Category Archives: fuck

The Dirty D-Word: A Letter to My Biological Male Parent after His Death due to Covid-19.

Stock photo from Pexels.com

I have no name for you—nothing that doesn’t stick in my craw, anyway.

I’ve tried many names on you over the years, but nothing fits for long. Mostly now I just try and ignore you, but I still don’t have a name for you that sits well with me.

A few years, way back, I called you “insect,” because I hated insects at that time. I considered them repulsive, creepy, and at least they were squishable. I never again want to touch you or for you to touch me—the same way I felt about all insects.

But then I fell in love with, first, honeybees and then all insects followed, to include a healthy respect and admiration for even the aggressive yellow jacket. I gained too much knowledge about and respect for insects to continue to fear and hate them. As I began to have respect for them and their ways, I had to search for another name for you.

I tried “infant” for a while, because you are so ignorant and selfish and unaware—so base and primitive. That one didn’t last very long, though, because infants are mostly innocent, and in my lifetime, that you most certainly never were.

I briefly considered calling you “motherfucker” or actually more like “mother fucker,” and you were—are–my mother’s fucker. But then, by that definition, you would also have to be a “childfucker,” and, well, they already have a word for that, don’t they?

I only thought about calling you “the sperm donor,” the way I have heard others refer to their own no-good, sorry fathers, but never could—mostly because it made me about throw up, thinking of how you used me as your human garbage can.

“Son of a bitch” only got a few moments of consideration, as I really have little to no beef with your mother, my gra’ma.

I thought about and used the word “garbage” for quite awhile as your name. It turned out to be appropriate for a long time. I stole it from one of my early therapists, who was always saying that someone or something was, “…just a piece of garbage.”

I loved the way that phrase always fell so directly and easily right out of her mouth—landing in my lap like a tidily wrapped package to be scooped up and unpacked later in my own secret of secrets.

How could she say it so fearlessly? Sometimes even with a little giggle hanging off the end of it?

Didn’t she know that this piece of garbage she was talking about had often held my very life, my continued, literal, existence is his hands and at his whim?

I loved to feel her fearlessness, her nonchalance as she said it. It felt reckless to me, though, and I would only join in the (for me, nervous) laughter with her when it was only she and I in her office.

Even then, I was frantically and mentally checking over my shoulder, listening for those terrifying footsteps in the night.

But I loved the way those words strung together came right over and swirled around me, delicious, as I practiced them over and over to myself, liking the rotten image, liking the putrid smell, liking the power of it, the very rightness of it.

And wishing I, like her, could say it—hell, even think it, without fear—without baggage.
Such a longing I had for that indifference.

But then I began composting, and garbage, I discovered, was Earth itself, waiting and longing to be baked back into itself. You don’t even have to turn a compost pile—it may take longer—but you can just pile organic stuff up and it will eventually turn back into dirt; it’s like magic.

I came to love compost and see it for the miracle and magic that it is. Compost is a saving grace and a forgiveness—and that absolutely did not fit for you.

The word “shit/feces” had a short trial run: “shit, shite, govno, merde.” But then there was that whole composting thing again—manure into earth, Mother Nature’s fertilizer. You could never deserve such a regal name as “shit/manure.”

It was too good for you.

These days if I have to refer to you at all—which I mostly avoid, I call you the bmp—all small case. I will not bestow an all-caps acronym on you.

It stands for: biological male parent. The “bmp,” I say, I write.

Kinda sounds like that little store down on the corner, doesn’t it? It sounds way too innocent, but I guess the fact that I don’t use the word “father” or “dad,” or god forbid, that dirty word, “daddy,” gives it away, doesn’t it?

I almost want a different word, a name that really says it all. Do they have this word—perhaps, in another language? Perhaps even in English but of which I am ignorant—I just haven’t found it yet?

For instance, there’s a word from the Yaghan language, “mamihlapinatapai,” which translates as, “looking at each other hoping the other will offer to do something that both parties desire to have done but are unwilling to do themselves.” The Guinness Book of Records lists it as the most succinct word in any language, and it’s regarded as one of the hardest to translate.

I love that word.

Is there a word out there for you? That encompasses that whole, long paragraph of descriptive words that, in short, mean child-abuser-rapist-monster?

I’ve thought that maybe I should just make up a word for you, but then I have a lot of respect for words—in all languages. I can’t insult the sounds, the letters, a word like that. It would be a waste of good letters on you, exquisite breath and sound.

You do not deserve it.

“Daddy” = you don’t deserve the title and by definition, you are not one.

“Daddy” = an obscene, dirty word that evokes revulsion in me.

