easy, trigger

 

i knowingly, openly acknowledge that i have a two really big triggers: housing and finances. when either of those are threatened, i come out swinging in a big way.

anyone following along at home has seen the results of that a few times in some of my battle royale against property management, former bosses, etc.

you threaten my ability to take care of and provide for myself (formerly myself and my kids) and i fucking snap.

ugly snap.

you’re going to hear words and insults you’ll need to look up and reference check at a later point in time, trust me they’re all accurate and devastating.

i’ve always kept in the back of my mind that this is something i need to address. learn to mitigate. be a little less volatile in response to.

today i decided that’s horse shit.

that’s MY STABILITY.

who the fuck else is going to fight for me? who else is going to protect my job? my house?

yeah. i come out big. really big. maybe don’t fuck with me. maybe that.

maybe don’t be a property manager that ignores the property while bodies are literally being dumped in the hallways.

maybe don’t be a boss that allows coworkers to grope and assault other coworkers.

maybe don’t be a manager that openly makes fun of your employees for how they’re struggling to survive.

i started working when i was 16.

i’ve worked in offices, fast food, coffee shops, corporations, family owned businesses, industrial, commercial, residential, retail. professional buildings, cramped “office” spaces (converted back rooms), warehouses, roadside stands, 

i’ve had bosses that refused to submit my application for promotion/transfer because they talked to my mom and decided i wasn’t ready.

i’ve had owners that allowed coworkers to openly talk about how they’re “prejudiced against all of them,” and didn’t understand why that bothered me.

i’ve had managers that warned “well, that’s what happens when you protest,” about police violence (during covid and the george floyd riots specifically). 

i’ve had owners that took their anti-vaxxing stance to the state capital and signed the business name to the books. 

i’ve had an owner insist his white nationalist politician bff was just “misunderstood” for his extremist views that eventually got him voted out of the gop.

i’ve had owners get angry with me for suggesting we turn down contracts for known problematic companies that threatened my community (i don’t want to help build a chic-fil-a).

i’ve had bosses that micro-managed and set unrealistic expectations. i’ve had bosses that provided no instruction or direction. i’ve had bosses that asked me to cover up illegal activities. i’ve had bosses that abused the shit out of employee after employee with no change or concern. 

i’ve spent A LOT of years biting my tongue. keeping quiet. staying out of it. not speaking up.

i had to make sure my rent was covered. i had to make sure my kids were taken care of. i had to stay quiet and keep the water as calm as possible. i had to just head down and do the damn work despite the setting.

and, eventually it would get to a point where i had to leave.

11 years

7 years

2 years and change

2 years to the day

just under 2 years

my patience has worn thin. my tolerance is thinner.

the flip side of that coin is my reactions are stronger. bigger.

i’m sick. as. fuck. of having to reboot my life because of some asshole.

i’m sick as fuck at having my stability and ability to care for myself absolutely wrecked because a racist misoginst homophobe can’t pull their head out of their ass.

i’m sick as fuck of scrambling to try implement emergency plans and contingency options when the rug gets pulled.

for years therapists have been talking mad shit about how i overthink, over plan, waste too much time making backing back ups for back ups? GET BENT.

try having a boss walk in on a friday and sit down at your desk with no warning and say “your position is eliminated effective immediately.”

and you have no choice but to grab your shit and walk out. right to work state means you’re fucked.

try having a female boss that says, “well, i can’t discipline the abuser because he’s related to half the workers and i’m afraid they’d all quit.”

so yeah.

you come for my stability, expect a reaction.

i’m not mitigating anything. i’m not reigning in. i’m not tempering. i’m not editing or holding back shit anymore.

i’m tired of having my life fucked with.

i’ve worked so. fucking. hard. to get to where i am.

fuck you if you want to take that away from me. expect a fucking fight.

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.