now, page 2

 

in things i never thought would happen: i turn 46 today.

i’ve officially survived 45 years on this planet.

the last month or so has felt like an intermission, a half time, a full performance review, a save point, a big ending. i’ve been at home, alone, at my desk, deep in hermit mode. headphones in, world blocked out, stacks of journals on every flat surface.

to know me is to know that i always have three things on my person at any given time: a journal, a book, an emergency joint.

there’s been a lot of responses over the years. the book usually gets an eye roll. the emergency joint makes friends. the journal though- the journal is most often a point of contention.

is that like…your diary? 

do you, like, actually write in it?

what are you even writing? who cares? that’s dumb. who’s going to read that? what are you, some kind of snob? isn’t that only for teenagers? 

the number of absolute imbeciles that have so clearly and loudly and quickly declared themselves NPC that i don’t even have to acknowledge the existence of? GLORIOUS. thanks for taking the trash out for me.

my journals have literally saved my life over the years, so off is the direction and all the way is how far you can get to fucking.

when i was in the middle of a domestic violence marriage headed for divorce, my journals reminded me YES, it is that bad. NO, you’re not making a big deal out of nothing. YES. you are in danger. NO, you’re not lying to yourself.

when i was going through *all the death* my journals helped me stay sane.

when covid hit and i was locked away in a 400sq foot apartment, alone, for way too long…journals.

i can’t lie to myself. it’s hard to listen to other people, there’s always a loophole or an explanation or a reason they don’t *REALLY* understand. but it’s hard to ignore myself. hard to tell myself i’m wrong. hard to argue with someone who’s never, ever, wrong. (for the record, i initially typo’d “wrong” and almost let it stay in for the irony, but, alas, the never being wrong thing…)

journals have helped me track memories during times when my brain wasn’t doing the job. journals have helped me track growth and progress and change.

heading into my 46th year, my guides asked me to go back and dig through my journals, the last two years specifically.

and i did.

whew.

you really can’t lie to yourself.

the last two years have been a doozy.

the only things that stayed the same in the last two years: my car and my credit card debit.

everything else changed.

i changed my main job and added a second job. two years of 6 days a week.

i changed apartments. a whole year with no dead bodies.

i tried a partnership. good news: i still know how to leave a toxic abuser.

i let go of old friendships. when people show you who they are, believe them. 

i gained new friendships. when you’re the most yourself, you’ll find the right people.

i let go of stella. is she really gone if her hair is still woven into every sweater and blanket?

i changed hairstyle. the mullet phase was…whew.

i changed jeans. I CHANGED JEANS. may another pair of skinny jeans never smother my ass or strangle my calves again. praise be to the old navy straight leg denim gods.

those are the bench markers. the milestones. the visible moments captured on page.

more than that, more importantly to me, the things you couldn’t see or measure.

i’ve worked hard on my mental health my whole life. from my first counseling appointment in 1994 til now, it has been learning ways to figure out my brain. how to make it work, how to understand it. i’ve been to countless therapists in the last 32 years. the life coach that had a mental break down. the dude that couldn’t be trusted because he tucked his jeans in his boots. the gal that ended up using me as a therapist when her husband had an affair. the gal that saw my process for working through things, asked to use it with other clients, then quit and wrote a book. it’s been a lot of looking to others, reading articles, researching, digging for answers.

one thing that stood out the most in the last two years is the shift between that looking to others for answers and finally looking to myself.

re-reading through entries i could see and remember the times i was struggling the most, those times i was looking for answers. podcasts, tiktoks, apps, articles, influencers, anything, everything. there were entries of quotes and blurbs and other people’s ideas. where were mine? where was MY voice? where were MY experiences and thoughts.

and then i saw myself intentionally shift my writing to asking myself. i caught myself. then me saw the same thing now me is seeing. then me looked at the tools and experiences i already had, and used them. then me knew to start asking myself. as a second part of that, i could see the shift of writing FOR MYSELF instead of writing like someone someday might find it. i don’t know if i can properly explain that filter. my own journals, filtered. my own thoughts. my own experiences: filtered. because someday someone else might read it. anyone that’s ever kept a journal knows that thought. anyone with a sibling has probably lived that nightmare in real time.

but here? now? mid 40’s? alone in my own damn house?

they became even more _MY_ journals. because, if someone else did find them: 

a) good luck reading my handwriting

b) so what?

what do you mean so what?

