all the pieces

one of the problems with prolonged or repeated trauma is the inevitable blending together of memories and your brain hiding some of the worst ones from you to protect yourself. into the little tupperware container and into the back of the mind they go.

then one day, you’re getting ready for work on a random wednesday morning and a news story pops the seal on that little tupperware container and all the memories come back out, separate, individual, all the small pieces that make up the bigger label that went on the container.

this particular box is a pretty dusty old one. one would think the layer of dust would mean the issue has solved itself. undisturbed means it's fine, right?

apparently not.

this morning on the news, october 21, 2026, since the headlines change by the minute and even a big news story slides into obscurity in the length of an egg timer, a female is running for an elected position. her male opposition ran a tv ad featuring the woman’s estranged mother stating the female is a liar.

sure. whatever. political theater. family issues. not the first time it’s made the news.

this story though. this story.

WHY was the mother estranged? her husband was convicted, not accused, CONVICTED of rape. of the female running for office. when she was a child. the state stepped in. the children (there was a sibling) were removed from the home. the mother stayed with the husband. all this information has all been forced into public knowledge as the result of this ad. the mother in question? has been estranged since the incident. the “liar” the mother refers to in the political ads? her own 12 year old daughter who was brave enough to speak about the abuse.

this woman, YEAR and YEARS later is still clinging to the fact that her own daughter must be a liar instead of admitting a man, convicted by the courts multiple times for being a rapist piece of shit, is indeed, a rapist piece of shit. enough to put that fucked opinion into a television ad.

the woman running for office faced the assault, the betrayal of her mother, the life changes that resulted from the loss of her childhood, and now, again, is being assaulted and attacked using the same abuse all over again. every shithead news pundit with some shitty hot take. every extremist nutjob with no conscience. every fuckhead abuser trying to protect themselves or another abuser.

what does this have to do with my wednesday morning and the tupperware spill?

my abuse is old. my mother has been dead to me for years. i’ve sorted and worked through and dealt with all the pieces in this container…all…but

well…fuck.

i forgot about a few pieces.

why does everyone know about this news headline? the woman’s opponent used it against her. everyone now knows about the abuse because another man used it to abuse her with.

the same thing happened to me.

i clearly remember the LAST time i told my mother about what happened. i haven’t talked to her since.

a few weeks ago, i remembered the first time someone else said something- my mother had been called to the principal’s office in jr. high because friends had reported concerns. i wasn’t allowed to be friends with them anymore after that. 

this morning i remembered the first time i told my mother about what happened, and further, WHY i had to tell her.

i was already out of the house. well past jr. high. i was already away from all of it. no one needed to know.

i only ever told one person about everything. i was married. i trusted my husband. right?

then we separated. i was pregnant with my second kid. my husband told me the only way we could live together again is if i told my mom everything.

he used it against me.

i had to choose: my husband or my mother. the family i was building or the family i had.

i told my mom. she said, “what do you want me to do about it, it already happened.”

i didn’t know. i didn’t have an answer for that. but it satisfied the requirement for my husband and we moved back in together (which lasted one more year before i left for good).

i stuffed it back down. i did my part. i spoke up. i had told people. they didn’t know what to do. i didn’t know what to do. so nothing got done.

years later, divorced, single parenting again, i had moved to a bigger city, my kids were growing. things stayed in tupperware boxes. life went on.

one day i got a call from daycare about my youngest son.

the problem when nothing happens is people think they got away with it.

my son had started showing behaviors and saying things about, “...well, papa said…”

THE FUCK YOU SAY?

i had very, very many unkind things to say to my mother. her response, “...abusers don’t change sexes. it doesn’t make sense if he abused you that he would go after a male now.”

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME???

i cut contact. i tried to be kind to my kids: you know when the teachers and the doctors tell you if anyone is bad or mean to you or touches you in a way they’re not supposed to? papa is one of those bad people. we have to stay away from him. i didn’t want to make it scarier than it already was.

my mom called me a liar. still tried to contact my kids. i spent years sending back christmas presents and birthday cards. it is, to me, extremely inappropriate for a child to get a gift or card from a pedophile. i know, me and my extreme takes.

i was disinvited from family events. i was disinvited from holidays. i was being too rigid. i was being too extreme. my dad and my brother are cops. they will make sure nothing happens. why am i being so stubborn and rebellious?

TOO. FUCKING. LATE.

then my dad died.

i only had one parent left.

maybe i was being too rigid. maybe i was being too extreme. it’s my mom. she’s all i have left.

so i went to a therapy session with her.

she told the therapist, “...do you hear her? she just makes stuff up in her head.”

the therapist looked at her, “Do you understand what you just said about your own daughter?”

i told my mother that day she’s dead to me. in the parking lot of the therapist office.

“I need you to understand, I understand the full weight and impact of the words I am saying. I just lost my father. I have no mother. I am an orphan from this day forward. You are dead to me.”

so she added my kids on facebook. and bought them plane tickets to go see her. she told them how crazy i am. what i liar i am. about how the abuse that had happened to me had actually happened to them and i was just lying about it. she got both my kids to turn against me.

she can’t *actually die* fast enough.

she continued to run a home daycare for years. they hosted numerous foreign exchange students.

after the last time i confronted her, her husband went before their church to confess his sins. then they changed churches. to a church in a different town. then they moved across the country.

over time her story went from “it happened, what do you want me to do about it,” to “you make up stories in your head.”

my ex-husband used it against me.

my mother used it against me.

the abuse is one thing. you think you got away from it. you think you mostly recovered as much as you can from it.

then these fuckers come along and just double down. and that part is the part that my brain tried to hide for a long time.

as usual, i don’t know the point. maybe just putting all the pieces together in order for the first time. seeing all of them, in one place, in order.

it’s breathtaking when you recognize the full scope.

the healing struggle makes a little more sense.

spitball take: working through it as we go, what if finally being able to see all the pieces as one whole picture is what it takes to finally let that go? get that tupperware box out of storage, stop taking up brain space?

i can look at the whole thing. all the ugly pieces. all of them. yeah, it was that bad. for that long. yeah, they are that mean. yeah, they are that terrible. no, it isn’t just you. no, there’s nothing you could have done to deserve it, you were a child. you were right to protect yourself. you were right to protect your kids. you didn’t know what to do, but you tried to do something.

be who you needed: this is one more piece of why i believe women. this is one more reason why i will stand with a woman ten toes down when she needs me. i will stand in a hospital room with you. i will stand in a courthouse with you. i will stand in the damn uhaul rental office with you while we get a truck to get away. i will hug you and listen to you and cry with you and BELIEVE you. 

and now i can throw that tote away. i can see the bottom. it’s emptied. i know it. that’s enough for me.

tonight i’ll burn a candle. i’ll let out the tears i’ve been holding since this morning. i’ll release it all. maybe, finally, for the last time.

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.