Hellcat Heart

Other woman, I see you.

Hair tinged with wisdom and passion and wild, reaching out from your head as if to celebrate your mind. I do, sometimes, from afar, because to adore you even just a little feels like a betrayal of how I am supposed to feel about you. Your talents are stacked deep like books but not the dusty, ancient tomes we consult when we have nowhere else to go. No, yours are the shiny, new best-sellers. All the best things. All the best stories that people line up to read. I’ll never write like you or be written like you but I’d love to hear you read your own words to me, to know the passion you sometimes hide behind those big words that you think make you sound like another woman. I wish I had your ability to turn off the world and fall into the things you love to create. I wish I had your drive…your compulsion?…to write everything down and make it beautiful and decorate it with flowers. I imagine you will be a very beautiful woman even when you are 80 and still making beautiful things with your hands. I wish I had met you in another time when you weren’t so suspicious of other people’s shiny spots. The truth is, I wish we could be friends but that would be dangerous. For both of us.

Other woman, I see you.

There was a time when I was you and there are times when I still am you and I hate those moments with a burning passion. I’ve tried, I’ve tried to see through you so that I could forgive those parts of myself. Those messy, dirty parts where we can’t see our own diamonds and mistake everything around us for shit and filth when it’s really just the ground remains of everything we’ve scorched. I mentally cradle you sometimes, and tell you that yes, yes my darling, you are so so so very beautiful but you won’t believe me even as I softly croon to you. You’ll bat my touches away and jump up and run to the window and pull up your dress to show the people on the street what you’ve got that’s special and I’ll sit back in my chair and cry for you, wishing you’d just listen. Inwardly. Sometimes I wonder what you think to yourself when you are alone at night, so very alone, drumming furiously on keys and phone lines just hoping that someone, somewhere will echo back to you..Yes, yes, yes my darling, you’re the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life. What I would tell you or myself if either of us would listen is that we are more alike than either one of us like to admit and we hate the things we love about each other and we try on each other’s moods like dresses and swish back and forth wishing the mirror would just give us what we wanted. But for now, I stay back because even as I feel for what you reflect to me, I know that I’m ready to love you but that you are not ready to be loved. And that is dangerous for both of us.

Other woman, I see you.

I once thought you were my Mother and I made the mistake of racing around that track as if I could fix it all by winning…what. By winning what. By winning what. A better version of me? A better version of my own Momma? A better something? But you were there during so many things I thought I would never withstand. So many times my heart blew right out of my chest with ache and pain and sadness and “never learning this lesson again” and you were so loving and kind and generously held up the mirror for me and said, “Look at that girl. Look at her gifts. Look at her magic.” and through your eyes I was able to start to see. For years, I held hands with you as we figured out our shit and traded the load when your own Momma made you feel small and I remembered the tools you showed me and got out our mirror and held it up for you and said, “Look at that girl. Look at her gifts. Look at her magic.” and you allowed me to cover you in healing and everything was alright. Somewhere along the way, I left the nest and I didn’t know how you would feel abandoned. How my own independence would sting like a betrayal and how you’d feel used and how you’d feel my audacity at changing. How you’d look me in the eye and say, “How dare you grow. You didn’t even consult me” and how I would say back to you “How dare you expect me to stay the same. How dare you love me enough to want me to grow but then punish me for not clipping my own wings”. I’ll never do that for anyone ever again. Not even you, beloved. I love you enough to let you go and that is dangerous for both of us.

Other woman, I see you.

I am sometimes my Mother. Beautiful, but doubting. Magical, but filled with imposter syndrome. Smart, but questioning. I know these things about myself and yet I never know. I want these things for myself and yet I want nothing to do with them. Maybe I’ll get really brave one day and shave my head, throw away my makeup, turn off my social media accounts, sell all my shoes, paint my walls with weird pink murals, dye my eyebrows purple, and run screaming into a field of waist-high wildflowers where the sun will beat the shit out of my creamy skin and I’ll feel the kind of freedom that only comes from being that screaming girl in a field of flowers. I’ll scream with joy and rage and hope and sorrow. I’ll scream so goddamned loud that my throat will swell and my heart will hammer in my chest and I’ll scream until tears run down my face and all the women I’ve ever known or loved or wanted to be finally come home to my heart. I’ll scream to them like a lighthouse on the ocean. I’ll scream so hard and fast they will throw down their work and run to me, arms open, fangs flashing in the sunshine. I’ll scream and scream and scream until I finally see them cresting the top of the hill, coming for me in love and fury and hunger. Finally home in my heart. Where we will eat each other alive. And that is dangerous for all of us.

