Author: ealvfargond

So, yeah–this week has been a really difficult one. It’s weird how that happens. Most of the time, my days are pretty routine and then BAM!!! all fuckered up (as my incredibly awesome husband would say). This week was very much like that–not bad–it was actually pretty good overall–chaotic, but good. Good isn’t really the right word–but it’s the best I can do right now if I want this to flow the way that it is–and I do want that–obviously more than I want to think of the perfect word. We make choices–and then we live with them.

Anyhow, yeah–this chaotic week has had a few lessons attached–the main two are as follows: 1. I am loved–I know that without a doubt–but it never hurts to be reminded–regularly; and 2. I have to risk not being liked from time to time if I want to be sane (-ish) and the better best person I want to be. In other words, this is the week that I had to address a couple of extremely uncomfortable things, a.k.a. grow the fuck up.

The biggest, most daunting thing had to do with making a complaint to my cleaning company. I know, I know, waaaaaaaah! Not the biggest problem in the world, but it was difficult for me to confront the issues nonetheless. Doing it by email helped. This may come as a surprise to some of you, but I am not very assertive when it comes to stuff like that. I am fully and painfully aware that I am incredibly fortunate to be able to even have people clean our house every week. I get that. That’s where the difficulty in addressing these issues resides–in that recognition. It looks a lot like guilt.

Believe me–if you feel so inclined to shame me for bitching about something that tags me as lucky in the first place–save it–that ship sailed a few decades ago. Rest assured, I’ve already beaten you to it and am quite effective at making myself feel awful about all the stuff.

So, I addressed the issues with the manager–and at first–I was offered additional services to remedy the problem–for a fee–of course. Apparently, they don’t do what I was asking about as a regular part of our weekly cleaning. Annoying, but okay. I can do it myself–no big.

The other complaint was not as easily dismissed. It was pretty damn obvious that the showers in the house were not being cleaned adequately each week. The cleaners said that they had done them every week but they hadn’t–not well enough anyway. After my first email to the manager the problem was promptly remedied–but rather than being apologetic for misleading us about the showers being done when they hadn’t been, they tried to sell me another additional service–again–claiming that they don’t do that cleaning (dealing with the mildew buildup) as a part of our weekly service.

This is where I would usually just leave it at that and let it fester. I would give up–because up until very recently–I would be concerned about not being considered nice. Yes, really. I struggle with that just like everyone else–maybe not to the same extent, but enough.

I didn’t let it go this time. I had finally had enough–enough of being told that my opinions are not as valid as everyone else’s–enough of being taken advantage of and enough of carrying all of the resentments that inevitably form when you always back down and subordinate your interests in favor of another’s–especially when it’s done to avoid appearing rude or not nice.

I wrote back to the manager and told her exactly what I was thinking–and surprise–she agreed with me. She agreed that we wouldn’t have this mildew problem if the showers had been getting done routinely and properly. And she didn’t try to sell me an additional service. Hot dog!

I guess my point is that I’m learning and relearning that being nice shouldn’t be my goal when it stands in opposition of what I truly need/want. It sounds basic and like a total no brainer, but let’s be honest, how often do you, gorgeous friends, let stuff go that makes you angry but that you feel isn’t worth the confrontation? Probably more often than you realize. I’m not advocating for people to run around being rude all willy nilly–but I honestly believe that being the better best person that I can be requires me to have these uncomfortable conversations and confrontations way more often than I’d like.

The logic goes like this–I can’t be the better best person that I want to be, that I resolved to be, if I’m holding onto all of these micro resentments, anxieties and anger–especially over such trivial stuff. The two can’t really coexist. I get that this may sound trite, but I need to let this crap go if I want to be better that I was yesterday. Thanks for reading, gorgeous friends!

So, it’s been a while–but now I’m back and I hope that I’m still decent at this. That’s always been a concern for me–being good at…whatever. When I was a kid, I wanted to be good at studying reptiles and then later, at studying bugs too. Wanting to pursue two PhDs would have been pretty damn lofty even for the most precocious of kids (and I was very, very precocious), but of course I had absolutely no idea what earning those degrees actually meant in terms of the work and effort that goes into them. I just wanted to be really, really good at studying reptiles and bugs.

