Inseparable, a poem.

The sky weeps for me,

The femininity I never asked for.

It screams down toward the earth,

Bright flashes of light.

The sky splits for me,

As my insides are torn apart.

Water rains down over the ground,

tears down my cheek.

She feels my pain,

And I hers.

We are one,

Inseparable.

Spring is Coming, a poem

Goodbye to February,

You were much too cold.

And I must confess

your stress got old.

It’s nearing spring.

Soon flowers will bloom,

And the birds all sing.

And inspiration comes.

The bright green,

The crisp cool air,

So fresh and clean,

The smell of growth.

And with the breeze,

The smell of hope,

Puts my mind at ease.

What’s dead is gone.

The rays of the sun

Wash over the trees.

New life has begun

Little buds on branches

Will soon become leaves.

March is here,

I wear my long sleeves

Just a bit longer.

Hold on to what

makes you strong.

Believe in that

Which pushes you along.

There is Still Time (Keep Hope)

On January 20th, 2025 I got my second tattoo. It’s easy to remember the date, because it was the day perhaps the worst president ever was inaugurated. We all knew it would be a rough day, so one of the local tattoo artists had a special flash day to give us all something to smile about. The design I chose, as it turns out, was inspired by the movie “I Saw the TV Glow,” unbeknownst to me.

I hadn’t even heard of the movie at that time, but still, the words themselves spoke to me. They still do. “There is still time.” Eventually, I plan to watch the movie, but I can’t deny I’m a little afraid it will affect how I see my tattoo. I already have a backup plan if it does, as it wouldn’t be too hard to change the “font,” and I think that would be plenty, should I fall on the side of people who the movie didn’t speak to.

I’ve been considering watching it soon, knowing there’s a pretty decent trans following, but before I do, perhaps I should explain what the tattoo means to me. I got it in a very visible place for a reason, on my wrist. I wanted it to be a reminder. So, this post will be for everyone who happens to need the same reminder: There is still time.

It was easy to feel like time was running out on January 20th—time for my people (the trans and queer community) and for all minorities who are villianized by the current administration (a long list, I know)—and really just for the sanity of our country in general. It felt absolutely heartbreaking to me that anyone could possibly celebrate this horrible man’s ascension to a position he never, ever deserved. And here, so many people were doing just that. How could we ever get past this? How could things ever get better from here?

Something I’ve had to remind myself almost daily since then is that sometimes things have to get worse before they can ever get better. Why? Because the worse things become, the more people are forced to take notice. And the more people who take notice, the more power we all hold. There is power in numbers. We’ve lost a lot of good people in the year plus that this evil man has been in power. It’s really really hard sometimes to stay positive in the face of all that has been lost.

But, what if we focus on what we have gained, instead? More people are waking up to the evil of this administration every single day. Every time they hurt one of us, the rest of us are bolstered by the new allies we gain. If we focus on what we lose instead of what we gain, we are only allowing them to win. They want us to feel weak and hopeless. Weak and hopeless people don’t fight back. ANGRY people fight back. I don’t know about you, but I’m furious. I refuse to allow myself or any of those around me to lose hope that love WILL overcome hate in the end.

There is still time. There is still time for eyes to open, for dreams to come true, for love to win for once and for all. I got the tattoo on that hateful day, however, it means a lot more to me than just a rebellion against our fascist regime. For the last couple of years, I have been dwelling a lot on my place in the world and what I want to do with the one life I was given. A lot of that does have to do with my father passing, but my mind was already made up that I would not allow myself to remain a cog in a machine long before that.

In many ways, I feel like a failure for allowing myself to be manipulated and overtaken by capitalism for so much of my life. There are so many other, more fulfilling career paths I could’ve taken. Paths I almost took, even. I actually allowed a middle school art teacher to tell me I wasn’t an artist for most of my life. I regret that too. I have a lot of regrets, if I allow myself to look at them that way. But, what if, instead, I look at them more constructively?

For example, I can use my education in marketing, communication, journalism, and public relations to help educate others on ways they can escape the rat race. I can use it to expose the issues we all face on a daily basis. I can use it to change lives. But I have to believe in myself enough to do it. Perhaps I’ve “wasted” a lot of it… but there is still time. And was it really a waste if during that time I learned lessons that will help propel me (and others) forward in the future? I don’t think so.

At the end of a relationship, it’s easy to look back on your time with that person as a “waste.” But that’s such a pessimistic and, honestly, hurtful way to look at things. Look at it, instead, as a learning experience. Now you know what doesn’t work for you. And if you’re lucky, you got some fun memories along the way, and maybe, like me, gained a friend. There is still time to find love. People are getting in and out of relationships every single day. Maybe the person you’ve been looking for was in one before, but now that you’re also single… so are they.

No matter what your situation or your worry, I want you to know that there is still time for your dreams. There is still time for happiness. But you have to do your part to seek it out. If you sit around waiting for your dreams to come to you, they never ever will. You are in charge of your own destiny and it’s never too late. You still have time. We all do. Follow your heart, reach for your dreams, alter your perspective, and refocus on what really matters to you. Focus on what brings you joy.

Maybe you did something stupid that you regret and now you think you’ve ruined your only chance at happiness. I think it’s pretty rare (hopefully impossible) that we only get one chance at happiness. Chasing your joy is a decision you make every single day. Maybe you didn’t make that decision yesterday or the day before, but you can make it today. There is still time. Approach that situation with love and care and hope, and you might be surprised to find you have a second chance. But if you tell yourself it’s too late, then it is. Because you aren’t doing what’s required to change your own fate.

Life isn’t just something that happens to you. You have a role to play. So play it. Take charge of your life, your fate, your destiny. Fight for what you want or you will lose it every time. Don’t just give up before you’ve even begun.

I’ll even give you a cheesy little illustration based on one of my favorite movies, You’ve Got Mail. It has a great soundtrack and I love the way it serves as a time capsule for New York in the 90s. But I also love the story. If you haven’t seen it, I’m going to ruin the plot a little bit, so consider yourself warned. Also go watch it. Anyway, in the movie, Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks have been communicating on AOL but didn’t know each other in person whatsoever. But they do meet, and it goes HORRIBLY.

Hanks’ character is honestly pretty unlikable for a good portion of the film, I mean he and his giant Barnes and Noble-style bookstore basically put Ryan’s little children’s bookstore out of business in a matter of months, all the while he tries to hide who he is. But he can’t deny the connection they have, so he continues to chat and email her online. I don’t necessarily approve of the way he goes about it, it’s rather manipulative to be honest. But, he doesn’t give up. He goes after the woman that he can’t get out of his head.

In the end, she actually falls in love with him knowing full well he is the one that put her out of business. Not even just in spite of the fact, either. She begins to write her own children’s books, a dream she didn’t even know she had. It’s something she never would’ve even considered had the events not taken place the way that they did. She even thanks him in the end. It’s messy, it’s ugly, but everything works out. And, surprisingly enough, I think it’s actually pretty realistic for a romantic comedy.

To be cliche, life is an adventure, not a destination. You don’t get to just skip to the happy ending. Sometimes you have to go through a whole slew of horrible before you get to the good. But if you put in the work to get there, you will. I find that, often, things play out exactly as they were supposed to—even if it’s hard to see it in the moment. Chase your happiness and remember that no matter what happens on the way there it’s not the end. There is still time. <3

What You Don’t Know Could Hurt You (on PMDD & Perspective)

WARNING: If it makes you uncomfortable to hear about menstruation, go ahead and click away now, this post is not for you. Feel free to get over yourself while you’re at it. But honestly, this isn’t about “sharkweek…” it’s about the week before. Additionally, there will be some talk about depression and vague references to thoughts of self harm, but I’m not going to get too terribly dark.