So very dangerous. For all of us.

I’m not sad, just restless.

We almost lost Killer a few weeks ago. His poor teeth were just one abscess after another and then we woke up one morning and is neck looked like a grapefruit had taken up residence. A couple of precarious surgeries later and he is leaping and bounding all over the house, demanding pureed food, and gumming everything in sight.

The attorney we hired to deal with the estate seems competent but her style leaves a lot to be desired. She thinks out loud, she repeats herself, and she doesn’t listen closely which means we end up repeating our info several times…all while paying $375 an hour for her expertise. She better deliver a stellar performance because she’s on borrowed time with me. I don’t expect perfection, but when JD has to remind this attorney of her Mom’s name multiple times in the same conversation I feel a seething rage that I cannot fully describe.

We’ve been making headway in the house but it’s a very slow process. I think we’ve made 3 trips to donation with full carloads of bagged clothing, boxes of decorative items, and random bric-a-brac. Every week we roll the industrial-sized trash and recycling cans to the road and they are always packed to the brim with papers, cardboard, plastic butter dishes, and what-not. There are days where I feel really motivated and I will fill literally 5 garbage bags of old bathroom supplies, half-empty lotions, expired condiments, and plastic shopping bags but there’s just SO MUCH OF IT.

I ventured into the attic last week and discovered a mountain of…well…EVERYTHING. Boxes of old clothes, vintage suitcases, extra furniture, and hanging lawn bags full of fake greenery and decorative valances. There also seems to be a small plateau of Christmas boxes, probably 30 or so, and endless banker’s boxes of financial paperwork going all the way back to 1972.

When I’m not going through something or cleaning something or cooking something, I am still putting in my 45+ hours a week working on my laptop for my steady. I’ve been swimming in the soaker tub at least 4 nights a week and there’s been a fair amount of witching out and getting creative with little projects here and there.

And studying. Always studying.

Because my brain demands information almost 24 hours a day.

I meet with a new therapist on Wednesday. Maybe I’ll tell her about my recent encounter with an ex-friend from well over 15 years ago on a mutual friend’s Facebook. I literally have not seen or spoken to this woman since about 2006 but there she was, take a passive-aggressive swipe at who she insists I am on a mutual friend’s page. I read what she wrote and stopped myself from replying with, “Bitch, I haven’t thought of you in 15 years and you don’t fucking know me anymore so why are you riding my jock, you raggedy piece of garbage???”

But I didn’t. I blocked her and moved on. Because that’s who I am today. At one time, I would have given her my energy but I’ve done enough work to know that her misery is not my responsibility.

Speaking of ex friends, let me just say this: When a friendship first ends, there might be the initial sting of pain and grief but just sit with it and process it because you might look up one day and be like “THANK GODDESS I DON’T HAVE THAT TOXIC ASSHOLE IN MY LIFE ANYMORE.” I’ve had the occasion of witnessing another ex-friend over the time from when our friendship dissolved up until now and her behavior is so clear it’s not even funny. All the toxicity, victim-y shame behavior, and self-focused “my feelings are the only feelings that matter” stuff is all energy that I don’t miss on any level. I feel no animosity toward either of these people…just plain gratitude for having a life that is free of their behavior, expectations, abusive bullshit, and toxicity.

I’m mentally cleaning house in a lot of ways and it feels good. This pandemic is exhausting on a lot of levels but I do see the bright spots where I get to spent lots of time with JD, do projects, sleep in, try new things, and solidify the relationships that are most important to me.

For that, I offer a curtsey and a kiss.

<3

I always do this.

Lush green vines growing out of concrete, their thorny pricks reaching toward the sun as if to say in a spidery voice, “Come closer…Closer.”

