not as healed as i thought

did you ever have one of those days/moods where you feel like you could (and you really want to) make every person you come into contact with just absolutely break down in tears and question their very existence on earth?

i promise, i’m working on my healing journey.

back in the day there was a little less restraint.

back in the covid days, there were some mean, and i mean really, really mean emails to property management. years before that, i told a car dealership i would drive my new car through their front window if they didn’t fix a financing mistake (fuck wells fargo, i stand by that one). much, much further back in time, i went toe to toe with a principal demanding teacher discipline and/or removal (i stand by that one too: if you’re not a doctor, don’t tell me my kid needs medication). a few standouts on the highlight reel of “Not My Best Moments.”

there is a vicious, mean, calculated, stunningly precise beast of destruction and degradation that lives deep in my soul.

maybe it’s being a virgo. maybe it’s being a protective parent. maybe it’s being neurodivergent with an astoundingly strong sense of justice. maybe it’s being a female who spent 20+ years in construction/industrial jobs. maybe it’s all of them. maybe it’s just me.

i’ve been working on her.

some days are kinder than others.

today is a day i’m glad i have a desk away from everyone because…oof.

my new utility bill arrived and it’s over $100. AGAIN. even though i’m rarely home. fucking slumlord apartment manager. i would scream like a feral raccoon in his face for an hour if i saw him today. that slimy fucker really lied to my face about this fucking apartment. disgusting kitchen walls that drip gods only know how old nicotine blood down the walls anytime you attempt to cook anything. a shower that takes a seinfeld long time to get hot water. fake hardwood floors that not only make everything so fucking cold all the time, but they also remove all sound dampening so EVERYTHING is loud. and, the real punch in the gut, floorboard heaters that not only barely work, they run constantly, even when turned off, so your bill is over $100 every month.i specifically talked to him about needing reliable heat when i was apartment hunting as my then home had been without heat for a month.

“this will be such an improvement,” he assured me. “we work really hard to maintain the property. just let us know any time there’s a problem and we’ll fix it right away.”

if by fix it you mean delete the maintenance request, then yeah, they totally fix things.

it’s to the point where my neighbor is the one cleaning the grounds, fixing signs, doing what the property management should be doing.

awesome neighbor. shitass fucking property manager.

downed tree branches from storms in december? still blocking sidewalks.

plants and shrubs? overgrown, infringing on public walkways, and mostly dead.

lighting along sidewalks for not only residents, but the community at large since we’re a bus stop corner? as burned out as a 45 year old neurodivergent woman.

one fucking slumlord to the next.

i’m not the only one. my partner has a property management firm equally as bad.

property management in general is so fucking terrible and incompetent, i swear most managers are only one sexual assault accusation away from being nominated for a cabinet position in washington d.c.

yeah, i know, i told you i’m working on that healing thing. some days are two steps forward, some days are just screaming into the void. at least i’m not screaming at people any more. progress or something like it.

but man. she’s right there under the surface. that feral raccoon. she still screams, “...why don’t you try using your head? you know, that lump three feet above your ass!” but at least now it’s an inside my head voice, not and outside where people can hear voice.

 

maybe it’s the weather. maybe it’s because i forgot to eat lunch again. i’m just so fucking fed up with…well…i mean…anyone alive right now gets it.

it’s hard to be kind and have empathy right now. in a world where the bad guys keep winning. when all the assertions of “that’s illegal” only work if there’s someone to enforce the laws. listening to all the “he can’t do that” being repeatedly drowned out by people doing whatever the fuck they want. laws broken. lives destroyed. communities gutted. rampant abuse uncovered. we’re surrounded on all fronts by all the most absolutely vile, putrid, rotting decay, festering abscessed wound, blindingly incompetent, unquestionably worst of humanity on full display.

boy, did i pick a great time to be working on my healing.

i’m holding on by my freshly manicured nails (raspberry pink this time) and a 528Hz healing frequency playlists on spotify.

but at least i’m still trying.

i’m working on talking to people when there’s a concern instead of just blowing up a bridge and walking away. i’m working on giving space and empathy before assuming the worst. i’m relying heavily on the “incompetent over intentional” perspective of human behavior.