“Daddy” = a word that until recently, caused bile to rise up into the back of my throat and panic to twist my gut every time I heard it said out loud by some innocent passerby or in a conversation.

I hear it said all over the place—everywhere, and I am envious of its familiar use. I long for it to be wiped clean of connotation. I long for it to be just another innocent word—better yet, a word that actually evokes good feelings, feelings of love.

I hear people walking down the sidewalk talking on their phones saying the D-word. Toddlers asking for reassurance, turning to find him, “Daddy?” they ask, as they turn and look to find him. They are really asking, “Are you still there? Do you still have my back? Can I count on you?”

I tell myself I have forgiven you; because I have done my work, continue to do any more work that comes up—infrequently now—to be healed. I understand some of the “big picture karma” involved, understand that I would not be the compassionate, nonviolent person I am today without that early abuse and neglect.

But if I have truly forgiven you, wouldn’t I want to talk to you, try and bury the proverbial hatchet—make peace before you die?

Because I still want to never see you again.

(This blog post was written before he died and published only after his death.)

What happens Behind the Mask, Stays Behind the Mask

I can tell you

that

every girl-

,and indeed,

boy-child

learned how to cry

quietly

– no telltale noise, no telltale movement.

And you

,too,

know

it is true.


To be sure,

doesn’t everyone

– regardless of age –

know

how to accomplish

the same?


Every woman

caught in

a blinding

moment

of

panic

and rage

at the

system that binds

her

into “female,”

Every man

punching out

against

the undertow tide

of

masculine

that tells

him

that to

cry

is to be

a “sissy?”


2020 taught me

the

beauty

(and privacy)

,indeed the intermittent necessity,

of secretly

and quietly

crying

behind a mask.


Walking in public.

Shopping in a store.

In a socially-distanced meeting.

During a mental health check-up session with a suicidal friend.

Watching a black man being lynched in public, for all the world to see, while the white man doing the lynching arrogantly showed off for the cameras…

How’s Your Pandemic Going?

Me? Well, I’ve been through a lot during the last few months. Most of it good, actually, but some of it not so good. I haven’t written here in a long time—mostly because I have been so busy getting through all that stuff. I plan to write about all of it, but there is so much that I will most likely break it down and not try and cover all this crap in just one post.

Here is the short list of things I’ve been doing/having/navigating since January 2020:

~We got a new minister at the church where I was the office manager

~A sweet almost-friend who was really an acquaintance died

~I discovered some major lumps in my right breast

~I had to have several mammograms, an MRI, and biopsies on said lumps

~The pandemic happened—oy!

~I got to work from home and discovered just how VERY introverted I really am—yay!

~My abusive father to whom I had not spoken in 20 years died of Covid-19

~I found out an old ex (and now friend) of mine is in hospice

~I got laid off from my job

~I had to break up with my church—again

~I’ve had to learn how to get unemployment insurance for the first time in my life

~Holy shit, that’s a lot!

I am ready for the roller coaster to slow down nice and easy like, roll to a gentle stop, and let me off, thank you very much.

More details to follow.

And that’s my photo of my kittle, Mr. Maui. I need soft, fluffy cat photos these days to calm me.

Stay well and strong,

Grace

You Are Here.

loss

How did I get here? That’s what I have been asking myself for the last few months. I am on, what I hope is, the tail-end of the year from hell.

In January my partner’s passive aggressive ex blatantly let me know that she was still after him. He and I had been together for over four years at that point. I have been putting up with her bullshit for over four years, hoping she would not only catch a clue, but that she would give up her childish, manipulative, passive aggressive games. To find out so obviously that she was still hanging on and still happy to make my life hell was not a good start to my 2019.

In March we went on a vacation that included air BnB’s with scented plug-ins that inflamed my multiple chemical sensitivities, sending my health into a downward spiral and making it a necessity to wear a mask for several months. I still carry it around with me, because it only takes a few seconds of smelling someone’s synthetic perfume—or even clothes washed in scented laundry detergent—to make my skin start burning and itching and the coughing start.

Soon after returning from our trip, it became evident that it was time for my old cat and dog to be helped into their next life. I couldn’t justify putting one of them down without the other, because they were both in pain—despite both being on pain meds—were both old, and were both peeing all over the house. I was exhausted mentally and physically, trying to take care of them, not stress them out, keep my partner soothed about animals peeing in the house all the time, and trying to take care of myself.

So, in April I called our veterinarian and discussed it with her. She agreed with my sad conclusion and said she’d come to the house so they wouldn’t have to be stressed with any travel.

It was one of the saddest days of my life. I still mourn their leaving and am crying right now as I type. I miss my weenie-boy, Mr. Stormy, and Miss Bella the crazy, one-eyed, feral, pirate cat.

