Category: Ink

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Ink Metal

I Don’t Like Peas with My Mashed Potatoes

I am a notoriously & horrendously picky eater.

If you ask me to name one place where I can just order something off the menu as is, no substitutions or modifications–I don’t think I can. I’m mulling it over and nothing comes to mind. Even our favorite place to grab dinner on Friday nights makes me a special-not-on-the-menu dish because well, I’m a fussy eater.

One thing I am not picky about (and you shouldn’t be either) is human rights. We are all beautiful, breathing creatures why should anyone be denied something simply because they are different?

Most of my time spent on social media lately has been spent scrolling and sharing. I’ve not spoken much because people are callous. Callousness doesn’t usually bother me, but anymore it is like a cheese grater against my soul; eating away at my hope in humanity. I share articles and information in effort to be more than just a performative ally and to avoid complicity.

Performative allyship is a fancy way of saying you’re going through the motions of being ally. Your actions have no concrete substance in lifting up the community you are aligning yourself with. It could also be doing grand gestures, such as large donations to charitable organizations, but still making the same kind of marginalizing comments & decisions, all focused on the ‘look at me, look at me.’ Performative allyship is just that: a performance.

Complicity is the by product of inaction and silence. We are in age where you cannnot simply say, “I’m not taking sides.” Neutrality defaults to complict oppression. Our marginalized communities need active support and allyship beyond “I stand with you.” This is not to say when you participate in Black Lives Matter protests or Pride Events, you take over and make it about you. But rather you listen, take direction, and ask how you can be supportive.

If you’re not at an event another way to uplift the community you’re supporting is to call out bigotry when you see it or hear it. Your racist grandparent drops a slur? CALL THEM OUT. You let them know that kind of language is not ok and it isn’t funny. It’s small and may not feel like it makes much impact, but it does. Remember your allyship should not be conditional nor require recognition.

Despite my bisexuality and being in the LGBTQA+ community, I have a lot to learn. SO MUCH TO LEARN. Particularly, with the Trans Community. Their struggles have been heavily exasperated by the J.K. Rowling debacle. I never would have thought I would be writing a piece critical of one of my favorite authors.

Harry Potter the title a lone used to bring a smile to my face. Now, it creates panic and confusion as I watch JKR’s rhetoric unfold. If you are unfamilar, JKR has some rather inflammatory, transphobic viewpoints regarding the ‘validity’ of transpeople, which she has shared via Twitter. It’s heartbreaking.

In effort to ‘explain’ herself, she published a lengthy piece on her website. With even more harmful and damaging information to the trans community.

Many of us are experiencing difficulty in separating the story from the author. Hogwarts was supposed to a be place where people gathered because they were different. Many fans found inclusion and solace in the hope and happiness of the magical world.

Fortunately, the wonderful actors & actresses who brought our favorite characters to life have let us know they feel the exact opposite of JKR. And remind us that even though JKR has abandoned us; the love, lessons, & magic we picked up along the way will not.

Traveling around the world has afforded me the opportunity to meet so many new and interesting people–including trans people who I’ve been able to ask the hard questions without judgement in an effort to learn how to better support them as powerful people aim to erase them.

I can’t say I’m absolved of wrong doing. I know I’ve had transphobic thoughts and have said things I am not proud of. For that, to the trans community: I am sorry. I am human and can only hope to learn today to be better tomorrow. Thank you, trans friends for your understanding and patience with me as I learn and grow (especially when we are drunk in Mexico.)

People matter. That’s all there is to it. All people do matter.

However, that’s not the point of the Black Lives Matter movement. The point is a particular community of people have been mistreated and unfairly targeted for too long and it must end–now.

Besides, even if it was about saying Black Lives matter more than someone else, the argument of “All Lives Matter” is a pile of rotting garbage. Here’s why.

If all lives truly mattered, there would have been more outrage at the people seeking refuge, but instead were caged.

If all lives truly mattered, there would be more done to protect the disenfranchised, but instead we arrest them.

If all lives truly mattered, I would not be writing this post.

Instead too many people want to cherrypick which lives matter, much like a lot them want to cherrypick religious doctrine.

How little empathy do you possess for your fellow human at your failure to see their mistreatment and why they are fed up with being mistreated? And want to dictate what humans are afford what rights? My brain spins out of control at the insanity of it all.

Yet when your coupon is denied in Macy’s you terrorize the retail staff?

Again, I’m not perfect. Nor will I ever claim to be. All I can do is apologize and continue to come to the table with an open heart and open mind to be and to do better by my fellow humans. Apologies without actions are worthless, I do what I can to back my apologies with words.

I’ve noticed when people find themselves in a position where they know they cannot sustain discourse, they default to name calling. Usually, I see it with men aiming it at strong women. But more and more I see women throwing the stones at other women.

I have a friend with a larger platform than mine. We’ve both endured some hard shit. Simalarities exist, but largely it’s different. Does that mean someone has had it worse than the other? No. We’ve both walked through the quicksand without a rope and managed to survive.

As she has become more vocal on her stance on human rights (honestly I don’t know how much more vocal she can be), the hate fire has really started to rage. Some of it has been down right ugly.

The most common response to her activism has been, “stick to what you know.” I just shake my head at this comment because I think they have to be brand new to her platform. My friend, like myself, is an underdog and fights hard alongside other underdogs. So if they really knew her morals and activism they would understand–this is what she knows.

While I may not like peas with my mashed potatoes or veggies in general, tbh–

Human rights are not produce at the supermarket you can carefuly select what you want and prepare to order.

Categories
Ink Metal

At the Intersection of White & Privilege

The last couple weeks have been difficult for everyone to process. We’ve been dealing with unprecedented changes in our social behaviors with stay at home orders and navigating the changes at orders are lifted. Then George Floyd was murdered on video and for a small moment the world was united in outrage; resparking an international conversation on privilege.

This conversation struck a nerve and forced me to think about what privilege truly means in the current age. It no longer only relates to economic status and our thinking needs to expand beyond boiled down definitions.

I’ve struggled most of the week trying to find the most accessible definition of intersectional privilege. I’ve scrambled my brain and consulted fellow writers for great, home run analogies and in the end they all fall short; either too cliche or cheapened the concept. Sometimes the best writing device is restraint.

