from the fifth

day 5: what is something you need to start saying "yes" to?

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     My natural inclination is to be cynical. Ugh, it feels so fuckin' good. You ever just shoot down conspiracy theories, religious ideologies, or an obviously bullshit story a man is telling? Invigorating is an understatement. It warms my tummy.

     Like everything in me life, I take this entirely too far sometimes. Okay, often. When it comes to my own self-lovery or progress, this is not helpful in the slightest. Because I dream big. I always have some sort of goal in mind and I want to be better. So the voice I've conditioned to keep the world humble and static thrives on whispering in my ear, "You can't and you won't." Sometimes it be your own people...

     I need to start saying yes to the possibilities the Universe offers me because there are plenty. And I've been eager to sabotage them hoes and stiff-arm any semblance of opportunity the last eight years. Not only am I exhausted but I want to stop swimming in this fish bowl I've confined myself to and experience a flourishing life that I'm proud of. And I think that three letter word might be the key.

for the fourth

 day 4: what is a compliment that you struggle to accept about yourself?

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      Oh, riiiiight. I knew it would be something physical. Internal traits can be strengthened and learned and adapted for the free, but some big moolah is needed to alter one's appearance. I mean, there's exercise and waist trainers and push-up bras and fajas and false eyelashes and airbrushed foundation and hair extensions and and and unlimited products to give the illusion we are the most polished version of ourselves. I haven't even tapped into the rhinoplasty, liposuction, Brazilian butt lifts, fat grafting, lip fillers, abdominoplasty, augmentation mammoplasty, brow lifts segment of our broadcast day. Those are the more invasive procedures women (and some men) fantasize about. The last frontier to enhance their self-esteem and inevitably lead them down the path of superficial enlightenment and love and peace and harmony.

      And that's not facetious. Rest assure, considering I, too, am an American and fall into this category of delusional romantics who hopes to one day be able to afford at least three of these operations (you have to guess which ones). I think of them often and how catalytic it will be to reach the pinnacle of pulchritude.

      It's important to note the history of Western beauty standards as its effects are far-reaching. Up until the late 90s the epitome of attractiveness was porcelain-white skin with a narrow nose, flat stomach, and thin lips. Bonus points for blue/green eyes and blonde hair. When I was younger and lived in a city of 85,896 people, I fit in. Being mixed, my naturally tan skin and arrogant attitude blended well in the sea of blunt Mexican girls, outgoing Black kids, and the quirky whites. Diversity was all we knew.

      Moving to the town with a population of 231 initiated the self-consciousness I developed and nurtured all these years. When the school sample size is 75 students and you aren't desirable to anyone except the racist farm kid who wears Wrangler jeans every day, that'll humble your ass real quick. But watching the mesmerizing guy you adore ask your best friend (who fits the Western beauty standards) to school dances leads you to stare in the mirror late at night wondering what's not appealing about your eyes or skin or hips or hair. And then just repeat that for four years.

      Only after I transferred to a high school in the city of 6,000 people for my senior year did I start receiving the attention I once knew all those years before. By that time it was too late. The seed was planted. I'd sabotage relationships and wade in my pool of discomfort and slap down any remark that attempted to relay: you're beautiful.

      A part of me doesn't even appreciate this compliment. You know why? I didn't mold me. I have no control over my metabolism nor the amount of melanocytes in my epidermis nor the texture of my hair. I have huge issues with being commended for something that is innately out of my control. Similarly, this outer human suit degrades over time. The same young hottie my man fell in love with will one day be a wrinkly, creaky, vaguely familiar husk of a woman. I don't associate this with negativity; it's merely the facts. What will remain, however, is this boisterous, introspective, curious, eclectic, man-eating aura I carry with me everywhere I go.

      Last... I'm at the ripe age of 28 where I don't really even care what I look like unless it's a special occasion and I'm curating a deliberate look. I don't enjoy using my time to do hair and make-up or to wear uncomfortable clothes solely for the accolades. This is not how I express myself. It's not lost upon me how we judge others for the brand of their clothes, the symmetry of their eyebrows, the amount of facial piercings. Catch me in United Supermarket on any given day; I wouldn't blame you for thinking my messy bun, plain gray tee, and solid black short shorts make me look like an unkempt cartoon character. But once you have a conversation with me, my intellect and wit and obstinacy seep through to give a better picture of what I'm about more than my exterior could ever relay. 

through the third

 day 3: what good habit do you want to begin this month?

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      My boyfriend told me he wanted to quit drinking soda for November. Where I'm from we call it pop. "Soda" sounds like an anachronism to me.

      "Jim-Bob, let's mosey down to the sock hop and get a soda for a nickel from Old Man River." I can't stand it. Alas, I told him I would join him for moral support. He objected. I doubled-down. Now we're both Sprite-free for 30 days. He says this is for his health, which I'm only slightly confused about considering we just ate Chick-fil-A two nights in a row. I'm not sure this strategy is going to lower anyone's cholesterol and it damn sure isn't keeping us in a caloric deficit. I'm still here for it.