In May, I received a nasty email from someone who had never had the decency or balls to confront me in person, like an adult, to tell me about all the (apparently) horrible things I’d done to her. She told me how bad a person I am/was and then proceeded to tell me what I should do to remedy my many problems. She advised that for the sake of everyone around me, I should quit my job and not inflict myself upon them anymore.

She wrote it as a nice, this-is-for-your-own-good type of letter—you know, that passive aggressive, “sweet” style that ensures that anyone besides me reading it would assume she really did have my best interest at heart. I never responded, but it sent me into a new tailspin.

Meanwhile, I was still grieving the loss of my pets, and my health was still suffering. I couldn’t seem to get back to my own “normal” on the scent issue. Every little sniff of perfume, laundry detergent (clothes folks were wearing), cologne, scented plug-in, etc. sent me back down the proverbial rabbit hole. I ended up having to wear my mask almost all the time when out in public (this is not a fun thing to do, trust me).

Another “meanwhile” came in the form of having to navigate constant big transitions at work this year—with dangerous undercurrents of mistrust and, what still feels like, hate. The stress of having people always think the worst of me has taken a huge toll on my life, happiness, and confidence.

As fallout from losing my pets, in the summer I visited an ex from years ago to get to see his cat—one of Miss Bella’s kittens from years ago. I just needed to be in the presence of something Bella had created. I missed having pets so much. The house felt so empty and weird, and I couldn’t seem to get over how empty my life felt without my fur babies.

Mr. Maui lived with my daughter and me until he was about four years old, then we asked my ex if he wanted to take him. I found out when I visited him that my ex’s early-onset dementia had progressed to such a state that he did not recognize me. A few weeks later, I found out he was being moved out of his home of 40 years to a memory care facility, and it broke my heart to think of him losing his life that way. I began grieving again—or maybe just added another loss to the pile.

Then in August, my partner of five years told me he was going through what looked and sounded like a personal existential crisis. He began examining his life, and began the exhausting work of figuring out what he needs to do with himself, his life, what his purpose is, etc., to the degree that we are not living together, so that he has the space and time to figure things out—even though he continually (in the face of my over the proverbial top, stressed-out worrying) assures me that we are still a couple.

Despite his assurances, my (normal for women) over-active amygdala continues to talk me into losing faith, and I have difficulty believing anything positive right now.

It is October now, and I ride my bike as much, as long, and as far as I can each day to keep from imploding, to keep from disappearing. When in doubt, pedal it out, right? That has worked for me for years. It is still a good practice. Last week while riding the Poudre Trail, the question surfaced again, “How did I get here?”

How did I let my life slip into this unhappy, unhealthy, unnatural state? I must have been so very oblivious and/or asleep to have let this happen on this large of a scale. I know I am responsible for my life, but it feels like, somewhere along the way, I handed the tiller over to someone who doesn’t give a fuck about all those sandbars and rocks up ahead in this stormy, choppy sea. I’ve been crashing into them for months now, limping along trying to survive each hit, each ding, each rupture. I’m taking on too water.

I am tired. I don’t sleep well—or I sleep way too much. I am raw and stressed; I cry all the time. I am fearful. I am depressed. It takes gargantuan effort to reply to normal, simple, everyday questions without shattering and flying into tiny little shards of grief, sadness, anger, oblivion, & regret:  the shrapnel of too much stress for way too long without a break and no relief in sight.

I spend my time alternating between working my ass off to stay busy and preoccupied, numbing-out by watching too much Netflix, working on my own shit when I’m able (self-hypnosis, BWRT, EFT, EMDR, I’d like to buy a vowel, Alex), trying to meditate and remember those things (where are they?!) that make me happy, not giving a shit what anyone thinks about anything I do or say, caring way too much about what everyone thinks about what I say and do, wanting to move far away and try that stupid geographical fix thing (which everyone knows does not work), breathing, sleeping as much as possible, staying home as much as possible, going out to do things I (might) love to do, (did I mention the crying thing?), obsessively watching the movie Interstellar, and talking to amazing girlfriends who are sweet and funny and make me laugh—even at myself.

How did I get here?

While pedaling, the answer came, “It doesn’t matter HOW you got here. YOU ARE HERE. How are you going to get OUT of here? That is the important question now.”

I saw myself inside my head under a big, black, not-to-proportion “You are here” arrow on a directional map.

Yes, there I am. Under that big arrow. You are here. How the fuck am I gonna get out of here? I don’t know.

Yet.