Intersectional privilege demonstrates we have all have varying degrees of privilege based on a multitude of factors. Recently, the quiz ” How Privileged Are You?” from Buzzfeed has regained traction. The original publish date is April 10, 2014 and six years later it is more relevant than ever. I know Buzzfeed is not always the best source for reliable content and many of use it as a time-waster; however, this quiz showcases the extensiveness of intersectional privilege. If you have not taken it, I highly reccommend that you do. It sheds a lot light on the different factors one should consider for intersectional privilege.

My results of the Buzzfeed “How Privileged Are You?’ quiz.

White privilege is the unique luxury passively discussing whether or not we are ‘actually‘ privileged. If you think about any hardship you had to endure in your life, being black would have made much more difficult to overcome because of instutionalized & systemic racism.

When we as humans are presented with new information, challenging our belief system we instinctively react defensively. Our gut instinct is to protect what we believe to be ours because change and challenges are hard; especially if you are someone who struggled your whole life.

Confronting your own privilege can be difficult because you have to examine every piece of your life and think about the ways it could have been harder for someone else because of something that was different. It’s scary because you know how hard it was for you and fathoming more difficulty is uncomfortable.

We are witnessing history unfold before our eyes. We have opportunity to change the way water flows. We have to shed our fear of discomfort and do what is right for the marginalized, specifically the Black Community.

The post may feel clunky and not nearly as poignant as my other commentary. It’s a difficult topic to write clearly on when you have the advantage of taking a bird’s eye view of the problem. Saying I empathize with the Black Community is a slap in the face to them, despite having handled my own challenges.

Instead, I stand in solidarity. I will use my privilege to try and educate others that privilege is more than the wealth you’ve accumulated. It’s about opportunity and experience.

I want us to get it right this time. Where do you want to stand?

When attending a protest, please follow these guidelines. We have been the perpetrators of oppression, we cannot lead this revolution.
Categories
Ink Lace Metal

Revolutions Aren’t Pretty

You say you want a revolution
I don’t think it means what you want it to mean.
You want:

quiet
meek
and demure

But let me tell you something.

When it comes, it won’t fit in your box.
It isn’t breakfast diner eggs made to order

Revolutions are:

loud
messy
and the voice of the broken.

Feel the anguish in the devouring flames.
Hear the despair in the rally cry.
See their vision for stronger tomorrow.

Neutrality is lethal and.
silence strangles.

A revolution is coming, so you better gear up because
it’s not gonna be fucking pretty.

I’ve been fortunate to have most of my social media connections be united in outrage about the murder of George Floyd. In fact, I cannot recall a time when I have seen so much unity not just within our country, but throughout the world. However, like many things, the unity was only fleeting as it crumbled under the weight of anguish, despair, and deafness.

The protests are absolutely warranted. I am not normally one to agree with violence and destruction, but my mind began to change once I saw the pressure led to the arrest of Derek Chauvin. I’m still not sold on cities being devoured in fire and chaos in the midst of a recession. However, peaceful protests aren’t working and more forceful pressure is needed.

People of color and other unheard minorities are fed the fuck up. Their frustration has boiled over and the fire in their hearts now spreads through our cities. If you’ve never become so angry you want to throw something or break something, consider yourself lucky. I definitely have more bark than bite and generally don’t engage in confrontation if I think it will escalate physically. Really, I just like to run my mouth–my partner calls me a chihuahua, but have on occasion lost my cool and broken things in the midst of a tantrum. And those tantrums are nothing compared to the injustices people of color have witnessed & suffered.

A revolution has been long overdue. There are enough good police officers out there, but too scared to do or say anything about the pervasive bigotry within their profession it makes the lot of them look bad. This is how movements like ACAB (All Cops Are Bad) start. If you don’t take a stand for the silenced and disadvantaged, you’re by default siding with bigotry.

It’s 2020 and we are still fighting for people, all people, to be visible. Regardless of what you believe in, people have been around long enough that we should be past this argument. If your beliefs tell you that someone isn’t a person or needs commended because they don’t check boxes XYZ, you need new beliefs. Period.

We are at another pivotal moment in history where we can make impactful change. Are you going to continue to marginalize the voiceless, telling them how to exist or how to fight for a voice and visibility? Or are you going to say enough is enough, everyone deserves to be seen & heard and do your part to stand up for what is right?

I don’t have the answer to nonviolent yet forceful way to enact change. I wish I did. I wouldn’t have to see stories of horses getting hit with bricks or children getting maced.

On that note, I understand everyone needs to take a stand & children learn from what they see, but why are children at these protests? There has been enough evidence the last week that the chances for retaliatory action is probable. Why even put them at risk? I don’t want kids, hell I barely like most children but I still don’t want to see children getting maced or tear gas thrown on them.

I want to say I understand, but I don’t. Even with people of color in my family (whom I worry for now more than ever; especially my uncle and male cousin) I will never fully comprehend the marginalization they’ve endured simply because of genetics. I empathize because I understand what it’s like to be judged, but racism runs deeper than just simple judgement and that I will never understand.

People of color and all unheard minorities, this is my pledge to you. However you need support whether behind you, beside you, or in spirit you have my solidarity. I want us to find a way to enact the change you all desperately deserve and are owed. I aim to be better at speaking out on your behalf when I witness injustice. I cannot promise a permanent change overnight, but I can promise to be more thoughtful and cognizant of my privilege and to use it to amplify the voice that has been stolen from you.

Categories
Ink Lace Metal

Survivor’s Power

I am not usually one to pay attention to what is trending on social media. Which seems slightly backward considering this blog and the makeup feed. However, today one thing caught my attention, a hashtag.

#maybehedoesn’thityoubut

The replies & posts women and men share depict heinous abuse. Things one would think, ‘man that has to be TV or movie plot.’ What a world we would live in if domestic violence only existed in a performance. Relationships would thrive and people would not be Humpty-Dumpties on brick walls needing put back together again.

Abuse is not unfamiliar to me. I was raised in an abusive environment and have had many unhealthy relationships as a result of that abuse. There were times I wondered if Dad would have become violent enough to kill, fortunately (and most obviously) he didn’t. Although I do occasionally play a what if game, what if I hadn’t moved out so early and had stuck around? What then? Glad I didn’t find out.

My first relationship after graduating high school was kind of a disaster from the beginning. We met online and found out we only live a couple miles apart and I ended moving in with him not too long after that. We had a lot of fun and mostly good times, but we weren’t right for one another. However, I will say despite not being a good match, there wasn’t any abuse. I don’t look back with despondence and heartache, thankfully.

