This Christmas has felt a little weird. My partner (Brent) has three amazing teenage girls. This is Mama Bear’s year to have them on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. And so, we had our Christmas instead on December 23rd.

With a ham, but not a turkey. We cooked two turkeys for Friendsgiving, and…we were turkey’d out. So the request was made for something a little different; with lots of fresh, hot bread rolls that a little girl named Bug could butter on both sides.

The girls woke up early (not surprisingly). I slept in (which was very surprising). We had done the “mad dash to wrap gifts,” which were predominantly purchased on Amazon, with many items delayed by a day or two.

Sleeping at 9:00 a.m. now? Reeeeeallly? We wrapped a shit ton more than I thought we had. I did finish the last episodes of “The Crown.” Spoiler alert: Queen Elizabeth dies. And you will cry. Like, tons.

Moving on.

I heard the dogs barking up a storm twice in the wee hours of the morning. After WRAPOCALYPSE had ended and we let the dogs out, and let the dogs in. Then let the dogs out and let the dogs in, and then finally, we went to to sleep. I was not happy at the ruckus. I needed my damned sleep.

Someone on the community Facebook page said many heard shots fired in our area. Not like the shots fired I heard almost daily (and certainly every weekend) at the townhouse I rented in Austin. In a neighborhood where even the HEB was scary. And HEBs are NEVER supposed to be a contact sport.

I love the house we rent, and the place we live. I feel safe here. But now I know why the dogs were going apeshit, and neither one of us was particularly rested. But the girls were stoked. Brent was stoked, as I surprised him with a few guitar-esque gifts he didn’t know I was getting.

You see, as contemporary partners, we do the very romantic thing of exchanging Amazon product links as a “wish list.” Hey… I’m a Chief Marketing Officer and he is a Scrum Master-y, guru software management IT dude (code warriors are… 🔥)… I digress.

The point is, that Amazon works for us and makes Christmas just a little bit safer. I have a chronic KAREN allergy that can erupt without warning. I hope to God I am not floating around on TikTok as one of the “KAREN Takedown Brigade!” More now than ever before, I cannot stomach a bully. I can’t go back to the Star Bucks in our hood, however, I did write a poem about it.

Deep Thoughts at 2:00 A.M.

I don’t know why that was important to share all that. Something that changed this year, was my creative writing muse. You see, when you write commercially at high volumes from 2008 to 2023, every, single, week…you need a lot of creativity to write what people want to read. Or, what companies want to use to grow their businesses, by recruiting new customers through quality, clever, highly psychological (sorry) writing that motivates people to buy. A product, a service, or an ideal.

It’s late and I can’t sleep. I am not stressed about it. Menopause or diabetes? Who knows. Maybe both. Sometimes I don’t want to go to sleep. Mostly, because books are screaming in my head, demanding to be transcribed from the mushy bits between my ears. It could also be that I have some vacation next week and I don’t know what to do with myself.

All bets on “she’ll do work writing on her days off.”

Well, in my head are two books, and one horror screenplay, that could, essentially be the downpayment on my next house. That one screams loudest, and I know why. I don’t understand, however, why I am procrastinating. I only procrastinate on tasks I don’t want to do.

I used to think the “job writing” drank up all my creative juice, leaving none for my personal work. But this year I learned something I think I already knew. Something terrifying enough to make me delay, degrade the quality of and deny that it could ever be a success.

I am used to betrayal, pain, and disappointment. Also used to having my kind nature, generosity, and honesty exploited. Something like a great relationship, a great career, a wonderful home life (including seven dorky dogs), children in my life again, and literary success? I mean, that would be terrifying.

My creative muse shrank from this oversized nuclear radiant Tinker Bell to a fleck of sparkle, because I had placed a strong governor on it. Trauma in succession is a bitch. I know that is the term de jour but I have the receipts. That last Exodus almost broke me.

Losing my Zia Antonietta was my emotional collapse point.

Props to my inner critic… she was the only thing that was getting me out of bed. Her language is quite colorful, sounding like “GTF out of bed right now you lazy ass victim,” or “Your Nono would be disgusted to see you like this, loser. Get your ass up!”

Yeah, I hate her too. But she’s effective. Self-flagellation FTW! (“for the win,” for non-nerds).

I can’t sleep right now. I am not upset, lonely, or sad. (Okay, I miss Diane and my Mom). I am not angry. The stupid neighbor’s rooster is still asleep, and while I love animals, I once wished the circling buzzard would swoop down and … Sorry, I hate that bird.

The mild sedative isn’t working. So, I think I will write. But if it does get a little weird, remember that neuropathy is a bitch. I was hoping I’d be asleep by now. It is not 2:00 a.m. anymore, it is 3:13 a.m. I came back to this paragraph to add that important note.

Things That Changed Me This Year

Speaking of self-flagellation, I feel this is one of those blogs I write for myself. Anyone else may not be able to fall down the rabid whole. (I was being clever. Get it?) Writers are their own special flavor of creative nut job.