“That’s me in the corner. That’s me in the spotlight, losing my religion.”  ~REM, Out of Time

Dementia Grief.

maui

Mr. Maui

What if you woke up one day and a bunch of your friends showed up unannounced to take you out for the day to have fun, and then at the end of the day they took you to a totally different place, and told you that this is where you would be living from now on and that you could not return to your old life?

This is what just happened to a long-time friend of mine. He has early-onset dementia and has been struggling to live in the “regular” world for a while. He has steadily become more forgetful in the past few years, to the point of not even remembering me the last time I went to visit him.

I totally understand and support the move his sisters and friends carefully arranged for his benefit. And I know absolutely that he will be taken care of. I feel better about him now, knowing he is in a memory care facility that will ensure his comfort and safety.

And I wonder how much he understands and remembers about his former life. Does he realize that he is never going back to the house he has owned for over 40 years; does he remember his cat of eight years, and does he know they will likely not see each other again? His house is being cleaned to get ready for an estate sale. Then the house itself will be sold.

What does he know and not know? What does he remember and not? That is the insidious nature of dementia, isn’t it? And everyone knows, according to the standard safe practices of our day, that the best thing for those with dementia is to, at some point, make sure the dementia-sufferer is kept as safe and as happy as possible.

When I last saw him, he was quite frustrated and agitated. He was paranoid, as anyone would be, I suppose, who can’t remember people and events. I mean if you can’t remember where you put your shoes, and you have looked everywhere, then maybe you really would begin to think that someone is coming into your house to take your shoes. What other explanation would there be if you can’t remember that you can’t remember, if you are trusting yourself, but don’t remember that you can’t trust yourself anymore?

I have a deep fear of dementia, I think, because that last paragraph gives me the actual chills. And we, ourselves, at some point, would never really know if we have dementia or not, would we? We are at the mercy of those around us to tell us what is going on. And that involves great trust, doesn’t it?

Wow.

He is an introvert, and he valued living by himself, spending whole days in silence, alone. My sincere hope for him at this point is that he actually doesn’t remember too much. Because if he does, I know he is grieving mightily. If he remembers too much, then I know he is grieving the loss of his privacy, his home, his kitty, his huge workshop with all of his wood-working equipment, and his life.

Maybe it’s just me grieving for him. Maybe – hopefully – it’s just me that is trying to fill the hole in the universe that was his life. Maybe. I hope. I pray.

Meanwhile, my kitty has been returned. He went to live with my friend about 8 years ago when Maui was 5 years old. And now he is back with me. I lost my last pet in April, and now Maui is filling the house with lovely, sweet kitty energy again. I feel him missing my friend, so I cuddle him close and leave my tears in his fur. Life cycles around and around us, doesn’t it?

The trick is, can we ride that cycle with grace and humor and acceptance, or do we fight it and make ourselves and everyone around us miserable?

I don’t know what to do right now except mourn for my friend and be happy and relieved for him all at the same time. The Universe marches on, and time rushes at us like a metal measuring tape rushing back to its little shiny metal house we’re holding, rolling itself up at high speed, ready to snap off a finger if we’re not careful.

Godspeed, Stephen.

Your Scented Plug-in & Laundry Detergent Contain Cancer-Causing Ingredients.

chemicals

We are traveling, and I am sick. I’m sick because everywhere we stay, they use Glade Plug-ins and other myriad products that contain synthetic/petrochemical fragrance.

We are staying in Air BnB’s. I have a constant headache, dizziness, burning eyes, skin, and throat. I also have a difficult time thinking and talking – my brain does not function correctly when poisoned by this shit. And after being exposed to this crap for a while, it starts to produce anxiety – and anger – in me.

I did not have this problem when we traveled to Panama last year. In Panama, we stayed in Air BnB’s also and a couple of hotel rooms.

I use mostly unscented – or naturally scented – products at home, because I am allergic to synthetic solvents and chemicals. I have been diagnosed as “chemically sensitive.” And I try and keep products to a minimum.

It is my goal to have one or two products throughout the house that do everything – from washing dishes to cleaning the toilets. Mostly I use Dr. Bronner’s Sal Suds – usually diluted. It contains spruce essential oil, so is not completely scent free, but it is mild and all-natural.

I have not used body soap for years. And I do not stink. I smell like a human. I would bet that you have no fucking idea what a human really smells like, do you? And you don’t know, because all your life you have been using synthetically-fragranced products in every part of your life.

Why is America obsessed with adding synthetic fragrance to absolutely everything? Are we so afraid of what we, as humans, actually smell like? There is the constant brainwashing – via commercials – that everything in our world must smell “fresh” – whatever the fuck that means. And that “freshness” can only, apparently, be achieved via synthetic means – petrochemically.