      The irony is I just purged myself last month, though I wasn't too stringent widdit. I felt myself absorbed in an Instagram tornado of glamorous aesthetics, comparison spiraling, Explore page rabbit-holing, and life documenting to a degree I found absurd and unsustainable. I kept the app to supply my meme collection that I send to my mans but I didn't consistently post on my Story like I've been doing daily for the last seven months. That shit got exhausting yet I was unable to refrain unless a dramatic step was taken. It always has to be dramatic with me. So I took a step back to get back in touch with my reality; as turbulent and great and erratic as it can be, somehow even that was a reprieve from the superficiality of social media. Can you imagine?

      Aside from the pop challenge and the IG retreat, I intend to focus for November. I start a new job on the 14th that requires a discipline and commitment I haven't applied in a minute. I'm at the end of an intense semester of college anatomy and physiology. I help take care of my rambunctious, 6-year-old niece. I have a dog of my own, a house to maintain, a boyfriend to love, and a soul to nourish. I recently read multi-tasking is incredibly inefficient and it is best to give one thing your full attention instead of spreading yourself thin. I'm eager to try this because trying to juggle all the things at one time has repeatedly ended up with everything on the ground and tears stuck in my throat out of frustration. My mom always stresses, "Nothing changes if nothing changes."

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

save the second

 day 2: get rid of a limiting belief that you have about yourself or your abilities

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      I wish I could bottle my mania when it's at its peak because there isn't much that compares to its deliciousness. Maybe Michael's Secret Stuff from the 1996 animated sports comedy film Space Jam. You can't tell me nothin' when I'm on one. My broken nose, deep brown eyes, self-plucked eyebrows, and thin lips suddenly appear to be magazine cover worthy. The random trivia my memory stores no longer annoys people but is a treasure trove that makes me vastly superior to them. And my writing talent that I definitely put on the back burner for far too extended increments is my meal ticket, waiting impatiently in the crevices of my mind. 

      I need this juice at my disposal because when I'm backsliding into a depressive episode, waves of inadequacy swallow me whole and I am unable to see the sun. Any sliver of optimism or fuzziness or light or comfort is devoured by self-loathing. The only view I have are newspaper clippings of my shortcomings: remember when I was the biggest bully in elementary school? Remember how I got caught shoplifting eight dollar necklaces at Walmart and was denied jobs because of it? Remember when I didn't go to LPN finals when I was 19 and started my 20s off on the sourest note possible? The list goes on and on and on. 

      The biggest contributor to this feeling is my own concept of lack, which is indubitably inspired by society as well as a self-imposed prison I can only escape once I am "successful". Now, I think I've watched Clueless one too many times (the movie, not the subsequent tv show) as I've always dreamed of living such a lavish lifestyle: a gorgeous mansion, personalized closet controlled by a computer, brand-new Jeep, and a mind void of worldwide pain & inequity. There's a finish line that seems unattainable, but I know once I cross that hoe I'll be free and content in my own body, like when I earn a bachelor's degree. Or maybe when I lose the thirty pounds I've gained since high school? Or maybe when I can repay my mom, financially and any other way she sees fit, for being the one person on Earth who's put up with the brunt of my malarkey? Or maybe when I publish the book I've tried to finish for eight years? Or maybe when I drive a car made in the 21st century? Those possibilities sound endless and yet they are elusive to me now more than ever.

      "I think, therefore I am," said René Descartes Billie Eilish. And today... I know I can superplex my inadequacy from the top rope because I'm the shit. I've endured hella hardships and even more heartaches, but I've statistically overcame 100% of the troubles I thought would lead to my demise. It's time to put quitting and lollygagging in the garbage disposal and let my true capability get to cookin'. Now... where did I put that bottle?

31 days of self-luv

day 1: what is your biggest struggle with loving yourself?

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      For 4 years or so, I have obsessively shaved my booty hair. I would try to get it porn-star smooth, dragging the razor in as many directions as needed to avoid missing patches or rogue strands. Sometimes I'm a little too aggressive with it and I cut myself in the most inconvenient place, the warm water stinging the freshly nicked wound while I watch blood and shame swirl down the drain. My thoughts bounce from, "I hope whoever sees my anus doesn't think I'm gross for having hair" to "I hope whoever sees my anus doesn't think I'm gross for having a cut where the hair used to be".

     Here's what's most important about this spiral: it is 1000% self-imposed and has no basis whatsoever. I was never doing reverse cowgirl with my live-in boyfriend and he said, "Shit, bitch, this is one hairy peach." Nor was I ever in the midst of doggy style during a one night stand when the man penetrating me exclaimed, "Ew! Please take care of this, Lady Chewbacca. I gotta go." No one has ever complained about it. Ever. And I can't even remember why or when this obsession began. What I do know is that I consult my closest homegirls about it and make it a hygienic priority and that my stomach hurts from the stress surrounding how others perceive me. 

       I feel like this applies to a lot of my insecurities. Maybe society at large has a subliminal influence, like the magazines I've been reading since I was a teenager & all the movies or tv shows I consume & my religious following of women on Instagram who can afford liposuction, personal trainers, and plastic surgery. My single mom who raised me only ever showered me with compliments and told me how beautiful I am. 

       A fallacy I perpetuate is the I need to be perfect always in all ways— the prettiest, smartest, funniest, kindest, most honest, cleanest... The list is endless. An inch shy of these attributes equates total failure where I somehow don't possess a shred of any of them. Conversely, my friends & family are allowed to be human: to have hair above their lip, to accidentally say the wrong answer out loud in class, to not wash their dishes at night, to wear an Adidas shirt with Nike shoes. To human is to err and this is not only normal but expected. However... in my own fucked-off noggin I have convinced myself I am unworthy of the grace and freedom others experience at their leisure. 

