PSST! Rantings, Musings, & "Not Your Mama's" Platitudes

 It is Sunday evening. This weekend it has been sunny and in the 50s. Spring is SO close and I am finally feeling like myself again. I spent yesterday working on digging up parts of the banana tree. Although, as one friend mentioned, to have a banana tree is a blessing, it also grows over onto my neighbor's property and over the powerlines that connect to my home. The banana tree might be a blessing, but it is in the wrong spot of my yard. I am sitting in my recliner, writing this, and the windows are open. The cats are perched at each window and I can hear the neighbor's dog barking and the birds chirping. I don't think there is anything as beautiful as this. I haven't even turned on the tv all day long. I finished the book I was reading and won a badge on Goodreads. Rylee and I went to lunch at a little Mexican restaurant in Honea Path, and it was absolutely delicious! Rylee got her FAFSA submitted this weekend and has already received two college acceptances. I final...

Widespread AT&T cell phone outage. Change Healthcare/OptumRx cyber attack that affected retail pharmacies on the Eastern US coast, including insurance and coupon savings cards. The US landed on the moon for the first time in 50 years. What a day. 

Sometimes I get so sick of every single day, the same routines. And I don’t mean it like you think. I’m not married. I don’t wake up to the same alarm each day next to the same person who I kiss on the cheek on the way out the door. My bedroom routine is more of a guide than a schedule. I am the worst at setting a routine and keeping to it. Outside of work, that is. Maybe it’s the bipolar disorder. I can never seem to duplicate my good days by repeating the schedule of that day. Whether I have 7 or 11 hours of sleep, I’m always exhausted. No matter how early I leave for work, I’m always just on time. No matter how much money I have, I end up with just enough. I am consistent in my inconsistencies. Everything in my life, time, money, sleep, etc is predictable in the sense that I am always in need of more. Is it an organizational issue? No! I’m a fantastic organizer! I’m good at my job because of it. But it’s also how I burn myself out at both ends by going a million miles an hour during...

 I listened to a podcast on the way to work this morning. Four tips for harnessing your end-of-day exhaustion into a productive and meaningful evening routine — Morning "you" will thank you! While I can appreciate any advice that can transform me from less of a morning monster into a potential morning-tolerant humanoid, I think many can agree that evenings can be difficult too. And, let's face it, when you see clickbait that starts with "Four Tips..." we collectively skim the paragraphs following that lead to an underlined phrase that when clicked opens a podcast episode which, of course, happens at the most inconvenient times on the loudest phone setting possible, and after we scramble to turn the volume down, we realize the podcast has no readable transcript, which is problematic in itself due to the lack of accessibility, but we really . . . must . . . find out. WHAT ARE THE FOUR TIPS???! Considering I was already annoyed by the time I resigned to the fact th...

The current ratio of dead civilians to combatants is only 2:1, my dad says. It is considered normal when each soldier has four dead to their one.  Two is nothing—a string of bad luck.  Wrong place, wrong time. They should have planned more carefully.  Should have followed the rules, followed the sirens.  I passed my parents' neighbor today felling trees  in the field with his son. I remember when he was born, when they carried him  home. I watched them slowly make additions to their home:  a new garage, a new John Deere, a work van, and now, today, an excavator.  His son was bent at the waist, receding hairline in view.  I wonder if he has children of his own, if he would consider it genocide.  My neighbor offered to cut down the tree limbs on the dogwood out front.  They encroached over his property, over the Jeep  he  paid more for  than his own home.  He told me if I ever need anything  to let him know, ...

 I'm trying to focus more on my internal dialogue, which, if you've never tried it, is excruciating. It's as if I have been able to "ignore" the incessant dialogue because it's a constant hum of static in the background instead of actual decipherable words. Tonight I paid attention and did not like what I heard. I was sitting on the couch scrolling on Instagram and kept thinking, "I really don't need to be doing this. I need to be cleaning. I need to be lifting weights. Something. You keep gaining weight. Sitting here doesn't help. Look at this ring for sale. I wonder if it really helps anxiety. No. You don't need to buy anything impulsive. Things will not fix you, only you can fix you. You promised you wouldn't buy anything from your phone. You made a promise. Don't break it. Look how messy the living room is. Look at the filters leaning against the wall that you bought a month ago. You only need to replace one of them. It would take ...