Think about all the scented products you use. Here are just the few I can think of right now:  bath soap, body wash, shampoo, conditioner, bath salts, bath oils, bubble bath, bath bombs, lotions – for body and face (and then there are the “specialty” lotions and creams for just your elbows, or only for under the eyes, etc.), cosmetics (base, powder, eye shadow, eye pencils, mascara, eye liner, lipstick, lip gloss, etc.), perfume, cologne, deodorant (ironic), antiperspirant (which contains aluminum, along with the petrochemicals), body powder, foot powder, foot spray, vaginal products (spray, douche, powder), hair spray, hair gel, hair mousse, hair oil, hair pomade, body sprays, aftershave lotion, shave cream, shave lotions (for before, during, and after shaving).

These all have added fake/synthetic scents – and they usually all have difference scents.

Meaning, all of your different product scents are competing with each other and creating a petrochemical cloud on and around you everywhere you go. Because of you, I sometimes can’t eat at restaurants, can’t sit through concerts, etc.

Now think about all the household products that have scent added or are toxic in and of themselves, because of the ingredients they contain. There are hundreds of cleaners – for the sink, the toilet bowl, the bathtub, for floors, for the kitchen only, for the deck and driveway, the car, etc., laundry products (detergent, softeners, dryer sheets, etc.), dish soap, dishwasher soap, dishwasher additives for spot-free dishes, etc. There are all the pesticides made specifically for home use. One for ants, another for roaches, another for wasps and hornets. Let’s not leave out mice and rats and termites.

How many products do we actually need that say they clean, disinfect, and “freshen” the toilet bowl, your house, your body?

Then there are the plug-ins, the sprays, the diffusers, the scented candles, the “deodorizers” that have nothing to do with actually deodorizing. Let’s be clear here:  They do not get rid of odors. They cover up odors. They numb your olfactory system so completely that you become unable to smell anything – including the synthetic fragrances themselves, which makes us use even more of them.

Toxic. Poison. Synthetic.

You are killing brain cells, people. You are killing your children’s brain cells too.

And if you want to kill your own brain cells, that’s up to you. But you are also killing everyone else’s when you go out in public. “The problem with fragrance products is not the scent but the properties of synthetic chemicals that they are derived from such as petroleum or coal tar.”

The American Society of Business and Behavioral Sciences released a PDF document called FRAGRANCE IN THE WORKPLACE IS THE NEW SECOND-HAND SMOKE which says, “A recent analysis of 6 top selling laundry products and air fresheners found ‘nearly 100 volatile organic compounds (VOCs) were emitted from the products and five of the six products emitted one or more carcinogenic hazardous air pollutants which the Environmental Protection Agency considers to have no safe exposure level’ (Steineman, 2008).”

In my opinion, it is amazing that we are not all chemically sensitive. We have overloaded our neurons so completely with synthetic shit (of all varieties), it’s a wonder we can still function at all.

I’m tired of being sick so everyone else can have sheets, towels, clothes, skin, hair, breath, carpet, cars, homes, businesses, armpits, and lives that smell like a fake “spring meadow.” WTF, people? Are you that fucking afraid to smell reality?!

Why is America (is it everywhere else too?) obsessed with this shit?!

I can’t go outside my home without being bombarded by your stinky, chemical, synthetic, solvent, brain-killing, cancer-producing, skin-burning, throat-closing bullshit assaulting me. Do you really need to wear all that perfume? Do you really need eye-wateringly strong clothes detergent? What the hell are you afraid of?

Please have a look at the National Toxic Encephalopathy Foundation’s website and educate yourself on the health damaging effects of synthetic fragrances.

Also take a look at Women’s Voices for the Earth to find out, besides stopping using poisons on your body, your children, and in your home, what you can do to help stop this synthetic petrochemical assault.

You are wearing so much perfume and products that when you walk in, I have to leave to be able to breathe, to be able to function.

And all Air BnB owners, for God’s sake, STOP with the fucking Plug-ins! At one place we stayed, that was not over 600 square feet, their were two of them, for cripe’s sake.

Owners, you are just inviting a law suit, too, with that shit, by the way. That same PDF notes: “There have been many lawsuits pertaining to MCS and synthetic fragrance sensitivity filed using the ADA and the Rehabilitation Act.”

And if you absolutely must have fragrance in your life, have you ever thought about the fact that there are actually natural fragrances and methods that you could be using? Used responsibly, they will not kill brain cells or make you and your children sick.

Ghostly Possession vs. Attachment.

It is seldom that I see a full-on possession. A possession is when an entity or ghost of some sort is actually inside your body most of the time, controlling some or all of your thoughts, feelings, and actions. However, attachments are quite common. I call them attachments, because they will have an energetic attachment (cord) between you and them.

