tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66770773739767053002024-02-06T18:46:34.770-08:00Love Hey LolaI write about life. Depression, anxiety, art, jewelry, conservation, entrepreneurship, marriage, dogs, cake...just life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-89656438218443689412019-02-07T12:17:00.001-08:002019-02-07T12:17:30.380-08:00Instead of Candy and Balloons - A short Valentine's Day Gift Guide<div class="XzvDs _208Ie _3_7DB blog-post-text-font blog-post-text-color _2p1aK _158eo _3_7DB" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: brandon-grot-w01-light, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.5; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
I've never really been one to celebrate Valentine's Day. My husband and I are kind of weird, in that we don't really do holidays, and we barely do birthdays. Don't get me wrong - I'm totally obsessed with him and I'd like to think that the feeling is mutual, but holidays just aren't our thing. BUT - I'm a small business owner who makes jewelry and I also handle social media for businesses who definitely DO do Valentine's Day. So I'm not completely oblivious to the holidays.</div>
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Since this seems to be a balloon heavy time of year, I thought I'd throw my two cents in for some gifts that aren't balloons (don't get me wrong - I love a balloon installation as much as the next guy. Unfortunately, I also find balloons on the beach and during litter clean-ups ALL OF THE TIME, so I kind of don't love them as much as I wish I could)</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Plants!</u></span></div>
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Plants are great gifts because if you love them properly, they'll stay with you forever. As a novice plant lady and a former brown thumb, I'd recommend low maintenance plants for gift giving. Like, don't give the person you love a fern. Or a lemon tree. Your novice plant person is sure to kill both of them (or is it just me?). Succulents are great gifts because they're super low maintenance, as are philodendrons and spider plants. Spider plants and philodendrons will let you know when they need water by starting to wilt, whereas a <a class="_2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07HBCQVTF/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B07HBCQVTF&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=ec2327b53457da8b5a42f7d6b0acb8f2" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">succulent</a> will let you forget about it for something like forever and when you finally remember it, it's all," It's totally fine! Look! I made you a flower! And a baby!"</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A flower CSA</u></span></div>
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I didn't even know this was a thing until a friend of mine who has a flower farm posted something about it. You guys. It's a seasonal subscription to local, organically farmed, flower bouquets. I mean... I would kind of freak out if someone gave me this. Flowers are a great gift because they're FLOWERS. Flowers are awesome. They're pretty, they're colorful, they smell awesome, and a flower CSA is pretty much the most thoughtful way to give flowers that I can think of. Also, flowers can be put in a compost bin when they're done doing their job. Everybody wins with flowers. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Experiences</u></span></div>
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I'm a HUGE fan of experiences and adventure as a gift. I know locally we have museums, a planetarium, wildlife parks, a nature refuge, a zoo, great restaurants and more. Where I'm currently staying, there's even more museums, art galleries, whale watching tours, aquariums and, for real, the opportunity for long walks on the beach. As a visitor here in sunny California, I'm trying to cram ALL of the experiences in. I overheard someone saying that they don't even think of taking advantage of some of the things that I've done while here because, when you live somewhere, you tend to take what the area offers for granted. I know I'm guilty of doing that in my own town. So this Valentine's Day, why not take advantage of what your own town has to offer, that you've always meant to experience, but just never get around to?</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Local Art and Gifts</u></span></div>
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There's a saying that I always see/hear in artist communities - something along the lines of "The dead artists don't need your money, buy from the living ones." Which is true. Living artists can definitely use the money. I know a LOT of artists and most of them keep another job in addition to art, because it can be quite a battle to make a living as an artist. So consider some local art as a gift! If you don't know where to start, small boutique stores and galleries often carry local art works/products or you can put a shout out on facebook to request some local art/maker connections. Many local artists will create commissioned work , so that the art/gift that you buy is even more personalized.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Just Skip It</u></span></div>
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It's not the most popular Valentine's Day suggestion, but there's no law that says you have to do Valentine's Day. I've been a part of a couple forever and every year we're just kind of like..."meh" when it comes to Valentine's Day. I don't think it means we love each other less. I think it just means we can do a bunch of that special Valentin'es Day stuff any day of the year. With anyone! And we should. Every day is Valentine's Day! </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-45645349142988093822019-01-31T13:17:00.000-08:002019-01-31T13:21:29.724-08:00How We're Reducing Waste in Our Home<div class="rich-content-editor_text__jwLWP rich-content-editor_elementSpacing__2hXa7 _3_7DB blog-post-text-font blog-post-text-color" data-block="true" data-editor="5u7he" data-offset-key="foo-0-0" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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It feels weird for me to be posting a "tips" blog when I'm usually posting things like "check out the shiny new mess I have in my brain this time!"</div>
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But the thing is, I don't always have a mess in my brain. Sometimes...actually, pretty often ...my brain functions very well and I have a really healthy grasp on life. It's just that writing tends to be a form of therapy for me and I don't need as much therapy when my brain is performing well. Which is why most of my posts are about brain disasters and the like.</div>
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Anyway, I've been feeling pretty healthy lately but I also miss writing, so let's talk about garbage! Or more specifically, reducing our garbage. There are a few things that we changed up at home that have been really helpful for us in reducing our overall waste. It's an imperfect process but slowly but surely we're getting there.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Grocery bags</u></span></div>
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Re-usable grocery bags are a pretty easy way to reduce your reliance on some plastics. I've tried a bunch of them and my favorites are made by a company called <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07CQJQNSF/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B07CQJQNSF&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=5890bb27f10b2fdf80ecc169112dde38" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">Baggu</a>. They're super strong, they hold a ton of stuff, they're easy to clean, they fold up super small so you can always keep a couple on you, and finally, I'm totally in to their design choices. I also use a <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07CQJQNSF/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B07CQJQNSF&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=5890bb27f10b2fdf80ecc169112dde38" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">Baggu</a> bag for my beach clean-ups and again, they're super durable and just hold a ton of stuff. If you don't want to invest in a sturdy reusable bag, there are some <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.instructables.com/id/FASTEST-RECYCLED-T-SHIRT-TOTE-BAG/" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">great tutorials online on how to make your own reusable bags from old t-shirts.</a> For me, most of the reusable bags tend to take up too much space, so I like the idea of something more compact. Also, keep in mind if you forget your bags, you can always request paper at the checkout.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Produce bags</u></span></div>
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I'm definitely the annoying person who, in my effort not to use plastic bags, just loosely piled all of my produce on the conveyor belt at the grocery store. I've had more cashiers roll their eyes at me than I can count. Sooooo, in an effort not to be annoying in the check-out lane, I bought some cotton mesh bags for my produce shopping. Like grocery bags, you can make these out of old t-shirts if you want to <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://inhabitat.com/ecouterre/recycle-an-old-t-shirt-into-a-produce-grocery-bag-diy-tutorial/" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">DIY it</a>. I can barely sew so I went ahead and invested in some <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KSYMTJ6/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B07KSYMTJ6&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=c9476c588f86ad80ffdc45e0a313450e" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">pre-made mesh bags.</a> The nice thing about these is they <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KSYMTJ6/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B07KSYMTJ6&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=c9476c588f86ad80ffdc45e0a313450e" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">came in a set of 12</a> so I took a couple of them and use them as laundry bags for delicate items. If you've gotten the plastic produce bags at the grocery store, you can also re-use those over and over. Or, just keep your produce loose and be ready for the eye rolling.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Produce Box</u></span></div>
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When we get home from grocery shopping, we transfer our fruits and veggies to <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01FCR7MYM/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B01FCR7MYM&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=12185e25cd8df821fbc65ea49ce38419" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">produce boxes</a>. They keep our food fresh a lot longer, which reduces waste, which helps us save money. I keep two of these around - one for green leafy vegetables and one for grapes and berries. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Soap Berries</u></span></div>
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Ok. So this is a weird one and my husband still isn't totally on board. But last March (10 months ago), I paid less than $20 for a bag of <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001DU4XPY/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B001DU4XPY&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=391cffee375e3b26d5449376d517062b" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">soap berries. Or soap nuts.</a> I don't even really remember what they're called. I wasn't super hopeful because we have dogs and they're messy and we're messy and I'm also allergic to everything and my skin is hyper sensitive to detergents, but we figured it was worth a try. Well, I figured. James just kind of goes along with it. Anyway, we got this big bag of soap berries. You take about 7 of them, put them in a little muslin bag, throw them in the washer while the water is running and wash your clothes. You can use that same bag for 7 loads of laundry. And omg, they work! Our clothes got clean, even the towels that we use to clean up a dog mess, like - it all got clean. There aren't any perfumes in the berries so your clothes don't smell like anything, really. They're just clean and odor free. So I've been using these for nearly a year, I spent less than $20 on them, and I totally love them. It will change your laundry routine a little bit, but once you get used to them, it's pretty easy. Plus, I'm probably saving about a hundred bucks a year in laundry detergent costs. Everybody wins!</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Toilet Paper</u></span></div>
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I'm not going to get into too much detail here, but basically, we all need toilet paper and it usually comes wrapped in plastic. About a year ago, we started ordering toilet paper in bulk from <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007M57K40/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B007M57K40&linkCode=as2&tag=loveheylola-20&linkId=4a758498e27633f5f9b2a780ebb44c74" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">Seventh Generation</a>. I like it because it's made from recycled fibers, it comes wrapped in paper, and we order about 60 rolls at a time, which saves us from last minute trips to the grocery store and ending up with more plastic. If you're really into super soft and multi-ply toilet paper, you may not love this stuff. I'm more concerned about our environmental footprint, so this is great for us. The up front cost is a little more than what we would normally pay, but when I factor in all of the last minute trips to a corner pharmacy store where toilet paper is kind of super expensive, I think it ends up working out in our favor.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Jars</u></span></div>
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We try to make sure that given the choice between plastic packaging and glass packaging, that we choose glass (or paper when it's available). We save all of our glass jars. I use them for paint water, paintbrush storage, bead storage, and for food storage. We also have some set aside for a local <a class="link-viewer_link__2qJYG blog-link-hashtag-color y_1_u" href="http://www.kirasflowers.com/?fbclid=IwAR2WeFWxExqxF8K4Z1rjhJyCgBpD2mlcPMNU3qvEfTg0IAvDCBVteZFMdn0" rel="noopener" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #e3d0a8; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-line; word-break: break-word;" target="_blank">flower farmer</a> in town who re-uses glass jars for her bouquets.</div>
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<img class="image-viewer_image__1Fjtc image-viewer_imagePreload__2E02D" src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/c39ae1_e7059e0f3cbc4bf4b0cbd7d3c3e5675b~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_640,h_640,al_c,q_5/file.jpg" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: block; filter: blur(8px); font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; opacity: 0; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: opacity 0.8s ease 0s; vertical-align: baseline; width: 360px;" /><img class="image-viewer_image__1Fjtc image-viewer_imageHighres__2lDdg" data-pin-media="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/c39ae1_e7059e0f3cbc4bf4b0cbd7d3c3e5675b~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_640,h_640,al_c,q_80/file.png" data-pin-url="https://www.loveheylola.com/blog-1/tips-for-reducing-your-environmental-footprint" src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/c39ae1_e7059e0f3cbc4bf4b0cbd7d3c3e5675b~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_360,h_360,al_c,q_90,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01/c39ae1_e7059e0f3cbc4bf4b0cbd7d3c3e5675b~mv2.webp" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; left: 0px; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; opacity: 1; padding: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px; transition: opacity 0.8s ease 0s; vertical-align: baseline; width: 360px; z-index: 0;" /></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Compost</u></span></div>
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We have two large black plastic bins that we keep on our porch during spring, summer and fall. We move them into our basement during the winter months. They're full of dirt, garbage and worms. Vermi-composting (or worm farming) is pretty easy once you get into a routine. We drilled lots of holes around the bottom and top sides, and on the bottom and in the lid of two plastic black totes (these aren't considered a single use plastic - we've had them for years and expect to have them for many more). We throw scrap paper, junk mail, toilet paper rolls, coffee and filters, egg shells and produce waste in them, and the worms do their work. This year we started freezing our compost before putting it in the bin, which causes it to break down faster. This is helpful with fruits, since they'll usually attract fruit flies to your compost. We don't seem to have that problem as long as we pop the compost in the freezer first.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">PS - there are some affiliate links in this post that I may receive some compensation for if you end up purchasing. All of the links are for products that I've used, currently use and totally love. If I linked to it, it's because I stand behind it and we have it in our home. Let me know if you have any questions or tips and tricks on how we can do even better!</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-84702080612003818672018-10-11T11:00:00.002-07:002018-10-11T11:44:00.262-07:00I only come around when I'm sad.I've had ...a year.<br />
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I've had incredible highs and devastating lows. It has been a rollercoaster that I'm so very tired of riding.<br />
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I haven't written here in a while because things were good. I was healthy, both physically and emotionally.<br />
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But maybe I wasn't.<br />
<br />
In April, I went on a brief vacation and returned only to say goodbye to my beautiful Reuben.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvsMHQc75q777RvhF_trQZK7LdaFQzm7wmoRudoahNK_xHwB94gzc3J5FAOWf2GpuN4opBxfrcDIrFM9vtoP2svP59ufUCCTZD5zHIHh5XPy3K6o-ndx-4h93MNu2fIhmbak2mHLRjIpL/s1600/11182_764941950012_666381573_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKvsMHQc75q777RvhF_trQZK7LdaFQzm7wmoRudoahNK_xHwB94gzc3J5FAOWf2GpuN4opBxfrcDIrFM9vtoP2svP59ufUCCTZD5zHIHh5XPy3K6o-ndx-4h93MNu2fIhmbak2mHLRjIpL/s320/11182_764941950012_666381573_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Shortly after, James went on the trip of a lifetime to Malaysia, only to return early because our Jack was dying. He was diagnosed with megaesophagus and for the next two months, our lives revolved around battling this rare and devastating illness. Sadly, we lost that fight.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZf8csiYiSUnhvUgF3RI9uEMitr0S4SDk60U9kUplQIJB7xpb5B5XZLB11MVTR9pc9ORY4ttyqGUkP7ogHe3roK92ZdtNCQMsFBk9ZOInmwSq-NTA5B19DC36pMBFHdEMy618f6P7IyG2p/s1600/12768359_1555749088070507_3362128413721538154_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZf8csiYiSUnhvUgF3RI9uEMitr0S4SDk60U9kUplQIJB7xpb5B5XZLB11MVTR9pc9ORY4ttyqGUkP7ogHe3roK92ZdtNCQMsFBk9ZOInmwSq-NTA5B19DC36pMBFHdEMy618f6P7IyG2p/s320/12768359_1555749088070507_3362128413721538154_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The next day I went on an amazing trip to Isla Mujeres, where I swam with whale sharks and ended up with a nasty bout of food poisoning (I can tell you exactly what did it. Ceviche shouldn't taste like pesto).<br />