Life has been a desolate parking lot for the last month. Dry, cracked, broken, and utterly ugly. But still, tiny green tendrils are sprouting through the cracks and I am watering them all with tears and sweat.

I always do this.

Bloom best in rocky soil.

Transform my body, my heart, my life in the most torrential conditions. I am not sure why my creative muse and marrow bus driver hang out at the bar together just waiting for everything to crash and burn before they come busting out the door into the daylight with swords blazing, ready to carve out a new me but this is what happens.

I thrive. It seems like that is what I was born to do.

When I look back on all the worst times in my life I’ve always had the company of my own strong backbone, a toothy mouth ready to bite the ass of the world, and feet that keep walking even when full of nails and broken glass.

Because that’s what I do.

I am coming out of the fog of grief slowly and the sparkly winds of “but look over here at this thing you can do to make everything better” are blowing all around me. Ideas are keeping me up at night. Ways to help my beloved wife. Ways to make more money so she can retire early. Ways to propel my body toward better health. Things I can do to help the people around me. All the things big and small that will add love and health and wild beauty to everything around me.

I’ve been down for a while but my spine is straightening and it feels amazing.

Here’s to all the ugly things that remind us to make beauty.

And here’s to my marrow, the wild lava of hope.

We lost my Mom-in-Law last month.

In a way, we also lost my Father-in-Law because his mind finally gave way to all that is Dementia and sundowning and the horrible reality of “still here but not really”.

I thought we would both have a nervous breakdown before we figured it all out and I’m not quite ready to say it’s not still a possibility. We’ve cried and raged and tried to understand all of it but there just isn’t any relief from it mentally or spiritually.

I’ve tried to be a strong support system for my Wife and I think I have mostly succeeded but I find myself so fucking angry at the world for putting her through all of this, for crushing her heart with death and Dementia and grief and stress and horrible family members and all that comes with trying to so all of that during the time of Covid19.

There have been a lot of sleepless nights. A lot of hours spent staring at the wall. A lot of just sitting in silence holding one another while the walls buzz with all that is the new reality.

I loved my Mom-in-law dearly. She was a kind and gentle spirit and by far, the smartest woman I’ve ever met. So sharp. So interested in the world. So sweet and thoughtful. She welcomed me into the family over 4 years ago with a warm embrace that made me feel truly loved and accepted and I’ve never been able to fully express my gratitude for her and all that she was with just words.

There was a bad day several weeks ago right after it all happened when I was staying with my wife at my Mom-in-Law’s home and decided to clean out the freezer and sanitize the kitchen in case visitors dropped by with a casserole (Newsflash: They didn’t. But that’s another post). I was deep into clearing the freezer of iced-over bags of veggies when I saw a yellow sticky note with my MIL’s familiar shaky handwriting stuck to a Ziplock bag of chicken. On it, she had written “Bella”.

I broke down crying right there in the kitchen. She saved that piece of meat for my dog and it pretty much embodies how fully loving and thoughtful she was not just with my animal, but as a person.

I miss her. Desperately.

But right now my job is to be beside JD and hold her up through her grief process. My job is to help make the arrangements and gather the documents. My job is to serve as a wall between her and family members. My job is to remind her that she is not alone.

I’ve got a lot of energy and love to do that. I just hope I do it right. <3

Tonight it’s all about Rilo Kiley and Sleater-Kinney and four more months of staying home to work and wondering if the world is going to be ok.

My job sent out the announcement a couple of days ago that, as expected, we won’t be returning to campus until mid-September and maybe not even then. People all over America are thronging in the streets, the stores, and even at the state capitol in Michigan protesting for their “right” to be out from under the mandated quarantine. Mostly red hats. Overwhelmingly white people. I continue to be both embarrassed and amazed by the sheer force of ignorance propelling the mass of lily-white Karens wanting to talk to the manger of the Coronavirus because they need a fucking haircut.

It’s a brand new world we live in and I’m happy remaining in my little tiny home with JD and the dogs and our new inflatable hot tub as we watch the infection numbers steadily pace on day by day.

I was so sad a few weeks ago thinking that I might never get to have a party again or see my friends in any large numbers but it looks like the human race is hellbent on finding out if we can make ourselves burn out like a candle so parties are the least of the concern.