We split right around my twenty first birthday which was October 2009. A tipping point in my life where my plans for me as an adult hardcore derailed. I was in college at one of the best private schools in Iowa. Unfortunately because my wonderful father refused to file tax returns I couldn’t file FAFSA forms to continue getting financial aid and eventually had to drop out.

The interim time between my birthday and dropping out was a major bender. I managed to become friends with people who weren’t students. I began drinking pretty heavily, smoking cigarettes & pot, being promiscuous and just other general crazy behavior. Before you ask about other drugs, the answer is no. I’ve never tried nor had the urge to do anything besides smoke pot. I witnessed too many highs and lows of addict to even entertain such a notion.

Through this group of friends, I met Joe* in January 2010. We had an instant connection. Eventually, we started dating, sort of?

I am always confused to talk about Joe because in public he never addressed me as a girlfriend, despite sharing an apartment and bed. In private though, oh man he would praise me up and down and tell me how much he loved me. Should have realize this one right away, but being young and really dumb I stayed.

The difference between our public life and private life is my first #maybehedidn’thitme until he did. Joe’s major vice was alcohol. When we met he didn’t have a job or a license. Lost both because of DUIs. I guess I was still depressed or something because I drank a lot too when we were together. And the alcohol really made things ugly.

Friday, October 29 2010. One of the worst nights of my life and I nearly lost it.

October 29 is my birthday. My mom and both my sister had come to see me & Joe and took us out to dinner. Mom didn’t have a lot of money telling Joe he could order a drink but had to pay for it himself. Joe became really agitated and more of an asshole than usual. Withdrawals maybe? Dinner wasn’t too bad, I guess. Other than some mildly aggressive fussing from Joe it was fine.

The plan post dinner was to go out for karaoke at the bar down the street from our apartment because what else was I going to do as a sassy, borderline alcoholic going to do on a Friday night? I bought a fiercely sexy costume (Torrid’s Mad Hatter.) Joe hated it. We fought before we even left the apartment! He told me if I wanted him to come out I was going to have to change. I don’t really remember how the battle was won, but he came to the bar with me and I didn’t change.

The night was fairly low key most of the people who had said they were going to show up bailed and the bar itself was pretty slow for Halloween weekend. I was still determined to have fun despite Joe being a dick and sitting on the corner barstool.

I ran around the bar taking pictures and shots with people because yay birthday! I (badly) sang karaoke and was actually enjoying myself. Well some guy who came in with some friends of ours grabbed my attention. We chatted on and off throughout the night. At some point he had his my arm around my waist and was totally looking down my costume at my boobs. Did I care? ABSOLUTELY NOT! Joe had flirted in front of other women, hell even tried to go home with other women while we were together so I was like what hell, why can’t I flirt? So flirt I did.

Joe saw this little cat and mouse game and he didn’t like it because Hot Dude asked if I was available I was like sure am and Joe ran up to use & flipped his shit. He was all like, “What are you doing with my girlfriend?”

All I could do was laugh and say, “I am not your girlfriend.” Hot Dude felt very uncomfortable and went about his business not wanting to get caught up in our spider web, can’t blame him.

Closing time came and I finished the last of my birthday shots and we walked home. One friend that had shown up to the bar came to our apartment because there was supposed to have been an after party, but because basically no one showed there wasn’t much of a party to be had. My friend still came over anyway having made me homemade beer as a birthday present. My friend & Joe started drinking tequila (1800) straight from the bottle. I was too drunk and too tired to continue so I went to bed.

I don’t even know how long I was asleep, but the next thing I remember was waking up gasping for air and an immense pressure around my throat. I opened my eyes and Joe’s hands were around my neck choking me. I became lightheaded, he let go. I started crying and screaming and he grabbed my neck a second time shouting “Who the fuck are you, how did you get in here?” He eventually let go.

I should have immediately left, but I was so drunk I couldn’t drive anywhere and being so drunk didn’t think about calling the cops.

He was so intoxicated he forgot who I was and thought a stranger was in his bed. My friend was so drunk he was passed out on our couch unable to hear the commotion coming from the bedroom.

Every time I recount these memories my heart breaks a little inside for the woman who was unable to recognize what she was getting herself into. I wish I could tell you this was the worse fight we had, but it wasn’t. Unfortunately, I didn’t finally leave him until January 2011. Almost a year to the day we met; ugly & nasty separation.

Prior to his DUIs, Joe had worked for Delta Airlines in some capacity. The exact role eludes me anymore, baggage handler maybe? I only recall he worked outside on the ground. If you aren’t familiar with airline employee work schedules, they can get bounced around from airport to airport–a lot.

Naturally, in the course of his employment Joe befriended many people men & women a like. He kept in touch with some and while we were, whatever we were, suspiciously regained contact with a woman.

She did not live in Iowa and along the way he lead her to believe once again I was the roommate so when she came to visit I was kicked of our bed and she got to sleep with him.

While crying myself to sleep on the couch, I had to listen to them have sex in the bed I spent the last year sleeping in. It was mortifying and humiliating. I rebounded with some dude I met online.

One night while Joe was ill and Miss Delta was not visiting, I left him to go hang out with Mr. Online. I didn’t tell Joe what I was doing or where I was going. I finally felt at that point it was no longer any of his business, despite it not being his business for many months before that.

Somehow…Joe found out. I think I came back to the apartment with a hickie on my neck and noticed. Thinking back, I am surprised he paid that much attention to me. We argued and screamed. He called me a whore and many other rotten things and the violence ensued.

He pushed me down, against the wall my back hitting the thermostat, ripped my clothes and pulled on my hair. The violence led to sex, which I recognize now as sexual assault because I did not provide any kind of consent.

Fortunately, this was the last physical fight he & I had. Miss Delta took him on a trip to meet her family and friends over his birthday and I packed up my stuff and left.

Joe is only one chapter in my story, I wish I could say the chapter after him was my happy ending. If you’ve been paying attention that is not how my life goes.

I had high hopes for 2011 because I finally ditched Joe & Mr. Online and started moving on with my life. Life flipped upside down again when Marissa died and I had to spend a long time healing from that.

