Strings attached, a poem.

Every morning I wake with the sensation of lips I’ve never kissed.

This aching emptiness in my stomach I cannot fill.

It haunts my waking moments, but leaves my dreams in peace.

A searing yet invisible touch I cannot place.

It calls to me, waiting for an answer.

I want to. I want you. But when I reach, you’re not there.

The day is long and endless.

I think of you often, but feel you so rarely.

Another lonely night gone by, and back to bed I go.

As I rouse, for just a moment, you’re almost mine.

But a moment is never long enough.

As quickly as I see you, you escape me.

You’re only here to taunt me, to haunt me.

To keep pushing me until I reach my glorious reward of more nothing.

I push you away and you won’t go.

I pull you in but you slip through my fingers.

Trying to hold you is like trying to grasp the wind.

Why can’t I make this pain end?

The more I explain, the less sense I make.

The more answers I search for, the further I find myself from the truth.

You are but a waking dream, and I the dreamer.

Perhaps a nightmare, but will it end before I’m dead?

Maybe you’re no one. A ghost, a spirit.

Another demon that offers the world but delivers heartache instead.

You are a mythic perfection that keeps me from settling.

An impossible ideal that no mortal being could measure up to.

And yet I still hope for you.

I am a glutton and you are my punishment.

So, I’ll feel you tomorrow.

Bright and early, you’ll kiss me awake.

But as every day before,

I’ll open my eyes and you’ll be gone once more.

---

Oops, went and made a whole mixtape for this one… check it out.

On my Dad: The Hermit.

Well, my AC was just fixed. Now that I can think a little clearer… it’s time to finish what I started.

In the last blog, I told you about my father’s last days on this Earth. Now, I’d like to back up a bit to the man I remember best. We all go through different phases in life and there are many different versions of my dad to talk about. I’m hoping to do a third post at some point to talk more about who he was when he was more involved in the church and when I was much younger. But those memories are unfortunately the fuzziest. Life doesn’t always unfold the way you expect it to. I don’t think there’s really any such thing as an “easy” life, to be honest. We all have different trials and hurdles to go through.

My parents had me in their early 30s and were often older than my friend’s parents. By the time I reached high school, my dad’s body was already breaking down. He’d had a slipped disc in his back from some old sports thing I think (football, probably) that had actually begun to erode and by the end of my life it was less of a “slipped” disc and more of a disc that ceased to exist. He had similar issues with his knee and a few other joints. He was in a lot of pain a lot of the time—and he was a big man. Honestly, I don’t think I even fully understand all of the issues my dad had, I was going through a very teenager-y time and was honestly just bummed that he couldn’t go out and do things with me like he used to. My mom was always busy, I was an only child (and a very shy one), and I didn’t have a lot of friends. For the first half of my life my dad was my best friend.

There was even a brief period of time when I was a toddler that he was a stay-at-home dad because he was unable to find a job in Indiana (we didn’t live there for long for exactly that reason). And the craziest part is that sometimes my dad worked up to like 3 jobs at a time. Somehow, he always made time for me. That was something it never felt like I could say about my mother (despite her only having the one poorly-paying job), so when my dad stopped being able to keep up, it took a pretty big toll on me. Suddenly, the man who was always there for me no matter what any time of day couldn’t take me to the church gym to play basketball and help me practice for a team I didn’t have the nerve to try out for anymore. He didn’t even attend my high school graduation because he had been in so much pain and the seating would’ve made him miserable. He couldn’t drive because he was heavily medicated.

It wasn’t immediate, by any means. It was a slow shift. This all started during the time he was working at least 2 (if not 3) jobs. He had his normal 9-5 substance abuse counselor gig, and then after that, multiple days a week, he would drive over an hour to do outreach at a local jail or something to that effect. I could be getting the specifics mixed up, it’s been so long, but that was definitely something he did at one point. Either way, it was more therapy and a decent-sized time commitment where he was driving back and forth for long periods. He spent a lot of time sitting, and when they found a blood clot in his lung and attributed it to all the driving he was doing, he finally quit that job. That was the beginning of this particular phase of his life as I see it.

From then on, it seemed like he got worse as the days went by. His back hurt more, he was constantly on blood thinners for fear of getting another blood clot. It got to the point where he said he couldn’t even handle the drive to work or even sitting in his chair at work to talk to clients. Now, keep in mind, that my dad was always the bread-winner. He may have even made twice as much as my mom at some points. Don’t get me wrong, she has an important job, they just don’t treat it like it is. I remember that when my dad finally stopped working she was making around $12/hr. Minimum wage was somewhere around $7.25. And she’d been in her position for over 10 years already. They treated her like garbage and I think that’s what made her absence sting the most.