I am finding that my connections with certain people are strengthening. Certain friends who are firmly embedded in my marrow. Chosen family. People I will call when I am 75 and need to lament the woes of the price of bread. The people I will call if something ever happens to JD. The people who have shown up time and time again in times of joy and sorrow and who allow me to show up for them. Connections not built on alcohol, fucking, or foxhole bonding but rather the strength of shared experiences, the joy of shared passions, and the hope of differences so delightful and magical that you fall into them like a bed of magic feathers and roll around laughing and snorting.

I have a new friend, Jolene, who was so unexpected and magical that I am still marveling at how she came to be. She’s young but her wisdom is so breathtaking. In one conversation this evening, she offered something about what I went through with my ex-wife that was more helpful, more powerful than all the therapy sessions I’ve had trying to tease apart the trauma and rage. I felt more SEEN in the those few moments than I can even describe. This is not to say that therapy hasn’t been helpful or that JD or my other friends haven’t helped me because they they have all been the reason I survived any of it. It’s just that Jolene summed something up in one sentence that I didn’t know could be articulated. I love her for it. Eternally.

My days have been revolving around surviving as best we can with food and frivolity. I’ve baked so many pies and bread that we’ve both gained a good 15 pounds. I’ve cleaned, organized, catalogued, thrown away, and touched almost every surface in this house with more yet to do. I’ve talked to friends who I lost contact with. I’ve pet the dogs, read books, pined away for a trip to the bookstore, and watched endless television.

I put my Fitbit back on and discovered that I have a long way to go to build my stamina back to what it was 4 years ago but I’m determined to do it.

Other than that, my head feels clear and I’m feeling a happiness settle in that is both comforting and strange.

I had ambitions of starting a quarantine blog but I suspect everyone and their dog is doing the same thing. Still, ideas are swirling and my creative fires are starting to spark.

I’ve got a LOT of projects to finish. Some of them, very exciting.

My goal over the next few weeks is to establish a better routine. Make a list of to-do’s and actually do the things. Take care of the law school stuff. Continue getting rid of shit in the house. Blast music. Walk more. Drink more water. Smile more.

And live.

Live like there is nothing else to do.

Just live.

<3

Day I don’t even know of Viral Lockdown 2020.

Of all the lists of “things to do with your time” and articles written by young, plucky coeds with really apparent vocal fry (even through a written article) about “Ways to Stay Positive During Quarantine” and one of my personal faves… “101 Recipes To Try While Waiting to Die!”?

(Ok, that last one was just in my head)

Of all of those things written that seek to be helpful, I’ve found there are some things that they, meaning “the people who seem to know more than the rest of us about how to do this properly”, should be telling us but are not.

1. There’s a definite cycle that you’ll go through every few days, or if you’re lucky, every week or two, that will go like this: Feel despair, sleep too much, wake up and tell yourself it will be ok, read too much news, make some food, feel a tiny bit better, talk on the phone with a friend, feel even better, start thinking maybe being locked in isn’t so bad, start a new project, find that you don’t quite have as much energy for said project, abandon said project, lay awake in bed that night, watch more news than you should, wake up feeling absolute and utter darkness. Rinse and repeat.
2. No wait…All of that sounds way more dramatic that it actually is. Have some sadness, feel better, get sad again, feel better again, get sad again. Your mood will be a see-saw of repeating emotions and not a great crescendo toward the sky before a gut-pulling drop toward sanity. Nope, it will be all back and forth and day and night and happy and sad. You’ll get sick of it. And then you’ll keep doing the see-saw.
3. You will absolutely stop giving a single shit about your diet because you will realize you don’t care to diet on most “normal” days and you sure as fuck don’t feel like stressing yourself out during a pandemic.
4. You’ll do silly things to make yourself feel better and some of it will actually work. You’ll put on a face full of makeup or a tiara and you’ll vacuum the word “shit” into your very expensive and gaudy tapestry rug. You’ll scatter shredded cheese all over the floor and scream “CHEESE RAIN” as your dogs go apeshit at the mess.
5. You’ll do some things thinking it will make you feel better but in all honesty it will just be another thing. It won’t make you happy or sad, it will just be an activity that occupies space on your lockdown timeline. You’ll shave your head and it will look cute. You’ll finally apply for law school and it will buzz in your belly for just a split second. You’ll contemplate going completely the fuck off on a ridiculous asshole online but you’ll think better of it because you haven’t made it to full asshole stage just yet.
6. Speaking of assholes, you will see a LOT of them. They will come in the form of self-absorbed, self-important Queer folks who will actually have the fucking audacity to compare themselves to front line workers because they are “holding space” for someone or because they sent an email to someone. If they are a GIANT asshole, they will actually try to manipulate people into giving them money during all of this merely for a split second of attention or the promise that they are building some amazing new thing “for the community”. Still, there will be other assholes who are just simple-minded narcissists who think that global pandemics are an amazing time to try to garner as much attention for themselves as possible. They won’t even play victim, they will just strait up parade their Daddy issues all over the internet and stop just shy of posting full-blown pictures of their buttholes to get a “like” or a “thumbs up”.
7. Friends will check on you and it will feel like a burst of sunshine right in your marrow.
8. You’ll cry because you cry at fucking everything lately.
9. Other friends will disappear because sometimes that’s what people do when they are stressed out.
10. You’ll keep your head up by writing. Badly. Here and everywhere. And nobody will ever read it. <3

