Gumption

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Today would be my second wedding anniversary if I’d stayed. 2 years since I said “I do,” but actually didn’t.

My mind can’t help but wonder from time to time what my life would look like now if I hadn’t ran away. Would I still wake up a little early every morning to carve out some peace for myself, emptying the dishwasher ever so quietly and making coffee for two? Would I still restlessly pace the house back-and-forth in the evenings, praying for the sun to set so I could pharmaceutically induce sleep and get another day under my belt? Would I still cook dinner once a week and end up eating alone because I didn’t want to be a disruption?

I was unwanted. Unliked. Undesired. I shrunk and shrunk and shrunk, and somehow would never be small enough. He needed more space from me than our modest house allowed, so I’d go for drives. Wander around a town that I could never call home and have a cryptic phone call with my mom, trying to force a smile through the phone while I told her that I’m doing fine.

There was no intimacy – physically, emotionally, or otherwise. Our king bed felt like a continent with nothing but an impassable ravine between us. The first time I expressed my despondence with our situation resulted in a tornado of harsh words, threats to leave each other, and me collapsed on the kitchen floor, choking on my own tears. I waited another year to bring it up again.

We were incompatible in most respects, but especially in the conflict resolution department. The cold shoulder was a frequently-deployed weapon in our home, injecting a heavy, hot stream of tension into the air for hours, sometimes days. I’d scream and yell and he’d throw things and fantasize about bashing my head against the wall. More than once, our fights took place over email – both of us typing furiously behind our keyboards, not even 20 feet away.

My first ever suicidal thought occurred on the 1.5-hour drive home from our quarterly Costco excursion. We’d been arguing in circles and the noise of it all had me in dire need of an escape. From the passenger seat, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the door handle, I thought to myself, “tuck and roll, you coward.”

He overnighted me a handwritten letter a few days after I’d left him and stopped returning his messages or phone calls. He was ready to hear my needs and do something about them. We can move back home, or go where ever I need to be. “Please don’t give up on me yet”, he implored, with all the love in his heart.

I may never understand why he wanted me back. I can’t speak to whether he ever loved me, but I know that he certainly didn’t like me for an overwhelming majority of our 14 months spent in holy matrimony. As for me, I loved him deeply until I simply couldn’t. I spent 2 precious years of my twenties in a town that I didn’t understand with a husband that didn’t understand me. I was starved for familiarity, intimacy, and companionship. There was no space or consideration for these needs, and I’m not convinced that there ever would have been.

I hold no resentment in my heart, nor doubt about my decision to sever this relationship for my own sake. I don’t even think I regret it. I grew in ways that would be hard to attain otherwise, and know for certain that I’m too resilient to be broken down entirely or permanently. What an empowering truth.

-M

Connive

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Today I present to you: three stories that illustrate why I do not and will not ever trust a middle-aged white man ever again (not that I need any anecdotal reason. Just open a history book and read like, a header.).

    1. The Dance Teacher

    I’m a freshman in college, and objectively the best ballroom dancer on my team. The Dance Teacher is highly esteemed as both a coach and a dancer himself, even at his advanced age. I couldn’t be more honored that he’s selected me as his prodige. He is going to give me the competitive edge I need to bring home a trophy at the upcoming competition in Vegas.

    He offers me free 2- hour private lessons on Saturdays. We meet at an LDS church building to use their gym as our dance floor. Our first session is a smashing success, and I can tell that he’s impressed with my skill and technique. I am proud and I am driven.

    I am stretching on the floor in preparation for our second private session, and he tells me my legs are tight. He’s right – I’ve been getting cramps in my calves and feet lately due to my rigorous practice schedule. He takes my dance shoes off of me and massages my feet. My calves. My thighs. My cheeks flood with blood and heat. I say nothing and we start dancing. He holds me close and firm and doesn’t let go.

    But he knows what it takes to win, and I know I can be a winner too, so I attend a third lesson.

    His phone rings just as we’re about to begin. “I have to take this,” he says and he walks into the hallway and speaks into the phone. I wait patiently, but can clearly hear his side of the conversation.

