Tag: Trauma

Role Play

Role Play

There’s something both extremely blissful and hella chaotic about sitting in absolute silence writing a slew of words down on a page and then repeatedly wiping them all out somewhere around the third or fourth paragraph.

This is how I know with confidence that I’m now a full-time writer.

Not to discount my work on this blog baby of mine (that I’ve woefully neglected for six months now), but I’ve officially entered the realm of being paid to write words now…which has taken me years to muster the courage to do…and now that I’m doing it…I’ve unlocked a place of fulfillment I’ve never known since taking my first job at sixteen.

All that to say I’ve been extremely busy, happier than I’ve ever been professionally, and struggling like a motherfucker financially because I’m not yet established with organizations that pay well. So there’s that.

To briefly recap the rest of 2022 after “the SCOTUS decision”: I wrote a bunch of stories, made a couple of podcast appearances in acknowledgement of my work, did a lot of cool shit, got a lot of free shit, suffered some brutal losses, and pretty much just kept going as per usual.

Okay, that last part was a lie. Nothing about what I was doing last year was “per usual.” In fact, it’s pretty safe to say everything about last year was the very definition of “blowing shit up” when it came to my already relatively unstable life. And I honestly couldn’t be more grateful for it.

Every “expectation” I went into 2022 with went up in flames fairly quickly. Which is generally what happens when one makes expectations so…LOL.

Instead of a stable job, I made a hard pivot into one of the most uncertain career moves a woman in her late forties could make without blinking. And instead of finding myself in a long-term romantic relationship, I ended a nearly four and a half year abstinence streak via the most beautiful one-night stand experience with a man who taught me more about what I want in a relationship in the eight or so hours we spent together than I’ve learned through any man I’ve actually dated (and even some that I hadn’t).

But the thing that really got left behind was any of the fucks I had left to give when it came to being everything to everyone except my damn self.

Now, I’ve been aware for some time that I had a penchant for being a people-pleaser. I’ve mentioned this before in previous posts. It’s the default setting that comes with abandonment issues. Saying “yes” to things and people when I didn’t want to, to keep things copacetic. Never rocking the boat when my work was dismissed, undervalued, or credited to someone else in the spirit of being a “team player.” Being the ear, shoulder, entertainment, counsel and whatever else for folks who drain me energetically, because my desire to be included and avert loneliness from a past life ironically put me in a position where I’d become the fix for the loneliness of others.

In retrospect, living that way was the most surefire way not to have an authentic, fulfilling life of my own design. Because how could I possibly have my own life when I’m constantly answering the call to fit neatly into everyone else’s lives and plans? When am I being myself if I’m always accommodating other people’s whims and versions of who they want and need me to be for their comfort and pleasure?

But last year…and especially last month around my birthday…something snapped.

While one person in particular was offensively egregious, I realized I’d created a persona and an environment where people felt entitled to my time and attention because in the past I’d willingly given it to them to barter acceptance. It wasn’t until I found myself in the ridiculous position of having to explain why I just wanted to be alone on my birthday that I realized I didn’t owe anyone a fucking explanation.

The thing about setting boundaries is it looks like rejection. And after experiencing a traumatic bout of rejection throughout my formative years, I did everything I could to avoid experiencing it and delivering it to others to avoid hurt feelings in my adult life. Hence the people-pleasing default.

What I didn’t realize is how something that would appear well-intentioned on the surface could also be incredibly manipulative and harmful for relationships. Starting with the one within.

There’s the assumption that if you’re doing something nice for someone…even if they never asked you to do it…that person is somehow obligated to be beholden to you. Whenever I found myself feeling mistreated by a job, a friend, or a lover, I’d do inventory of all the things I’d done for them and harbor resentment with the outcome and plead my case to anyone who paid attention instead of actually communicating with the people I felt affronted by (when in reality I overstepped and didn’t know how to navigate the shame of my actions).

It didn’t matter that I’d never exhibited ambition at that job, had very little in common with that friend or was completely incompatible with that lover. What mattered to me was the dopamine fix I got from the validation of being acknowledged for the occasional spurts of grand gestures I made to stay in their good graces and be likable. Just to have something. Anything.

Control.

(If this has struck a nerve, you know there’s work to do.)

And the thing about spending your life avoiding rejection is you limit your ability to learn and grow from an unpleasant experience. To become better at your craft and a better person overall.

I derailed my writing career over two decades ago when I received rejection letters from two editors from two of the top fashion magazines in the world. I was so blinded by the devastation of my submission not being accepted, that I completely glossed over the fact that I’d been sent two hand-signed letters from two heavy-hitters in the fashion world who took time out of their busy schedules to encourage me to keep trying.

My trauma continued to stunt my growth in the many years that followed. Truthfully, it’s only recently occurred to me in the past few years that I could not bring my whole self to anything in this life while I was still broken. And so I needed to become my healer. I’m still doing that work. And I’ll keep doing it until the day I leave this earth because it’s brought me so much peace in a time of utter upheaval.

These days, I understand rejection is just a redirection and embrace it, and have gotten very comfortable with the word “no” being a complete sentence.

Best of all…I’ve gotten most comfortable in the role I was born to play…myself.

It helps that I have an incredible supporting cast who keep me grounded with hard truths and are quick to cancel any pity party I momentarily consider holding when things feel overwhelming, while also understanding and honoring when I need my space to figure my shit out. Something I’ve come to value greatly in my relationships as I get older and have less patience for bullshit.

In spite of it all…I couldn’t have written this chapter of my life any better.