I MEAN, SO WHAT?

if someone else does read it, either they’re an asshole who violated your privacy or they’re someone you trust. so, either way, SO WHAT?

and i started writing to myself. having true, honest conversations with myself. not hiding potentially embarrassing things. not glossing over hurtful things. not leaving out names or specifics. not vaguebooking myself (dear gods, my swiss cheese brain cannot handle any vaguebooking. I WON’T REMEMBER.) not dialing back extreme things. not dismissing. not shaming. not editing. just. writing.

i let all the voices out. i let the mean teenager voice out. i let the scared voice out. i let the angry voice out. i let the kind voice out. i let the judgemental voice out. i let the shameful voice out.

i let them all have their say. i let them all contribute to the conversation. i learned to recognize the voice based on the handwriting. yes, my handwriting changes for each voice. i can’t explain it, but holy fuck is it fascinating.

oh, anger is here. oh, fear is here. oh, trauma is here.

i can tell by the handwriting which voice is leading the charge and that has helped me learn how to respond to whatever comes out.

oh, the angry teenager? well, she’s mean as fuck, but she’s not wrong. she makes some solid, harsh, right to the point thoughts. let her rant, get it out. 

fear? how small can my handwriting get. you’re scrunching down pretty hard and gripping that pen pretty hard…maybe take a minute to look into that. what fear is it? is it real? how can we address it? you’re safe now, take a deep breath, now, look at it again.

the newest one? a handwriting i’ve only run across twice so far? trauma. letters and writing so stretched out it basically looked like a bad ekg strip. emotions that so badly wanted out but were so hard to get to the page. even on the page they didn’t want to be recognized. ooof. girl. that one caught me hard. i was able to make out enough of an entry to get the general idea/experience i was referencing, found the one other example of the handwriting, connected the two traumatic themes, presto, blammo: hello trauma. now when that writing shows up i can approach whatever thought it’s communicating with more care. more tools. more intention. 

by talking to myself openly and honestly, i was able to recognize a new piece.

from my own journal. from my own thoughts.

THAT’S INCREDIBLE.

ask me how i fucking feel about that for $120 an hour assholes.

through all that processing, through going back and reading things, i was able to make connections, see how things played out, put puzzle pieces together. i saw real time follow up’s and resolutions to things.

oh, that card pull in june warned me about sneaky people, hey look, july is when i had to remove some old friendships. big changes ahead- boom bam: new jobs. what do you mean trust my intuition and don’t let people convince me otherwise? oh, that is in fact, NOT my sweatshirt and it DOES very much have everything to do with us.

i was able to see all the beautiful things i’ve manifested in my life. my birthday intentions and how they played out over the year.

i could track the times when things felt strange or off and what followed that. how many times in the last 2 years did music and clothes and energies feel off? oh, when was that? oh, so i should just know in august that imma hate everything, every year.

going back over two years worth of journals was not an easy task. it took me several days and so many joints i had to empty the ashtray twice.

it was confronting that i had really glossed over how bad the partnership was from the jump.

it was confronting the ending of friendship that hadn’t been mourned properly.

it was confronting my own behaviors and patterns that had kept me stuck.

addressing choices i had made and red flags i had intentionally ignored and taking ownership in the results.

it was comforting, frustrating, funny, sad, encouraging, joyful, grateful, so many different things.

most importantly, it was complete.