Despite being a domestic abuse survivor, I think it is important to recognize when you’ve been toxic to someone else. It has helped me in healing. Sometimes, the toxic traits flare up and relationships become strained. I am as human as anyone else. I try not to blame my shitty actions on past traumas; it still happens–however, I am working on trying to unlearn all the crap.

I was single until 2012. Met two different guys at roughly the same time and picked the wrong one. The one I didn’t pick, I screwed over. I was the toxic one there. He was great and used to think he was the one who got away (that thought changed four years ago 🙂 ).

Instead, I walked down Manipulation Avenue–again. This one never yelled or hit me, but our relationship bobbled up & down and there were a lot of rumors he constantly cheated. Most of our socialization came from friends we had made as a couple mostly because my friends would watch how he treated or spoke to me and ask, “why are you still together?”

We split more than once in the 11 months we were together, at least three if my memory serves me correctly. Maybe more than that? Again I ignored red flags because I was so desperate for love, it was just easier than being alone.

How broken can someone be they would rather put up with conniving behavior than be alone? I was told by my dad if I ever ended up with someone to hang on to them because I was impossible to love. No one would want me. I heard this over and over and over again from the one man who was never supposed to fail me. So I loved (still do) fiercely & immensely because a voice in the back of my head still says…”They don’t really love you.”

After the final split in 2013, I decided no more. While I had my own faults in all of my relationships, my faults & mistakes were absolutely no excuse for abuse, mental or otherwise. I knew I had to learn to love myself if I wanted a healthy relationship, so I set out on a quest to find self love.

Learning to love yourself when you’re broken is one of the most fulfilling things in life, in my opinion. You’re taking wreckage and building something beautiful, worthwhile, and strong. The new self image you build is yours, something you own and nothing anyone else can take credit it for. The ownership is powerful and there is a defining moment where you realize you are worth more in this life than what you survived.

Self love is a magnetic field and it will draw people into your space. You learn on your journey how to filter out the garbage from the good. Tough lessons are learned on the road and it’s hard, so fucking hard. Humans by nature are social creatures, some more social than others (hi introverts 😉 ) and we can crave human interaction. I am not saying you have to be completely isolated on this road of self healing and self love, but you learn comfortability in doing things alone.

I started with simply going out to dinner at a sit down restaurant alone. Then I graduated to other things most people think of as something you do with another person. I shopped, went to the movies, took vacation, found new hobbies and host of other things. What you do is specific to your journey and healing. Start small to avoid feeling discouraged and encouraging the self hate.

Four years ago, my life changed and finally for once–it changed for the better. I met someone. At this point my journey I was completely at peace being alone and had resided to the fact that if I spent the rest of my life alone, it would be alright.

June 1, 2016 I went to a concert in Minneapolis at the now non-existent Mill City Nights (RIP) and saw Lacuna Coil for the very first time. Two summers prior I had seen Linkin Park (my favorite band) for the first time at the Minneapolis State Fair. While in line I made friends with four people: Erynn, his father Todd, Jesse & Bridget.

Erynn, Jesse and Bridget are the humble beginnings of a diverse and loving music-centered family. The LP show is important because Erynn bought me my ticket as a gift to go to the Lacuna Coil show because I couldn’t afford to buy it myself. Little did I know something or rather someone wonderful was waiting for me in that line.

When I arrived at Mill City Nights, there were already several people in line waiting for the show. Among those besides Erynn & Todd was Nick.

Nick and I didn’t really socialize much at the show, though not for a lack of effort on his part. While our now friends were grabbing merch pre-show, he turned around and said, “Hi.” I just kind of smiled nervously, unsure what to say or do because you know, the self love journey.

He added me on Facebook after the show because Erynn had done some really cool thing and wanted to see if I had seen it; everything just escalated from there. August 1, 2016 he asked me to be his girlfriend and then our crazy continent hopping romance adventures began.

I am thankful for every moment I spend with Nick and love he shares with me every day. There are so many people in the world who are not as fortunate as me. Some are still trapped within a world where they confuse violence for love; some are still trapped within a violent relationship with the hope of escape. Others have escaped but have not begun rebuilding or reignited their fire.

Then there are The Lost. The Lost are those taken away from their families and friends as a result of domestic violence. Never given the light of hope or the power of rebuilding. Every day more and more people join The Lost as violence takes their lives. I could have been a Lost One, but I was fortunate enough to have clawed my way out. I think of those unfairly taken and pause for their loved ones.

If you are currently stuck or afraid what might happen, please find help and way out. Hell, reach out to me if you must. No one else needs to become a Lost One. Remember, your partner doesn’t have to hit you for it to be abuse.

Categories
Ink

When You Let Go of the Rope

We are taught from a young age we have to honor & cherish our parents because they are reason we have life. Our parents provide us with critical care we could not survive without. They are our first teachers, role models, guidance counselors, and cheerleaders. Sometimes however, they are the source of our first emotional scar; laying the cornerstone of a foundation that mental illness builds a home upon.

So if we are indoctrinated we must love our parents and blood family; what happens when you can’t or have to love from afar?

You don’t love them or you love from afar.

If someone causes you so much emotional distress that it alters the way your brain is supposed to function, you let go of the rope. People will tell you how horrible it is for you to distance yourself or coddle the other person in a cocoon of excuses.

Don’t listen.

Not listening is easier said than done, especially if you are easily backed into a corner. It requires a lot hard work and even more heartache to learn how not to listen to the noise. There is this concept known as bodily autonomy which means you have the fundamental right to make your own bodily decisions (this includes heart/brain) free of coercion. You and you alone.

Today I woke expecting to happy and overjoyed, it’s my partner’s birthday. He brings so much joy to my life, it is beyond words. However, it took an ugly turn.

I let go.

I had to make the decision for myself to love my mother from a distance. It feels unfair and maybe a little cruel, but I’ve realize it is what is best for me now and ultimately best for her.

I wish I could outline the complexities of the relationship between her & me, but the reality is I can’t. Everything feels hazy and I can’t really identify a source or a clear path leading up to my decision.

I’ve tangoed in and out of relationships with both of my parents. A couple months before my dad died we were working on having a peaceful relationship. Just because you let go doesn’t mean you can’t ever pick it back up–remember you have the bodily autonomy to make those decisions.

I can’t say how long the gap will be this time around. I’ve been struggling with the decision for weeks. A few months ago I took a step back from nearly everyone because my brain was cooking over easy instead scrambled, this included my mom.

