On Grieving

I spent last weekend at Tene's home (she is the widow of Ali). Tene needed some time away and asked if I'd stay the night to keep an eye on the kids in her absence. Quite truthfully, I was exhausted from work and driving my son back and forth, and not excited about doing it. But she's my family and anything I can do to help her on her journey of healing, I'll do. That, along with the fact that I'm currently in the process of planning a family reunion with my dad's side of the family and it's making me more conscious of building with my family and building bonds, while exposing my son to his family (my side).

As always, I asked Tene how she's doing. She talked about her journey. One thing that I continue to take from my journey of grief is being able to normalize the many steps and layers of grief. When Pete died, I expected a few days of sadness, and then back to normal. I had no idea that his death would send me on a journey of learning so much about myself and ultimately becoming a better version of myself.

I explained to Tene how my cross-country travels quickly became a large part of my therapeutic process. Most people didn't get that. But that's okay, it wasn't for them to get. I told Tene how when I'd talk to people about my driving between major cities in the desert, I'd often be met with "I could never do that." And what I quickly took from that is that so many people struggle to be alone with and for themselves. That many people would rather work, drink, smoke, and fuck away their problems, rather than look in the mirror.

Coincidentally, I was listening to Michael Jackson's Bad album recently, and the song "Man in the Mirror" came on. I'd heard this song countless times in the past throughout my childhood and further. I like how the song mobilized us. The world. But one day, while in car, the song came on. And I heard it. I mean, I really listened to it. Mike wasn't just talking about us all getting our shit together. Michael Joseph Jackson wanted ME to get my shit together. He wanted me to look in the mirror. He wanted each and every one of us to look at the woman/man in the mirror and asked them to change their ways.

Only now, as a mental health professional, can I recognize how impactful that can be. I happened to stumble upon an article yesterday that addressed how antidepressants are not enough to battle depression alone. It is literally impossible to count how many depressed people I've encountered over the years, both professionally and personally, who struggle with depression and get frustrated with the lack of a magic pill that just makes everyone and everything better. Like big shock, you gotta do the work yourself. Even with a pill, if you don't actively practicing loving and loving on yourself, you'll never work through your depression.

I talk every now and again about when I broke up with my troll of an ex David, how I decided that since his skank of a cum dumpster was going to stalk me, I've give the silly slut something to look at. I bought dresses and outfits and I hit the streets. And I pretended to have a good time, but I surprised myself. Because at some point, I was no longer pretending, I was actually having a good time. I mean, granted, it was still a process, and there was still work on myself to be done. But I was working on getting there.

Getting off track here, but my point is that the grief that I experienced after Pete died held a major mirror up to me. I had a lot of shit to take ownership for my life. And it was terrifying. But it was freeing. That experience humbled me. Grief really is the great equalizer. And the best way to tackle it is to be honest with yourself and others.

During the height of my grief, I felt raw. I felt figuratively naked. I had nothing to give. Every bit of energy I had went into bare surviving. All I had the emotional energy to give at the moment was school and later work. But the life and ability to thrive that I enjoy now did not exist. I only got to this point because I made it a priority to work through my grief. And working through it looked different on different days. Some days, I took road trips, and drove and cried until my sight was blurry. Other times I visited museums and felt Pete's spirit with me as I felt him hugging me as I took in the wholeness of what I was experiencing.

Grieving Ali was different though. I remembered how I felt. I literally hurt on a cellular level. I remember feeling like literally every cell in my body hurt. Every hair follicle on my body hurt. But it wasn't a physical pain. But it hurt. It hurt so bad. I recall how I pulled up a chair to the windows in his home and stared out. The whole afternoon, I looked outside and tried to make sense of what was happening. My cousin was gone. My working through Pete's loss prepared me somewhat for Ali's death. I was aware to give myself grace. I refused to hide my emotions to make others feel warm and fuzzy. If I was sad, I cried. And when I needed to drive cross country, dammit, that's what I did. Some people tried to make me feel guilty for grieving on my own terms. And I didn't give a shit.

I'll have to tell Tene one day how proud I am of her. She's not just giving herself busy work. She's not smoking or fucking through her grief. She's processing and taking it day by day. She's not afraid to talk about her husband/my cousin. She owns her feelings and her emotions. She's not afraid to be vulnerable.

And that's how you work through grief. Ask me how I know.

Nurse or a Purse

Seasons in life are pretty interesting to me. It's so cool to enter new phases and be able to marinate on what you've learned and how it impacts where you are now, where you intend to go, and how you plan to get there. This new year has been particularly interesting to me, and I know that my struggles last year worked hard to prepare me for the space I'm in now. One of my favorite parts of this season has been connecting that much harder with my family.

Through the wonders of social media, I have connected with my 2nd cousin, Tiffany. Tip happens to look a lot like me and over the last few years that I've gotten to know her, we've gotten really close and I'm thankful for that. Last weekend, Tiffany, our other cousin, Doc, and I all got together and hung out in North Carolina where my father's family is from. We also went to my mother's birthday dinner.

I'm enjoying this space of building with my family and rebuilding my relationship with my mother. While visiting Tip, we stayed in her beautiful home. I love that Tip and I have so many similarities. Tip is also single so we get to discuss a lot about how our dating lives are going. I've been in quite a contemplative space regarding dating lately (as if I don't think about it often). I continue to focus on marinating on my own greatness and remembering that I'd rather be alone than to be miserable and/or used and exploited in a relationship.

I believe that part of my reasoning for focusing so hard on what I do want this time around, is because I spent so much time settling for bad relationships, with the hopes a man would change, that I'm vigilant this time around about not settling. I refuse to be in a relationship, just for the sake of being in one. I am determined to be loved on my own terms, by the right man. Or be loved on my own terms by me. There is no middle ground this time around.