He stopped going in to work as much, started going to the doctor more, started having to dip into his FMLA time off, until finally he ran out and was terminated. He spent my entire high school career trying (and failing) to get disability from the government (he finally got it when I went to college). And all 3 of us were living off of $12/hr. We couldn’t even pay our rent, but our landlords were nice enough to work with us. For a year we were on a very small level of food stamps, only for the government to turn around and tell my mother she had like a month or less to pay everything they’d given her that year back. It’s complete madness to me how republicans (which we were, by the way) act like it’s so goddamn easy to get on these programs and that there are just so many people taking advantage when we did absolutely everything “the right way” and still were fucked over at every single fucking turn. I remember bursting into tears one day when a classmate was regurgitating some bullshit his parents had said about how it should be harder for people to get help. You better believe I gave that fucking bitch a piece of my mind. It should come as no surprise that I wasn’t registered republican for very long.

My teenage years were hard. Teenagers should be worrying about stupid shit like crushes and what to wear to school, not if they were going to have food to eat when they got home or if they were going to get kicked out of the house because their family couldn’t pay rent. On more than one occasion I came home to a house with no electricity. I didn’t get a “normal” teenage experience. I remember watching all my friends go to prom and get senior pictures and have sweet 16 parties and all these “normal” teenage things I was always left out of. Everyone else drove themselves to school, but I didn’t even have a car that I could learn to drive on. I had no independence, no money, and I took all of that out on myself. Why would anyone even want to hang out with me? So I barely tried to spend time with anyone because I knew even if they wanted to I wouldn’t have a ride and honestly I figured I’d just have an anxiety attack and be no fun to be around anyway.

I know my dad felt bad for “robbing” me of my teenage experience. Everything in our lives seemed to revolve around his pain and the fight for disability. But, I think he tried to focus on the one positive thing from all of this… he was always home. He had an infinite amount of time to spend with me, because what did he do all day other than sit in the only chair that didn’t cause him excess pain? So, I came home from school every day and hung out with my dad, a lot like I had before. But, before, I’d spend a few hours at home alone waiting for my dad to come home, eventually followed by my mother who always seemed to be working. Now, he was already there.

We’d talk about music, listen to music, he’d give me music lessons, or we’d watch a movie or binge a TV Show together. (One of our favorites was this early 2000s show called Dark Angel that we had on DVD). A couple of times he helped me write some of my own songs, sometimes I’d help him come up with lyrics. He helped me with homework if I needed it. We’d also talk about psychology because I’d always been fascinated by the way brains work—I still am. He’d tell me stories from his years of being a therapist or of his past and even the addictions he overcame decades before. And we’d also have discussions about Christianity, even branching out into the territory of a debate.

One of my favorite things about my father is that despite being a 3rd generation pastor, he didn’t think he knew everything. He had some very strongly held beliefs, but he adapted them over time. He took real criticism and didn’t try to tell me how to think. If I made a good point, he’d acknowledge it and sometimes he’d even sit on something for a while and then come back to me with a “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day and these are my thoughts…” Obviously, he wanted me to be a Christian, but he didn’t use my questions to berate me for my low faith, he actually tried to help me understand and come to my own conclusions. And I think there were things I even changed his mind on a few times.

I’d say probably at least 50% (if not more) of the movies I’ve watched in my lifetime I watched with my dad first. I get most of my favorite movies from my dad, even. Perhaps, our favorite thing to do was watch musicals together. Rogers and Hammerstein, Gershwin, Stephen Sondheim—if it was a musical and we could find a copy, we watched it. In Middle School, they were talking about doing a production of Into the Woods—a musical I’d not seen—and my dad got so excited he tracked down the original cast recording and made me watch it, knowing I’d love it and want to participate. It’s still my favorite musical to this day.

My dad was an avid journaller—something I’ve recently picked up myself. He had shelves and shelves full of filled journals over the years. Unfortunately, I’ve not found most of them. We’re hoping they’re off in my mom’s storage unit somewhere, but I worry they may be gone for good. I have a few from this time period of my dad’s life. I knew my dad was going through a lot, but I was still too young to understand most of what he was dealing with. I’ve not read all of the journals I have, either. I think that will likely take me a very long time, seeing as they have been such a difficult read, but let me summarize what I have learned from his POV.

Despite him keeping up a positive face most times for me, he was filled with turmoil. Here, he’d spent most of his life helping people past their addictions and now he was in so much pain that he was likely dependent on his pain killers. I think that took a toll on him mentally. But also, all my life he had been the bread-winner and, now, he felt useless. He felt worse than useless, he felt like a burden… another mouth to feed, and what was he bringing to the table? He came up with multiple ideas to try to earn money from home—he even kept his counseling license for a while and tried to do virtual therapy, but that was still in it’s very early stages at the time. And eventually, I think he realized that he wasn’t really in a good enough mental state to provide therapy anymore. His self-esteem plummeted. Most of the things he tried never really panned out, and I think a big part of that is because he never felt very confident or supported in his endeavors, so he gave up quickly.