i reviewed everything right up to the present. i watched all the game tapes. i reviewed all the footage. i covered all the footnotes and addendums.

if i haven’t touched it by now? let it go. if something new comes up? i have the tools. i have the lessons. i have my own research archives for fucks sake.

half time is over now.

and now, page 2.

welcome to 46.

what's the point?

one of the most fascinating things to me is the way the universe delivers messages.

who knew that my 28 year old going through a break up and yell-crying at me on the phone about what’s even the point? and being alone forever! would rattle loose the same issues i’ve been fighting with since…well…1980? maybe that’s dramatic. it was probably closer to 1990 before those thoughts hit. 

what even is the point? to all this? is it just to survive one shit storm before the next hits and hope there’s as little overlap as possible? is it just to make it through two weeks of work to pay your bills before the next two weeks and the next set of bills is due? what even IS the point of any of this??? ESPECIALLY when it’s all on fire and terrible anyway?

is alone the forever answer? is it? i’ve known it was my path since the late 90’s. some of us aren’t meant to be part of something more. some of us are solo fliers for this incarnation. some lessons you can only learn alone.

so, i don’t know dude. maybe it’s hereditary. maybe it’s bad examples. it is my journey this time around. i don’t know if it’s yours.

i thought i had dealt with those questions a long time ago. i thought i had made my peace with the uncertainty, the fear, the pain, the desolation of those questions.

maybe not so much.

i blame the moon.

more specifically the eclipse.

can’t and don’t wanna lie- having those questions reintroduced to my brain, especially from an apple that came directly from my tree? it fucked me up. i know those questions VERY well. i have stacks and stacks of journals from trying to deal with those questions.

especially from my 20’s.

especially after my divorce.

picking those questions back up in my 40’s is painful. painful in a new way, painful in the old way.

i remember EXACTLY what it felt like when those thoughts used to crush me. sitting alone with two kids from two different dads. sitting alone with no family, no support system. sitting alone with a very mean brain and a LOT of trauma and emotional abuse. whew. that pain came FLOODING back. that absolute chest cracking emptiness. that deep, dark, vicious blame of brokenness and wongness and too muchness. that need to contort and shift yourself into something, ANYTHING acceptable but you have no idea what that even is or how to even do it. that shame and blame when you see everyone else around you partnered up and settling down and having purpose and drive and success and you’re just…not. the analyzing. the self flagellation. the debilitating criticism and critiques. HATING yourself because someone really mean taught you the common denominator theory and YOU are the only common denominator.

whew. it flatlined me. literally. flat on my floor, face down in the dark, flatlined me. 

i know that loneliness. when you go home after work to an empty apartment. when you go through a breakup and lose the person you thought MAYBE THIS TIME with. when friend groups shift and you lose the friend and the people around the friend. when family just doesn’t include you. when you’re profoundly alone. 

HOWEVER, the messages around this eclipse have been very clear: let go of what’s not working for you. old habits, old people, old situations,

OLD HARMFUL THOUGH PROCESSES THAT AREN’T TRUE OR REAL.

and, as real as all those feelings are, or were, as hard as that hit me, as much as it hurt, as much as i thought i had dealt with them…

I HAD.

and i remembered.

what is the point to all this?

LOVE.

well, isn’t that ironic considering the second half of that question? am i going to be alone forever?

maybe.

probably.

that doesn’t mean i can’t love.

THOSE WHO CAN, DO

THOSE WHO CAN’T, TEACH

i might not have some grand mighty purpose. i might not have the epic love story. i might be alone and drifting with no goal in sight.

BUT I CAN LOVE.

love is the point. love is the purpose. the reason. leave the world better than you found it: THAT is the point. help others not feel this way. that’s the point. if you can’t find it, BE IT.