You’ve probably heard of PMS… it gets a bad rap, honestly, because PMS isn’t so drastic as people make it out to be. The whole mood swings and sudden onset of major depression symptoms out of seemingly nowhere? That’s not PMS. That’s actually PMDD—and that’s what I have. I’m not going to spend too long explaining something you can easily look up yourself, but here’s a link. However, I do want to talk about some of the misconceptions about it and how it affects me, a person who also has ADHD (and possibly also autism).

Firstly, I had a therapist once who actually told me her PMDD shows up as an actual physical illness, instead of the more mental symptoms it’s better known for. She basically got bronchitis for a whole week before her period began. Crazy, right? Honestly, somehow this sounds a bit easier to deal with, for me, but I’m likely biased.

For me, it feels like my own brain is my enemy. Have you ever felt betrayed by your own mind? It’s pretty awful. But, in actuality, it’s my uterus that’s betraying me. It’s like even my own body rejects the idea that it should have one—at least my body and brain are in agreement on that one. I actually asked to be sterilized or even have the whole works pulled out in my early twenties, only to be told by my male gynecologist that he wouldn’t even consider it because “what if my husband wanted kids?” As if that’s my fucking problem, and even further, as if I would ever marry a man who would dare override my own free will and desire to not bear children. Disgusting. Anyway…

The good news is, the worst of it usually only lasts a day or two. The bad news is, the worst is sometimes really, really bad. I first started to notice the pattern during the year that I was laid off from my full time position and made most of my money doing Amazon Flex and Uber deliveries—more on that some other time. But, I think the fact that I had so little to distract myself really exacerbated the issue to the point that it was impossible to ignore. I kept having these really bad days where I thought my life might as well be over.

I got a little too good at driving and crying. I’m quite the multi-tasker. So, I would call my mother—which is already saying something—bawling my damn eyes out while I was on the road. Because when I’m going through PMDD, that’s when I need someone to help me ground myself the most. Unfortunately, though, my mom didn’t really even know how to help me. My mom doesn’t even remember going through menopause—which is funny, because I remember it—much less what it was like to have a period. She can’t even tell me if I got this from her. But, keep in mind, neither of us knew at this point why I was so incredibly depressed.

Sure, I was going through a really hard time. There were days I didn’t know how I’d even afford the gas to do my deliveries, much less pay my rent or my car payment. This span of time was one of the most—if not THE most—difficult period of my life, so at first, we all just thought I was having a somewhat normal reaction to my circumstances. After all, depression is defined by a deep sadness with no specific reasoning behind it. I had plenty of reasons to be sad. But I also had at least one really good reason to be happy: my, now ex-boyfriend/best friend. He didn’t really know how to help me, but he was always there.

And I would’ve called him instead of my mother if he weren’t usually at work or sleeping when I was going through my bullshit. But I felt guilty because he would get so worried about me that he would take time off work just to make sure I was okay. I didn’t even tell him how dire my thoughts got for fear of scaring him. The only time I was ever this close in my life to hurting myself was in my abusive relationship when I felt it would be the only way I could escape him. And, honestly, even just knowing that someone out there would really care and miss me so much was enough to keep me from doing it—so, it could definitely be worse.

But, in the moment, I was doing work that I hated for a company that treated me like absolute dogshit and getting paid practically pennies for it. And, some days, the customers treated me just as badly. Let’s not even talk about other drivers or random people I interacted with along the way. No matter what has or ever will happen between us, I will always be grateful to my best friend for being that one strand of hope that allowed me to keep pushing forward. I’ve said before that I don’t know if I would still live in this city without him—which is still true—but now that I’m looking back, maybe I wouldn’t be here at all. I won’t dwell on that, but, the point remains.

I can’t tell you how many times I bawled my eyes out while driving, delivering packages, and even interacting with the customers. But I can tell you that none of them ever said a word to me about it. I could stop the blubbering long enough in front of them, but not the tears. They seeped from my eyes constantly like sweat through my pores. Why? Because the real problem was the swirling horrible negative thoughts in my head. They didn’t have an off switch. I could pull myself together, for the most part, long enough to interact with someone. But, the second my back was turned to them and I didn’t have to give them my attention, my brain was right back to telling me that I was worthless.

That I’d always been worthless. I’d been poor my whole damn life. I’d followed the advice I was given, I got the bachelors degree in a field that suited me and that in theory could’ve paid well. But I was never able to get a job in that field, generally because I was never able to afford to work as a free intern for literal years to gain the amount of “experience required” for even an entry-level job. I had no connections, no leg up, and now, I know that my neurodivergence was probably another factor. There also just weren’t many opportunities for that kind of work around me either. So, to fix that, I did what everyone told me to do again, and went back to school—racking up more debt—and for what? To work at a dead end job that required a degree for no real reason and then turned around and laid me off after taking 3 years of my life with a horrendous amount of overtime and hard work.

And then, to almost get hired for so many jobs I interviewed for, and to never even get called for most of the rest of the resumes I put out—I put out so many during that year. I thought it would be easier here, with so many more jobs to choose from. And it just wasn’t. It was exhausting. There were just as many people—if not more—vying for the same jobs as me and so many of them were overqualified. So, while I was driving around—sometimes even being forced to go to places deemed “unsafe” by all the locals I knew—I was reflecting on the fact that I’d tried so hard and done so much and yet nobody really seemed to want me. Clearly, I had no real talent, because if I did, I’d be in a better position, right?

There was also the fact that the man I’d moved here with had abandoned me in the most insulting way possible after I’d gone above and beyond to make sure he was safe and cared for even after he’d fucked me over for the last time. I had single-handedly kept us afloat through COVID when he quit working due to lung issues, and when he quit again due to Amazon’s “unsafe COVID practices,” and then finally, when he quit his job for a third time for completely ridiculous reasons. I’d racked up even more debt than I already had because, for some reason, I thought he would’ve done the same for me. I was wrong.

How could I be anything more than worthless when he threw me in the trash like some moldy bread the same week I lost my job after all we’d been through? I had even supported him and helped him after our breakup. Everyone kept telling me I didn’t owe him anything, but I didn’t believe them. They were all right, in the end. There’s a lot more to this story, but I wanted to give you a better look at where my head was at at the time. There was only one person in the world who made me feel appreciated and worthy, and he lived almost an hour away from me at the time. And then, my mom, who tried to be supportive, but sometimes made me feel ridiculous for not being able to pull myself together, lived over 5 hours away.

A visual illustration if you will…

This image that I made years ago is a pretty good representation of how I felt during that time, even if it wasn’t about that specific time period. Just imagine a waterfall of tears and shorter hair and you’re basically there.

Now that I’m past all of that, I can tell you it doesn’t really matter what I’m going through at the time, my brain will fabricate a reason for me to feel hopeless if it can’t find a better reason to completely trash my self-esteem. It probably wasn’t until a few months of this cycle repeating—my emotional fits for multiple days in a row, only to turn around and start my period and be in physical pain, but to at least feel mentally better—before I started to recognize the pattern. I’m not sure now if I began having PMDD at 29 or if it’s just when I was able to recognize it.

Because, here’s the thing, remember how I said I have ADHD? Sometimes it’s hard for me to recognize how much time has passed. And, it was especially difficult when I was pulling sometimes 15 hour days between all of my gigwork and contract work. They say time flies when you’re having fun, but for me, the “fun” part isn’t required. Sometimes time just flies. Honestly, most times, it just flies—and I just stand there and wave at it as it flits out the window.

And, then, there’s the fact that my symptoms wildly vary—much like my period. There are a few months where I have little to no PMDD, and others where I fall all the way down the rabbit hole into it, like last week. But, we’ll get there in a bit. Most months it’s the sobbing fits, anxiety, and the spiral of relentless self-criticism and overwhelm, and some months, apparently, I literally lose sleep. I basically always struggle to concentrate during that week.