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Just recently I went to Northern California to be a part of a dear friend's wedding. It was such a beautiful time, except I got a little bit sick.<br />
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And by a little bit sick, I mean I either caught or reactivated a mystery virus which paralyzed half of my face and landed me in the hospital for three days.<br />
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I'm now on day 12 of Bells Palsy - partial facial paralysis.<br />
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I'm scared. I wake up every day, hopeful that it got better while I slept. I spend the rest of the day trying to keep my stress down, trying to find hope, trying to relax, trying not to crumple into a sobbing mess in my bed.<br />
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I know that I could be better in 3 weeks. I also know that I might never get better.<br />
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I cannot smile. It's physically impossible.<br />
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It's hard to eat. It's hard to drink. It's hard to speak.<br />
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I'm tired and I don't know why. Is it the mystery virus? Is it depression?<br />
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Who knows.<br />
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My face hurts and that's supposed to be good. Sometimes it crawls and itches and that's uncomfortable but that's also supposed to be good. If it doesn't crawl and itch, I'm terrified. Crawling and itching means my nerves are doing...something. Nothing means...nothing. Continued paralysis.<br />
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I can't close my right eye. Which means I can't just lay down for a nap or even risk falling asleep watching tv. I have to tape it shut to sleep. Or nap. Or rest. Sometimes I tape it shut because it just bothers me. I can't risk being out in the wind because my eye can't protect itself. I can't squint in bright sun. I have to manually blink my eye through the day with my fingers, and use synthetic tears. The blinking and the tears temporarily compromise my vision, which makes it hard to do all of the things I love.<br />
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(This was a few days in. It got worse.)</div>
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I've gone through the gamut of emotions, some realistic and some not so much. Did I do this to myself? Because I celebrated with too many margaritas? Is it because I'm unhealthy? Because I was too happy? Took on too much? Because I quit running? Anxious? Too stressed out? Why do bad things keep happening when we travel? Are we being punished? Are we bad people? Is God trying to teach me another lesson? Will God ever tire of teaching me lessons? I'm so very tired of life's lessons. How do I rest? Am I lazy for resting? My poor husband. He married this broken thing. Why am I so broken? What else is wrong? What's next? How can I be better so this stops happening? Am I terrible?<br />
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And on and on and on...<br />
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My therapist says that I'm very hard on myself.<br />
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I'm aware. I don't know how to stop. I was wired at a very young age to believe all bad things were my fault, even when it's ever so obvious that some things simply aren't my fault. Apparently that's just a battle I need to keep fighting.<br />
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I am being proactive. I'm eating well. I've backed off from all big projects for the moment. I'm painting for therapy. I'm sleeping. I'm practicing relaxation and stress management. I'm seeing my therapist. Acupuncturist. Doctors. I'm doing all of the things.<br />
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But I'm scared. And I'm sad. And while I believe that I can do hard things, I would be lying if I said I relished these battles. I don't. I'm tired. Some days I feel like all I do is fight. One thing after another after another. But other days, I feel so lucky for every great and beautiful thing that has come my way. There are a lot of those. Battles and beauty, I guess. And we keep moving forward. One day at a time.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-89482193222877797592018-05-23T05:54:00.001-07:002018-05-23T05:54:13.637-07:00The same...but different.<div class="font_7">
I've kept an online blog as long as I can remember. It started as a bit of a joke, then it became about crafts and DIY and most recently, it was therapy. I chronicled a 3 year battle with depression, anxiety, defamation of character and just general unhappiness. I worked through the estrangement of both of my parents, and then their somewhat recent deaths. I've not felt the urge to write lately, because my head and my heart are in a healthy place, and my art and my life have me at peace. But I feel like the trauma and journey to recovery that I went through and the subsequent victory should not be packed away. So I'm keeping it here, so that it can hopefully help someone else someday.</div>
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In the meantime, you can find my new website and all things Hey Lola, set up in proper business fashion...or as close to it as I can manage, at <a href="http://www.loveheylola.com./">www.loveheylola.com.</a></div>
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It's the same...just different.</div>
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with love,</div>
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Jessica</div>
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<br data-cke-eol="1" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-15651368472992075952018-01-24T09:11:00.003-08:002018-01-24T09:11:48.541-08:00Defined by JoyHello!<br />
<br />
Apparently I have not blogged since August. That's not a bad thing...but it's a weird thing.<br />
<br />
My mom died last year and that was...a strange struggle. And then it wasn't. I also fought with a lot of depression and anxiety...and then I didn't.<br />
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It seems like, for a long time, my life has been defined by struggle and sadness and exhaustion from the constant battle to just be happy. Like - all of the way happy.<br />
<br />
And through a twisting series of events over the course of the past few years, and with a ton of loving support from friends and family...<br />
...I have arrived.<br />
<br />
And now life is defined by joy.<br />
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I still walk with the homeless community. I have a new passion to reduce plastic use, because I have seen firsthand the devastation it causes to marine life. I consider myself a compassionate and empathetic person and try to care for humanity in a way that still keeps me healthy. Because of those things, my heart regularly breaks. But at the same time, my heart is always overwhelmed with how much I love this planet and how much I love people.<br />
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So I am still defined by joy.<br />
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I haven't quite figured out how to write about that. But I will. Maybe soon...maybe someday. In the meantime, I'm sharing a lot of my art and joy on my instagram and facebook, and I really do have an active jewelry shop. Cross my heart. So if you want to keep up with Hey Lola type things, I'll provide some links at the end of this post.<br />
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And if you haven't reached your own "defined by joy" stage yet, and you're still in the struggle...I'm still with you. You can still reach out and we can still talk about and do hard things. Joy is the goal for all of us, right? And I would never abandon my team. We'll all get here, one at a time, holding each other up as we go. I know we will. I feel it every day.<br />
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Instagram: www.instagram.com/loveheylola/<br />
Facebook: www.facebook.com/loveHeyLola/<br />
Shop: www.shopheylola.comAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-41629810111200628962017-08-18T15:05:00.004-07:002017-08-18T15:05:24.642-07:00The Racist Bones in Our Bodies<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="6tah9" data-offset-key="e61ep-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: normal;"><b>I have racist bones in my body.</b></span></div>
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When I went to Germany, I was really struck by how they owned their ugly history. There were monuments and memorials, very much a country of "this is not who we are, but we will not erase this ugliness, but rather, own it, so that we do not do it again." I mean - I'm not speaking for Germany, but that was the impression that I got. And it struck me that as Americans, we really prefer to sweep our ugly history under the rug. To pretend that it didn't shape who we are today.</div>
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The thing is, there isn't anything wrong with saying, you know, yesterday I had some beliefs that were kind of fucked up. Today, I have fewer. Tomorrow, I hope even less. But fucked up beliefs have always been part of my history and in order to purge myself of them, I have to be willing to admit that they're there. I can't sweep them under the rug.</div>
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These pieces of my past...</div>
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My grandparents used to make me cross the street when people of color approached. It was ok, though, because they were just being cautious. <i>Right?</i></div>
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My 6th grade boyfriend was black, and my mom and stepdad made me break up with him, not because they were racist, you know, but because "society wouldn't approve." I mean, how could they be racist? They had black friends. <i>Right?</i></div>
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When my husband and I opened a business in a very diverse neighborhood, I spent the first 6 months hoping we would be ok, despite what I perceived as the neighborhood's "sketchiness." (it wasn't sketchy. It was economically challenged and it was diverse.)</div>
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I've let my sticker on my license plates expire for up to 9 months at a time, drove up and down a street where people of color are regularly pulled over, and never received a ticket. I've actually only been pulled over for it once. And they let me go.</div>
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I went on vacation once to a southern plantation and thought nothing of the history of such a place. Thought nothing of the fact that I would be horrified if someone wanted to vacation at Auschwitz, but plantations are cool because they're houses and maybe haunted and look at all of the pretty trees.</div>
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I am 100% positive that I have made jokes or insensitive comments in the past and still put myself in the "not racist" category.</div>
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So I went through most of my life thinking that I wasn't part of the problem, because I believed segregation was wrong and slavery is wrong and racist insults are wrong and discrimination is wrong and I'm a good person and I don't have a racist bone in my body, right? Because I don't see color, right? And it's not my fault if the police don't want to pull me over EVER, for repeatedly breaking the law, for 9 months, while people of color are pulled over all around me.</div>
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Looking back, it's embarrassing.</div>
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And then a couple of things happened, and I had a "holy shit" moment. The moment I realized that I am indeed part of the problem. And ever since, I've been trying very hard to recognize that and work against it. I'm sure I fail regularly. Part of that failure is probably being really willing to point out racism in other people, but shoving my own past under the rug. It's not me, it's you. So here it is - have some of my history. It's gross and this is just a tiny chunk of it, and probably not the worst. And it makes me feel gross. I'm not better than you. I'm flawed. I've made so many mistakes, I couldn't possibly count them all. But here is something that I'm glad that I eventually learned:</div>
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We do need to see color. Privilege is a thing and if you're white, you've got it. Systemic racism is real and if you're surrounded by mostly white folks, there's a reason that you're not seeing it. If you were raised by people who regularly said racist shit and engaged in racism, you were influenced. And I know that everyone wants to believe that they're not part of the problem and that they're "one of the good ones," but man...if you really don't want to be part of the problem, you're going to have to take a very hard look at who you are and what you believe and how you were raised and how this American society currently benefits you in ways that it absolutely does not benefit others. When we say, "this is not us," and people of color are saying, "no - this is how it's always been. People are just feeling a little more emboldened these days, and also, you haven't been paying attention," we should listen. We should pay attention. And we should examine our actions and our belief systems and the things we casually say and do and we should listen to people's stories and see color and not try to sweep our history under the rug because we're embarrassed. It sucks to be embarrassed, but I guarantee you it's far worse to fear for your life and the lives of your loved ones and to watch your rights be trampled on while people confidently tell you "I don't see color."</div>
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<b><i>We have racist bones in our bodies. </i></b>It's not helping anyone to pretend that we don't. Those racist bones are there - we have to be conscious of them so that we can work against them every single time they try to come to the forefront.</div>
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If yesterday we were very wrong (and so many of us have been so very wrong - I have been very wrong), we can be thankful to have been given today to correct our course and do the work to be on the right side of history.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-41676029884998398982017-07-25T12:02:00.002-07:002017-07-25T12:07:48.735-07:00I wish we were better.I've read approximately a million stories this week on Chester Bennington's death and the impact he had on people who were/are struggling with mental health and/or traumatic pasts. Each one made me cry.<br />
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Like so many others, his death hit me hard - much harder than I would have expected. And it wasn't because I knew him - I had met him once, but did not know him. But for some reason, I was and am absolutely grief stricken about his death.<br />
<br />
I'm a pretty sensitive person - I cry about everything and I feel things intensely. But this is different.<br />
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I'm gutted.<br />
<br />
You know that cliche about being "raised by rock and roll?"<br />
<br />
That's me. In 1999, I was fresh off of a failed marriage (<i>I am a failure</i>). I had serious childhood trauma (<i>even your family hates you</i>), so no family that I spoke to. I had no education (<i>you're stupid</i>) and no skills (<i>worthless</i>), so I was a stripper (<i>slut</i>). I was worthless. I was a failure at everything. I had terrible self esteem. I slept all day, I was haunted by memories and feelings of inadequacy and I would spend my nights taking my clothes off for strangers, being told by some that I was the most beautiful woman on the planet while others flung quarters at me, commented on my fat thighs and called me a whore.<br />
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I went out a lot. Got some tattoos. Pierced my face. Slept around. Probably drank too much.<br />
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I was deeply, <i>deeply</i> unhappy.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It was ...not the best version of me.<br />
<br />
I didn't have much, but I had music. Korn, Linkin Park, Disturbed, Breaking Benjamin, Cold, Marilyn Manson, Tool, Nine Inch Nails...I was angry and sad and fucked up and the music was angry and sad and fucked up and for me, that was home. I went to concert after concert. I went backstage. I became a metal version of Penny Lane, only dirtier. Sleazier. More naive? Didn't matter to me. We were all in it together. Some musicians and crew were less than kind. Some were beyond kind. I was the same. For me, it was family. I took the good with the bad. They sang and screamed what I felt, and I really needed to be around people who felt the way that I did. It felt...less lonely.<br />
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<br />
<br />
So I did meet Chester once, backstage at Ozzfest. My boyfriend at the time (we're still friends to this day) knew him and introduced me to "Chester."<br />
<br />
I didn't recognize him - I had a few months to go before I *really* got into Linkin Park. He was talking about his throat being sore and me, being ever so helpful and not realizing who he was, told him it was probably the midwest and allergies and that he should drink some tea with honey and he would probably be just fine. He didn't look at me like I was crazy or "don't you know who I am" or be dismissive or any rock star type behavior. He was polite, said it was nice meeting you, and walked off after our conversation. Uneventful. Nice guy. Who was that?<br />
<br />
Later, we were backstage for their show and I was like...oh. These guys are so good. Oh. That's the same dude. I'm an idiot. But really - what a nice guy. He didn't seem like a rock star at all.<br />
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<br />
And I really loved Linkin Park after that. They got it. There are only a few bands whose music still resonates with me today, all of these years later, and Linkin Park is one of them. So Chester dying...it feels like losing family. In a way, it <b><i>is</i></b> losing family. And losing the same battle that I fight? It's scary. And the grief is compounded by the fact that some people just love to be mean and no matter how often I witness it, I always feel like I get sucker punched. Like -whoa. People are mean? Why? When did that happen? It's like I forget...<br />
