the water was the most perfect temperature I’ve ever had it set to. I ran my hands gently trough my hair and then again. I felt so free — and beautiful — and pure — and amazing — taking in the dramatic lyrics of the song I was listening to. I turned around and faced the shower head just as the voice through the speaker sang deeply of his concern for her now significant other’s potential wrath upon her at their elicit conversation, and then the statement that he didn’t think his now significant other had “a clue” that they were talking. Full lyrics here if you wish to dabble: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/hinder/lipsofanangel.html

I began to think of all of the heartbreaking truth in the conversation I imagined these two ex-lovers having, thinking about what he looks like and what she looks like and if he’s in the bathroom (I turned my back to the shower head again, and grabbed my shampoo) hiding — and she’s outside smoking a cigarette — you know, since she made the call to him — (suds in my hair abound) and I thought about how hurt (albeit — kind of controlling) their significant others would feel, if they knew, and/or found out. That’s some real shit right there, dawg.

I rinsed as the next song came on. It was Secondhand Serenade’s “Your Call,” whose lyrics can be found here (especially since I don’t think that many people know who that is): https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/secondhandserenade/yourcall.html

It’s another sad-ish song (I began my second shampooing — if you get nothing else out of this post — let it be this — ALWAYS, ALWAYS shampoo twice — the second amount of shampoo need only be about the size of a quarter to get full sudsing action just like your first shampooing — if you engage in shampooing — TRUST) about a relationship which could possibly be resuscitated.  I’m telling you, THE “Shower Experience.” The artist sang,

“Stripped and polished,
I am new, I am fresh
I am feeling so ambitious,
You and me, flesh to flesh”

Like a total, “hello God, it’s me, JustCallMeTaco with this playlist right now!!!!! Thank you.”

I listened and the words brought back painful memories of the person who introduced me this artist, only one of two people I know who ever intentionally listened to him. The introducer, if you will, and I had been labeled soulmates. Maybe we still are.

All that matters for the purpose of this story, is that we used to think we were soulmates. The definition of “soulmate” is: “a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.” But this person, who told me we’d be married and have children by the time we were twenty-six, is now married to a man, for more than four years now, who barely talks to me anymore.

It makes me feel really sad.

Like, too sad.

Like in a — I only applied to two colleges got wait-listed for my first choice so said screw it and followed him to my second choice thinking we’d work everything out except he was gay and couldn’t tell me even though we were together for the immediate years before he “came out” but I wanted to stay near him anyway because I had no idea so I was happy I went there so I at least got to milk all of the time I could out of him while I could in a world where he tells me he thinks about me every day, constantly, all the time and I don’t believe him and he was one of the original witnesses of my first cutting but said nothing to anyone including me about it and he knows me well enough to help me but he doesn’t  — kind of sad.

Take that shit in for a second. I was conditioning my hair, re-living those times that made me feel sick. Still, the lyrics cited above, said it all. I was really feeling fantastic and admired my playlist for hitting a home run during this difficult time of taking a shower. Now take that shit in for a second.

Next up, and last, while under water, was “Pinch Me” by the Barenaked Ladies, lyrics here: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/barenakedladies/pinchme.html

I love that song. I remember being in high school and in my bedroom and hearing them come on the radio, which I guess I listened to a lot, while I was crushing hard on my high school boyfriend (same guy as written about in the “too sad” section). It wasn’t their most popular song. Not by a loooooooonnnnnnnng shot. But it was my favorite song of theirs.

It was now time to scrub my body including my newly made cuts and eventual scars (and I tend to go at everything “hard,” so it’s pretty painful during this point in my shower). The lyrics:

“On an evening such as this
It’s hard to tell if I exist
If I packed a car and leave this town
Who’ll notice that I’m not around?
I could hide out under there
I just made you say ‘underwear’
I could leave but I’ll just stay
All my stuff’s here anyway.”

The lyrics are ominous, and yet, comical as well, without breaking the solemnity of the artist and song. As I viciously scrubbed at my newly made (and now opening cuts — fuck!), the irony of the lyrics juxtaposed with my own misery and simultaneous happiness (not to mention how stuck I feel) seemed so perfectly intentional.

I rinsed out my conditioner and for the first time since that shower head has been there, I noticed I could see my reflection directly under it. I watched myself as the water dripped down, cleansing everything, and I could not believe that I had never realized I basically had a mirror in my shower. Check it! (taken post-shower) — and my apparently spider-like/exorcist grip:

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Author’s Note: Any pictures that may have reflected images of anything I never meant you to see are unintentional and hopefully non-existent.

I decided I would see how much of my make-up I could really get off in the shower utilizing this new found instrument. I was able to get a lot off, but not all of it. So I determined an experiment was in order. I would use cotton balls and make-up removing liquid (as is my usual routine when I don’t shower) to see just how much make-up was left even after a shower.

I turned off the shower knobs at the same time, taking care not the let the hot water burn me. Turning the shower knobs on and off is actually physically painful for me. My ex sometimes turned them on for me in an attempt to quiet my anxiety about stepping under. (This was before the chronic pain really kicked my ass, of course.) It feels like I have to turn them too hard. It feels exactly like I shouldn’t have to try so hard to turn them all of the way off. It’s an everyday normal activity that I now despise.

I shook myself off like a dog. I do this every time I shower. I don’t care what you think about that.

I stepped out of the tub carefully onto my new bright floor mat and grabbed my towel. I always hated how cold it was stepping out of a warm shower. I lived in this place once that had a “post-shower warmer” for when you stepped out of the shower. It made you warm. That’s it. But it felt great. When I’m rich, maybe I’ll invest in something like that. (I believe something in season 1 or 2 of “Breaking Bad” was utilized as part of a plot point to achieve the same goal of post-shower warmth.)

Look, I don’t like to talk about this too much, but I’m an awesome fucking woman. I’m a Bitch who simultaneously wants to make everyone’s day better. I hate everyone until I breathe. It’s good that I breathe, like, all the time so far in my life.

And, now that I am single for the first time in five years (bring it up too much, don’t I? trying to quit, promise) and live alone for the first time EVER (I highly recommend this by the way — an entire three months in) — I get to do things I never really got to do before.

My ex and I occasionally left messages in the mirror for each other. Now, with enough steam, the mirror reads “[My name] (hearts) herself 10/26.”

By way of backstory, my ex once wrote “no one believes you” and it literally fucked with me for months. When I finally had the courage to bring it up, he said it just came to him and he thought that if someone saw that — it would really fuck with them — and he thought that might be funny to observe.

But, to a rape victim (he knew I had been raped by this point), what he wrote, actually caused me a tremendous amount of agony.

Victims, survivors, all of us need to be believed.

It was just fucked up. It still fucking bothers me to this day, joke or not. It wasn’t funny. And I cannot reiterate enough times that he actually put in writing to me, “you are not a victim,” post break-up.

Not only am I survivor but I am a victim. I was his victim. And that worked for him until I started speaking up for myself gradually regaining my sanity and strength all these years after my Dad died.

WOW, am I getting off track!

Okay. So I see myself in the mirror and the song “Love My Like You Do” by Ellie Goulding comes on. I just started straight up naked dancing in my bathroom and singing at the top of my lungs:

“You’re the fear, I don’t care
‘Cause I’ve never been so high
Follow me to the dark
Let me take you past our satellites
You can see the world you brought to life”

I brush my teeth while singing:

“So love me like you do, lo-lo-love me like you do
Love me like you do, lo-lo-love me like you do
Touch me like you do, to-to-touch me like you do
What are you waiting for?”