You might have noticed, but my parents didn’t have a very close relationship. It always felt to me like they were playing their roles rather than actually in love. It’s possible they were once and I just don’t remember it. But I think they really stayed together because they believed it was a sin not to and for me. My mom actually told me she wanted to leave but “couldn’t afford to” when I was an adult and things were still bad (they never got better). It seems like a miserable way to live. I don’t think my dad had felt loved by my mom in a very long time based on his journals. And I know she rarely supported his ideas because I remember it. I’ve since had a taste of how de-motivating it can be to feel like your partner—the one person you want most to believe in you—just doesn’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think every idea is worth supporting—mine, his, or anyone’s—we all have duds. But I think we all deserve to have someone in our corner. The more I read his journals, the more I wonder if he felt that I was the only one he had in his corner almost all of the time during this time period. That’s no way to live. I was a child, and he needed adults around to help hype him up and rally around him to support him at least sometimes. We all do. Only narcissists are able to believe in themselves endlessly when no one else does.

And then, there’s the “God” of it all. In some of his entries he sounds so confident and secure in his Christianity, and in others he felt like he had been forsaken. He’d done everything He asked and his life was still in shambles. Many (maybe all) of the churches he had worked at in the past had treated him like complete dirt. The last one, where he was the Music Minister, constantly asked for more from him but refused to hire him full time. They placed all of the blame on him for every little problem, even though most of the problems seemed to come down to the deacons not giving him what he’d asked, or the choir and unpaid volunteers not giving their all—they’re unpaid! What can he really do about that? He can’t force people to show up when he has no leverage. Perhaps he was meant to guilt them, but that wasn’t my dad. He finally left, and they hired a new music minister full time… He filled in as a substitute pastor after that, but never worked for a church again. It hurt him deeply that the next person was given the thing he was always asking for. He felt like they just wanted him gone. I don’t even think that was his worst experience.

The truth is, I think it was my dad’s open-mindedness that the church didn’t care for. He wasn’t about the doom and gloom. He didn’t push his own narratives, nor did he push the narratives of those around him… he actually preached what he read in the bible. Crazy, right? He believed the Old Testament should be considered more for reference and that Jesus had changed a lot of things. My dad told me multiple times he believed women can—and should—preach… a sentiment a lot of Christians (especially Southern Baptists) would balk at. He didn’t hate anyone or treat anyone differently because of their race or sexuality. And he didn’t think everyone was required to live their life the same way he did. Today’s Christians could’ve learned a lot from my dad.

No matter what I needed, any time of day, my dad was always there for me—and anyone else who would call him. At his funeral, an old friend of ours got up and told probably one of my favorite stories about my dad. When he was serving as the Music Minister at that last church, there was this guy named Brandon who was in his 20s or early 30s at most & always wanted to help out where he could. He eventually offered to work the sound booth for my dad—he did a great job, and I spent a lot of my childhood “helping” (and possibly annoying) him in the sound booth. One day, my dad found out that his brother played guitar. Well, he’d been watching Brandon, and had noticed he had more of an ear for music than he gave himself credit for.

So, one day, he brought a guitar he had laying around the house (he always had so many instruments) and gave it to Brandon and asked him to tune it for him. Brandon didn’t know how to do that, but he took it home, figured it out, and brought it back to church where my dad told him “great, now you have a guitar, play it” (something to that effect) and basically tricked him into learning the damn guitar. Brandon had no fucking clue at the time that my dad was fully capable of tuning (AND playing) the guitar at that point. My dad could play almost any instrument you handed him at least a little. While his Masters was in Counseling, his Bachelors was in Music Education—as he liked to say he “squeezed 4 years of college into 9.” It was part of the curriculum that he know how to play any and all instruments someone might play in band and he was always learning more, just for fun.

Brandon started getting really good with the guitar and Dad “made” him start playing during church services and supported him when he wanted to invest in a nicer Takamine. At the funeral, I found out Brandon leads the music there now (the guy they hired after my dad is long gone) and credits my dad for believing in him and seeing what no one else saw. He was a musician without an instrument—so he gave him an instrument. I remember he didn’t think he could even sing. Brandon and his wife led a song at my dad’s funeral after telling us this story… I balled. I’m crying just thinking about it. My dad did this silly little thing for someone one time and it changed the entire course of this man’s life. That’s the man my dad was.

He was always doing something, always learning, always studying. I think in another life my dad would’ve made a great monk. He loved preserving history and retelling stories. He loved thinking about things from a different angle, he loved a debate. He could learn how to do anything if you gave him a book on it. He was great with technology, and loved to recount the time he told a college friend that “personal computers would never take off.” Years later, my dad had one of the first laptops ever made. He definitely ate those words. After he quit working, he started studying Spanish again and he got really good with it. Better than I ever did with my 3 years of classes.

But something I’ve realized that was horribly lacking those last 15+ years of his life was community. He was in so much pain and felt so down on himself that he had trouble reaching out to other people for help—or even just a conversation. He stopped even going to church. My old pastor led the service at his funeral and told us all how my dad had been such a treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom and support for him all of those years and that he regretted not calling on him more. That’s something we have in common. Admittedly, I’m pretty amused that by the sound of it, he was still counseling people when the opportunity arose.