I recall saying in an online forum recently how dating in my 40s, I continue to come across men that refuse to plan for the future, and I can practically smell their desperation in 10+ years when they get old and alone, and suddenly find the value in settling down. Or they are shocked to find that the 20-somethings that they hope to settle down with are (big shocker) going after men their own age, instead of dusty guys in their 50s. I was surprised when a woman wrote "A nurse or a purse, that's why I'm still single." I thought to myself how interesting that is.

A few weeks later, I finally caught up to my best friend, after weeks of missing one another's phone calls. I also mentioned to her how I fear that these same guys who can't get their head out of their asses and plan adequately for the future will suddenly be knocking down my door in a few years. My bestie surprised me by saying "a nurse with a purse."

I was pretty shocked at that point. I had no clue that this was actually a "thing." I knew what my dating experiences had been, but I had no clue that this term was actually a coined term regarding men who long to get married in their 50s+, after doing the bachelor thing for decades. I'll also add in that working for a Crisis Line, I talk to desperately lonely men nearly every day. I hear men crying in my ear about missing their deceased wives, or missing their ex-wives who divorced them, and their children who barely take a moment out to visit them, even on holidays. I look at these ridiculous men in my dating pool, and I see their futures. And it ain't pretty.

While chatting with my best friend, I also remembered about the last time I visited with Fred in Cali. I forgot how it came up, but I mentioned in passing to him that I no longer planned to try to marry him. I thought he'd be relieved that I'd finally let the topic go. Instead, he appeared surprised. I explained to him that there was nothing nefarious behind it, I just realized that I make way more money than him and his communication skills are shit, and that frankly, I'd be more of a come up for him in old age, than he'd be for me and that I'd be stupid to cling to him needlessly. He accepted it. But I could see that I'd caught him off guard.

Only later did I catch what was really going on there. He thought he had time. He thought that I'd always be in his back pocket, in case things didn't work out in other areas of his life. He expected me to proudly stand back and be his Plan B in the end. And he was shocked to hear that I decided on my own that I no longer desired to have him as my Plan B. I think he forgot that desirability had to flow both ways, that not only does he have to want me, that I have to want him back. And although I love Fred and I know I always will, the math ain't mathin'. 

I talked to another cousin recently and she asked how I'm holding up financially. I explained to her that I'm check to check because all of my extra money goes into paying down bills, including my car and credit cards. Ultimately, in the next year, I want my bills to be paid off and the only thing I'm focusing on is still paying down my car, in addition to building my credit. And once I move back to California, I plan to continue to stack my coins, with my sole focus being retirement. Pretty good plan, if I do say so myself. This year will be the last year of epic birthday trips. I'll still travel, but not such expansive travels, which require so much money. After this summer, the penny pinching starts, as I get ready to stack my money and focus on retiring comfortably.

Being the curious soul that I am, I even went so far as to Google "nurse or a purse." I was stunned to see several articles, warning retirement-aged women not to get entangled with older men who are now looking for a woman to care for them or help them to pay bills. So many women are heading into retirement, or are recently widowed and seeing what the dating game is like. One thing I happen to hear among older women who are newly single (via widowhood or divorce) is how after being the backbone of their past years-long relationships, they have no desire to get married and carry yet another human being's life. And on the opposite side of the same coin, so many older men are desperate for a woman to care for them after divorces or widowhood.

One of my favorite things about being solo is that I can make all of my own decisions. I can travel when and how I want to. I can save my money as much as I want, and not have to worry about a man who has his hand out because he mismanaged his own funds. I don't have to worry about a man who is financially floating his whole side of the family secretly, while I struggle to save money for the future. I see the light at the end of the tunnel and I'm proud of myself for doing everything possible to prepare to retire comfortably.

And with all of these plans and sacrifices, why the hell would I take on the problems of a man who couldn't be bothered to get his shit together until he saw the writing on the wall? Why would I suddenly want a man who's junk isn't working and who is sick and hopes that I'll be there to wipe his brow and drive him to the doctor and cook for him and help him to manage all of his medical appointments? Why should I lower my standards and feel sorry for a man who thought he'd just screw around indefinitely, and suddenly get access to the retirement that I have rightfully worked so hard for? 

Another concern of mine is getting married to some dude who doesn't have two nickels to rub together, him running my pockets, ruining the relationship and then later trying to get part of my pension during divorce proceedings.

I am Malika. I am a woman. But I am not a nurse nor a purse. Get somebody else to do it.

Life of No Regret (At Least Not for Me)

Some years back, when my father was still married to my step-mother, my dad called me and commented on the fact that my mother had married her long-time boyfriend and recently moved to Florida. "She's in Florida and retired, huh? Boy, I sure messed that up, that could have been me!" Part of my father's kicking himself also stemmed from the fact that he had 2 younger children with my stepmother and feared going through the child support monster again, while my mother's children were all fully grown and out of the house. I will say, knowing what I now know about money and all parties involved, I understand that had my father stayed with my mother, neither of them would have been retired, even without extra young kids, as my father let money slip through his fingers like water. They would both still be working, well into their 70's, not a single dime having been put away. My father is actually still actively working, while both women, are now divorced from my father, and are also retired.

I'm now at a precarious space of trying to curate a life of peace and happiness, as I glide into my own retirement in some years. I still plan to return to Los Angeles, only this time, I'll be returning on my own terms. My car will be paid off (or far closer to it), and I plan to live in the Long Beach area. The only thing that I see possibly deviating my plans is if the rain in Los Angeles stays this frequent. Yeah, I'm not moving somewhere rainy. But again, those are my terms. I fully intend to live in L.A. when the Olympics hit in the summer of 2028.