     Living by this dysfunctional principle can be draining, but I do have an occasional reprieve. Sometimes when I look in the mirror and stare at myself square in my deep, chocolate chip irises, I see someone who has endured a lot of pain and misfortune and blunders. Regardless, I am still hilarious and fun and intelligent and artistic and loving — so, so loving — and I want everyone to be okay. My biggest struggle with loving myself is a world that tries every minute of every day to convince me I'm unable to do so until I buy the smelly-good bath bomb or the latest Fenty lingerie set or the ironic self-help book to help me cultivate something they taught me to resent. I weave in and out of this space until I get sucked back in when my boyfriend invites me over late at night and I call out to my mom, "Do you know where the shaving cream is?"

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mercurialness

       Last Thursday was truly a tipping point for me. I went into my roommate's bedroom and sat on the floor (where the lighting seemed to be most adequate) and I made a video for my Instagram story where I announced, "I have been feeling thee opposite of great this week, so in order to try to preserve a shred of sanity and avoid me going off the edge and deleting every social media platform and going radio silent again, I need a break... from Instagram. I'll probably do that the rest of the month... First, I'm going to shit-post what I have in my saved tab. My only concern is: what if I, like, get off and then Michael Che responds to my 80 million DMs I've sent him? And then he's all like, 'Do you want me to fly you out to fuckin' New York?' and I'm all like, 'Oh my god. I would love that!' And then he's all like, 'Do you wanna stay at the fuckin'...' I don't know. I've never been to New York. I don't know anything about it." (I was going to say, "...stay at the Mar-a-Lago", but that has too close associations with Drumpf. More importantly, I just looked it up on Wikipedia and that resort is, in fact, in Florida.) My precious-ass 17-year-old cousin texted me immediately.

       "Hey, what's up? I saw your story and I wanted to know if you wanted to talk." Before I can start typing a reply, a text from my 25-year-old twin flame popped up on my screen.

       "Aww J! What's getting you down?" I drafted one text in an itemized-list style to copy and send to both parties.

• My brother and favorite aunt relapsed and used meth last month.
• Being around my dad's family resuscitated some childhood traumas I could have swore I had laid to rest and healed from.
• I'm broke as fuck ALL. THE. TIME!!!!
• I was stopped and someone hit my car (totaling it) and so I had to buy a car that's older than my 20-year-old sister.
• Two of my friends that I've known for over ten years, for totally different reasons, called me an arrogant sociopath on the same day.
• My ex-boyfriend told me I don't care about people.
• I got into an argument with a friend from high school and really hurt her feelings over differing views. She asked me, "Why are you like this and why do you do the things you do?"
• This one shouldn't bug me so much but it does and I need to unpack why: my best friend is dating this man, and even though he's toxic (manipulative, abusive, psychotic), he's always spoiling her— buying her a Michael Kohrs purse & watch, Chanel perfume, Polo clothes, Nike shoes, $600 to fix her car, paying to get her nails done, at least $2,000 in cash... In every relationship I've been in, I've either gone half or I've had to pay for EVERYTHING.
• A friend of mine started writing a book last year, finished it this year, and self-published it on Amazon. I have been wanting to write a book for ten years and have had zero follow-through and feel like a fake-ass bitch.
• Being sad and stressed out about all this makes me unmotivated, so I called into work last Monday and then took Wednesday morning & Thursday afternoon off. I don't want to lose my job, but I feel so unwell and can't focus when my mind is scrambled eggs.
• I don't feel like I've progressed in this life. Not a fucking iota.

       Being vulnerable has never been an issue for me. On the contrary, it's shutting the fuck up that  I can't seem to do. I recently confessed a few of these stressors to my therapist and she had some good shit to say. My homework is to consider this:

Friendships & relationships: what's really going on here?

What are the patterns that exist in your friendships/relationships (age 18 and up)?

Do these resemble any patterns from my early childhood/adolescence?

Where do I fit in with that? What's my role?

        As I sit on my bed watching Billie Eilish: The World's a Little Blurry on Apple TV+, my 27-year-old soulmate texted me about the video so I copied and pasted my list into an iMessage. I received responses from all three simultaneously. And their messages were all composed in the same particularized manner my original sentiments were.

cousin: Your brother and aunt are not your problem. You need to make them leave your mind.

twin flame: out of your control 

soulmate: Advocate for your mom or someone else getting custody of your aunt’s kid. Those abides shouldn’t have to continue to go through that trauma. Apart from that there is nit much you can do for her or your brother. They need to get to a point where they want/need to give up drug usage. Don’t cut off contact or anything, especially with your brother, but don’t support his habit with money or rides etc.

cousin: Just ignore them. There's nothing much really that you can do about that. None of them live with you. People can tell you how they think they want you to live your life but until they actually do, they have no say.

twin flame: HEARD THAT. That’s me when I’m around my mom. So I get it. I find I have to get myself away when I’m feeling that way. Or find the good in those people.

soulmate: This is BIG one to work through in therapy. I think working on these underlying traumas will help you with reoccurring troubles in the present and future.