    “Hi, honey. I told you I’m picking up some mulch and bringing it to Dave’s to help him finish up his yard. I’ll be home in a few hours. Okay, love you. Talk soon.”

    That was our last private lesson.

    2. The Professor

    The Professor and I have great rapport. Healthy banter. I’ve been in several of his classes before and genuinely enjoy his lectures and teaching style.

    We are nearing the end of the semester, and I am extremely stressed about my capstone group project. Let’s just say that not everyone in the group has my vigor and drive for perfection. I’m visibly distressed in class today – my chest is red and my breathing is shallow.

    The Professor dismisses class and looks at me with concern. “M – swing by my office in a few minutes if your schedule allows.” I’m perspiring through my dress. Was my group project that inadequate? Will this tank my GPA? I’m on track for Cum Laude and can’t bear falling short.

    His office is down a long corridor, and the surrounding rooms are unoccupied. “Thanks for swinging by,” he says genuinely as I enter his office and take a seat on his couch.

    “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked a bit distressed during my lecture today. I want to assure you that you’re getting an A on your group project, but I unfortunately can’t say the same for the rest of your peers.” I take the first real breath I’ve taken all day and feel all of my muscles release, the heat from my cheeks dissipating.

    “Can I show you something?” He asks. I nod and he stands up and motions for me to do the same. “You need some breathing exercises to manage your anxiety. I can’t have you panicking in my classroom.” I give a half-hearted giggle. He walks behind me and says, “May I?” as he puts both hands on my diaphragm, not bothering to wait for a response.

    “Now, breathe deeply. Deeper than you even think you can.” I obey, watching his hands expand with my abdomen. “Good, good. Another one.” I breathe again. On the third breath, his hands ascend to my breasts. I can feel his hot breath on my neck and we both realize that it’s time for me to leave.

    3. The Mediator

    We’re conducting our 1:1 mediation evaluation via Zoom. I join the call and see that The Mediator is sitting in his car, spooning a milkshake into his mouth. Am I in the wrong place?

    “Sorry for eating in front of you, but the lower my blood sugar is, the grumpier I get.” I give a confused chuckle.

    He begins asking for reasons that I am seeking a divorce. I’m unsure as to why this is relevant to his role in mediating my case, but I answer his questions as vaguely and matter-of-factly as I can. I have no idea how any of this works. He asks if I’m dating anyone and says “If you’re f*cking 10 black guys, I need to know about it. I want to be prepared for whatever I’m walking into for your mediation session.”

    The conversation continues, and he mentions that he would totally hook me up with his son if his son weren’t already married. He offers his nephew as an alternative.

    “Let’s get me back on the market first,” I say, as light-heartedly as I can muster. He is finished with the evaluation now, and the call ends.

    A few days later, on a Saturday, I receive a text from him. “Hey M, this is The Mediator. Can you send me four or five of your favorite pictures of yourself?”

    “Hi Mediator,” I respond, “What will they be used for?”

    “Remember that nephew I was telling you about? And I was only kind of kidding with you.”

    I fired him and got my deposit back, but not without being threatened with legal action.

    All 3 men were of a very similar demographic – white, much older than me, and in positions of authority. I was perhaps a bit naive in my earlier years, but my distrust, defiance, and confidence grows each time I land in a situation such as the ones I’ve illustrated here. I pity the next one, as I know that there will be more.

    -M.

    Rejuvenescence

    MissMLeave a comment

    Move over Demi Lovato, because it is I who is mastering the art of starting over.

    2024 was hopefully the ugliest year I’ll have in a while. Heartbreak and Hurricane Helene shook me hard enough to finally change my situation. I’m no longer stuck. No longer restricted, afraid, small, or self-depreciating. Y’know what they say about hitting rock bottom? Well I’ve licked my wounds, brushed myself off, and am standing on my own two feet for the first time in too long.

