Entanglement

The thing about healing, it isn’t linear. You can be making tremendous strides, feeling all positive in light and love, only to have a crash out come out of nowhere to suck the fucking life blood from your marrow. It is important not to fight it. Whether that crash hits you like a head on collision, or an overcorrection that sends you flipping end-over-end, stay strapped in and hang on no matter how uncomfortable and disoriented you feel. This is where growth begins. No grit, no pearl. Getting mad or upset about what you may perceive to be a negative situation will snowball—fast. Stop asking, why does this keep happening to me. Trust me when I tell you, and I’ve said this before, if you keep asking why, she will answer you with indifference, more hardship and a big ol’ heapin’ helpin’ of, why the fuck not! Been there, done that, too. many. times. In my experience it’s better to ask, what is it that I need to be learning in this moment. Cycles will keep repeating in your life until ...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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 ...

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

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  

To whom it may concern, I don’t accept, nor do I receive your criticism, concerns, prayers, spells, negativity or hateful rhetoric. Let me be clear—I didn’t spend the last ten years fighting and clawing my way out of rock bottom, doing the shadow work and healing lifelong trauma for you to have any power over me. I am protected by generations of stalwart women. They see me breaking generational curses, they have given me the strength to shoulder their pain and their grief, the trust to transmute our collective sorrows and struggles into salvation. When I stand in the light, after all I have suffered, they are there in that sacred space, laying hands on me and speaking ancient words that I keep only for myself. I share my experiences, because somewhere, there is a person who has similar circumstances and they need a lifeline, they need hope. They need to see that some ordinary woman survived again and again and again, that she didn’t give up even though she wanted to, so many times. ...

Frantically searching for the phone, that’s in your hand, is not a good feeling. I used to be pretty smart, but all of this “smart technology” is making me lose brain cells faster than ChatGPT can generate a glamor shot for your vanity. Yeah, I said what I said. I used to spend ten plus hours a day on social media platforms for my job. I made amazing money, but it started affecting my mental health. I could feel myself going crazy. I had to step back, touch grass and put the fucking phone down! The longer I’m offline, the better I feel. In an effort to stimulate the grey matter, I’ve returned to my eternal love—writing. And I’ve found that this space is not without its controversies. Some, if not all, of the big five publishers are using AI in some capacity, whether it’s running manuscripts through AI detectors to check if they are human authored, or editors using AI to “read” manuscripts in order to determine their profitability, also using AI for cover art—they’re giving authors th...

Post menopause continues its unrelenting siege to extract every ounce of femininity and moisture from my body. Everything is so dryyy. My skin soaks up lotion faster than cracked red Georgia clay soaks up water on a scorching hot summer day. Dried up corn husks are softer than my skin. And you younger gals are not ready for what’s gonna happen to your vagina. Enjoy it now while you still can. I half jokingly refer to myself as a swamp witch, given my general appearance and the thin, straw like texture of my unruly grey hair. My daughter took a picture of us the other day and swamp witch would be a compliment. I understand why people have called me “Sir” in recent years. When my hair is pulled back, I look just like my uncle (who was a handsome man, don’t get me wrong), but also like a grandma? I’m Uncle Grandma. Losing my looks and my sexuality is the least of my worries at this point in time. I don’t give a fuck. What concerns me most is that I was, just now, looking for my phone a...

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” Elie Weisel, Holocaust survivor, author and Nobel Peace Prize laureate said this and it’s one of my favorite truths. I loved my ex husband very much, once. I loved him, until I didn’t. Although I was enraged by his behavior on many occasions, I’ve never hated him, though it may sound like it when I’m sharing my past experiences being his wife and then ex wife. Hating someone implies that you are still stoking the fire, that you care enough to tender the coals, to keep them burning even when it is you, still doing the work, still giving your energy to dying embers. I can almost guarantee you are not even a whisper of a thought in that person’s mind. Indifference is cold, unfeeling, it’s giving zero fucks about whether they live or die. Indifference is, so what? Indifference is dangerous. I’m not sure if you can ever come back from it.   #indifference #fallingoutoflove #exhusband  

I would be working for Southwest Airlines making six figures today had I not quit my job as a flight attendant 29 years ago. Being a flight attendant was the only job, besides being a mom, that I was ever really good at. I loved it, but I chose the well being of my daughters over my career. Leaving them at home with their unpredictable, drunken father was not an option. I will never regret my decision. After our divorce, my ex made me Public Enemy No. 1 and painted himself the victim of my evil scheme to hold him accountable and abide by the court ordered decree to financially provide for his children. “Get a job,” said the pilot making over $100K a year who never paid for their insurance, dental, braces, surgeries, transportation or education. Yes, I worked. Worked my ass off to give my girls what I could afford. I made insane choices that made our life with a narcissistic, alcoholic asshole feel like a walk in the park. Back my feral ass into a corner and I will always do what an...

