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Whiny Little Titty Baby

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Did I ever tell you about the time my ex husband tried to jump out of our speeding car in dramatic fashion because he’s basically a whiny little titty baby? Yeah, the memory surfaced recently when I was thinking about how much I miss driving a stick. It was a really nice car, stopped on a dime before he could hurl himself into a ditch. You may be wondering what would drive (no pun intended) a grown man to do such a thing. Well, turns out the asshole who would drive HIS stick into any willing participant, was jealous that I had the nerve to dance with someone who didn’t look like Elaine from Seinfeld on the dance floor. He started a good old fashioned bar brawl over it and nearly got arrested—over me dancing with another man, not over his inability to move his body fluidly to music, although it was an arrestable offense. So, I managed to get us outta there before the cops arrived. Long story short, on the way home, he was so drunk that he unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the passenger car...
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She Was Cherokee

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My great-great-great grandmother was Cherokee. I don’t know her name. I wish I did. What I do know, is that before she was forced from her home in the Tennessee hills to walk the Trail of Tears, she did the hardest, bravest thing a woman, a mother, could possibly do—she placed her infant daughter, my great-great grandmother, into the care of a local family, sparing the baby from certain death. I have no idea if my great-great-great grandmother survived the Trail of Tears, but roughly one-fifth of the Cherokee population died during the brutal march west. Inherited trauma, generational trauma, intergenerational trauma—however you choose to phrase it, the meaning has been diluted because of over-saturation on socials. From spiritual narcissists seeking followers, to influencers fishing for sympathy and attention, trauma is trendy. Am I wrong? Maybe I just feel things too deeply. Maybe I’m really taking it all in for the first time in my life, that the blood of my Cherokee ancest...
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On Behalf of All Dogs—STOP IT!

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Four hours. Four hours of pacing, panting and panic. We sat with her in a dark closet, sat with her when she crawled under the bed, tried to calm her when she wanted to climb into the cabinet under the bathroom sink and when she tried to wedge herself between a bookshelf and a plant stand—I fucking HATE fireworks. She’s seven years old, so of course we go through this every year, twice a year, for New Year’s Eve and the 4th of July. We’ve tried calming meds. We’ve tried natural supplements and CBD. We’ve tried the thunder coat. We’ve had every TV on to try and drown out the noise. We’ve done ALL the things, okay and nothing helps. Nothing helps when three houses down, people are in the middle of the road launching fireworks that crackle and BOOM through the air, reverbs slamming into the house over and over like a war zone until well after midnight. And we get to go through it all again tonight. Bet. I miss the days of old, when explosives weren’t legal in the hands of drunken (o...
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Financial Abuse

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If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that there will always be periods of calm before a storm. But calm seas never made a skilled sailor, so I have mastered the art of asking myself, what is it that I need to learn in this situation, instead of having a meltdown. You know, a meltdown might fix what’s wrong with me right now, tbh. This week has felt like trying to wrangle a thousand angry hornets back into their nest. One thing after another, after another has not gone according to plan. The icing on the cake was the car stranding me at the grocery store—again. This is the third car I’ve had in the last eight years that has left me stranded—more than once, I might add. I just can’t be bothered to give a shit. I was mad about it for 0.2 seconds and then did what I had to do, which loosely translates to spending obscene amounts of money for a tow and an embarrassing number of Ubers for appointments that could not be canceled. Healing my trauma from the financial abuse I endu...
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Can't Fix Stupid

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He called it “primer patrol.” My ex husband would put the girls, then 4 and 6 years old, on the hunt for live bullet primers that he had dropped on the carpeted floor whilst making bullets for one of his many handguns. The setup was janky, primitive and not without some risk, but that was my ex, not giving any thought to the possible consequences of his actions. Beer in one hand while the other cranked out ammo. My young babies were not properly trained in the handling of live explosives. What if one of those primers had blown up? I know all you gun people will say, not likely, but you don’t know my ex and his string of bad decisions and bad luck. At the very least, they may have been exposed to lead. I had evidently banished this memory to the deepest dungeon of my mind palace where so many of his asinine ideas were locked away, because when they mentioned it recently, I could not for the life of me believe that I would have been okay with it. Let’s be real, I was not okay for much ...
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Level Up

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Leveling up. It rarely looks like you imagine. It’s often uncomfortable, painful and exhausting. When I’m having a run of good energy, getting things done, feeling accomplished and motivated—that’s when my Guides decide it’s time for me to grow, and BAM it all comes crashing down. The old me would wallow. The new me waits, patiently, for the quickening. I accept these breaks with gratitude, knowing it’s for my highest good. While my body purges whatever toxic energy has glommed onto me, I rest, meditate and ready myself for the frequency upgrade. What comes next is…greater clarity and understanding, heightened intuition and awareness and a blanket of calm, like a salve to aid the reset. Finally walking the path of intention, stepping into my power and embracing the woman I’ve always wanted to be. And so, she is. #levelingup #upgrades #frequencyhealing #cronewisdom
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Celibate

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I have been celibate for 13 years. Zero intimacy. No conversation. No hand holding. No hugs. No kisses. No sex. No man. For 13 years. And I’m not the least bit sad about it. I have reclaimed my power, my peace, my sovereignty. How ironic, now that I’m finally ready mentally, emotionally and spiritually to be in a loving relationship, I don’t have the want or need for one. Life is quiet, unhurried, gentle. I am enough. #confession #celibate #iamenough  
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