As you can imagine, reptiles and bugs gave way to all sorts of other fascinations–and aspirations of being good at every one of them. It seems silly in hindsight, but being good at the things that I love doing was a really big deal at the time–and still is to a lesser extent.

I think that that’s a shared human thing, for the most part. We (mostly) all want to be good at…something. A few of us strive to be the best–but I’m guessing that when you get to be 40 and beyond (maybe earlier–probably earlier), it switches from an objective best, like, “I want to be the best of anyone at…”, to a subjective best, like, “I want to be a better best than I was before.”

I know for myself, striving to be really good at something has always been a blessing and a curse–I’m wildly perfectionistic and more than a little type-A–and it gets ugly more than I care to admit. But I keep striving–as do most, if not all, of you do. One foot in front of the other and all of that.

It’s probably not coincidental that the new year has me thinking about change and the resolve to do better–to be better. And while we all struggle and strive to be good at whatever–maybe it’s time to make 2018 the year that we focus, not just on being good at something–but being good at being someone. This is the year that I strive to be as a good person as I possibly can. A better best person than I’ve ever been before. How about you, gorgeous friends? Who’s in?

So, I was watching the local news a couple of nights ago when I got home from work (as usual)–and on there was a story about a young couple found dead in a house in Jamestown. From the way the story was presented, it sounded like a follow up from a previous story–this time with more details and the names of the people involved. Just hearing that little bit of the story made my stomach turn over. I knew where this was headed. 

Predictably, it was a murder/suicide. Predictably, it involved a young couple in a, “domestic relationship”. Predictably, she was shot. And predictably, she was murdered. 

She was shot in the back of the head with a rifle. I hope that she didn’t see it coming. I hope that her last seconds on earth weren’t spent in abject terror–knowing that she was going to die at the hands of the person that she should be able to trust most in this world. 

I hope that she didn’t die worrying about the three-month-old child that was also in the house. The child that was left alone in that house b/c of the murder/suicide committed by a selfish, subhuman piece of refuse–selfish meat that couldn’t be bothered to make sure that this infant wouldn’t starve or die of thirst. That child who is now left orphaned–who now has to live with the knowledge that his/her father (or male caregiver–whatever the fuck he was to him/her) didn’t care enough to make sure that s/he was safe and looked after. Who didn’t love him/her enough to not murder his/her mother (or female caregiver–whatever the fuck she was to him/her). 

What did this child have to hear and/or witness in its earliest days of life? Who will be the “secure base” for this child now that his/her parents are gone? How will someone ever be able to adequately explain to this child what happened? Why s/he doesn’t have parents anymore. How will anyone ever be able to explain to him/her why her mother died at twenty-six years old. To explain that it happened at the hands of her thirty-three year old father?

The whole thing is sad and sickening and infuriating–and far too common. Had the police been to that house before on domestic disturbance calls? How often? Was anyone ever arrested? Charged? Did anyone consider this a possibility–regardless of how remote it could be? Did that day feel different to her? I didn’t know these people or their families. I have no connection to them whatsoever. But yet, I care. Deeply.

I care because that could have been me. I care because it could have been any number of the people that I know and love. Oh, who am I kidding? That should say, “…any number of the WOMEN that I know and love.” Let’s be honest–the vast majority of these scenarios are perpetrated by the male part of the domestic relationship. And yes, I know that this characterization only reflects cis and hetero relationships. I don’t know enough about the dynamics in other relationships and the participants therein to even attempt to comment intelligently on any statistics regarding the incidents of domestic violence in them. (I know, run-on sentence) But, rest assured, I care deeply about them also.  

Every once in a while, when I start feeling safe–becoming complacent–something like this happens and the news reports it. It reminds me that safety and security are luxuries. That I am so incredibly lucky. And stories like this just reinforce that belief. 

They also remind me that I’m not just being paranoid–that worrying about my past (in healthy amounts) and how it affects the present are worthwhile pursuits. I feel very ridiculous sometimes–altering my routine and my mindset and looking over my shoulder. He’s only been gone for a short time–but I’m optimistic that he is finally leaving me alone. Finally. I feel truly safe for the first time in ages–and that’s mainly b/c of Elroy. It may be an illusion, a mirage–but it’s intoxicating and I think that I’ll park here for a while and enjoy the view.