The little bit of dating I've been doing has been frustrating as of late, because while I am focused heavily on moving my life in a certain direction, I'm finding that men my age are still waiting tables, and barely putting money to the side (if at all) or they're looking for a mommy/bangmaid, who will care for them like tiny infants. I have zero interest in either.

Anyway, I chatted up with an old friend last night. While I tend to fall on the feminist side of the spectrum, he's far more masculine centered. It creates some pretty interesting debates for the two of us. I still occasionally tip my toe into the dating pool, but I find myself recognizing that as I get older and closer to many of my personal goals, the men just aren't up to snuff. Hearing my friend's thoughts on dating only makes my dating experiences that much more interesting. I confessed to my friend that as I get older and focus more on the relationship that I want for myself, I'm seeing more and more how men just aren't cutting the mustard anymore.

I told my homeboy how I feel like so many of these guys really just aren't where I am, and I fear that many of these guys will look up and realize that I'm securely on the West Coast, living my best life, and all of sudden, the "hey stranger" text messages will begin.

While I'm being careful about all of my life choices moving forward (financial, sexual, friendships, career, etc.), my fear is that the same guys that played me to the left will realize that their options are running low and they will suddenly look up and find me as far more of a viable option than they did when they were just sticking their dicks in any hole they could find. And those same guys will suddenly recognize that as their bodies slow down, and their dicks stop working, and the rent gets more expensive, and as they realize that they're thisclose to dying alone, they will suddenly remember what an amazing woman I am.

My guy friend referred to those guys as "hospice husbands." Men who spent their whole lives running the streets, but suddenly want to get married in their golden years, in order to be taken care of. Being that I worked in hospice roughly 6 months ago, and saw closely how lack of proper planning could land someone in the most horrible position, the term hit home. They may experience blindness, back problems, Alzheimer's, cancer, diabetes complications, all kinds of other fun stuff... and suddenly they want me to step on in and save them from their bad decisions. Or at least significantly soften the blow of dying of sickness. Reminds me of a person I know who's dad had been running the streets and when he finally got sick and ready to take his final dirt nap, he up and married the side piece he'd had for 30 years. Yeah, he was ripping and running for 30 years, babies and all, and only once he got old and about to die, did he decide to marry her. What the fuck kinda consolation prize is that?!

Watching people grow old and sickly is sad. It can be a long, painful process that requires changing diapers, losing sleep, navigating the bureaucratic red tape of insurance companies and benefits. It's long, complicated, and arduous. I know how the process goes, because it's basically been my job for the last decade and a half. And I'll be damned if I'll put forth that sort of effort over someone who couldn't even be bothered to work with me and hold me down, while I planned for our perfect life in our 60s.

It's so cliched, but true. My life is good and it looks like it can only get better. My home is peaceful. I recall a few months back when my cousin came over and she commented how she could tell that I'd been meditating in my bedroom because it was so tranquil. My friends are doing well. It's been a slow stretch, but I'm finally starting to pay down bills and save some money. My skin looks good. Can't front, I look damned good for my 40s, almost 15 years younger. I can run a mile without getting winded and I'm buzzing my way through writing book number 2, so I can start the self-publishing part for both books.

When you feel this amazing, and your life is this breezy, it only makes sense to continue doing what you've been doing to create that space. Buddhism, mindfulness, and meditation certainly ushered in this feeling of peace and happiness and I'm fiercely protective of it all. It someone so much as sneezes too loudly, I politely step away. I no longer feel like I owe anyone an explanation for why I refuse to entertain them. I have finally accepted that it is on me and me alone to protect my peace and move into a space of further growth and light. I'm noticing a lot of difficulty around me. Welp. Not my monkey, not my circus.

2023 and Beyond!

When the weather started to turn cooler, I started looking for my favorite sweatshirt. It's kind of a faded black shirt, and a bit thin, made from a thin cotton blend. I mean, thick enough for a cool, breezy day, but thin enough to not have you be a sweating mess on a warmer day. It was my favorite sweatshirt. On top of it being just cozy enough, it also had the outline of the continent of Africa on it and I got it on clearance for like $6 from Target. So not only was it warm/cool enough, it was also a great price and fashion staple for my Blackity Black Black ass.

As soon as I noticed it missing, I figured he took it. Ugh. To contact Theo about my favorite sweatshirt or not? As I read the words of Lama Surya Das, I was amazed at the timing and decided that it wasn't worth the headache involved to get back my precious shirt. I would let detachment win this round, and decide that sometimes it is simply best to let go and accept that nothing really belongs to any of us anyway.

I was really excited about the New Year. Perhaps it was the viral prison known as COVID, and just all of the shit of the last 3 years, but this year felt like the first time in forever that there appears to be a collective sigh of relief. People seem genuinely happy and excited about the future. People are ready and anxious to move forward and leave the trauma of the recent past behind.

Personally, I can honestly say that after the mess that was 2021, followed by the first half of 2022, I'm seeing so much to be happy about. Things are falling into place. I'm excited about my professional and creative prospects. I'm ready to start planning my next epic birthday trip. Although, I decided that based on some upcoming goals, the 2023 birthday extravaganza will have to be my last one. At least for now. Fact is, I still want to focus on saving some money for my child to go away to college, in addition to saving for me to move back to Cali, in addition to my desire to pay off my second biggest expense, my car note. There will plenty of time to play in the future, but those 3 items are at the top of my immediate savings goals.