The house was always a mess because he spent so much time at home and was in so much pain that he would just leave everything in piles around his chair. He certainly had flaws, one of them being that he didn’t help around the house much at all, especially in those last years. It was a definite problem and drove my mother (and me) insane. But I think that kept him from feeling comfortable inviting people over. So, he sat there alone. It doesn’t even sound like my mom interacted with him very much at the end.

The more I reflect on my dad, the more I see myself in him—the more I realize how similar we are. I, too, love to study and love helping people and talking through things with people. I love a debate. I love my alone time. But, what I’ve learned from my dad’s journals is that there is such a thing as too much alone time. I need people too. And not just a partner, I need community. I need to get out and experience things and meet new people and find opportunities to share my knowledge. Because they’re rarely knocking down my door, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. And if I don’t, I think I will slowly mentally deteriorate much like my dad did.

After he passed, I went on this journey through time trying to figure out exactly where it felt like I lost him. The Dad that raised me. For a long time, I thought he’d disappeared when I went to college and he had his first stroke—and I do think that was a major factor. But, now, after reading his journals and reflecting on memories I’d locked away because they caused me too much pain… I think it started before that. I think it was a combination of the depression and lack of human interaction that started the process. And then, after the stroke, he was slower and with a shorter fuse. It snowballed after that.

I had to move back home for a couple of years during college, after his stroke, and it didn’t go well. I had so much to do—I had 2 part time jobs and was attending college full time and had to drive a hour to get to any of these places, and I had a shitty boyfriend I thought I needed to see. I didn’t want to spend much time at home and I wasn’t thinking about how lonely my dad was because I was so focused on myself. It’s hard not to give myself shit about that now, but I’m trying. One of the only vivid memories I have from that period of time was when we got into this big fight. My parents were upset that I was leaving the house so late to see my boyfriend and I basically told them I was in my 20s and they could get over it. It became a whole thing about how I’m “never around.” It got pretty heated and toward the end, my dad told me he “didn’t know how he’d raised such an awful daughter.”

The dad I knew never would’ve said that to me. Especially just for living my early adult life. I cannot stress to you enough how much of the time I was working. I was livid. I’d spent so much of my life in that house, why couldn’t I ever just go out and have fun? I never did it as a teenager, so I felt like I was making up for old time and that they were just strangling me. He apologized almost immediately but the harm was done. I stormed out and found a way to move out of the house just a couple of months later. I think the truth is, that he’d been stuck inside that house for so long he forgot what it was like to have a life and responsibilities. He was just lonely and didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Everyone always tells me that I’m “so patient,” which always amuses me, because I, of course, feel like I have no patience at all. I’ve considered that perhaps I have more patience for people than things. But if they’re right, then I got it from my dad. If I could only describe him with one word, that would be the one I’d choose. Patient. But after the stroke, he lost his patience entirely. It was such a drastic change that I didn’t even know what to do with him anymore. I’d say something and he’d take it the complete wrong way and fly off the handle and I just didn’t know how to talk to him. He wasn’t the same. I couldn’t have those deep meaningful conversations with him anymore. It felt like he was always yelling at me.

And then, in his loneliness, he turned to Fox News. It was always on. When I lived at home and he started watching “the news” to “keep up with the outside world” I used to listen to ambient city sounds to help me sleep. I find that pretty hilarious now, especially when people are surprised that I don’t mind the street sounds living in a city. Anyway, I think he may have eventually also struggled to read and research as much has he used to, because the Dad I knew never would’ve fallen for the bullshit he was falling for. He used to write research papers for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t vet Fox News just a little? I definitely think he had too much faith in “the system.” Everyone back home does. So did I, once.

My dad used to tell me stories about being in school during de-segregation. In fact, he told me that his family actually lived in the poor neighborhood in their community and he went to school with and befriended a lot of his black neighbors—something that was unfortunately not common back then. We sat in the kitchen listening to his college choir sing “Go Down Moses,” and he told me about it’s true history, something many Christians I’ve met aren’t aware of. It changes the entire damn song when you know the meaning.

We discussed racial issues regularly. It was not news to him that people of different skin tones were treated differently than I was and he made sure I was also aware of that. I do think, however, since he grew up when things were so bad, that he might’ve missed some of the smaller signs that things hadn’t gotten as much better as he thought. We also lived in a very white community my whole childhood, so I think his interactions with people of color had dwindled. When he worked, that wasn’t the case, but now that he was at home almost all of the time and just listening to Fox News? Yeah… not a lot of color…

But, tell me how this same man freaked out during the 2020 riots after George Floyd was murdered? He let Fox News rile him up into some kind of frenzy, thinking they were going to do away with all police and we were going to live in a state of anarchy. He started buying guns. My dad notoriously hated guns. One of his favorite tv shows of all time was Kung Fu because he refused to use guns. Those characters were always his favorite.

He just became this reactionary, easy to brainwash person that I simply couldn’t fathom. If I’m honest, I think I avoided talking to him sometimes because it hurt so much to see what he had become. It seemed like he and my mom were always at odds, he was always buying things they didn’t have the money for, forgetting to pay bills, and never helping around the house. I resented him for putting my mom through all of that. And there was a part of me that had a hard time ever forgiving that version of him for what he’d said to me all those years ago. For the record, that last month when we talked pretty consistently, he apologized for the way our relationship had changed and for losing his temper with me so often in the past.

