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.

connect the dots

do you remember connect the dots? like, when you were little, the activity books that had the word searches and logic grid puzzles, maybe some coloring pages and a few connect the dots scattered in?

you follow the numbers, use the context clues, figure out what the picture is. pretty simple.

connect the dots teaches counting, pattern recognition, deduction skills, basic stuff.

here’s the thing about being an adult with incredibly strong intuition, trauma based pattern recognition, and survival based deduction skills: you connect the dots.

really well.

it’s pretty basic stuff.

here’s also the thing about being an adult with those skills: you can’t un-connect the dots. you see the things. all the things. and then you can’t un-see them.

and here’s also, ALSO the thing: as an adult, you have to learn to sort out those things you’ve seen: is this fact? is this intuition? is this trauma?

sometimes when you skip a number or two the picture can change drastically. what you thought you saw and recognized is a completely different image. did you start at the right point? is this the right perspective? sometimes it feels like you’re connecting dots in the dark without numbers or order but you somehow know what and where the dots are and how to connect them and you can’t explain it but you just know. 

not so fun game: what’s the difference between intuition and worst-case-scenario trauma brain?

do i KNOW this? or am i just bracing myself for the worst possible outcome?

do i have all the numbers? am i connecting them in the right order? did i draw the correct picture?

is it a picture of a mushroom? or an animal? or nothing at all?

how does the story change between each of those pictures?

i have dots appearing in front of me.

i know how my trauma brain wants to connect them.

i know how my intuition wants to connect them.

here are the dots:

Dot 1: bought a hide-a-bed couch off FB marketplace in January. opened and closed several times, added a new mattress, rearranged the living room a few times.

Dot 2: 3/16 moved the couch away from the wall for building maintenance to replace a thermostat. cut my finger on a staple/nail/something. already hate the couch anyway: super uncomfortable as a couch OR a hide-a-bed. decide it’s TIME TO GO. listed couch on FB marketplace.

Dot 3: 3/18 woman on FB marketplace falls through, move the couch back in place. it’s been sitting diagonally in the middle of the living room since maintenance hoping it would just be gone soon. 

Dot 4: 3/23 relist couch on FB marketplace, dude comes and picks it up at 6:30pm

Dot 5: 3/25 while vacuuming up the detritus from the thermostat install and the couch moving, i find a gemstone ring along the wall where the couch was. this is not my ring. it does not even fit my pinky. it was not there on 3/18 when i moved the couch back in place after the first FB marketplace failure.

Dot 6: i live alone, work 6 days a week, 8 hour days. i am rarely home and have not had guests.

six little dots: what sort of picture does it draw? what do the dots connect to reveal?

is this just a wayward ring, caught up in a couch that dislodged itself the final time i opened the frame to remove the mattress before it was picked up? (i haven’t even paid off the mattress on amazon, it was NOT going with the couch).

does the picture change when i add a dot that says 2 people have a back up key and were both nearby my apartment within the last week?

did someone bring a guest to my house? someone that sat on the couch in a way their ring would fall off, unnoticed, behind the couch against the wall?

that’s a very different picture.

does it change the picture again when i add a dot to mention why the dates are so particular and noteworthy?

3/23/2002 i married to a man who had two mistresses. 24 years ago monday.

3/22/2004 i filed for divorce. 22 years ago sunday.

domestic violence and cheating patterns stick in the brain.

am i connecting dots based on that trauma and the previous pattern? do i jump to someone sneaking around because that’s the trauma i was born into (my dad) and that’s the trauma i lived (my ex-husband)?

 

does it change the picture, yet again when the ring is revealed to be moldavite? the stone of transformation? the stone i avoid at all costs because of the chaos and havoc that follow in its’ wake? 

one way or another, the universe delivered to me the stone of transformation. at a certain point does that supersede everything? it doesn’t matter how it arrived? it’s here now and change will follow?

do i believe the couch had it’s own energy and own journey and was finding it’s way and removed itself from my home? was i just a stop over for the energy of transformation that moved the couch between three houses in as many months? maybe the couch finally knew it was connecting to the right person and could release the energy moving it from place to place?

how do i connect the dots?

how do i WANT to connect the dots?