Weird, right? But it was so fun. I was having a straight-up dance party in my bathroom, naked, without anyone or anything to interrupt or stop me. I was freely allowed to listen to my weird as fuck music and sing along without offending anyone. I rocked out with me choch out. “Choch” is not in the dictionary regarding what I am referring to, but, I think anyone reading this knows what I’m referring to. If you don’t, you probably shouldn’t be reading this shit.

I just — fucking — let — go — for once. For fucking once. And I thought, “Right now is when I am going to make my life everything I have ever wanted it to be. I’m going to work on getting over my past. I’m going to pursue my passion and succeed because I believe in me when I embrace those parts of me. I cannot fail. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure out that I was supposed to be living my life instead of the one I thought I was supposed to be living. I felt weightless, and for the first time in as long as I can remember: Pure. Bliss.

I then had to tend to my cuts, using this:

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Guess what, Johnson & Johnson?! Your “Hurt-free first aid antiseptic pain relieving liquid” IS NOT FUCKING HURT FREE! I already knew this, as I have previously used it, so I was ready for the seemingly eternal sting, but it always surprises me, nevertheless. How funny is that poster, by the way? It makes me laugh when I look at it. So, this picture was a staged, post-shower experience. If I didn’t feel so guilty about posting my self-harm I would upload a picture of what I’ve done to my forearm, but I’m not okay with doing that. Just imagine the tiny bit you can (yes, I did this on purpose) see on the left side of the above picture, repeated thirty-one times, (I counted just for this post), ending just before touching my other tattoo. It is approximately three inches of cuts similar to the one pictured above in length.

I also wanted to finish my experiment, so I took pictures of the cotton balls I used to take my makeup all of the way off to show you what a shower for me cannot get to: 20181126_011338.jpg

That’s the residue from my left and right eyes. (Sorry about the hair, women shed a lot, deal with it.)

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That’s what was leftover of my lipstick. (Again, sorry for the hair. Women shed a lot. But no, seriously. Deal with it.)

And then I did an “artsy” braggy shot to show off my super amazing bathroom decor:

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Oops!!! Toes. I’ll get a pedicure, stat.

After taking all of these pictures I put my hair up comfortably (I love how amazingly smooth my hair feels just after showering. It’s so soft. How do “they” get those products to do that?!)

I assessed myself. I addressed my body. I determined I’m my best self. 

I also determined that at any point in time, everyone is their best selves. Even if you’re not trying to be your best, you’re, like, by definition, the best you can be in any given moment. So we really are all just doing our best.

I felt, FINALLY, my best tonight. I feel like I am a fucking amazing person who is too interesting to define in any practical or actual way. I cannot be understood completely. I cannot be tamed. I cannot be anything but what I believe to be the honest me. And from now on, I won’t do anything but what I want to myself. I am chasing my dreams. I can’t fail. I won’t.

Dancing happily around MY apartment naked to a playlist called “Post Trauma?” That’s me for life now, baby. 

I’m scared to death that I have decided to embrace my dream at the expense of someone else. I hate that I’m doing that. But I owe it to myself. I really do. Because what I have to write, photograph, and say — you’d want to see. I promise.

So, I’m officially announcing that I am in the not-so-beginning stages of writing a book. You won’t want to put it down. I can’t say what it’s about yet, but, I have read different drafts of chapters to a variety of different people, and, it’s content, nor writing, has never been critiqued to a crushing degree. I mean, not even close. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, wants to know MORE. I can take an honest critique. That’s a lot of what my Creative Writing experiences are about. I forced myself to write different false stories focusing on honing my craft in different ways, and I read them out loud along with my classmates, and they were well received as well. So now I know: it’s not just the compelling voyeuristic content, but my writing itself that’s gripping people. I can proceed now, with confidence, that I’m not boring.

So stay tuned world.

I’m also scared that I have a new crush. I just kind of find myself thinking of him in all kinds of scenarios with me. I imagine what it would look like shopping next to him, meeting his parents, kissing him, making him laugh, reading to him, watching him do whatever he does, and, of course, the thing which I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do without triggering an atomic bomb of PTSD again.

But a Bitch can pretend everything will happen organically and without trauma as she dances around her apartment naked, right?

Oh my God! There is also this guy who has been “in” my life since I was in college who I know asks after me. I ask after him as well. He’s a smartass. He has a smart mouth. He is TOTALLY into me. I know because I know. Because I know. But, if by any chance you, Mr. guy I’m talking about, are reading this, know that, don’t feel weird, please; it’s okay that I know. Because I am too. I am TOTALLY into you. I have been forever.

This person and I have never been single at the same time. We just keep “missing” one another. It’s a lot like that movie, “A Lot Like Love,” except I doubt it’ll ever happen for us. I want to be optimistic in every way possible, I swear to God I do. But, when we could have been together, I was so insecure I couldn’t imagine he thought of me in any kind of way, when in fact, I totally could have “had him” and he could have “had me,” so to speak. This is the kind of thing that really kills me.

This is how my mind plays out this situation basically on sporadic repeat: I’m living my life, la dee da, “oh my gosh, [he] liked my social media post once! damn, I wish we had been able to talk to each other about our feelings without being so insecure, his mind is so sexy it makes me want to jump him, fuck! I’m not single, oh my gosh, (ten months later) [he] liked my social media post once again!, he speaks his mind without apologies and will always challenge me when we are together, and vice versa, a sparring partner but of the sexiest variety, which makes me want to jump him, fuck! he’s not single.” REPEAT.

I’ve been told — literally — TOLD — you seem happy. Perfect! I REALLY want you to be genuinely happy. But I can’t not tell you by proxy (this post) that I’m also a little sad for me.

We get one life. One. One chance to make it with who and what we have in it. You have my number.

But I’m not embarrassed by my body’s visceral reactions anymore. I’ll never allow that type of — self — or otherwise — censorship — again.

All real talk.

Vulnerable, scary, shit.

Holy shit.

When the fuck did I grow a pair of ovaries and woman the fuck up?!?!?!

Oh yeah.

A long time ago.

I just forgot.

It won’t happen twice.

Listen.

And hear THAT.

Smorgasbord, It’s What’s For Dinner

Well here I go, random-ing things up all into one post again. This is, ultimately, a relationship post. But first!

First, I want to thank everyone who read through my post last night about Self-harm. I am so grateful to my readers. Without you, my writing this blog every day/night is just an exercise in bad writing. But, if you are coming back. I guess I’m doing something right. My biggest fear here, is that my writing is boring. So thank you for your support, sincerely.

I am going to continue to expand upon my first post about self-harm, as it comes to me organically. I hope you’ll stick around to read more.

This was my first holiday season as a single woman — in five years. It was — nevertheless — perfect. I write it that way because I thought I would be more sad than I was. But I will not mourn abuse any longer.

Kidding; I cannot control my feelings. I am starting to miss the things that I didn’t have to “know” because my ex did.

Now, my life is kind of like the “Touch Tunnel” at The Liberty Science Center. (Holler if you know what I’m talking about. What a TERRIBLY INAPPROPRIATE NAME, for essentially, a pitch-black tunnel that you force elementary school children on a field trip into — within which you have to touch your peers — or maybe even adults — to get out. What. The actual. Fuck, was that about? It was about experiencing the life of someone who is blind. Still. Terrible name, guys.) I’m pretty sure the above sounds crazy to anyone who doesn’t know the weirdness of the “Touch Tunnel.”