    I’m gliding into the new year with a renewed sense of self, and I’m so relieved that the Real M is still in there. I’m writing this post in my very own space, sitting on my very own pink couch, next to my beloved Doodle, whom I get to parent exactly how I want to from now on. I am safe. I am centered. I am at peace.

    This is the year that I start living my life on *my* terms. The year I stop making accommodations and negotiations that conflict with my needs, desires, and goals. I spent my 20’s in a perpetual state of believing that I was unworthy and unlovable if I didn’t become who everyone else wanted me to be. I said yes to things my soul desperately tried to reject, and vice versa.

    I’m not a wife, as it turns out. And I’m not meant to live thousands of miles away from my mama. I’m not one to stay stagnant in my professional endeavors because where I’m at is “good enough.” I’m not a small town girl. And all of that is perfectly acceptable, respectable, and authentic.

    If I’m not those things though, then what am I?

    I’m an autonomous individual first and foremost, which is a concept that is still being absorbed in my not-so-plastic brain. I have had to fight myself from asking someone, anyone, for reassurance or validation in my decisions over the past several months. From whether to leave my East Coast life, to which townhome to live in, to whether I should get a tubal ligation, to whether I purchased too much pink decor for the Barbie Dreamhouse my soul desires. As excruciating as it was, I didn’t ask a damn person for their opinion. And I’m not accepting unwarranted input, either.

    I am the architect of my day now. I wake up every morning full of excitement and optimism for what the day will hold. I emerge from my sleeping quarters as early as I want to and nobody makes me feel guilty for not being around when they wake up. I go to the gym at a time that works best for my schedule and I give my Doodle treats and loves and games freely and nobody lectures on how inadequate my parenting is. I work hard and sometimes I work late, because the investment pays off, both literally and in my own sense of fulfillment. And nobody accuses me of neglecting my family for doing so.

    I go to events by myself and am not required to be at any particular meeting spot at any particular time. Nobody unfoundedly accuses me of running off to cheat or flirt with other men. I can’t cheat anyway, because I’m not committed to anyone but me. The only infidelity I’m capable of is not honoring my authentic self. I don’t apologize for things that don’t warrant an apology. All of this freedom is intoxicating.

    I can’t tell you in concrete terms where my life is headed from here. I have an overwhelming case of decision-paralysis. The dust is still settling and I’m still in the market for a therapist that can hopefully help me integrate all of these unresolved wounds and shortcomings into a healthy, balanced woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. I’m ready to be that woman.

    M.

    Enervated

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    *TW: Rape*

    “Your Body, My Choice.” The anthem that young men are already splattering all over womens’ online content – a mere 2 days after the election. The fear burning inside me is the same fear I felt the first time I was sexually assaulted, nearly 10 years ago. I write to cope, and the narrative below serves as a sort of emotional bloodletting. Please do not read further if you feel that this content will be harmful to you at this time, and know that extend my deepest compassion and support. I see you, I feel for you, my heart breaks alongside you. There is no happy ending or silver lining to this story.

    Me: “Okay fine, I’ll come over. But JUST to watch a movie. Promise nothing else will happen.”

    Him: “Of course not, cutie!”

    His house is nice; well-kept. The couch is made of that fake, cheap leather. Sleek, but not the type for watching movies on. I’m wearing my favorite Victoria’s Secret PINK jacket with a black bra underneath and yoga pants. He guides me to the couch and offers me a drink. Crown Royal Green Apple and 7-up. Not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. In 6 months, I’ll be old enough to enter the holy temple of the State Liquor Store and select my own libations. He pads to the kitchen to fix me a cocktail while I browse the DVDs shelved on his entertainment system.

    He wants to watch Transformers. Again, not my first choice, but maybe the buzz from my drink will help me enjoy it more. I sip.

    My head is spinning. I shakily set my empty glass on the side table. My arm is heavy and stiff as a brick. I lay my head in his lap and vigorously fight my heavy eyelids. I lose.

    Some time later, he hoists me over his shoulder in a fireman carry. I am jolted awake, my head hanging low. I notice I’ve been drooling. I mumble something.