<br />
The internet is a front row seat to cruelty, so people have been predictably heartless and terrible and judgmental. It's ok to joke about people dying, as long as they're famous, right? It's ok to call them cowards for losing their battle, because it's not like they're here to defend themselves and anyway, you get sad and you didn't kill yourself, right?<br />
<br />
And there are a couple of things to say about that. First - why? Would you walk up to someone in WalMart and ask to take their picture so you could publicly shame them online for the outfit they're wearing? Would you make jokes about the dead at their funeral, to the people who loved them? If you say terrible things about your neighbor online (and it's ok because you're not facebook friends anyway), would you say it to them in person? Be who you are, all of the time. Stand up for your words. And if your words are terrible, at least have the courage to say them out loud, in front of the people they are designed to hurt. Or, recognize that your words have power, that the internet reaches every corner of the earth and famous or not, absolutely everyone should be off limits when it comes to you being hurtful and cruel and indulging in shaming behavior. Use what you have to shine a light in the darkness. Don't increase the darkness. Don't make an already hard life worse.<br />
<br />
And cowardice? No. No. Absolutely not. And no.<br />
<br />
For me, childhood trauma and depression and anxiety is a bit like being afraid of needles. Only, imagine that the needles have <i>really</i> hurt you and also, the whole world is actually needles.<br />
<br />
THE WHOLE WORLD IS NEEDLES.<br />
<br />
And so the whole world is needles and you have this awful history with needles, but every day you get up and you go out into a world that's all needles. You are grateful for a day where you're not triggered, where you don't cry, where you don't drink, you don't cut yourself, where you actually left your house, you did something productive, you are grateful that you made it through 24 hours in a world made of needles. But you're tired. And you try to focus on all of the great things that happened today and what will happen in the future, but goddamn it, you just wish that the needles weren't there. They're really, really difficult to navigate and you're really, really tired. And to make matters worse, your brain is all messed up and keeps telling you that 1.) the needles are bigger than they actually are and 2.) that things that aren't needles are actually needles. It's exhausting.<br />
<br />
Someone who fought that battle everyday, who not only went into a world full of needles but talked about how hard it was and gave comfort to people who knew EXACTLY what he meant, but who also had legions of people who love to be cruel on the internet tell him how stupid his battles were and how the songs from his heart didn't matter because he sucks because hey! It's fun to be mean to people on the internet! - that person is not a coward. That is a person who did battle every single day, 100% of the time, publicly, and gave countless people hope in the process and won every single battle ...until he didn't.<br />
<br />
And so the answer isn't to jump onto our high horse and talk about the cowardice of others while bragging about how well we manage our own pain. The answer isn't to make cruel jokes.<br />
<br />
I don't know what the answer is... but I know what it isn't. And I KNOW we can be better. I know I can be better.<br />
<br />
We can hold the hands of people walking through darkness. We can not add to that darkness. We can show people that in a world full of needles, there are safety measures. There is protection. And here is my hand. I believe that your battle is real. I will go with you. I will be with you.<br />
<br />
Shine a light. Be that light. The world is very, very hard and we can all do better. Please let us do better. We need to be better.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-19743409898629187322017-06-13T14:41:00.002-07:002017-06-16T13:36:26.916-07:00The Edited Version of This Week's Anger<br />
They say grief is a roller coaster.<br />
<br />
I'm going down.<br />
<br />
I'm so angry. I'm sad. I'm miserable. I'm furious. I want to break everything. I want to crawl into bed and never get out.<br />
<br />
I feel nauseous.<br />
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My head hurts.<br />
<br />
Every post I write is a different emotion and here's where we are today:<br />
<b>I'm really, really angry at my parents.</b><br />
<b>I'm really angry at God.</b><br />
<br />
I've tried sorting through every one else's experiences. I've tried to honor their feelings. I've choked my own feelings down until they made me physically sick. I have smiled and laughed and cried with everyone else and their wonderful memories of my parents and I have tried to see them through a different lens and I have tried SO HARD to pretend that my parents didn't hurt me more than I have ever been hurt by anyone and...<br />
<br />
I'm exhausted.<br />
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Most people have better memories of my parents than I do. Which can mean a couple of things. Either my memory is completely wrong, everyone else is lying, or I just wasn't someone my parents could love.<br />
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I still don't think everyone else is lying. And I have witnesses and a box full of history that backs up my memories.<br />
<br />
So my parents just didn't love me. It sounds whiny and bratty when you say it out loud, but when it's true, it absolutely wrecks your life.<br />
<br />
And when you look at a bunch of pictures and hear so many stories about how much they loved everyone else and the great things they did for them...it's hard not to just completely lose it. Even when people who you know and love and respect promise you that you are NOT a garbage person and that you ARE worthy of love...<br />
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It's hard not to be angry and sad and confused and to try and pretend that you're not angry and sad and confused until you make yourself physically sick....and just repeat. Over and over and over again.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwsGzXp0kLvoZKcU1lveY4Zb00phw_XO8guGabf8yWp2PebX8JKGBBfuL0w95USN3edEZEqRt-G5MECRKUFK4woR-URWdhN-SGXo9LlTW2usNJbWAkToKzWBAfK3AZwV892D97izlY1Cvz/s1600/20150428_135832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwsGzXp0kLvoZKcU1lveY4Zb00phw_XO8guGabf8yWp2PebX8JKGBBfuL0w95USN3edEZEqRt-G5MECRKUFK4woR-URWdhN-SGXo9LlTW2usNJbWAkToKzWBAfK3AZwV892D97izlY1Cvz/s400/20150428_135832.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />
I am not perfect and I have made more mistakes in my life than I can count. That is true. I have done a lot of good in my life. That is true. My mom was mean to me and my mom lied to me and my mom lied about me and my mom did a lot of damage to my soul. That is true. My father disappeared and reappeared just enough to make me love and miss him and just enough to do a lot of damage to my soul. That is true. My parents were also good to a lot of people and most people have a lot of praise for them and their memories. That is true.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0v9c4aoPHgM9rwr8CTae_Acjwl-zhBxFsmQG3JXGLVEnO3eHBEDk8vspO4yoVbmozc3qhreGmA9wvsHE0c85eRoH4zr4Hht5Us8v4wxFNVBje-1zsF2HVw7E8Ue8QVsEJsEsNEfy6K8Y/s1600/hl4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="960" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0v9c4aoPHgM9rwr8CTae_Acjwl-zhBxFsmQG3JXGLVEnO3eHBEDk8vspO4yoVbmozc3qhreGmA9wvsHE0c85eRoH4zr4Hht5Us8v4wxFNVBje-1zsF2HVw7E8Ue8QVsEJsEsNEfy6K8Y/s400/hl4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>So now, I'm stuck. How can I have a relationship with people who have all of these great memories, when everything hurts? How can I honor their memories but be true to my own? How do I exist with them in the middle of these opposites? How can I let go of my own awful bits and focus on being good but not only focus on the good in others? Why do the bad parts hurt so much? Why are they so BIG?<br />
<br />
I don't know that there's a space for that. For this mess. I don't know that there's a place for me not to remain isolated from my family. And that makes me sad. And scared. And angry. And sick.<br />
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I've been sick for weeks.<br />
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<br />
<b>And this bothers me:</b> Do they get to be in heaven now? Because they said the right words and poured water over their heads and broke the bread and drank from the cup and went to church, they just get to be in heaven now? Forever and ever, amen? With nothing to be sorry about? And all of their sins forgiven and forgotten and a rotting pile of garbage, sick and sobbing daughter left here on earth to try and figure out what this all is, exactly?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAfg1ZMoBfuEVNXH87jrJaV0lA5_ihuFKEXalWpKOdPsFgpXqFHG9JCky5J16jRqODYDqFHGybfhTbTuquUWsA26QT6S59wbZt8I8P8IfbnsHJRn8AnjPFuE7ro0AuDEDv919Dvqzv7A6/s1600/hl+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAfg1ZMoBfuEVNXH87jrJaV0lA5_ihuFKEXalWpKOdPsFgpXqFHG9JCky5J16jRqODYDqFHGybfhTbTuquUWsA26QT6S59wbZt8I8P8IfbnsHJRn8AnjPFuE7ro0AuDEDv919Dvqzv7A6/s400/hl+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
I found myself screaming at the sky, "ARE YOU EVEN FUCKING SORRY?????"<br />
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I found myself thinking that God sure has a funny way of building character in humans and that all of these trials and tribulations and the constant pain for everyone, all of the time, is really just starting to piss me off.<br />
<br />
God and I are fighting right now.<br />
<br />
I found myself arguing with myself. Maybe there is nothing to be sorry about. Maybe you really are garbage. Maybe your memories are false and your parents are in heaven where everything is forgiven and forgotten and they don't worry about you because this is all in your head, and you are nothing, nothing, nothing...<br />
<br />
My husband pulls me back from that. He reminds he that he is my witness. But he leaves and I spiral again...<br />
<br />
I'm angry about the spiraling. I feel like I should have a better handle on this, but I just don't. I posted this yesterday and it was all anger and only anger. And I deleted it, and this is the edited version, because I am trying to be fair to my family and to be fair to their memories. This space, where I tell my stories, is now tied to other people. And I can be fair to me about this or I can be fair to them about this, but I cannot be fair to everyone. My truth is the opposite of theirs. And writing is my therapy. So I'm stuck. I don't really know what to do. But I'll figure it out. We always figure it out, right?<br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-9778301510972228492017-05-14T20:31:00.001-07:002017-05-14T20:48:23.181-07:00Mother's Day<div id="fb-root">
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Mother's Day is hard. It always has been.<br />
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I didn't want to go to church today. Mothers everywhere. Mother's Day in your face.<br />
But I went.<br />
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We're in the process of cleaning my mom's house and packing her things.<br />
<br />
It's hard for my sister and my niece. Less so for me, to pack up the things of this woman that I didn't know, but who somehow was my mother.<br />
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I said goodbye years ago.<br />
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I did, right?<br />
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I asked my sister if I could organize the photographs and letters, put them into order, and give them back to her. </div>
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My mom and I fought. She was better than me. I was all wrong. My mom had everything under control. I needed to get my shit together and find Jesus...or something. We fought. And we fought. Until we didn't. Nothing but space between my mother and I.</div>
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I didn't like her. I didn't think she was honest.</div>
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But I took these photos and letters and documents home and I read and organized for hours and I did not meet the saintly mother that everyone spoke so highly of...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
But...</div>
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<div>
I met the mother who was human. Who struggled. Who suffered loss. Who was scared. Who was tired. Who struggled but cloaked her struggle in unhealthy coping mechanisms and so much kindness towards others that she didn't leave much for herself. </div>
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She lied to me about who she was. She lied to herself about who I was. </div>
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My mom was broken and flawed and human and she didn't know how to be broken and flawed and human so she tried to be perfect.</div>
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It doesn't work, mom. I tried that. I know.</div>
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I never really met my mom until she died. And now, it's like she's everywhere.</div>
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<div>
Lilies of the valley remind me of my mom. It's a positive association, from when I was much younger. I've tried for years to grow them, but they never came. </div>
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Until this last month, right after my mom died.<br />
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Church today, and dread. I go early because I like to sit in a certain spot (with a quick escape route because anxiety anxiety anxiety). I also go early because the music keeps me still. </div>
<div>
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<div>
I like the stillness.</div>
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<div>
My mom liked church music. There was only one song that my family really wanted played at my mom's celebration of life - <a href="https://youtu.be/dy9nwe9_xzw">"Oceans."</a> They said it was her favorite. I'd never heard it before, but it's really beautiful. They played it at her celebration of life and the pastor spoke in depth about my mom and the meaning of that song.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've never heard that song at my own church.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Until today. Mother's Day.</div>
<div>
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I cried and cried and cried through the whole thing.</div>
<div>
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<div>
Life is weird, right?</div>
<div>
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My mom is everywhere.</div>
</div>
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I know.... I KNOW... that my relationship with my mom was the only way it could have been. I still don't have any regrets about that. We weren't going to change each other. But it makes this whole thing...this appreciation for the side of her that we found in boxes in deep corners of closets, so much...so...</div>
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<br /></div>
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...it's...</div>
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<br /></div>
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...it's hard. And beautiful. And eye-opening. And healing. And strange. And constant. And weird.</div>
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It's really weird.</div>
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<div>
I did not like my perfect mother. But I have so much respect and empathy and love for my broken, flawed human, struggling and trying so hard mom. That's the mom I wish I could have met before.</div>
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That's the mom I'm meeting now.</div>
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A friend from church posted this today and I thought it was beautiful and it fits even if it doesn't quite fit:</div>
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<i>“They offered to take me sightseeing. We had time for only one major attraction: they suggested either Sonoma Valley or Muir Woods. I remembered the postcards and photographs of the redwood forests, where branches grew higher than houses, and cars could drive through trees. I chose the woods.</i></div>
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<i>I knew nothing about redwoods, except what my mother had told me about their size – which, as it happened, was pretty accurate in Muir Woods, except for the part about the cars. I’d never seen trees so big.</i></div>
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<i>As we shuffled through the ferns and sorrel, we reached a small, odd group of redwoods growing in a circle around a charred stump. The burned down trunk stood maybe six feet high, but the trees surrounding it were young and healthy. Park rangers call these clusters “the family circle”. The less botanically inclined usually call them – and I swear this is true – the mother tree and her daughters.</i></div>
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<i>Nature often offers metaphors more elegant than any we can manufacture, and Muir Woods is no exception. Redwoods have evolved to turn disaster into opportunity. In these coastal forests, death produces life.</i></div>
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<i>This is what I mean: In the redwood exosystem, buds for future trees are contained in pods called burls, tough brown knobs that cling to the bark of the mother tree. When the mother tree is logged, blown over, or destroyed by fire – when, in other words, she dies – the trauma stimulates the burls’ growth hormones. The seeds release, and trees sprout around her, creating the circle of daughters. The daughter trees grow by absorbing the sunlight their mother cedes to them when she dies. And they get the moisture and nutrients they need from their mother’s root system, which remains intact underground even after her leaves die. Although the daughters exist independently of their mother above ground, they continue to draw sustenance from her underneath.</i></div>
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<i>I am fooling only myself when I say my mother exists now only in the photograph on my bulletin board or in the outline of my hand or in the armful of memories I still hold tight. She lives on beneath everything I do. Her presence influenced who I was, and her absence influences who I am. Our lives, are shaped as much by those who leave us as they are by those who stay. Loss is our legacy. Insight is our gift. Memory is our guide.”</i></div>
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<i><br />
</i></div>