Anyway, the simile stands. I am wandering around in the dark, fending for myself, like the good old days when I figured out anything that I needed to figure out to move forward. I had help from my parents on many occasions, but I have always tried it my way, even if it may be unconventional. (My ex used to yell at my — I’m not exaggerating — literally yell at me — when I didn’t do something the way he would have done it, “I JUST THOUGHT YOU WERE SMART ENOUGH TO WANT TO DO EVERYTHING IN THE BEST MOST EFFICIENT WAY.” <– See what he did there? He stifled the inner confidence and CORE BELIEFS I had until then maintained, as well as violating my autonomy by critiquing everything — just constantly. But no more.

I don’t really hear from my ex.

His friends also suddenly stopped acknowledging my existence, even though I thought they liked me, and they told me often how amazing it was that I essentially tamed the beast, and stayed in this relationship, happily. And I was happy. But I read you shouldn’t spend time caring about your ex’s friends, or mutual friends. I get it. But I am seriously considering just “unfriending” them in every way possible to eliminate — terminate — him from everything I see.

So.

Here’s the meat of the relationship shit.

Thanksgiving day I get a text from Mr. MIA, “Happy Turkey day!” I was incredibly surprised that he reached out to me. My instinct was to engage, at all costs. But, I didn’t respond, because I am trying this new thing, where I stay away from my abusive ex-boyfriends.

Thanksgiving night, at 11:40 P.M., I get the following text from my ex-boyfriend’s Mom, “Just want you to know we missed seeing you today. Hope you had a great day with your family.” This text is kind, thoughtful, and considerate. I take no issue with it except that it even exists.

I wanted to reply — thinking of multiple responses — ranging from “blame your fucking son for that; he is the one who abandoned me,” to, “I have hope for the future,” to, “thanks.” I mean, like, there were a lot of other ones, but ultimately I couldn’t answer her either. All I wanted to do was say “blame your fucking son if you missed me.”

The correspondence, or lack thereof, just left me really fucking sad and angry.

Why did his Mom text me? Is that normal? I just want to know if that’s normal. I know she and I developed a relatively close relationship. I believed she’d be my Mother-In-Law.

In April of this past year, my now ex went to Las Vegas with his friends for a yearly thing having to do with the industry he works in. He has been going 4/5 years we’ve dated.

I happened to have been granted an interview with a company I very much wanted to work for while he was gone. And I got the job! And even better, I loved going into work every day, in sharp contrast to nearly all of my previous work experiences. Things were going well between us, finally, I thought. He even asked me if I wanted to see the engagement rings he was looking at getting me. I was so FUCKING EXCITED in that moment!!!!!!!!!! I told him I wanted to be surprised.

During the break-up I asked to see them after all. It was an emotional request for both of us.

But between my new found independence in April when he was talking to me about FOR REAL engagement rings, and August, when he stopped coming home, I don’t know what the fuck happened.

How can someone think about committing to marriage four months prior to running out of the relationship without providing any reason besides his admission that he required sex if we were to continue our dance of destruction. You know what happened. FUCK HIM. But I didn’t.

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No one tells me what I need to do. I don’t “do” ultimatums. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to go through what I went through with him again just to maintain the shell of the relationship we had left by giving in to his requirement of intercourse. Jesus. What an asshole.

So I didn’t answer my ex’s Mom’s text either.

The next day, I get a text message from my ex, asking if I was available for a delivery. In our relationship, that request had always previously meant that one of his many daily packages required a signature to be received. I didn’t reply to that text either.

Maybe his intention was to come visit me. I don’t know. No one rang the doorbell. No packages came. And he texted nothing else. No phone call either. So I figured, the “Happy Turkey day” was merely to play nice, so I could once again take care of his responsibilities. I know I’ll eventually find out, because he has things that belong to me, and he still has the keys to this place, which he shouldn’t, since he doesn’t pay rent here anymore.

I’ve decided conversations between us will be over the phone, if at all. I haven’t told him this but he’ll adapt or not. I’m not a dog he can call with a whistle whenever it’s convenient for him anymore. I did that for him for YEARS without complaint. I enjoyed being a part of whatever he’d let me into.

Nevertheless, if he wants me, he can call me. Otherwise, even if it is not in my best interest, I’m not replying.

What do you make of that?

Am I punishing him, or just fighting for myself?

I don’t know.

So that is it. That’s the entirety of the correspondence.

On a more positive note, I had the great fortune of meeting with my best friend, and, her significant other, today, at what is now, solely my apartment. Pure freedom. Well, in theory.

I have a tremendous amount of guilt due to my stupid fucking afflictions that I cannot help my Mom more right now. She is capable of everything. But not of everything at once. Not everything at once on her own. Fuck. I hate myself.

My best friend and her significant other brought me food! I have this “thing,” that keeps me from expressing my emotions extremely or even realistically to other people; it’s so fucking awkward.

But I cannot remember the last time anyone thought to bring me a meal. I was so touched by this gesture, but I expressed my “thanks” awkwardly, if even noticably at all.

They also brought cheese and bread and I said I wished I had some fancy grapes to make a true Smorgasbord. (My best friend and her significant other are geniuses, so the fact that I got that word right on my first try was a win for my ego today, LOL.)

Denotatively, smorgasbord means, “an often large, diverse in character and content, mixture.” Connotatively, it means cheese and grapes. Sure, why not?

I am, denotatively, a smorgasbord. I amso many things. One of my first posts here was a list of ten things about me. That post saw the most traffic I had received until that point in my erratic posts. It inspired me to write about sexual assault, which ultimately inspired me to angrily vent about my own rape.

I believe that people want to know about other peoples’ genuine, if not entirely extraordinary, experiences.

And, I believe that if someone sees — and understands — that at least one other person does what they do — or thinks what they think — that maybe that person’s life will be saved. 

On my life, I believe that. And I want you, reader, to believe that as well.

Am I scared of sharing so much personal information about myself to God knows who? FUCK YES, I AM. It’s FUCKING TERRIFYING. I already admitted that I am beyond insecure. It’s not cute.

Still, I insist on writing about things people don’t usually discuss unless they’re in middle school. (At least that’s how my petty posts about relationships feel — to me — a lot of times.)

I expose myself. In all of my insecurity. Despite my self hatred. Despite my reasons to abandon this world (which I have no intention of doing, once again, for the record). Despite the fact that people who know me personally are learning things about me that maybe I never expected them (or wanted them) to learn

I understand that people like voyeurism. We yearn to know the truth about what is going on with those we know, when they might not be able to directly tell us. (Think about how that Netflix show “13 Reasons Why” went beyond viral.)

What’s weird is when I’m talking to a friend about something going on and he/she says, “oh yeah, I read that in your blog.” It feels violating. But that doesn’t mean it is any less important. I don’t believe in its necessity any less. 

I think personal, weird, and genuinely honest experiences are what matter to people. It’s how we coexist, really. It might be how we exist, period. So that’s what I’ll be writing about.

For better or for worse.

Until death do us part.

But seriously, can someone tell me if my ex’s Mom’s text is normal?!

Let’s Talk About Self-Harm, Baby — MY LONGEST POST TO DATE — (Rated R For – Reader Discretion Is Advised — No Seriously — What You Are About To Read Is “Extremely Fucked Up” And I Will Not Take Responsibility For Anything That Happens To Anyone Who Puts Themselves Through Reading It)

This is going to be the hardest to read to many, most grotesque to most, and probably most upsetting to all, post I’ve written so far.

For real, though.