Thanks for reading, gorgeous friends!!!

 



Okay, so–let’s talk about being broken, being shattered and cobbled back together–and how that makes you both exceedingly bulletproof and crazy-fragile. We can talk about the struggle of rebuilding your psyche as we go (this isn’t really a one-post topic). They (the fractures/breaks/whatever) linger and inform  who you are–who I am. I hadn’t planned on this topic (or that one either), but a conversation had a few days ago made me think about it–and then the brain hamster got ahold of it–that’s all it took–so, off we go…

I’m pretty sure that all of us have had at least one (more like tens, hundreds, thousands, etc.) heartbreaking, ego-shattering, life-affirming, perspective-altering event–the kind of thing that flips a switch in your brain and makes you different. It doesn’t have to be something big–just relevant. Sometimes it makes you entirely different–sometimes only a minuscule amount–or to any degree in between. It doesn’t have to be a negative thing (hence the inclusion of life affirming) but it so often is. 

For whatever reason, humans don’t usually look at their happy, satisfied lives and decide to bring on a paradigm shift. Although, I doubt that changes of this kind–stemming from some sort of event–and/or mental shift–are voluntary or even conscious. It’s like we have layers of blinders on and each event takes one off. That’s simplistic, but I think that you get what I’m saying.

I guess that it depends on the person, but for me, changes of this kind, while (initially) devastating and painful beyond belief, are usually very, very positive in the long run. The extreme cruelty that I’ve experienced has made me more compassionate, the apathy has made me a much better listener–the selfishness has made me more altruistic. And being used by those who claimed to love me? Well, that just pissed me off. At the people who took advantage, but mostly at myself for letting it happen. Again.

I’m pretty sure that I still have a LONG way to go–before the blinders are as off as possible–but I feel like I’m in a position to finally start to try to take away some layers.  I know that this is going to get cheesy–seriously, go get some chips, I’ll wait. Good? Okay. As I often do, I credit the people in my life for getting me here–the good and the not-so-good (the could-be-better?). 

I feel social again, meaning, feel like me again. For the first time in a very long time, I am only responsible for taking care of myself (and the kitters, of course)–which is incredibly freeing. Maybe that’s what this new optimism is about–freedom? Freedom from the the harness of always having to put another adult’s needs before my own. Twice. Ultimately it was my choice–and I take full ownership of allowing that situation to occur twice and exist for a very, very long time. That’s on me. I get that now–and that’s part of the feeling of being free–knowing that I survived two very bad situations–the first FAR, FAR worse than the second–and owning it. 

We do what we have to to make a life for ourselves and convince ourselves that we’re happy–until we see what our lives could be and what happiness actually looks like. And it hurts, it is agonizing to take the first step–but once it happens and you take another and another–you realize that there is no way you would ever go back. You would do most anything to not have to. 

That’s where I was a while ago–like three-and-a-half years or so ago. I don’t know what clicked in my brain, but my unhappiness had been building and it just became too much. It flipped a switch and I realized that things were never going to change and this was it–my life was this. And I hated it. I would go to my grave settling for unhappiness and mediocrity and being treated like a piece of furniture, a servant and a money tree–hating my life. All the while realizing I was so so much better than this–that I deserved so much better than this. That was my wake-up call. 

So, I started to fix it–I changed my perspective a little bit at a time until staying (both in that relationship and that head space, in general) would be unbearable and going back was unthinkable. I forced myself to do what I wanted to do, even when everyone else wanted to do something else. I stopped spending time with certain people because time spent with them always left me feeling empty, sad, worried and drained–among other things. 

As it stands now–I feel like the luckiest woman in the world. I truly have the greatest people in my life–some from way back, some from very recently and some from all points in between. There are far too many to name here–but if you’re reading this, you’re probably one of them. You, gorgeous friends, make my life rich and full and beautiful–I hope that I do the same for yours–at least a little bit. 