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<i>Motherless Daughters</i></div>
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<i>The Legacy of Loss</i></div>
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<i>Hope Edelman</i></div>
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Life is weird ...people tell you how to feel and you tell yourself how you're going to feel but the truth is, we just don't know how life is going to hit us. </div>
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This is hard...</div>
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...and life is weird and full of struggle and loss and confusion and pain and light and joy and suffering and loss and...</div>
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... And we keep going because there's beauty and wonder and love and amazement and...</div>
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We keep going.</div>
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We just keep going.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-20317147221594365742017-04-26T10:14:00.001-07:002017-04-26T10:20:52.665-07:00Hello, Anger.<div id="fb-root">
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<br />
...I knew it would come.<br />
<br />
Have you ever noticed that no one dies who was less than perfect?<br />
<br />
Everyone who dies is elevated to sainthood.<br />
<br />
There is no room for complicated grief. Just perfect memories of perfect people.<br />
<br />
At her Celebration of Life, people kept telling me how much my mom loved me.<br />
<br />
"She loved you so much."<br />
<br />
I smiled. I nodded. I hugged them back. I told them how sorry I was for their loss.<br />
<br />
And I <i>was</i>. I <i>am</i>. She sounds amazing and I'm so sorry that you will have this hole in your life where she was. These stories are incredible.<br />
<br />
I wish I could have met her.<br />
<br />
And I wanted to scream.<br />
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<br />
I wanted to beat my fists into the floor and scream and break things and disparage her memory and...<br />
<br />
I smiled. I nodded. I hugged people back.<br />
<br />
I can recognize and appreciate who my mother was to all of these people. I can appreciate the deep affection and love that they had for her, and all of the good that she brought into their lives.<br />
<br />
<i>I am not mad at people who saw the good in my mother and who loved her for it.</i><br />
<br />
But...<br />
<br />
I found myself writing my own obituary this week. I implored my husband, "if I die first, don't let them make me perfect. Tell them I was flawed and broken and struggling and succeeding and failing and trying and <i>human</i>. Don't let them put me on a pedestal."<br />
<br />
And I cleaned my house for hours and days because everyone dies suddenly and my house has to be clean...just in case...<br />
<br />
And I walked around the house dazed and I asked my husband," was I fair to my parents? If my mom was so perfect and my relationship with her was just this...mess...was I fair? Am I awful? Am I crazy? Did I make all of this up? Was I <i>fair</i>?"<br />
<br />
And he assured me that I was fair. That he was my witness. That I was not crazy and that yes, I was fair.<br />
<br />
This mess...<br />
<br />
My mom said "our secrets make us sick" and I laughed.<br />
<br />
My mom had a secret. <strike>And I believe, and I will always believe,</strike> and I <b><u>know</u></b> that she sacrificed her relationship with me in order to keep her secret.<br />
<br />
When she died, people who knew her well but had never met me looked at me with disgust. People assumed that I was an alcoholic, a drug addict, in trouble with the law, any number of things I must be that would lead me not to speak to this woman who was a saint among saints.<br />
<br />
I must be a bad child. There must be something wrong with me. I am terrible.<br />
<br />
And through the years, I isolated myself from everyone because...everyone thought I should speak to my mother. Everyone thought I should be nicer to her. She was such a good woman and it hurt her so much that I wouldn't speak to her and why was I so awful and...<br />
<br />
No one believes me anyway and she always said that I was a liar.<br />
<br />
I just closed myself off. And now she is gone. And there is no room for complicated grief. There is no room to wish that your mother would have actually loved you the way that everyone says that she did. When people tell me how much she loved me, there is no place to do or say anything but agree. There is no place to refute the perfection of the deceased. There is no room to say that this hurts me too, but in a different way. <br />
<br />
She is gone, a saint in Heaven. And I am her child in continuing isolation.<br />
<br />
And no one dies who was less than perfect.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-56485767924321026392017-04-16T11:23:00.001-07:002017-04-16T12:03:00.017-07:00Sorting<div id="fb-root">
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The day after my mom died, the outpouring of love for her was incredible. People said how amazing she was, how she took care of everyone, how she was like a second mother to them, that she had the most generous heart and on and on and on...<br />
<br />
I was furious. Who were these people? Were they blind? Were they stupid? Kind? Generous? <i>A second mother???</i> Did they even know my mom? Had they actually met?<br />
<br />
That was Day 1.<br />
<br />
I'm not there anymore.<br />
<br />
I'm still navigating these waters and I find something new every day.<br />
<br />
Today I was thinking about cruelty.<br />
<br />
How my mother thought that I was cruel and I thought that she was cruel and how people who knew my mother and loved her so much could not understand how or why I could be so cruel to her and how people who know and love me so much could not understand how my mother could be so cruel to me and people who love me do not think that I am cruel and people who love my mother do not think that she is cruel and how on earth did we get here and it is<br />
<br />
<i>so. </i><br />
<i>much. </i><br />
<i>to. </i><br />
<i>unravel.</i><br />
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<i><br />
</i> <i><br />
</i> I am not cruel. My mother was not cruel. But we are broken. We are all broken. And I guess with my mom and I, that brokenness came across as cruelty. Because to be sure, no matter what anyone else might see in either one of us, my mother and I could be very cruel to each other. No matter how beautiful we each might be, our brokenness could make us hurtful.<br />
<br />
Not intentionally malicious. But still...cruel.<br />
<br />
So there's that. I'm still working on that. I have nothing profound or wise to say, except how strange it is to try and see my mom and I's relationship through the eyes of others, and to simultaneously take her side and mine. And to try and find a place where there are no sides to take.<br />
<br />
I'm not there yet.<br />
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<br />
<br />
But I am at brokenness. And vulnerability.<br />
<br />
And here's where things are weird...<br />
<br />
My mom and I, for at least a little while, were the same guy. I'm trying to wrap my head around that - that my mom and I, who generally could not be in the same room with each other without everything turning into terrible, were incredibly alike.<br />
<br />
Broken and in pain, and trying to fix it by ignoring it and trying to save the world instead. My mother was kind and generous and thoughtful and loving and took care of everyone around her. I cannot deny that. She would have taken care of me if I would have let her (I did not, and that was the right choice, as difficult a choice as it was for everyone involved. She was not wrong for wanting to take care of me. I was not wrong for not letting her). My mother wanted people to be happy, and if she could help them be happy, she would. I didn't know this version of my mother, but I can see it and hear it from <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">everyone</u> who talks about her. Literally, everyone.<br />
<br />
Those people are not liars. They are speaking about someone that they loved and that they knew well. They speak the truth.<br />
<br />
And I think that there are many people who might say the same about me - that I am kind and thoughtful and generous and loving and I take care of people ...<br />
<br />
BUT...I now take care of myself first, before trying to take care of everyone around me. And I had to learn that the hard way, by completely falling apart.<br />
<br />
(aren't all of life's most valuable lessons learned the hard way? And doesn't it piss you off?)<br />
<br />
I think that desire to fix the world comes from not wanting to confront our own brokenness and pain. Because seriously...who wants to mess with any of that when instead, you can shove it aside and just have people love you and think that you are good? And what would happen if people thought that you were flawed? Would they stop loving you?<br />
<br />
It is best not to even find out.<br />
<br />
I think that's where my mom was. And I think that, because I was there... for a really long time. <i>"Nothing is wrong with me as long as I am good enough for everyone else." </i> I think my mom was everything to everyone for her entire life, and in being that, she completely ignored the parts of herself that needed the most attention. That hurt. And brokenness.<br />
<br />
And I wish my mom could have opened herself up to that and just fallen apart, because as painful as that is, it is also such an incredible place of healing.<br />
<br />
To say, "<i>I cannot do this. I cannot help you. Or save you. I'm in pain. I cannot be perfect. I am flawed because I am human. I need help. I need to rest for a while."</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> And I wish that I would have had the courage and the wisdom to have recognized that struggle in my mom, and let her know that as angry as I was, if she would have asked for a lifeline, I would have provided it. I wish I wouldn't have been so arrogant as to think that I knew the whole of who she was, and that there wasn't anything left to know.<br />
<br />
<br />
The things we realize when it's too late...<br />
...let them be the things we carry going forward...<br />
so we don't have to do this again.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i> So I am sorting through all of this. Finding out who my mom was and who she was not. Fighting with her in my head. Trying not to fight with her in my head. Trying to balance between my truth and the truth of others. Trying to be kind. Trying to be true. Trying to be fair. Trying to stay afloat on these weird, rough, and unfamiliar waters.<br />
<br />
And knowing - you cannot be an effective lighthouse if you don't actually maintain the lighthouse. A lighthouse that burns out cannot light the way for anyone.<br />
<br />
And realizing - a lighthouse shines a light for all - even the people that you are angry with, the people you don't know, the people that you judge even when you're trying not to judge them. The light does not switch on and off. <br />
<br />
You have to keep the light on.<br />
And you have to maintain the building.<br />
<br />
I wish you Grace and Peace, today and always.<br />
I am so grateful for you.<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i> <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-33522769934509068132017-04-15T10:44:00.000-07:002017-04-15T10:53:28.797-07:00Guilt<div id="fb-root"></div><script>(function(d, s, id) {
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It's a process, this letting go.<br />
<br />
We don't exist alone. Our stories are so intertwined with the stories of others. How do we tell our own story and the stories of our pain while still being compassionate and respectful to the stories of others?<br />
<br />
Did I say that I don't feel guilt?<br />
<br />
My hands are shaking.<br />
<br />
I was wrong. I was wrong about so much.<br />
<br />
Here is the guilt...<br />
<br />
Boundaries are appropriate and necessary...but I wish I would have set them...better?<br />
<br />
<i>"These are my boundaries and they are necessary for my survival and health, but if you decide that you want to battle this beast, I will battle it with you. Do not be ashamed. I will not judge you."</i><br />
<br />
This is my regret.<br />
<br />
This is what I wish I would have said.<br />
<br />
This is the person I wish I would have been.<br />
<br />
I call myself a lighthouse and I failed to shine a light for the person who needed it more than anyone.<br />
<br />
This is a very painful lesson to learn. And I'm quite sure that I'm not done learning it...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtfHxU-nb9SWm6ioBybs2OoNkjxPH7tYbDSxU-LDo48ISEaCFmhaRrcj4fvZca71rlZX9b6vDY8zgUcuRAo3-Pj2g5OJygxWidS-7I7NaQ1QWEoRkaJXa1K0VbiiwVRU-QZzKMZ7L7voo/s1600/mother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtfHxU-nb9SWm6ioBybs2OoNkjxPH7tYbDSxU-LDo48ISEaCFmhaRrcj4fvZca71rlZX9b6vDY8zgUcuRAo3-Pj2g5OJygxWidS-7I7NaQ1QWEoRkaJXa1K0VbiiwVRU-QZzKMZ7L7voo/s400/mother.jpg" width="290" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">I will do better.<br />
I am so sorry.</div><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-29286765669998040862017-04-12T09:18:00.002-07:002017-04-12T09:28:30.321-07:00A letter to my mother, the week of her passing<div id="fb-root"></div><script>(function(d, s, id) {
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<br />
Dear mom,<br />
<br />
You and I never got along. We were not so much oil and water as we were fire and gasoline.<br />
<br />
I couldn't talk to you. I stayed away from you, not only to protect my own heart, but to protect yours. You could be hurtful. I know that I could be, too. It was best we didn't talk.<br />
<br />
I didn't understand you. I never did. And I was quite sure that you didn't love me. I knew that you thought that you loved me, but I have never felt like you actually did. You might have felt the same about me. I wanted to love you...but I didn't know how.<br />
<br />
I have spent my life trying to outrun the definition of "bad kid" that I have always been so sure was the family narrative. I am not bad. I am not bad. I am not bad.<br />
<br />
<i>I am not bad.</i><br />
<br />
What is this mess?<br />
<br />
I made my peace with letting you go years ago. I thought that when you passed it would be easier for me, for the "bad kid."<br />
<br />
As it happens, that's not how that works.<br />
<br />
This week, I took up chain smoking and staring into space.<br />
<br />
I've become very good at smiling and nodding politely when people tell me how much you loved me, knowing in my heart that it wasn't true.<br />
<br />
Except...maybe it was true.<br />
<br />
I don't feel guilt about our relationship. This distance was the only possible way. But regret...there is regret. Wishing things could have been different. Wishing that you could have been more honest about your secrets. Wishing that I would have had more patience for what you struggled with. Wishing that it hadn't gone so far that there was just never going to be any closure or resolution.<br />
<br />
Just distance. And hurt.<br />
<br />
I am trying to navigate this. I am unwinding my head and my heart, I am holding all of this in my hands and trying to put it back together into something that resembles...something.<br />
<br />
I don't know what this is.<br />
<br />
My niece told me today that you loved my art and my writing and that you believed in me and thought that I had a good heart and I am just.....undone.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing, mom: I think you had a good heart, too. I know you loved your kids and I know you loved people. I know you just wanted to take care of them. And your oldest daughter is opinionated and strong willed and doesn't take any shit and gets angry and apparently...you saw that I also have a good heart. Even if our good hearts couldn't line up.<br />
<br />
I am angry at you. There are things in our past that you never wanted to talk about. Your oldest daughter shouts the truth from rooftops. We couldn't get past that, could we? But...<br />
<br />
But, but, but...<br />
<br />
It is so clear how loved you were. And how much you meant to others. And that says something.<br />
<br />
I know who you were to me. But I also know who you were to others. And one truth doesn't negate the other. They reside simultaneously.<br />
<br />
And so, this week, I am trying to know you through the eyes of other people. See you through their truth. And it's really beautiful. It doesn't negate my truth or experience. There are things that I will wrestle with forever. But my experience doesn't negate their truth and that truth is that you were loved and that you did love. And you did your best. I see that. I want you to know, I do see that.<br />
<br />
I want you to know that when you and Anna were struggling, that I always told her that I wanted her to have a healthy relationship with you. I know you were scared that I would try to turn her against you, but I didn't want that. I never wanted that. I slipped up a few times. I got angry and said things that I immediately regretted, but I caught it and I always, always, always told Anna that I wanted you guys to be ok. That my relationship with you did not have to be hers, and I never wanted it to be. I didn't want this for her. I wanted you both to be ok. And it was. She knows who you are, she sees your humanity, your ups and downs and she loves you with all of her heart. And....<br />
<br />
And it has...<br />
<br />
It has just struck me...<br />
<br />
That Anna was your youngest and so precious to you and...<br />
<br />
...you entrusted her to me. Even though you were scared. Even though we couldn't communicate without crying and screaming at each other. You trusted me with your youngest daughter. You trusted me to do the right thing. So...<br />
<br />
I guess you didn't think I was so bad. And you know...Anna is this beautiful, strong, courageous, hilarious girl, growing into this amazing woman and that was nurtured in your home. So you can't be that bad.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry that we couldn't figure this out while you were alive. I will always be sorry for that. But I promise you, I can let this anger go. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I can. I will. And I thank you for the gifts that you gave me, even when I couldn't see them.<br />
<br />
Bye, mom. Rest in peace.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-64971814067252317842017-01-31T13:41:00.000-08:002017-01-31T13:42:31.173-08:00Let's just look at some dogs<div id="fb-root"></div><script>(function(d, s, id) {
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<br />
I'm easily distracted by shiny things and political stuff has always been (to me) a REALLY shiny thing. So my anxiety is super high right now. I'm trying to focus on work but I just realized that the sound of machinery and metal grinding (which is how I work) is setting me on edge in a pretty intense way.<br />
<br />
Then I thought, well I'll write, because that's working! And I just stared at the page...<br />
<br />