I mean, you’d be fine with a writer as a partner as long as you didn’t move, unload the dishwasher, put dishes away, turn on the washing machine and dryer, breathe or chew loudly, move chairs, turn on the air fryer, or … Yes, Jim, you are correct. He is a Saint. 👼🏼

If you are still reading this ridiculous excuse for a relevant blog despite warnings about the fast-flowing stream of consciousness, and how that sometimes helps writers break through a creative block? Yeh. It works. I have no clue why though… Dynamite in the dam, all you need is a little crack and the water will start flowing through.

The resurgence of creativity feels like that. And if you haven’t guessed it, this writing exercise is like a cartel-style four-prop plane heavily loaded with explosives aimed for the direct center of the wall that holds the most water.

I Tried Too Hard to Make Friends

The WAIS-III was the test administered by my therapist, circa 2007 I believe, after several miscarriages, and almost two years of fertility treatments (which resulted in a near brush with cervical and uterine cancer). No wait… wrong test. It was the NEO-FFI personality inventory because my Openess score freaked the shit out of my therapist.

Not the best way to start our patient and doctor relationship. But we persevered! Shout out to Dr. Deborah D. in Toronto. You showed me how to resurrect myself. Scoring on the 93rd percentile on the Openness scale, she thought I was full of shit. So she did the test again, at our next session two weeks later. And I scored higher. I think because I both trusted and liked her.

I am OPEN AF! I could give you the reasons, based on my (kind of) obsessive reading about it this year. Based on my learning, someone in the 93rd percentile of Openness on the NEO-FFI is an over-emotional, extremely oversensitive, easily manipulated, and even more easily hurt, soft, gullible, victim narrative-spewing, daft human being.

Promise you, I am absolutely not that.

You know that little flow of energy that goes through you that makes you start a conversation with someone new? Or make you join a Facebook group looking for friends, dates, or things you hope your Mom will never find out about?

The primal reminder is that we humans are pack animals, prompted by our highly social nature. There are lone wolves who are happy. But some of us need to be near people, relating, talking, sharing, laughing or almost choking on a tortilla chip… DELETE THAT PICTURE!! 🤣

I was lonely and lost. My life took another u-turn but this one was really (really) good. But before we met in January 2022, I felt so alone. And rather than curl up in a ball, pondering no family, no friends, and completely alone in Texas? I did what I always do; find a way to pursue what I needed.

I lowered the armaments, decided to be my OPEN self, and tried way the fuck too hard to make friends. I just assumed it would be easy. Finding new friends at fifty when you are very new to the area? It’s easier to find people wandering drunk in Downtown Round Rock. Fun fact? That’s pretty normal there.

Yes, I tried too hard. You probably would too, if you had just moved to Toronto and knew no one. No family. No friends. Just your job, and complete awe of the beautiful relationship you found yourself in. Wanting to connect with other humans. Find someone to master sourdough bread with (I have Diane’s starter). I probably won’t share her starter, but tell you where you can buy your own.

Interestingly, it’s Amazon. Why the hell didn’t I buy stock ten years ago? I’d be retired on my AirBNB ranch and rescue for horses and dogs. I remember asking someone about buying it, but he was dumb.

Mostly My Definition of Really Good Folks

Most of the people I have met have been amazing to know, and hang out with. A tiny portion has been a quick study in middle-school behaviors among 45-60-year-olds who peaked in high school, and still talk about “the glory days” while consistently talking shit about each other, who have a higher than average probability of having been dropped on their heads as infants… explaining the clear lack of any sign of EQ.

(You can think less of me… that still felt good).

What I learned is that friendship should be organic. Sure, starting from zero socially in a brave new land is scary. But if you are patient, the folks that are supposed to be in your life will arrive. I suck at being patient. But my feelings were hurt terribly, and it would be a great disservice to myself to allow that shit to happen again.

I’m a great and loyal friend (who talks too much), who actually gives a shit, who has your back and will be there when you need me. Like, to move furniture, paint, or uncork the wine bottle you can’t get open.

Writers have strong hands and big hearts. But I’m just not investing in anyone (or anything) that stresses me out anymore. And that includes middle-school-minded people.

Woah There! Anxiety Girl Gets a Slow Rein

Anxiety is fun. No one has really told us shit about anxiety. I mean, in the 1400s it would have got you shackled and whipped. Or in one of those “sink and drown if you are innocent” water dunker thing tests they did in Salem. I still think Salem was the birthplace of feminism.

Where was I? Oh, right (get used to left-hand turns with no conversational signals). I have ADHD. Trust me, I dinged my savings to go to TWO different psychologists in Toronto because I thought the first one was full of shit. My mother never blow-darted me with Ritalin!

Sure enough, I didn’t get my money’s worth. The second test revealed a whole new thing for me to worry about… Generalized Anxiety Disorder. So, I “said no to drugs” after being zombified by over four (that I can remember) anti-anxiety drugs. One made me very hungry, which, as a plushy gal, was not helpful.