So, between those two big factors lies the worst part of my PMDD by far: I rarely realize that’s what my problem is until well after my PMDD symptoms have gone away and have been replaced by my period. Sometimes, I can recognize that my period should be starting soon and that perspective helps me stop myself from falling into a pit of despair, however, most times it creeps up on me. Sometimes, my period starts early due to stress, and then I’m really surprised by my PMDD.

How does it help to know that my period is coming? Well, it’s been years now since I realized that I have PMDD, so, when I can throw some logic into the situation, it’s a little harder to feel completely hopeless. I can remind myself that it’ll be over soon. I just have to make it through the next couple of days—a week, max—and then, against all odds I know I will end up feeling better. Even if nothing else in my life improves, just like my brain is telling me it won’t, my mood certainly will. My situation will feel less dire very soon. I just need to be patient and wait it out and try to keep myself busy, because if my mind is actually busy, I’m not torturing myself. I can stop the endless loop. However, if you’ve read my recent poem, then you probably know exactly why that’s hard for me to do (not including the fact that my PMDD actively keeps me from being able to concentrate).

My current full-time job does anything but stimulate my mind. And, unfortunately, I have most of the same complaints about my treatment there as I did with working for Amazon Flex—except the pay is better, but that’s a bar you could really trip on in hell. I don’t believe in any of the things I’m doing, I receive little to no encouragement or support from my boss and I get attacked constantly by people in other departments who also want to tell me “we’re on the same team” when it suits them. My manager enables, if not downright encourages, way too much of this behavior. Our interdepartmental communication is worse than garbage, and I’ve literally even watched my manager do things that he constantly berates us for. And the kicker? I’m dead-named and have to dead-name myself the entire time.

So, tonight, I started my period. Which really puts the whole last week of my life into a much clearer perspective. You can even see some of what I’m talking about in the things I wrote last week. This one snuck up on me hardcore. I think it is a little early, but I’ve also been caught in such a stressful whirlwind of life events that I hadn’t even considered my period since it ended last month.

This post was written at the end of my worst day of PMDD symptoms. Now, with my added perspective, I can recognize that the poem I referenced (and wrote earlier in the same day) was a cry for help that I didn’t even realize I needed at the time. That help eventually did come in the form of the same man who has been aiding me through this insanity for over 3 years now. Even he didn’t know why I was so emotional that day. Sometimes he helps me remember that it’s probably about time for my period when he sees me start to spiral, but since we broke up, he’s understandably a bit less clued in. It’s not his responsibility to take care of me, and yet, he still did when he recognized I was drowning. After his support and reassurance that I am actually still a good person with a big heart, I was able to pull myself together enough to write that post apologizing to the subject of my poem and remember that I, too, deserve some grace. My mental state started to get a bit better every day after that.

In this poem, I thought I had lost sleep because I felt so guilty about the poem from the day before that it kept me awake. While there was definitely truth to that, it’s also a symptom of my PMDD that doesn’t show up very often. However, it did continue into the next day (but a little differently) and that should’ve been my clue… but it wasn’t. I found a different explanation for that. I actually even forgot that was a possible symptom, because I get it so rarely, until I looked it up before writing this to provide you with the link at the beginning. I literally all but name-drop one of the symptoms: perceived rejection. You know those hidden problems I reference? Well, this is a big one. And, clearly, it likes to hide even from me! Talk about not seeing the forest through the trees, huh?

In this post, I mention being all emotions and needing support… well, guess when I usually feel that way? Yep, that evil week that comes before my period and threatens my very sanity. I wasn’t even considering that as I was writing it. I just vaguely remembered that sometimes I’m emotional as hell and that logic is usually what pulls me through in the end. This whole situation is a great example of how much my own writing helps me gain perspective on my own complicated brain.

I don’t talk about my PMDD almost ever. And it’s not because I’m ashamed or afraid or even embarrassed to. It’s not something I have any control over. It’s because I don’t think about it until I’m going through it. I remember most things, just as a rule, but that doesn’t mean those memories are always easily accessible to me. When I’m thinking about what I want to do for the day, I’m not considering whether or not I’m going to be an emotional wreck, for example. Sometimes I even forget about my esophageal achalasia even though it’s something I deal with constantly because my mind is on something else. Sometimes, even though I know the consequences, I forget to ask for non-dairy milk in my coffee. I’m lucky, in that way, that the place I frequent knows me well enough to remember for me most times. Isn’t ADHD so fun?

So, I suppose I’m going to end this with a reminder that you never know what people are going through. I’m really empathetic, I’ve lived and been through a lot, and I generally give people some pretty damn good advice when asked for it, but, that doesn’t mean that I don’t have my own issues that I’m dealing with every single day of my life. That doesn’t mean that I am even easily able to follow my own advice all the time. I tell people to stay positive and remember you don’t know what’s going on in another person’s life constantly. And, still, at my worst moment, I wrote a poem that had some hurtful shit in it even though I had no idea what the person I was talking about might have been dealing with.

I’m human, they’re human, we’re all human. Sometimes we all need a little more perspective and understanding and care. I think all of these things are better and easier with communication, something that is often discouraged more than it is encouraged in our society. I’m planning to make a more in depth post on that sometime soon, so I’m not going to get into that here. But I do want to leave you with one of my paintings from December of 2024 that has some similar themes, namely, the importance of perspective on any situation.

I’m Like a Bird

“I only fly away… I don’t know where my soul is… I don’t know where my home is.” You know the song, don’t you? I pretty well hated birds until I turned thirty (chickens can still get wrecked, though, but that’s a topic for another time) and yet, this song has always hit a little too close to home for me—heh—and not just because I sing like a bird.

Depending on when you ask me, I might give another answer, but if given enough time to think it over, I think if my life (as a whole) had a theme, it would likely be that song. Which, is also hilarious in it’s own way because the song probably speaks to most as a ballad about commitment issues. And since leaving Christianity and all of its unrealistic relationship ideals, that might be the one problem I don’t have. If anything, I’m a little too good at committing. I’ve described myself as a “serial monogamist” on more than a few occasions.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t eventually “fly away.” Because I will… until I find my home. She doesn’t say that in the song, but it’s also clear she hasn’t found home yet. And neither have I… but I’ve gotten close.

I always had a really small family—it was just the three of us—and growing up in the country, that was odd. Not only do most people have multiple kids, but they’ve got their whole extended family down the street—or, at most, a county over. Most people’s first friends are their cousins. Both of my parents also worked for most of my childhood. One of my parents never really took the time for me, and the other passed last year. Our relationship had gone a bit sour, but ultimately, I knew he still loved and cared about me and believed in me more than anything. He was only ever just a phone call away. That was comforting. I wish, now, I’d called him more.

The houses I’ve lived in have never felt quite like home, & neither have the towns (I said “towns” for a reason… we’ll get to that). I’ve always believed that home, to me, would be more of a person than a place. I don’t know why it took him passing for me to realize this… but I think my dad, in a lot of ways, was my home for the first half of my life. Now that our connection has been severed I just feel so lost. I love my mom, but more often than not, her love feels much more conditional. She doesn’t have the patience to deal with me—not like my dad did. To be fair, even he didn’t after his stroke. I think I’ve felt a bit home-less for many years now.

In the song, she expresses that she believes she’ll change. While it’s said as a negative thing, I think that it’s a fact of life. I’m not the same person I was 5 years ago. I’ve grown since then. I don’t make the same stupid mistakes, I make different (but still stupid) ones. I don’t have all of the same interests I once did, and I’m sure I’ll pick up and lose a few more before my time is up. But, if there’s one lesson from Christianity that I’ve kept… it’s that you need a partner that will grow with you. I don’t need perfection, but I need someone who will put as much effort into themselves and the relationship as I do.

That doesn’t mean that everything is exactly even. Much like the song 100 by Ella Mae, I think partnerships fluctuate. Some days I feel like I have endless love and patience to give. Others, though, I get weighed down by life’s many obligations and stressors. Who can be positive all of the time? Surely, no one can. Lately, I’ve had so many different things on my mind, so many intertwining problems that positivity feels nearly impossible. Though, I still have days where I wake up on my bullshit and I feel like the biggest catch. I wish I had more of those days, honestly.