Disclaimer: if you are depressed, or think about self-harm, please consult a trusted adult, doctor (preferably a psychiatrist), a therapist, or anyone who can, and/or will, keep you from doing what I am about to disclose to you that I do, with great trepidation on my part, below. Get help if you at all can. Life is amazing. I’ve lived it with my diseases for over 15 years, and I still see the beauty in everything. I also, regularly, consult everyone above, who I have suggested you seek, should you have feelings to self-harm. So I’m not a poser. Fucking get help if you need help. You can do it. Against all odds, I did.

So here we go.

I have engaged in several types of self-harm. The two types I am willing to admit to at this point in my online presence are cutting, and drinking alcohol.

Everything in my very being believes that alcohol is a form of self-harm.

Cutting, not so much.

I bet you think you read that backwards. You didn’t.

Cutting is a form of self-harm because people say it is. AGAIN, I am not encouraging it. Don’t experiment with it for fun or try it out for whatever reason because you read this, please.

I’m NOT glorifying it.

It’s not pretty.

Not to anyone.

In my mind, sometimes, I think it’s beautiful, but it is in fact quite ugly to everyone I know.

I do it because I have to. Plain. And. Simple.

I, have to cut, to be me. Not all the time. Not every month. Not even every year. I cannot tell you what makes it surface, so to speak, within me. I believe it is my depression — not being treated in a way that helps correctly. Or maybe I just don’t think there’s anything bad about it. I don’t fucking know. There is no blame to be given to anyone for this act. I choose it. I hide it as best I can. But I also need it, I guess. And I embrace it without hesitation when it comes up.

I’ve been cutting since I was seventeen years old. I’m thirty-three now, so you do the math.

The reason I’m writing about it now, is because I just did it. Not even 20 minutes ago. And I guarantee I will be doing it again as soon as I’m done writing this post. I want to. I do not believe it is a form of self punishment. Sometimes I’m not sure I know why I believe I do it; I do know that it sometimes brings me great comfort in the face of extreme sadness.

I don’t feel it is responsible to post an “honest” image of the cuts currently on my body for fear that it will encourage people with the intention to commit suicide, or contemplating cutting, to decide what anything “cutting related” should “look like.” Be that as it may, I’m only as ashamed of it in as much as society has made me feel ashamed. But for me, again, self-harm in the form of cutting, can be a great comfort. So I am willing to share a very distorted image. I’m warning you, again, that I am in NO WAY encouraging anyone to do ANYTHING like this with regards to self-harm or otherwise, ESPECIALLY cutting. That being said, you’ve been warned sufficiently:

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I have, obviously, greatly distorted this image so people don’t see it as it truly is, out of some, perhaps misplaced fear, or, I don’t know, moral obligation not to encourage anything like cutting.

Like, for real, I’m not a role model. Do NOT do what I do as described in this post. PLEASE. I am literally begging you. (Side note: even though I cannot explain why, I feel the need to point out to those of you who do know me that you can recognize the blurred semi-colon tattoo at the top of the image to “prove,” yes, that’s me.) This image isn’t posted for shock value: that’s obvious. Anyone can Google images of “self-harm cutting” and see far worse. If that’s what you’re looking for, I don’t know what to tell you.

I also want to show you the below image of me crying in my bathroom, taken fifteen minutes ago. I’m wearing the same sweatshirt I wore in a post I wrote several days ago. You may note a lot of differences, in my appearance, however. I won’t apologize for wearing something many days in a row. It’s not dirty. I have showered since I last wore it. I don’t smell. It brings me comfort. And people who are depressed seek comfort where they can. I like this sweatshirt. But I’m a mess. This is 100% for real ugly crying. Obviously, despite my “edits” to my face, those who know my will recognize me (sorry not sorry?). So without further ado, here’s me, ugly crying:

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You might be judging me right now. That’s fucking on you. You might say any number of things. When the thought came to me to take a “self portrait” of me ugly crying in my bathroom, I feared those of you reading might think I am faking that face, or maybe you’d question why I decided to (or was even able to) take a picture of myself like this (or eight of them, actually, without aiming, for anything in particular), that you’d think it was weird or stupid. A lot of these thoughts come along with the kinds of depression I have. I’m insecure through and through, even though I simultaneously feel like I am an amazingly solid human being. I could say more about that, but that’s not meant to be what this post is about. Besides, I go to therapy for exactly that shit.

In the spirit of full disclosure, the sticker on the back of my phone reads in totality, “YOU ARE LOVED ALWAYS.” I need to be remindedthat I am loved always. I know I am. Love comes in a lot of forms. Hey, I engage in as much self-love as I do self-harm. 

Actually that’s not true.

I engage in MUCH more self-love than I do self-harm. But that’s also not what this post is about.

I want to tell you what just happened to me that caused me to do what I did: cut, many times, on my forearm. Not deep. But bloody. There will be scars to cover up for a few months. It’s winter here. So I guess good timing (<–I laughed at that just so you know).

After hosting a very successful Thanksgiving yesterday, with the help of my Mom, my chronic pain was immeasurable today. So I stayed in bed as long as possible, and once the pain became just bearable enough, got up for Gatorade, to bring in my neighbor’s packages and mail, and to go to the bathroom. I texted my best friend to confirm plans for tomorrow.

But before all that, to quiet the noise that’s always in my head (I know my fellow writers feel me on this one), I needed a distraction. I couldn’t lift a book, honestly. My hands and fingers didn’t work. (To be able to write this, I had to take a stupid amount of over-the-counter pain medication.) So I turned on the TV. Two buttons. And DC’s “Civil War” was on. I’m into the superhero stuff. It helps me escape. I love that. But sometimes it’s too much.

Spoiler alert if you haven’t seen the movie: Superman comes back to life. He reunites with Lois Lane. Like four sappy lines in, I felt my eyes water, and then came the embarrassingly audible desperate sobs. Watching that scene caused three kinds of crazy, TOTALLY UNRELATED, thoughts. One is understandable considering the content of the film, but still, a surprisingly weird thing to conjure, even for me.

First, I thought, “Oh my God, I am older than at least one of those actors, and I am so unsuccessful it is pathetic.” (I’m not actually unsuccessful by definition: I passed Bar Exams in two states, one of which is cited as the second most difficult exam in the country, on my first try. I practiced law for about six years until I got ill last year, and finally, within the past couple of months said “fuck it,” and decided to chase my dreams, not my initial life goals.) This first thought pops up quite often in my head. I’m working really fucking hard on getting past the fallacy.

Second, uncomfortable for me to write about, although I don’t know why — it’s human nature to have crushes and remember them — I thought about this guy I grew up with. His Mom even babysat for me for awhile. I had a crush on him from elementary school through high school. I can’t imagine he knows I exist anymore. But, I remembered what I believe to be in second or third fucking grade (I had the same teacher both years, so I’m hedging, but if I had to bet, I’d say it was second grade), him bringing into school, the comic in which Superman died. It was a really big fucking deal, and not just to him. I was sad, and I didn’t even read comics. I barely knew Superman’s story, but I knew who he was. But he was really animated, and upset about it, and I remember our teacher telling him to put the comic book away. Why the FUCK did I remember THAT?! Jesus, I’m so weird. Who STILL CARES about something like that?! There’s no way that’s normal! Right?!

Third, shortly after that memory, I thought, “I have to come to terms with the fact that I may be single and alone for the rest of my life, because I’m a freak.” Then I had to get the fuck away from that black hole because I literally cannot even with that real shit right now.

Anyway, I loved the movie. I love a lot of movies for a variety of fucking weird reasons so don’t watch movies based on my saying one’s good. It ended.