As for my guy, Elroy (Jason), I don’t even know where to start. You all are probably sick of hearing about how awesome he is–I’m sorry about that. Skip ahead if you’re that sick of it because I’m going there–he’s a huge part of this transformation. He has made me feel as safe and loved and beautiful as is humanly possible. He has brought people into my life who have become some of my closest friends. He is someone who I could talk with for hours day after day–and he is truly one of the kindest, most brilliant people that I’ve ever met. He is sweet and compassionate and funny–so incredibly funny. And, he isn’t ashamed of me–which sounds like one of those, “duh”, things–but would you honestly be surprised if I told you that the other two were? Really?

While I could get into all of the details of my past relationships–I’ll spare you that. Let’s just say that they illustrate how far I’ve come in terms of my self esteem and what I think is worth hanging in there for. And I think that I’ll keep going–moving forward and loving my life along the way–imperfections and all. My vulnerability (fragility?) is an essential part of my strength and I finally feel free enough not only to notice it, but to acknowledge it also. I’m a work in progress. Aren’t we all? Thanks for reading, gorgeous friends. xo

Okay, so–it’s been a while again and I am sorry about that. I will be trying to write more–it truly is my refuge and my salvation–and my cliche. But cliches grow from truth, so we’ll all live if a little cheese gets mixed in from time to time. 

I have been doing a lot of thinking lately about friends and how the whole concept is so weird and wonderful. Just how random strangers and lucky timing can create magic.  I don’t know what I’d do without my friends–I honestly don’t. It shouldn’t surprise most of you when I say that I have had some pretty bad romantic experiences in my adult like–and I never would have made it through in one piece without my friends. Another cliche, I know–but it’s true. 

I remember way back when I was in the depths of one of the worst depressive episodes that I’ve ever had–two fantastic, beautiful women just wouldn’t stop trying to get me to go out and do stuff with them. They really hung in there–being patient and understanding–and most importantly, accepting me where I was at at that time. Finally giving in and going out was one of the best decisions that I’ve made. I owe them so much that I can never repay. They gave me my self worth back (well, enough to get the ball rolling) and really forced me to deal with the idea that maybe I am not so bad and unworthy of decent people. Yes, I really have felt that way (and still do). 

I think that it’s pretty common to feel that way–that you don’t deserve the happiness in your life and/or the good things that happen. It’s those thoughts that actually make me try harder–to be a good person–the sort of person who tries to be as kind and thoughtful as possible. But it’s almost always there–that nagging, negative fog that’s so easy to wrap yourself in–lose yourself in. How does it come to that? How does this identity glitch come about and grow? So many of the people that I admire and respect have social anxiety in one form or another. It blows me away–truly. 

I’m not socially awkward, but I am awkward socially, if that makes sense? I get oddly quiet when I’m around a lot of people that I don’t know–but once I start getting used to being there, I start talking more–usually. I suppose that this is a big part of why some people think that I’m a bit snobby when they first meet me–or maybe I am a bit snobby and just don’t realize it. I kind of doubt that. You’d think that I’d know if I was having snobby thoughts, right? Plus, I have that fuct up catnip thing going on–so, snobby probably isn’t it. 

I’d be lying if I said that I was fearless about new people. I freak out a little, usually. Like this–I am so super nervous about meeting my bf’s parents. I probably shouldn’t be as nervous as I am–but I just am. Maybe that’s stupid. I just want to make a good impression. He means the world to me.

I consider myself very fortunate to have the people in my life that I do–I cherish you more than you know. Weirdos.

Okay, so–this is an add on to my last blog post, Lucky. I had mentioned in it that I save my meanness for people who take advantage of me or encourage others to do so. Here’s where I was going with that.

 I’ll admit, I make it easy for people to take advantage. I’m pretty generous and some people exploit that. I have found that being a generous person is part of who I am and I feel that it would be ridiculous to change a part of myself that I actually like a lot b/c there are shitty people in the world. 

Why am I even mentioning this? It’s been on my mind this week more than usual (keep reading). I recently told El (my consort/SO) that if anything will make me become bitter–this will–being used by people who I thought actually cared about me. It won’t be past abuse or betrayals of trust (although using someone is a kind of betrayal of trust, I guess–but not what I meant by betrayals of trust)–it will be this right here. Becoming bitter isn’t really too big of a concern though–it’s really not in my nature.