However, in March my sister called me saying our mom was in a bad place and needed our help. I was doing much better so I picked up and tried to help. Emphasis on try.

One thing you should know (or hear again if you know me personally) is how much I do not want to be a mom. I knew around age 10 I didn’t want kids. I went through a brief phrase where I thought I wanted kids, but for most of my life I knew I did not want children. And in helping my mom, that is exactly what I became a mother to my mother.

The emotional association in the role reversal was hard to swallow at first, but I was working through it. The constant struggle in having open working communication is what I can’t deal with. Even now, just tapping out it on a keyboard–my blood pressure is rising. When I agreed to start helping her again, I gave her my boundaries and my expectations. All of which she agreed to and she followed–for about 2 weeks.

In the weeks that have followed I’ve been nothing but frustrated and angry. Sometimes I feel like the only way to get her to respond is to treat her the way my dad treated her. Which is absolutely a no go. He was horrendous. I never want to treat her or any other human being the way my dad behaved with her. My solution: let go and step back.

I love my mom and acknowledge she’s had a rough go, but so have I. I’ve dealt with similar traumas as she and I am doing alright. I have my share of issues, but I claim responsibility for them and work toward overcoming them. I can’t be broken and be expected to fix someone else and I feel like that is what is being asked of me.

I hope one day we can reconcile and she figures out her path, but for now I will stay right here.

Categories
Ink

Letting You Go was Never a Choice of Mine

Metal fans may recognize the title as a line from a Seven Spires song, Succumb, off their new album Emerald Seas. This album has resonated with me so much, it’s all I’ve been able to play for the last couple weeks. While the album speaks of two star crossed lovers, it also speaks to profound love and profound loss.

Nine years. I don’t understand how the hell it is even possible I sit here writing this. Nine revolutions around the sun without my dear baby sister, Marissa Rose. The pain feels much more intensified this year for me. I suspect since last year I was emotionally constipated and broken, I couldn’t feel anything. I miss her all the time, that will never change regardless of my emotional state.


I recognized the imbalance approaching as I couldn’t find any cathartic relief from any other music except the new Seven Spires album. (Which is a total banger and you need go check it out.) Then last night I watched the below video and it set off a crying episode I haven’t had since before our dad died.

Grief is one of the few completely universal, yet wholly unique things to exist in our reality. It looks and feels different for everyone. The first year without my sister, I was a total mess. Probably the worst shape I had been in mentally since junior high when I struggled with suicidal ideation.

Thankfully, I had someone in my life (who is now no longer in my life–different blog) who kept me afloat and scooped me off bar parking lots when songs became too emotional during karaoke night. I know had I not had a constant source of compassion and companionship, my depression would have won.


I miss Marissa in ways transcending words. It is impossible to articulate. The acute pain of the longing though subsided around year 3 or 4. It stopped hurting to miss her. Until now. The pain has returned and I understand that is normal, the problem I have is the pain can be debilitating. And to people who’ve never experienced a traumatic loss, the debilitation makes no sense.


Fortunately, I was able to work from home this year. My employer recognized I could be functionable, but needed my space away from people. No one wants to watch some one write web code with Niagara Falls on their face. I’ve tried to work around people on this day and it does not work out for anyone. My emotions aren’t in check and my mood hinders morale.


If you know me personally and have known me a long time, you know hiding my emotions is not a strong suit. Zero out of 10 on that skillset. During Cryaggedon last night, I went to outside to talk to Nick about dinner and he saw the tears raging all over my face. He asked what was wrong and my response was “I’m (hiccup) fine. It’s nothing.” Even with it smearing a face full of make up I still tried to hide and was obviously unsuccessful.


I think about the kind of person Marissa would be, especially since most of her friends are now graduating college or getting married. I missed out on a first love, first kiss, and first heartache. I won’t get to be that wiser older sister she can confide in because some stupid boy broke her heart. I won’t be able to say “Screw him, let’s go get our nails done.”

The above photo is my mom’s favorite of us three girls. This was the night of my twenty second birthday, seven months before the accident. This night ended up being disastrous for me, but I am glad I spent time with them before the mayhem.

When Marissa was born, everyone was immediately in love with her. Including dear, ol’ Dad (for more on that read the previous post). I saw how special she was at a very young age and one of my greatest fears was something would happen to her. Not because of Dad, no. She was the one person who was shielded from his abuse. He never laid a hand on her and he never yelled at her. She did witness the terror, so she still would have had the trauma from that. But he never directed any of his awfulness at her. I guess the fear now was more like a premonition? I’ve never thought into it that much and have only said it out loud once or twice since she’s died. The fear eventually subsided and left my conscious thoughts, but immediately sprung up the day she died before I knew all the details of the accident.


The day she died was a beautiful Saturday in May. It was warm, but not hot and a little breezy. I was making food (grilled barbeque chicken with mashed potatoes and corn) and getting ready to watch a movie (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). I looked at my phone, it was 4:15 PM and thought about calling her. We usually talked a couple times a week and I thought about calling her. I sat down with my plate, grabbed my phone and flipped it open (yes, I had a flip phone in 2011- it was damn stylish!) and almost dialed her. I stopped and said no I am going to eat first. This is 4:30ish. I finish and get ready to call her and my phone rings and this is when the world stops.