My chronic pain subsided enough for me to use my hands freely, so I called my Mom. We had a mostly good conversation, but a couple of things came up that made me cry, again. I guess I’m “weepy” today. I’m allowed to be. And so are you, any day you want to be, so don’t let anyone tell you differently.

After that conversation, I began watching the documentary, “Paradise Lost 3 Purgatory,” on HBO. I’ve watched this documentary about seven times now. For some reason I cannot stay away from it. In many ways it reminds me of the reasons I wanted to go to law school. I wanted to free people like the West Memphis (Arkansas) Three. It never fails to hurt me what happened to all six boys in that case. Maybe I’m heartless, but the dead boys are dead. Nothing can be done about them.

But the boys who went to prison for decades? They’re alive, and lost their freedom to a very fucking broken system.

I had already intended on cutting tonight. This documentary was really ancillary. Basically, an extra excuse to express pain for ALL the people I cannot help, and how much that hurts me inside. It hurts me so much inside that it has to come out. And thus the cutting.

Maybe you’ve heard the above things before. “I need to see physical pain because I cannot show my mental anguish in any discernible way.” That’s fucking true for a lot of people. That’s probably been true for me at some point, but it’s not, now. 

At this point in my life, I see very few people. My Mom, my doctors, my friends when they’re in town. Most of my best friends don’t see me because they don’t live near me. I used to go to church almost every Sunday, but I actually hate the current priest in charge in my parish. I hate him. I cannot bear to look at him. In my opinion, if someone in a church was doing Satan’s work, it’s him. He has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. And he’s turned all of these people who I used to think of as family into a kind of cult. I also see my Brother. Now, in counseling, I see my Sister who DEFINITELY doesn’t observe any kind of shit like this and I know she cannot possibly be reading this blog. I see the people in my Creative Writing Class, and the two remaining people in my Mandarin Class (one being my teacher); they’ll never have a reason to look, let alone, see, what’s there. Oh, and my upstairs neighbor. She might notice. I’ll have to be careful with her, just like with my Mom. I don’t want to hurt my Mom.

Jesus Christ I’m long-winded. Sorry.

My point is: I’m basically not going to bother anyone who doesn’t already know and understand that I do this. And, you should know that I’m okay.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. My Dad died about five years ago. I’m not over it.

I was in the bathroom, looking at my unfinished cuts, and suddenly feeling shame, I began, once again, to sob. I said, out loud, to no-one, something to the effect of, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t do this to hurt you. I know you wouldn’t want me to do this. I know this is bad. I’m so sorry you have to see this. I’m sorry I’m disappointing you. I’m sorry I’m disappointing Mom. It’s not because of either of you. You were always good to me. But I have to do it right now. I’m so sorry.

I apologized, sort of like a prayer, as I sobbed, to my dead Father, who may be watching me (I believe he does watch over me, although maybe that’s just my hope), or he may just be ashes in the Columbarium behind the alter in the Church, and, in the Urns, I, along with the rest of my family members, keep in a safe place.

I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! Who could?! (<– another laugh.)

I stood up, looked at myself, and thought, “this is the fucking time to fucking write about self-harm. So woman-the-fuck-up, and take the fucking pictures. And there you have it, folks.

I know some of you who read this blog know me personally. Thank you, so much, for reading this. Maybe it will concern you, but I hope it doesn’t. Maybe it will change your mind about me, but I hope it doesn’t. Maybe you will worry about me, I’m okay with that one. I think this world would probably be a better place if we all worried about each other’s well being a little bit more.

To those that do not know me personally and read this blog, I hope this helps you to get to know me more personally, and that you’ll come back. I think this type of honesty makes writing more honest. I won’t apologize for that, or for myself.

I’ve already written before that I recently got out of an abusive relationship — one of several, actually. Even though the most recent left ME, I’m still “out.”

I’m done with that shit. If anyone is going to abuse me, it’s going to be me, on my terms, for my reasons (<– another laugh). And I won’t fucking apologize for that either.

This post in and of itself is kind of twisted. Because I obviously feel guilty for cutting even though I personally don’t think there’s anything wrong with my doing it to myself.

But here’s what you need to know.

I promise on my life, I do not want to die.

This post is NOT A CRY OUT FOR HELP. I get help every week. My doctors know what’s going on. My therapist knows what’s going on. My Mom, (to my extreme shame for not using enough makeup, and taking my sweater off in her presence) unfortunately knows what’s going on, certainly not for the first time, (I’m so sorry, Mom. I have asked her not to read my blog for reasons like this: grotesque honesty). And, as I’m about to see my best friend tomorrow, I can’t imagine she also won’t see, and not nearly for the first time, what’s going on. I don’t need more help.

I do not want to die. That’s NEVER been my intention. I am not suicidal. I have NO suicidal ideation. 

This next statement WILL sound insane/crazy/however the fuck judgmentally you want it to: I am an EXTREMELY HAPPY PERSON, ALMOST ALL OF THE TIME. I fucking LOVE my life. I cannot wait to see what’s next. And there’s nothing fucking wrong with me. (So if YOU, reader, think there is, THIS BLOG IS NOT FOR YOU!) This is my reality. And fortunately, I’m allowed to do what I want, as long as I am not a danger to myself or others. And I’m not. And maybe that’s my point.

Self-harm, doesn’t mean danger to oneself.

In fact, according to Mental Health America (http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/self-injury), Self-Harm is defined as thus (emphasis added): “Self-injury, also known as self-harm, self-mutilation, or self-abuse occurs when someone intentionally and repeatedly harms herself/himself in a way that is impulsive and not intended to be lethal.” SO GET OVER IT, NOW.

Because I’m okay.

 

 

A Simpler Plan

I am so very thankful to be spending this Thanksgiving with my Mom (and hopefully, if he feels well enough, my brother).

I’ve always ALWAYS loved the holiday season because I’ve always been blessed with, well, basically everything. And I never want to take that for granted.

I remember my Mom in particular helping me get ready for my second or third grade Thanksgiving play in elementary school. I played an old woman, so she showed me that by putting baby powder in my hair, we could make it look gray, and then I’d really look the part!!!

Always imaginative, thoughtful, and full of love. That’s my Mom.

Now, I’m twenty-something years older, and sometimes, I feel like I am watching my life literally kill me.

What a horrible thing to think about. It’s true, but that doesn’t make it easier.

My hair gets naturally grayer by the day now. I’m not even mad about that part of getting older.

I’m mad that what my life is, has nothing to do with what I thought life would be.

I believed my teachers when they told me I was especially creative. I believed then when they told me that if I worked hard and did everything right, I would become something called a “grown up.” But I’m still waiting for that last label to feel right and set in.

Hey world! I’m waiting for my instruction manual!!!

What the fuck am I doing with my time? My life? Does anything I do matter?!

I was so excited to be exactly like my Mom when I grew up; I wanted to be happy at my stable job which would turn into a lifelong career, and of course I’d have a husband who was exactly like my Dad! I imagined I’d have three children just like my parents did together, and with all that I’d have a “home.”

What a sucker I was, huh?

I’m not trying to be negative or depressing, not at all (it just comes out; sorry). But, I definitely didn’t expect to be where I am — completely changing my every life plan at my current age.