cousin: Try eating out less and get generic brands. Make a chart of what you spend the most money on and try to cut it down.

twin flame: Let’s try and fix that. A budget maybe?

soulmate: You’re gonna hate this one: create a budget and stick to it. It’s not realistic to cut out buying fast food but budget for only one night a week and stick to it. Skip going out to the club (unless a man is paying) and instead hang out at places that are cheaper/free.

cousin: Be happy you have a car and think this gives you room for improvement.

twin flame: Let’s be thankful we have a car, right? ♡ However, I’m sorry that happened. I wish it didn’t make you feel like a major setback in your life.

soulmate: Although it fucking sucks that someone crashed into your car, at least you have a replacement now to continue to get from A to B. It’s not that you have to drive it forever. You could work in a savings into you budget towards a newer car. It doesn’t have to be big. Maybe $5 a paycheck to start and then increase as your budget accommodates. Also analyze why having a 1999 Corolla is so frustrating. Is it because of a comparison to others or because the car doesn’t work correctly?

cousin: You are very empathetic. If you weren't, then a lot of these problems wouldn't be about other people's feelings.

twin flame: They don’t get ya like I get ya.

soulmate: If what your besties said struck a nerve, that means that what you want to believe about yourself is not aligning with your actions that they are calling out. Decide what you want to believe about yourself and set intentions on how you can make that clear and actions that you can take to make that the truth.

twin flame: YOU DO CARE ABOUT PEOPLE

soulmate: Your ex can fuck off. He’s a manipulative man who wanted to have girlfriend and got rejected and doesn’t know how to handle that so he’ll attack you.

cousin: You do things you do because you know what it's like to be hurt. You're being protective. Don't feel bad about that.

twin flame: Are you mad? Are you being mean? Why are people getting so touchy with you? Lol

soulmate: Let the the high school friend argument go. It’s in the past and will just take time and neither of you will care about it in a year or less.

cousin: It's shitty but time will come when she will stop getting money and fend for herself. Baby, you don't need no mans. Baby, you making it. I promise. You just need to get distracted with hobbies and save up. Then you can buy your own!!

twin flame: Yeah, that shit gets to me. I think we were raised to never take money from anyone so seeing other people get shit handed to them while we struggle is annoying.

cousin: A book would be a great distraction. I really would like you to send me an idea or topic from a plot line.

twin flame: Remember that friendly piece of advice about how a lot of people don’t get shit done until they’re older?

soulmate: No offense, but your friend wrote a smut book and you can do better. She also had a little more external stability to support finishing a book quickly. Stabilize your financial situation and sub in writing time instead of going out. Not saying never go out, but if you go out on Friday write on Saturday.

twin flame: I do that too and then I feel even worse for calling in. Can’t help ya— I’m guilty.

soulmate: Remember that this can become a cycle. Losing your job would mean your couldn’t save, let alone pay rent and groceries, which would make you more sad and less motivated to work and more frustrated with yourself. Ask your therapist for more frequent sessions. Maybe weekly if possible. Set rewards during your day of work. I do dance parties or an episode of tv at lunch if I’m productive in the morning.

twin flame: You are not jogging in place. You are just struggling right now. You're judging your entire life based on how you feel in this very moment. When you’re linking up with wholesome friends and high on life, you understand your path. It’s when you get down on yourself that your brain start to ruminate on all the negatives.

soulmate: I would argue you’ve progressed a lot. You have a stable job that allows for working from home, you live on your own, you have health insurance and a therapist. That’s more than most people can say. However, nothing I say can make you believe that about yourself.

        I appreciate their support and advice, but sometimes when it all seems so bleak, no amount of reassurance in the world can smother out the persistent thought that maybe this just isn't worth it. I don't know how to dig myself out of ruts, self-imposed or otherwise.

I've tried taking myself to therapy on four separate occasions as an adult.

I did 5 months sober in A.A. on my own volition.

I have journaled for 15 years.

I go to the gym when I'm feeling motivated.

I tried going vegan to reduce internal inflammation and have more energy.

I moved to Florida and California and Texas.

I've adjusted my medication; type as well as dosage.

I TAKE MEDICINE.

I try to share memes & go to concerts & travel & take photographs & read.

I've tried taking acid and getting illuminated.

I've tried being in relationships in hopes they'll complete me & make me feel better.

I've tried being alone in an attempt to eliminate external stressors.

I've tried to work myself away & keep my mind busy.

I've tried to pour my love/energy/attention/time/money into my dog in an attempt to feel better.

None of it is working.

I'm still feeling as sad & lonely & hurt & worthless as ever.

mer·cu·ri·al  (adj) — (of a person) subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind

I Hate It Here, Episode 1

 

Hues of Gray

     Seven years, a thousand miles, and a few therapy sessions have passed since my five-month stint in Florida, so why did I still have a shaky heart and that slight lump in my throat and arising anxiety around the whole situation? I went to celebrate the high school graduation of my 17-year-old cousin/sister/bestie. That's a happy occasion. What was the issue? Sure, I didn't leave on the most pleasant note and I hadn't kept in touch very well and I harbored resentment about some real fucked-up shit I experienced there with the combined intensity of Little Boy and Fat Man. Alas, Buddha said, "Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned."