It’s my cousin Krystal calling to tell me there was an accident and I needed to call my mom. So I hang up and call Mom. Mom is fucking distraught and cannot form a functioning sentence. I hang up with her I call Krystal back no answer. So I call my friend Heather and ask for her help because I am starting to not be able to function. She somehow gets information. She tells me Dad and Marissa had been in an accident and to go my aunt and uncle’s house. No one had to say anything else. I knew at this point, someone was dead. Remember my biggest fear from a few paragraphs ago? Swift kicked me in the gut and I about fell over my balcony railing from having the wind knocked out of me.
I drive over, both Krystal and her sister are already there. I demand to know what in the ever loving fuck is going on. Everyone is crying no one is speaking. I am told to call my mom, again. I call her. All she did was cry and say one thing: Marissa. No sentence, no words. Just her name and hysterical crying. I dropped my phone (pretty sure I threw it at a tree) and tried to run out into traffic. My uncle grabbed me and just held on to me while I sobbed.
My aunt, Krystal and me piled into a car and drove up to the hospital where my family was at. So some background, I was living an hour away from my hometown and my other sister was an hour and a half away in another town at college. We get to the hospital and my mom was on the floor in the waiting room. A family friend who happens to be an ER doctor for another hospital was with her (thank you Dr. Bob!), so at least she wasn’t alone.
I stopped crying long enough to ask where Marissa was. Mom hadn’t seen her and Dad was still being treated. I looked at Mom and said “let’s go.” I couldn’t get her to move, she just kept shaking her head saying no. Dr. Bob helped me convince Mom to go back and see Marissa. She agreed and I managed to fireman carry Mom off of the ground and hobble her back to the room where the hospital had Marissa.
Had I not known she was dead, I would have sworn she was sleeping. She wasn’t mangled or messed up. There were only a couple of very small indicators. One her mouth was slightly open and her tongue was kind of sticking out (very true Marissa fashion, if you ask me) and the saliva had dried out around her tongue, crusting over. The second was a little bit of blood on her cupid’s bow, but honestly could have been from a bloody nose.
I probably made that trip three or four times back to see her before she was finally taken away to go to the State Medical Examiners office. The last trip I made was when Dad’s medical team said he could see her. Now if you knew my dad, you knew he was a burly and mammoth being of a man; however, the sound that came out of him when he saw Marissa on that gurney was inhuman. I can’t describe it, but I hear right now. It was the worst blood curdling squeal a person could possibly ever make and to hear it come out of a man who looked like my Dad was unfathomable.
My aunt, cousin and I stayed at the hospital for several hours. Marissa’s friends came to see us and they told me how much Marissa talked about me and how much she loved me. Marissa’s best friend though, my heart hurt the most for. She had lost her mom to cancer a couple years prior and now her best friend was gone. Jazz was the last person Marissa spent time with before she died. She got revel in being a teenager one last time. Dad had picked Marissa up from Jazz’s so they could go get Marissa some new softball gear.
The night eventually got late and I needed to go home. My aunt, Krystal and I headed back. When we got back to my aunt’s, Krystal asked if I wanted to stay with her that night. The answer was absolutely yes. We went to the bar down the road from my apartment to have one drink for Marissa. One drink turned into me so drunk I had to throw up and when Krystal rolled down my window, I missed my open window and puked down the side of her door. (Sorry again.)

The next few days after that are a complete blur. We planned the funeral, I picked her casket. Mom and my grandmother got into it at the planning table. I nearly punched an elderly woman in the face. Dad wouldn’t look at me. I was back home for a week and the first time Dad looked me in the eye was the day of the funeral and he said ” I can’t look at you, you look too much like her.” And for the first time ever in my life, those words shattered my heart.

I’ve done what I could to make her proud in the years since she has been gone. I’ve tried to make better decisions and not let my life end up in the gutter. To celebrate her five year anniversary, I ran a 10K. I finished dead last, but I finished. That whole year was a year of running and progress. It was also the year I met Nick. Now most of my honoring comes in the form of a fun make up picture inspired by her two favorite colors: purple and lime green. This year is no different. I try to challenge myself every time I do these looks (today & her birthday) and push the boundaries of my skills.

She was just starting to get into more feminine habits like makeup and hair right before she died. When we were kids, she never wanted anything to do with my makeup and her idea of doing her hair was throwing it in a bun. Which worked for her because she lived in her sports uniforms.
There is an old adage about how finding out how much people don’t like you, name a kid. Well also pick out a burial outfit for a kid and you’ll also find out. Mom decided to bury Marissa in her traveling basketball uniform and asked her teammates to come to the visitation in their uniforms. People did not think that was right and thought she should have been in something else. That girl LOVED sports more than anything. Her love for sports is the only reason I am at peace with the results of the accident. Had she survived, it was likely she would not have played sports again and that would have stripped the joy out of her life. And a Marissa without joy would have been worse than a world without a Marissa at all.

To my angel, I miss you beyond words. This acute pain is unbearable, but survivable. I will figure out how to keep on making you proud. Wherever you may be. I hope you are reunited with Dad and you have helped him find peace.
“I pray our stars align, so I might hold you one more time.” – ‘Succumb’ Seven Spires”I’ll bury you among the stars that litter the skies of my heart. Next to the moon you placed in it’s folds. So loving and so long ago.” -‘Bury You’ Seven Spires

To my friends and family, thank you for your love and support throughout this journey. Walking it for 7 years with only her gone was hard enough, but now I am having to relearn how to handle grief since her and Dad are now both gone. Your patience and understanding is something I will never take for granted.

One final special thank you. To Seven Spires.
You didn’t write Emerald Seas for me. But it feels like you looked into my heart and said all the things I’ve wanted to say for years. I could not possibly begin to thank you for the wonderful treasure I’ve found in your album. Thank you for your hard work and the beautiful result.

Categories
Ink Metal

Breathe

“I have fought my fight, I have run my race.” – ‘Breathe’ by Eluveite


Today is my late father’s birthday, the second one since his untimely, but not entirely unexpected passing in January 2019. Strangely enough, I’ve been relatively quiet about him, our relationship, or how I’ve been since his death. I figured today was an appropriate enough day to commemorate his memory and share my experiences since.

I started a new job a little over a month ago, my third job change since he died. A colleague and I were exchanging life stories and in the middle of mine, I paused and realized if I hadn’t traveled the path, I don’t know if I could accept one person/family experiencing that much tragedy and heartache. I don’t necessarily want to unpack 20+ years of emotional baggage in one post and I don’t know if you want to read it, especially now amidst pandemic protocol.


He had very dark secrets he was pretty good at concealing from me, until he no longer wasn’t. I remember being in fourth grade and slowly realizing the charade Dad tried to entertain was just that a charade. Around this same time, I learned what a drug addict was and what drug dependency looked like. He eventually realized I had caught on to his story and he had lost a hook, line, and sinker. This would be ground zero for the rest of our relationship.


It wouldn’t take much friction between us to spark a fire. Our fights were ugly and violent and I as aged, they got worse. And like most fires, they would spread; spread to other’s in the house. Particularly, my mom. She never deserved any of what she was dealt. Any of it. Even with some of the poor choices she made, nothing could justify what she endured. As I type this out, I’ve hit delete about six times because thinking about what she lived through breaks my spirit.