So, what prompted this desire to write about and poke at one of the things that could defensibly be grouped into the category called, “My Biggest Fears”? What happened this past week that made me so angry that I can’t stop thinking about it? What fell into the tiny hands of the goblins that live in my brain–those tiny hands that just kept spinning it and spinning it–keeping it in the forefront of my mind? 

Before I go there, let’s be clear–no, I do not believe that there are actually goblins living in my head–it’s a metaphor–that’s how I conceptualize the anxiety that I feel–because if I have to feel it, it might as well be somewhat entertaining. Laughing at myself is one of my favorite pastimes. Now, back to our not-so-regular, completely unscheduled program (well, essay–if we’re being nit picky).

Earlier this week, a supposed friend basically encouraged another very, very extremely close person in my life to use me to get something relatively expensive that he needs. To his credit, he got pretty angry with this supposed friend for even suggesting it–and told me about it right after it happened. And yet, it still killed me a little inside. That’s the weird part. I don’t even like this supposed friend–never really have. I tolerated her presence in my life b/c she is friends with people that I love. It’s my opinion that she has a pretty hefty borderline personality disorder. I think this b/c being around her for even a few minutes makes me want to run screaming as far away from her as I can get–and, for me, that really only happens with borderline personality types. As mentioned previously, I can tolerate A LOT–but not that. It’s my failing, I get that–but that doesn’t change it. 

Anyway, I’m not sure exactly why this incident made me absolutely furious (and still does–although writing about it dissipates the anger [almost] completely). Maybe it’s because I’ve had it with people using me. I’m worth so much more than that and should be treated as such.

 As mentioned earlier, I refuse to stop being generous to the people I care about (and random strangers who need that leg up) just because people will pretend to like me in order to use me. I hate that there are people like that, but there always will be and I should probably accept that. The difference now is that I won’t be nice about it anymore. I’m done making excuses for that kind of crappy behavior–and accepting those excuses from others to soften the effect of the users’ behavior. With this last person, the supposed friend, I was told that she’s from a different world than I am–but unless that’s a world without respect and basic decency, it’s not an excuse. I’m sorry, but it’s not. Taking advantage of someone is an affirmative act. You have to set out to do it. If it happens by accident, you can always recognize it and change your behavior (i.e. never do it again).

This is why I reserve my meanness for those that try to/encouraging others to take advantage of me. Because they deserve it. I have been extremely lucky throughout my life. People have shown me kindness and generosity when I most needed it–and I am thrilled that I have the ability to do the same for others. It makes me feel at my very happiest to treat someone to something that they wouldn’t otherwise be able to experience/enjoy. Yes, really. And I don’t want to give that up. So, I guess that I will have to be more vigilant about who I let into my life–even if they are friends with someone (or more than one someone) that I love and respect (like that supposed friend). She’s gone. I sincerely hope that she’s the last one. Thanks for reading, gorgeous friends! xo

Okay, so–those of you who know me really well know that there are certain things that happen/exist in my day-to-day life that I have become used to that could be considered relatively odd. Things like my giant, hypnotic beacon that is only visible to those (almost exclusively men) who are bat-shit crazy. If you roll with me you really have to be comfortable with random, not-entirely-sane people approaching us for a little tea and sympathy. It’s just how my life is. I am catnip. And, to be honest, I like it that way. This doesn’t happen nearly as much as it used to–but I have a lot less free time to be out and about these days. 

 I got the beacon from my mom. She is a beacon among beacons. A counselor, nurse and sociologist–she takes kindness and compassion to the next level. Maybe someday I’ll be even a fraction of the person that she is–if I work at it really, really hard. 

Our biggest difference is that I tend to attract obessessive personality types (present bf/consort excluded from this characterization). I know that that sounds overly dramatic or hyperbolic–but it isn’t. My beacon not only draws the tinfoil-hat crew–it also brings in the broken, the lonely, the narcissistic, the psychopathic and/or any other “dysfunctional”-esque kind of person. I’m not describing them this way to be unkind, it’s purely a intellectual and/or linguistic limitation on my part vis-a-vis my ability to describe them in any other way. That’s my failing, not theirs. It’s not like I could, in good conscience, be all, “be easier to describe so that I can be better able to takes shots at you on my blog”, right? Right?!