DO i want to connect the dots? 

i think part of growth and change, for me,  is realizing those are all different questions. that there may be more than one answer. learning to thank the part that flashes the hazard lights. also thanking the part that floats mystical options. thanking the thought that i don’t HAVE TO do anything. realizing the true answer may be somewhere in between or somewhere completely different.

is this a thread i want to pull. is this an answer i need? are these dots that even belong in the same group? are these dots that even connect?

is this intuition? is this trauma? is there a difference ? does it matter if there’s a difference? what if the intuition and the trauma are the same?

do i seek out the transformation? do i jump to conclusions and light my own fuses? do i just chill and wait for what the universe will continue to reveal, collecting dots to connect later?

another part of growth and change for me is my response to the whole conundrum: ok.

no screaming. no crying. no knee jerk reaction.

just: ok, now what?

does part of me want to spiral to the dark place? indulge the worst of the worst ideas and storylines? sure. i could do that. i could imagine a million scenarios and hurt my own feelings in a thousand different ways. but…like…ain’t nobody got time for that. 

 

do i want to spiral into a rage? a fight? a defense? do i want to attack myself for whatever could have led up to whatever story i craft? do i want to attack others for their assumed part in whatever story i believe? do i want to scream and blame someone for something that doesn’t even have a shape or a foundation in anything besides something that appeared in my own broken brain? i mean. like i could. i’m sure it wouldn’t take too much to tap into some simmering rage. really convince myself of an egregious injury and victimhood.

or do i want to laugh at how strange the universe is and how random it can be sometimes? absolutely.

or do i want to believe this is just the fae waking up from winter and stirring up mischief for no reason? i wouldn’t put it past them.

do i want to connect the dots? or do i want to turn the page to the next activity?

the first time i was raped

 so, if the title wasn't clear enough, this will be about rape.

if you have experienced rape, please be cautious reading this post, please protect yourself and your mental health. some of this things may be triggering or cause flashbacks if you've been through a similar experience.

your safety is the most important.

i've never told this whole story to anyone before. i've told parts of it. but stories deserve to be told in their whole. you can't acknowledge the truth without acknowledging the WHOLE truth. when you leave out or dismiss parts, say they're not as important, it makes that part stay there and hold on still waiting to be seen and heard.

so. here it is. in the whole.

the first time i was raped i was 18 or 19. i don't remember exactly when, i already had my son, but hadn't moved for college yet. it must have been late 1999, early 2000.

my brother had graduated from community college and taken a job as a sheriff deputy a few hours away from where we grew up.

one weekend he invited me to come stay with him and his roommate. a rare weekend away for me, the closest thing to a vacation a single teen mom could get.

the night i stayed, my brother ended up getting called into work, so he got his roommate to agree to take me to dinner so i wouldn't be stuck just sitting in their apartment with nothing to do.

the roommate and i drove and hour over the 4th of july pass for dinner. it was a fairly nice restaurant. i remember it was all wood walls, like, logs of wood, and maroon table cloths. any place with a table cloth was fancy to me.

i had never met my brother's roommate before this. he was a regular dude, early 20's. nothing particularly stood out about him, i don't even remember his name. his dad was the sheriff so that's how he had met my brother and they ended up roommates i guess? never really new how that happened.

the guy was super intense right from the beginning. during dinner the conversation somehow turned to his plans for marriage and how he wanted to get married and settle down right away. it was a LOT. i remember my antennae perking up and being annoyed right away. being a teen mom, i had very quickly come to recognize what i called "white knight syndrome" where guys would try to "save" me or "rescue" me from my perilous plight. it was incredibly insulting. i was in college, had my own apartment, i was raising my son. i didn't need RESCUED. i didn't need SAVED. i wasn't baby daddy hunting to get some guy to take care of me, I WAS TAKING CARE OF ME. 

it had happened a few times before and i already knew very well how angry guys could get when you have to break the news to them that you're not a damsel in distress and you're not particularly interested.

this time was just a little more tricky since we still had to drive an hour back to their apartment FOR THE WEEKEND

i knew how to be polite but not answer questions, change the subject, try to avoid the inevitable awkward conversation of "no, thank you."

by the time we got in the car to head back over the pass, the guy was saying that i was the perfect woman and i was a perfect mother and would make the perfect wife. it was so incredibly uncomfortable. i had known this guy for 2 hours: one driving, one dinner. and he was telling me i would make his perfect wife??

i was creeped the fuck out. i was so uncomfortable but had no other way to get back to my brother's apartment and no way to get home and no way to...anything. i don't even know if i had a cell phone then. or maybe did but it wouldn't have had much reception. there was no uber, no lyft, i had to ride back with this guy so i just tried to keep as quiet as possible.