At this point, you’re probably asking why there was no intervention. I wish I had an answer. People knew what was going on in our house, people knew about Dad’s nefarious activities. But nothing happened. Even when he was arrested when I was in junior high, he didn’t serve any jail time, he was just sentenced to rehab. Wish it had worked, but it didn’t.
Rehab might have been a great solution had we been able to change our surroundings after he left. We lived in a very rural county in Iowa and drugs were a problem–still are–and with a limited amount of population, he never got out of the social circles that led him down such a destructive path in the first place. Had we moved away from the farm and lived somewhere more urban where we didn’t know people, he might have had a chance. Doubtful, but it is a nice dream.


I realize I’ve painted this monstrous picture of Dad and it’s slightly unfair and not the entire reality. People who knew him before the drugs ruined his brain recount how he was the nicest man you could know and do just about anything he could for a stranger. Many of the kids I went to school with had parents who went to school with my dad and they would tell stories about how Dad was the kind of guy who would beat up bullies, especially boys who picked on girls.


He loved championing the underdog. He used to be a real scrappy dude. It’s quality I think about and smile. Everyone loves an underdog and despite Dad’s really shitty characteristics, he seemed to charm everyone. He would enrapture them with stories of things he witnessed and lived through. Occasionally, it would border on tall tale or at least feel like a tall tale, but portions of his life were things out of tall tales; just mine looks like a tragic novel.Once I moved out of the house, the physical violence between us ceased and the emotional violence raged. We would try to have small civil conversations but they always ended with him screaming atrocities at me and me in a pile of tears. We had brief moments of peace and bonding, but they never lasted.

The only photo I have with Dad as an adult. During a rare period of peace.


Our last phone call will be a moment I treasure the rest of my life. Again, it feels like a plot device. I was having an extremely bad day (a bad fight with a former friend that person could be a whole other blog post) and out of the blue on my lunch–Dad called. He NEVER called me, ever. Furthermore, he APOLOGIZED with sincerity. For the first time in 30 years (at the time) I heard the man sincerely apologize. He told me he was proud of me in spite of everything between us. He told me he loved me and for the first time I could recall he gave me true fatherly advice about the situation I was dealing with. Our conversation ended pleasantly and I was hopeful about the future.


A couple weeks after that phone call he texted me. Hell, I didn’t know he even knew HOW to text. He had wished me a happy birthday and reminded me once again, his high school football team was nicknamed the Dirty 30. His football stories always put a smile on face, even when things nasty between us.


My favorite story was how a player from the rival team had done something dirty after there was a flag on the play and game play was stopped. So in true Dad form, turned around a punted the player in the forehead, knocking him out for the rest of the game. Thekicker was later on as adults the guy Dad had kicked had come up to our town’s Firemen’s Valentine’s Day Dance to talk to Dad. I was probably 7-10 years old. I am not exactly sure. For those unfamiliar with Firemen’s Valentine’s Day Dances, it was a dance hosted by our local volunteer fire department. I am pretty sure it was to raise money for the department. I am not 100% because by the time I was old enough to attend, I moved away from my hometown.


Those texts and phone call are the last communication I would have with my Dad. Life unfortunately got very busy for me as I was dealing with a lot of stress from the job I had at the time. There had only been three people on staff and one had been terminated; leaving me and my manager to run the place. December 2018 each of us had only had 4 days off the entire month. I had zero energy for anything or anyone.

Prospects for 2019 looked promising despite my pure exhaustion. Nick & I had a wonderful year full of so many incredible moments: Europe for the first time, I met one of my heroes, Europe again, and many more. We were excited because more adventures were in store and they were, just not the adventures we expected.


Dad was admitted to the hospital on January 4th, 2019 and then 10 agonizing days later, I made the hardest decision I’ve ever made in my life. I turned off his life support. Those 10 days were some of the most emotionally jolting days of my life. I will chronicle that journey in a future post.

After he died, my brain broke. Death and grief change a person, but this was different in a way I can’t quite explain. I had been through tragic loss before, my sister’s angelversary is two weeks from today. I am no stranger to loss and to pain.


The best way I can explain it is, I stopped fully processing emotion. If you know me personally, you know that I feel everything with everything have from laughter to sadness and everything in between. No emotion is left unexpressed. I just stopped. Music stopped being enjoyable, things stopped being funny. I was definitely grieving but not in the ” I am sad” kind of grief. If I tried to feel anything, it became too much and I would start to drown in my intrusive thoughts.


The intrusive thoughts stemmed from the fact of how much there would be to resolve with him gone. Mom at the time still lived on the farm and my grandmother can’t stand my mother so we had to act fast to get Mom off the farm to avoid further problems.

Ah the farm. The location of my childhood home. A dilapidated, needed condemnation much sooner than it did trailer. Five people squished into a 3 bedroom home doesn’t really work. The place was in disrepair from lack of maintenance (or half-assed maintenance) and littered with violent handiwork. It was so bad, we were never allowed to have friends over. (Probably because their parents may have reported it, but I doubt that since no one ever said anything.)


So I knew when I went to the farm last April to help Mom move out and sort through belongings, it was going to be bad, but I cannot explain the mayhem and the madness I witnessed walking into my childhood home for the first time years. The fact my mother felt she could have stayed there blows my mind. The place was the physical manifestation of mental illness and belonged on Hoarder’s or something.

However, it wasn’t destruction or disaster of the trailer overwhelming me. No, it was the inevitable removal and demolition of the place. My childhood address and phone number would cease to exist. Thirty plus years of lives were lived in that space, someone lived and died. How could it all just be erased? I couldn’t process it.

After our trailer had been torn out and hauled away.

After our trailer had been torn out and hauled away.
Additionally, I was going to have to teach my mom how to live on her own. Dad had taken care of everything for the last 30 years. So overnight, I had taken on a parental role over my mom. And when you’re someone since the age of 10 insisted you will not have children, it messes with your mind. I can confirm this entire experience has further solidified my decision to not have kids, in case you were curious.


There was a whole host of other problems I was trying to navigate in the midst of this mess. Problems I had before Dad died, but was forced to start unpacking as a result. Let’s mix in job instability, preexisting mental health issues and it’s a magic potion. One that magnifies calamity.
In the process of trying to get my mother stable and my head above water, I drowned. Not physically or literally, but emotionally and mentally. I spiraled out of control. I opened a bunch of credit cards and shopped until every cent was spent.