I’m kidding, I wouldn’t do that–take shots at people with cognitive/personality impairments. I may be a snarky bitch, but I’m not an asshole–and that is a straight up asshole move. This, however, does not really extend to general stupidity or idiocy. If you’re either of those things, I will fuck with you–at least a little. But not in a mean way. My meanness and/or indifference is reserved for those who take advantage of me (or those who try to/encourage others to do so–more on this later, likely in another post).

As I mentioned earlier, I tend to attract stalkers–in fact, I’m on my third one. Good times. Maybe this will sound fuct up–and maybe it will just sound like me–but I kind of feel like their weird, obsessive behavior towards me is, at least to some extent, my fault. While I can hear the chorus of, “NO!!!!!!!!”, please just hear me out.

This will come as no surprise to those who know me well, but I am pretty tolerant of shit behavior in my personal relationships. I give the people I care about far too many chances before I walk away. I know this. I shouldn’t do it, but I do–and that is changing slowly but surely. This goes extra, super-duper much for those with which I am romantically involved.

 Contrary to what they may claim (especially my most recent ex–you know, the one who told me not to write about him), I give 100% of myself to my romantic relationships–and I accept people as I find them, flaws and all. I believe that this combination of tolerance and acceptance sometimes creates a situation that allows obsessive behavior to flourish. 

Before you think that I’m being all, “Oh, everyone loves me so much!”, please note that, Mr. Don’t-Write-About-Me, cared about me so much that he refused to put down his booze and video games long enough to visit me in the ICU–even when told that I probably wouldn’t live through the night (the first night I was there). Not even once in the five days that I was there. Because he doesn’t like hospitals. Yup. That was his excuse. And to add insult to injury, he asked me to pick him up more booze and cigarettes before I came home on the day that I got out. Here’s the kicker–I didn’t put his ass out until a long time later. Nope. I hung in there. 

THIS is why I believe that I’m at least partially at fault for attracting obsessive-stalker types. As mentioned, I accept people as I find them–and that means accepting the things about them that are hard to put up with. It’s about loving the whole person and not trying to change them. Changing themselves is their job, not mine. And if I find something about them intolerable, it’s up to me to leave. 

While it’s debatable as a policy, I honestly believe that it is the height of hubris and arrogance to try to change someone you claim to love into YOUR vision of them. Why not just keep looking until you find what you’re looking for instead of making some poor person, who thinks that you love them, into someone they aren’t? To me, this isn’t really loving that person, it’s loving the idea of him/her–and that’s so not the same thing. 

I know this because I have fallen into that trap (more than once)–of thinking that I was loved and of being made to think that who I was, as I was, wasn’t good enough. And on most days, those negative thoughts persist–maybe not for the majority of the day–but in fun little bursts that come at pretty inconvenient times. It becomes less and less frequent as I heal, but it’s still very much there.

 I credit my consort/boyfriend (gawd, I hate that word)/significant other with helping me to heal as much as I have these past two years. He accepts me for me–including all of the shadowy dark parts of me. The not-so-lovely parts–the remnants of past abuse–the ones that cause horrible nightmares and other sleep issues (I am challenging to sleep next to)–that cause terrible moods and crippling bouts of self loathing and self doubt–that make it so hard for me to trust–and all of the other things that make up that side of me. He sees me and loves me anyway. And it still surprises me every single day–that someone as wonderful and awesome as him could love someone as fuct up as me. For that, I am very, very lucky. Thanks for reading, gorgeous friends! xo



Okay, so–the title of this post is the subject of this post, sort of. I don’t know how many times the more interesting (and not all necessarily painless) anecdotes from my life have had these four words somewhere near the very beginning. And lately is no exception. 

If you didn’t see it on FB a little while back, I’ll give you a quick recap–after my last blog post, my ex, J, tried to warn me off writing about him. Because we don’t talk, he made a comment on the post-and as you can imagine–my reaction/response has gone and will continue to go like this–I will write about whatever and whomever (whoever?) I want to write about. Full stop.  

As you may have noticed, I’m pretty mindful of not telling other people’s stories and I tend to ask people if it’s okay before I write about them. But, this is different. It’s different b/c it is my story to tell. And I don’t need anyone’s permission. If it’s relevant to my life–it’s fair game. 