I want to go back to the days when my brother and sister and I put on “shows” for our parents. We’d work on a routine with costumes, write songs to sing, and act something out for every holiday. We wrote a Thanksgiving song one year. I used to remember the whole thing, but, dead brain cells and all…I don’t anymore. Here’s part of it:

🎶Green bean casserole!!!!!
Black olives from a can
Mashed potatoes too
Corn
And stuffing for youuuuu
That’s our Thanksgiving meal!
Yeah! Yeah! Yeeeaaaahhhh!🎶

Soooooooooooooo cool, right?! Imagine that song, performance, etc., being the only thing you were working on, responsible for, needed to get right, in your life. How it was at that time for me. Entertaining Mom and Dad. It was Heaven.

Back to reality, whoops there goes…plagiarism. (Sorry, Em.) I want all of the precious memories I have to become part of how I live now. I’m just stuck.

But, thinking back to a time when things really were perfect, I think I’m going to do some more searching for the moments — those that really inspired me to make everything I wanted in life — a reality.

Yes, times were simpler when I expected these things to of course just fall into place. Tough shit.

I need a plan.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! Stay safe, and know that someone does care about you in this life. Even if you’re reading this and I’ve never met you, I care about you in this life. So live it. And I’ll try too.

The Bleak, The Sad, And The “If You Just Put In A Little Bit Of Effort”

I still consider myself to be “newly” single. But I’ve been single since this past August, (although the relationship was dead before that), so, you be the jury.

As a now single woman, I’m trying to be awesome. Wait. I wrote that wrong. I’ve always been awesome. As a now single woman, I’m trying to express my awesome, something that was hiding behind a man who did not appreciate the awesome, so he smothered it.

But, this post, is not about him, really.

I am not that young. I’m not old, and I am constantly being told I look younger than I am, but I am not that young. I’m old enough to want to be married and trying to have babies.

“WHOA, THERE!” you might be thinking. In this day and age, being up front about wanting a mate (literally, I guess unless you’re from Australia?) to mate with puts me in the category of “that chick’s on a one way trip to crazy town,” letting those things be known up front. I know. Honesty is so taboo! I understand that, “Hi, I’m looking to have a marriage and children…soon,” isn’t a proper pick-up line, introduction, or “first date material.” But why can’t it be?

I have always met my significant others “organically,” as in, not through an online dating service. (I’m not knocking them; I have many married acquaintances and friends that have successful marriages (as far as I know) who met online, and I don’t think there is anything wrong with meeting someone that way if it is for you). It is NOT for me. Been there. Saw the dick pics. Done with that.

But if I have to go on eHarmony to find a husband, I’m going to cry.

So, how does one such as me attract a mate these days? That brings me to “The Bleak.” I have been so grateful to have been in love and in a relationship during the past five years during “the holiday season.” I DEFINITELY see what people mean when they say the holidays can be especially lonely. I love the fuck out of the movie, “Love Actually,” and I don’t even know if I can get through it without crying more than my USUAL five times!

What I mean by “one such as me,” is someone who REALLY doesn’t like to conform. (Ask my Mom. She’s like, probably 32% okay with what I do, maybe, and probably like 51% embarrassed by me, sometimes. She’s 17% TBD at a later date.) I don’t want to buy into traditional beauty standards.

I’m the one wearing the “Nasty Woman” sweatshirt, carrying the tote that says, “You should see my ACTIVE Bitch face,” and usually, when I can make it happen, has a partially shaved head, hair cut short and dyed some unnatural color, wearing bright neon yellow chucks, and often men’s shirts, because they are more comfortable to me than women’s shirts. I LOATHE bras, I wear Tomboyx (https://tomboyx.com/) underwear:

Briefs_WT_OrangeOctopus2_1000x.jpg

as often as possible, WITH panty-liners, (regardless of the type of underwear I’m wearing), because that’s how I roll (<– TMI? Then this blog’s not for you, sweetheart. Oh! Also! Grow up!). I put deodorant on in public, and don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, (sorry, Mom). I’m not someone you would call “beautiful,” “hot,” or even “pretty.” I’m quite intentionally, not “traditional.”

However. I believe in my heart that I am beautiful on the inside. I’m kind to everyone, UNLESS they disrespect my Mom, those I love, or I just witness them doing something cruel. I’m smart, witty, clever, intelligent, well-read, discerning, creative, unpredictable, and fun. I’m not a bad catch.

But, to find a mate, I have to stop being me, and start being more “traditional.”

This takes me to the “If You Just Put In A Little Bit of Effort…” segment. Someone very dear to me told me a couple of weeks ago that I should basically always wear makeup if I’m outside in the world. Just a little bit. The quote was, indeed, “if you just put in a little bit of effort…” trailing off. But it was all about make-up. I wear make-up, often. Not always, but I would say more days than not. But on this day, I hadn’t been wearing any. The next time I saw this person I made sure to really put in more than a little effort. I wanted to look stunning.

Upon seeing me, this person said, “Wow! See what a little effort can do! You look better!” I replied that it had taken me almost an hour to look like I had put in exactly “just a little bit” of effort. I spent one full hour of my life applying make-up so that it looked effortless and minimal. Jesus.

I was annoyed. I said as much in protest. The FEMINIST who initiated this idea, asked me what was so bad about what I had done. I replied, “Nothing! I’ll just buy into society’s perpetual standard that ‘natural’ isn’t beautiful, thus further padding the pockets of the make-up industry, which, doesn’t ALREADY exploit women, taxing us, making us feel like we should all look like models, depleting my values just to buy into a destructive, ugly culture, run by men.” The literal response was “point taken.”

But she wasn’t wrong about the amount of attraction my “little bit of effort” pulled in. Since I’ve put in that “little bit of effort,” I have received a disgusting amount of compliments on my appearance. I HATE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I. HATE. IT. MAKE-UP?! REALLY?! THAT IS THE THING THAT I NEED. TO GET ATTENTION?! Fuck that SHIT!

I’m the one who used to go to bars or clubs in my early twenties and stood against the wall making sure my friends weren’t being date raped, looking more promiscuous than I’m proud of, skinny and hot at that time, beautiful, even, yet defiantly emitting a radiance that said “I will cut your dick off if you fucking look at me.”

Although I never knew how “hot” I was considered back then, I did know I was going through something I couldn’t yet process…something I’m just barely beginning to process now. I wanted to look “hot,” because blending in was safe for me back then. Of course, I thought I was fat and thus ugly (NOT AT ALL WHAT I BELIEVE NOW) when that was not the case (and probably still isn’t).

Quickly: Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a real thing, and I don’t know a single girl or woman who doesn’t have at least some form of it. “BDD is a body-image disorder characterized by persistent and intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in one’s appearance,” (https://adaa.org/understanding-anxiety/related-illnesses/other-related-conditions/body-dysmorphic-disorder-bdd). Men have it too, no doubt. But women are programmed to hate their bodies by, ironically, perhaps, perpetal cultural triggers pushing us into morphing them. Push-up bras, heels, make-up, earrings…the list goes on.

As for “The Sad,” I was raped. And, as it turns out, not just once. That has probably been at least part of the reason I’ve done as much as I have to give off the impression that I don’t want anyone coming near me. Because I don’t want anyone coming near me…especially not men.

I’ve written about this previously, but honestly, when I went from a size four to my current size, I stopped getting harassed, cat-called, etc. Being “overweight” by definition, was a reprieve from what I’d experienced my entire adult life up to that point. And I owe all that extra weight to rape as well. The assault that keeps on taking. How am I supposed to grapple with THAT shit?

So now, I, the person who has gone to comfortable, yet disapproved of, lengths, to hide her figure, and effectively puff up like a blowfish, for all intents and purposes, have to change.

Even though I hate it and don’t want to do it, I’ll do it.