Day 30 of “Hi, you can’t leave your house because you are sick or other people are sick.”

Spotify has paid for itself these past weeks and has supplied me with a never-ending larder of plucky guitars with thoughtful, raspy female voices leaning into their bluegrass roots and powdery-voiced men whistling an accompanying melody to their so obviously heartfelt lyrics.

I’ve danced with myself in the kitchen a few times. Twirled in circles while imagining that my apron was a long broomstick skirt and that maybe my hair was waist length with a crown of daisies plucked fresh from a cow pasture at sunset.

I’ve stared out the window as tears rolled down my face, worrying about my dear Julie who has the virus and is currently laying in a hospital bed while a machine breathes for her. In the background, someone named “Nanci Griffith” sang about “Boots of Spanish Leather” and how she was sailing away in the morning and was there something she could send me from across the sea? Of course I imagined that Julie was somehow telegraphing her messages to me from across the brainwaves and that I, alone, would have to carry out her wishes if she didn’t make it.

Thankfully, I’m just a giant crybaby and she’s still fighting, asleep in a Propofol coma while the whirring and cranking of some manmade machine decides, second by second, that she is alive.

This whole thing has been so surreal and upending, as expected, but the surprising part is that there are moments of real fear. It’s an emotion I don’t quite know what to do with because I’m just not that girl. I know joy. I know rage. I know resolve. But fear? What do you do with that?

I’ve made lists of all the things I should do with my time. I’ve actually done some of those things but I’ve mostly avoided the things that I’ve already avoided when things were “normal” so in case you were wondering, dear reader, tribulation is not a motivator.

Still, I’ve built a few websites and boxed up my winter clothes and sent off some paperwork and done a few good deeds without telling anyone. I’ll still sit here at this desk, wondering what to do with myself more often than I would like but I’m mostly ok. I’m mostly ok. I’ll say it again because it sounds so strange…I’m mostly ok.

A few things have been decided during this lockdown. I won’t ruin my momentum by writing them down here because that’s usually what does it…speak that shit into existence and I’m sure to avoid it. Instead, I’ll keep it close to my heart and just do it because the truth is, my best motivation is when I’ve got a secret. When that secret is close to my chest it’s like a hot little stone sitting right at the base of my throat and it burns there until I swallow or scream.

I’ve swallowed a lot in my life.

But it’s time to scream.

xo

Get the flu.

No, I’m serious. Get the flu for two solid weeks and see what happens. Your house will pile up. You won’t go to work. Your projects will grow dusty. Your head will be full of sniffles and the droning hum of nothingness. Your days will flow into one another and night will look like day and day will look like night and YOU, dear self, will look like absolute shit.

Come out of the flu-fog about 2 weeks later and have that “oh shit, I’m so behind on everything” moment and then be too tired to panic about it.

I got a hefty raise and a huge bonus at work but I’ve been feeling so crappy I haven’t even celebrated it. I’ve also had some epiphanies about things that needed settling.