    He has a creaky metal bed frame. He tosses me on the mattress like I’m weightless. Rips the zipper of my jacket down. Exposes my bra. I whimper.

    My vision is blurry. He violently peels my yoga pants off of me. His thumbnails scratch my hips. I can’t breathe.

    He sticks his head between my virgin thighs and my heart stops beating. Why am I not fighting? Flying? What’s the 3rd option again? Freeze?

    I freeze.

    He’s on his feet now. He cracks open the door and a sliver of light slips in. I feel my eyes widen.

    The crinkling of a wrapper. He slides himself into a condom and slides that into me. I yelp. A tear rolls down my temple. I wonder how much longer this will take.

    He grunts and moans in my ear, and then pushes himself off and out of me. “It broke,” he gasps.

    My brows furrow. What. broke.

    Now he’s the one with panic in his eyes. He disappears again. Bathroom, I presume.

    It takes all of my strength and focus to pull my yoga pants back up over my hips. He left them around my ankles.

    He lays down next to me and slings his arm around my waist. He kisses me on the cheek. I hate spooning.

    My eyes defy me once more. Hours pass.

    It’s 5:02 AM, according to the harsh, green light emitting from his alarm clock across the room. I’m alert – clear, even.

    I delicately slide out from under his arm, which is still slung heavily around my waist. He’s snoring. I pinch my jacket off the floor and slide my arms into it and then close the door so gently the door knob barely clicks.

    I zip up my jacket and frantically search the dark living room for my phone and purse. One last door knob to safety. I grip it.

    “Don’t you want to stay for breakfast?” My cheeks turn red hot.

    He pulls me in by the waist and rests his chin on my shoulder.

    -M.

    Run.

    MissM1 Comment

    I fell In love with him fast, and back out slow. I used to feel everything for him, but now I feel nothing at all, and that’s how I know it’s over.

    Was it the screaming matches? The door slamming? The name calling? The way he tore his ring off his finger and lunged at me as I cowered in the corner, paralyzed with fear and feeling so, so small?

    “You dumb bitch.”

    “You’re such a cunt.”

    “You made do this.”

    “You have to know I’d never actually hit you.”

    My forever no longer has him in it, but it felt so certain once upon a time. I don’t even know if I miss it – believing that we were soulmates, destined to be together. Maybe I never truly did.

    It started with a lie and it ended with many more. Can trust be lost if it was never built? For 5 years we lived alongside each other, digging a moat around ourselves instead of a building a bridge, and I wonder if I ever truly knew him at all. I wonder if he ever knew me.

    I don’t know me anymore. I lost myself long ago trying to give him everything he ever wanted and calling it “love.” I locked my voice up and ignored its screams and pleads to speak up. It was just easier that way – wanting what he wanted and letting him drive. Self-exploration scared me. I didn’t know that I was entitled to it.

    Until I woke up.

    I started looking at my life and hating what I saw. I was haggard, deflated. Uninspired and unfulfilled. Bored. Stuck. I missed me.

    He said he did too, but when pieces of myself were bold enough to come out, they were beaten down. He discouraged my development, stalled my progress and convinced me that I didn’t need it. I had him to do it all for me. And that was love.

    I miss wearing bows in my hair and speaking my mind. I miss writing and reading and thinking I know everything because I write and read so much. I miss ABBA. I miss driving my car.

    I left the first house I’ve ever owned. The one that I failed to turn into a home. There was no peace left, no love. The air was heavy with resentment, fear, and mistrust. He didn’t feel like home anymore, and I was exhausted from protecting myself.

    I had to run. I had to run.

    -M.