Broke(n)

Broke(n)

Sigh…here we go…

My first abortion was when I was an 18 year-old college freshman. I was with a boy that had had a crush on me since we were in junior high. He was nervous, I was uninterested, it was awkward, it lasted less than five minutes and the condom broke.

I found out when I suddenly became nauseous during one of my classes, and realized it had been awhile since my last period. When the test read “positive,” I was devastated because it felt like everything I was working for to finally have a better life was in jeopardy. I began to think of all the trauma I’d previously endured: The sexual abuse by my cousin when I was four, by my neighbor when I was eight, and by the cousin of a school friend — who my father had taken under his wing because he and his brothers were “at-risk” — when I was ten. Then I cursed my parents and god for their collective lack of protection, and told my adopted mom — a devout christian whose first instinct was to tell me I had to have it — that I was either having an abortion or I was going to kill myself. Once she got on the page, she called my father, who was informed in a single day that his daughter was pregnant, previously abused by multiple boys he trusted and suicidal.

My relationship with my father changed exponentially that day. From then on, we were no longer estranged, although it would take years to repair the damage.

The second time I had an abortion, I was a 20 year-old junior still living at home, and stupidly relented when he protested the use of a condom because “it doesn’t feel the same.” I was still in my people-pleasing phase, and still operated in relationships with a mix of fear and desperation that made me less inclined to set boundaries or factor my own wellbeing and protection. So that night I got pregnant…and chlamydia. I was so riddled with shame I only shared the ordeal with my two closest sister-girlfriends, who helped me take care of both without me ever telling my family (at the time).

The third and final abortion I had was when I was 27 years old and living with a roommate who nearly got us evicted for submitting bounced checks for her portion of the rent. The guy had already been in the proverbial doghouse for trying to coerce me into having a threesome with another girl that also didn’t get previous notice of his plan or give consent.

That last word is important.

After not speaking for months, and definitely because I was single and craving human contact, I agreed to meet with him, and in the midst of “doing the deed”…he removed the condom without my knowledge or…here’s that word again…consent. This time I considered keeping it because I felt guilty going through it again, but he insisted on terminating it and paying for it. I bled all over his bedsheets, ran into him a year later one morning on my way to work when he shouted my name on a crowded subway train, and years later discovered he was friends with one of my cousins on Facebook when we both responded to one of her posts.

It took nearly two decades before I found out there was a name for what he did. It’s called “stealthing,” and it’s a form of sexual assault. I couldn’t catch a break. I’ve only just started telling people that story because it’s my truth and it’s a fucking horrifying cautionary tale.

But back to the subject at hand.

In a perfect word, I never would’ve had them. It was always my intention to never bring a child into the world if I wasn’t married, and the only exception would be if I were rich and able to give that child everything my parents didn’t give me. Those were the only conditions.

I thanked god for every year of the nearly six I spent with a man who physically, emotionally and financially broke me, that mercifully didn’t result in carrying his child. Even though by then I didn’t believe god existed.

Years later I would take my chances again with birth control, after a disastrous first attempt following my first pregnancy led to a hormonal imbalance that resulted in a epic meltdown in a math class. It didn’t prevent me from being assaulted by a partner again, but it did put my mind slightly at ease knowing I wouldn’t have a physical human reminder of that trauma calling me “mom” and expecting me to sacrifice everything to keep them from the same fates.

In the years that I’ve been single and abstinent, I’ve taken it mostly because I still fear being raped again.

And not just by some rando on the street.

Not too long ago, a former colleague joked about slipping me a “roofie.” And although he was reprimanded in real time by our “boss,” that same boss made comments about my breasts, told me once he’d “gotten me a big, Black, African man” (referring to an actor invited to one of our events), and literally said to me after I was pushed out of my job full-time and shifted to a contract role making significantly less money “If you’d just done what we wanted you to do, eventually we would’ve let you do what you wanted.” (He’s since been fired for whatever other nonsense he’s done.)

I had to turn down a job offer because the contract had a clause that said I would have no legal recourse if I were to be physically, mentally and/or emotionally harmed while on the job. I was once told by a coworker I had “child bearing hips.” I was once stalked by a former coworker I went on one date with after I’d gone to work for another company. After telling him I wasn’t interested in another date, he called my house to the point where my family went from screaming at him to stop calling to disconnecting the phone, and then waited outside the front of my office building for seven hours — prompting security to escort me through a private entrance for months after.

I’ve had to rebuild my life and shake off these things…Every. Single. Time.

But I can never fully do that, when time and again, the world…and especially the fucking country I was born in…shows me and the millions of other people who’ve been through their own traumas…that we just aren’t protected. Insisting we acquiesce to the needs, desires and whims of men (and women who enable them) who wish to break us for their pleasure. Because their repressive beliefs dictate they have complete control over everyone and everything. No matter what and who says they don’t.

The only thing I hate more than having experienced the things I have in this lifetime…is the constant trigger of knowing there are people actively making sure I and countless others never have the peace of confidently knowing it can’t and won’t happen again.

With that, it goes without saying that right now I just wanna burn everything to the ground…and rise like a phoenix from the ashes in a world where I can just breathe easy. A world where Clarence Thomas and his seditious wife are serving jail time, instead of him serving on the bench of the highest court in the land.

A world where I can afford to be an ex-pat and live happily ever after.

I wish…

Shameless

Shameless

2022 is moving faster than I’m comfortable with.

As a Sagittarius, the previous sentence makes absolutely no sense and is completely at odds with my core ability to adapt to change at all costs.

Still…as we inch toward the final days of February…everything feels like a big blur, and I personally feel like I’m struggling to keep up.