I’m very introspective, perhaps a little too introspective—and my current career doesn’t help with that. There are days when things feel so difficult and I struggle so hard that I forget all the little lessons I’ve learned. On those days, I need someone to help steady me and remind me that I’m human. Because, while I often have an endless supply of grace for other people, I forget to dole it out to myself too. It can be all too easy for me to fall into a negative spiral without someone to help ground me. For a good portion of my life, it’s made me feel weak that I can’t just be everything for myself. But, really, who is?

Life is all about balance. And I think balance is probably impossible to achieve by yourself. We all have moments when we’re weak and need someone else to help us pick ourselves back up again. Someone to believe in us when we don’t believe in ourselves. Some days my brain is all emotions and I need someone to logic me back to Earth. Occasionally, I need someone to allow me to feel my feelings, hold me, and just tell me things will be okay.

When it comes down to it, I love too hard. When I love you, I’ll do anything for you, often at my own expense. I’ll do things for you I struggle to do for myself, even. But I don’t know how to love less—to be less—than I am. I’ve learned through experience that people can and will take advantage of that if I let them. The worst part, is, though, that I often don’t even realize it’s happened until I’m so burnt out and exhausted that I finally crash, looking around myself like “I was just fine, I swear!” But I wasn’t fine. I was doing too much and my partner was doing too little. Sometimes my love is just a little too blind.

So, through the years, I’ve developed a system of defenses. Hoops I make people jump through before I let them all the way in. Sometimes they’re even a bit too strong, maybe. But I’ve just been burned so many times, it can be hard to know who to trust. So many people I trusted implicitly have let me down. I think I’ve gotten better at it, but sometimes I forget to even trust myself. So often I doubt my intuition, and then when it turns out my instinct was correct, I tell myself I’ll never do it again. But I do. I think that’s one thing I’ve never quite found, someone who also trusts my intuition. Sure, when the dust settles they may say “I really should listen to you more,” but do they ever?

When I’m in love, I all but worship the ground you walk on. Everyone else in the world just pales in comparison, so it’s easy for me to be loyal. Once, after making a few friends who were poly, I convinced myself I probably could be too. That was pretty dense of me, in retrospect. I can see that very clearly now. My brain shuts down all other romantic connections without my even thinking about it. It’s almost downright laughable to me, now. How was that ever going to work? I have no idea.

While I have a big heart, I still feel hard to love. I suppose I’m not the easiest to deal with all the time. I feel too much. I can be a bit melodramatic (usually jokingly) and many people struggle to understand my sarcasm or dry sense of humor. But, I believe that someday someone will. I still have hope that I’m going to find my home—someone I can build my own family with. After all, I think the most hetero-normative thing about me is that I’ve always been very motherly—a trait I think I got from my dad, ironically enough. I like taking care of people and teaching people new things. I really just can’t help myself.

When it comes to the lyric about finding her soul, I have to say that one makes sense to me, too. First, in the way that I was born into Christianity and struggled with it immensely, then had to find something later in life that actually worked for me. Additionally, for many years I tried to deny how caring I am. I tried to put on a cold, hard exterior that only my partner ever saw through. I’m pretty glad I’ve passed that point in my life. But, sometimes that bitch still comes out to play… mostly when I’m scared. I think this is the part where I relate to her song the most. She even says “I’m just scared that we may fall through,” and wow, that feels familiar.

I think this city may be the closest I’ve ever gotten to feeling at home someplace. But, I’ve also imagined living in any number of different cities, or perhaps living on the road in some format. I love the idea of traveling, though I’ve rarely had the money to go very far. And if you take away the packing and loading/unloading of all my shit, I love moving. I love a fresh start. I might be one of the only people I know that actually enjoys change (I mean, within reason, of course). I’ll tell just about anybody that moving here was the best thing I ever did… even though it was also the most terrifying.

I think when I finally do find my home, I might be just as terrified. What if some of the best things in life just are terrifying? Perhaps the things that are most worth having aren’t necessarily the most easily won. That feels true. If it is, only time will tell. I think it’s scary, though, because I’m afraid to get my hopes up again. Maybe I’m even afraid of being happy. It’s some kind of self-defeating bullshit, for sure, but what if I’ve gotten so used to being miserable that I won’t even know happiness when I see it? The truth is, I’m tired of being in pain. I’m even more tired of causing pain. I dread having to break up with someone again. It just makes me feel so horrible. And it rarely goes well.

And that brings me to my final point… I’m almost always the one to do it. I think, perhaps, it’s because I do care so much and I do want to help so much. I never want to give up on them. So I don’t. And then, when I finally realize that I’m putting in more effort in the relationship and come to terms with what I need to do, my ex-partner feels like the rug has been pulled completely out from under them. It seems like such a drastic change. But it wasn’t, it was slow. So slow and subtle that even I didn’t notice that I was unhappy… until it became impossible to ignore. Recently, however, I realized that by doing so much, I’m blocking my partner from learning their own lessons. After all, sometimes pain is the best teacher. I think this is where we come back to my point of needing someone to grow with me.

Too often, I think, I’ve convinced myself that I can grow enough for the both of us—but that just isn’t realistic. And even if it were, it’s not fair to me. And then, when the breakup comes, it’s not fair to them, because they have now missed out on all of these lessons they should’ve been learning, but I “learned” for them. It all comes down to me doing too much. I’m always doing too much. In my personal life, in my work life. It’s like someone once told me to work hard and I took them WAY too seriously and made it my whole personality. But I’m tired. I don’t want to do all the work anymore.

Not only do I want the help, but I need it. I cannot do everything. I cannot be your everything. We need to be there for each other, and damnit, I need you to be there for me too. Because that’s the one thing I can always promise. I will be there for you, as long as you hold up your end of the bargain. But if I realize that I’m exhausting myself on your behalf, or that you have no motivation to grow alongside me, I will eventually feel the need to fly away again. I always try to fix things first, but so often it feels like I’m the only one trying. And, honestly, even after that—as long as the person doesn’t truly fuck up—I’m still there for you, just not quite like before. I can’t just stop caring about a person like that. Sometimes, I just realize they’re not my person.

So, the truth is, that the next person I love is not going to have it easy. They’re going to have to fight for me at least a little, just to prove that they can. Because, for once, I know what I need. I need to feel loved, I need that emotional connection, I need real communication. I need to know that I’m not alone. I’m so tired of feeling alone. I’m tired of feeling like no one fully understands me. I’m tired of having to convince my partner to believe in me. I’m, really, just tired. I’m so very, very tired. I don’t want to do all the chores, I don’t want to do all the emotional heavy lifting, I don’t want to do all the wooing. Damnit, I want someone to woo me, for once. I need to know you’ll work as hard for me as I will for you.

Because, when it comes down to it, I want a family, and I can’t bring myself to actually start one with you if I’m only picking up more responsibilities for myself. I just can’t do it. And I don’t think I’ll be happy anymore without children. I don’t need them immediately, but eventually, yeah, I want to adopt. I don’t know why, I’ve just always known that’s the path for me. As a child, even, long before I realized I wasn’t cis. And now, the idea of carrying around a giant belly for 9 months makes my skin crawl. I just got comfortable with my body, don’t ask me to change it again.

I honestly don’t even know why or who I’m writing this for other than me, (sometimes even I need a reminder) but it just feels like something I’ve been cooking up for years now. In fact, I started this post and abandoned it well over a week ago, only to finish it up now when I have an excess of motivation, for some reason. It’s just that every time I hear this song, I’m reminded of myself. Every time I go through a breakup, here it comes again. I’m tired of flying. When do I finally touch the ground? I want to build something, for once, together this time.

To Sing a Different Song, a Poem

Its a mindless job

where I can look like a slob.