And then I thought, I'll paint, because that is also working! And I remembered that I'm on crutches and not allowed to take the basement stairs (where all of the paint stuff is).<br />
<br />
So, listen...I'm just going to post some pictures of dogs. And I'm going to do it every week, because the world is heavy and I know we're fighting and doing the best that we can and sometimes pushing ourselves even further than what we thought was the best we had and...damnit.<br />
<br />
You can take a ten minute break and look at some cute dogs. These are my 10 favorite instagram dogs from today. Some of them are old, some of them are young, all different breeds, and every one of them absolutely perfect and the best medicine right now:<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 40.97222222222222% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BPQcCLqATL0/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Brinks (@smilingbrinks)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-14T19:39:58+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 14, 2017 at 11:39am PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP8YEePh1mS/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by ❤️Layla the Chihuahua ❤️ (@layla_the_chihuahua)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-31T21:11:55+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 31, 2017 at 1:11pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BPnEqa8gmeA/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Oliver Twist (@olivertwistthepug)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-23T14:38:17+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 23, 2017 at 6:38am PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 62.5% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP8X4NlBAXj/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Amber (@amburgaler)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-31T21:10:14+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 31, 2017 at 1:10pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 36.11111111111111% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP8XqAzj6SW/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Amy and Naomi Clarke (@barkingmadtaunton)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-31T21:08:18+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 31, 2017 at 1:08pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 62.5% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BPjlK6tDRq1/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by euro&family (@eurosaurus)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-22T06:05:23+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 21, 2017 at 10:05pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP8XlYdAxjT/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Sophie Oestreicher (@the_luxemfrenchie)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-31T21:07:40+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 31, 2017 at 1:07pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 62.4537037037037% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP8Xh8sDuvl/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Jennifer (@j_lynn863)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-31T21:07:12+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 31, 2017 at 1:07pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 49.351851851851855% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP3Sd4BlFoP/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Tuna {breed:chiweenie} (@tunameltsmyheart)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-29T21:46:45+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 29, 2017 at 1:46pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-version="7" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BPu5ZW_jxoW/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Robin 🐾 (@robin_labrador)</a> on <time datetime="2017-01-26T15:33:45+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 26, 2017 at 7:33am PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-47333206212804686812017-01-21T20:11:00.000-08:002017-01-21T20:31:52.565-08:00Self Care Quicksand<div id="fb-root">
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If you are an activist, people who are not activists will always pick apart your activism. These are the "cheap seats people". I think <a href="http://brenebrown.com/">Brene Brown</a> covered it when she talked about people who weren't willing to get out on the field and get their asses kicked, but rather, just hurl criticisms from the safe zones. The cheap seats. And how, if they weren't willing to get their asses kicked, then she wasn't entertaining their criticisms. Which is smart.<br />
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BUT - people who ARE activists are also going to pick apart your activism. Because our activism is borne from personal experience, and as the <i>"fragile little snowflake"</i> activists tend to be, we are incredibly unique in our experiences. I remember a fundraiser that our bar did, and I wanted to donate the proceeds to the Human Rights Campaign. I received an equal amount of praise and disdain for that choice. Which seems to be a common theme for fundraisers. Every organization is either an angel or a devil to every activist and fundraiser out there.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Snowflakes. So fragile. Made from participation trophies and liberal tears. Etc. etc. (image via <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/chaoticmind75/10866858003/">Flickr</a>)</span></i></div>
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What do you do?<br />
<br />
You go to city council meetings and you speak up about injustice and offer solutions and you are an outsider and you basically get ignored.<br />
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You go to court to fight for homeless people and judges laugh at you. And the system is...impossible to navigate. Broken.<br />
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You fight for a neighborhood and its community and you get smeared and trampled by people with deeper pockets and bigger agendas and "better" connections.<br />
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Election season comes and I researched my choice thoroughly and received both praise and disdain for my choice (it was Hillary Clinton).<br />
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The election ended and I chose a very specific way to deal with it - by reaching out to Trump supporters and asking them about their politics while resisting the urge to talk about mine. Just to try and understand what I really did not understand. Again, both praise and disdain.<br />
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If you talk about what you're doing, you're waving your own flag. But if you don't talk about what you're doing, you can't get the help that you need. So you talk about what you're doing so you can get help with what you're doing and praise and disdain and praise and disdain and...<br />
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And finally...I just got sick of it. All of it. I used to be just ...all in. I worked myself weary to support the causes I cared about, most times at my own expense. For years. Until finally, the toll it took on every aspect of my life led me to pull back drastically. I said fuck it.<br />
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And I rested for a while, preferring to be active, but a little quieter. A little less obvious. With a little more care for myself. But damn...I still felt stuck in the middle of that praise and that disdain. I don't want to be praised for doing what feels right - it feels ...gross. But I could really do without all of the harsh judgement, too. Why can't we just talk? Why can't we just do the work? Why can't we just ask for help?<br />
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So I quit people. I was so tired of feeling pulled in every direction, trying to navigate feelings and politics and my heart and keep my paycheck...ugh. I just quit. I've barely talked to anyone outside of my immediate family in almost 2 months. I had a major surgery and if you don't follow my Hey Lola social media accounts, chances are you don't know. Because I barely leave my house. And I stay off of facebook. And away from comment sections.<br />
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I think I just needed some time to figure out what I was truly passionate about, without feeling pulled in the direction of what anyone and everyone else in the world was passionate about. I needed some time to quiet the noise. (Which is hard, because having an anxiety disorder makes it nearly impossible to quiet the noise. The praise and disdain rules the minds of those with anxiety)<br />
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But you know - I recognize that that is a privilege. To just bow out. I'm a bi-sexual woman who is a former sex working, homeless, high school drop-out, so I've had my fair share of struggles. But I'm also a white woman in a monogamous marriage with a white guy, we both have jobs and I managed to get to college. We have a house. We have health insurance. I can check out but I can check back in anytime I want to and generally speaking, life will be kind to me. If people truly do judge books by their covers (and they do), then my cover affords me an enormous amount of privilege.<br />
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On December 3rd, I gave myself a 90 day "cleanse." I'm on crutches now, and hopefully by March 3rd I'll be able to walk normally again. And I'll be ready to fight. Because truthfully, it's been really nice not to fight. Not to cry all of the time and be so fucking frustrated with this system and the way it's just set up to benefit the same people, over and over and over again. It's been nice. I've settled into it very nicely and I could easily stay here forever. In all of this privilege. But that's not really ok.<br />
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The Women's March was today and it was the most inspiring thing I've seen in as long as I can remember.<br />
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And I lamented that I couldn't be there and remembered that a girl on crutches with a broken foot should NOT be in a crushing throng of people and I mentally patted myself on the back for taking care of myself and then I saw...<br />
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don't work yourself to death & sacrifice your sustainability for your activism.<br />
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but also<br />
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don't persistently do nothing & call it self-care</div>
— wikipedia brown (@eveewing) <a href="https://twitter.com/eveewing/status/822656402678317057">January 21, 2017</a></blockquote>
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And oh shit. Because it is SO nice here in all of this self care and let other people take care of shit for a while and I'm done fighting the city and the old white guy politician brigade and apathetic and critical armchair activists who have your back until you need them to have your back and I really, REALLY like it here and that shit sucked. IT FUCKING SUCKED. I like this silence. I like not leaving my house. I like this safety.<br />
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But how can I roll around in all of this safety when others are not safe? How comfortable can that remain?<br />
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It can't.<br />
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So what I need to do is find my happy medium. I have until March 3rd. Figure out what I'm truly passionate about, figure out where my strengths truly lie, and figure out how to balance my needs with the needs of others. And definitely figure out how to hold strong to my own truths and my own fight and not get distracted by every single battle or by disdain OR praise. Take care of myself, take care of others, navigate the noise...goals.<br />
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Please share your favorite organizations with me. Tell me what they do and why and how you support them. Share how you balance your life. Tell me how you handle the noise. How you empower those without a voice? And please keep me accountable, you guys? Don't let me get sucked into self care quicksand. Call me out. I've done the work before. I can do it again. I just need a better approach.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-2900133240206855512017-01-04T18:04:00.000-08:002017-01-04T18:04:13.220-08:00What Depression Looks Like When You're Not Depressed<div id="fb-root">
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When life is good and you're showering regularly and smiling and wearing bright red lipstick and being productive and people find out that you have depression...they are shocked. Because your current state is not what they understand depression to be. I've had people flat out tell me that I don't have it...because I <i>laughed</i> at something. Because they saw me dancing. Because I wore yellow. Because I post pictures like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOyp3k2PZHzQzk3D0hGoQGESL9UN9O6c1e0uYuJZMNNJI7t2CZXMoT5uFPvYxNOTc1P9M6JiFKpKvKMDzee3BHvtu9ThQbSp_S5KDyh06WpUt3cNxHQDPaq5wKuYRSBpUTEwF5UiUpJy_/s1600/loosers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOyp3k2PZHzQzk3D0hGoQGESL9UN9O6c1e0uYuJZMNNJI7t2CZXMoT5uFPvYxNOTc1P9M6JiFKpKvKMDzee3BHvtu9ThQbSp_S5KDyh06WpUt3cNxHQDPaq5wKuYRSBpUTEwF5UiUpJy_/s400/loosers.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Apparently there is some rule that people who have depression must ALWAYS be depressed. Forever and ever, amen. And they cannot laugh or make funny pictures or have a sense of humor, because they are supposed to be depressed. Which is...um...well, that's not really how that works.</div>
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Allie, <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/">from Hyperbole and a Half</a>, is pretty much hilarious. And has depression. She wrote about it - if you've never read it, it's hilarious and sad and a pretty good illustration of the depression journey.</div>
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Depression is here...until it's not. Except when it's not here, you always know it's probably going to come back. So there's a little bit of anxiety about that. Which, if you already have anxiety, is now <i>more</i> anxiety. I don't know many people with depression who don't have the double whammy of depression and anxiety. They seem to like to hang out with each other. They're friends. They're the mean girls in your brain.</div>
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<i>When you pick out an outfit and your brain is like, "yeah!" and then you put it on and your brain is like,"oh no." Except then your brain also calls you ugly. And over / under dressed. And unpopular. And finally convinces you to stay in sweatpants and not leave the house.</i></div>
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So what depression is (for me), when you're not in the throes of depression, is constantly looking over your shoulder for it. And feeling anxious. On top of your anxiety. And maintaining. Making super healthy choices, just to try and keep it at bay.</div>
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My doctors originally put me on fluoxetine, which was not the right answer for me. My experience with fluoxetine was bad enough that I elected to try to manage without medication.</div>
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<b>This is not the right answer for everyone. What works or does not work for me is specific to my circumstances. I'm not a doctor. I would never make recommendations regarding management of mental illness with or without medication. That's between you and your doctor. I'm just sharing my journey.</b></div>
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I elected not to medicate. I experimented with supplements. HTP-5 for a while, and then I switched to Sam -E. Neither of them really made a huge difference, and the difference I thought I felt could very well be attributed to the placebo effect. I thought it should work, so my brain was all, "Yes! This is working!" Until my brain was like, "I'm actually not sure this is working."</div>
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So I quit taking supplements. I read a lot about depression. I read that sugar is a drug and takes your brain on a roller coaster of a journey that can contribute to depression. So I cut down on sugar. ( I really love cake, so I <i>really</i> cut down on daily sugar consumption, so I can still have cake when I want cake. Because cake is life.) </div>
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I read that processed foods can contribute to depression, so we eat fresh food as much as possible now.</div>
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A friend commented that my caffeine intake was high and that caffeine could contribute to anxiety, so I cut back on coffee.</div>
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When the cloud over my head gets too dark, I make sure that I'm seeing my therapist. I paint. I write. I try to work through it. I try to get out of bed.</div>
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My therapist suggested I get my thyroid and my vitamin D levels tested, so I did that. My thyroid was fine, my vitamin D was super low. I take Vitamin D religiously, now.</div>
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I'm triggered by social situations, so I'm very careful about which ones I attend, and truthfully, I rarely attend anything. I don't force myself to attend events I feel really anxious about. I know my brain. It's not going to just be magically ok when we get there. When I do attend anything, I try to have a buddy system - going by myself generally turns out badly. </div>
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I exercise because exercise creates endorphins and endorphins make your brain happy.</div>
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Facebook became a trigger for me. I had read that social media could contribute to depression and I felt like that was becoming a factor for me, so I've taken myself away from that for a bit.</div>
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My point is, even when I look like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkCyj4z3h9C4K6PI3UrsvowXsuxCsGYtuDOi43vVcfhmY19NDWl5zUWF9WjNwB7dsTk0T7oTe77v73PX3moFovMQCdjPy00FSih4kGY9bE4rd3e6RIP5hA8IUYMkqRJwOYhuewZn-WE38/s1600/15826149_10154368621908565_2093832406956916460_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkCyj4z3h9C4K6PI3UrsvowXsuxCsGYtuDOi43vVcfhmY19NDWl5zUWF9WjNwB7dsTk0T7oTe77v73PX3moFovMQCdjPy00FSih4kGY9bE4rd3e6RIP5hA8IUYMkqRJwOYhuewZn-WE38/s320/15826149_10154368621908565_2093832406956916460_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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...I'm still fighting depression. I make choices every day that are designed to keep my brain as healthy as possible. I'm vigilant about it. And my husband knows all of the details, so that if I start to slip, he can talk to me about what I need to stay on task. On the days that I can't fight the dark cloud, he can hold my hand through it, and check in with the steps I'm taking to stay safe.</div>