     My uncle Lance picked me and my brother up from Jacksonville International Airport in a black 2010 Jeep, initiating small talk about a bridge under construction that has traffic going awry. I looked out the window for the majority of the 49-minute drive to their house; a bi-level five miles outside the small town of Middleburg. I missed the luscious greenery I associate with the east coast. (I did this nature shoot back in the day that still makes me smile *click me*) Okay, so here's the thing... I did feel nervous and suspicious and uneasy about my great return. "We have learned that trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is the imprint left by that experience on mind, brain, and body," Bessel van der Kolk wrote in his 2014 book The Body Keeps Score. With that said, I was very optimistic and excited and eager to create new memories in the same place where I endured a barrage of discomfort. There were a few crucial elements to consider this time around including, but not limited to:

• I would be there for 5 days and 4 nights.
• I was there to celebrate a milestone in my baby's life.
• I was accompanied by my brother as well as my Uncle Ricky, whose presence always makes me feel safer.
• I am a seasoned, secure-ish 27-year-old as opposed to a meager, unsure 20-year-old.

     I'm here to report that I had a decent trip, overall. There were only a few disruptions to my peace. I was in my cousin's room putting on make-up for her reception when my burly, lesbian aunt busted through the door, looking for a camera lens or some shit. Music played from my iPhone 11 Pro from wherever I tossed it on the bed. I don't know what was on, probably "Vice City" by Black Hippy or "Screwed Up" by Cousin Stizz.

     "You're just like your daddy; always playing music," she said.

     "Oh, fer sure! I love him."

     "Ya, you need to not be disrespecting him the way you do." *Record scratching* Ummmm... I... What??? Alright, so let's just take a step back for a hot minute and address some shits. My dad and I have been on great terms for a solid, oh, three years. I FaceTime and call and text him all the time. I have forgiven him for all his misdeeds and shortcomings. Furthermore, I live in Texas and he's in Colorado. No beef here. My aunt is known for sticking her nose in places it just doesn't belong as well as being opinionated as fuck, but my dad and my relationship has always been and will always be the most sensitive subject to me. Soooo... yeah... I have zero clue where that came from.

     "Would you be respectful to your dad?" I posed.

     "I never knew my father. Are you saying you didn't know your dad? Really??"

     "I think that... just because someone has a present father doesn't mean it's inherently positive."

     "You just know one side to the story. You're not considering it from a subjective perspective." (There's this trite rhetoric with my paternal family that my mom "brainwashed" me and my brothers into thinking my dad was the villain of our story.)

     "What do you mean?!" I exclaimed incredulously. "I lived it! This is not hearsay."

     "What did he do that was soooo bad?"

     "When I was in elementary school and we had every-other-weekend visitation with him, he'd always send his girlfriend to pick us up. And then he'd spend that time going out to bars! He'd come home at 2 a.m. and wake us up to wrestle or force us to give him a kiss. He'd—"

     "See, that's your problem: you need to let go of the past. You just hang on to negativity."

     "You brought it up!!! I'm not just sitting in here stewing about my dad!"

     "The problem with your generation is that you think how someone treats you dictates whether you give them respect or not. In my day, we respected our elders."

     "I agree with that entirely. My dad went around acting crazy towards me for YEARS. I refuse to give anyone respect if it's not going to be reciprocated. Got me all the way fucked up."

     On one hand, I can't fault ol' girl. In my professional opinion, I think it's a defense mechanism of some sort. Let me show you how smart/moral/right I am all while feeling insecure and inferior and inadequate. Or maybe she's just a self-righteous bitch and I'm making excuses for her because I love her. On the other hand, what it comes down to is ignorance in its purest form. She and I got into an altercation a few years ago and haven't been in contact since. She literallyyyyy has no clue how my dad and I interact or feel. Zero. None. Zilch. Not an iota. But wants to come out the cut with assumptions? Girl, bye.

     Then, my uncle Lance (whose house I stayed at)... this fuckin' guy. I cannot. He's this staunch Republican who was raised in Utah and Nebraska that I have seemingly nothing in common with. He's pompous, annoying, over-bearing, and, quite frankly, strange to me. I was showing Uncle Ricky "The Social Dilemma", a Neftlix documentary on the societal implications of technology, when one of the producers asks, "What are you most worried about?" Former Facebook executive and Pinterest president Tim Kendall goes, "I think, in the… in the shortest time horizon… civil war."

     "I don't think it will, though," Uncle Ricky mused. He served in the United States Army for 20+ years, has a bachelor's degree in security management, and is an intellectual. Even though I can appreciate his optimism, I disagreed. However, there was still thirty or so minutes of the show left so I told him, "Please hold all questions, comments, and concerns for the end."

No one:

Not a single person:

Not a soul:

No one on planet Earth:

Lance from behind us in the kitchen: "I'm not even paying attention."

Irked as fuck I go, "What???"

He's like, "The minute I saw Mark Zuckerberg it was discredited." 

     I was trying to show my favorite person a piece of art that deeply resonated with me and Lance hijacked it, for whatever reason, with his misplaced sense of egotism. A couple days later, I was trying to talk to my aunt, his wife, about arrangements for going back to the airport. In a vain attempt to make it clear who I was talking to, I stared into her dark brown eyes and positioned my body in alignment with hers. He kept talking over her and interrupting until he finally snapped, "Will you let me explain?!" My aunt retracted, unfazed by his curt demeanor, apparently acclimated to it. I was repulsed. I wish a man would.