I was not “me” on the prescriptions they tried. I felt dead inside. No creativity. No grand ideas. No desire to talk (at all), or be around people. Fewer big words. Long gaps or pauses in my sentences, as the medications slowed down the bandwidth substantially.

And I felt really, really numb. Like, all the time.

I just decided to figure it out. One year I wrote over 100,000 words of copy about anxiety. The causes of it, the symptoms, and the treatments. That was a big year for me. I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, and I finally learned to self-moderate (most) of my symptoms of anxiety.

Except the anxiety caused by the diagnosis peaked. And I was back at square one. Then I moved to Texas and it was almost gone. In the few good years where I was happy (before bad things started happening), the anxiety was very manageable.

When things went downhill, however, I started to get chest pains. I tried to hide it, drinking to excess, and smoking to excess, but I still had my four little dogs. When the ship hit the rocks over and over again, I grabbed those little dogs and got the heck out of Dodge.

I know Dodge is nowhere near an ocean, FYI. I have been studying for my citizenship exam. In truth? I also Googled it.

Anxiety kept me there longer than I should have stayed (how is THAT for self-awareness?) A biased, but completely factually sound report from a Random Guitar Dude states that there has been a tremendous improvement in anxiety management. He kindly omits that it still happens often. However, because he understands it and knows the behaviors, he is patient and kind.

That may be because he loves me. I am pretty sure that’s it. And I love him too.

Home Isn’t Home Anymore: Where the Hell is Home?

It is 3:55 a.m. and I am still writing this. But it feels like … when you see those videos of a lion who was caged his whole life, before they rescue, rehab, and release into conservation. That precise emotional moment when the cat feels grass under its paws for the first time.

You take a moment or two to question whether it is real, or another trick-and-treat scenario in life, where you ask politely and you get the dental floss instead of the aero bar. The dude wasn’t even a dentist. The point being (I need to stop using that phrase), that I had a “lunch box let down” face. That’s when you open your lunchbox and your mom gave you water instead of soda, and carrots instead of cookies.

Sometimes life is just not fair.

What they don’t tell you is that the expectation for “life to be fair” is an ingrained idealogy that is deliberately planted to help us be brave enough to start driving on the freeway of life. It is this impossibly busy freeway where everyone is driving as fast as they can to an unknown destination, all the while insisting that they know EXACTLY where they are going.

No, you don’t. None of us do.

That rant was unexpected. I had to read it twice to decide whether I would spare it from the delete button. In truth, I did delete it. Then I hit the ‘undo’ button.

I do not feel like I have a home.

As a firstborn Taurus (he thinks Zodiac is bullshit… I don’t) I have formulated a personality I think to be an exact match to my astrological sign. I mean, that makes far more sense than believing the day, month, or year of your birth means anything more than an estimate of the last time your parents had sex.

Decidedly, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. I did wish it was a better animal symbol. A cow? Really? But I loved the other attributes. The home and hearth. A deep commitment to family, and a strong parental and protective drive. If home is where the heart is, then why don’t I feel that home homey-ness like I did when I was living in Ontario, Canada?

Come on Austin. Make me feel embraced!

If I drove straight north, and then a lot to the right, I would be back in Ontario. After ten years of being away, detained by everything from a fucked up permanent resident online application (yes it got fixed but LORD!) to “he who shall not be named” and that wonderful rollercoaster ride, which continued while I tried not to die from sepsis, and then Covid-19.

This is where I grew up. The house my parents built. The trees I planted with my father survived. But this is not the house in my heart. It looks different now. Cutting the lawn is probably still a bitch.

—-

I was really happy to not be in a hospital in 2021. For the first time, a year without one of those inconvenient life-threatening diseases, and adding to the pile of medical debt. The IVs, the slaughter of medications, nausea, appetite loss (okay that helped me get going), insomnia (that was stress I think mostly with a side order of menopause).

Look at all the procrastination… I wish more people understood that when I talk like this (verbally, like in person) I feel unsafe. That’s when the lips go on autopilot. I am thinking about the behavior in different ways. That shit is 100% avoidance.

This is one of two holy grounds in my heart. The trees my cousin Ben and I planted also survived. But the old barn is gone. This is a memory meditation; if I am feeling stressed, I visualize the Farm.

—-

Many of the people I loved have died. Will home feel like home? Or did home move on without me too? Changing, evolving, and life moving on, I feel like an episode in Star Trek (The Next Generation) where you realize you are in the wrong timeline. Because when you go home, no one recognizes you. Because you don’t really exist as matter in their timeline anymore.

Despite all professions of being “busy” there is really no excuse for losing touch. Not when you love them as much as I do. Are you bothering people when you reach out randomly to try to stay in touch? I felt that the answer was “Yes.” It feels that way.

Me: “This is going to sound crazy, but my Aunt wore your perfume. Can you please tell me the name of it?”

Her: “Take care of your own business!”

I’m trying, lady. Honest, I am.