BE WHAT YOU NEEDED WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER.

i know this.

it just took me a minute to remember.

and maybe a half a box of kleenex and a not insignificant amount of weed.

i know how much i want love. i know what i want love to look like. i know how many times i’ve walked away because that’s NOT what i wanted love to look like.

side track: did you know you can do that?

you’re allowed to say THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANT LOVE TO LOOK LIKE and leave.

they say i love you but constantly disrespect you? lie to you? emotionally harm you? nitpick and tear you down? they love you but ignore your needs? they love you but don’t listen to you or hear you?

you’re allowed to say THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANT LOVE TO LOOK LIKE.

i personally want love to look kind. funny. supportive. financially responsible. emotionally safe. sexually exciting. i want love to look like I GOT YOU, not figure it out. i want love to look like you fascinate me, not holy fuck you’re too much.

i digress, or, more accurately, can’t walk two idea lines at the same time, even if they are parallel.

yes, i am alone. yes, loneliness is hard. yes, maybe i’ll be alone forever, because i know what i want love to look like and i won’t settle for less.

AND ALSO, circling back, it hurts because even though i know i learned my lessons and maybe just needed a refresher course, my kid is learning those lessons NOW.

he hasn’t learned how to be comfortable being alone. he hasn’t learned how to turn down the voices in your head yet. to be fair, i still can’t turn them off either, but i’ve learned to turn them down and tune them out. those are HARD lessons. they took me into my 40’s and a global pandemic locking my ass in a studio apartment by myself to learn. 

it’s a particular new hurt when i realized the apple didn’t even fall off the tree. that poor kid got a damn carbon copy of my shitty brain. they really just said copy + paste + add cancer emotions. at least i’m a cold heartless virgo. that poor little water sign gets alllllll the emotions. it’s hard watching someone else go through a pain you know inside and out. it’s hard when there’s only so much i can help. i’m still mom. i’m still don’t know anything. small bits are starting to crack through. some of my intelligence is returning. some of my hard earned sage wisdom is appreciated, but at the end of the day, i’m still mom.

and so it hurts. in new ways. in old ways.

AND ALSO: i’m ready to let go of that hurt. one of the messages today: what if the miracle is finally being free? walking up and realizing the thing you cried over, prayed over, almost lost yourself over doesn’t have power over you any more?

i’m glad the universe brought this back up. i’m glad i was able to remember AND see how it’s changed. i’m glad i can let that thought go. i’m glad i can let that hurt be healed. i’m glad i can look back at the pain, love it for reminding me that i do have feelings. i always have. i’m glad it showed me how much i’ve grown. i’m glad it showed me that i can let it go. completely forever. i fought that battle. i have MY answer. 

i’m glad i can recognize that my son’s pain is not my pain AND i can be there for him through it. i don’t have to let it hurt me anymore and i can help him learn how to ease that same hurt. i can help him find HIS answer. 

WHAT’S THE POINT?

love.

if you don’t have it, BE IT. if you can’t find it, CREATE IT. if no one has said it to you, say it to every other person.

i don’t believe in jesus but i do believe in dolly parton and miss mona said: “if i see someone without a smile, i just give em one of mine.”

then she sang i will always love you and rode off into the sunset with ed earl and i cried an ugly cry even though i’ve seen it a hundred times. ANYWAY.

BE THE LOVE.

that’s the point.

the hardest breakup

i have to break up with my bar.

i know that sounds like a stupid sentence, but when it’s been the place you go, FOR YEARS, it feels like a pretty big deal.

i’ve been going to the same bar, off and on, for dang on forever. i’ve said it before, i’ll say it a thousand times: as a single woman, when you find a good bartender, you stick with them. to be realistic, there have been some gaps over the years- when i moved to the valley, the covid shutdown, some mental health hermit phases, but for the most part, same bar. same ass. same barstool. years. 

it started as therapy- i was required to go out where the people are at least once a week. two hours at the bar is two drinks, then i can go home. my therapist thought it was weird i had to come up with a whole plan and a math equation to be able to do it, but I DID IT, so that’s what counted.