     The final disturbance wasn't a distressing event or issue, per se. The night before I was to fly back to Texas and Uncle Ricky was to drive three hours south to Sarasota we stayed up for a couple hours talking on the enclosed front porch. I'm a slut for warm weather so the 70° humidity comforted me. If it bothered my nino, he didn't let on. Before I could even get out my first words, tears streamed down my face. I'm unsure why I cried as I was on vacation in a tropical oasis with people who mean very much to me. Maybe it was the heat or the four-day drinking bender I was on or reconnecting with family I hadn't spent time with in years or the fact that Mercury (the planet of communication) went into retrograde. Regardless, I cried for the first time this year. My uncle was so kind and patient and understanding as I wept. I told him I felt like I was jogging in place. That I didn't understand how I grew up under the same roof as my brother yet he somehow learned how to save money and know his limits and was on the verge of buying a house in Fort Collins, Colorado. That I was at a freakin' complete stop when someone ran straight into the side of my 2010 Hyundai Accent and so now I'm looking into buying a 1999 Toyota Corolla. That his sister gave me $100 to buy my plane ticket and my mom charged the rest to her credit card. That I don't feel like I'll ever make progress in this life.

     "You have to stop comparing yourself to other people," he said. "Everyone has their own journey."

     Look, I'm not the same person I was in 2014. I have made gargantuan leaps and strides in terms of who I am as a person. The problem lies in the stagnation of my external situation. This is my current home: 

     I have a job that doesn't give me status anxiety. I have amazing people in my life who I love and who love me back. I truly have been feeling grateful lately. Going back to Florida seemed to reopen an old wound because I'm sitting here, a week later, feeling waves of variegated emotions that I'm struggling to process. I guess the wound didn't heal properly in the first place so it would be  more accurately considered an agitation; a glaring red flag that I still have some inner work that needs to be done. In the meantime, I think I will listen to good music and soak up sunshine and keep on keepin' on. What's the alternative?

“Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been.”

―David Bowie

brother

El Día Perfecto

     "♪ I been goin' silly for the Westside (Westside) / You might catch me rollin' where the reps ride (real reps, real reps, real reps) / Ain't no opposition, I'm the best, right? (Yeah, yeah) / I might take my city on a test drive (test drive) / You don't wanna see me on a good day (oh no, oh no) / You don't wanna see me on a bad day (no, no, no, oh no) / I was just a nigga with some hoop dreams (hoop dreams) / Now, I'm in the league, bitch / Now, I'm in the lead, bitch ♪," your alarm goes. It's 10 a.m. You wake up in your two-story house where your room is decorated as the hippie oasis you've always dreamed of: colorful tapestries, giant amethyst crystals (for cleansing, protection, and inspiration, that is), a simple steel desk with a glass top where an Apple laptop sits, and your dog sleeping in his own bed on the floor because you finally mastered that trick. You're naked because fuck clothes, those smothering, colonial shits. You roll over and come face-to-face with the love of your life. They're open-mouthed snoring with their head titled up and you just smile in amazement that someone as important and unique could bless your presence like this. You go down on them for their alarm clock. And some more X-rated, freak shit continues from there, because you completely trust them and all your insecurities that have been socialized are stifled by low groans and whispers.

     Afterwards, you go in the kitchen where you see the most breathtaking sunrise of your life— that pink and orange and purple husky lighting hovering over the Colorado mountains. A lake rests at the bottom. You smile that coy smile and start cooking brunch for you and your lover. Probably pancakes (because they're your favorite and you project your likes onto others like a motherfucker), scrambled eggs with peppers & onion & spinach, and hash browns because carbs aren't really a concern to ya'll.  

    Then you go to your desk and finish the book you've been working on for, oh, 10 years. Your heart swells with pride and you get a little emotional because that's how your astrology sun sign works. From there, you and your shawty go on a hike not far from your place. Two miles in, two miles out. You bring your camera and take candid walking shots and fall trees and wiley squirrels. You share secrets and accomplishments and failures and laughs and joy.

     You go back to the house afterwards and shower. You have fancy reservations at a restaurant that serves the best fettuccine alfredo with shrimp on the planet. So you go outside to find a beautifully restored orange Volkswagen van. This is your transportation. Ya'll go out and have an amazing time. Conversations about aliens and hip hop and your pets and how happy you are that you both don't want kids because you understand that your own childhood wounds need to be healed before you bring delicate creatures into a world that's slowly deteriorating due to global warming, fascism, and an incorrigible wealth gap. 

     When you get home, you both immediately change into lounging clothes. You go to the balcony on the second floor. The stars are bright and alluring and mysterious. You snuggle on the wicker couch and in front of a fire. You pass a blunt back and forth, listening to a perfectly curated playlist on your iPod. You melt into your love and fall asleep on their chest.