To attempt to attract a mate.

But, I think what’s upsetting me the most, is that I look in the mirror, myself, with this stupid shit on, and think, “fuck, I do look quite pretty with this shit on.”

Shame on me.

Shame on me for complaining about something I’m privileged enough to be able to complain about.

And shame on everyone else, for judging the cover before the book.

THE DAY A PHYSICIAN ASSUMED I HAD PTSD

I have a very addictive personality. It is extremely serious. This addictive personality has ruined otherwise perfectly good times in my life, and it has amplified the already bad situations.

But I’m lucky.

Because I’m basically “allergic” to opiates.

What a leap to make right there, right?

This comes up due to a recent visit to a “pain management” specialist or how I have always thought of them, drug dealers. I am NOT — I REPEAT — NOT — judging anyone who goes to these doctors, who is helped by these doctors, who is one of these doctors. I’m not saying they’re bad or good or anything in that realm. But, I have always been afraid of these doctors. The name of their specialty even feels addictive to me.

Some things have happened in my life. And I met some people. And I know I’m lucky that I’m basically “allergic” to opiates. I’ve never looked like this:

But I know REALLY GOOD PEOPLE, who have….Really good people. I have been fortunate to never have gotten that “dope sick,” a term I am using in this post to mean, “withdrawing from any drug” (and the definition of “drug” is critical here: “a medicine or other substance which has a physiological effect when ingested or otherwise introduced into the body.”).

But I have been “dope sick” as defined above. I could barely breathe, my heartbeat was irregular, I was severely dehydrated, and my skin was crawling. Less severe reactions were my inability to sit still, my shaking excessively, and of course, my hatred of everything and every one who couldn’t get me what I needed to be not “dope sick.”

But this post is getting off track, because I wanted to share my experience with one such drug dealer — “a pain management” specialist — I finally gave into going to see. I know what these doctors can be about. I know what they’ve done to a lot of people in my life.

But, my pain has become too severe. I cannot work a “normal” job. I cannot move correctly. I cannot live correctly.

Going in, I already knew what I was, and was not, willing to go through to deal with my, now debilitating, chronic pain.

Can I just vent that I am SO, TIRED, OF FILLING OUT PAPERWORK AT DOCTOR’S OFFICES? I want to stop having to go to doctor’s offices. I had to fill out, no joke, fourteen pages of crap that excluding pages that just asked for my signature. One of the things I had to sign was a five page “Contract” (given my profession — paaahhh-lllleeeaaseeeee) which I edited to my satisfaction, and then wrote all over it “I do not consent.”

After twenty minutes, I was still filling out paperwork, but was guided to my own private waiting room (or as I call it — second waiting room). I was then lazily asked some questions by a receptionist (???) about my medical history, etc., and then abandoned for about forty-five seconds before doctor douche-bag entered.

DDB started asking me some questions as he, too, lazily, in my opinion, flipped through my paperwork, noting that it looked like I had been experiencing some pain. Wasn’t I at a pain management office? I was. Good call, doc.

Maybe my prejudices make me a bad candidate to write about this, but I swear this dude looked like a snake. Like, something Satan made (as opposed to something that was naturally created, if that makes any sense). Oh well. I’m writing about it anyway.

He saw that I was not looking for the solution to my pain through controlled substances and genuinely acted WEIRD towards me after realizing that. I swear, he was acting fucking weird. He asked me some questions condescendingly, you know, as they do.

I should confess, I really don’t appreciate it when doctors stand above me, ever. It’s such a power play, particularly in an office like this. I hated that he was standing, hovering, FEET over me as I sat, in pain, looking up at him. I also seriously hate when doctors interrupt you when you’re mid-sentence trying to explain your situation — you know — something you think they might want to know if they’re going to be treating you.

That seems like a HUGE difference to me between practicing medicine and practicing law — the liability in practicing medicine is already on some lawyer telling you that you’re fine if you do (insert checklist here). Sure, your name is attached to something if you’re a doctor, but if you’re anything like DDB, you’re the type of guy who’s relying on EXACTLY THAT CHECKLIST SHITAgain, not what this post is about, sorry again for the self-derailment.

So, trusting the Doctor I saw days before this appointment came up, I brought something up to this doctor that I thought might be relevant, to his decision, as to which way my treatment, or testing, or whatever, might go. I said that I didn’t know what was best for me, which was why I was there, sitting in front of him, but I had been asked to relay that information to him, at my other Doctor’s request.

[Probably] excited that he had a direction to take me in, he gave me some instructions on how to make my other Doctor’s suggestion a reality, and told me he would “help me out.”

FUCK HIM, THAT FUCKING FUCK.

Look. It’s the same bullshit as the cop who pulled me over for being on my cellphone while driving. HE DID ME A “FAVOR” TOO. He wanted to know who I was talking to and about what, and when he was done writing up my ticket leaned over my window and said he did me a favor, pausing for a good four, incredibly uncomfortable seconds, before telling me how he did me that favor.

I have already been criticized about this but I don’t care. If I broke the law (and I did), give me the ticket for the thing I did. Because I didn’t ask for a favor. And I sure as hell am not giving you something in return. (And I don’t care if I’m being ungrateful. The world isn’t fair, and I NEVER want to be on the receiving end of something UNFAIR, if, I can help the balance.)

And when it comes to the fucking law, or MEDICINE, INCLUDING MY LIVELIHOOD, I DON’T NEED FAVORS. I NEED FUCKING CONFIDENT DECISIONS, AND DIAGNOSES, AND TREATMENT. And I bet if either of these two had been women? — different outcome. I hope I’m wrong. But, I’ve yet to hear of a story like the ones above that include woman on woman action. Feel free to prove me wrong in the comments section!

DDB leafs through my paperwork again, looks up at me, stares me straight in the face, and says, “Let me guess, you’ve been diagnosed with PTSD.” And the way that eff-ing eff-er said that — wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a fucking question! He asserted it upon me. THEN, he asked, “and what about anxiety?”

I get it. I need to “qualify” for the treatment I need. And that’s great. Vet me. Make sure I have what I claim to have. Call my other doctors (their suggestion not mine) who led me to your drug-dealing door. (He refused that offer, putting the burden on me, who can only now painfully drive anywhere, to go get written proof for him of what I “claimed” to be true.) Why couldn’t he just fucking call them? If he were a PROFESSIONAL, he would have TALKED TO MY PHYSICIANS, WHILE I WAS IN THE ROOM WITH HIM, AND HE COULD HAVE ASKED THEM OVER THE PHONE TO FAX HIM WHAT HE WANTED. But no, now I have errands to run to prove that I’m not making this shit up.

Two phone calls on his part. The possible six or less minutes he spent with me could have expanded by a few more to save me the trouble. So that’s my new mission since this appointment this past Friday.

But the fact is: DDB has no interest in alleviating my pain. And I know that. Because he didn’t do SHIT for me. He didn’t go the proverbial “extra mile.” He didn’t even go a fucking centimeter. Because why do more than you have to, when you can order your in need of help, in pain, patients around?

Asshole.

Let me list for you, without any shame whatsoever, the conditions from which I suffer that would “qualify” me for the treatment at hand:

Approved debilitating medical conditions include:

  • Chronic pain related to musculoskeletal disorders, which include rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, fibromyalgia and opioid use disorder;
  • Chronic pain of visceral origin
  • Migraine
  • Anxiety
  • Inflammatory bowel disease, including Crohn’s disease
  • Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

But this asshole looks at my paperwork, and with fucking absolutely NOTHING in it which should have prompted the statement pertaining to the last thing on this list, TOLD me I was diagnosed with PTSD. Like he knows one fucking thing about my life. WHY?