    Auspices

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    Being the eldest daughter comes with a lot of unique challenges. They even have a name for it: “Oldest Daughter Syndrome.” This widespread phenomenon is a hot topic on the TikTok nowadays, and there seems to be a decent amount of data to support its existence. According to Charlie Health, common symptoms of this condition include:

    • Having a strong sense of responsibility – Check
    • Feeling a need for control – Check
    • Carrying the heavy weight of parents’ expectations – Check
    • Perfectionism – Undeniable
    • Struggling with same-age relationships – Absolutely
    • Feeling resentment towards family (parents or siblings) – We can get into this later
    • Always putting others before themselves – Affirmative
    • People pleasing behaviors – Obviously
    • Anxiety – Triple-medicated, baby

    I think that the eldest child is the most likely to take the brunt of generational trauma. Think about it – your parents were brand new at being parents, and often had no business being parents at all yet. They were carrying all sorts of unresolved trauma of their own and were never equipped with the tools to heal. Even worse, they likely weren’t even aware that they had trauma that needed healing. So here these young parents are, doing their damn best to morph you into a respectable member of society with their own parents’ methods as their guiding light.

    If you haven’t gathered already, I’m an Eldest Daughter. And yes, parts of that experience super sucked. My parents’ expectations evolved drastically with each daughter they had, and I felt slighted when my sisters were allowed to stay out as late as they wanted on weekends and didn’t have to go to church. I didn’t realize at the time that my parents were evolving as whole people, so of course their parenting approach changed.

    I’ve grown up a lot, and time and distance have changed my perspective on how my parents raised me for the better. We have a special bond – there was a time when it was just the 3 of us. My parents didn’t even know each other very well when they had me, and they somehow formed a partnership strong enough to guide their little girl all the way to adulthood. And honestly, they did alright.

    My dad said a few words at my wedding that I’ll never forget: “Thank you for your patience with us.”

    He meant thank you for understanding that though we don’t always get it right, we’re doing the best that we can. Thank you for realizing that we’re learning right alongside you, and we carry all of those lessons into parenting your siblings. Thank you for being strong-headed, yet always doing your best to meet our expectations. You’re not just a guinea pig, and your childhood wasn’t simply a “practice run” for your sisters.

    Mom, Dad, I love you so much. I’m honored and grateful to be your first daughter, even with the syndromic outcomes that accompany this dutiful role. Thank you for molding me into the beautiful, flawed, complicated woman I am today. And thank YOU for your patience with me every time I defied, disrespected, and disregarded you. I know better now.

    -M.

    Matrimony

    MissM2 Comments

    I’m fucking married, y’all.

    Those of you who have been following me since this blog’s inception back in 2014 may find this news surprising (as I would have back then). After all, how did this hot-headed, distrusting, and tragically lonely college kid end up hitched to the love of her life?!

    Love, I say. That, and a lot of hard-learned lessons, vulnerability, devotion, humility, and an unwavering desire to work on myself so that I can grow in tandem with this beautiful man (Therapy starts again on Tuesday!). I’ve never met such a compassionate, insightful, brilliant person before, so obviously I fell in love in an irreversible way. And I’ll keep falling for the rest of my days.

    I wouldn’t say that I was “waiting on him” to marry me, BUT I’ve been prepared to take on this wifely role since January. He was ready in May, and here we are in November as official Mr. & Mrs. As you can imagine, this swift engagement did not allow for much planning, but we managed to arrange the PERFECT wedding in less than 2 months.

    Our officiant, an honorable Dudist Priest (and dear friend), conducted the most intimate, tear-jerking ceremony that ever was and ever will be. We had 7 people in attendance (including our exceptional photographer), and the whole thing took less than 20 minutes. Heartfelt vows were exchanged, tears were shed, and “I do”s were said. It was truly the perfect day.

    Though we were saddened to not have all of our people in attendance, this event left us with our cups overflowing and our wallets intact. And most importantly, it joined us together for the rest of forever.

    We’ve lived together for 3ish years already, so much has changed on a day-to-day basis for us. “Wife” is a heavy title though, and it still takes my breath away when my husband introduces me as such. And it’s much easier to talk futuristically and picture us grey and wrinkled as we sit on our wraparound porch, reminiscing on the countless memories we’ve made.