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Depression doesn't look like something. It's a funny little beast that hides in our brains, and if you don't live in our brains, you can't see it. So you don't know what it looks like. And you don't know what it doesn't look like. Today, I am sunshine and rainbows and big smiles and life is good...but I'm still fighting. I'm always fighting. And it's important that people know that, because I have all of these coping mechanisms in place (reduced sugar, lower caffeine, limited social engagement, physical activity, etc.) that I need people to respect. And when the beast shows up, sometimes out of the blue, I need people to know what's going on, because I need a support system. I'll need help.</div>
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And I bet you know someone like me. Or you are somebody like me.</div>
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So here's to the fighters, who may or may not look like they have depression. I see your beast, even when she hides. Let's be vigilant. Let's keep fighting. Let's ask for help when we need it, and hold the hands of others when we're able. We're all in this together. We'll just keep going. Together.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-88848165883224285952016-12-30T23:30:00.002-08:002016-12-30T23:30:40.082-08:00Happy New Year and Stuff!<div id="fb-root">
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It's New Year's Eve.<br />
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This is the time when we make all of the promises, to ourselves and to others, about how much better we're going to be, because right now we are not good enough.<br />
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I mean, that's basically what a New Year's Resolution is, right?<br />
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<i>How can I be better than who I am right now.</i><br />
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I was thinking about going into the New Year and how much my life has changed over the last year and the thing is...<br />
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I'm good.<br />
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I don't have any resolutions. For the first time in a really, really, REALLY long time, my soul feels light. My heart feels open. My mind feels peaceful.<br />
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<b>And this is why:</b><br />
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<i>I needed help and I finally asked for it.</i><br />
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</i> <i>I left facebook and turned off all of the noise of one thousand people's opinions about absolutely everything. I quit shoving my opinions about absolutely everything at one thousand people who probably never really cared.</i><br />
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</i> <i>I realized that I care far too much about what other people think and that I should definitely stop doing that. Because the things I worry about constantly are not things that most people care about, anyway. </i><br />
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</i> <i>I stopped feeling obligated to make sure everyone else was ok and started making sure that I was ok.</i><br />
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</i> <i>I love people. So much.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>I got a bunch of plants!</i><br />
<br />
I mean...I just overcame the last hurdle to this peace something like two days ago, so by no means do I have this locked in. The thing is - I have been anxious and sad and overworked and stressed and trying too hard and traumatized and freaked out and depressed and holding it in for most of my life. Who <i>am</i> I if I'm not that girl?<br />
<br />
And as an artist, how do I transition from all of that pain to this...peace? And will anyone care? How do I keep connected without all of this darkness?<br />
<br />
I got scared, you guys. I've been embracing my love of color and make-up and music and laughter and joy and solitude and I had this moment where I thought...<i>no one is ever going to take me seriously again. </i>I'm this weird mash-up of "bring me all of the joy and let me love you and everything is amazing but also, please stay away from me because I get anxious and depressed and I don't like to be around people."<br />
<br />
And then I said "<i>fuck it.</i>" I don't care. I can't constantly try to keep shifting everything around so that everyone else is comfortable. I can't hang out with people all of the time and pretend that I totally love social events when in reality I fucking hate them. I can't pretend I don't like rainbows and make -up and mythical creatures and bright red lipstick and crazy hair and cake with sprinkles just because some random person might not take me seriously. I can't not feel what I feel or not be all fucked up and weird because I just <b><i>am</i></b> fucked up and weird.<br />
<br />
I've been so tired. But now I'm rested. Now I'm here. I think I'm ready to be me. Finally.<br />
<br />
I'm excited to enter 2017 exactly like this.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year. Whatever it brings you, I hope it includes peace and joy and happiness, a couple of mythical creatures and at least one slice of cake with sprinkles. You deserve it. And if you're a fucked up weirdo, I hope you embrace it. And also, I'd probably like to be your friend. From a distance. Because you're people.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-74307034233478548702016-12-04T10:48:00.002-08:002016-12-04T10:51:33.621-08:00The choices we make to stay healthy<div id="fb-root">
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Someone recently got really, REALLY angry with me. As part of their anger they told me how absolutely fucked up I am, how I'm crazy, how I have so many problems with so many people and I am surely seeing a doctor and medicated because of all of my crazy.<br />
<br />
This person actually doesn't know me that well. <br />
<br />
But they've read my blog.<br />
<br />
I worry sometimes about what I write on here. That showing the world my struggles and insecurities and flaws could completely blow up in my face. That it could be used against me and that perhaps the safest course of action is to just post some recipes and talk about dogs and going to the gym.<br />
<br />
I'm not really that great at taking the safest course of action. Ships are safe in harbor but that's not what ships are for and all...<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
And besides, the "me too" is too important. If I pretend that nothing is wrong, then that encourages other people to pretend that nothing is wrong, which encourages shame, which encourages "fear of people finding out what's 'wrong' with me," which depression and anxiety actually feed off of and then nothing is wrong with anyone but everyone is actually miserable.<br />
<br />
It's totally unhealthy.<br />
<br />
So here's what's 'wrong' with me right now: I am, once again, really uncomfortable around people. I've just been waking up more and more lately and thinking...I can't. A little depression, as well.<br />
<br />
I'm ok in small doses. Work is fine. I can still go to the gym. I can function. But things that feel a little more social are...no. And I've pinned it down to "not enough." Which I've traced back to social media.<br />
<br />
I don't think it's any secret that I want to save everybody, all of the time. And that that sort of thinking has taken me to some really unhealthy places.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The thing about an election season is, it makes you pay more attention to the world. At least that's what it did for me. And the world is hurting. And if you are the type of person who veers towards thinking you can save everybody, all of the time, then more exposure to a hurting world can take you to some really dark places. Some deep sadness. Some hardcore feelings of inadequacy. Of not being enough. It can lead you to ignore the hurting and struggles in your own life, because there is always someone who is suffering more.</div>
<br />
Because you have friends who care about refugees, about Aleppo, about Standing Rock, about foster kids, about kittens, about dogs, about the homeless, about the mentally ill, about veterans, about child trafficking, about addiction, about Planned Parenthood, about marching on Washington, about climate change, about the ACLU, about the NAACP, about poverty, about immigration, about hunger and why aren't you doing something about all of that? All of it. And more. Why?<br />
<br />
That's what it feels like. Like...LOUD. And that I am not doing enough. And I start to abandon what's needed in my own life because I am so consumed with the struggles of others and it is a spiral downward...it is being on the plane and running around frantically trying to save everyone while neglecting to put my own oxygen mask on and in the end, saving no one...not even myself.<br />
<br />
So the choice that I'm making now to stay healthy and to do real good is to withdraw from all of that noise. To acknowledge that the world is hurting, but that I cannot save the world. I'm one person and I have limited resources, both financially and mentally. I have chosen something that I feel will be the best use of my resources, and that is what I'm committing to. And in order to keep myself focused, I need to shut out the rest of the noise for a little while. <br />
<br />
It doesn't mean I don't care. It doesn't mean I don't love. It's just... I can't do anything if I'm not healthy, and I can't be healthy if I can't focus. We can care about people, but we are not the saviors of the universe. We are not Superman.<br />
<br />
So I'm taking a 90 day...thing. I don't know what it is, exactly. A cleanse? A sabbatical? It's kind of like Eat, Pray, Love except I can't actually afford to do that sort of thing so I'm just going to take this journey in my house and in my mind.<br />
<br />
A while ago I posted something on facebook about the desire to read real books more and to stop scrolling. And then there was this election and I was the queen of the scrollers. Facebook was my home. And so I've realized that I can't just taper down my time on facebook. It has to be eliminated. At least for a little while (My personal page. The Hey Lola page is still active).<br />
<br />
That's the first thing. The next thing, which I've been working on for the last two weeks, is to reduce the amount of stuff I have. Too much stuff is also noise. I'm reducing the noise.<br />
<br />
And after that...I don't know. We'll see where the road takes us. But as always, I'm proud to acknowledge what's wrong, to say "this part of my life is kind of fucked up right now and I feel inadequate and sad" and to then take steps to get my brain to a healthier place. There's nothing wrong with that.<br />
<br />
There's nothing wrong with being human. There's nothing wrong with seeking help. There's nothing wrong with taking care of yourself and there's nothing wrong with talking about your struggles. Don't let anyone tell you differently.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-72529113788399686272016-11-24T10:15:00.000-08:002016-11-24T10:15:18.486-08:00Marriage. Election. Divorce.<div id="fb-root">
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Once upon a time, I married the wrong guy. At the time, I did not know he was the wrong guy. He probably didn't know I was the wrong girl. We got married and we thought it was right.<br />
<br />
We got married and we moved to LA and we had a cute little apartment and life was good. For about a month. And then, it quickly became apparent that this wasn't right.<br />
<br />
Multiple things happened, and they were all very bad. But each time, we each thought, "we can make this work. We can make him/her understand me." And we would plow ahead...<br />
<br />
And then more bad things would happen. Ultimately, we were not the same. We could not make the other see things the way we saw them, because we didn't think or see anything the same. We each carried our own moral compass, and each compass pointed us in vastly different directions. And each of us was quite sure that the other was crazy.<br />
<br />
Our marriage died quickly...but also...somehow...painfully slow. I can still vividly recall each dying gasp for air and the last few weeks where I pounded on its chest and tried to breathe life back into it and I was SO SURE that I could fix this.<br />
<br />
I can fix this. I'm smart. I'm caring. I work really, really hard. I can fix this.<br />
<br />
Holding the shards of our marriage in our hands and ten different kinds of glue and thinking, "I just need the right combination. I just need to hold it together a little longer so that it has time to set. I can fix this. It will be ok."<br />
<br />
And then...finally...in our marriage therapist's office...<br />
<br />
I looked at her...and I knew. I broke down and sobbed and she asked me what was different what had changed what was I feeling and I said...<br />
<br />
"I can't fix this. And I don't know what to do."<br />
<br />
I feel that way today. About this country. About this home that I love. About the people I love. About myself. We each carry our own moral compass, and each compass points us in vastly different directions. And each of us is quite sure that the other is crazy and cruel and heartless and selfish.<br />
<br />
<br />
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I can't fix this. And I don't know what to do.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-35778101842536097062016-11-13T11:29:00.001-08:002016-11-13T13:35:54.252-08:00Politics...sort of.<div id="fb-root">
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So....<br />
<br />
I'm probably a lot calmer and optimistic than a lot of my liberal friends right now. And several of them are very confused by that. And I get it. But my recent experiences have given me a really unique view into how people think and how, ultimately, while they might care about you, they will not sacrifice their self interests to serve what many of us consider the greater good. They just won't. And that's a hard lesson to learn, but I believe it's a fact.<br />
<br />
And here's why:<br />
<br />
A few years ago, I owned a pretty popular bar. People often commented on how inclusive we were and how they felt safe in the space that we had created. Some of our customers suggested we get involved in the neighborhood, so we created a community association and planted a garden and cleaned up trash and eventually started raising money and turned it into a 501c3.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRFkYUkrimhrKY3zSs2ur9VUz36rJhS4ZEPdaPzAmQ8KyWUuG2BxZ_YBMW_-AB256c5eiDVTUZ-NWjVPG-pjmizHZrNiN37iE6ZErqOvOP6BA5_fz2M_IKH9zUIee9bV6_r2XlIcagL2c/s1600/IMG_20150531_193651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRFkYUkrimhrKY3zSs2ur9VUz36rJhS4ZEPdaPzAmQ8KyWUuG2BxZ_YBMW_-AB256c5eiDVTUZ-NWjVPG-pjmizHZrNiN37iE6ZErqOvOP6BA5_fz2M_IKH9zUIee9bV6_r2XlIcagL2c/s320/IMG_20150531_193651.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Life was good.<br />
<br />
Shortly after we opened, a couple of other businesses opened in our neighborhood. They said that they supported the work that we were doing. They did <b><u>not</u></b> show up to our community association meetings or garden plantings or clean-ups (save for 1 of the businesses, a few times out of the 5 years that we held them), but they verbally supported our work. Once, one of them donated something that they had no use for, that ended up being useful to us. So life was still good.<br />
<br />
And then politics.<br />
<br />
One of the newer businesses wanted to put new signs up and down our street and they wanted to choose everything about the signs. Some other people, myself included, wanted the signs to reflect the diversity of the neighborhood and include long standing businesses AS WELL AS newer businesses in the decision making process.<br />
<br />
It got ugly. And local politicians got involved. And ultimately, the newer business just wore us down until we finally threw up our hands and said, "whatever." And they put up their signs.<br />
<br />
Throughout this process, one of the newer businesses said some really terrible things about me. That I was a thief. That I turned a bunch of local businesses into governing organizations to try and get them shut down. That I was a giant piece of shit. That I gave myself more credit than I deserved because really, I didn't do that much.<br />
<br />
It was emotionally devastating. So, of course, I was emotional about it. So then I was just this emotional, hysterical woman who needed to calm down and relax and let things go. People distanced themselves from me because, as it turns out, you're not much fun to be around when people are trying to destroy your life.<br />
<br />
Then, another newer neighboring business who we were friends with, jumped on the bandwagon and told most of our mutual customers that I was a piece of shit who had turned them into governing organizations to try and get them shut down. Like the other things that had been said, this was 100% not true. And this one hurt worse than anything else that had happened. I had actually volunteered at this business and tried to help them on the road to success. I literally got on my hands and knees and scrubbed their floors. It was a blatant lie that I had turned them in and they offered no proof, but the rumor persisted and the business owners wouldn't even talk to me about it.<br />
<br />
Now - some of my "friends" stuck by me through this. To my knowledge, only a couple of them were willing to defend me publicly, due to not wanting to get involved in the "drama." But as time passed, many of them forgot or just didn't seem to care that two neighboring businesses had engaged in activity designed to put us out of business.<br />
<br />
And ultimately, our business suffered. And so did my health. And we closed our business.<br />
<br />
This is the edited version of events. In truth, it lasted nearly two years, was devastating on an unimaginable level, led to me nearly killing myself and took a whole lot of hard work to recover from.<br />
<br />
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<br />
So you would expect that your friends would not support businesses that engaged in such terrible behavior. That they would take a stand on your behalf.<br />
<br />
But, the thing is...no. If it doesn't affect them negatively and those businesses are the place to be on First Fridays and First Sundays, then that is where they will be. And you will constantly see pictures of them in these places on your facebook timeline. And they will invite you to events at the very businesses who were directly responsible for some of the worst years of your life. And you will drive up and down the same street every day and see those new signs and remember how the people who put them up said that this community didn't matter. And the next day, you will see members of the community who don't matter embracing the very business who said that they don't matter.<br />