Credit cards with a part time job and tastes like mine are just an awful combination. Did I know better? Subconsciously, but I couldn’t recognize what I was doing at the time. I also thought I was going to be getting an hours promotion at my job and didn’t. I try not to plan my life on uncertainties or at least try to have contingency plans in case shit derails (which it usually does in my life.) Instead I broke every single one of my rules because I needed something besides the mess in my mind.


There was a moment about six months ago, where I told my mom she needed to figure it out. I couldn’t do it, I had to take care of myself and the wreckage I was leaving in my wake. I felt hypocritical lecturing her on budgets and the importance of planning and here I was a fucking mess. So I stopped. I stopped checking in. I stopped talking to her. I saw her once in that six months and it was to go to a funeral. Oh the irony.

Beginning of this year I made a commitment to myself to get my head and finances under control. So far I’ve been doing pretty well. There have been deviations to my plan, but overall I am still on track where I need to be. The last major hurdle I fought with was the one year anniversary of Dad’s passing.


Nick & I go on a cruise every year called 70,000 Tons of Metal and besides our European Excursions, it is the best vacation we take all year. This year the date format had altered from previous iterations and it allowed us to take time off ahead of the sailing and not use any extra time had we not gone down early. The thing for me was the dates of our vacation correlated to the same dates I spent in the University of Iowa Hospital with Dad.


The dichotomy was strange. Should I be happy, should I be sad, what emotion am I supposed to feel right now? I really did my own thing on the boat this last time around and I am really proud of how I spent my time. It helped distract me in a way that was healthy and didn’t revolve around me swiping a card.

With my head back on a little more tightly (let’s be frank here–it’s never going to be tightened all the way down again), I have finally started communicating with my mom more and started helping her again. My plan has had a few deviations so I am still working on things, but I am in much better shape and have a light at the end of my tunnel.


My emotional trauma and baggage still need unpacked, but for now I am content with burying my head into helping my mom and learning new skills for work.


I missed out on an opportunity to rebuild a relationship with my dad and it might be my only regret that I have. I am extremely thankful his last words to me were ‘I love you.’ I know a lot of people in my position do not always get that kind of resolution. More exceptions to the rules.


Many people are not going to be happy with how much I aired in this narrative. I don’t really care. There isn’t anything you can say to me at this point that hasn’t been said to me before. It’s fine if you’re not happy with it, I can’t say I’ve always been about the shit that’s happened–but here we are.


I’ve fought and I’ve ran. I will continue to always fight for myself and my survival. Surviving is one thing I do know how to do. I’ve learned to run head on instead of away. One day I’ll finally be able to breathe because I’ll be in a place I can call home.

Categories
Ink

Dirty Laundry

Yesterday word of the helicopter accident killing nine people, including NBA superstar Kobe Bryant stunned the world. Grieving a celebrity you never met is a strange phenomenon; not one I understood until Chester Bennington’s death 2.5 years ago. It’s not easily articulated nor easily comprehended. However, I do not wish to focus on this tragedy through a celebrity lens, but rather a human one. Feelings on Kobe Bryant’s death are extremely polarizing. Many think ‘good riddance’ because of the accusations in his past. While the chances of the Bryant family seeing every single post of that nature is near impossible, it still saddens me nonetheless. Despite what he did, he was still a husband and a father.


My father was somewhat infamous in my tiny hometown because well to be frank, he wasn’t that great of a guy. He used to be, but his addiction destroyed his brain and personality. He knew how to entertain though. He could go anywhere and have an entire room of strangers hanging on every single word enthralled by the absurdity of his story. What strangers didn’t see was how quickly he angered or how one small retort could ignite hellacious rage.


My hometown is quite tiny; less than 500 people. The dirtier your laundry, the more people knew about it. Growing up with a dad like mine, in a community like mine, made things interesting. At one point I wondered why there wasn’t outside intervention to make all the insanity stop. I grew to accept things as they were since they couldn’t be changed and realized I would be less resilient now if someone had intervened.


While I do not fully comprehend the scrutiny Vanessa Bryant and her family face daily, I empathize with their situation. When someone you love has done something heinous, people question your loyalty and your love. It’s heartbreaking because it’s an impossible decision to make. It feels like you are doing a disservice to humanity for loving the person who did something monstrous. Yet, if you choose to side with humanity you are evil and cold-hearted for abandoning your loved one. Who can make that kind of choice? I sure couldn’t, believe me I tried. I used to run scenarios in my head of the circumstances surrounding Dad’s death. I was 100% wrong, not a single thing I ever conjured up happened. I’m still processing those events and he has been gone a year.


I’ve experienced two major life losses: a parent and a sibling. I was fortunate that my losses were nearly a decade apart. I cannot begin to fathom the emotional hurdles Vanessa Bryant is going to have to handle. To bury your husband and child at the same time is cruel and harsh reminder of how finite our time really is. Her & Kobe’s children are the survivors I ache for the most. The loss of a sibling/child is one the cruelest things that can happen to a person. There is no word for who you become after a sibling/child’s death, further accentuating the pain.

I hope Vanessa Bryant and her family are given space and peace. We all deserve room to process our emotions. Most of us receive it as we are not thwarted into a media spectacle when our love ones die. Their grief should not be ridiculed or questioned. Hearing such commentary only exasperates the pain and does nothing to help them heal. I hope they find solace and strength. God knows they are going to need it.


Think and feel what you may about Kobe Bryant’s death. His dirty laundry was aired because of the lifestyle he led. Just as my dad’s lifestyle aired ours.

Categories
Ink

Ashes

calm down it will be ok.

a little mantra quietly repeated,

like a record caught under the needle.

the tempo quickening as silent panic

consumes from within.

eventually swallowing whole and

despair conquers over hope.

Categories
Ink

Where I’ve Been

Oh, hi there!

It’s been a hot minute (month) since I’ve made any kind of post. I could ramble on with excuses, but the truth is my brain was stuck. Mental illness is no joke. It’s a hard rut to get out of and with the onset of winter weather, it will be even more difficult staying focused.

You may have noticed on some other social media sites, I’ve updated a wide variety of information and have teased more information coming soon. Soon may not be a great adjective because I am not sure how soon, soon will arrive. Let’s just say I have some ideas brewing and I am in the beginning stages of developing ideas. I want to do a better job about posting content more regularly across all platforms.

I hope you all stick with me as I figure out my brain and how to stay focused and motivated. And if you are suffering from your mental illness issues do not be afraid to speak up and reach out for help.

xo,

felicia kay