i can zoom out and understand i’m not the only tenant with issues. i’m not the only person offended by things in the world. i’m not the only one having a hard time in this dumpster fire of existence. people have bad days. things happen. the shit storm is *rarely* specifically aimed at me and more just bad timing and unfortunate proximity. i can understand: we’re all broke, over worked, under loved, over taxed. we're all running on restless sleep and too expensive coffee. i can understand that i am but a little teeny tiny blip in the overall existence of humanity on the small scale and of existence as a whole on the large scale. i can understand that kindness is always the better path, because it’s what feels right in my core. i can understand SO MANY THINGS.

but also, don’t be a shitass, shitass. do your fucking job. be true to your word. do what’s best for humanity, not just yourself. work to leave the world a better place than you found it. don’t fucking piss me off.

i’m really trying here.

kindness matters

i grew up in a house with the philosophy: “the world is hard, so we’re going to be hard on you to prepare you for it.”

as an 80’s kid, i know this wasn’t unique. we were the generation where they had to run commercials to remind our parents to hug us and make sure we came home when the streetlights came on.

looking back a generation or two, it’s not difficult to suss out where this ideology comes from: my grandmother was a widow with 3 babies and one on the way in 1955. my mom was divorced with 2 kids in 1982. those were HARD ROADS. those were really hard roads. my grandmother was born in 1929. that’s so many wars, the great depression, social upheaval. my mom was born in 1955. that’s even more wars, more recessions, even more social upheaval.

life was hard. add in…well…everything. being women. being mothers. before credit cards. before birth control. before divorce was acceptable. i don’t know, because we weren’t a family that talked, but hedging my bets i’d say dollars to donuts there’s some abuse in there too. physical, probably. emotional, for sure. mental, yup. financial, without a doubt.

i understand, woman to woman, wanting to prepare your daughter (children) for what’s coming. it has been generations of struggle and the world being hard.

but here’s the thing: it’s been generations of struggle and the world being hard. the world just is hard. no matter what.

so, why does home have to be as well?

i started feeling that shift in thinking a few years ago, unfortunately, after my kids were already out of the house. i raised my kids with the same mentality: the world is hard, you need to be tough. for that, i’m eternally sorry.

now, i wonder: if the world is hard and will always be hard, why does home have to be?

why can’t home be the soft place to land when the world knocks you around? why can’t home be the safe harbor from the storm that’s always either brewing or raging, alternatively.

the world is hard. strangers can be really mean. life can punch you square in the face, really fucking hard some days. you get exhausted. you get worn down. it is mean. it is hard.

do i want someone screaming in my face to keep going? someone literally hitting or pushing me forward? is it helpful to have someone screaming about weakness and failure and discouragement? 

or do i want someone to say: sit down for a moment, catch your breath, regain your balance. take a knee. take some of my energy. take some of my kindness, my softness. recharge yourself. are you ready? take a deep breath. you can keep going. you can do it. i believe in you.

i was bullied a lot as a kid. A LOT. i mean, to be fair i was undiagnosed, unattended, and unusual. i was the super weird kid that preferred adults over peers. i would rather stay home and read a book than do anything outside. i was (am) wicked smart with an incredibly strong sense of justice: aka: a rule follower, a snitch and a square. throw in a heavy dose of religious superiority and i was no fun at all. as a result, the bullying came from all directions: brothers, cousins, classmates, teachers. eventually partners, coworkers, bosses, friends. 

i’ve heard it all. i’ve heard all about my size, my skin, my glasses, my hair, my clothes, my interests, my inability (or awkwardness) to interact in social settings. i know i’m weird. i know i do things weird and wrong. i’m too picky. i’m too loud. i’m too boring. i’m too embarrassing. i’m exhausting. i know all the things. i’ve heard it as long as i can remember.

and, spoiler alert, all that hardness didn’t make anything any easier to hear or deal with as a kid and it has yet to make anything easier to deal with as an adult. 

people are still mean and i’m not any better prepared. it still hurts.

for example: seventy two. 72. that’s how many interviews i went on while unemployed for 7 months between 2023 and 2024. that’s a lot of meanness. that’s a lot of rejection and people telling you that you don’t fit and they don’t want you. especially when most of those interviews are in industrial/construction industries. they REALLY don’t like different people.

