Archive | deep stuff

I Don’t Wanna Give Up

Giving up is not the only option in the face of seeming defeat and frustration.
I don’t want to give up on a job that makes my heart happy.
I don’t want to give up on the idea that I can have the love I want.

Stubborn…yeah, so?

The more I’m told to give up on a job or a person or an idea, the less I want to do that.
Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean I should quit.
Just because none of this shit comes easy doesn’t mean I will quit.

I want what I want.

I want a job that pays my spirit as much as it pays the bills. I want a love that makes me laugh and feels solid.

I sort of have it all for a minute, and then I don’t, slipping through my fingers like sand or like trying to hold onto jello by squeezing it tight. I am not ready to wallow in defeat just yet.

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The Realness

Every time I lose a friend to the Reaper’s scythe, I lose a layer in the walls I put up. I become more real, more open. That is the gift from these losses: the realness, my realness.

The realness is not always comfortable for others; I get that. You were not at all prepared for me to tell you in person over your soup and sandwich earnestly that really, truly, all is forgiven, and that every single day, you are loved. Every single day: believe it.

I won’t ever be ashamed of being real. There’s no shame in giving others love, in telling them they are important.

The rules you toss around…”it’s too soon to tell me that” or “it’s too late to say that to me” or “you can’t say that…” Screw the rules. I will tell you what I want you to know, what I need you to know, and I give zero fucks about the rules that dictate what I “should” say or do.

I will not regret giving love. There is no remorse in being kind.

I can only offer you my love; I can’t make you return it. I can only offer you my hand; I can’t make you take it. As long as it is true, I will offer it, unflinching.

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Shame and Truths: RIP Jennifer

It’s the morning after the election. I scrolled through Facebook, and between the flood of posts from both the gloaters and the weepers, I remember that I lost a friend a week ago…and all your political banter seems like silly fluff to me when I remember she’s gone, exited at her own hand.

I don’t know precisely why she did it, but I do know this: we often carry around our dark secrets, ashamed, sure no one will love us if we come clean. We are sure opening up our suitcase of skeletons will cause us to lose our friends. They’ll think us foolish or weak, or maybe both, so we drag our nasty baggage around with us, hiding it away. The weight of it gets heavier as time goes by, crushing.

I’ve cracked open my baggage a time or two, but mostly I keep it snapped shut. I’ve given close friends a glimpse at what’s inside, and you know what happened? They asked, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you let me help?”

Because: I was embarrassed. I felt like a failure. I didn’t want to speak it out loud. I didn’t want anyone to know what was really going on with me because I didn’t want to trouble anyone. I needed to handle it myself. I needed to either overcome it or hide it away, but I didn’t want to advertise it. I am strong and asking for help is weak. I don’t know why. All those reasons and none of those reasons, maybe, and perhaps my friend was struggling with the same.

Let me crack open my baggage a little, just a peek, and see if you turn away…

I’ve been verbally abused and hit by men who claimed to be my husband. I say “claimed to be” because a true partner wouldn’t go there and/or he’d recognize his own problems and get some help. I’ve manage to wed two who did that, and I really don’t think I had a clue either time before the wedding. What does that make me? Blind? Naive? And where does that leave me today in relationships? Running away as fast as I can, or trying to control what can’t be controlled…which ends up in me being alone, which is safer, right?

Still with me?

I suck at adulting. I live paycheck to paycheck, hustling side jobs for any extras. I carry a lot of what I call “survival” debt where credit cards were used for medical, dental, child care, and things like clothes for the kid in the months where no child support came or it came, but there was not enough to cover costs like shoes for growing feet or the summer day camp field trip to Dollywood. I’ve never bought so much as a new couch or a new kitchen table. I’ve watched people build new houses and cart in their new beautiful furnishings and I’ve felt lower than low. I’m happy for them, but I quietly wonder, worry, obsess over what I have done wrong? I don’t get it. I have a wheelbarrow full of college degrees and relevant certifications, and I struggle to buy groceries most months. Sometimes when I have a little extra pocket money, I choose experiences with the people I love over a couch. Do you judge me? Could you tell me how to do it better from your comfy leather sofa?

Anyway. That’s enough for now.

My thought here was to shed some light on the things I carry around, that we all carry around, to maybe give some insight on why someone would give up on this life without us having a clue. The things we drag around fester and get heavier and heavier.

Do you believe in love? Do you believe in shame? If love can conquer all then why do we only feel the pain. We’ll miss you forever and then some, Jennifer.

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I don’t have the words quite yet

I heard the news on Monday, and I don’t quite have the words to assemble my thoughts after hearing a friend took her life on Sunday.

All I know right now is that I never saw it coming, never would’ve guessed it in a million years. She was not an openly sad person, and I didn’t see it coming. We didn’t see it coming.

We’re all shocked and heartbroken: friends scattered all over the US are feeling the loss.

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Not For You

One of the hardest things about sharing anything with the world–my writing, my jewelry, my tarot card readings–is dealing with the haters. The world of social media is now filled with trolls, people who make it their full time job to scroll around and leave hateful feedback everywhere they go.  They are mean.  They are hurtful.