Unfortunately, it is not difficult to pick up an entity/ghost as an attachment. They are everywhere. And just like physical beings, they cover the entire spectrum from harmless to evil, from disinterested to manipulative and nasty. When an entity or ghost gets attached to someone, it usually means they have more influence over that person. They influence your thoughts and feelings.

A perfect example of what it feels like to have an attachment is when you suddenly, without any precipitating factors, think or feel something really weird and/or foreign for you. As an example: Once while giving a haunted historical tour with my friend, (local historian) Suzy Riding, a ghost attached himself to our group (me) and proceeded to follow us on the tour.

I didn’t realize it, however, until I looked over at a man walking on the sidewalk with his young daughter on his shoulders. They were not a part of the tour, but I had a vision of him taking her by her ankles and whipping her forward and face-first, violently slamming her into the concrete of the sidewalk. The thought/vision was so very horrible and violent, that instantly I knew I had an attachment—because that sort of thought would have never come from me.

I did a quick check, and sure enough, he was with the tour/me. He expressed arrogance when he realized I had detected him. He was surprised when I immediately bundled him up and handed him over to be taken home. We continued with the tour without further incident.

Attachments can even affect your thoughts to the point of making your suddenly suicidal. Those who commit suicide are usually so depressed and detached from their own reality, that when their body dies, they don’t even realize it. Then they can very easily attach to someone else. At that point, because they are attached to a live physical body, they become obsessed, again, with killing themselves, not realizing they have already accomplished that very thing. And because attached entities affect our thoughts and feelings, and because suicide victims’ thoughts are so very depressed and obsessive, the new person suddenly feels suicidal.

Unfortunately, you hear of it all the time:  how a happy, normal person very suddenly tries (or succeeds) to commit suicide. The people around them are mystified, and no one understands what happened. Pay attention if this happens to you or someone you know. Take it seriously—not just because it involves suicide, but also because it is too sudden, unusual, and weird. Any such weirdness should be respected, because it means something is not right. So many unexpected suicides could be prevented if folks had this info.

Attachments are resolved pretty much the same way as a house clearing. I will clear you, your house and property, your vehicles, possibly your workplace, etc. every time I do work for you, because I want you to be safe, and I don’t want any ghost/entity to be lost. Check my contact page for current costs and more details.

For more great info, check out the book People who Don’t Know They’re Dead.

If you suspect you have an attachment and need help removing it, please don’t hesitate to contact me. I have years of experience with this sort of thing and can help you out. And if you think you—or someone you know—is possessed, it may be a possession, but it may only be an attachment. Either way, I’m your huckleberry.

Finding Beauty Again.

DSCN7804

My daughter recently got married to a wonderful, wonderful young man.

They had dated—and even lived together part of the time—for a little over four years. The proposal, the engagement, the planning, the wedding shower, and the wedding were beautiful things to behold, as my daughter set about, in her very organized (learned from me?) way, to make the wedding of her dreams manifest.

And it worked. Her dad helped them some with the money part, but she and her man paid for most of it. She planned and worked and created for almost two years, and it was the most beautiful wedding I have ever been too.

37080580_10212271168197984_6321243393494089728_n

(I have intimate knowledge of both of these dresses, as I did all of the alterations—and additions—to make hers fit her so beautifully, and I made mine from scratch.)

It was fun, loving, and profound. I got to connect again with my brother—who I have not seen or talked to in 17 years. I got to authentically and really connect with my daughter’s dad, who I have not been married to since my daughter was about two years old (that’s about 26 years ago now). I got to “give” my daughter to a trustworthy, hard working, good, good man. I got to see my child and her new husband surrounding by so much love and admiration and respect.

windowsill2

I am so very happy, happy, happy for—and with—her. Throughout her life, she has constantly amazed and delighted me (dare I say? she might be the perfect daughter!).

And I am devastated. Emotionally wrung out. Read: crying jags, depression, anxiety, joy, anger, confusion, raw, relief. Etc.

I am back to where I was when she moved three minutes (literally three minutes from my house, driving) away into a condo from where she went to college to get her undergrad. I was devastated.

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At that time, I spent a lot of time to try and figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my now-on-the-tail-end-of life. I started my Etsy shop, I started dating again, etc.

Apparently, it’s time to do that again. And I don’t want to. But I will. I am.

I remind myself, with this latest emotional tornado, that nothing has changed with her and her man. They still live in the house they bought a few months ago, in the same place, work at the same place, do the same things, etc., etc., etc. I talk to her the same amount. I still see the lovely photos of them on Facebook on their adventures.