on the drive back the guy "suddenly remembered" that he had promised friends that were out of town he would feed their dogs for the weekend, it was on the way.

i don't know where we were. we turned off the highway and he drove 20 minutes up a dirt road into the mountains to a cabin.

any alarm bells that had started to go off were quieted when we got to a really nice big cabin/house. lights were on, inside was very nice. very country cabin, big kitchen leading to a great room with a nice couch in front of the fireplace to the left, and a kitchen table/chairs to the right. he went right in, all the alarm bells went away, this was ok. it was a real house. these were real dogs. it was ok.

 i sat down on the couch while he fed the 2 huge dogs, shepards i think, and he offered to pour me a soda (i wasn't 21 yet). it tasted weird to me, but it was a ginger ale and i didn't like the taste anyway.

but it turned. something started to seem odd. he was too familiar with the house, moved around like he was comfortable in it. it was a regular country house. i had several friends that had grown up dirt roads in beautiful cabin homes. i was a city girl through and through. but country homes were always so beautiful and elegant to me. but he was too comfortable...it felt like...like he had home court advantage.

things get hazy from there. i remember starting to feel not right. there was a bedroom to the right of the couch and there was a bed straight ahead as you walked into the room.

i did NOT want to have sex with this guy.

i had *just* had a baby. sex was traumatic and scary and life changing for me. i did NOT want to get pregnant again. i was also still very religious and conservative back then. i was not into casual sex with someone i had JUST met.

also, i didn't like the guy. i had no plans on ever seeing him again, ever. i just wanted to get back to hanging out with my brother for the weekend then home to my baby and work and school.

it didn't go that way though.

i told him no so many times.

i remember "just the tip" and "just a little more" and not much else.

i don't remember leaving that cabin.

i don't remember going back to my brother's apartment.

i don't remember much else of that weekend.

there was a cave in at the mine where the roommate worked and he was stuck underground the whole day, keeping me safe away from him until i left to go home.

i tried to tell my brother.

he assured me his roommate would never do that.

i somehow reasoned that the roommate breaking his leg and being stuck in a landslide was enough of a swift karmic punishment that i should just stuff it down and pretend it never happened.

because i thought i deserved it.

i mean, i was a teen mom. i was damaged goods. i had baggage. i was trash. i had sex outside of marriage before, obviously it meant i was "that way." i was LUCKY someone like him would even take me out to dinner. i was LUCKY someone "didn't mind" that i had a kid already, i was LUCKY someone didn't care that i was damaged goods.

these are the things that lived in my head. these were thing things people whispered that they thought i didn't hear. these are the things the ladies in the church said to try to be reassuring. this is the way my mom treated me. hell, my own brother didn't even believe me. he believed some roommate he'd had for a few months over me, his sister.

i was LUCKY any man was willing to sweep in and rescue me and that very thing infuriated me more than anything.

i've spent a LOT of years with those voices in my head. i was admittedly a bit quick on the eject button any time a date talked about taking care of me. being fiercely independent and PROVING i didn't need someone to take care of me became my main focus.

hell, it still is.

i've been trying to prove to everyone for 20 years that i don't need someone to take care of me. ESPECIALLY with someone who would treat me like that guy did.

well, i did not see that coming.

there's an old writing legend of the story taking a turn even the writer didn't see coming.

what do you know, that's a real thing.

i'm really struggling with control right now. it's been a month of unemployment and i've been on a few interviews but have yet to land anything.

i'm scared. i'm fucking terrified.

and i'm going to have to ask for help.

i'm going to have to say i can't do it on my own.

i knew that was going to be hard because i don't like to give up control, who does?

but it's been more than that. there's a looming sense of failure. there's a fear of needing rescued.

this feeling that saying i need help now somehow means i deserved to be raped then.

whew. that's a hefty one to unpack.

that's what happens when you stuff trauma down for 20 years. i doesn't go away. it just hangs out waiting for you.

i've been carrying that around for 20 years. that feeling of: if i fail it means i deserved it. i should have been grateful. i did need a white knight. i should have been glad someone was willing to tolerate my damaged, less than self.

whew.

but here's the thing.

it doesn't matter how "damaged" i was. it doesn't matter how much "baggage" i came with. it doesn't matter ANY of it. it doesn't matter how lucky some people thought i should feel.