Within the first seven weeks of the new year, I’ve already experienced the highest of highs that came in the form of a fun and family-filled weekend attending the best wedding ever, and the lowest of lows in the form of receiving an offer for what seemed like a great career opportunity…only to discover it was attached to an absolutely trash list of conditions that had more red flags than the Beijing Olympics. Somewhere in between, there’ve also been like three different seasons happening concurrently in New York. And there was a big football game that ran during a concert that made me feel exhilarated, nostalgic, conflicted (because half of the lineup have either assaulted women in the past or have songs about killing a spouse)…and old. The next day, people were professing their love for each other all over the internet, and I made chicken noodle soup and watched a mediocre 80s movie.

Wild times, I tell ya.

Needless to say, I welcomed the possibility of a chill long weekend catching up with some of my favorite people enthusiastically. A fun Friday night dinner chatting and laughing for several hours. A soul-filling Saturday brunch, followed by walks through Highline Park and the Whitney Museum. And then, a surprising Sunday phone conversation that had me doubled over in laughter one moment, then devastated the next as I made an almost heartbreaking realization that left me unexpectedly reeling long after the call ended.

Lemme preface by saying first that the person on the other end of that call had absolutely zero intentions of throwing me off-kilter, and has no idea that my world was rocked by a lighthearted joke that segued into a commentary on experiencing love without fear.

Now that I’ve added that disclaimer, lemme hit you with the context: In the midst of recapping my weekend, he made a joke about one of my friends having a name that also happens to be the name of a party drug. Strangely, in my forty-six years of life I’ve somehow managed to never have that experience, and found the joke hilarious. As one does, I asked if he’d done it, and while I wasn’t surprised by his answer, I wasn’t expecting what came next. He described the feeling in such a way that I was intrigued, but when he mentioned he’d done it with someone he was in love with at the time, and it made that feeling of being in love “better,” I felt a punch in my heart. I was jealous. I’d never in my life had that feeling — of being in love fearlessly and living freely in the moment with someone who loved me back. I didn’t know it at the time I was processing this new information. In fact, my first response was curiosity about how it made things better, which led to a whole conversation about honesty and expressing oneself in a relationship, because in my mind I felt the drug was just allowing him to be someone he couldn’t when he was sober. I was projecting, and I needed to understand why so I could identify the feeling. When I realized why, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

All of my romantic relationships have been saddled with shame. Full stop. ALL. OF. THEM.

When I wasn’t worried about being abandoned or sexually assaulted, I worried whether someone would consider me “spoiled” because I’d been both. I was ashamed of my past and feared it deemed me unworthy of anything real. I never considered myself pretty, or interesting or sufficiently “feminine” (whatever the fuck that meant to me at the time), like most of the girls I saw who had boyfriends who turned into husbands and life partners who adored them and gave them the world. I was ashamed of my financial situation and my lack of stylish clothes and lifestyle that would appeal to certain men.

So I accepted whatever shitty offer I got because I didn’t think I deserved better, went through the new shame of being in inauthentic, unsatisfying, loveless, unrequited and abusive situations and robbed myself of joy in the process. That pattern stayed with me throughout every aspect of my existence, including friendships and even my work life. In retrospect, I can safely ascertain that the first 40 years of my life were toxic AF. Then, I lost the love of my life (my father died), I dropped over 230 pounds (dumped my then-boyfriend), and drastically shifted gears (went to therapy). It hasn’t been smooth sailing, but it’s been exponentially better.

How do I know this for sure? Well…I think the fact that I walked away from a six-figure job because it required me signing away my rights and legal protection from a bunch of egregious demands is a start.

There was a time when I would be uncomfortable around people who had the confidence to ask for what they wanted, who were bold, knew their value and demanded to be treated and compensated fairly and according to what they felt they were worth and deserved. I felt there was an arrogance about them and I resented it. I didn’t understand how limiting that frame of thinking was.

Fast forward…the thoughts that kept me stuck now horrify me — as I see and hear them being used politically to deny people basic human rights and fair treatment and wages.

For so long, I’ve mistaken being shameless as something that only causes embarrassment and potential harm to others. That’s not to say that it can’t be those things. But now, I see that it’s also a freeing feeling; one where you can be unapologetically yourself, in all your imperfect and vulnerable glory, and aren’t tethered to thoughts and fears of whether or not you’re worthy of being loved, accepted and enough.

Because you already know you are…by YOU.

To me, that’s the greatest high of all.

Now…lemme get back to trying to get my shit together. I may be steadier than I’ve ever been, but I still gotta keep the wheels from flying off this bullet train of a year.

Choosing Joy

Choosing Joy

I have a confession to make…

For the past several weeks, I have gone back and forth with this draft — starting and stopping, writing a mass jumble of words and then promptly deleting them in bulk — struggling to figure out what to say that matched how I felt about the title.

The only thing that never changed…was the title.

When I first thought about writing this post, I was fresh off of spending a long and soul-nourishing weekend in Philadelphia with my family celebrating my cousin’s Bridal Shower, where we gathered for the first time in nearly two years to eat a lot, drink even more, and talk, cry and laugh until the wee hours of the morning while watching old classic movies. The theme came to mind for two reasons: the first being that the Bride-to-be’s mother, my rock and forever muse, famously lives by the mantra “choose joy,” and secondly, because the shower fell on the 20th anniversary of the largest terrorist attack in the history of my home city (and the country), and rather than be there and/or on social media recounting the horrors of that day…I chose to bask in the joyous promise of another day filled with love.