none of the meanness or rejection from childhood prepared me for that. it still hurt. it was still really fucking brutal.

having a partner call me retarded and embarrassing wasn’t any easier because i’ve already heard it thousands of times from my brother.

having men on dating apps call me a fat cunt that no one wants doesn’t get any easier the 10th or 100th time. 

having strangers on the streets laugh at my clothes wasn’t any easier because my mom had already taught me to hate my body.

being rejected by friends isn’t any easier at 40 than it was at 14.

the world is hard. it’s always been hard, it will always be hard.

so i choose softness.

be what you needed when you were little.

i needed someone to say: that was mean. you didn’t deserve that. you don’t have to listen to that. you’re an amazing human, just as you are.

if they can’t change it in 5 seconds or 5 minutes, shut the fuck up about it.

toilet paper on your shoe? sure i’ll say something. shoes that, to me, don’t quite match the outfit and look too worn out? shut the fuck up. who knows what they can find that fits or that they can afford.

broccoli stuck in your teeth? sure i’ll say something. missing teeth? shut the fuck up about it. i don’t know their family genetics or the status of their dental insurance.

i’ve had people say some of the most unkind things about everything imaginable. what the hell are birthing hips? what is a shelf butt? what is a pizza face? what does making sound effects when i walk by accomplish? what does giggling in a group while i slowly realize that wasn’t a complement do? what satisfaction comes from saying the meanest and the cruelest things, just because? 

and, again, spoiler alert, all the “preparation” of my youth still hasn’t made and of it any easier.

so, now i choose kindness.

i choose a compliment over a criticism. i choose encouragement instead of berating. i choose a polite smile instead of a sneer of judgement.

kindness matters.

there’s no shortage of people in this world waiting to tell you how wrong you are. there’s always someone around to point out a mistake. always someone to make fun of an outfit or a haircut or a perceived flaw.

in the united states right now, the cruelty is the point. all the rhetoric. all the hate speech. the laws being rescinded. the families being separated. the cabal of rich elites hoarding resources. all the attacks- verbal or literal bombs. the cruelty is the point. unnecessary, humanity stripping, absolutely destructive intentional cruelty.

there’s more than enough of that in the world. 

i’ve had more than enough of that.

i choose kindness. i choose to be the soft place.

come, sit beside me. take some of my kindness. take some of my softness. let me encourage you. let me support you. let me cheer you on. let me help you catch your breath to face another day.

in a world of cruelty, choose kindness.

 

waaaaaaaay too much information

 

hi. my name is sherry and i hate my body.

well. that’s mostly true. two things can be true at the same time.

i appreciate my body. she’s healthy. no broken bones. no chronic illness. no major issues. i even managed to miss the genetic conditions. this body? she’s literally supported me through sports, babies, countless bruises, bumps, and falls. almost all my sick days have been for kids. even covid only took me down for 2 days. i appreciate her strength and resilience. i appreciate that she’s held it together for me this long. if you know how clumsy i am, you’ll know what a testament that is. 

and also, i HATE my body.

i’ve been a size 20 since about 2006. i’ve been up to 285 lbs and down to 200 lbs. still a size 20 at both ends of the literal scale. i’m too tall for regular sizes, too poor for tall sizes. my feet are an obnoxious size that only recently started existing in the shoe world and only at one specific shoe store. my options are ugly or uglier when it comes to footwear. my torso is weirdly long, my waist is in the wrong spot, my hips are generously wide, my butt…well…as my mom always put it: “...you have a shelf butt.” still not 100% sure what that means; i’m for sure not a kardashian balancing a champagne bottle on it. i’m covered in stretch marks from two babies (thankfully very faded now), and, worse to me, acne scars.

oh, everyone gets acne when they’re a teenager.

i get it. i do. poor suzie had a small pimple on her forehead before the prom. oh no! i haven’t been a teenager in…well…it’s offensive to do the math. it was a year that started in 19. so. a while ago. 