All I do is click click click,

while the clock goes tick tick.

My brain starts to slip,

and then my mood takes a dip.

How can I focus on this anymore?

It's so much worse than just a chore.

It's stealing my soul,

if I left, maybe I could feel whole.

But I'm so tired of being rejected,

by algorithms that people neglected.

Does anyone even look at resumes anymore?

Perhaps mine's just a bore.

I think I'll strike out on my own,

adamant as a dog with a bone.

Sometimes I believe in me,

especially when I want most to be free.

Then the fear kicks in,

it gets under my skin.

But, here I'm wasting away,

I'm ready for a new day.

All I have is time on my hands,

While I sit here making no bands.

It lets my mind wander free,

much farther than it should be.

I'd much rather think about the weather.

Should I wear my denim or my leather?

Perhaps when it warms up soon,

the birds will sing a different tune.

And I can think of something better,

like how to be a go-getter.

But even my good thoughts slowly turn bad,

because of all this time that I've had

to think about where I went wrong.

Isn't it time to sing a different song?

I can tell now I've been obsessing,

on everything but what has me stressing.

But these wounds just run so deep,

all these lessons I don't want to keep.

How much longer can I possibly wait, 

for responsibilities to fall off my plate?

So that I can finally see,

what it's like when I just follow me?

I fear the time is drawing near,

to spread my wings away from here.

I really hope I know how to fly, 

but, surely, it's clear I've got to try.

I'm so tired of sitting here alone,

this place no longer feels like a home.

More like a cage I've locked myself in,

where I worry about what could've been. 

I need to make more art,

go out in the world and take part.

The longer I stay here the less I feel smart,

isn't it time to follow my heart?

Silence, a poem

Sometimes I don't know why I say the things I do,

I know I shouldn't have lashed out at you.

Sometimes silence speaks louder than words,

louder than all the things I could have heard.

Sometimes perceived rejection cuts too deep,

keeps me up and makes me lose my sleep.

Sometimes I don't know when to leave,

it turns out that I don't know how to grieve.

Sometimes it feels like I have nothing to look forward to,

and I need to remember that's not on you.

The truth is that sometimes I'm weak,

and I forget to turn the other cheek.

I've got hidden problems and obvious ones too,

right now I don't know what to do.

I tossed and turned in bed last night,

feeling there’s nothing I can do to make things right.

Perhaps it’s time for me to just let things be,

this time for you and for me.

An Apology

Today, I posted a (since deleted) poem that felt therapeutic for me at the time. After all, one thing I’ve learned most about my writing is that it’s just as much for me as it is for any of you. It gives me an avenue to vent my frustrations and to show others that they are not alone in theirs. Sometimes it gives me an opportunity to teach a lesson, even. This time, it seems the intended student was me. Actually, a lot of times the intended audience turns out to be me, though I generally hope that it helps people like me as well.

You see, I’ve been feeling a bit prolific lately, especially in the poetry department. They’re just coming to me so easily it’s hard not to follow through. But what I forgot is that just because I write something, doesn’t mean I should share it with you. Sometimes I take for granted how small my reach is, knowing how little I advertise or push my content. And, honestly, I’ve just been excited to actually have things to share. But, the truth is, even if the person I was referring to never read it, and I may never know if they did, it’s not the kind of energy I should be putting out at all.

I don’t know what’s going on in that situation, and my brain decided to fill in the blanks in an especially weak moment. The unknown tends to drive me a bit insane. I’m sure I’m not alone in that. But I assure you that my mind is crueler to myself than it ever is to anyone else. So, if that person ever does happen to read this, I’m sorry. No matter how frustrated I am, it’s not an excuse. I think it even said more about me and my insecurities than it did about you.

Honestly, I’ve been going through a lot the past year. So often it feels like I’m stuck in a purgatory that I don’t know how to escape. There are so many things up in the air that I consistently feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop… and hoping it doesn’t land squarely on my head. Sometimes it can be hard to stay positive, though I’m trying. Sometimes I fail. Today, I failed.

So, this is a reminder for me and everyone out there that we all fail and fall short of our own dreams and goals and ideals. Sometimes we look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person staring back at us. Sometimes we lash out when we should just leave things alone. Sometimes we overshare. Sometimes we under-share. But we’re all human, and we’re all just doing our best to be better than we were yesterday. So, here’s to tomorrow.

A New Tattoo, a poem

I want a new tattoo,

I need a distraction from the pain I'm going through.

I'd like a needle to pierce my skin,

I want to stop thinking about what could've been.

I want a new tattoo,

Its been a year since the last and I think I'm due.

I need something else to focus on,

Other than the piece of me that's gone.

I want a new tattoo,

I need to stop thinking about you.

I want a tribute to my dad,

to stop focusing on something I never even had.

I want a new tattoo,

I could use a reason not to be blue.

If I could focus on the healing of my skin,

Maybe I could ignore the pain within.

I want a new tattoo,

But I need to forget about you.

In Defense of “Man-Hating” Feminists

If you know me, or have read much of what I’ve written, you probably know I’m a feminist. If you’ve met me, you’ve probably heard me say “I hate men.” But do I really hate them, or do I just hate most of my experiences with them? I’ll go ahead and give it away. It’s the latter.

When I say “I hate men,” what I mean is “I hate the way men treat me.” The way men have always treated me. Let me explain. I hate men in the same way I hate a hot stove-top. They have a purpose, some of them are even really good at what they do, and perhaps they have full intention of serving that purpose. But (nearly) every time I let them too close to me, I end up getting burned.

I hate the male gaze (not to be confused with male gays, who I do usually love). I hate the way I can feel their eyes all over my body, everywhere but my face. I hate the way they look at me, see tits, and assume I’m for them. I hate the way they think I care how they feel about my appearance. I don’t. I didn’t ask. Should I smile more? Maybe you should give me a real reason to… like going the fuck away.

I do, however, love watching a cis-het man squirm looking at my hairy legs or armpits. It’s quite the defense mechanism. Once, I used to shave them religiously, worrying what people would think of me if I walked around with pale cactuses sticking out of my shorts. I even considered laser hair removal because I hated the idea of shaving them every single day for the rest of my life. But after being with a man (shocker, remember how I said I like gay men?) who accepted me regardless and was completely unbothered by my lack of “traditional femininity” it was a lot easier for me to embrace my own masculine side. And, boy, did I. If I could just lose a few cup sizes, I’d really be pretty happy on this front.

I “hate” men because, on average, I find they buy the lies that our gender presentation is related to what’s in our pants. It’s like their whole fucking identity is that they have a penis. And they think that my lack of penis defines mine. Bitch, I don’t need your goddamn cock. Nor do I even need one on my partner. Have I mentioned I love being queer? I’m not impressed by what you’re packing. These men aren’t willing to put in the real effort to define themselves any other way, nor are they willing to put in the effort to define me any other way. So, why should I put up with their bullshit?

I’ve often said that I’m basically built like a man, but with tits. Once, there was even a time a man walked up to me from behind, called me “sir,” and then when I turned around and he saw my boobs he was so embarrassed that he had “misgendered” me. Had he, though? Sometimes I forget that the majority of people see me and immediately assume I’m a woman, because my gender expression changes. Sometimes I walk on eggshells around women, assuming that, like a man, they will be uncomfortable around me. If more men went out of their way to keep women from being uncomfortable instead of telling us why we “shouldn’t” be uncomfortable, I don’t think I’d even be writing this.

I “hate” men because they take me for granted. They don’t trust me or believe in my talents no matter how much I’ve proven myself. They always think they know better. They don’t appreciate the things I do, for them or otherwise. They’re always looking for a reason to tell me why I’m not good enough. Why I’m not doing enough for them. What do you ever do for me, anyway? I can run circles around men all day long and then still get called lazy, but big boss man gets to sit at his desk all day signing checks and playing on his phone, and who gets praised? Who gets bonuses and endless raises? Not me. In fact, I know of at least one man who was getting accolades for my work for months. Did I ever get any recognition? Hardly.