as the years progressed, some nights i ended up staying out and talking to people. some nights i took people home. some nights i barely stayed for a shot, some nights i knew better than to take that last shot. i’ve been there at opening and i’ve closed down the bar.

i know the bartenders. i know the regulars. it’s got the good patio with the good traffic to watch. it’s got good art and 90’s music from high school. it has great fries and it had good burgers (pulled from the menu, sad days). it’s comfortable. it’s familiar. it’s my living room away from home.

and it’s time to say goodbye.

there have been warning signs popping up over the last few months that i’ve been diligently trying to ignore: then nights when there’s not a single familiar person and i feel like a stranger. the nights when the energy is so wrong i can’t imagine how i ever felt at home.

i remember one night after a work on a sunday a few months ago, nothing special, no chaos, no drama, nothing strange, but i just sat at the bar and felt SO EXTREMELY OUT OF PLACE. three people. one bartender. sports on the tv. nothing. literally nothing. not a comment, not a side eye, not a weird conversation. nothing. just me, sitting in the quiet thinking WHY AM I HERE? this doesn’t feel like me. i should have walked out then, instead i convinced myself the feeling would pass.

spoiler alert: it hasn’t passed.

there’s ways the universe lets you know.

nights when the whole bar is an eskimo village. nights when your tab is triple because they charge you the wrong price but you don’t want to argue. nights when you listen to people go on unhinged transphobic and homophobic rants that make trans patrons cry. nights when you notice everyone going to the bathroom two by two and you don’t remember signing up for a ski trip. the moment you realize that even though 90% of patrons are gay, they won’t put up a pride flag because they “don’t want to be known as that.”

nights when you just realize- this is no longer for me.

i’ve been in my head a lot lately; filled up most of a journal in just the last month. there’s been a lot of signs that change has been coming. i didn’t know from where. tried a job interview. tried going out with new people to new places. tried looking for new clothes online. i’ve felt it coming, but honestly didn’t expect the universe to take aim at my bar.

MY BAR?

really?

last night the hammer dropped pretty hard.

the word DISCERNMENT has been the sesame street word of the week at my house. discernment is one step beyond intuition to me. intuitions is the knowing; the deep gut knowing. you can’t explain it, there’s no proof, there’s no evidence or examples, but you KNOW. discernment is what you do with that knowing. is it important? is it relevant? what is it showing? how does it impact you? discernment separates and asks the question: now that you know, does this still belong here? discernment is the space between who you are, and who you are being. between the life you want and the life you’re maintaining.

while that message has been coming through, loud and clear, over and over, last night took the added step of adding to the message: what are you not letting go of? what no longer belongs? there’s something you’re not letting go of, and it’s obstructing you. OBSTRUCTING. not just blocking. not something you can work around. straight up OBSTRUCTED. do not pass go. something you’ve been using as avoidance and escapism. people who don’t have your best interest at heart. toxic people and backstabbers. you can’t be in those circles and settings any more. the longer you grip onto it, the more decay it will bring into your life.

ummmmmm…well. fuck.

i mean. jesus. do you have cameras IN THE BAR? well, i mean, i know there’s cameras in the bar. i just didn’t know my guides were…always…watching…and…like…

oh shut up.

of course they were watching and saw it all, even the things i didn’t or haven’t.

it’s a pretty clear message: let go or decay.

it’s a silly little change. it won’t be noticeable to anyone but me. my two hours on tuesdays and occasional saturday afternoon won’t be missed. i know i can go out where the people are without an assignment now. i know i’m not going to backslide to hermit mode. there’s no ripples in the pond from this decision. there’s no cataclysmic collapse of anything. i’ll get off the bus one stop later. i’ll walk home one block north. i’ll buy vodka lemonade seltzers to keep in my fridge and maybe a lawn chair to sit out front and watch traffic. life will go on, maybe even move forward.

how long can you hold your breath?

it’s anniversary season around here.