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The only difference? She added a new (beautiful!) ring to her left hand. She is not even going to legally change her last name until next year, because they are traveling internationally part of the rest of this year and already have tickets booked in her maiden name.

But still I feel like I have somehow “lost” my only child. . . tears threaten every time I think about it too much.

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And now here I go again! Who am I? Am I no longer a mom? What kind of mom am I now? What do I want to do with my life? Why is this so hard?

Help is on the Way?

On Friday mornings, I usually take some time to wander around the internet and find inspiring blogs and websites. I sit with my morning smoothie and let myself be lead to wherever I land. I veg, relax, take my time, enjoy myself.

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This morning I found a blessing of a blog, and much of it sounded like I was reading my own mail. I am in love with Tamera Beardsley‘s lovely, authentic, hit-me-in-the-heart blog. I want to run away with her blog and get married to it on a beach somewhere with just the starry night as our witness.

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Check out her blog and be inspired and blessed and renewed—and humbled—by her strength, her insights, and her willingness to be vulnerable. I took her advice and once again started taking photos of things I find beautiful.

So, with her blog as a new inspiration, and with my recent tornado still whirling around me, I must begin again to define myself. Ugh! And. Yay! (But really, Ugh!)

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Today I am going to immerse myself in upcycled fabrics and create a pair of “don’t get out of bed pants” out of a thrift store sheet—or maybe a table cloth (pattern from Tamera Frampton), because that’s how I feel these days. I’d rather just stay in bed—but when I can’t, I’d rather be creating.

Let’s see where this journey takes me this time. . . (she said nervously).

Love and light and Godspeed, my lovelies.

What is your emotional journey these days?

The Pussyhat ~ The official hat to wear for the March on Washington.

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Update on 1/20/17:

Today I donated $663 to the ACLU as promised from the sale of pussyhats for the Women’s March on Washington. Thanks for all your purchases! Thanks for helping make this a substantial fund raiser! Thanks for standing up!

I am exhausted from hours of making hats! 🙂 I sold close to 400 pussyhats – of different kinds:  crocheted, upcycled from sweaters, and the fleece version. And I have scheduled a massage for next week. 🙂

My gratitude to you. Godspeed.

 

Join the millions of people standing up for human rights!

I make a crocheted version of the official pussyhat that will be worn by women participating in the Women’s March on Washington on January 21, 2017.

We wear this pussyhat to show our support and solidarity with women (and all people) as we march for our human and civil rights in America – and all over the Planet.

Can’t go to DC that day? No worries, there are marches forming all over America.

Can’t attend a march but want to show your solidarity and support anyway? Wear this hat now and especially on January 21, 2017!

I’m not waiting for January 21st to wear mine. I wear mine every day.

Want your own pussyhat? Who can blame you? They’re awesome, right? Purchase on Etsy.

Guaranteed delivery by regular U.S. mail by January 18, 2017.

10% of profits go to the ACLU.

“This is a HUMAN RIGHTS MARCH… to show our strength, power and courage and demonstrate our disapproval of the new president and his values in a peaceful march. All are welcome. This event is inclusive of all and specifically centers around those who need this support the most: people of color, immigrants, Muslims, the LGBT community, disabled citizens, trans people, and of course women. We are child friendly. “

How Women Routinely Castrate Men.

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A few weeks ago I witnessed something that broke my heart.

A watched and listened as a mom emasculated two preschool boys. I was horrified. They looked unaffected by it, but that made me even sadder, because that told me they are accustomed to it.

I watch emasculation of men happening all the time. And it breaks my heart every time. But this was especially horrible to me, because they were so young. Because even when young, males still need the same things from us, as women, as they do when they are older. They need our trust and appreciation. They need us to allow them to make us happy.

Males just want to make us happy.

I used to blindly emasculate men too, gawd help me. I didn’t know anything different. I never questioned my treatment of men and my beliefs about them as I was growing up, as I was having relationships with them – relationships of all kinds.

This mom was subbing for an absent teacher and therefore didn’t know the usual preschool routine. She came in the office with them and said, “These guys are telling me the recycling goes in here, but I think they’re lying to me.” She looked at me in expectation, expecting me to sympathize with her, to join her in emasculating them.

That’s what we are taught to do, isn’t it, ladies? We are socialized into joining together against males, no matter their age. We are expected to roll our eyes too when women express their disappointment with their man, or men in general.

I wonder if I had a horrified look on my face. I tried to keep it neutral as I defended them, “Of course they aren’t lying! This is where the recycling goes.” I looked at them and smiled, trying to let them know that I trusted them even if she didn’t. In their minds, I didn’t want to be lumped into the classification of adults, and adult women, who treat them so horribly.