My son is 15. My baby is 15. I've been experiencing some extreme cognitive dissonance lately, as I watch "The Boy" turn into "The Man." I really miss that fat baby that I brought home from the hospital. That gorgeous toothless smile and still melts my heart when I view old pictures of him. And now that baby is no more. I knew this day would come, but he's taller than me. Like way taller than me. His voice is noticeably deeper. I looked down the other day and observed hair growing out of his legs. I'm not nearly as weird as I thought I'd be about it. I guess it's because the Universe kind of slowly prepares you for it. But does it really?

My fear was that I'd become one of those moms who is unable to let her baby go, especially since he's my only one. But I've always been baffled by those people whose whole identity is tied up in their relationship to someone else. Sure, I love feeling needed and wanted by my child. But I have so much respect for the young man my son is growing into. He's kind, thoughtful, intelligent, funny. Every now and again, he and I will share a moment, where he tells me that I'm more like a friend to him. That warms me. I don't have to force him to tell me anything. He feels comfortable in that space. He and I support one another, although I am obviously mindful to keep proper boundaries. I love watching him grow into the man that he is becoming.

My other fear was that if he didn't shape up, I'd be dragging my middle aged son along with me for the rest of my life. Not that I wouldn't gladly support him in any way that I can. But I think that ultimately, as parents, we hope and pray that our children are independent enough to make intelligent decisions, so when the day comes that they are no longer under our wing, we can trust them to be able to care for themselves. And that's what's beautiful to me. That at the rate things are going, one day, we'll be on opposite sides of the country, or even the world, and I will know and trust in my spirit that my child is okay and able to navigate life on his own.

Anyway, all of this looking forward stuff has been awesome. New Year's Eve was a decent day. Busy as hell at work. I opted not to work that night, nor did I go out. Ever since my car accident around Christmas time last year, and the subsequent brain injuries that came from it, I'm terrified of being out around reckless drivers. I got an invite from a cousin of mine to attend his major NYE party, but I opted out. My last two car accidents may have seemed minor on the surface. But they left me with brain injuries that resulted in loss of proper mobility, plus a pronounced stutter. After both accidents, I remained terrified that I'd be stuck permanently with the brain injuries. I try not to focus on it too hard, but I remain terrified that one day, yet another careless asshole will slam into my car. But rather than stuttering for just 2 weeks, it'll be "the big one" and I will be unable to easily bounce back from another brain injury. At 42, you unfortunately don't bounce back like you once did. So I stayed home.

As the clock struck closer to midnight, I couldn't help but to think a bit about NYE last year. I was here with Theo, observing the fireworks going off in my complex. To their credit, my neighbors do amazing fireworks displays, comparable to that of professionals. I was also thinking about the fact that my ex, Steve, bought me the most adorable smudging set and I needed to use it. Time to clear negative energy from my home.

I peeked out my bedroom window, just after midnight, when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. "Happy New Year" I hear a voice say. "Happy New Year, who is this?" I responded. 

"It's Theo," he said.

"Oh, hey," I uttered.

I wasn't angry. I wasn't even really excited. I was just shocked. Like what the hell did he want? 

"Well, I'm moving back home," he offered. "Where is home"? I countered. "Detroit," he said. 

"Oh, okay" was the only response I could give. I mean, just all around confusion at this point.

"Well, that was all I wanted, just telling you happy New Year," he said. "Thanks, you too" was the only thing I could think to offer. 

I got off the phone far more confused than when I answered it. Why the hell did he call? What did it mean? It certainly wasn't the kind of conversation I thought we'd have if we ever spoke again. And I didn't really think we'd speak again.

The thing that sucks about having news at midnight on NYE is that people are either out or knocked out, cuz #old. No one picked up. I had to sit with what just happened. 

Then it occurred to me. He called me because he'd been thinking about me! You sure as shit don't just happen to call someone at midnight on NYE unless there is some kind of planned something there. And just like that, I went into 2023 that much better. I felt lighter. I truly felt weightless. I mean, I wasn't planning on going into the new year thinking about him. He was genuinely in no way part of anything good or bad that I was feeling going into the new year. 

But the way he left when shit got bad was just wrong. And I felt so cheated, because at the end of the day, I was always there for him, and he knew it. He single-handedly fucked up our relationship, and he knows it. And what always stung me the most was how he walked away, as if I never mattered.

But then he called me. On New Years Eve. At midnight. I don't particularly care what it was for. He contacted me, letting me know that despite all of the bravado, he thought about me. Once I sorted through my thoughts, I realized his intention was to tell me that he was moving back (not that I really cared). The fact is that as soon as he moved out of my home, he moved back to Detroit. I knew that. He couldn't make it here on his own. And I wasn't going to continue to let him be my problem.

Only minutes after we got off the phone, it occurred to me- this would be the perfect time to ask about my shirt. I didn't give a damn about anything else. But seriously, I miss my shirt. I texted him to ask if he'd seen it. No response.

I woke the next day, still slightly confused. And again, concerned about the location of my missing hoodie. Since he didn't respond to my text, I took him off my block list on Facebook and inboxed him to ask if he'd seen it and asked if he'd accidentally taken it, would it be possible to mail it back. He quickly responded that he hadn't seen my shirt.

So there we have it. The end of an era. I can't explain how good it felt to get such a stupid phone call. No matter what his ridiculous reasoning was for calling me, it gave me what I needed. To know that as much as he showed his ass on the way out the door, at the end of the day, he still cares what I think (which is why he lied about moving to begin with). 

I'm able to go into this year with my head held high. My goals are in sight. My loved ones are healthy and nearby. Everyone who is supposed to be in my life is here. I couldn't ask for anything better than that.

But I still don't have my shirt.

Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be

So Lama Sura Das is my dude! (in my head at least) I credit the man for penning the book that introduced me to Buddhism. It took quite a few years for me to fully be able to implement it in my life. To the point where I intend to start a full business based around spreading the wealth of mindfulness, in addition to and I'm writing two books about it. I recently started following him on Instagram. I guess it's official.

My first introduction to him was his book "Awakening the Buddha Within." That book taught me how to allow Buddhism to heal me and make me a better person. It taught me how to fully exercise compassion for myself and others. It made me a better version of myself and allowed me to be whole and be comfortable in my discomfort and embrace change and the ebb and flow of life. Trips to the Soto Zen Center only completed the transition.

I tend to collect and hoard books. I dumped a lot of books when I moved to Cali, but I held firm to my books on Buddhism and mindfulness. I held on to them mostly as research for the books I'm still writing, but also because I hoped to pick them all up and fully immerse myself in them one day- and I guess that time is now. I was reading some other work on Buddhism when another author listed "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I wouldn't normally have picked it up, except I recognized the author as Lama Surya Das and knew that it deserved a place in my collection, to be picked apart later. 

And my current job is apparently later. I often get quite a bit of down time and I knew early on that I intended to start reading between calls. The book didn't do much to tickle my fancy early on, but I enjoyed that it re-immersed me in Buddhist teachings, so I stayed with it. I rather like the woman that I am becoming and I'm exceptionally proud of her. I've done pretty good at shedding the former version of myself, so the name wasn't really needed, but it was what it was.

A large part of the book talks about death, more so as an example of major loss that most of us suffer. I haven't thought about Pete as much lately, although cold weather seasons and early spring tend to make me think of him more than normal. Just the other night, I stepped outside and I saw a giant star. And I felt him. I felt Pete looking down at me and smiling. I've suffered so much loss lately, that it felt good to be attached again.

The book discussed how we should accept the good and bad in our life. That we should acknowledge it and own it. We should accept it, examine it, learn about it, and release it. It was pretty cool reading in this book what I already know and practice. Then it started talking about journaling *ahem* Discussing writing down our feelings and thoughts. I guess I'm ahead of my time? Not quite, but still.

As I read through the book, one of the challenges it poses is to think about a major loss we've suffered in life. My mind immediately went to Pete. I remembered his smile. I remember how he always made me feel warm. I remember how without saying a word, I was always able to read him. Once he died, I realized how much he really gave to me. I mean, folks at the job were pretty sad that he died. But I was absolutely devastated. I took that to mean that he shared more of himself with me. Because anyone that saw what I saw in him and knew what I knew about him would understand what an incredible being he was. He shared his art with me. He shared his heart with me. No man has ever let me in that deeply. And then he was gone. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Next up, I realized that I mourn the pregnancy and family life that I never got. The one guy I got pregnant by was a lying sack of shit who made it his mission in life to punish me for not aborting the baby he told me he was okay with me getting pregnant with to begin with. I never got the loving maternity photos.  He never once kissed my protruding pregnant belly. He never rubbed it lovingly. I didn't get appreciation for loving this child and raising him to be an absolute rock star. Nope, I was shitted on constantly. And I mourn the praise and relationship that I should have had from my ex. I'm not angry as much. Just sad and disappointed.

Then I thought about the job that fired me for something I didn't do right after I finished grad school. I asked myself why that still hurt me so much almost 6 years later. And I realized that it was because I'd worked my ass off in school, only to land my first adult job and be dismissed. It hurt me on a personal level. What hurt even more was knowing how much my coworkers liked me and wanted me there. I just wanted to get a decent paycheck and pay my bills. After having to lean so hard on my family while in school, I just wanted for once, to be able to say "I got it, I don't need your help." And they took that from me. All for something that wasn't even my fault.

I thought about my amazing cousin, Tracey. What made her so special to me? I realized that after the tumultuous relationship I had with my actual big sister, Tracey, had the heart of what a big sister was supposed to be. For the short time she was in my life, we shared secrets, tears and laughter. She treated me like a young adult. She valued me. And she was taken from me too. I remembered how when Caleb was a baby, wishing like hell that she'd gotten to meet him. I imagined the tons of baby clothes she'd buy for her young cousin/nephew. I imagined her willingness to babysit, and see her being the only one in my family that could see how hard I was trying to stay afloat. Tracey was my real big sister. And she's gone.

(side bar- This is quite possibly, the most difficult post I've ever written)

The last thought that came to me was my ex, Theo. I think about that sorry piece of garbage far more than I care to accept. In spite of him clearly showing me that he brought so little to the picture (which is why I kicked him out fairly early). But why did I mourn the relationship? I don't miss him at all. I don't miss the relationship. But why am I still thinking about him now? I had to dig deep, but I realized it- I mourn the lie that he sold. He sold me a lie of wanting to go out on dates and grow together. Lies of connection and affection. Lies of appreciation. Lies of wanting me and not needing me. Lies of not resenting me for not needing him.

I mourn that he sold me on the idea of the ideal of the perfect connection, one he wanted but was nowhere near capable of achieving. He sold me on that lie- and he got here and pulled the lie from up under me. I mourn what was supposed to be.

I'm roughly a third of the way through the book. A lot of it is stuff I already knew. But I'm learning about things I didn't even know that I was grieving. Bring on the knowledge.

Lessons and Legacies

I didn't really watch Ellen's show. Daytime TV has never been my thing, outside of the addictive Young and the Restless (before it jumped the shark). Never the less, I heard about the recent suicide of Ellen's sidekick, Stephen "DJ tWitch" Boss. What struck me first was his poor wife. After the loss of Ali and me forging an even closer relationship with his widow, I have an up close seat to what that looks like. Watching her raise 3 children, much like Twitch's now widow. My heart hurt for him and his kids. But for some reason, my eyes and heart zeroed in on his poor wife.