I DID NOT DESERVE TO BE RAPED.

full stop.

i said no. i did NOT want to have sex.

end of discussion.

anything happening NOW, twenty years later, does not change that.

needing help now, in the middle of a global pandemic and record unemployment and record deaths and political and social unrest and unexpected unemployment does not mean i deserved to be raped then.

needing help anywhere between then and now would not have meant i deserved it.

time to let that one go.

week 3

i knew it would come, just not this fast.

ugh. week 3.

can't...figure...out...what...to...say.

it's not that i don't have anything TO say, it's that there's SO MUCH but it's still heavy, emotional junk and it feels like that's all it been so far.

i guess you talk about what you know though, right?

i'm still breaking my brain a little very week. still cleaning out the emotional closet.

last week i had a huge realization that a LOT of people think i'm impulsive.

it's such a weird thought to me, but i followed the rabbit trail and let the idea chase itself around.

i get it.

people see the end result: when i make a decision, it's DONE. this is what's happening. action is usually VERY swift to follow and it can seem, understandably, out of the blue.

what many people (surprisingly mostly family) don't realize is how long that decision took. i NEVER make snap decisions. ever. i'm obnoxiously thorough.

i think about things from every possible perspective. i look for every option. i worst case scenario ALL the scenarios. i think through everything. pro/con lists. meditation. research.

what you don't see on that list though is an important one: DISCUSSIONS.

i was a single parent for 21 years. i didn't have anyone to make decisions WITH. i ran things around in my head endlessly, then decided, then made it happen.

that can have the effect of blindsiding people. yes, there's been HUNDREDS of hours of thought, but no one else knew that. no one else was in on the conversation.

17 years ago my then-husband came home one day in december to a uhaul in the front yard.

he didn't know i had been seeing a domestic violence counselor for months. that i had been apartment hunting. that i was lining things up, weighing it out. i had JOURNALS of processing and working through the abuse and trying to decide if i would stay or go. when i decided to go, I WENT. he left to plow snow at the fire department, i had a friend waiting with a truck, by the time he got back i had about 20 minutes left of packing and i was gone.

i can understand the anger of feeling blindsided of coming home to a uhaul in the front yard. i get it.

with my kids...i tried everything. counseling. mentors. sports. church. friends. court. police. teachers. rules, no rules, discipline. 

things just spiraled with both of them. there was so much anger and violence and i tried everything. when it came time to make a change it had to be rapid and fast otherwise the weeks leading up to it would have been absolute hell. 

but i get it. my brother always calls me a frog with a lighter under my ass. he calls and i have a new job. a new apartment. something has changed.

a) that shows how often we talk

b) he doesn't understand the months and years of work that has gone into my decisions.

yes. i quit a job with 2 days notice. no, it wasn't an impulse.

it was a LONG time coming after putting up with blatant racism, homophobia, prejudice. listening to coworkers sit 2 feet away from my desk railing about how all single moms are worthless drains on the government. listening to them talk about how they would NEVER allow a gay person near their family. being groped by them when they walked by my desk. listening to one coworker proudly announce, to the owner of the company "i'm prejudice. i'm not afraid to say it...i'm prejudice against all of them!"

yeah, i quit 20 minutes after on a wednesday and told them friday would be my last day. it was fast, but it was a LONG time coming.

but i get it. i can see the other side.

maybe if i allowed some of the discussions out of my head it would be different. so i'm working on that.

this week i had a massive realization that broke my brain again: i spent 21 years trying to prove everyone wrong. i was a teen mom and i'll be damned if i was going to be "one of those teen moms..." that people like my coworkers talked about. i didn't want to be a drain on the system. i didn't want to use government aid any more than absolutely necessary. i made the housing authorities stop sending me a housing grant a few months after they gave it to be because i had stabilized and could pay rent on my own. they didn't understand. took weeks to convince them i didn't need it anymore, give it to someone else.

i worked my ass off for 21 years to not be a failure. i couldn't ask for help. i couldn't be a mooch. i couldn't be the teen mom they were all waiting for me to be. EVEN INTO MY 30'S.

yeah. that shit sticks with you. i was a "teen mom" by age for THREE YEARS. but somehow i ended up being a teem mom my whole life.

but guess what fuckers? I DID IT.

yeah. look what all that repression and refusing to ask for help got me...

oh wait...

so. here i am. almost 40. no longer a parent. and guess what. 