The next time I opened up this draft, I’d just wrapped another fun weekend, during which I officially solidified my “middle-aged cosplayer” status by (appropriately) dressing up as “Sister Night” (Regina King’s character in the HBO series “Watchmen”) and walking on the Halloween Parade route for the first time in my four-and-a-half-decade-long life. It was a much-needed moment of frivolity after a hectic season of work stress, and it was also the first time I’d put serious time and effort into the whole costume-finding and fitting process, and it was totally fucking worth it because I looked AMAZING.

And the most recent attempt to speak on choosing joy happened last week, when I was actually in the midst of a very real struggle to find it…after receiving a message and news that reopened the still-deep wounds surrounding my biological mother and her family. I was forced to acknowledge that there still lived within me the little girl waiting for an apology or admission of wrongdoing that caused decades of unspeakable trauma and shame. I realized I’d deliberately entered into digital “social contracts” with members of a family I’d held long resentments toward because I was still craving the remorse, respect, protection, redemption, understanding and nurturing that eluded me during the years my father and I campaigned for it to no avail. Even worse, anytime I considered severing the ties, a wave of guilt rushed over me, because I didn’t want the narrative that I was “the bad daughter/niece/cousin/person” being my story in their eyes without knowing my true story. The moment I realized I was once again prioritizing the needs and perceptions of others over my own peace…I hit “delete” and slept like a baby.

So what the hell inspired me to finally hunker down and dive into this post? Oddly…Adele’s new album and the Kyle Rittenhouse verdict.

Yes, that combination is weird AF to attribute to anything relating to joy: Adele — Queen of soulful, gut-wrenching ballads that inspire endless crying jags — and a teenage white terrorist who murdered two people and injured a third who were protesting the mistreatment of Black people, when his mommy drove him across state lines with an gun he was too young to possess…getting acquitted after a blatantly racist and biased judge tossed the only charge that was a lock for conviction.

Neither of those subjects immediately spark joy.

That said, in the case of Adele’s album, “30” (which honestly blows my damn mind because even though she’s technically now thirty-three, she’s still leaps and bounds ahead of where I was at that age — but then I didn’t have her pipes or the war chest of loot she’s amassed from it over the years to get quality therapy and enough real estate to ensure I’m left alone to heal properly), I went in expecting to cry (which I did) and ended up marveling at the growth and the clearly more confident and happier artist who bared every inch of her soul and released a goddamn MASTERPIECE in the process. Four listens later, and I feel like I’m celebrating a friend getting through a really tough time and ending up in a situation much better than the one she was scared to walk away from. And frankly, I can relate and still find motivation to never second-guess my gut (a habit I fall back into when fear grips me).

In the case of Rittenhouse, I simply chose not to spiral into the abyss that usually awaits me when news stories like this happen. And not because I’m numb to it. It’s the exact opposite. My first thoughts were of all the young, unarmed Black boys like Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice and too many others to contain in a single paragraph, who were gunned down walking home or playing with a toy gun or just existing, only to further have their characters assassinated by a biased justice system and media — resulting in their killers walking free and getting lucrative opportunities as a reward for their crimes. The writing was on the wall each passing day of that farce of a trial. The outcome was inevitable.

So after giving myself a block of time to drop a bunch of F-bombs, think about Kalief Browder — who sat in one of the most notorious jails for THREE YEARS without a trial, and suffered traumatic abuse for allegedly stealing a fucking backpack, before finally being released and committing suicide — and the Black women who were ordered to serve jail time for mistakenly attempting to vote after a felony and using a false address to get her child in a better school…I logged off and actively sought subjects that would make my heart smile. If only for a moment.

Because this world can be the thief of our joy if we let it. Because there are people who just can’t stand to see others happy and at peace if they aren’t. Because Black joy has been weaponized in the eyes of people who’ve set their sights on banning our stories and books about our lives, taking away our rights and abilities to vote for the people we want advocating for us legislatively, policing our hair and bodies, our sexuality, our expression of identity and rage, and controlling our ability to thrive and benefit professionally and financially from systems that have given them the money and influence to shift the balance of power in their favor…Every. Single. Time.

And sooo…today reminded me both how important choosing joy is to healing and living a limitless life of my own design, and why it’s especially important to choose it in times when the heaviness of it all can challenge and destroy my will to move forward.

With that, I’ll end this post that seemed overdue but was right on time…because I have a “date” with Andy Warhol at the Brooklyn Museum in a few hours, and just thinking about walking around a museum on a Saturday visually soaking up incredible works of art brings me joy.

May you choose, protect and advocate for your joy in these times…at all times. (And not just because the holidays are here and that’s the overarching theme.) We need it year-round, y’all.

Peace and Love,

L

Identity Heft

Identity Heft

Etymologically speaking, “a walk in the park” is supposedly an easy thing to do.

Therefore, it came as a complete surprise to me yesterday, when I could barely make my first lap around the nearby park before needing to retreat to the nearest bench in an attempt to shake off a sudden pain that hit me on the right side of my back.

Initially, my first thoughts turned to aging, as it tends to do these days because perimenopause is menacingly real and unsexy. Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and understood that even though I walked out of my apartment with nothing but my keys and photo ID in case the cops need to identify my body…I was carrying something heavy.

The week started awful, with me learning as I sat in an airport on my way home from a bittersweet but much-needed getaway that one of my elder cousins lost both her daughter and grandson (who was a father of six) within days of each other at the same hospital in their hometown. Instantly, a wave of guilt rushed in because I’d lost touch with that portion of my family, and didn’t know how to respond…or if I should. Learning the circumstances of both deaths from another cousin only exacerbated the feeling.