I “hate” men because they’re just waiting for an excuse to talk about how hormonal I am. Oddly enough, when my PMDD (Pre-Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder) isn’t acting up (note that this happens before my period, that’s right, not one week but two of hell, yay me!), I’m actually usually happy on my period. Obviously, I could do without the bleeding, but my mood is just fine. You cannot tell unless I tell you. And I might, because if I have to deal with it, maybe you should have to hear about it. It’s honestly the least you could do. Why should I be ashamed of something I have no control over? Why do we give men an excuse not to learn about the bodies of the women they supposedly love?

And most of all, I “hate” men, because the majority of them treat me worse than fucking shit. Show me a woman who has never been taken advantage of, abused, or assaulted by a man in some way and I’ll show you a liar (can we say “pick-me?”) or at best, someone in deep denial. I’ve had my fair share. I’ve been pressured for sex, I’ve been manipulated, and I have been abused by men I didn’t know and men I trusted alike. And that’s really only the beginning. Still, my stories hardly compare to some of the women I know.

So, men, next time you get offended when someone says they hate your gender, perhaps you should consider why they might be saying that. Because here’s the thing, I’ve also loved men. One of my best friends is a man. I have multiple male friends, and I love them all. But, I’m not friends with men who treat me like most men do. I’ve actually met a staggering number of men recently that I actually feel that I can trust and would like to be closer to. But they’re exceptions. Because every rule has exceptions. My male friends don’t feel the need to remind me that “not all men” suck when I say “I hate men.” They know exactly the men I’m talking about, and guess what? They hate them too.

If you’re upset that a woman doesn’t immediately trust you, then I need you to look within. Statistically speaking, she shouldn’t. You don’t get to demand exception status without proving that you are exceptional. When have I ever been given that same courtesy? NEVER, the answer is never. I prove my worth constantly and rarely get recognized. I’m fucking tired.

If you want women to trust you, make sure you’re doing your best to be a man they can trust. And be patient. We don’t stop trusting men after one man hurts us, so how can you expect us to start trusting men after one man seems okay? If you consistently show up for us, you consistently treat us like we’re equal humans, and own up to it when you fall short (we all do), then you have nothing to worry about. The trust will come. But you don’t get to demand our love or even our tolerance.

If you somehow think that we owe you either of those things, then you are not a man any woman should trust. So fix yourself before you ask us to fix our perceptions of you. Finally, I’ll leave you with this song that I think expresses my feelings about men better than I ever could with mere words. And the video… brace yourself. It’s basically a modern masterpiece. She really takes “show, don’t tell” to a new level. I could probably write a whole essay about the video alone.

Fool for Love, a poem

They told me to give up on you and I tried.

I told my heart never again, but I lied.

I attempted to steer her toward safety,

but I can’t control what you’ve done to me.

My heart chose you and there’s nothing left to do

but wait and see if it’s true.

On me, you’ve cast a spell.

If it can be broken, only time will tell.

Life has taught me not to wear my heart on my sleeve.

Sometimes I don’t know which lessons to keep and which to leave.

I pour too much of myself into all the things I do.

My friends warned me not to do that with you.

While my lover’s cup overflows, mine always sits empty.

I should save my love for someone who, for once, prioritizes me.

If only my heart could be convinced so easily,

but she keeps telling me what we could be.

For too long I tried to play it cool,

but I think you know that I’m your fool.

The February Playlist + Brock Street Burner

The February edition of the Brock Street Burner is available online now at thebrockstreetburner.com! Have I mentioned that I lay out and design the Brock Street Burner? I wrote an article in this one called Risk Nothing, Win Even Less (you might remember me mentioning it in my last post). Sometimes I also do a comic or whatever. Check it out!

As a little bonus, here’s a playlist of some of the songs that have been on repeat for me for the past month plus some old faves. You can expect lots of R&B and multiple songs from Kehlani, Caroline Polachek, Chappell Roan, MUNA, Jessie Reyez, & more. If you only listen to one new love song this month, make it this new release from Ella Mae.

The poem I found in a drawer.

This was written about three and a half years ago (I think) for a man who absolutely did not deserve me. Still, I learned a valuable lesson. There’s more to that story… but you’ll have to check out February’s Brock Street Burner for that! But, for now, enjoy my past-life foolishness.

(Ever so slightly edited because my first stanza was BAD. Not gonna lie, I love the last one though)

I’d have to be crazy, wouldn’t I?

To think this could work,

that you might actually want me.

A little dense to believe you would fall for me.

A little unhinged, a little unstable,

heart so worn but still perfectly able.

A little exhausted, a little forlorn.

Loved so deeply, now I’m torn.

Should I give up—do what I always do?

Tell myself I know what’s best for you.

It isn’t me, it could never be.

But what about you?

Something in you has always spoken to me.

Something in your smile, your laugh.

Something in the way you don’t hold back…

Or do you?

All these years it never seemed it could be

anything more than just a dream.

That small sign, the tiniest clue.

I was always reading too much into you…

Or was I?

Perhaps it’s time to break down my walls.

To see where all the pieces land,

to watch them fall.

If not now, then I think never at all.

My Dream

If you’ve ever talked to me for long, you probably know I come up with a lot of business ideas—some I’d like to act upon, like a St. Louis based LOCAL business only delivery service, for example, but most are just for funsies. Honestly, if you want to start a business and can’t quite figure out your direction, hit me up, I’ve probably got ideas for you… but recently I’ve realized that as much as I want to start a little refill & resale shop, or even perhaps a fun little witchy one, what I want most is still the first idea I came up with after moving here. We’re coming up on 5 years, St. Louis. Maybe it’s time I actually speak this out to the Universe in a bigger way.

So what is it?

I’ve always wanted to buy one of the old vacant churches (preferably not falling apart, but hey, if any billionaires wanna prove they can be ethical, hit me up, I’d love to save an old building) in the city. I’m from Kentucky, and a few (emphasis on few) of the churches had a good number of outreach programs that I really believed in. I’d like to revive those (but better, ehem), as well as a weekly community-focused service… but make it all completely free of religion.

Let’s get to the weekly service later, because honestly, it going to appeal to some, but not others, and that’s fine, because no one is required (or guilted) to attend for any reason. The services will definitely be for people who miss the community of belonging to a church without the actual religion and those who are feeling lonely or alienated by our current societal structure. It’ll also be educational.

Outreach Programs

I’ve got a ton of ideas for these, so this list might not be exhaustive. Generally, we’d be here to support the community and hopefully provide at least a small number of jobs with additional volunteers (hopefully).

Donation sorting

Work with local charitable organizations to accept donations on their behalf, allowing community members to drop all their things off in one space, to be picked up and/or delivered to the appropriate organization. I think there are a lot of people who would donate more of their items instead of throwing them away if they didn’t have to research and coordinate all of those drop offs. We could also help with local short-term donation drives. We will not accept donations for big “charity” chains, of course. I’m thinking MTUG, Perrenial, City Sewing Room, etc.

New Earth Farms drop off point? I mean, why not? I’d love to even take recycling, etc, but that would be wildly dependent on the space and this feels a lot less likely. Perhaps we could have bins outside? However, we would take a wider range of items anyway due to our own thrift store, clothing closet, and creator store.

Clothes closet

Most clothes donated to us will be given away for free. Purely fast fashion pieces that offer little actual value to the wearer would also be excluded from this. Free clothes shouldn’t just mean the garbage no one wants that’s full of holes and shit. Small holes would be repaired. Donations that actually have good fabric, but are torn or damaged will be cut up and donated to City Sewing Room or Perennial. People should not have to show “proof” of needing help, either. Take what you need.