So, here’s the thing: I used to feel really responsible when people were having a different relationship with me than I was having with them. As if the un-agreed-upon parameters were somehow my fault. I’m older now and I’ve been through an 11-year-relationship with the world’s biggest manipulator and my tools around dealing with babies in shitty diapers masquerading as adults are much, MUCH better. So, no, dear person, I am not going to read your mind and I am not going to tap-dance when you throw a fit and I am not going to react with fear-based behavior when you threaten to withdraw your friendship or love or whatever because I’m not that girl anymore. If you have been having a relationship with me that I did not consent to, agree with, or even seem to be aware of…then that, dear person, is your shit and not mine and while I certainly feel the sting of farewell when it comes, I no longer take that shit into my lap and cradle it like a teething puppy as it bites me bloody. Nope, if you need to ease on down the road, then try not to take a steaming shit on my doorway before you do. Just do your thing and I’ll do mine.

And another thing: Get an identity. Preferably your own. Nobody likes a tailgater.

I sound annoyed…and maybe I am. I just don’t understand this lack of authenticity with grown adults. And maybe it isn’t about authenticity with some people? Maybe it’s a flat-out lack of emotional maturity. Either way, get thee to a nunnery.

I laid in bed several nights over the last couple of weeks thinking about what I want to do next. Start another business? Travel? Go back to school? So far, going back to school is winning. I have no idea why I need another degree or what I will gain from study that I can’t read in a book but I’ll give it a semester, maybe two, and see what happens. I poked around on the film school website a little too much and now I’m having sugarplum dreams of producing short films or getting into writing screenplays. It’s always something and I need about 5 more days in the week to make it all happen.

I don’t know where the last two weeks have gone. The slate feels clean and tottering with too much at the very same time. What to do. What to do.

So far, 2020 has politically been a pile of absolute shit. That Orange Shitwaffle we have in the White House is destroying this country and all the spineless sycophants around him are feebly feigning helplessness when he gets up and gives his spittle-filled, ridiculous, childish “speeches”. I just…CAN’T.

So I won’t. I’ll move on to more delightful things:

• Still house hunting but things are definitely picking up. We are seeing more houses every day and I’ve been in a frenzy of packing and moving boxes to storage for several weeks now. We are dismantling the bathroom and there is currently a 3 x 5 hole in the sheetrock above the sink. We had a bunch of peeling wallpaper to contend with and ended up gouging it out rather than scraping it out. Once I float some drywall patch and sand it, we are going to put up some gorgeous subway tiles and paint everything else a cool gray. Lots of white towels and a new white shower curtain will complete it. I’m ready because this crap of having chaos all over the house is for the fucking BIRDS!
• We are planning a trip to Iceland for later this year. It is a magical land and the more I research it, the more excited I feel. JD has been before but we are going to explore the western coast which will be brand new territory for us both. I foresee lots of soaking in the volcanic lagoons, gazing at the Aurora Borealis, eating really bad food, and driving endlessly across the fertile loam of an island of fire and ice, popped up desperately from a raging sea.
• I’ve still got too much shit. That’s an ongoing theme in my life so I’m keeping an eye on all the things that will be going to consignment and Poshmark at some point. I can’t mentally deal with it now because work and packing the house is taking everything I’ve got but one day my house will be a lot more Scandinavian than “crazy old hoarder witch who lives in a hobbit house”. Fingers crossed anyway.
• I’m presenting a huge project at work on Monday. Something that is going to save a LOT of money and resources for the company and be a very shiny feather in my cap. THIS is the stuff I’m really good at but rarely have time to do – just finding the inefficiencies, the gaps in revenue, the ways things can be better. I’m a Virgo, after all, and this is in my marrow. It’s been an interesting experience navigating the workplace with a huge piece of coal that you are polishing into a diamond and seeing who tries to attach themselves to the project. People recognize good ideas and want to be part of it and it’s flattering when it’s my idea and people are so eager to be on board. Good stuff.
• Energetically, I’m not where I want to be because my body hurts a lot and I’m not sleeping enough but Spring always brings huge promise of ALL THE THINGS and I’m ready for it. <3