not the good kind, the other one. the kind that supposedly “get better with time.” you know all those cliche’s? “time heals all,” or “grief eases with time,” or “light at the end of the tunnel,” all the trite shit people say to you when bad things happen.

it’s been 17 years since all the death happened.

cliche’s are gonna cliche and i guess things are better. or healed. or whatever. time and life have both continued on.

seventeen years is a long time.

especially when you’re holding your breath.

have you heard of 27 forever? jimmi. janice. jim. kurt. amy. steve.

that last one not familiar?

my brother chose to be 27 forever in 2009. he suffered a TBI in july and he chose to be 27 forever in october.

there is no arguing with his decision. i can list a thousand reasons i’m mad at him for checking out early. i can also list a thousand reasons i understand why he checked out early. whether or not i agree or disagree or land somewhere in the million acres of grey area betwixt the two, at the end of the day, a decision was made. that subject is long closed. no amount of arguing either side of the debate will bring steve back. the genie in aladdin taught me that.

there’s all sorts of statistics about suicide. there’s dissertations. textbooks full of research and studies.

i’ve spent my fair share amount of time thinking about suicide, from all sides. i’ve fist fought death itself sitting under my kitchen table sobbing wanting to die but not being able to because there were dishes in the sink. i’ve made the award call to bosses when coworkers have threatened self-harm while working remote during covid. i made one really awkward call to a fire chief once when a firefighters not only told me they were thinking about it but had an entire plan mapped out with specific dates.

and, seventeen years ago, I sat front row at a full catholic mass for my baby brother being lectured to by a priest about the sins of suicide and how it keeps you from heaven forever. REALLY? AT THE FUNERAL YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK? closest i’ve ever come to punching a clergy member.

one of the statistics about suicide floating around out there: the risk of suicide greatly increases if there’s already been one in the family.

well. fuck you steve. now i can’t do it because you already did it and if ONE increases the risk of others, TWO certainly can’t be good, so now i HAVE to stick around. jesus you asshole. ugh. FINE. whatever. then they have the gall to question me about wanting life insurance at 30.

so.

as it happens,

i am not the only one in my family.

my oldest, my darling, brilliant, funny, creative, sensitive, water sign first born got my brain. gremlins and all.

it was a topic that came up.

more than once.

there have been some REALLY, REALLY dark times in the last seventeen years. like being born to me wasn’t enough of a challenge for this lifetime, the universe decided to start punching him square in the face when he was barely a kid: all the death started barely a few weeks after his 11th birthday. that’s just fucking mean.

with my very unkind brain stuffed in his already too smart head and a newly minted family legacy of suicide, there have been more than a few times over the years that had me more than a little worried.

“you know, uncle steve…”

last week he turned 28. we made it. we did it.

27 forever can fuck off. it claimed one generation, not two.

it’s not logical that i’ve been holding my breath this whole time.

*technically* just this past year should have had me tied up in knots.

naur. i’ve been holding my breath for 17 years.

right up til the whistle blew at 12:34 pm on my crabby cancer’s birthday.

right up until the final whistle.

i’m not sure which is harder: listening to your kid tell you they’re thinking about death, or listening to your kid tell you they wish they’d been aborted. that last month before 28 threw a few solidly landed stray punches my direction. oof. 

like, my dude. i have done everything in my power to keep you alive for 28 years. some of the hardest decisions i’ve ever had to make or will ever have to make were to keep you alive. i just…

but we did it. we made it past 27 forever. i can let out the breath that i, very much aware, have been holding. 

and i know the 27 forever window closing isn’t the magic everything is ok forever now window.

hell, i’m 45 and still have days that death stops by to see if i still think of them. so narcissistic, those grim reapers. walking around thinking we’re obsessed with them all the time. it’s fewer and further between now bitch. take that. AND, super dirty secret: i’ve actually caught myself being EXCITED about being alive lately, it’s bizarre and strange.