Fresh Food Donations

We would take donations (perhaps even pick up, if money/volunteers allowed) from local restaurants and distribute to locals in need. I have a few ideas for how to do this but, this is one of my newer ideas and isn’t fully fleshed out just yet.

Food Pantry

I have always hated how most food pantries operated. It’s dehumanizing to not be given any choice in the food you eat. When my dad stopped working, we were regulars at the local Baptist pantry. Nothing they gave us made a full meal. Most of it was horribly unhealthy as well. Perhaps items should be separated by meal. We could even provide instructions, maybe. How much people can take at a time and how often they can come back would probably depend on demand and I currently have no idea what that would be, because I don’t even have a specific church picked yet!

Income Streams

All proceeds would go to sustaining the organization and paying employees a livable wage. I’m not looking to profit, here, unlike some national “non-profits…”

Venue rentals

We’d rent the sanctuary out for a modest fee that allows us to further our programs without being out of reach. Weddings would probably be free for volunteers? I don’t know, it just sounds like a fun little perk. Although, if you’re planning on getting married every other year, we might have to cut you off at some point. I’ve joked about becoming a wedding officiant for years, might as well make that come full-circle. I think my dad always expected me to become a pastor, secretly—ain’t happening, but perhaps we could meet in the middle? Ha!

Stage rentals

I really want to host drag shows, plays, and concerts. If you want a stage and want to benefit the local community all-in-one go, here’s your spot.

Classroom and office rentals

If there are extra rooms that we don’t need for other purposes, why not rent it out? This all really depends on the “church,” but I love the idea of even having a co-working space.

Thrift Store

Reserved for higher quality clothing. If space allows I’d love to take small furniture, kitchenware, CDs, DVDs, you get the idea. I’d love to give people an actually ethical thrift store to shop at more often… I’m looking at you “Good”will. Go ahead and look up how much their CEOs profit and come back. I’ll wait. Yeah, they don’t deserve your money or your donations. And don’t even get me started on how they treat/pay employees, or how expensive they are now! Last time I went I bought a few items and spent close to $70. Are you kidding me?!

Creator Store

This one goes out to you, mom. Those things that are just too unique to throw away, but you have no use for… they find their home here. Basically, the creator store would be a place for artists and other crow-brained people to find unusual items to use in art pieces or fix up, etc. They would be very inexpensive, because, obviously they’re only useful to a select number of people and I could see whatever space this takes place in filling up fast. I’m the kinda person that can think of a use for almost everything. But do I have the time to make it happen? Probably not, but I struggle to part with things I know someone could use when the only other place they could go is a landfill. I’m talking old, pretty bottles, slightly broken, but beautiful plates, that really cool looking spoon that doesn’t match anything else you own, a gorgeous wooden chair that’s missing its seat, fun old board game pieces that don’t make a full set, damaged, but cool books that would work great for collages. Things like that. It would be a good way to use some of the items that are donated that other places won’t take.

Community Engagement

Weekly services

What if church and an old school assembly had a baby, but more fun? Does that make any sense? I like the idea of having a couple of songs… Perhaps just a local singer can come play a couple covers (people like to sing along, of course) and an original song to get some exposure? Then, we could have a brief overview of important goings on in the neighborhood/city. Then, a short speaker presentation about something inspiring/educational. I could see this being great for a local therapist, or professor, or I don’t know, I’m really open to ideas here. We could even have multiple if there’s enough demand, perhaps with different styles and topics.

Movie nights

Very inexpensive tickets and snacks with little up-charge and this could even be an opportunity for a food truck to come by or something, just a thought.

Board game nights?

We can literally host Magic the Gathering for all I care. I basically want this to be a thirdplace for the city. A place to actually get out and meet people, not feel stuck at home. I’ve got hella board games. The older I get, the more I prefer things like that over video games, but, hey, we could even have some of those.

Dinners

Sometimes churches have potlucks. We could do that, maybe?

Classes

We could host craft nights and other classes. Perhaps we could teach people how to repair their clothes, make their own cleaning products, small furniture repairs, all the things that corporate America has tricked us into thinking we don’t need… because they can make money off of us easier that way. Also, if we have a good fellowship hall, we could even have cooking classes!

Alright, well, that’s most of it, anyway. I’m certain I’m forgetting some things but, hey, let me know what you think… If this existed, would you come to it? Would you volunteer? Do you have any ideas for me? Money is obviously the hurdle here, but I can’t help but feel like we need this… or is it just me? In my experience, Christianity thrives mostly because they’ve fooled so many people into thinking their only opportunity for human connection and community is within church walls. Well, what if we took God out of it and just believed in our community?

Random rant on the “5 Love Languages…” ho ho ho

Did you know that the “5 Love Languages” were developed by a Christian, Dr. Gary Chapman? I only ask because I was introduced to them first in church. That seems to surprise a lot of people. For me, it was normal. And, it makes sense, if you look much into the official documentation… there’s traces everywhere. Perhaps even more than traces. I confess, I don’t care enough to check nowadays. But how much do people know about the real concept vs. the pop culture references? I’m not sure. But I’ve realized as someone who grew up with parents who talked about love languages constantly… I have thoughts. Lots.

For starters, I think it’s bullshit. My “love language(s)” have changed constantly over the 30+ years I’ve been alive (I think I took my first test before 10) and, looking back, your “love language” is really more of a reflection of the things you’re not getting enough of from your partner (or self) than it is your favorite. When I felt painfully lonely, suddenly, “quality time” and “physical touch” were my preferred love languages. In relationships where my partner was overly clingy (everyone has a limit) but the sink was always full of dishes, I would’ve killed for some “acts of service.”

When every friend group and every employer forgets my ever-inconvenient birthday for the 10th year in a row, giving me an actual birthday (and not just Christmas) gift was a pretty easy way into my heart. And those “for no reason” gifts have to be my favorite. The “idk I just saw this (possibly free thing) and it made me think of you” crow-brain kinda love does something for me. The only (mostly) consistent favorite I’ve had has been “words of affirmation,” however, even that failed me after years with a lying cheater—what good are words when they’re meaningless? Most times I took the test I had at least two nearly as highly scored categories. As I recall, at least once I had 3 in a similar range.

Ultimately, I think all relationships require some measure of all 5. Limiting yourself to only one does you both a disservice. Sure, it would be great if people were so easily categorized and needs so simply met, but that’s not life. If I tell you that words of affirmation is my love language and you write me love letters daily but never hold me just because you can, I’m still not going to feel as loved as I could. Is the goal just to do the bare minimum or is the goal to truly make your partner feel loved? I don’t know about you, but just seeing my partner’s face light up is enough to make me want to do more.

I think it really fits the narrative of corporate America that we can sell a book about the love languages, and then find one specific thing to take away from it and our relationships will be “fixed.” Why spend time with those you love when you could be making junk for us to sell so you can barely afford your rent? Also, let’s not even get me started on “acts of service” as a name for love… basically the gist of this rant is the concept of the languages isn’t bad, but having a particular one… just throw that bit out. Also all the Christian shit I don’t have the time or energy to complain about. Happy holidays if you care.

A Study of Eve: An Art Series in Watercolor

originally posted Dec 2024

While many pondered the gifts of Christ this holiday season, I found myself particularly glued to Eve. Honestly, I think it's very much a product of the pain that women are feeling after the 2024 presidential election. Everything I've read since the election has brought me to the same conclusion: The United States is still too sexist to elect a woman president.

“Let me ask a question to present day: how the hell did Eve get all the damn blame?”

— Armor, Sara Barielles

I’ll be the first to admit that neither of our most politically “promising” options for a woman president have been my personal choice, but this election was different. This year, as I see it, we had two options: imperfect sanity with a female with a “boring” track record OR complete chaos with an aged male with a track record for unethical behavior.