When I was a senior in high school, a mean girl*  made a brownie look like a pile of shit   and put it in my locker. She and a snickering group of girls then waited and watched.  I went to a small Christian high school. Our senior class only had 24 students, the whole school, grades 8-12, had probably less than 300 total. The school was round—dubbed the Vernadome—with classrooms all around the outside, surrounding an indoor basketball court and a stage.  It’s like someone started to build a typical high school, started with the gym and then gave up, slapped on some rooms, put a dome over it and called it a day.  It was as weird as you’re picturing.  Anyway, shit brownie.  All the lockers were inside, on either side of the basketball court, the entirety of the school filing into the space between classes, so that when I opened my locker…well, you get it.  The girls laughed and laughed as I took in the “shit” neatly placed atop the contents of ...

Self care has never been my forte. Even when I was the most fit I’ve ever been, I was still drinking a bottle of wine and smoking half a pack of cigarettes every night for dinner. I sure did look good though.  I look at myself now and wish I could go back to 35 year old me and slap some sense into her. I wish I had taken better care of myself. All of myself—the mental, emotional and spiritual as well as the physical. Especially the physical. Everything hurts now.  I don’t know what I expected, growing older. But I didn’t expect to still be struggling with my weight or my mental health. Small, ordinary things that most people do on autopilot, like showering for instance, is such a fucking Herculean task for me. I spend half the day psyching myself up for it, and it’s not like I don’t want to be clean, it’s just…hard now.  Lots of things are harder now: sleeping, eating, laundry, cleaning, cooking, caring…existing, some days. Gratitude is the lifeline that I cling to becaus...

When I was eight months pregnant with our first child, my then husband did something so horrifying, it shattered every illusion I held about him, confirming with utter clarity who he really was. I was devastated. We had two cats at the time and they began howling at one another from the next room. My drunken husband went charging in. There was a commotion. When he came back he said, “I broke Imsa’s leg trying to separate them.” Imsa was my cat, a solid white, gentle, ethereal beauty I’d had since she was a kitten.  My mind conjured a vision of a crying child, an intolerant drunk jerking or shaking her in anger and the dire consequences left in his wake. I knew in that moment, with every motherly instinct that I possessed, he could never be allowed to be alone with my child. My heart raced, nausea roiled in my gut and I wept. Wept for the daughter in my womb and for the sweetest cat in the world who didn’t deserve to be in pain. As a victim of domestic violence from a previous relat...

Imagine it’s your sole mission after a tragic accident, caused by you and your own stupidity, to stop paying child support and have your ex wife served court documents to that end, from your hospital bed.  Imagine being such a self-centered, selfish prick that you don’t bother having a civilized discussion with her about next moves, or maybe reducing support for a time. No. You just go for the jugular, the kill shot, the blindside, knowing she has zero chance of taking care of the kids without your financial support that was mandated by the divorce decree you signed just a year prior.  One year. That’s all I got after twelve years of marriage, of being a stay at home mom, of staying by his side through all of his lies, gaslighting and narcissistic behavior. This man went from the Captain’s seat flying commercial airplanes, to stocking shelves at the local Chevy dealership. His boss wouldn’t even let him drive the service vehicle to deliver parts. I went to work driving a schoo...

I had a drinking problem for years. It was always five o’clock somewhere and I craved the feeling of a good buzz. I drank to socialize. I drank to fuck. I drank to escape. I drank to stay skinny. I drank to be able to stand my own presence. I drank to embrace oblivion.  I slipped the bounds of my reality too many times, innumerable times, and made new ones that I can’t even remember.  Being with someone who was equally fond of the drink was like needing oxygen to breathe, but it’s also like looking in a broken mirror—you still recognize your reflection in all the cracks and broken pieces, but instead of getting a new mirror, you just stop looking at yourself.  I’ve had thirteen years now, of sober clarity, to remember and to reflect. To sit alone in silence, to face my worst demons, darkest fears, deepest pain, biggest insecurities and all my defects of character. To own my mistakes and feel remorse and regret and an ocean of fathomless sadness. To find my true self and t...

I stayed. I stayed despite the rampant rumors floating around about your sexual preferences.  I stayed. I stayed and was complicit many times, in making sure your breath didn’t smell like alcohol when the bottle to throttle rule had been bent and broken.  I stayed. I stayed when you didn’t come home, but instead got drunk with your friend and totaled a brand new sports car when I was home pregnant with our child.  I stayed. I stayed after I found lipstick on your uniform and on your underwear and you tried to gaslight me about it.  I stayed. I stayed when our newborn was barely five weeks old and you admitted having an affair. You boasted to my mom and dad that I would never leave you. And I didn’t.  I stayed.  I stayed while you and your mom fat shamed me instead of supporting me during the worst depression of my life.  I stayed. I stayed after, on vacation, you called me an ugly, fat, clueless, rock star want-to-be in front of our children.  I s...

Someone who I admire greatly said:  “I told you about the darkness not because I wanted your pity, but because I needed it to exist somewhere outside of me.”  My soul claimed those words and embraced them like a lover.  Writing gave me, gives me, a place to put my own darknesses. It doesn’t matter to me if anyone ever reads me. This I do for me. For my sanity.  Maybe someday, someone will claim my words and hold them close because they, too, have cracked themselves open to evict the demons that reside inside.  It is a brave thing to leash the thing you’ve sat in silence with for so long. Years and years of sadness, trauma, fear and heartache, layer after layer, I had to peel my own darkness off like a second skin. I mourned, I grieved through the pain. And I wrote.   I’m still picking at the pieces that remain.