But before, when he reached out and sent me just some fucking bible verse I didn’t want to read, I didn’t respond. He’d pivoted so hard that even when I asked him about things we used to talk about, it was hard to carry on a conversation unless it was about Christianity—the one thing I didn’t want to talk about. Even psychology had changed so much by then that he was pretty lost. And I haven’t practiced music in so long that there wasn’t much to say. If I could go back in time, I would try harder to appeal to him, the version of him that I hope was still hiding in there somewhere. I don’t know if it would’ve helped. But I should’ve tried. It hurts me so much to know that he was so lonely for so long. I can only help that telling his story helps someone else.

No matter what your situation, or how scared or busy you may be, you need community. We all need community. We like to think that we’re so different than other animals, we’re so independent because we have all these gadgets and technology that allows us to do things by ourselves… but we’re not. We need each other in more ways than you can possibly know. If you’re lonely and have trouble leaving the house, ask for help. Don’t just assume it’ll come to you. That someone will eventually notice your needs that you’re too afraid to voice. We’re all so overwhelmed and overstimulated these days that we tend to be shoved too far up our own asses to notice what the people around us are going through. But it doesn’t mean we don’t care.

Speak up. Speak out. Say the things you want to say because you never know when you won’t be able to say anything to that person ever again. And it’s never too late until it is. No one deserves to be miserable or lonely. Everyone deserves support. Find it. Keep it. Cherish it. And for the love of god, don’t stay with someone just because it’s “the thing to do.” I often wonder what both of my parents lives would have been like if they had split up when things stopped working. For all I know, maybe they never worked. I really can’t say. But I think everyone deserves to be with someone who supports and believes in them and actually wants to spend time with them. Don’t stay with someone out of fear of what will happen next. You’ll figure that part out when it comes. I know it doesn’t feel like it. But you will.

Something about my dad passing has really made me realize how little of my life has ever gone as planned. Even just 2 years ago I would obsess about the “what-ifs” of every single little thing. But now, I realize it doesn’t matter. Things are going to go the way they’re meant to, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. I can stay positive and resilient and believe that things will work out in my favor (and perhaps manifest that it does), or I can “plan” and get stressed and discouraged when it never does. As they always say, “if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” Well, I don’t have to believe in the Christian God to say that’s certainly true. You and I have no control over our lives any more than a rabbit can control when it rains. The best we can do is make sure we have somewhere safe to hide when it starts to pour. So, find your community before the storm hits.

I feel like everyone who loses a parent says the same thing, and I’m no different: I think about my dad every single day. Every. One. I think of something I want to tell him or show him. When it snows, I think about the time he took off work just to spend the day with me when they cancelled school because of snow on my birthday. I was literally getting off the bus to walk into daycare (which I hated) and I heard him holler for me and I still think it’s one of my best memories. I think of him every time I see an instrument. I think of him when I order food at a Mexican restaurant. He was always so proud of ordering entirely in Spanish. I can tell you his response to almost any situation like he’s still sitting here next to me. I miss him more than I’ve ever missed anything in my life. I often still refer to my parents like they’re both still alive and then catch myself. Every now and then I still forget that I can’t just text him anymore.

And it’s crazy, because he’d been in such bad health for so long that I thought I was prepared. I tried to be prepared. But there’s just no such thing. I often tell people I think I aged 5 years when my dad died. Something about it just changes your brain. I think some of it has to do with all the resentment that just vanishes… I don’t know, it just feels so pointless to remember all of the bad shit once someone is gone, I suppose. It makes it a lot easier to remember all the good that person brought into your life. We had some really rough moments, but when it comes down to it, I truly believe he did his best. And I think that’s all you can ask.

Sometimes I feel bad for anyone who would date me next, cause here’s the thing. I’m never going to shut up about him. I can’t. That feels like maybe a weird thing to do early in a relationship, some extra heavy baggage to bring in, but I guess it’s just part of who I am now. The good news, though, is that I feel more prepared to help my friends and loved ones through grief when the time comes. My dad may have died, but there’s still one way to keep him alive. And If the only thing that remains on this plane of my dad is the stories I tell, then that’s what it’ll be. I’ve got plenty.

On my Dad: The End.

The hot air in my apartment is stuffy and stagnant as I listen to the sound of thunder roll through my cracked window. This is now the fourth day I’ve been without central AC. I’m lucky, in a way, that I spent the last few weeks putting a reflective film on my windows. I can only imagine how hot it would’ve been in here otherwise. It’s been as high as 85 degrees Fahrenheit inside for nearly the entire weekend. I’m uncomfortable to say the least and grumpy as hell to be more frank. I don’t handle heat well, I never have. But there’s more to it this time. This time, it’s a reminder. I have unfinished business to attend… It’s time to write the blog that I’ve been dreading.

