Sometimes in life, I find myself hearing or seeing something that reminds me that we are all just connected streams of consciousness.
There I was midway through a stranger's publically posted suicide note, the words of a man I had never met, but in that sentence alone, I felt him so deeply it was as if we were one. I’ve written words that have carried the weight of that sentiment. They’re on my phone, in my notes, in a letter I have to my children called all the things I wish could have been…
I carry a lot of thoughts…
It’s not something I lead with, so there’s never a formal apology. I don’t wander up and down store isles telling people, “I’m poor, please forgive me.”
Though maybe it is… sometimes my anxieties tell me others can trace the stench of poverty right down to my food choices. …
Two months before my senior year began, my mom walked in on me, in the basement of my family home, with my pants down around my ankles.
That day she got a view of my vagina she hadn’t seen since early childhood, and honey, I’ve changed some.
It was really what was behind me, rather pressed …and pushing into me, that was what she soon would take issue with. A man, she didn’t know, yet was quickly getting to know more of, the longer she stood there.
All the same, it set the tone for one very peculiar senior year…
I said, holding my paint brush nursing both my 8 month old son (ask later, motherhood is complex)and a blank canvas.
I just couldn’t.
Or so my brain kept telling me, as it searched for lines, tracings or anything that would dictate whether or not it was “doing a good or bad job”.
Parameters, guidelines, for godsake someone come punish me already for the stroke that I’m just thinking about making because right now I’m already beating myself up for merely thinking about freely moving my hand, guiding that brush around my canvas.
It felt like hours were…
Outside of my healthy appreciation for her swag, her looks, her sense of style *insert drool emoji*
Me: Dude, have you seen Master of None season 3?
To my horror. To my shock. But not my total surprise…
Him: Nah, Lena is on my prohibited watch list
I googled my good attractive sis and found that there seems to be a thread of people who aren’t fucking with her work. Granted, the artist’s life is one of pure subjectivity, WHICH IF YOU WATCHED, she takes us on a poetically shot cinematic expression of just that struggle.
Look, I get it.
Today I am paying gratitude to my masculine shield.
Thank you for my masculine training.
I thank it for the protection that he provided my soft and tender center.
I am thankful to be who I am. Though I wonder, if I was raised soft and not strong who would I have been. Would I have made it? My strong forging a path so my tender could smooth over.
I lay him down with respect and honor; thank you for shielding my quiet, my still place.
Today my true feminine essence is invited to stand in her grace.
I don’t know if I should be belting out Jolene or whoop that trick.
Before you ask, no. I don’t even like him like that — like that
But let us be clear, HE IS MINE.
*long drawn out sigh*
Fine, fine, fine.
She and I aren’t best friends.
At one time, we were friends enough to know quasi intimate detail about each other at one point, we may have had a few kiki moments in college, and there was that one time I paid her to babysit, and I held space for her to talk during a rough patch.
Yes, they’re adorable, and Zola definitely got the assignment in last week's episode, but geeeeezus.
Look, I know what you’re going to say. “They’re kids; they need their mom,” yeah yeah yeah… we get it. Don’t worry; I’m a mom. I have kids; I can say this.
WHAT ABOUT WHAT I NEED?!?!
FUCK THEM, DAMN KIDS.
And for but a few sweet, dreamy blue-eyed moments, Mer did just that. There we were staring blissfully in the eyes of McDreamy, beachside in postmarital bliss, which I’ve not yet personally experienced, but I hear it is a thing. …