Today, I let myself get frustrated by one of these nitpicky souls who was questioning my use of a specific word, claiming I didn’t even know what it meant.  I countered (I shouldn’t have countered, I know) with my right to use any word creatively in my own writing to create a mood or evoke a feeling.  I felt hurt and embarrassed because there are all those hateful comments out on the world wide web for everyone to read…and then I remembered…

I didn’t write for those haters.  I didn’t write for those trolls.  I didn’t write for those who hide behind their computer screens, waiting to pounce.  I don’t read tarot for them.  I don’t teach for them. I don’t make jewelry them.  All these things I do are for me and also an open invitation for those people I call my tribe, the people who “get” me, to gather ’round and come closer.

If you don’t like it, move on.  I see plenty of political posts, memes, photos, and whatnot that aren’t my cup of tea, but rather than insult the creator, I simply move on to find the things that do appeal to me.

 

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Still laying low

I don’t have to explain shit to anyone, but sometimes I try to explain a little. I’ll try to explain a little now, though I doubt I’ll succeed.

In the last decade or so, I’ve taken multiple Facebook vacations and/or disabled my account. I’ve also fallen off the blogosphere for months at a time. I’ve declined social invitations for months on end. I’ve cancelled plans and trips that I’ve had on my calendar all year long…never did get to take that friggin cruise.

Why?

Pffft. I wish I could say exactly how it is, how it feels sometimes, to walk a proverbial mile in my shoes. I have lines that just can’t be crossed…and once crossed, I’m out. I have to disappear. It’s trendy these days to say it’s a “trigger.” If I’ve been “triggered,” I have to bail for a while. That’s just the way it is, the way I am. I have to keep showing up for work and so I always do, but otherwise, I kinda fade off the radar for a bit.

Do I wish I had these handy dandy coping mechanisms everyone else seems to have (shopping outside their means, binge drinking, adulterous sex drugs–prescription or otherwise–to alter reality)? Yeah, sometimes, because those seem more socially acceptable than disappearing… but I also know my social weirdness fuels my writing. My social weirdness helps me get things done, but it makes me an ass, too, because everyone wonders what the fuck my problem is and I have no clear way to articulate it. I. Just. Disappear.

Then one day, I wake up and I don’t feel so distressed, so burdened, and I reappear. Not everyone hangs around to see me reappear, and that’s to be expected. I look forward to waking up and feeling less distressed sometime soon.

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Not ashamed, but disappointed

I am not ashamed that I retreated for space to think. That is who I am. That is how I am. It is extreme self care.

I will endure irritations and upsets for so very long, years, so long that perhaps people think it’s okay to continue…until one day, a seemingly small line is crossed yet again, and poof, I’m gone because I can’t smile through it anymore. Ask my ex husbands. Ask the lovers I didn’t wed. Ask my employers. One day, I’m just done and have to go. I have to go or I will break down.

I am not ashamed to create this space, this retreat, when I need it. I am disappointed, though, that there was some lashing out toward others who didn’t deserve it. My exit stage left was mine alone. I doubt anyone would guess my true reasons, and the reasons are not at all for public consumption. I am a private person, and there are times where my privacy seems like the only thing I have left…if you try to take that, too, ahhhh…that’s pretty much the final nail in the coffin.

I am not ashamed to create a quiet, safe space to ponder, to lick my wounds. I am disappointed that others got slapped for my need to seek a simple respite. I am dismayed that turning inward for reflection resulted in…the results. That sucks.

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Dirty Laundry

I considered airing my dirty laundry and disappointment here, but I decided against it. It wouldn’t help a damn thing. It wouldn’t fix a damn thing. I waited for the apology, and it didn’t come…so I will just walk away…head down, kicking stones, I will just walk away.

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Words worth saving

I received this list (numbered and everything!) in a text today, and I loved it. I find it a reassuring, comforting description of who I am:
1. Yes you are crazy.
2. You are up front about it
3. Honesty trumps crazy

Thank you for that. I like it.

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I am kind of the problem

I was having a little back and forth via text message with a friend about dating. We have a running joke about my planning a Halloween 2017 wedding and the groom was such a minor detail compared to great cake and a great dress. Somehow things took a serious turn with her wishing me real happiness, and I had to admit:
I am kind of the problem here.

I want to have that man that I love fiercely, ride or die, and who loves me with the same loyalty, but I am terrified to let myself love like that again. I was ride or die loyal to someone that absolutely shattered me to bits, and so now, if I kind of like someone, I panic. I don’t want to be hurt again, so I prevent it from happening. I don’t let anyone close enough to cause harm.

I feel like when I take half a step forward toward someone and feel that goofy joy, then I need to run away and hide my heart in a deep hole in the backyard…like you can have my laughter, but you can’t have my heart, you villain of love! I don’t want to be afraid to trust someone all of me, but I am. I am terrified. Let me blurt out something weird or super paranoid so you don’t like me anymore! All the awkwardness is self-preservation. Keep ’em at a distance, and I never get deep enough to get really hurt–makes perfect sense, right? RIGHT?!

I guess I hope he finds me, my right fit, my partner, and I hope to hell he sees right through my bullshit. I hope he calls my bluff when I’m not being vulnerable. Someone tell him to call my bluff. Someone tell him to go get my heart out of that hole in the backyard and treat it with some fucking reverence because I just can’t say it.

I will be the first to throw a punch in a fight for a friend’s honor and I will run to the front of the line for a scary movie or a haunted house, but I’m scared shitless to love a good man. Go figure.

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