  It's infuriating to watch people and their behaviors. How ridiculous they are! You're right, we cannot pick our audience. And they are not always ready to receive what we offer. That is when we are met with confusion and exclusion. It all comes back to the FEAR and CONTROL. They have their bubbles perfectly positioned. When we come into view, we refuse to bow to their idols. We refuse to live the way they live, and that slowly seeps over into their space. They don't like it because they don't understand it. It's different. It's foreign to them. We don't need instant gratification (unless we are feeding a compulsion *laughing* you know how it goes). We don't need all the mindless things they buy — we don't need it. We find beauty in what is real. The frosted side mirror of the car as it thaws on the drive to work.  In the light shining on the wall from the afternoon sun.  Forging real connections with real people. None of the bullshit. All they know...

 At the end of the day all we want is to be seen. We're cleaning the kitchen after dinner or folding the clothes before bed. Watching our favorite show or a movie we've seen thousands of times. Singing along to music that transports us back to the night of Junior Prom. Our hair is greyer now, shorter. Our middles heavier and our smiles guarded. We don't let happiness show like we did back then. Life taught us how quickly it can be ripped from our grasp. We have spent decades learning to be mysterious. Learning how to hide in case The Future comes calling to collect her dues. The crows feet at the corners of our eyes give us away. We used to laugh, did you know that? We used to drive too fast with the windows down. Caution was a word stamped in red on the peroxide bottle we used to dye our hair. Sand in our toes, hair whipping in our faces. Laughter. We knew we were seen. We wanted to be seen. There was nothing lucrative about it. It was. We were. We existed and the world kn...

 I worry that I've ruined her life by being so young when I gave birth. If I had given birth now, I would have been much better equipped to be there for her emotionally. What if I ruined everything? What if she struggles her entire life because I was not emotionally mature enough? I feel like a terrible parent. She has inherited everything about myself that I loathe, everything I am afraid she will eventually see in herself and hate because it reminds her of me. I wish I could send her to specialized therapy every week. I wish I could heal myself better and, in turn, help her heal. I don't want to negate my progress. I am a completely different person. My perspective has been transformed and widened and opened. I want her to get there, to get to that point. I want her to see life as it is, but I want her to see the GOODNESS and the HOPE. I want her to form healthy relationships with people who want her exactly as she is, people who inspire her to be kind to herself and take car...

Where there is confusion, let there be clarity. Where there is fear, let there be grace. Where there is pain, let there be witness. Where there is defeat, let there be rest. Where there is despair, let there be mercy. Where there is doubt, let there be love. Let there be love. 

Flashbacks play on the blank television screen at my feet. I imagine being in the back of an ambulance. Needle in my left arm, blood bag see-sawing out of sight. Allowing my mind to drift feels like a crime. Afraid of getting caught, I shift my focus to my phone. I scroll Instagram while listening to my friend's mother talk in the lounge behind me. She is already finished. Her blood flows quickly, with urgency. It knows where it belongs. My blood has slowed, and the phlebotomist, singing along to 90s Usher playing overhead, wiggles the needle around in my arm until she is satisfied. I feel a twinge in my gut and look the other way. Each time I think my wounds have closed my mind reminds me of a burst pipe in the attic of a century-old two-story home. Easy for the first level to ignore. Is that rain? That reminds me—I need to water the plants. Easier for the basement, who exists in familiar darkness. I am the basement, scrolling on my phone, watching the same sitcoms for comfort, ...

 I am full of fear tonight. It's something I notice sometimes when my mood begins to shift. I'm wondering if I am about to descend into a depressive state. I was exhausted tonight and didn't do everything I wanted to do to prepare. It's like knowing a hurricane is coming and working so hard to protect your home that you don't give yourself enough time to shut yourself inside before the waves crash overhead. I overextend myself to prepare and, in turn, probably make things harder for myself. If I were to pace myself, perhaps the fall wouldn't be as hard. But, maybe it would be. Maybe preparing makes the fall easier to come back from. I honestly don't know. I'm trying to figure it all out. I don't want to be alone tonight so I'm leaving my laptop open on my bed so I can watch one of my comfort shows. Creating is a good tool for keeping afloat during a storm. Tomorrow I might make clay out of flour and make Valentine's earrings or a pendant or s...

  I’m afraid that my cat will die. She is a ball at the end of my mattress. She purrs to the touch, and I cannot help but picture my hands digging through the dirt in the backyard, red clay under my fingernails, her limp body at my side. I can almost see the quick flick of a paw. I picture her awake, alive, helping me dig. I dangle a worm in front of her nose. She pauses and crinkles her face like she does when I love on her after dinner. She groans when I lift her from my bed. She knows it is bedtime and does not want to leave. I let her stay this one time. She glances up toward the ceiling. She sees things I cannot.