For the love of Goddess

      Please... do not tell anyone I left the house...

iykyk

     The last few weeks I've been ruminating on what my three wishes would be if I encountered a genie. As a 26-year-old adult, that's kind of a fucking stupid and pointless conversation to have with yourself every night before you go to sleep, but I am just so desperate to pinpoint where my life went wrong. Went left. Veered off course.
     Fall of 2009 I was 15; I went to the doctor to get on antidepressants. How long before that was the Sadness manifesting in subtle ways before it started ripping at my seams? Thinking back, I never felt heard. People were always telling me to not be so loud and to stop talking so much. I never felt validated. Like when I used to write letters to my dad when I was 9 asking him why he never called to invite me over or came to any of my sporting events. The next time we had visitation his girlfriend asked me if someone was making me do it, as if I weren't in touch with my own feelings or lacked awareness. Psychologists say children that come from divorced families are automatically broken. Cracked from the jump. I can see it. My mom spent a decent amount of time talking shit about my dad. She told us he was a cheater, a liar, emotionally abusive, lazy, narcissistic. My dad would dog on her as well: how she thought she was Mother of the Year and how she brainwashed us into thinking he was the bad guy. Meanwhile, they were both contributing to molding fucked up humans.
     I wish I were mentally stable. I feel like that would truly have changed the course my life has taken. Maybe I wouldn't have been such a fucking bully in elementary/middle/high school. Maybe I wouldn't have been so angry. I feel bad for treating Justine the way I did. At the beginning of my sophomore year, I used to listen to "Beautiful" by Eminem and "It's Been A While" by Staind on repeat and cut my wrists in my living room late at night when my brothers and mom went to sleep, tears streaming down my face, obsessing over why I was never good enough. Everyone in Peetz thought my family was delinquent trailer trash. They weren't wrong. I started drinking heavy with Paige and smoking a lot of weed with J-Dog. I would party on the weekends, completely neglecting my schoolwork. My grades were low despite my high intellect. It used to piss my teachers off so bad. Originally, I partied because it was fun but after that horrible party in Sterling when I was 19, it stopped being a good time. (You know... the one where I had dropped out of LPN school because I wouldn't stop drinking & drugging, broken up with Traver, and choked Alissa out so Nicole found a country party miles outside of town where I drank a whole bottle of UV Blue, blacked out, took off my shirt, tried to fight Brooke and other boys there, got the cops called so everyone fled since they were underage but no one would give me a ride since I was the one starting shit ((Nicole was supposed to DD but ended up drinking too)) so we had to walk and I somehow ended up getting deep barbwire cuts on my arms and legs. We went to someone's brother's trailer and he called us a taxi. When Nicole went into the bathroom, I had smeared blood alllll over the walls and was sitting naked on the toilet just spitting on the ground.) That truly was the turning point where my hobby morphed into a coping mechanism.
     I clearly had a lot of issues before Lock killed himself but that fucked me up on a whole other level. He was the first person I knew who committed suicide. I'd seen it in movies but it was an abstract concept to me until then. Some people blame Morgan's death on Lock. I can see it. I have dreams about him frequently. Lately, I have the knowledge inside my dreams that he is gone and I try to explain to him that he is but seeing him again fills me with so much joy. Brains are strange. I think about these things MINIMUM once a week. Usually more though.