<br />
No one cares. And there are no repercussions.<br />
<br />
This is true. This is how people think. This is how they act. They may care about you, but they will always take care of themselves first. If taking care of themselves first might hurt you, they're still going to take care of themselves first. If someone does really terrible things to someone that they care about, but overall the person "isn't that bad," then they are probably still going to support that person.<br />
<br />
And in this election, that's what 1/2 of America did. They took care of themselves and those closest to them first. They discounted the terrible things because of the good things they saw. And I don't like it, but I now understand that that's how people think. So really...this isn't as shocking to me. I learned my lesson in the hardest way possible.<br />
<br />
And there are those who would say, "well, this isn't the same thing. Don't make excuses for people. You weren't in danger. No one was beating you up or spitting in your face or threatening to kill you."<br />
<br />
And that's true. That's not what my experience looked like. What my experience looked like was an artist organization bullying me online and calling radio stations to tell them I had no right to be on the air. Paying visits to neighboring businesses and telling them to stay away from me. People calling me a thief and a liar. Losing business so fast that we could barely afford to eat and pay our bills. Multiple doctors appointments to deal with the depression and anxiety and confusion. Missed work days. Weight loss. And finally, sleeping with a scalpel next to my bed every night just in case I finally got the courage to just kill myself.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I'm actually better for what happened to me. It taught me to look at life differently. It taught me to stop putting my faith in politicians. It taught me to keep most people at a distance but to hold my tribe close. It taught me that no matter how deep your pain, if people can't empathize with you, they will more than likely believe you are over-reacting. It taught me that people will lie about you and that people will believe it, even without a shred of evidence to back up the lie. We live in an age where people get their facts from memes. Of course the lie is easier to believe. Who wants to do the work to search beyond the image you're presented with? <br />
<br />
I HATE that it happened, but I finally saw how people really are and figured out the person that I want and need to be. It strengthened my belief in personal integrity - that if you stand for something, you stand for it all of the way. So I love people better these days. And I'm a little more in tune with how they think. I'm not naive. I'm very careful with my heart and my hope and... I just see CLEARER.<br />
<br />
Look - I wish that people I knew would have stood up for me and boycotted the businesses that hurt me, I really do. Or tried to talk to them about what was happening or defended me. But I also didn't encourage them to. When they offered, I told them to make their own decisions. I tried to play it strong and neutral. I guess I was playing politics, too. And most of them chose to continue supporting those businesses and not get involved in any way. That's where the crowd goes, that's the routine, that's where their friends are, it's in their best interest to keep going and not make waves. No matter how much they love me and no matter how much it hurts, they're going to take care of themselves first.<br />
<br />
That's the nature of people. I'm still friends with a lot of these people. I don't hate them. I don't think they're awful people. I don't think that they actually wanted me to kill myself. They just served their own interests over mine.<br />
<br />
I don't like it...but I get it. And I get that that's what happened with most people this election. So I'm trying to practice empathy and understand people who I completely disagree with, rather than demonize them. Without a doubt, some of them are really terrible people. But some of them....they just did exactly what people did to me - they took care of their interests first. And if I can still call those people friends, then I can certainly practice empathy with conservatives. I can hear them out and share stories of the marginalized so that perhaps we can get to a point where we care for the interests of each other as well as ourselves. I don't know how we get there, but I'm willing to do the work to try.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZ2X7SOZff3yMiBDAYanE81EqQzfklctK4ju8m7-7vbNTJ9LFeRlq1MMB4y3A0jVIWNQc0fsHEZJ4c75DJB3HEpppQeoxRnlgZkiFilkhG31C0R2dSipoijcNH0mZBA1BFqObWqJVc2-H/s1600/my+mural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZ2X7SOZff3yMiBDAYanE81EqQzfklctK4ju8m7-7vbNTJ9LFeRlq1MMB4y3A0jVIWNQc0fsHEZJ4c75DJB3HEpppQeoxRnlgZkiFilkhG31C0R2dSipoijcNH0mZBA1BFqObWqJVc2-H/s400/my+mural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(photo via <a href="http://www.pjstar.com/">Peoria Journal Star</a>)</span></i></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-24531583012518391712016-11-06T13:04:00.001-08:002016-11-06T13:05:33.036-08:00When you just can't.<div id="fb-root"></div><script>(function(d, s, id) {
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<br />
We can do hard things, right?<br />
<br />
Secrets make us sick.<br />
<br />
We don't live in denial.<br />
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We own our mistakes.<br />
<br />
We seek help when we need it.<br />
<br />
We use healthy coping mechanisms.<br />
<br />
We talk about it.<br />
<br />
We allow ourselves to be vulnerable.<br />
<br />
We speak the truth.<br />
<br />
We face the truth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Oh my God.</span></i></u></b><br />
<b><u><i><br />
</i></u></b> <b><u><i><br />
</i></u></b> <b><u><i><br />
</i></u></b> <br />
I don't know what else to say. I don't know what I can say. Everything that I have fought so hard for this past year...everything that I believe to be true...everything that helps me cope...<br />
<br />
I just can't. And it's not by choice. Although it is. But it's not like the choice I have is actually a choice at all.<br />
<br />
This is all clear as mud, right?<br />
<br />
Right now, I'm doing a hard thing. And it's kind of a secret (but secrets make us sick). And I'm limited in seeking help (but seek help when you need it). Writing helps me cope but I can't talk about it (we talk about it and we use healthy coping mechanisms). I can't be honest (we speak the truth we don't live in denial we face the truth).<br />
<br />
I can't be fully me. It itches. I want to crawl out of my skin. I want to <b>not</b> be vague but I can only be vague. I'm exhausted. I'm keeping up with all of the necessities but there's not room for much more.<br />
<br />
I chose this. I would choose it again. In a heartbeat, I would choose it again. But I'm tired. And I'm uncomfortable. And if I seem weird and withdrawn and exhausted and not as present, it's because that is all true. And if you're wondering why...I wish I could tell you. But now is not the time.<br />
<br />
I'm fighting for something. And the light at the end of the tunnel is so bright and so beautiful and so amazing and wondrous, that I'm going to keep going. The tunnel is dark and scary and dangerous and it smells bad and there's weird things in here that freak me out and if I could skip the tunnel altogether and just get to that light, I would, but that's not how life works. So through the tunnel we go, always keeping our eyes on that beautiful light.<br />
<br />
We CAN do hard things, you guys. We just have to keep our eyes on that light. We just have to stay focused. We will reach the end and it will be worth it. Just stay focused.<br />
<br />
Right?<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPSqZlbdxSLpgzqb5ajdjCDJoDHkyH_j25VSHLhscUcLg1VfFzuPs_O9TdLFkimsLE2hgUyOmXnWONJDVoaklcKq0AftjLA7NpFEbfC6lje1FFRk6WAWVVnZSpxh8ybi-UadcoelN1r1a/s1600/14242446_1637506859894729_7494466298020481370_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPSqZlbdxSLpgzqb5ajdjCDJoDHkyH_j25VSHLhscUcLg1VfFzuPs_O9TdLFkimsLE2hgUyOmXnWONJDVoaklcKq0AftjLA7NpFEbfC6lje1FFRk6WAWVVnZSpxh8ybi-UadcoelN1r1a/s320/14242446_1637506859894729_7494466298020481370_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-63363962921542694892016-10-23T12:46:00.001-07:002016-10-23T12:58:42.709-07:00Migraines. And depression. And broken feet. And anxiety.<div id="fb-root">
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Basically, being really sick but not appearing to be really sick and then feeling guilty for feeling sick but not looking sick and then feeling judged even if no one is judging but sometimes people actually are and...ugh.<br />
<br />
A few years ago I had surgery to correct my left foot. The surgery required breaking my foot in half, cutting some tendons and then sewing it all back together again. Kind of a big deal for a foot. Shortly after my surgery, I went to the grocery store, put my crutches in the cart and tried to tough it out with a kind of <i>hop-hop-push</i> dance. After 20 minutes, I was exhausted. So the next time I went to the grocery store, I went with a friend and I used the little electric riding cart that they so graciously provide. I thought it was kind of funny, so I laughed a lot. And people stared. Like...HARD stares. As though maybe I didn't deserve to use the electric riding cart. After all, it wasn't really obvious that my foot was broken. And besides, if my foot was broken so badly that I couldn't use it, what was I so happy about? It got so bad that I just started responding to the hard stares with, "my foot is broken. I know you can't tell, but my foot is <b><i>actually</i></b> broken. ha. hee. hee." <i>awkward silence. ride away. feel shame. repeat.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This week, I have had 3 migraines. Unlike a broken foot, I cannot show you an x-ray of my migraines. Or a lump where they put in some screws and a plate. You can't touch a lumpy spot on my head to feel where the migraine is. The only way that you might be able to tell that I have a migraine is by me not being where I'm supposed to be because I can't move, or, if I can move and you see me, I'm kind of squinting and swaying and maybe I look really pale.<br />
<br />
Or green. I might look green.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXI0XA12bObLWUZ-lbsMQTXlLrxVISnVxUk5i7eOi4FhDPyDSJH9ZV2r13pkGX0XgUgAHBiBbG7nusZyPnqiEQ4rCSYQdJHkScVazzeJ7D0R72imCD-bsvK8GojgX401y-d2Xb2NLUrZA6/s1600/14711081_1655982364713845_2088329225959322210_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXI0XA12bObLWUZ-lbsMQTXlLrxVISnVxUk5i7eOi4FhDPyDSJH9ZV2r13pkGX0XgUgAHBiBbG7nusZyPnqiEQ4rCSYQdJHkScVazzeJ7D0R72imCD-bsvK8GojgX401y-d2Xb2NLUrZA6/s320/14711081_1655982364713845_2088329225959322210_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My doctors had me keep a food/weather/exercise/everything under the sun diary for about 30 days so we could try to pinpoint the triggers for my migraines. We couldn't really figure it out. I mean, we figured out that I have 3 partial triggers, which means I have 3 things that <b>will</b> trigger a migraine but only if some other factor is in play and nobody is quite sure what those other factors are. So... some mystery factor paired with weather, hormones or alcohol will trigger a migraine. But if the mystery factor is absent, then those three things probably won't trigger anything. Maybe. We're not completely sure.<br />
<br />
So here's where depression and anxiety come in. First, if I get a migraine and I had plans, I feel guilty. I feel like I should suck it up. Just <i>hop-hop-push</i> through my day. But I can't really stand-up and move around with a migraine, so that's not super realistic. Luckily, I have a prescription for something that kills the migraine. And it does. In about 3-4 hours. Then I just feel beat up for a couple more hours and then I'm good to go. So 6 hours lost. Which is actually better than the 24-48 hours lost before I was prescribed medication, but still - plans for the day are pretty much toast. So I feel guilty. Which leads to depression. Which leads to me really just wanting to give up on the day. And then anxiety kicks in. <i>Probably no one believes me. I probably just come across as flaky or irresponsible or not dependable or a liar. Who gets sick this much, anyway? You're always sick. Everybody gets headaches. You don't see everyone else staying in bed all day. <b>LAZY. WEAK. WORTHLESS.</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
With a migraine that has alcohol as one of the triggers, it's even worse. My family has a super hardcore history of addiction so I'm really careful about alcohol and drugs (even my migraine prescription is non-narcotic) but I'm also <i>really</i> weird and sensitive about anyone's perception of my relationship with alcohol and drugs.<br />
<br />
For instance, I worked a really long shift yesterday and afterwards, I was craving a cheap, domestic beer. So I went home and I drank two.<br />
<br />
Because I'm hyper aware of my relationship with drugs and alcohol AND because alcohol can potentially trigger a migraine, I know that those 2 beers added up to a grand total of 3 alcoholic beverages in two months. And unfortunately, those two beers also worked with whatever mystery factor there was to trigger a massive migraine this morning. But migraines feel a lot like hangovers. And alcohol was a trigger for this migraine.<i> Three times in one week. Plans canceled three times this week. Maybe I should suck it up. Maybe I'm weak. I shouldn't have had the alcohol. I'm irresponsible. <b>Ow. </b>People are going to think I have a problem. Do I have a problem? Wait. Am I sure I just had 2 beers last night? Yes. Of course. That's stupid. But definitely don't tell anyone about the beer. They might think you're an alcoholic.<b> This really hurts</b>. They might think you're lying. Migraines sound like hangovers. People might think you're making excuses. <b>This hurts so bad.</b> Alcoholics lie. You sound like an alcoholic. Also, why did you even drink those beers? <b>It feels like a bomb keeps going off in my head.</b> You know you get migraines. This is your fault. Also, completely irresponsible. <b>I think I might puke.</b> You might actually be an alcoholic. Wait. No. Maybe. No. Maybe?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYaPwDxqPWgJICECR-LDqUYYHhJJdtooFrM7yae2lOnTFMv-2-wjR36lHKyTOA3-KcjkzC3lw9cv4N3Sd8aKlWEApGhUP31htm0ki9b8Y2M9OM5cyi65MJa_qT_JxdA16bB8uwwdTmDDQ/s1600/12314265_1524921827819900_8795182013527270571_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYaPwDxqPWgJICECR-LDqUYYHhJJdtooFrM7yae2lOnTFMv-2-wjR36lHKyTOA3-KcjkzC3lw9cv4N3Sd8aKlWEApGhUP31htm0ki9b8Y2M9OM5cyi65MJa_qT_JxdA16bB8uwwdTmDDQ/s320/12314265_1524921827819900_8795182013527270571_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
And so on and so on. Migraine, anxiety, shame, confusion, depression. And it's all hidden away in my brain where no one can see it, which means, for a lot of people, I'm not sick. Especially if they see me on a migraine free day. And I'm happy. Sick people can't be happy. It's some weird rule that someone made up somewhere along the way (ask me how often people tell me that I don't look like I have depression - it's the smiling that throws them off. People with depression can't smile ever. Against the rules).<br />
<br />
My point is...I'm on the tail end of my 2-beer-triggered migraine and I've just run this gamut of emotions for the umpteenth time and I'm cranky and I'm exhausted and I'm so over it. And I have a lot of friends who each suffer with their own "invisible illness" nightmare. And we are a judgmental society and we the people decide if you actually look or act sick enough to deserve our compassion. If your foot isn't in a cast AND you're laughing, your foot isn't broken. Those are the rules.<br />
<br />
Except those rules suck and they're grossly unfair to the millions of people around the world who struggle with illnesses and disabilities and injuries that you can't see. Illness and disability and injuries that are very real and very painful and very debilitating even if you can't see them.<br />
<br />
You know this picture/meme that randomly comes across your facebook timeline or instagram feed?<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o_W1pV-cC1RrV_ulxffN5hD7yFxo3G-bRhbuV6s8d2QJ6ICVsEJvr3hqAkzy6o8zlEjI5d1q7AjZzfTyOhZzQsFHqeUcCGZxBI24Lj4MlxUPxK4qDX700ll2NUFxjghwF12hxdHZiac4/s1600/be+kind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o_W1pV-cC1RrV_ulxffN5hD7yFxo3G-bRhbuV6s8d2QJ6ICVsEJvr3hqAkzy6o8zlEjI5d1q7AjZzfTyOhZzQsFHqeUcCGZxBI24Lj4MlxUPxK4qDX700ll2NUFxjghwF12hxdHZiac4/s320/be+kind.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Truth. So much truth. Sometimes I forget. And then life hands me a migraine to remind me that every person I've ever met is struggling with something I can't see. And I'm reminded to practice compassion and empathy and to just be kind.</div>
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Always.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-32919272556044457852016-09-25T18:03:00.003-07:002016-09-25T18:09:34.278-07:00I'm a mom! Sort of! Kind of? Not really? Also, I have no idea what's going on...<div id="fb-root">
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About 3 months ago, James and I briefly talked about having my niece come and live with us.<br />
<br />
James and I talk about once or twice a year about our decision to not have kids. Just checking in, making sure we're both on the same page, making sure neither of us has changed our minds. Every time, the answer is the same for both of us.<br />
<br />
<b>No way.</b><br />
<br />
So when the idea of having a 17 year old come live with us came up, naturally we both kind of freaked out and shoved the idea under the bed. In a box. And buried it under old cds and mismatched socks. Because <b>no way.</b><br />
<br />
And then about 2 months ago, we pulled that box out from under the bed and really started to talk about my niece again. And how we weren't prepared. And that didn't this count kinda sorta as "having kids?" And wasn't that a "<b>No way</b>?" And check out this 27 page list of all of the things that could go wrong! And what if, instead of being a positive impact on her life, we just fucked it up completely? And what if she really is a "bad kid" and we just don't see it? <i>WHAT IF WE DON'T FEED HER PROPERLY AND SHE BURNS OUR HOUSE DOWN????</i><br />
<br />
Basically, as lifelong non-parent types, everything we knew about raising kids came from a combination of horror movies and Gremlins. So obviously, since we were armed with all of that wisdom, a month later, she came to live with us.<br />
<br />
For the 2 weeks prior, I read absolutely everything I could about raising a teenager. OH! And because we're crazy, we went the home school route as well. So throw in extra research about home schooling. And a room! We had to give her a room! So there was cleaning and moving and painting and consolidating. James and I stayed up late every night throwing what-ifs back and forth and coming up with responses. What if this happens? What are the consequences? What are the rewards? What are our expectations? What are hers?<br />