but i’ve had and still have deep, cystic acne since my early teens. EVERYWHERE. jaw line? yup. there wasn’t a coverup strong enough in the 90’s. so much for COVERgirl. it didn’t cover shit. back/chest? yup. want to wear a cute low cut top? fuck off. want to wear spaghetti straps? in what universe?

and, worst of all, thighs.

how do you explain to a partner: “...no, that’s not an STD, just a really gruesome looking deep tissue cyst that’s been with me since 2007.”

go to my regular doctor, they tell me to see a dermatologist. dermatologist tells me to see an obgyn. obgyn tells me to see a derm or a gp. and NONE of them can help me. i did that loop a grand total of twice before giving up. mostly because who the fuck has the insurance and appointment time to end up where you started, just more embarrassed? 

lotions, scrubs, dry brushes, massage, shaving/waxing, NOT shaving/waxing, dietary changes, exercise programs, topical medications, prescribed medications. i’ve spent THOUSANDS, and i literally mean THOUSANDS of dollars on my skin.

why do i bring this up?

more information than anyone ever wanted to know about my thighs?

i’m 45. i’m tired of hating my body.

i’ve finally reached the point where i don’t mind looking in the mirror in the morning.

from the waist up.

my face *finally* mostly matches between my brain and my reflection. it’s glorious. no more stranger danger while i’m putting on my mascara. no more bracing for the worst and looking away as quickly as possible. no more wanting to cry from seeing my dad staring back at me.

editor’s note: my dad was a very handsome gentleman; he was able to grow a glorious moustache. i do not want to be a handsome gentleman with a glorious moustache.

but i’m 45 now. i’m at my hormonal peak. my sex drive is through the roof. i finally look pretty. i finally feel pretty.

with my clothes on.

it’s so annoying. it’s so frustrating. it’s so embarrassing.

hot tub? sure. let me grab my mom swim suit with the skirt. summer time? since shorts are only made in “up the ass crack” length these days, pants it is. cute sun dress? let me ruin it by wearing some shorts under it just in case. bedtime? where are my sweats?

well, to be fair, even if i had good thighs i would still wear sweats to bed. i refuse to risk being outside naked when there’s a fire.

anyway. childhood fears and family trauma aside, always covered from the waist down.

how do you get over hating yourself? how do you learn to accept the things that stubbornly refuse to change?

i haven’t figured it out yet. i’m just waiting for menopause to hit. maybe THEN i’ll finally be able to outgrow it.

women talk about reaching the magical age of giving zero fucks. i’m 90% there. when does that last 10% kick in?

as usual, there’s no point, just me oversharing on the internet to the one’s of people who stumble into this strange little corner of my brain.

manifesting 2026

it’s 14 days in to the new year and my journal has the date written down 4 times with only one actual worded entry.

off to a smashing start.

to be fair, 2025 was an unusually prolific year for journaling. not so much for blogging, but better than the covid years.

it’s not that my brain has slowed down, at all. it’s that my hands have drastically slowed down (fucking secretary hands anyway) and my ability to hold a thought long enough to actually chase it down to a logical end AND RECORD SAID THOUGHT is almost non-existent. i joke about my swiss cheese brain, but it’s honestly less of a joke and more of a huge annoyance.

i haven’t done any new year manifestation work. i haven’t done any resolutions. i’ve had thoughts of goals. i’ve had thoughts of manifestations. i know i have. well, i’m mostly certain i have. at some point, i’m pretty sure, i think.

fucking swiss cheese brain.

they say that 2026, the year of the horse, is the year you get to take off. ride into the sunset. 2025, the year of the snake, was all about shedding what doesn’t belong in your life anymore (did plenty of that) so that in the year of the horse you can ride forward into your future unencumbered. if you didn’t do the necessary work, 2026 is the year you get drug along by the horse. i’ve seen just enough westerns to know that’s not the vibe i’m going for. fingers crossed all the personal work in 2025 was enough.

the last time i was on an *actual* horse was approximately 1991 (?) at camp gilead. if the name surprises you, please remember i was raised in an insanely devout baptist/evangelical household and while the hand maiden’s tale wasn’t a thing yet, the ideology was already being deeply programmed into my brain. camp gilead: christian kids camp complete with emotional nighttime fire circle jesus calls and overly zealous youth pastor energy counselors. and also, horseback riding.