My father had always been the family connector; the one who called and drove or flew to every state and family member, and this was his first cousin and her immediate family who had now suffered two devastating back-to-back losses I could never imagine. By contrast, I’ve lived and operated as an only child with limited family engagement for most of my life — gravitating only to specific family members I spent the most time with due to our proximity to each other in age and/or geographical location, and used Facebook to monitor the rest (hence how I learned of the tragedies). It’s moments like these that remind me just how isolated I’ve been to the point of being my own island, and it’s honestly something I’ve begun taking stock of as I grow older and less likely to have a family of my own.

So when I entered the park on that gorgeous sunny day, and saw multiple family gatherings taking place…it didn’t just remind me that I didn’t have a life filled with many of those moments and connections, it became clear to me just how defining those moments are in shaping the people we become.

I’ve always been in awe of and envied people who had solid family and community foundations that encouraged and motivated them to become highly functioning members of society. I get weepy when I watch movies like “In The Heights,” with its message of pride in family, community and cultural heritage. (Same with assorted Asian movies where the young protagonist grapples with coming of age and walking the fine line between self-actualization and preserving constrictive traditions for parental and elder approval.) I grew up in a Queens suburb where my predominantly Black and Caribbean neighbors were more interested in what you had for their own gain, than in collectively thriving as a community. As a child, I’d spend summers in Georgia being ridiculed for my New York accent, and often singled-out for my “big city” behavior. (Interestingly, I now slip into a twang when I touch down in the south, or am speaking to certain members of my family — something I’ve also done unconsciously when speaking to British and Hasidic clients in my past work life when, in retrospect, I wanted them to feel at ease.)

For the longest time, I’ve had trouble identifying and defining who I truly am and what I want in this life. Having no one around to help me figure it out only made me feel more aimless and alone. I often joke about being “raised by wolves,” because unlike my peers, I wasn’t taught how to cook traditional meals (or any – I wing it), how to drive, the importance of investing in things like stocks and real estate, or any particular set of life skills that might’ve made me more of a (human) force, and less of a person who happens to have a shit ton of life experiences that equate to zero tangible assets to show for any of them but a lot of interesting stories and billable hours in therapy. I’ve also never spent any of my formative years being schooled on my family heritage, being exposed to long-term healthy relationships or celebrating holidays like Kwanzaa and Juneteenth…and am only playing catchup on the significance of it all.

Which is why it surprised me that I’d become more protective of my Blackness — and the culture in general — in recent years, considering the bulk of my traumatic experiences came from my own people. That I’ve taken up advocating for people of color to take up spaces in the corporate world when I go mostly ignored by them in the real world unless I have something that benefits them is…something I’m working through. That, and being violently triggered when someone makes decisions on my behalf without my input and/or consent.

These thoughts are too heavy.

One of the many things I’ve learned in this life is that hurt people hurt people…until they do the work to become healed people. And there are gonna be days when it’s hard to not take shit personally, but I cannot and will not continue to let the actions of a few keep me from opening my heart to being and doing better for others and myself. Especially when the end result is authentic love, connection and peace. It’s a lesson I’ll be taking into consideration as I attempt to find the words to comfort grieving relatives and, eventually, find something more.

I’m still insecure when it comes to knowing my true purpose and direction in life (note: I know what it is, the imposter syndrome just hits different), but I’m confident that I’ve built enough of a foundation over the last few years with a circle who genuinely want the best for me and will quickly jump in to make sure I stay out of my own way. I’m blessed to have a support system that celebrates my wins, comfort me through my losses and give me strength on days when I falter and think I can’t make it. They remind me who I am when I tend to forget. Nothing fills me more than being able to do the same for them in return.

I guess, in a way, that does make me my father’s daughter. That’s a good place to start…

I’m rambling…but my back feels better now.

The Mother Load

The Mother Load

Full (moon) disclosure: There’s a good chance I may go all over the place with my thoughts in this post (more so than usual).

Last night, I went outside to gaze at the supermoon, came in and watched “Avengers: Endgame” for the umpteenth time, and realized I hadn’t done a post to mark the occasion of starting this quiet little blog a whole decade ago!

Spoiler alert: I’m still not (technically) gonna do one.

However long you’ve been rockin’ with this sporadic, occasionally depressing, hopefully insightful and always a tad batshit crazy home of my musings — please know that I am truly grateful to you for generously indulging me. It is my hope that you’ve left this page at times feeling enlightened, optimistic, more vulnerable and/or mildly amused. It is also my hope that you’ve spread the word so others might feel the same.

Maybe you’ve gained perspective in areas you never considered. Maybe some of my stories resonated and made you feel seen or heard. Maybe you, too, have embraced therapy. Or meditation. Or skydiving. Or tragicomical sexcapades with lanky/sketchy Cuban poets or semi-famous narcissistic actors. Or obsessively playing the “Hamilton” soundtrack ad nauseam. Or indulgent self-care rituals. (I’d like to delude myself in thinking there’s something here for everyone.)

When I began this blog, I was reeling from a season of change I wasn’t mentally prepared for and desperately needed an outlet to escape. I was struggling to find full-time work after being laid off from a lucrative job a year earlier, was fresh out of a nearly six-yearlong relationship that had grown abusive (subsequently becoming homeless as a result), and my father had been diagnosed with dementia and early-onset alzheimer’s — setting off a domino effect of health, legal, financial and family drama aplenty for years to come. To say that writing about things as innocuous as baseball game proposals and bridge comparisons provided an unlikely balm at the time was an understatement.

Ten years later, this little blog is where the façade gets stripped. And I love it.

Which brings me to a subject I haven’t really been keen to delve into because up until now I didn’t realize it was such a pain point but whew lawd is it ever!