Normally they deliver the recycling by themselves without an adult escort. They have been bringing the recycling in all year. Of course they know what they’re doing.

I encouraged them to proceed, but she was not done, apparently, because she insisted on following them, saying, “It can’t go in there! Surely not,” as they were walking to the closet that holds the recycle bin. I may have physically cringed at that, I’m not sure. I was trying to remain calm, but inwardly, I was angry and horrified.

“Yes,” I said as I looked pointedly at her, hoping she would back off, “They know what they are doing.” It continued though, because she followed them into the closet and stood over them as they emptied their full recycle bag into the bin and said, “Are you doing it right?” with disdain in her voice.

I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to cry, and was actually finding it difficult not to.

They were finally done, and I thanked them with smiles and words of appreciation at the successful completion of their usual task, trying to convey my confidence and trust in them. They left, and I let myself cry.

So it begins as soon as they are born, I guess, doesn’t it? In our society (does it happen all over the planet too?), as females, we are taught to emasculate males. We are taught they can’t be trusted to do anything the “right” way. We are taught they are fuck-ups most of the time. We are taught that the emasculation of males is not only okay, it is the norm, and it is expected.

We are also taught to look for their “mistakes”—those times that they don’t do something the way we think they should—and we are taught to emasculate them by pointing it out in the most embarrassing, worst way possible—usually in front of other people. Is this supposed to “put them in their place” somehow? Or teach them to do it the “right” way?

More Ways we Emasculate Men

Rolling our eyes at him and/or his behavior

Not accepting help from him (opening doors, etc.)

Expecting him to think like a woman

Not trusting him

Belittling him for doing things the way he does them (instead of the way a woman would do it)

Not listening

Taking over something and doing it ourselves, because he is not doing it “right” or in the time we think he should

Never letting him win – never letting him make us happy

Not appreciating him for being a man and being himself

Interrupting him when he talks

Interrupting him when he is focused and working

Expecting, and even asking, him to think/act/talk/argue like a woman

Not appreciating those things that make him masculine:  being driven, single-focused, competitive, etc.

Not realizing he is a hero and not treating him like the hero he is

Competing with him instead of trusting him

Making passive aggressive “jokes” about him or his behavior—especially when others are present

Tacitly or openly criticizing him in front of others and attempting to get others to join you in the criticism

Treating him like a child

Not showing our appreciation, love, acceptance

Assume criticism motivates a man when only appreciation will do that

Not Following the Trend

If, as a woman, you decide not to participate in the emasculation of men, you are seen as a traitor. And worse, if you decide to actually defend men, you are seen as the enemy—like men—someone who cannot be trusted.

A couple of years ago, when I began studying men, women and relationships, I came across the mother of all relationship books, The Queen’s Code, by Alison Armstrong. This book represents the results of her research of over 25 years into men, women and relationships. It is presented as a novel, a story, but it really is the compilation of her research.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It should be required reading for everyone—as early as grade school—especially for females.

Those couple of years ago, I took the Queen’s Code vow. I gave up the “right” to emasculate men. Because most women do see it as their right to treat men so horribly, to crush them, to emasculate them. I gave up my right to defend the emasculation of men. I laid down my sarcasm, my distrust, my habits, my self-righteous anger, my sword, my ignorance of men.

I began exploring the idea: What if men actually have a good reason for everything they do and the way they do it? What if the way a woman would do something is not the only fucking way to do something?!?!

The Queen’s Code is a code of honor and a code of conduct. To embrace the code is to embrace men, to embrace their inherent goodness and honesty, to embrace them as teachers, trainers and as the incredible support and providers that they are.

So ladies, I will not join you in emasculating men. I will not roll my eyes at them ever again. I will not tolerate you doing it either. I will leave the conversation. I will defend them. I will treat them with the respect, appreciation and trust they deserve.

And I am angry that those two little men were treated so off-handedly horribly in my office. I am angry that this is the norm. I am angry that no one seems to be offended by this. I am angry that no is paying attention. I am angry that this happens all the time, every day, everywhere. I am angry that that mom has no conscious idea of what she did (and is undoubtedly still doing). I am angry with myself that I spent so much of my life in that same category. I am angry that when I defend men I am treated as a traitor. I am angry at women. I am angry at our society that thinks this is okay. I am angry when I watch a movie or a TV show and see the castration of men by women that passes for humor.

I am angry.

Ladies, let’s give it up. Let’s wise up. Let’s educate ourselves.

Gentlemen, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for being that self-righteous, emasculating, blind, ignorant bitch for so much of my life.

At elephant journal:  Ladies, Let’s Stop Emasculating Men.