I said before, I now work on a crisis line. I speak with people who are dealing with mental health issues. I often discuss our extensive training and say how they prepared us for the next apocalypse, while most of the calls are people who are just lonely and need a bit of support, especially in the middle of the holidays. Most of our training dealt heavily with individuals who are suicidal or homicidal. I'm kind of thankful for the support calls though. It keeps the job pretty light. I can almost hear people being relieved to be able to just have some kind human interaction.

The thing that kind of sucks is that I'm still in training. Many of the people who started when I did are no longer in training, and many of my trainers have assured me that I have it and I'm good to handle calls without the extra support. I'm still a little shaky on some of the paperwork aspects of the whole thing, but I'm comfortable and definitely ready to handle calls on my own. I'm confident in my therapeutic skills. 

Another thing that has helped me has been my decision to read at work between calls. I amassed a pile of books by my work desk, so that whenever there is a lull, I look down and pick something up. My latest book is called "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I purchased the book because the author wrote what I consider my personal bible "Awakening the Buddha Within" and I heard that this was a good companion to it. I don't consider myself to need to let go of my former self as much (been working on that long before I picked up this book), but I enjoy that his book keeps me grounded in Buddhist teachings.

Last night, as I was with my trainer and another trainee, we waited quietly for another call. LGOTPYUSB was in front of me, some random business card holding my place. I realized that I had to go to the bathroom, but I decided to hold it (in spite of the fact that I recently told myself that as I get older, holding it is not something I will be making a habit of). As I read along, suddenly, I got a call.

I heard him crying. I wondered if it was a prank, as it seemed so dramatic. He began speaking. He told me that he couldn't take it anymore and he had a gun. He wanted to end it all. He said that he wasn't sure why, things in his life were well, but he still wanted to just end it all. My first thought was DJ Twitch's new widow. Her pain. Her confusion. I couldn't let that happen to another woman. I can't talk much about his issues, or even what I said (HIPAA).

But I assured him that he'd be okay. And I encouraged him to discuss his feelings with loved ones and to seek out professional help. And he agreed to it. He thanked me profusely. I thanked him for calling in. After he hung up, I immediately threw off my headphones and walked away. 

When I returned after a few minutes, my trainer told me that I'd handled the call amazingly. I was so full of adrenalin, I was literally rocking back and forth. While I was in the middle of it, I was calm and collected, quite the deviation from the spaz I normally am. But once it was over? Holy shit. Did he really call in here, seconds from shooting himself in the head? And I talked him down? Me? Me?

My trainer praised my quick thinking and my staying calm in the moment. I didn't raise my voice, I didn't make him feel bad or guilty. I encouraged him and allowed him to feel how he felt. I shared later with my trainer that I strongly believe that my Buddhist faith has allowed me to really meet people where they are with no judgement and to give them the same kind guidance and support I have needed in my darkest hours. Just coincidentally, earlier in the day, I was at the gym with a coworker, when I told her that after my suicide attempt, it wasn't uncommon for my friends and family to literally curse me out for trying to take my own life.

Looking back, I realize that they were fearful and worried for me. And they encouraged me the only way they knew how- by making me feel even worse. No one asked how I felt. No one hugged me and said they are glad I'm here. They told me that life is fucked up and to not be a pussy and just deal with it. I swore that I'd never be that person to other people in pain. I may fail at times. But I try damned hard to give others the support that I wanted and needed.

I did it. I was there. I met him where he was. And I used two people's tragic deaths to prevent another tragic death. Right place, right time, I guess.

Navigating New Nails

Part of my ride into recent adulthood has included getting professional manicures every 2 weeks. Something makes me feel so feminine and pampered by looking down at these gorgeous, brightly colored nails. This feeling was only heightened when I met a manicurist nearby who was able to create designs on my natural, short nails. 

I rather enjoyed the attention that my manicures bought. When I'd stop to make quick purchases, it wasn't uncommon for baristas and cashiers to compliment the complex designs my new manicurist laid out. I even had a man compliment me on my nails yesterday. It made me feel seen in such a small, yet seductive way. I've also heard other men, in passing, say how much they thoroughly enjoy seeing women with freshly manicured nails. Thinking back on it, I don't think it's about the nails themselves. I think it's more about a man being turned on by a woman who is able and capable of keeping herself together.

I was raised to never walk around with chipped, funky nails. The message it sent was akin to walking around, holding a sign that says "I'm a broke harlot with no home training." When your manicure outlives it's usefulness, you either go in for a touchup, or the polish comes off at home. There is absolutely no in between. Coincidentally, I met a woman my age a few years ago, and we both shared how our mothers instilled in us from the very beginning that you are absolutely not be caught dead walking around with chipped nails, lest you besmirch the family honor. 

Lately I started to notice that my nailbeds were getting weak from their regular trips in to meet with the nail lady, which resulted in more chipping my manicures early. I was out yesterday, and stumbled upon a nail shop, and long story short, I ended up getting my nails done by someone new and she even put acrylic on them, which would help prevent the chipping as my nails grew out. For the average layperson, this probably seems like a rather trivial thing to care about. But as we all know, that ain't me.

As a bit of a backstory, I swore that I'd absolutely never get acrylic nails after a good friend from high school had her acryliced thumbnail ripped off in her locker, right before graduation. Dozens of manicures throughout my adult life, and I'd always sworn them off, fearful. I stuck proudly to my gel manicures, with no desire to wander out into the wild, wild west of manicures. Young me, remembering my classmate wearing a massive bandage on the injured appendage, the rest of her nails blue and gold, our school colors, never desiring to delve into the possibility of such a horrific incident.