    I can no longer deny the existence of soulmates, as I’ve found mine. I am still in awe of how much our dreams, goals, values, and desires align. Being remote workers, we spend nearly every waking hour together and rarely get annoyed of each other long enough to spend more than an hour or so apart. One could call it codependence, but one could also shut up about it.

    Don’t tell me that the “honeymoon phase” will end one day. Maybe yours did because you married the wrong one or rushed it or had kids or something. None of that applies to us.

    Marrying him was easily the best decision I’ve ever made.

    -M.

    Solus

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    Disclaimer: I’m 1/3rd of a bottle of wine deep, so the words are flowing in an exceptionally unrestricted manner.

    Alone. I used to feel that metaphorically, as in “nobody gets me and I don’t have any friends.” But right now, I’m literally alone, and it’s an entirely different mind-fuck.

    Matthew went back to Salt Lake City to uHaul our belongings to our new home – Asheville, North Carolina. He’s been gone for 6 days so far, and has 3 more to go. It’s really hard to not fixate on the fact that everyone and everything I know is thousands of miles away from me.

    The trailer remains our only dwelling (we close on our house in less than a month!), but I’ll be damned if I live in that thing alone. I tried for a couple of days in the interest of saving money, but landed abruptly in a hotel room near downtown Asheville after one of the gnarliest panic attacks I’ve had since being medicated.

    It all started when I slammed my thumb into the trailer door. It took seconds for me to wiggle it free, and the pain induced a mountain of hyperventilated sobs. To be honest, it didn’t even hurt that bad, but tears don’t all have to fall for the same reason.

    Before I knew it, I was doubled over in a panicked hunch, desperately gasping for relief. I hadn’t slept in days, and my mind wasn’t safe there. Provincial gentlemen in souped-up (yes, that’s how you spell it, I checked) trucks intermittently sped past my trailer with music blasting so loud that it left me with tinnitus. It was cold and loud and shaky, and I needed my mama.

    It took her little convincing to get me to book a hotel room downtown, so here I am. It’s still hard, being so far away from home that I can’t hug my mom and cry into her shoulders, but I like this place, and I’ll like it even more upon reunion with my dogs and my person. I’m still peeing even more than usual, and find myself walking on treadmills for hours just to keep myself occupied. I’ve even considered watching reality TV. However, I’ve also discovered some of the best wine I’ve ever had, made friends with some middle-aged southern ladies (my favorite!), and have a list of restaurants to show Matthew upon his return.

    A lot of people would enjoy being in my situation, I think. A whole week to yourself in a hotel with the means to do whatever you want? That sounds nice if your thoughts are manageable. Mine are always on turbo-speed, and I spend all of my alone time trying to get my body to keep up. I would love to sleep, but because I won’t, I already have a sunrise hike planned for tomorrow.

    Anyway, there’s no takeaway here, but I feel a little bit better.

    -M.

    Erudition

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    Growing up in the LDS faith, I was always taught that having a firm testimony was paramount to my salvation. I was taught that the mormons have the complete Truth, and that god only gave the other religions a snippet of it. Having shed that value system, I have since realized that proclaiming to know ANYTHING about the divine is not only ignorant, but inhibitory to spiritual growth. Why would I continue to search for capital T “Truth” if I have convinced myself that I already have it?

    My curiosity for theology is insatiable. Thanks to podcasts, books, and loved ones of beautifully diverse backgrounds, I have gained insight from studying faiths from all parts of the globe, and have obtained value from each of them (yes, even Christianity, despite their notoriously violent and abusive history).

    As I embarked on my path to spiritual healing after leaving Mormonism, I discovered the Divine Feminine, and how many Eastern and indigenous cultures revere and worship goddesses. In these contexts, femininity is revered in conjunction with the masculine. This type of worship has been sorely missing from my life, as I’ve never once related to all of the typical dude prophets we find in western scripture. I also think it’s a bold assumption that god is a male, or even has a gender to begin with.

    I have also learned that there are several modalities for Sacrament. I’ve experienced the power of plant medicine, and have achieved mental states that can only be described as ethereal. These experiences have helped me dive deep into my own consciousness and have empowered me to pursue Truth within myself. They have also connected me intimately with Mother Nature in reverence.