i’m a little rusty when it comes to horses of the physical and metaphorical kind.

what kind of sunset do i want to ride into? what am i hoping to be unencumbered in my pursuit of?

i should manifest a nice caciocavallo podolico brain: rich, nutty, spicy with a hint of sweetness, firm and smooth. enough of this this swiss cheese bullshit. i want to be unencumbered in my pursuit of thought.

but really, what DO i want out of 2026? assuming the world makes it through 2026. which…at this point…maybe we’ll just focus on Q1.

i want to manifest bills that GO AWAY, not bills that instantly get replaced by other bills. paid off the last stella vet bill and instantly had a bill of equal value added to split out my rent deposit. paid off a credit card and had to open a les schwab account the same month. cut my pet expenses, my utility bill went up. i want bills that GO AWAY. this swap out plan is for sure not it. i don’t want anything else finding new ways for money to exit my accounts. i want money to find its’ way INTO my account please.

i want to manifest a closet full of clothes that aren’t situational. i want clothes that are comfortable, in good condition, no matter what day it is. i’m so tired of the morning jenga puzzle- i can wear these leggings if i wear something over it long enough to cover mouse holes. i can wear that dress as long as i don’t mind wearing sneakers with it and looking like a bad melanie griffith 80’s movie. i can wear that jewelry if i haven’t had any salt in the last week and i’m not even thinking about being bloated. i can wear these jeans if i have the right underwear clean otherwise i have high waisted underwear and low cut jeans AND WHO THE FUCK BROUGHT BACK LOW CUT JEANS? i can wear these shoes if i’m not doing any walking today. i can wear that coat as long as i don’t need pockets. it’s exhausting having body dysmorphia that makes you hate yourself and everything you put on your body ON THE BEST DAY. mix in all the fucking hoops and the jumping and the planning and the fucking endless contingencies. it’s so fucking exhausting. i’m mentally drained before 8 am. gods help me if i’m packing an overnight bag to stay at my partner’s house. you want me to plan who she’s going to be tomorrow? i barely have a grip on today and you want me to know who she’s going to be and what clothes are going to work TOMORROW?

i want to manifest  insurance. all the insurance. the brain, the eyes, the teeth, AND the body. i want ALLLLLLLL the insurance. i’m tired of rationing contacts. hoping for no cavities. patching my broken brain with ideas from my broken brain. ignoring all the aches and pains and creaks and pops and mystery bruises that hopefully don’t mean anything more than clumsiness and forgetting i rearranged furniture. i want to go to GOOD doctors. like, actually good ones. not “D’s get degrees” doctors. i want doctors that know more diagnostic words than “stress,” “weight,” or “being female.” i want to know that getting sick won’t be a death sentence. i want to be able to do things like preventative care, routine screenings, regular check up’s, scheduled cleanings, annual exams. maybe, really shooting for the stars, maybe even massage and chiropractic care. a girl can dream. 

i want to manifest time off. actual, real time off. not a holiday when the store(s) is(are) closed. not a sick day. actual time off, maybe, going really wild, a vacation? haven’t had one of those since 2017. time to go somewhere. see something new. experience more than the same 4 restaurants and businesses. stare at different walls. drink whisky in a different bar in a different state (or country). i want time to relax. breathe. not have to count how many hours are in the sick/safe bank and how many i need to keep in case i get actual sick vs how many i can afford to take off. i want to go somewhere and be able to enjoy myself, not worry what day it is, not worry about how taking these days off is going to make the rest of the year stressful. i’ve been working 6 days a week (some of those running into 10 hour days) for the last year. that’s a long time to pull 6 days a week. i’m ready for a break.

i want to manifest laughter. calm. joy. experiences. learning. sharing. comfort. happiness. abundance. support. love. friendship. growth. i want to manifest days at home making pasta and breads and recipes. nights out experiencing art and music and theater and community. i want to have sun soaked afternoons at terrible baseball games and lake days and adventures. evenings snuggled up with books and the attention span to read more than three paragraphs at a time. nights of peaceful, restorative, snore free sleep.

that all feels like too much and barely scratching the surface at the same time.

anyway. there’s a start at least.