It’s time to talk about my dad. I’ve been mulling it over. I know I want to paint him and generally I’d blog about it after the painting is done, but I think I’m going to have to do it a little differently this time. I’m still figuring out how I want to paint him. Perhaps writing about it will help. But what does the hot air in my apartment have to do with my father? Well, let me tell you. For once, let’s begin at the end.

My father died last July. In less than two months he will have been gone for a year. Our relationship hadn’t been good for a very long time. We’d barely spoken in years, really. I’d long told people that the man who raised me was already gone. In many ways, I still believe that was true. But something happened that last month… I don’t know how to explain it, except to say that I think he knew. I think some part of him knew his time was almost up. For years, every time he reached out, it felt like he was just trying push me back toward Christianity. He’d send me bible verses, and tell me he was praying for me, and as much as he asked “how I was,” it never felt like he really wanted to know. It was just an excuse to push his religion on me… again. I ignored a lot of his messages.

But suddenly, something changed. There was a big storm here in June and he texted me to make sure we were all safe. He asked me if I’d been reading my bible lately, like he often did. And instead of ignoring the message or coasting along and only answering the parts of his message I wanted to… I told him the truth. We (my ex and I) were safe, and I haven’t been a Christian for many years. I braced myself for the incoming lecture, but I realized that our relationship was never going to fix itself if I remained silent any longer. I told him how much of a burden Christianity had been on me and how free I felt without it. How I didn’t want to disappoint him but I couldn’t look past all the evil the church is used to justify. I warned him not to push me away. And he didn’t.

He told me he’d suspected as much (he’d have to be crazy not to) but that he was still proud of me. That might’ve been the most surprising thing of all. All this time he’d been telling me he was proud of me it felt impossible to believe—here I was, this spiritualist, pansexual, transgender, liberal human. I’m everything he didn’t want me to become and more. How could he—a baptist pastor—possibly be proud of me? He was disappointed, but it didn’t sting the way I expected it to. The lecture didn’t come. He said his peace like an adult and we moved on.

He told me he had just been diagnosed with stage one heart failure—something my mom has since told me she didn’t know. I have a hard time believing that, to be perfectly honest with you. I find it more likely she forgot. But maybe she never knew. Their relationship had been strained to say the very least for a long time, and my dad shared plenty of the blame. There’s a lot more to it, but their issues affected my relationships with both of them as well.

We started talking pretty regularly. He helped me gather information on my great uncle who had been a POW in Germany in WWII for a class I was doing with the local Holocaust Museum. For the first time in years, he sounded like my dad again. Maybe only in brief spurts, but it was enough. He was level-headed, introspective, thoughtful, nonjudgemental… all of the things he used to be before his stroke about 10 years ago. My mom suspects he’d had multiple strokes that last year. Sometimes I wonder if one of them sent his brain into some kind of “reboot,” for lack of a better explanation. Perhaps it was more like brief moments of clarity, though. It’s hard to say with me being states away.

I’d been working on setting up a time for myself, my ex (we were still dating at the time), and my best friend to go there and visit them and get my great uncle’s silk scarf for the museum. I was extra excited for my dad and my best friend to meet because my dad had been learning Spanish and never had anyone to talk to. And, of course, he was looking forward to meeting my boyfriend. I remember writing in my journal how ready I was to go back and see everyone and introduce them all. I even wrote that it seemed like most of the time my family only ever got together when there was a funeral. I had this awful feeling like it was foreshadowing something as I wrote it. But I brushed it off.

Finally, we were approaching the hottest weeks of the year. And they weren’t just hot, the air quality was garbage and it was humid. They told people not to even go outside. And my dad finally told me that their air conditioner hadn’t worked all year. Mom didn’t want to call the landlord because she was worried about how the house looked. Suddenly it all clicked in my head and I told my dad they needed to get it fixed ASAP… he had a heart condition for fucks sake. It was over 90 degrees outside and they just had the windows open and some fans… I got so upset. I remember bawling, just knowing that if something didn’t change that I was going to lose my dad… just when I’d finally gotten him back. I regret not doing more now.

He reassured me and told me he’d be okay. But the truth is, I don’t think he even believed it. But I tried to listen to him. I tried to push away my fears. And I started to feel better when I kept getting texts from him every day. We’d set a date to visit. I’d be there in a couple of weeks. Little did I know I’d spend those days attending his funeral and looking through all of his things instead.

That following Monday I sat down at my desk with some cereal to catch up on some work. As I did, though, I got a call from my mother. Which was odd. It was pretty early for her. I don’t remember what I said when I picked up. All I remember is my mom’s voice as she said “I’m sorry to tell you this… but your dad is gone.” I never did eat that cereal. It sat there as I went through multiple states of shock. I don’t remember almost any of the rest of our conversation. She’d found him in his chair, where he always was that morning. He’d passed in the night. She’d called me after they’d taken him away.