As April comes to a close, it brings with it more than a slew of Taurus folks reminding me that I need to get my life in order and that my birthstone is trash. It also brings the ominous (for me, at least) reckoning that is Mother’s Day; the one day out of the year where I pretend to be engaged by doling out airy tributes to the moms in my life, acutely aware of my personal views on motherhood, and having come to grips with the fact that my relationship with my own biological mother is nonexistent at my behest.

For years, I’ve grappled with a host of feelings when it came to my biological mother: The classic default of hurt/angry with her for behavior that could clinically be construed as negligent/abandonment. Guilty for the last words I ever said to her nearly five years ago at my father’s funeral, after she repeatedly hit me with a program bearing my father’s face for “not getting her joke.” Sad for her because her inability to see beyond her own experiences and narrative has impaired and/or destroyed any real chance of healing or connection with me and anyone else that just got tired of trying and repeatedly failing to be heard.

And yes, I’m cognizant of the disconnect that comes with using the term “biological,” although it’s not as loaded as it’s just simply my truth. Another woman raised me. To me, she’s my mother. Simple math.

But even armed with those basic facts, I never dug into the emotional ramifications of that equation. Never paid attention to how I internalized that anger. Never noticed how during the rare visits in my youth, she’d find opportunities to insult my father, who never spoke ill of her, made countless efforts to ensure she and her family were kept abreast of my whereabouts and supported various members when they were in need decades after they had divorced. (Admittedly a bad husband, but an undeniably good — albeit flawed — man.) Also never picked up on her habit of assuming the victim role and shirking accountability when she made terrible — and often detrimental — life choices.

If I had…I would have noticed sooner that I’d become the very person I’d vowed to never become…at one point basing my decision to not have children on the fear that I’d one day replicate her actions.

Strangely, realizing I was an asshole was quite a refreshing revelation.

After unpacking how my approach to life and relationships was shaped (distorted?) by the fears, resentments, traumas and biases of both my biological and adopted mothers, I began looking at my past romantic relationships and realized there was a common thread: All of my long-term relationships had been with men who held deep resentments toward their mothers as well. One was angry that his mother brought him to America, forcing him to leave his life and friends across the pond behind…glossing over the fact that she was fleeing a violent marriage. One was none-too-pleased that his younger, fairer-skinned brother got more attention than he did growing up. One literally blacked out talking about how his mother would take his deceased father’s social security money and give it to his younger brother for clothes and sneaker shopping, while he was supporting himself through college (even though they did not share the same father). All of them at one point had assumed the role of “man of the house” and financially supported them in their adult life to the point of straining themselves fiscally to maintain the appearance of being the “good son” and keep the desired approval/love of their mothers.

Unsurprisingly, all of them thought money, status and material belongings were the remedy for the huge emotional voids they couldn’t fill. And all had massive control issues.

And as simultaneously heartbreaking and terrifying as that revelation is, it’s not an anomaly. There are SO MANY mothers who are unwittingly hobbling their child’s ability to have healthy relationships and even function as emotionally stable adults. Hell, without even realizing it, I had preternaturally doomed my children to the point where I didn’t even bother having any, so I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like being a woman who puts the weight of her world onto the shoulders of her child because her heart is broken to the point where she makes her happiness and dream fulfillment the priority and responsibility of that child.

Actually, I can and just did. It’s shitty.

I think about that when I hear stories of single mothers pushing their sons to be pro athletes in dangerous but lucrative sports without encouraging them to also have an education and a post-retirement business plan. I think of that when I see stage moms who aggressively force their children into entertainment without their consent. I think of that when I hear stories of women who knew their partners were abusing their kids but didn’t want to lose whatever stability that partner provided, and instead took their frustrations out on the child and abused them more.

I think of women who resent when the child gets more attention than them and ignore or put down their dreams and achievements. I think of women who can’t recover when the child is a physical reminder of the man who brought them pain and, by default, punishes them for it. I think of women who mistakenly believe that withholding words of encouragement and praise will make their kids “stronger.” I think of women who use threats and violence to intimidate their child into meeting their expectations instead of talking to them. I think of women who don’t communicate their needs, fears and desires, who risk sending their kids a message that their needs, fears and desires aren’t valid or worthy of attention, fulfillment and care. I think of all these very-real scenarios…and of the future adults walking around feeling unworthy, unloved, unable to express or process emotions and conflict…afraid to communicate what they require and be vulnerable, authentic, joyful and free as a result.

And it’s soul crushing…in addition to generating way too many red flags to keep track of before swearing off dating/mating for life.

I’d be remiss if I left out the women who inadvertently raise dangerously entitled humans because they fear being labeled a bad mother. They may not be scarring the kids for life, but they sure as hell are making them difficult to deal with in society, which may scar the rest of us.

That said, I know some amazing women who have raised some incredible human beings. I understand it’s no small feat, and it often takes a village. And without the support of a partner and/or friends and family who are equally invested in making sure everyone is functioning on their highest level, things absolutely, inevitably, fall through the cracks.

To them, I say with all sincerity: You deserve your flowers. And the spa days. And the occasional vice-infused getaway. You deserve all the things.

I’ll just close this epic tome by saying that in the thirteen hours since writing the bulk of these words (I was too sleepy to edit and post earlier), I’ve since discovered that Oprah released a new book today pretty much touching on this fun subject, so I’m just gonna take that as a sign I’m on the right path and learned something good over this past decade, and perhaps this is where my generational curse ends.

Also, I’m literally on the same page as Oprah, and I haven’t decided yet if that’s a flex or if I’m about to get cussed out again by the people who keep telling me to write a book already.

Motherfucker.