But as I watched the temporary manicurist slather a gorgeous pink shade on my nails, complimented by hints of glitter ombre, it felt amazing. Like I'd made it. While younger, I always observed the hands of women, fascinated by how neatly manicured their acrylics were. These were women who clearly valued their appearance, in addition to regular care. Theses were women that obviously had the money and time to do the little things for themselves that made them feel good.

I told someone a while ago how I'm 42 now, and I've literally never seen my mother's nailbed. My mother was a fierce devotee to her regular red polished manicures since I could remember. As I began to dive into adulthood in my late 30's, I began to gravitate toward things that my mother happened to love, including her Coach bags. My mother was a bigger fan of the plain black bags, and she wore the same bag regularly, until her bag fell apart and was promptly replaced. I, on the other hand, am a fan of Coach's more colorful offerings, and I switch all 5 of my bags out regularly. I still occasionally browse Coach's selection in store and online, my eyes peeled to any offerings that were colorful and bold.

I'll be honest, I rather enjoy it when I'm wearing one of my little pretty bags and some random person looks down and compliments me on my taste in purses. It feels amazing to be acknowledged as an adult with good taste, rather than the young woman trying her best to pull together whatever is the least wrinkled outfit in her closet.

Speaking of my mother, my biomother and I have reconnected lately. It feels kind of strange though. We first reconnected last year, when the family, knowing that Ali was sick, opted to pull together for what could possibly be our last holiday together. I mean, we all knew it was a possibility, especially since he'd lost so much weight. But still... who knew on Thanksgiving that he'd be gone by Valentine's Day? 

Anyway, my mother and I have connected again. I see that the house prices are dropping significantly, and I'm still not making major bucks, but I'm weighing the possibility of buying one, if the right circumstance presents itself. I ended up calling my mother and asking her thoughts on the housing market. We ended up having nearly an hour-long conversation about things like motherhood, my father (she told me why she'd finally divorced him), and of course, the housing market. My mother said that based on some things going on around me, including my plan to move back to the west coast, buying a house doesn't seem worth the headaches, especially if I end up having to rent it out to strangers in the end. It was nice. I almost don't recognize her, but I can say that I genuinely like the person that she is at this point, and I hope that she can say the same about me.

So here I am, I'm typing away in a coffeehouse, as my son is in the movies. I occasionally hold up one of my hands, to admire my gorgeous, non-chipped manicure, my trusty peach/multi-colored Coach bowling bag, guardedly close by. My once stubby nails are slowly being replaced by longer, shapely, consistently manicured nails and I'm having to get more familiar with typing like this.

And it's so reflective of what's going on in my actual life. I'm surrounded by nice things, in a warm and comfortable place, as I contemplate how far I've come, in addition to how far I still plan to go. Slowly knocking out my second book. Currently learning how to publish my own books. Plans for yet another epic birthday vacation in 6 months. I'm finally free to let go of what doesn't feel good and make decisions that I know are best for me. I'm learning. But I think that this is the best version of me yet. 

Healthy and Happy

I surprised myself recently. Devon had invited me to go to a Tambor party with him. Tambor is a large dance party that happens periodically in Atlanta. Devon had reserved a ticket for me at the door, but surprise to him, I already knew the woman at the door. I congratulated her on her recent wedding and waltzed on into the party.

I found Devon, tall and yummy, dancing his heart out. I quickly joined him. I managed to dance through at least 4 songs, and found myself surprised at not even being tired. I knew that I'd been hitting the gym more lately, as my schedule is perfect for it. But still, keeping up with him in the middle of the dance floor showed me that I've made more progress than I'd given myself credit for.

This morning, as I strutted into the gym, I decided that rather than doing the exercise bike or elliptical, I'd challenge myself to see how my jogging skills faired on the treadmill. Much to my delight, I was able to knock out a mile. 

Can't lie though, that treadmill was giving me the business!! I sweat like I haven't sweat in some years. I was exhausted. I felt those little beads of sweat appear on my head. I felt my knee start to question our relationship and threaten to leave me on the floor of the gym, battered and embarrassed. Thankfully, I finished before my knee and my ankle decided to remind me that I'm not 30 anymore and I was pushing my luck. Mental note, invest in a good knee brace!

I'm thrilled to see that in spite of it all, my body is doing okay. I'm making peace with the lil fupa that I've had to call my stomach, but my blood sugar numbers are low and my diet is steady once again.

After the last few years, it has become so apparent how important health is. I talked to a good friend recently, and wished him a happy 47th birthday. I encouraged him to start going to his doctor to make sure his health is okay. He assured me that he's' fine and that he'll start doing the doctor thing when he's 50. I told him that my beautiful cousin was only 47 when he died from cancer and that my friend, Pete, was only 47 when he died from a heart attack. My friend sighed and agreed to meet with his doctor.

Not only am I focusing on my physical health, I'm trying to focus on my financial health as well. In the new year, I plan to engage far more in investing and saving. My son has just over 3 years until it's time for him to graduate high school and I'm heavily focused on moving back out west. Things at my job are going surprisingly well and the beauty of this organization is that I can move literally anywhere in the world and transfer jobs.

I'm so thankful. I'm also planning to pour more of myself into writing another book or 2, and about to look at some self-publishing in addition to finishing reading a few books that I have piled at home. I'll be moving back into the city soon.

Christmas is coming. My soul is at ease. I am happy.

Past, Present, and Future

I'm chilling in a coffeehouse, with a fresh manicure, and the world is right again. There are so many things to love about this time of year, but I love how it tends to lead to reflection about the previous year, and the hopeful things for the following year.