I think I cried almost the entire day. I had just talked to him the day before. We’d talked about how I was going to take his bass guitar back home with me. We didn’t say a lot. And I remember at the end I got this gnawing feeling. Just the slightest little voice in my head that said “this might be the last time you talk to him.” But I ignored it. I think I regret that most. It would’ve taken so little effort for me to send one more text… tell him I love him or how excited I was to see him… but I didn’t. I allowed whatever was going on in my life to distract me. The last thing I said to him was that I remembered his bass was fretless… If you read this and take nothing else away, just promise me that if you ever get that feeling like it might be the last time you talk to someone… say something good.

I don’t know if my dad would’ve been okay had the air conditioning worked. But as I sit here in my humid apartment, I can’t help but think about what his last days were like. How miserable he must’ve been. Because I’m miserable and it’s not even as hot outside as it was that summer. I miss walking to the other room without sweating, I miss being a comfortable temperature. But most of all, I miss my dad. And I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop these thoughts of him circling in my head until there’s actual air circulation in my house.

I didn’t get to most of what I wanted to say about my dad in this one, like who he was as a person or the lessons I’ve learned from him. Look out for a blog entitled “The Hermit.” That’ll be the one. There were a lot more facets to him than his Christianity. He was a musical genius, for one, but he also spent most of his life helping people recover from their addictions as a substance abuse counselor. He spent a number of years working in foster homes before that. He was a shining beacon of joy to so many people around him. He could make absolutely anyone laugh. He was brilliant. Those are the parts of him I’d like to draw more attention to. And next time, when I’m feeling a bit less sorry for myself I will.

I was going to wrap this all up in a pretty little bow and try to end on a positive note… but I’m all tapped out. My brain is mush. And I just found out I’ve got to wait multiple more days for someone to even come look at my HVAC. Hopefully my next blog will be less depressy… but unfortunately, that’s all I’ve got for you today. Stay safe. Tell your people you love them.

Cutting out the Bullshit.

When your vibe constantly wrecks mine,

how could I ever feel comfortable around you?

When you bring stress instead of joy,

why should I make time for you?

When you take but never give,

why do I bother with you?

When everything is always on your terms,

why do I want you?

When you can’t communicate your needs,

how could I need you?

---

Over the last few years I’ve been reflecting on the type of people I want to surround myself with. Do the people around me lift me up or do they bring me down? Am I contorting myself to fit into their mold, or do we connect as we are? I’ve spent so much of my life masking that I do it even without thinking—so often that it unfortunately takes effort for me to make myself stop. When that happens, I find myself keeping quiet and superficial because I fear that the people I interact with don’t actually want to get to know me. But, once you show me you do, I tend to open up pretty quickly.

There’s not a lot that I’m uncomfortable talking about, yet I often worry that I will make others uncomfortable by sharing too much. But why am I even thinking about all of that? Recently, I’ve learned that when I just go for it and do whatever feels right at the time that it usually works out, sometimes even better than I would’ve expected. I’ve spent so much of my life worried about people, money, religion—you name it, I’ve worried about it.

But here’s the thing… if you don’t like me… I’m probably not going to like you either… so why do I care? Even if we are able to maintain a superficial friendship or whatever, I’m not going to enjoy it. Neither will you, I’m sure. And that’s so much effort to put into a relationship that’s doing little to nothing for me, isn’t it? Why should I even do that? You’re allowed to not care for me, just as I am allowed to care less about you. I don’t have to befriend every person I interact with.

You might think that since I’ve adopted this attitude I’ve lost a lot of friends and made fewer… but honestly, the few I have lost have barely affected my life—what were they really adding to it anyway? Perhaps most shockingly of all, I’ve actually gained so many more friends than I ever would’ve expected… without even looking for them.

Since my breakup a few months ago, I’ve been learning to lean more on the friends I already had. The truth is that I often spend so much of my time trying to help other people, and yet, I never turn around and ask them for help. There’s a lot of reasons for that, but perhaps the biggest is that in the past I kept so many superficial relationships that I still poured lots of time and effort into, and then when I needed something, they were never around to back me up. Often they’d agree to help in theory but then flake when the time finally came around.

I think that seemed more normal to me because it’s what I grew up with. My mother notoriously stays way too busy (and broke) to make good on her promises. Both of my parents had a hard time keeping real friends, and now that I’m older I can reflect on the fact that they often adapted themselves to fit what their friends wanted. That’s not even touching the subject of how broken friendships usually are in the Christian church. Heaven forbid you ever struggle with normal human issues that some might consider a “sin.” Really, all it takes is someone perceiving that you aren’t “right with God” for them to feel justified in dropping you. How can you have open and honest communication in a friendship like that?

You can’t. Not the kind of friendship I’ve grown to love and appreciate. I love a friendship where we can talk about any subject any time of day—nothing is inappropriate or TMI because we’re all humans and we all have the same kind of issues. Even if the thing you’re telling me about isn’t something I’ll ever personally struggle with, it still benefits me to know what’s going on from other people’s perspectives. You never know when that information will come in handy, and I usually find that it does. A little understanding can go a long way. Even if it doesn’t, though, we all know how cathartic it can be to just talk over an issue with your friend. Your real friends will often provide you additional perspective without making you feel “less than” for your imperfections.