I grew up in the Bible Belt, in a largely Southern Baptist community and church. So, this surprises me very little, however, I had hoped that things would’ve improved more than they clearly have. I remember it was very commonly stated by all sexes that women shouldn’t run for president and that if they did, they’d never win. Usually, they would then mock how “emotional” or, even more often, how “hormonal” women are. There was likely a time when I dutifully agreed when someone else stated it in my presence. But even at my most devout, none of the largely anti-female speech and narrative of the Bible, nor many of its followers, ever sat right with me.

So, why all the hostility towards women? There’s one, very simple answer: Eve.

What Does the Bible Say?

About Eve, specifically? Turns out, not much. Eve is only mentioned by name FOUR times total (Compared to Adam’s 27) in the entire Bible. In most of the story of Adam “and Eve,” she’s rarely even referred to by name, but more often as “the woman” or “Adam’s wife,” assuming all of those references are even to the same woman… The only children of Adam that are mentioned are Cain, Abel, and Seth. All of them married and “made ‘love’ to” wives who are never named or given backstory.

The gaps of time between children are unclear (though there are only 2 times the Bible explicitly stated Adam and “his wife” got it on, but it is clear that Seth was a much younger child and that Adam had Seth at the age of 130 and lived to be the age of 930… but none of those 4 mentions of Eve in the Bible answers the question I want to know: how long did Eve live?

The truth is, Genesis unfortunately makes it clear that Eve was a largely unimportant character. In fact, the more I learn about the treatment of women throughout history, I think it likely served Moses very well that women were treated as unimportant and even unclean or unworthy. No one knows who took actual pen to “paper,” (papyrus?) as they say, but Moses is credited with writing the first 5 books of the Bible by pretty much everyone else in the Bible.

Whether it was Moses or not, I don’t know or really care. But it feels about as likely as just about everything else in the Bible so, sure.

How My Eve Collection Began

It all started with Eve #1, which is now part of the left half of the new “EVE.” She came to me as I was listening to the song Labour by Paris Paloma and considering the biblical character. The verses where Paris worries over her future daughter’s fate at the hands of her abusive husband proposed an interesting perspective for me. What if Eve knew exactly what she was doing when she ate from that tree? What if it was the last-ditch effort of an oppressed woman? After all, what is there to lose, if not everything? An obsession (and a playlist) grew from there and many more pieces started sprouting up over a few weeks.

Eve #1

It’s very me to obsess over a subject so much that I make a themed playlist to keep myself in the right mood while I work on a project. I really like the effect of listening to this playlist as you look at the pieces I created. I find that it really encourages all kinds of different ideas about Eve and what her motives could have been. So, this feels like as good a time as any to share it with you.

Up next, my neurodivergent mind pumped out "Eve #2" and "Eve Ate." I Then began "Eden" before scribbling out "Eve #3" on printer paper during a particularly slow day.

“Eve ate”

My favorite thing about “Eve Ate” is that she’s similarly colored to the original, only this time I created her entirely with the new, much nicer watercolors I’d purchased from my favorite local art store. So, I decided to stick with the original color scheme again for EVE.

Eve #3, again, was largely inspired by Paris Paloma’s hit song. However, even more explicitly, as I used a freeze frame from the music video for as my initial inspiration for this version of Eve. The song and music video are a masterpiece, but I especially wanted to capture a small bit of the ravenous energy at which Paris tears into the pomegranate. Click here to see what I’m talking about. However, I do want to express that Paris is not quite the Eve I envision and that she was changed to look more how I pictured her in the final copy.

Eve #3, Eve #4

Eve #4 was always meant to be beside the original in my mind. At this point, I decided that both their final homes would be in the form of a collage on canvas. I had originally planned on making the backing canvas more green and garden-like, however, by the time I'd finished this piece, my piece "Eden" was already complete. I suppose that it didn't feel as fresh to me at that point, and I worried that it wasn't true to the original 3-tone concept.

Let’s Talk About Eve

EVE (final version) Watercolor, pencil, collage with paper on canvas

This work is, in many ways, a perfect summary of this series, in the biased eyes of her creator, me. She’s comprised of both my first “Eve” drawing and my last “Eve” drawing. So, she is both the first piece I started and the last piece completed. She began as an expression of my ever-growing perspective of the biblical character of Eve. As I grew up, Eve was always so demonized and criticized for her weakness. It’s funny, she never felt weak to me. She did eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but why is it such a bad thing to seek a second opinion? She was chastised for not trusting blindly in her maker.

Once, blind faith didn’t seem so strange to me. Faith wasn’t terrifying. Faith gave me a goal, something to hope for. It was everything else that I was afraid of. The big wide world, but most importantly, myself. What had the Bible taught me, if not that I am the worst, most wretched being unless I devote my entire body, mind, time, and money to God and His Church? Nothing I ever did felt like enough. I never felt Saved enough.

When I exited an even more emotionally abusive and manipulative relationship, it was so clear to me how easily I fell into his grasp because of my religion. He used it to prey on me, to keep me, to guilt me, and to change me. He used it to keep me feeling smaller than life and worthless, “blessed” by his very presence.

But after many years of healing, I can finally look back and see all of the parallels to abuse and manipulation all over the pages of the book I grew up on. I can feel it in my memories. A Bible was likely the first book I ever owned, and for over 20 years it ruled me, guilted me, and forced me to contort myself to a version that would be considered acceptable by my parents and church members. How quickly did Eve’s own husband turn on her when questioned by his Father? We know the answer to this one—very. What were Eve’s days like in Eden before the serpent? Unfortunately, we have no idea.

Eve #2

In this piece, I wanted to focus more on some less emotional aspects of how the perception of Eve has changed over time for me. For starters, most artwork we see generally portrays Adam, Eve, Jesus, the whole Bible cast and crew with a light complexion even though it’s essentially impossible that they would look this way. While many people are able to see these historic artworks and rationalize that this is “just one artist’s perspective,” that is often still the one that sticks in a person’s mind. It can make undue connections in your head.

Traditionally, we also see the unnamed fruit of the tree of knowledge depicted as an apple, but this feels more like a western preoccupation with the fruit more than anything else to me. I’ve seen suggestions that pomegranates could be the fruit that grew on the tree (though if we’re to trust the Bible, we’ve lost access to the fruit). I like and ran with this idea due to the growing region of the fruit and the region where most of the Bible actually takes place, but more importantly, because of the symbolism. Pomegranates are often seen as a symbol for fertility and are an integral part of the story of Persephone, another famous mythological woman bound to her fate by marriage and fruit…

Eve #2

The Finale: Our Mother, Who Art on Earth

Finally, my favorite piece and the one I’m most proud of: Eden. This painting explores a world where Eve’s spirit finally rests inside a tree at the outskirts of a now barren “Eden.” This painting is very much a culmination of a story pieced together by me and inspired in some part by the linked playlist as well as the myths and legends I studied throughout my life.

I started by sketching out my Mother Tree, and then decided I wanted this painting to have a secret: the lyrics to one of my favorite songs by Sara Bareilles, Eden. I had a feeling they would likely get covered up in the process, and they did, but somehow I feel that this little secret lends strength to the piece.

In my version of her story, Eve’s spirit becomes tied to the seeds of the fruit, which eventually make their way through to the ground from whence they came. Over the years, the sapling grows and when her body passes, her soul returns to the tree. Everything she touches grows stronger and more abundant, protected by a mysterious stream. The earth outside her grassy mound is dry, barren and empty, the sky unkind. She watches as years pass and the world around her fades. Still, she waits patiently, for she knows her true time has yet to come.

I have so much more to say on the subject of Eve and the Bible. But this has already been very long. I’ll have to touch on those another time.

It’s a shame that the narrative of the Bible isn’t more uplifting to women. We have so much to offer the world. This painting is for us. Our time will come. I often worry how much more damage our Earth will have to endure before we finally learn our lesson. How many years do we waste chasing money and power instead of knowledge and empathy? We have long been told that our emotions and ability to empathize are our weaknesses. But, truly, they are our strengths. What is your story?