I'm still a bit perplexed about the rollercoaster that 2022 was early on. I was in a shitty (short lived) relationship, in extraordinary pain from car accident because of said dude, I had just started a new job after a long string of previous bad jobs, the new job was crappy too, still decompressing from having to move back to Atlanta from L.A. and having to rebuild my bond and trust with my son, after my ex pumped his head full of lies about my me.

At some point during the year, things began to shift in the opposite direction. I finally had enough of the shitty dude and decided that his problems were no longer my concern and put his ass out. I obtained a job that helped me feel more confident about my ability to be efficient and effective, and then I finally landed pretty much endgame of the jobs I'd been hoping to land since I finished grad school.

I was supposed to meet with Devon today. He told me he had more ideas to share for my book. I'm kind of taking a backseat on the book (just through the new year), although I'm still keeping it in mind. He and I are going to meet up early Saturday instead. I love and appreciate that Devon is so dedicated to helping me push this forward, while so many of my exes always blew things off that were important to me. Not only is Devon talking to his network for me to help me move in the right direction, he genuinely seems to be just as passionate about it as I am. Anyway, we were supposed to meet, but my family is visiting town for the holiday, and we made plans, especially since this is the first holiday after 2 loved ones passed away. Alas, plans changed last minute, allowing me to get these nails done and decompress for a few before I go grab groceries for tomorrow.

While in bed this morning, I read an article that showed various methods of husbands using "weaponized incompetence," which is where someone pretends to be bad at something in order to 1. no longer be responsible for caring for it in the future. 2. avoiding responsibility if it is done poorly. Suddenly, I was taken back.

At my son's birthday party, a few years back, while he was trying to urge me to go to counseling with him, my son's father said to me "I still remember the good times we had." And I briefly jogged my memory and explained that I didn't have the same good memories. I said to him that I'm sure they existed, but at that particular moment, I was honestly having a hard time recalling any good memories. But the article today slapped me in the face with the truth. I had no good memories, because there were no good memories. At least not for me.

But of course my ex had the good memories. He had good memories of the relationship, because I was good to him! I remember how I'd see him balled up on the couch, and although he'd always claim that he didn't want a blanket, I observed his body language, knew he was cold, and brought him one anyway. He only told me towards the end of the relationship, that he appreciated that I used to do that. When I learned that he loved frozen candy bars just as much as I did, I made it a point to always keep them on deck in the freezer. One year, I realized that he and a few of his relatives shared close birthdays, so I reached out to them for all of us to have a family celebration together. All of those little things that someone does to show you that they love you and they're paying attention to you? I did them.

And what did I get in return? I got insults. I got called stupid, and bitch. I recall him following me to my bedroom and hurling insults at me, hoping I'd open the door and fight with him. Sometimes I'd win, sometimes he'd win. But who really "wins" when you live like that? I remember the countless lies. I remember him picking me up from the hospital after giving birth to his child, with fucking HICKIES on his neck. I remember some other chick calling my phone and telling me she might be pregnant by him. I remember him bringing some "childhood friend" into my home, another bitch he was fucking. Say what you want, but I never showed up at a dude's house and tried to play nice with whoever he was dealing with. Grimy ain't my style.  My son  recently said in front of me and a friend of mine "I still remember when dad hit you." I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life.  I remember him allowing his absolute garbage of a "friend" to slash my fucking tires and break my windshield (which my dumb ass ex had to pay to replace). I remember him sitting back quietly and allowing his family to attack me and accuse me of ruining his life, in spite of the fact that I got pregnant based solely on the lie on top of lie he told me when we first met. On top of that bullshit, he continued to try to attack me and harass me, even after we broke up and he was openly fucking the booger wolf he ended up with because I left him. 

Good times? Fucking really?! Where?! WHEN?!

(So now that I got that out of my system)

So this morning, something in that article brought it out for me. I didn't erase any happy memories. They didn't exist. At least, not for me. Thinking back on that mess, it's really quite insulting for him to make such a horrible relationship all warm and fuzzy, just so the doesn't have to deal with the consequences of how terrible he was, and hoping that he'll slide comfortably back into a relationship with me. It's almost as if in his mind, I'll always be there waiting in the wings for him, no matter how horrible he was to me, and he put that mess on full display by suggesting we go to counseling, as if we'd hit a minor bump in the road of our otherwise loving relationship.

No wonder I didn't go to counseling with his ass!! Who wants to return to that shit?! I'm sure he did have great memories of me. I was loyal, funny, kind, understanding, naïve, and downright stupid. But that's my story, I was there, and I own my role in it. He had an amazing woman who was kind, loving, creative, fun, and supportive. And in return, he was allowed to show his ass every fucking time he wanted to. And he ruined her. At least he's another woman's problem now.

I was definitely bitter for a long time. But I'm not now. I'm the opposite. I don't consider myself ruined either. I'm still that warm, amazing woman that he first met. But he'll never in life get the chance to experience her awesomeness again, and I'm fully fucking okay with it. I finally found the joy in being alone. I've learned the value of blocking out men and not feeing apologetic when I needed to mob out, based on all the red flags. I now have the power and the knowledge to run like hell if stuff is crappy early on, rather than standing firm in the shit storm, hoping it gets better. I'm finally looking ahead at retirement. I put in time for my spring and summer vacations last night at work. Obviously going back to L.A., but considering spending time in Denver also.

I'm focused on my son, making sure he feels loved and supported. I'm focusing on becoming the best woman I can be and being unapologetically outstanding. I'm focusing on moving back to L.A. once my son graduates high school in  a few years. I love me. I like me. 2022 has been a hell of a year, and a hell of a ride. 2023 is almost here. Bring it.