You might think I learned the importance of communication while pursuing my bachelors in communications, but I actually learned this lesson in the midst of an abusive relationship. You know, the kind where your partner never wants you to talk about them with your friends because it violates their “privacy.” But, here’s the thing… when I started talking about my relationship, all of my friends quickly noticed that there were major problems with the way I was being treated. Me, well, I was used to it. This had been going on for five years and I’d never been treated better… despite my gut telling me something was wrong, my head told me something different… and my heart just hurt. It took my friends reinforcing that gut feeling for me to realize that it was time to leave. Suddenly, it was obvious why he didn’t want me talking about us, and it had nothing to do with privacy and even less to do with safety. It was control.

That’s when I realized that lack of communication is a cage. A cage you build (often with help from family) to keep yourself from living the life that you truly deserve. There are so many things, so many problems, in life that could be so easily solved by people actually talking about their issues and experiences. We have so much to learn from each other. But we can’t when we’re all spread apart and stuck in our own homes by ourselves. When was the last time you made time to have a relaxed conversation with someone you trust? And no, a conversation over text is fine and all, but really isn’t quite what I’m looking for here. I love to text as much as the next person (maybe even more) but there’s a lot of things to be missed when you’re not devoting all of your attention to a conversation. And even more that can be misread due to a lack of tone.

How many things do you keep inside because you worry that no one else will understand? We all have some. But the amazing thing I often find is that you’re rarely (if ever) alone. No matter how alone you feel. So, the next time you feel compelled to tell someone something, even if you’re not sure why, give it a try. Stop presenting a masked version of yourself for people to gaze upon, because here’s the thing. Even if they do like that version of you, it’ll never feel like enough. Because you know what you’re hiding. You know all the parts of yourself that “no one else” accepts or cares about. Those parts become more heinous and devilish looking the longer you allow them to hide.

But, what if—stick with me here—you showed people the real you and they only loved you more for it? You may turn some people away, but you’ll draw infinitely more people in when you’re living your truth. Everyone can tell when you’re hiding something, even if they aren’t sure what it is. It makes it harder for people to feel that they can trust you. People can also tell when you hide nothing—when you’re free and happy in your own skin. That happiness draws people in like a moth to a flame and makes them want to find the freedom you’ve found. No more playing games or roles. The best part is that you’re going to draw the kinds of people you like to yourself and repel those you don’t without even trying.

Once upon a time I felt invisible, like no one ever noticed my presence. I was constantly passed over for promotions, invitations… fuck, I couldn’t even get a bartender’s attention. It really hurt. It felt as if my presence didn’t even matter. I got used to people not remembering my name when I went places. I got used to being under the radar. Over the next few years I realized, however, that the reason I was so often invisible is that I was trying to be like everyone else. I wasn’t being myself. I was making myself blend in. It’s not necessarily something I’m born to.

And how did I notice? Well… people started noticing me. It wasn’t overnight. It came after many years of finding my style and the things that I like. After many years of ditching the “normie” clothes and wearing my goth ones. Of actually wearing whatever I wanted—even if it felt like it drew too much attention. I used to think I wasn’t cute enough or cool enough or skinny enough or WHATEVER enough to “pull off” the clothes I wanted. So, instead, I wore things that felt “safe.” But as time passed, and as I got bolder with my outfits, I stopped worrying about what people thought about them. Because, here’s the thing… I actually started getting compliments.

I rarely used to get compliments before… how can you compliment something you don’t even notice, anyway? And sometimes I’d get them from the unlikeliest of sources. The person didn’t even have to be alternative to like my outfit, it turned out. It was as if they were just reacting to the fact that I was actually being myself. I wasn’t dressed for the trends or what was popular… I was dressed the way I wanted to be. I was presenting the version of myself I actually wanted to be seen. And that was it. Now, I’m constantly surprised at how many people actually remember me, even when we’ve only met once. When you’re true to yourself it shows and it attracts the right kind of people. Stop fucking with the wrong ones. <3 Just be you, boo.

If Love Were Easy, a poem

I went home and cried,

Wondering how many times you'd lied,

How many feelings you'd failed to hide.

While we lay there in your bed,

So often you only repeated what I had said.

I wish that I'd heard the truth instead.

I told myself it meant nothing,

But the look on your face, I knew it was something.

It wasn't loving or even lusting.

Maybe if I were better at reading the cards

I wouldn't have taken the news this hard.

With each rejection, it’s more difficult to drop my guard.

Your timing could not have been worse.

It's impossible to say if we'll ever get another verse,

Or if our relationship is driving its own hearse.

But we couldn't ever truly begin,

While every day my patience wears more thin,

Waiting for you to finally let me in.

I could've loved you for you.

Whatever you had going on, I could've helped you through.

That's all I wanted you to allow me to do.

I just needed someone to love me for me.

I should've known how hard that would be.

If love were easy, we'd all be free.

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 it, 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.

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?