I NEED HELP.

i need friends. i need emotional support. i might need financial support. i will need rides. i will need someone to pick me up on occasion or help me run errands every now and again.

and fuck if that isn't a bitter pill to swallow in some ways.

but WHY?

why is it so embarrassing to ask for help?

because i'm worried someone from 21 years ago will get to say, "SEE! I WAS RIGHT!"

 ok.

cool.

you were right. i'm a failure. i need help.

COOL. hope you got the satisfaction out of that after twenty one years. good on you.

GUESS WHAT?

asking for help is more important than worrying about some asshat getting to say they were right about me. 

so i tried it last night.

i asked for help.

and when friends came through with that help, i let them.

and when they offered bonus help on top of the help, I TOOK THEM UP ON IT.

and fuck it that wasn't the...just...IT WAS AN AMAZING NIGHT.

it was the first full moon of the lunar new year.

i knew i wanted to do something. set some intentions. clear some energy. SOMETHING.

so my friends came over and we talked for a while and the idea of burning some of the things from my past came up.

WHO DOESN'T LOVE A GOOD BURNING SHIT BONFIRE??

when i was a kid my mom used to write me letters. post cards when i was at camp gilead (why yes, it was a church camp, how did you guess?).

summers when i was at my dads house i would usually get a letter or two.

then there were the MOM letters. 


my brother and i used to live in fear of the mom letter. if you got a mom letter you done fucked up.


the letters...oof those letters. one of them i read through last night would have been written to me at 7 years old. it was full of reminders to make sure i always looked nice, my hair was always done, i was always being polite. i was being helpful and nice.

it maybe seems innocuous at first but when you think that at age SEVEN. SEVEN YEARS OLD i was being trained and conditioned on how i needed to behave and appear in order to be good. how i needed to BE a friend to have friends. i grew up thinking (still do) that i'm a shitty friend because no matter how hard i tried to BE a friend, i never HAD friends. that will fuck you up. especially because kids are assholes and when they find someone willing to do ANYTHING to be included, you bet your ass they'll take full advantage of that.

and i had a handful of them. these letters and cards. some i've let go before now, but these i had held onto for a myriad of reasons:

a) you NEVER throw away a letter or card. if someone sends you a letter or card you keep that FOREVER. FOR.EV.ER. 

i literally, until a few months ago, had a shoebox full of cards from my babyshower.

no no, not the baby shower when i had my kids.

THE BABY SHOWER WHEN I WAS BORN ALMOST 40 YEARS AGO.

i have had this damn box of card and tags for 40 years. they've been schlepped to countless apartments with me. tucked away, taking up space...for...why??

b) in some twisted way i still saw those letters as my mom caring for me. and they were. in her twisted, religiously brainwashed way, she was telling me she cared. i get that. kinda. she wanted what was best for me. she wanted me to fit in and have friends as much as i wanted them. she was trying to help me develop good hygiene habits, help with chores, be responsible, be courteous, be helpful, be good. please the lord.

i get it. i do. in her way she was trying to help.

but holy. fuck. ya'll.

that was some fucked up "help" happening there.

and it's still deep in my head. those phrases: "...to have a friend you have to be a friend..." is right up there with "..no one will love you until you love yourself..." in the way it just absolutely fucks you up and makes you believe you don't deserve either of those things because you've never been able to make them happen.

so i burned those fuckers last night.

the last of those letters.

i burned them.

it was time to sever that tie. to acknowledge how damaging that was. to acknowledged that i did not deserve to have all that terrible programming shoved in my head as a kid.

it was time to let all that weight go.

that fire...man. fire and i have a very complicated relationship going WAY back.

fire and i....i have a long standing history with fire.

it terrifies me but it calls to me too. anytime i meditate i need a candle nearby. anytime i want to set intentions or process things there needs to be a fire of some sort. but i also lay awake at night constantly planning escape routes in case of fire and won't use a crock pot because it will burn down the house.

sure, i could have shredded those papers or just thrown them away but the fire called to me.

and damn if that wasn't a fire. as soon as i started throwing those letters into the burn barrel the flames just took over. i'm pretty sure at one point the whole barrel was glowing the fire was so hot.

and then after the last one was burned, after all the tears and all the processing and ALL the words ( i talk a LOT if you didn't know), as soon as it was all done, the full moon broke through all the clouds and the whole entire sky lit up like it was daylight and that weight on me was gone.

absolutely gone.

so. it's still been heavy shit this week.


i still feel like i'm not quite done breaking my brain and figuring out a few things.

but i'm getting there more and more each week.


huh. look at that. i DID know what to write.