<br />
I met with my niece and had a really honest discussion about what it was that she wanted and needed and expected and afterwards, went home and made up a household contract for all of us. We all met, we went over our contract, and about a week later, we had a teenager.<br />
<br />
Like...for real. We have a teenager.<br />
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<i>Apparently teenagers hug inanimate objects. I guess. I'm not sure.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
We're about 3 weeks in and people keep asking me how it's going ...and the truth is, it's going really well. We take it day by day and so far, we all feel pretty good.<br />
<br />
And of course, people wonder how we got here. Like...how and why did this happen? And that's a tough thing to answer. I would love to say that every time I answer that question, I answer it honestly and beautifully and respectfully and just...well. I answer it well. But I don't. Because the thing is, my family is dysfunctional. And I've never tried to hide that my own relationship with my family is strained and awkward and weird and sad and angry and confused. So when I'm asked exactly how it is that my niece came to live with us, I go through this huge internal struggle of trying to answer with grace and beauty and dignity and love and honesty while feeling awkward and weird and angry and sad and confused.<br />
<br />
Because there's also the really big thing that I'm trying so hard to adhere to (and I fail more often than I'd like to admit) - it is not my place to tell other people's stories. And it is not my place to pass judgement. And I am less than perfect and have made an infinite number of mistakes in my life AND in the way that I have handled and loved other people. So the question of how it is that my niece came to live with us seems so simple, but in reality just sets off a tornado of epic proportions inside my heart and in my soul.<br />
<br />
Of course, there are those who would say it's no one's business. And that's true. BUT....(but, but, but)...I live my life publicly. And I live healing and recovering and loving VERY publicly. And with my niece's permission, I've shared a small piece of her life here with us, on my social media pages. And with her permission, I want to share why it is that she came to live with us:<br />
<br />
My niece came to live with us because somewhere along the way, her soul got trampled on. And her heart got smashed. The world wrapped up absolute garbage, tied it up in a pretty bow and told her that that was love. And the world told her that she was bad. And unworthy. And after hearing that long enough, she began to believe that it was true. That she was bad, and unworthy and that garbage was love. And she began to act according to what the world was telling her. And then the world was like, "see? I told you so."<br />
<br />
And when my niece and I started to get close, I realized what was going on. Because I had been there. I had believed that story of being bad and worthless and that garbage was love for more than half of my life. And I had also acted accordingly.<br />
<br />
But I also survived it and found all of the beauty and worthiness and love on the other side. And I thought that maybe James and I could help her find her way out of all of this ugliness and towards some light. And that's why she came to live with us.<br />
<br />
So, I don't really know how we are at "parenting." But so far, I think we're pretty good at being loving and forgiving and enthusiastic and optimistic and challenging and encouraging and just doing the best job that we can of showing her that everything that the world told her was true was just flat out wrong.<br />
<br />
She is worthy.<br />
She is loved.<br />
She is smart.<br />
She is courageous.<br />
She is capable.<br />
She is good.<br />
<b>She is so much more than enough.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
And she can have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches after midnight. Because she's not a gremlin. But only on the weekends. Because bedtime. And school. And you can't have peanut butter and jelly everyday. Right? No? Yes? Maybe?<br />
<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-18088372744564298332016-08-14T13:31:00.002-07:002016-08-14T13:34:25.488-07:00What to Say?<div id="fb-root">
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I've always felt like my very favorite paintings showed up when my heart hurt the most. As though working through all of that pain was somehow translated into something beautiful on the canvas.<br />
<br />
I kind of feel the same way about my writing. When everything is confusing and hurting and difficult and painful and ugly, I write and write and write. I learn. I discover. I hurt. I write.<br />
<br />
But...when everything feels pretty good...my muse just...disappears. As though she can only survive by feeding off of my pain, and my happiness causes her to shrivel up and die.<br />
<br />
I thought about that today, because I'm having what I can only call a "bad mental health week." I'm anxious. Moody. Depressed. Freaking out. (And navigating it pretty well, I might add - yay for healthy coping mechanisms!). But today I thought, <i>"But now I have something to write about because I am less than happy!"</i><br />
<br />
And I was weirdly happy about being <b><i>less</i></b> than happy because I missed writing.<br />
<br />
<b>What. The. Fuck.</b><br />
<br />
I think that because I have really opened up, in a really public manner, about the things that I struggle with - depression, anxiety, gossip, feelings of inadequacy, not fitting in, not feeling worthy, the mess that is life - and really connected with people through these discussions, that I'm afraid of losing that connection by writing about things that are <b>NOT</b> a struggle. Writing about happiness. About being strong. And healthy.<br />
<br />
I think that I'm kind of afraid that if I write about being healthy and strong and happy, that I might alienate the people who felt connected and safe with me when we talk about the really hard stuff. That they might feel left behind. Or less than enough because their healing journey isn't taking the same route or pace that mine is. That I might lose them.<br />
<br />
That I might lose you.<br />
<br />
And that scares me, because this blog, and this journey, and the connections that I have made with people in the last year are so important to me.<br />
<br />
<b><i>You</i></b> are so inspiring to me and such an important part of my life. Falling apart really kind of saved me, because it connected me to people in a way that I have never been connected before. And that has been really, really amazing.<br />
<br />
I'm so glad that I feel good. I DO feel healthy, and I DO feel happy and I DO feel strong. And I want the same for every single person that I meet. I want that for you. But I don't want you to feel as though you're not healthy enough or strong enough or happy enough if your journey doesn't match mine. If your healing process takes a different path. If you want to crawl into bed on the day that I want to talk about running. It's ok. You're still enough. I promise.<br />
<br />
So, I guess I'm just hoping that we can make a deal.<br />
<br />
I want to write. And I want to write about life as it happens. Right now, it's pretty good. I don't want to ignore that. I want to celebrate that.<br />
<br />
I also want to respect you. I know that I have a lot of readers that came here because sometimes shit gets really bad and it helps to talk to someone that is going through the same thing. I haven't forgotten what that's like. And I know it could easily happen again.<br />
<br />
You're still safe here. I respect your journey and where you are. But I believe things can get better. I believe that we have incredible strength and stamina and at the end of the day we can handle whatever life throws at us, and throw it right back. But you at your pace, me at mine.<br />
<br />
I'll keep sharing my journey because I want you to know that healing is possible and that from the deepest despair, the most amazing life can emerge. I fight for this life every day and it is truly beautiful. If you're fighting, I'm on your side. But if you're a little too tired to fight today...I'm still on your side.<br />
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Because we keep going, right? You at your pace, me at mine. We keep moving forward, in the best way that we can, and we remember and embrace and celebrate the fact that we really do deserve to be happy.<br />
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And if my muse isn't ok with that, honestly...she can suck it.<br />
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Because there's nothing wrong with happy.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12887233036675861843noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6677077373976705300.post-87793351686636297692016-07-18T11:49:00.003-07:002016-07-18T15:13:38.233-07:00Love and Betrayal and Love in Peoria<div id="fb-root">
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I live in Peoria. I love Peoria.<br />
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I hate Peoria.<br />
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I live in Peoria. I love Peoria. I hate Peoria.<br />
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And back and forth, forever and ever, amen.<br />
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I'm going to talk about a bunch of old news but please stay with me...I really do have a point.<br />
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A few years ago, I think you would be hard pressed to find anyone who loved this city more than me. I believed in this city. I believed in its people. I believed in the power of neighbors helping each other and of businesses working together for the greater good. I believed. I believed <b><u>so</u></b> hard.<br />
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And then the bottom fell out. And a lot of people know that the bottom fell out of my life. A lot of that was due to the fact that I have anxiety and depression and I suffered an extremely devastating bout with both of those.<br />
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But there were triggers and those triggers were so unexpected and so far removed from what I thought about how the world works that for months on end it just felt like people were running up and sucker punching me.<br />
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Multiple people who are members of a local (and well known) organization were hit with complaints from the city liquor commission and health department. The rumor started that I turned them all in. My business lost customers.<br />
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A neighboring business got hit with a complaint from the liquor commission about live music. They told many of our shared customers that I had turned them in. My business lost more customers.<br />
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Multiple people who are members of a local (and well known) organization were hit with complaints from the city zoning department.The rumor started that I turned them all in. My business lost even more customers.<br />
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In each of these incidents, I tried to address the rumors. Regarding the initial complaints from the health and liquor departments, I proposed a solution that would keep everyone compliant. I stated that I had turned no one in. I asked the city council a few questions. One city council person e-mailed me back and asked why I was "bothering with all of this again." Members of the organization e-mailed each other back and forth about how horrible I was. How I couldn't stand competition. How of COURSE I was a liar.<br />
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I asked my neighbors why on earth they thought that I would ever turn them in - it's not my style and I don't believe that's how communities are built. I was told that "I was always going to be the first suspect and besides, there were just too many coincidences." Those people never spoke to me again and most of their regular customers actually boycotted my business based on the rumors.<br />
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When the business neighbor who had actually started the rumor that got all of the rumors started apologized to me for starting the rumor, I thanked them and asked them to please let people know that they had started the rumor, because it was impacting my life in a really negative way. The response was radio silence. To this day, I still get asked why I did this thing that I <b><u>never</u></b> did.<br />
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Around this same time, the person who started the rumor worked with the city to start an organization that was designed to sort of...unite people, I guess? And the public loved it. And I met with this person about a project and this person told me that they were not willing to work with neighbor a, b, c, d, e,f, g, etc. etc. on this project. And then they would publicly continue the narrative that they were there to unite people. And then <i>continually</i> be unwilling to work with those same people.<br />
And while all of this was happening, my health got worse. My business suffered. I was disillusioned. Confused. The rumors kept coming. People asked me about them all of the time.<br />
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And then the person who started the rumor that started all of the rumors that were pretty much killing me and my business used their new "unite people" organization to promote local businesses. Including mine.<br />
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SO - an organization that behind the scenes nearly put me out of business publicly promoted me. An organization that refused to work with most of its neighbors publicly sang all of their praises. And the city ate it up. And the people loved it. And many of my "friends" told me to ignore it and quit starting "drama", all the while frantically posting on facebook about standing up for yourself and others and justice and whatever it is that you're willing to fight for online but not in real life. And the hypocrisy just ate at me. And I got really depressed. And paranoid about what the next rumor would be. And who had heard what. And would our customers ever come back? And why on earth were so many people willing to believe so many terrible things about me that went against everything that I had ever been? And why did people keep dismissing my experience? What was wrong with me?<br />
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Everything was spiraling and many "friends" started to distance themselves from me.<br />
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I got bitter. I got disillusioned. I had a nervous breakdown. And the person that loved Peoria with all of her heart...<b>fucking HATED Peoria</b>.<br />
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But it's been a while and life is better and I'm healthier and happier and I'm starting to fall in love with my city again...so why on earth am I bringing this all up?<br />
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Because you guys...I was so naive. I had all of the hope and love and trust and faith and love in the world and I got the shit beaten out of me. And the recovery has been long and hard and also beautiful, but it fucking hurt really, really bad. And I absolutely spent a very long time talking myself out of slitting my wrists. I don't want all of this current happiness to somehow hide the ugliness that happened.<br />
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So today, as I start to fall in love with Peoria again, I do it with caution. And as I start to work with other people who <b><i>really</i></b> love Peoria, I love what they love right alongside them...with a word of warning.<br />
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Some people aren't into my warnings. The idea for some people is, if you love Peoria, you mustn't speak poorly about any part of it. We must all support each other, no matter what, and no one and nothing is bad. Blinders.<br />
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<i>*sigh*</i>...I get it. I remember those days. I remember loving Peoria so hard that you couldn't convince me that anything about it was terrible.<br />
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But you guys...that's not real life. You can't love with blinders on. I was living in a fantasy. And when the bubble burst, I nearly took my own life. No one who loves their city and contributes to their city with all of their heart should ever have to go through what I went through.<br />
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(My therapist actually told me that she could start a support group for people who went through something similar to what I went through and that her waiting room would be overflowing. Real life. This shit happens a lot.)<br />
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So let's be real. Peoria is home to some of the best people I've ever met in my life. When all of the "friends" fell away, the real friends showed up to do the heavy lifting. There are some organizations here that are kicking ass in so many beautiful ways, that it is awe inspiring just to watch them work. There are businesses who live and breathe #CommunityOverCompetition and who would bend over backwards to help fellow businesses succeed. There are some breathtaking views. Fantastic restaurants. Cool things to see and do and amazing opportunities. Communities and people who share the same values and desire to lift each other up. I <b><u>love</u></b> this side of Peoria.<br />
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Peoria is also home to people who are faking it. Who will use social media to tell the world how supportive they are and then quietly tear you down behind closed doors. Businesses who believe success means making sure that their neighbor goes out of business. Who believe competition is to be feared and therefore destroyed. Politicians who say the right things to the right people to make sure that they get their vote, while telling you the exact opposite of what you literally just heard them say in front of a room full of people. People who won't think twice about ruining someone's life. People who literally just don't give a shit about other people...unless it makes them look good online and in the news.<br />
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That's real. That's not just Peoria. That's every city. And anyone who gives any city their whole heart should know that. These ugly political games don't just play out on the national stage...they play out right here at home, too. Right in our backyard.<br />
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I really am falling back in love with my city...but my eyes are wide open this time. And honestly...isn't that the only way to fall in love? All in...but with your eyes open.<br />
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