    Then there are contemporary spiritual leaders such as Ram Dass, who have taught me to separate the “me” from the “I,” and become the witness of my own emotions and how I react to experiences. This practice has helped me keep trying times into perspective, and to not identify with the negativity that tumultuous events can bring.

    I could type all day about the things I’ve learned and will continue to seek out as I search for Truth and meaning, but I’ll get to the point now. The knowledge that I’ve acquired and pieced together is uniquely mine. Who knows if there’s a god out there somewhere who dictates scripture and triages the dead into whatever degree of glory they earned? Will he withhold my heavenly dwelling from me because my eggs aren’t in one basket? If so, I’m not interested in heaven.

    You won’t find me in church. I won’t give precious hours of my time to sit in pews and have gatekeepers of Truth tell me how to interpret my spiritual experiences. I commune directly with the Divine, and the intuition provided to me by my maker is the only guide I need.

    In closing, I’d like to bare my testimony. I don’t know that any church is true. I don’t know if there’s a god, to what extent she or he is involved in my life, or whether there’s a warm welcome waiting for me on the other side. I am dedicated to continuously seeking out Truth, regardless of where it comes from. I am committed to not committing to any one dogma, and to actively exploring as many schools of thought as I can. I know that I’m entitled to establishing an eclectic ideology of my own, and that it will ALWAYS be subject to change. I believe that no religion has (or ever will) monopolize Truth. In the name of personal revelation, amen.

    –M.

    Salubrious

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    I haven’t been to therapy in a long while (in THIS economy?!), so I’ve been trying to freestyle my mental health maintenance by reading books, listening to podcasts, and owning up to when my partner tells me that I’m projecting again. Still working on that one-I’ve been described as “prideful” a time or two.

    Old habits die hard, as they say.

    I am currently reading Clarity & Connection by Yung Pueblo. If you haven’t heard of him, I strongly recommend checking out his Instagram account, and picking up his book from someplace other than Amazon. He kicks off the book by describing how awareness is the first step to healing one’s traumas and finding deeper connection in relationships. If you’ve been following me at all, you can deduce that I have a decent amount of baggage (no shame). I’m clearly aware of this, as I can write a solid blog post about pretty much any emotion I have ever felt.

    Sure, I’m exponentially healthier and happier than the gal who kicked off this blog several years ago. Reading back at previous posts has been an overwhelmingly cringy experience, but I said what I said. Trauma is a bitch in that it can lay latent for YEARS until something triggers it back into full force. I’ve been dealing with this as of late, which has been making me pretty hard to get along with. I’ve got a hyperactive nervous system, and am regularly either fighting, flighting, or dissociating.

    All of this is evidence of a lack of mindfulness, I think. I’d consider myself pretty hippie-like (I practically live in a van by the river), but meditation and yoga and the like have never been my cup of tea. It’s all so very noisy between my ears, which reduces my bandwidth for mindfulness significantly. However, a pretty cool dude named Ram Dass has taught a mantra “Ah, so.” for when things get too noisy in the noggin. “Ah, so.” What a way to become a passive witness of your emotions, reactions, and interpretations of the world around you.

    “Ah, so. I’m spiraling again.” Let’s sit with it. Let’s feel it through and watch it pass by. Reaction can wait. I may not be at the point where I can intercept these toxic thought patterns yet, but maybe with a little practice, I can at least watch them flow through me until I’m removed enough from that emotional state to act in a logical manner.

    The best part is: I’m not alone. I’ve built a beautiful network of insightful individuals over the past few years that continually inspire me to get my act together, and I am beyond grateful for every one of them!

    I’ve got a LONG way to go, and I can’t imagine that I’m the only one experiencing the woes of anxiety and trauma, so let’s get a bit interactive! How do you mediate mean thoughts? Drop a comment, shoot me an email, or send me a letter via pigeon. More musings coming your way soon!

    -M.