Entanglement

In my author bio, I say that I’m an expert in failed relationships and how to pick the wrong guy, which I still maintain, is true. I included this little factoid because my first published work detailed a three year relationship in my early 20’s where I was the victim of domestic violence. TLDR—read the book.  I thought I would be giving more attention to my failed relationships, to help women recognize the red flags associated with toxic unions. Truth is, I couldn’t be bothered. Not until I healed the emotional scars left in the wake of two failed marriages and a situationship that had me trapped in a living hell for years.  My road to healing included a LOT of writing, some of my best work, still archived. One manuscript I’ve been staring at for almost ten years. I don’t know if it will ever see the light of day. It’s a mere twenty pages and only 2631 words. It’s my own personal, brutal truth—my worst nightmares cast into light and pulling it out of me felt like an exorcism....

There’s no clock in my bedroom and I no longer sleep with a iPhone phone beside my head. Every morning I judge the time of day by the sliver of light filtering in through the closed curtains. It’s very…days of yore, a bit romantic and mysterious and I’m so here for it. What is life without whimsy.  Actually, I can tell time by the dog. She rouses from her sleepy slumber around six every morning. First thing she does is gently roll over for belly rubs. I dare say it’s her favorite time of day, but only because it’s MY favorite time of day. It is the only time of day, in fact, that the belly is presented and that makes it very special, indeed.  The love of this dog is going to absolutely obliterate my heart someday. How tragic and amazing is that? To love and be loved so completely. No human I’ve ever met has been capable of such a thing. I think that’s by design, otherwise, how would we ever fathom the utter perfection of a doggie. 

I was not born with Type A personality disorder—YES, I said what I said. It’s in your DNA that y’all don’t know how to be still. Zero chill unless life forces you to via illness or injury. Sorry not sorry, my daughter is an A (albeit a sensitive A), she’s like a shark, always moving, ready to attack the next bullet point on her too long to-do list. Busy, busy, busy.  Let me be clear, she does not get this from me. I’m not even a Type B. I’m more of a Type L—lazy, always have been. I can sit in the same spot for hours writing, reading or binging a good K-Drama on Netflix. I’m all about a nap, especially on a dreary day. Sit me outside on a mild, sunny day and I might be mistaken for a turtle on a log, don’t bother me or I’ll snap at you.  Despite this defect of character, I know when to get going and be productive, and watch out when I do because I will get as much shit done as possible as long as the motivation is motivating. Then I will go back to my book and continue being a...

My peri-menopausal years are a blur of madness and rage. I didn’t even know what peri-menopause was back then. I chalked up my radical mood swings to going cold turkey on cigarettes and booze. Being trapped in a situationship with a sociopath certainly didn’t help matters.  The melancholia that followed that uncoupling was beyond any previous descent into depression that I’d ever experienced, worse than the postpartum depression that pushed me to suicidal ideation while trying to care for two under two in my early 30’s. Zoloft, therapy and copious amounts of alcohol numbed me enough to ignore my then husband’s extracurricular sex life and subsequent trip to prison for trying to fly a commercial airplane while intoxicated. It made national news—viral before the term was ever coined.  I raw dogged menopause and eight years post-menopause I am not on a single prescription medication. No HRT, no patches and no GLP-1, just me, for better or worse. And that’s something I’m really pr...

Been trying to get back to the thing that gives me breath and purpose and hope—writing. I’ve spent too much time on socials, running a fairly successful business, but it is draining the life blood from me and stealing precious brain cells that used to nourish and feed my creative flow.  Writing is survival for me, my most sacred creative need. Never artificial AI slop. Never. Just me, my soul laid bare for your eyes only, darling. I’m deep cleaning the cobwebs from the darkest recesses of my mind—from the abyss as Kafka so eloquently put it—in order to have a testament of my existence, my most…delicious lived experiences both good, and bad.  Follow along, won’t you, if only to find out if you’ve made the cut.    TTFN #writerlife #storyofmylife  #writingistherapy

I lay in bed last night, waiting for the rain, waiting, for the distant rumbles of thunder and the steady downpour that would lull my tired soul into oblivion.  It never came—neither the storm nor the slumber.  And in those hours of waiting, of lying still in the roar of oppressive silence, I had a conversation with Death.  What will you miss? he whispered. What will you miss? I will miss the feeling of late spring, when the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, cools, as I step into the breezy embrace of a shade tree.  I will miss daybreak and sun gazing, and hearing the symphony of songbirds when sunlight kisses the horizon.  I will miss the smell of freshly cut grass and the taste of honeysuckle on my tongue.  I will miss barefoot walks along the gulf and the feeling of salt and sand on my skin.  Go on.  I will miss staring at the stars in the night sky and sharing secrets with the moon.  I will miss feeling the crisp autumn wind in my hair, ...