Wish You Were Here

Wish You Were Here

This week has been a lot.

Yesterday, I woke up, sat up in bed, took a breath and a swig of water and…just…cried.

Then I got up, made the bed, opened the curtains and — minutes later — found myself standing in the kitchen as a strange wave of relief came over me that I didn’t have children.

Just the day before, I momentarily cursed this fact, as I reckoned with the tax penalties I now faced as a single woman entering a full year of being self-employed(ish). The rare other times I’d second-guess this choice, I’d been disabled after breaking my ankle, and perhaps at some point last year when I was cautious about leaving home to get food and other necessities.

But less than 24 hours later, I was once again firmly in my childfree stance, except with a new and morbid perspective.

What was first a personal choice that was part remnants of parental resentments and traumas and part outcome of not being in a healthy, committed marriage/partnership in the years I was open to motherhood, has suddenly morphed into a selfish desire to not experience the devastation of potentially losing that child violently because of someone else’s ignorance.

As unapologetic as I’ve become with my life choices as of late, I admit I momentarily grappled with these thoughts, until learning soon after that I wasn’t alone in having them. That the person who shared this view is something of a motherlike figure to folks, as I’ve been in the past, has eased my mind on this position.

I’m no stranger to loss. In the four-and-half decades I’ve been on this earth, I’ve lost a great deal: Jobs, homes, life savings, family, friends, lovers, dignity, sense of security, self-control and — occasionally — the will to continue and do it all over again another day. And yet, here I am.

In theory, I’m a fucking phoenix. Or Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day,” depending on your perspective.

But the one consistent thing about all that loss is it was mine, alone, and at most points I absolutely had control over my narrative, even when I had no control over the overall outcomes (and even when I didn’t think so at the time). Either I made bad choices personally, or made bad judgements to trust others on my behalf who ultimately didn’t have my best interests at heart. Lessons were learned, and in time I moved on and quietly started over.

Now, imagine the precise opposite of that happening as the result of losing a child as the world watches on their screens. Having to process the horror of losing a human you brought into the world. Losing them violently because of the color of their skin and by the hands of the very people whose job ostensibly is to protect and serve everyone. Not being able to fully grieve because your life and your child’s lost life has now become a public symbol of something even more horrific. Then, the media joins their murderers and millions of strangers in creating and pushing a narrative to justify taking their life. You’re now propelled into a spotlight you never asked to be in as your head still swirls with questions that need answers. Protests and marches and movements you might have empathized with before from afar but are now intrinsically attached to are happening in places you’ve never been. Strangers are risking their safety in the name of your child. Hashtags, social posts, shrines, news show segments, song lyrics, murals, propaganda, forums and thought pieces…all in the name of your child.

Your. Child.

No matter what the circumstances…THAT IS TOO FUCKING MUCH TO BEAR AND ENDURE.

As much as I understand the idea, spiritually, that tragedy can serve as a catalyst for moments that reach far beyond the scope of our individual stories, history has shown us those moments come at tremendous costs. And at this moment, I’m emotionally spent.

I also understand many, MANY other people, have lost other types of loved ones, and they have also been unwittingly thrust into the same experiences. My heart aches for them as well.

But I’ll NEVER understand why this keeps happening. Why legacies are erased in the blink of an eye and the nervous twitch of a hand. Why hate and fear are on surplus, but love, kindness and acceptance are scarce. Why common sense isn’t so common in places and spaces where ignorance is lucrative and rewarded. Why power and control remains so dangerously addictive to and within the grasp of people who should never have it.

To the countless parents, partners, families and others who’ve lost loved ones to senseless violence…I wish you’d get answers, justice and most importantly, peace.

To the warriors fighting for social justice…I wish for the day to come when the fight is no longer needed.

To the bad-acting cops and people, politicians and pundits who continue to protect them and justify extinguishing promising futures based on your biases…I wish you could see our humanity the same way you see it in the monsters who commit mass murders.

To the folks who stay silent because they fear “rocking the boat” in their circles…I wish you had the courage to speak up.

To the courts…I wish you played fair.

To my fellow empaths…I wish we had better coping mechanisms in place this week.

To America…I wish we could truly have liberty and justice for all.

And to the innumerable names — said and unsaid — taken from us too soon…I wish you were here.

This week has been a lot.

All Things Considered

All Things Considered

Oh, hey there…thanks for stopping by!

I realize it’s been seven months since my last post. But honestly, I’ve just been trying to keep my shit together; navigating life during a pandemic while the country was reaching extinction under the rule of a wanna-be autocrat and his equally vile sycophants in Congress.

Which means occasionally battling bouts of cabin fever and crippling depression, while finding pockets of joy-inducing moments like zoom meditations, and phone calls with my family and friends and celebrating milestones like being in my apartment for two years and being happily single and celibate for three. And when I wasn’t taking the capabilities of my eyesight and body for granted by spending hours looking at spreadsheets, PowerPoint decks and Word docs on decreasing hours of sleep — powered by granola bars, trail mix and green tea — to keep the aforementioned apartment, I was rage-posting relatable missives on social media and reminding everyone I know about voting in every election happening in 2020. And then Clubhouse happened.

So, for what it’s worth…I’m fucking tired.

Somewhere around December — either just after my birthday or just before Christmas — I crashed like a laptop during mercury retrograde. I’d wrapped all my work projects for the year, and all I wanted, and desperately needed, was a vacation. I wanted to spend Christmas in Philly with my family, and fly someplace warm and ring in the New Year by an ocean or in New Orleans or ANYWHERE.

But the way my bank account and this pandemic is set up, the most exotic place I was going was Trader Joe’s.