I NEED to know. I WILL find out. After I get what I need. (I’m no hero.)

But why THAT THING? He had other legit options.

What it because I’m a woman?

Because I’m totally underestimating this dude and he actually knows the way things are in the world and his “guess” just happened to sound more like a statement than a question to me? Maybe he’s enlightened and I’m just biased. Maybe.

Or maybe.

FUCK. HIM.

After he declares, with certainty, my prior diagnosis, he moves to asking me, “and anxiety?” What about the eff-ing thing I came here for treatment for, which happens to be at the top of that eff-ing list?! WHY. NOT. THAT?

FUCK HIM and his FUCKING FUCK self. I don’t care what the fuck was going on with him at that moment, at that time, during that day. I don’t. Because Friday night, and again Saturday night, I called my Mom, to talk about it, and I began sobbing. It was like bringing up PTSD, which YES, I HAVE BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH, brought up everything I experienced with that diagnosis, and no one — NO ONE — who has PTSD needs ANYTHING to remind him/her of the fucking hell that led to his/her PTSD.

Maybe you already guessed this about me, but I’m not in the military. They wouldn’t take me. So I don’t have the kind of PTSD that someone in the military might have. But I have it, and it has destroyed a lot of my self. And anyone who has PTSD, in my opinion, wouldn’t judge anyone else for what he/she has PTSD for. There’s a community of us. Real survivors — of a trauma which changed our lives completely. It is debilitating.

But again.

Nothing in my fucking paperwork or otherwise pointed to PTSD. My medication list? Sure, numbers 1, 3 & 4? CHECK. So what the fuck, DDB?

Why did you jump to THAT?

FUCKING WHY?

My medication list SHOULD have led him to anxiety before anything else in the world. ANYTHING. FUCKING. ELSE!

It’s not okay that he did that.

It’s not okay that when I was leaving I felt like he was showing off, by literally violating HIPPA in front of me, giving his staff member instructions after she asked him a question, like he was flaunting his power, and how much responsibility came with that power.

My Mom recently told me that “If I make just a little bit of effort…” I might be happy with the results, in regards to my appearance. I was making, literally just the littlest bit of effort possible. So, ironically, I was like, Mom! But I know what she meant. She meant look prettier if I want to attract a mate. I, being the Bitch I am, of course told her that I was happy to now be supporting the establishment who sells make-up, feeding the culture that reflects back to us all of our values in society, including beauty, over everything else I WANT to be noticed for. To her credit, she admitted, “point taken.”(I love you, Mom. And you gave me good advice. People DO notice me now that I’m wearing make-up, perpetuating the implication that looks are indeed everything. But whatever I think of it, your intentions were always pure and kind.)

I think I need a dog to help me get through my panic attacks related to my anxiety and PTSD. I’m not kidding. Anyone know someone?

In conclusion, just don’t do THAT. Don’t be THAT guy. Don’t be an asshole. Don’t bring up PTSD unless you absolutely have to, and don’t assume anyone doesn’t want to talk about their PTSD either. Don’t do anything I say. Because in the PTSD community, I guarantee, there is one of us who will tell you, “you did it wrong.”

Editor’s Note: It turns out that chronic pain, is, well, chronic. I’ve been barely able to get around the past few days, having worn myself out earlier in the week, and my writing here every day has suffered. I dislike this very much, but am learning to manage it and work with it and deal with this new situation. Selfishly, I hope you missed me.

Heroine

I was going to write a long post today.

But.

Someone close to me, it turns out, has been shooting heroin. So I needed to be with her Mom and take care of what needed taking care of. Because that’s what I do when shit gets real. And I encourage you — to do the same for those close to you.

A day spent without regret.

I was thanked for everything I did — which I hate but accept. Just be a decent person.

Her Mom and I made soup and drank Chocolate Milk. I was an excellent distraction-artist.

I will write tomorrow.

Blessings to all.

MY LIFE: Where Pain Never Goes Away. Because I Have Chronic Pain.

It was literally painful to type that Title to this post. I have been wanting to write so badly over the past few days, even starting 14 post drafts. But, as soon as I started, my now, not-so-new Chronic Pain kicked in and I couldn’t continue. The same thing is happening now, so I miss you guys and hope to be typing/writing again soon. Maybe I’ll do the voice to text thing (but we all know it’s not the same).

Love.

Baby, You’re the Left Kind of Left

Tonight, after my Creative Writing class:

  1. I almost died in a car accident due to an IDIOT stopping short on a semi-highway because his/her exit was blocked off and he/she wanted to GO THAT WAY (FUCK YOU, MORON!);
  2. I went to my Mom’s to wrangle my sick, eleven year old cat, Peyton, to give him medicine; and,
  3. I sobbed in front of my Mom.

This was a sob of many sobs as of late. I feel like a failure, almost all of my waking time, almost every day. I get glimpses of “you matter in this world” and “thank you for doing that for me,” which sustain me, for now.

But tonight, I sat in front of my Mom, who, although she does everything she can for everyone she can within her capacity to do so, tries SO HARD to say the right thing to me, (which I’m learning might actually be impossible), hurt me. My Mom, does not always say the most sensitive things to those of us in the family with Mental Illness. I KNOW — SHE DOES NOT DO THIS ON PURPOSE — I KNOW — SHE TRIES TO SAY THE THING THAT WON’T OFFEND US. I KNOW this to be true. But sometimes, the wrong words come out of her mouth, (and again, by wrong, I mean, I might be impossible to please in this way), but it hurts.

Tonight, she couldn’t tell me what even one of my diagnoses is. I had no interest in getting into this conversation when I arrived to give Peyton his kitty medicine, and I don’t even know how it came up. But it did, somehow, and here we are. I told her one thing I have been diagnosed with is Major Depressive Disorder. She made the comment that she hoped I would be able to find the Holy Grail — so to speak — which would “motivate [me]” out of what I am going through right now.

In case you don’t know, Depression has NOTHING to do with MOTIVATION. PERIOD. THE — FUCKING — END.

I know my Mom did not mean to offend me with her choice of words, and I told her that, but I also explained that the kind of depression that I suffer from, cannot be “cured.” I cannot be “motivated” out of it — ever. She, of course, apologized if I had felt offended, because that was not her intention. I had already told her, prefacing this part of the conversation, that I knew she didn’t mean to hurt me, but I felt the need to let her know that it was still a hurtful thing to hear.

Because it felt like she was saying things I fear I am. Like I’m just lazy. Like I just can’t get it together. Like I’m not trying hard enough. Like all I need is the “correct stimulation” and I’ll “get over it.”

The end to this story is — I don’t get over it. I don’t EVER get to “get over it.” I cannot both harbor this affliction AND pretend it is curable. It simply isn’t. It is — what I told my Mom it is — MANAGEABLE.

And even though it can manageable, manageability isn’t a given. I’ve had to call my therapist during the week at crazy times because things are going on that I simply cannot deal with in that moment.

Sometimes, people confuse situational depression with forever depression. And if you have both, like I am suffering through right now, I can feel targeted. It’s everything I’m always trying to manage plus everything else on top of that.

My Mom and I talked some more. And through my increasingly wet shirt, neck, and of course, eyes, I sobbed to her, The world broke me, Mom.”

The world, broke me.

But P.S., I have the most amazing, understand, loving, caring, amazing Mom in the world 💞 and I am so grateful for her support.