On a much brighter and more positive note, I’ve found that when you tweak just one little area in your life, the other areas often line up and fall into place. My sweetheart was that tweak. His presence in my life has made me want to be a better version of myself every, single day.  I have never loved anyone like I love this guy–and I’m sorry to keep going on about it–it gets tedious to read, I know. So, I’m hopeful that my next post will bring the laughs and the snark–and then we can all get back to making fun of the absurdity of life and people who just can’t seem to get over themselves. Yeah, after so much turmoil, we could all use a little levity. Until next time, gorgeous friends–thanks for reading!💚

Okay, so–it’s the end of the first month of a brand-spanking-new year–and life (on a micro/personal level) is pretty good. I don’t want to jinx it by saying that (and pray that I don’t), but, I have been really happy for a while now. And it’s not like one huge thing happened and changed everything, like winning the lottery (it never really happens that way–at least in my experience)–just a bunch of little things (and one bigger one) that all happened at the right time–when I was open to them–and timing really is everything. 

But, before I even start talking about any number of those little things (in this post or future ones), this needs to be said first–some of you reading this may be close with and/or related to my ex, J. Nothing that I write about him is written with the intention of maligning him, hurting him or making him look bad. I loved him and treated him the best way that I knew how–but there is a lot to that story that you don’t know. He was not good to me–he had five years worth of chances to change that and he didn’t. He didn’t even care enough to try–and worse, used me for all those years. Let’s just leave it at that–that he didn’t treat me very well at all. 

I’m sorry if the things that I write hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable, but his behavior was heartbreakingly neglectful at best–and menacing and terrifying at worst (and still is to some extent). It sounds somewhat glib, but the bottom line is that had he wanted me to speak and think more positively of  him, he should have treated me better.


For a very long time, I thought I knew what being happy was. I am a happy person by nature–it’s how I’ve always been. And I assumed (wrongfully), that being less-than-happy in my relationships was just part of life. There are earlier posts that go into this far more deeply than I am going to here–please read them, if you feel so inclined and want more background. 

 I’m somewhat torn on how much to write about this next topic–this particular person–because he’s an enormous part of my life and the inspiration behind a lot of my happiness. I’ve written about him before, but things have changed significantly since I last wrote about him and me. This is that bigger thing that I mentioned earlier–and it isn’t just about me. That’s the rub–it’s not exclusively my story to tell–there’s someone else involved–and while I’ve mentioned him lots of times before, I haven’t told you who he is. That’s definitely not going to change unless and until he says that he’s okay with it. Some of you know him or know who he is–but, like I said, this is partially his story now too. And as such, I can only tell my part of it.

What I will tell you (at least for now–there will be more later) is that I feel like the luckiest chick alive–I thought that I knew what loving someone felt like–but I was so wrong. I have never felt this way about another person before, and although it’s moderately terrifying, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. He is so totally worth the risk of getting hurt again. He means everything to me.

So, yeah. That’s the first part of my new year and while there is a hell of a lot more to it, I’m going to stop for now. Thank you for reading. xo

This is a post that I started a while back–in October, I think. The timing of it doesn’t really matter though–because everything still holds true. And for the most part, what we know, as women, applies to (almost) all adult women across the board. The female experience, in all of its beauty and tragedy–is mostly unifying. It connects us and holds us together on at least a few levels. 

As a rape survivor. As a survivor of domestic abuse (and all that that entails)–I know what it’s like to feel the embarrassment and shame that goes with those designations. So do millions and millions of other women. We also almost certainly share a feeling of freedom and strength–we have lived through all sorts of micro aggressions on a daily basis and bigger life events that should have broken us. That is also our bond. 

I write about my life and my experiences because, ultimately, that’s all I know. My pain doesn’t take away from anyone else’s. It’s not a competition and there is more than enough misery, love, ridiculousness and happiness for everyone. I understand that my life has been very charmed and I have privilege up the wahzoo. But, I have also suffered more than anyone would ever suspect. 

These universal female experiences transcend age, race, religion, social class, education level, etc. I may share those struggles with you at some point or I may not–it depends on whether I think that talking about them may help others. Thanks for reading, gorgeous friends!!!