So I spent Christmas day doing laundry and wiping down the blinds in my bedroom until a video of my cousin in Philly getting engaged arrived in my phone and prompted me to burst into tears. (Yes, of course I finished the blinds. I just needed a moment!) Days later, I woke up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line — in the freezing rain — at CityMD for an hour to get my nose swabbed so I could adhere to the stringent-yet-practical guidelines my friend had for a small group of us to finally put 2020 to rest, nail the casket shut and shoot it with fire arrows, before welcoming the year 2021 with cautious optimism.

You could imagine the shock and awe that it failed to come in as peacefully as we’d hoped…

On the 6th day of this new year, I watched with bloodshot eyes (the side-effect of constantly refreshing the results of the Georgia runoffs until the wee hours) as a bunch of unhinged, mostly white, mostly bigoted, all grossly misinformed and badly-intentioned people stormed the United States Capitol. Just typing that sentence is surreal to me. And what I saw in those terrifying hours was more punctuated by what I didn’t see.

I didn’t see aggressive cops ramming through crowds with theirs shields or their vehicles. I didn’t see heavy usage of tear gas, rubber bullets, or excessive force with batons. I didn’t see military-grade weapons on the side protecting the elected officials. I saw them on the “rioters,” who also had zip-ties, maps of the building and carried flags bearing allegiance to the confederacy and the man who ostensibly should’ve been removed from the presidency many crimes ago who egged them on.

Then I saw most of them go home…safely. Then I watched over the course of the days and weeks that followed as politicians and pundits who perpetuated the lies that fueled the insurrection played duck-and-cover all over the news cycle and social media and then double-down on their deadly and divisive stances. Then I watched them blame Black Lives Matter and incredulously attempt to equate people protesting the death, brutality and biased treatment of people of color, to people who want to continue that behavior without consequences and profit in the process.

Now, I’m a New Yorker in my mid-forties, so I’ve seen and lived through a lot of shit. But this was next level insane. And I wish that that’s where the crazy ended.

And yet…here we are…three weeks later…and not only did that psychopath get to serve out the remainder of his term, he still has the unwavering support of millions of people — including many members of congress who have no intentions of holding him or themselves accountable for nearly killing their colleagues. EVEN AFTER A YEAR OF LETTING A DEADLY VIRUS RUN AMOK TO THE DETRIMENT OF LOSING NEARLY HALF A MILLION AMERICAN LIVES AND COUNTLESS JOBS, LIVELIHOODS AND A SOLID ECONOMIC STANDING.

More sentences I can’t believe I’m writing.

And while last week’s inauguration and the actions that have followed from the new administration has given me a hope that has sorely been removed these past four years, I’m armed with the trauma of knowing history, and having had personal experience with entitled and abusive narcissists. As long as they have enablers and continue to go without punishment or accountability…history is doomed to repeat itself.

And that gives me a feeling directly in conflict with hope. It gives me the kind of rage that would put me on a watch list just for having these thoughts while Black.

And it makes me think of my ancestors before me, who were forced to accept the terms of terrorists or meet violent fates. And then I think of the people who live in countries ruled by actual dictators in real time, and try to tell myself that we got off easy, for now, and should breathe a sigh of relief that it could’ve been worse.

But none of that thinking sits right.

I think, no, I know, from experience that this all just feels like one day you’ll show up to a family gathering and be urged to “be nice” to the cousin who raped you when you were four. Or your friend’s party, where the ex who nearly strangled the life out of you wants to chat about your dead father and the whereabouts of the military jacket he was hoping to get from him. Or the other ex who also raped you, ignored your needs and called you names insisting on being friends. (Obviously, “you” is me, and all of these things actually happened in real life, so I’m absolutely projecting because there is literally no fucking difference between these scenarios and what’s being asked of us right now by the folks calling for “unity.”)

And I get it: It’s not easy unlearning beliefs you’ve been ingrained with since birth. It must feel like something is being stripped away from your identity, your legacy and your personal capital when people you don’t identify with insist they are entitled to the same benefits you’ve enjoyed for centuries. It must be confusing when those same people ask to be treated with respect, but other actors from their group berate your culture, assume you’re lacking in various skill-sets and emotional intelligence based on the color of your skin and/or because of how and where you were raised, instead of getting to know you and take an opportunity to learn that you have shared values. It must be even more frustrating when those same cultures are so brazenly proud of their own history and achievements to the point where you feel threatened their traditions and accomplishments will outshine yours and push them to the brink of obscurity. It’s scary stuff.

See what I did there?

As much as I’d love for Joe and Kamala and their beautiful rainbow administration to save us, I’m all too painfully aware that it ain’t gonna happen until we’re ready to save ourselves. That we’re all firmly ensconced in both physical and metaphorical bubbles makes the task just a skosh more difficult to take on. We can’t even agree to collectively wear masks and keep each other out of harm’s way for the sake of our loved ones. Asking us to give up our way of life and step — no, leap — out of our comfort zones to establish collective understanding, compassion and healthy, mutually beneficial outcomes is a bridge too far.

…Or is it?

All I know right now is I miss hugs, my family, live music, losing my breath and myself in beautiful art and moments, dancing with friends and strangers and getting plastered after drinking fruity cocktails all day at all-inclusive resorts in the caribbean and chatting up folks from all over the globe. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to think like this in the grand scheme of things, but I really have lost all the fucks and a number of family members along the way to this cruel and unnecessary plague.

So forgive me if I don’t harp on the gratitude I have for the time I’ve had to dabble in recipes, introspection, self-employment and horticulture.

I’ve been doing that for 10 months.

Let me have this.

Please.