     Back to the future. 2020. I thought moving to Texas would be this beautiful new start. I've always visualized it as an Etch-A-Sketch: shaking that red square as the pixels of my past disappear before my eyes. I tried to do the same thing with Florida. Then with Fort Collins. Then with San Diego. Rene told me, "Wherever you go, there you are." He's not wrong. I've applied for jobs. They're interested in hiring me until they get my criminal background check. I don't know if it's the Refusal to Submit to a Breathalyzer from October 2018 or the Shoplifting (less than $500) I got a few weeks later that puts them off. "We've rescinded our offer." No chance of upward mobility at this time. Being a waitress at Red Lobster is not where I pictured myself when I was a child. I mean, sure I have an Associate of Arts from NJC I got in 2016 but you can't do a damn thing with that. I've been too poor to go to university. I've tried to do a nursing program on three separate occasions and fucked up those opportunities every single time. I am a criminal and I am a pauper and I am a drug addict.
     Sometimes I get on dating apps and match with plenty of men. I'm too emotionally unavailable and detached and strange to connect on a romantic level. And that's the whole point of living, isn't it? Spending time with people who you love and who love you back? Our animal brains only think about reproducing and carrying on our seeds. I know for a fact I am not cut out to be a parent. My miscarriage with Aaron was necessary & relieving for so many reasons. I know even harder I could never be a wife. Growing up, and maybe this is the Hollywood conditioning in me, all I wanted was to have a husband and a couple of children and a two-story house with a white picket fence. As time goes on, I see that I will never attain these things. A few months ago my mom told me there's eight dimensions of wellness: physical, intellectual, emotional, social, spiritual, vocational, financial, and environmental. I am unstable on every level and have been for a long time. I don't even see how they find this shell of a person appealing in the first place.
     I have friends. I love my friends. They know this. But, fuck, they have their own lives. And anyway, even when I do confess the depths my depression/bipolar disorder has drug me to, they never know what to say. In all honesty, I don't think there's anything in the world that could console me. It's all bleak. Kurz, Whitney, Kyli, Kassandra, Keith, Jenna, Holiday... Marcus & Olivia & Daniel & Izabela & Shalynn & Nina & Mallori... I love my people. I know I can be overwhelming when I send songs and memes and podcasts and articles and comedy. So I just stopped sending them. I considered them extensions of myself and when they were ignored, that childhood pain was brought back to life with a defibrillator's jolt. I'm sensitive, I know. Probably too much.
     I'm so incredibly drained. Tired of being sad. Tired of feeling useless... worthless. Tired of feeling like a bother. Tired of this existence where all I do is sleep my days away and wish I could start over. That I could have been like those preppy Sidney/Sterling girls I used to envy. The ones with self-discipline that took summer trips to Europe and went to homecoming with smart soccer players. I'm embarrassed of the pick-me ass bitch I was with Dillon and Jordan and Jared. I saw this quote on Instagram by Sarah Manguso that said, "The trouble with letting people see you at your worst isn't that they'll remember, it's that you'll remember." And, maaan, if that isn't the realest shit I've ever read.
     My love for my mom knows no bounds. I know that she would murder someone for me. But you can't live for others. Or die for them. That's peak co-dependency right there. All she wanted was a daughter and that turned out to be... me. Fuck, I feel sorry for her. She tried and gave and sacrificed and endured and persevered. She deserves the world, that lady...
     Brian would be upset. He says it's selfish. He says that Lock gave up and left how many people hurt and confused, meanwhile he's still showing up to PHS every fall, putting up with shitty sevies and apathetic seniors fighting the good fight. I agree with him. He's my angel.
     Kevin would be upset. No one I know has ever met Kevin. But he thinks giving up will just lead to your next life being even more miserable. On some karma shit. That you'll have to deal with this life's drama and trauma and issues on top of all your past lives' baggage. Maybe. I'm interested in seeing what's on the other side. And that idea alone leads me to believe I have driven myself truly and completely fucking crazy. Not like quirky Susanna Kaysen or intricate Sybil or silly Kevin Wendell Crumb... Neurotic, delusional, self-pitying Janessa Garvin insane.
     I used to come up with these scenarios... where, even though I'd only visited Lock's house after his death, I would serendipitously show up on Lock's front porch, moments before he shot himself. He would be surprised at the interruption of his plan. I would somehow talk him down and tell him I hurt as much as he did and that we could make it through. And then he would still be alive. I wish [they] would have reached out. Okay, but what if they have? Time and time again. Year after year after year after year. And your answer remains, "It'll get better." But then it doesn't. You still fixate on the fact that you let your mental health get in the way of your career at Broadcom where you called in all the time and put extra hours on your timecard and left work four hours early too often. Or you remember when girls would shower after basketball games and leave the locker room and you would steal money from their purses. You think about the time you told Austin you would watch 2010 A Nightmare on Elm Street and then canceled 30 minutes later and he texted you, "It's not like I went and got it already...." (He was mad. Sad? Why were you so aloof when all he wanted was for you to let him in?)
     I don't have answers. I don't. I wish I did. (This isn't one for the genie...) I desire to be whole and content and appreciative and happy. Not this insatiable, incorrigible ingrate. I've had a headache for days now and just want it to go away. The stress gets to me. I can't forgive myself but I hope you do.

“All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life—where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it.” ―Miranda July

 ⏷ 

Part 2:

     I guess this makes it seem like the whole 26 years have been unbearable. Untrue.

Off the top of my head, my favorite memory is dancing with Keith & Emily to Adventure Club in the rain at Red Rocks rolling on molly. Perfection. Beautiful. Oh my, was that amazing. Datsik at First Bank Center with Dustin, Keith, & Skyler was fantastic, too— I don't remember if that was just molly or acid as well. Shows were really special to me at one point. 

     Marcus has helped make my adulthood comfortable & easy. His funny ass personality and kindness is an experience all in itself. I love him big. When Olivia, Chantae, & I day-tripped at my dad's house and then his tenant came by & we had to pretend like we weren't balls deep in a rabbit hole. It rained and there was a psychedelic rainbow. ♡ 

     Sol being born. Obvs. What an angel. I visited Ocean Beach in San Diego on a sunny day and was exploring over these rocks and in the puddles were tiny snails, just minding their own business and inciting awe in me. Designing MySpace pages. Just today, on this 90 degree Texas summer day, "Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac came on the radio and it almost moved me to tears. 

     One day my dad and I were listening to music and making up stupid dances, making each other laugh... I really liked that. Taking naps with my mom. Meeting Mac Miller. When Cassius was a puppy, he would make me laugh at his awkward, adorable puppy mishaps. Holiday telling me about his wild adventures in boot camp. Watching Dave Chappelle stand-up. Corissa and I tripping on acid and her laughing her ass off at me for unlocking a car door with my finger instead of the button. Staying up after a delicious dinner, drinking wine with Lorna as we binge-watched "Sex and the City". Brother Josh playing basketball at lunch in high school, his uncoordinated ass getting furious and struggling to make a basket even when he was only a foot from the rim. Daniel Ryan— everything about that angel child... he means everything to me. Roberta and I tripping on acid in Las Vegas watching "Pan's Labyrinth" and "Ready Player One". Kyli's hilarious jokes and her mellifluous laughter. Whitney Nicole and her radiance and strength. KURZ!! oh my... those 5 amazing years in his classroom and all our texts & conversations since. The books and work Maria assigned. My uncle Ricky's laugh and his gigantic heart. Watching "Wanted". Listening to J. Cole, Tech N9ne, Tyler the Creator, and Megan Thee Stallion albums front to back.

     Some of these may sound corny or boring or unfunny, but I promise, at the time, they were everything I could have ever dreamed of.