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May 29, 2022

It has been nearly two years since I have written anything on here. Two years since re-entering Tumblr Land, as I am dubbing it. I used to fucking live for Tumblr. I’m so thankful to be able to look back, because it reminds me of how creative, inspired, angsty, and sad I was. Like wow, I have so much more stability now. I think 22 year old would have thought my current life is boring. Maybe it is boring, but honestly, I think there’s something romantic about having a routine, having stability, having genuine safety that you don’t have to work for. Not that I really had “safety”- I think that my younger self (meaning my college and my DC self) felt that she had safety- but it was really just people pleasing and other forms of manipulation?

(I feel very meta as I write this, like one day semi soon, I’ll look back and feel silly and small, like my worries were nothing and I can’t believe I gave it so much time.)

By worries, I mean that I had a (minor) break down last night. I felt very frustrated that I don’t want kids, that I’ve never wanted kids, and I wish I did. It would be easier emotionally, though not physically, financially, or in really any other way. I feel like I’m being left behind when Hayley says things like “Well, whatever you decide is the right choice for you. You have plenty of time. If you don’t have kids, you will other child- free friends.” As if I’m no longer allowed to be friends with parents. As I would need to siphon myself away to other people who chose to forgo the social norm. I know that she wants children. Or that Weston really wants them, and I feel like she’s being kind of pushed into it, as to not disappoint him. Maybe that’s too harsh to say, but I say that because when we really talk about it, she seems to understand and agree with my fears. And then it always ends with “Well, I’m going to do it anyway.” Just so interesting... I don’t mean to blame Weston for that- it’s not blame per se- but I do wonder why she feels that she has to resign to doing it “anyway.”

I think she did make a great point though about not wasting my childless years worrying about whether or not I should do it. I have PLENTY, I repeat PLENTY of time- though I did look into egg freezing yesterday and WHO KNEW it cost about $20,000?! Not I, said the fly. 

I know there’s time. And so much will change and so much will remain the same (looking back on these Tumblr posts really reminds me of how true that it). I am, for what it’s worth, jealous of those people who have always known they wanted kids. Even if they were conditioned or guilted into it for some religious reason or what have you. I have always been so sure of what I want in a variety of areas of my life. It’s very foreign for me to NOT know. Or to know that I don’t want them, but be unable to resonate in that headspace. I keep thinking back to doing shrooms years ago, how I said that being a mother is my biggest fear, and my biggest desire. 

Sometimes I find myself just saying things because they sound right. Or they sound pretty/ poetic. I do struggle to trust myself, and to trust that I really felt that way. Maybe another drug induced afternoon is what I need to regain clarity (that was a serious suggestion). 

I think it may be worth exploring/ doing some journaling around what it would be like to have a child. In an ideal situation. I have swung so far away from romanticizing the notion that I can only see the bad, the ugly sides, the strain, the leaking breasts, the toddler screams, the food in my hair. Not to mention the health concerns, the mental health crises that I feel are inevitable in that future generation of which my child would be a part of.

Last night, I asked Stephen if we could spend the next few days just leaning into the idea of having children, of not shit talking it, and just maybe, for a little bit, even pretend (I think I used the word “pretend”) that we wanted children. Just to see how that would feel. That conversation was the beginning of the break down, ha, but I still think there’s some merit in that. 

I think it’s more of a breakdown around the fact that we’re here! My friends and I are here, we are at the point where we feel like we need to have serious conversations about our futures, and about children, or child free. And it’s hard because I know that there will be natural divisions. Hey, there already are (married vs single, engaged vs married, etc.). It’s just a part of life, and I appreciate and recognize that. AND I am scared. Scared of all the change and am such a planner that I can’t just BE. 

There needs to be a docuseries about pregnant and new mothers/parents. I’m sure such a thing already exists, but I need more opinions in my ears besides my own (and Hayley and Weston’s, which I love and value, but I need more). I want other perspectives to shake up my own. 

One other additional and rambling thought- I think that my parents, especially my mother, is too hands off. I wish that she shared her opinion about some things, or really, no, not shared her opinion unless I ask, but I wish she asked me what I thought or how I was feeling more. I feel like she just tells me about her day and asks about mine, and maybe that’s normal. But I would want more of a child, more for a child- parent relationship, if I were to walk down that road. 

It makes me think of Mana- Cyrus and Mazi’s Mom- and I have so many questions for her. And there’s this part of me, small but mighty, that really wants to share my pregnancy with Mana. I want to have that moment where I give her a phone call, where we both cry, where we can share in this moment together, where she can assure me that I’m doing the right thing, and that it will be hard, but so, so worthwhile. And that I’ll be happier and more fulfilled for doing so. That I won't know what I don’t know. That my life is only just beginning. For me to feel all of that and to not feel judged or boxed in. To just agree with her whole heartedly, leaving my doubts at the door, and plunging into this foreign terrain without any looking back. To change. 

[lettersforyoulettersforme]

August 18, 2020

hello again Tumblr. I don’t give you enough attention, even though I love looking back at the old posts. What a serious trip down memory lane. Not totally mad about it. I feel like I was such a poetic back then, such an *artiste*

I spend a lot of time in therapy talking about where my fun has gone, where my artistry, my creativity is, my joy. *shakes fists and screams about MY YOUTH

It’s easy to romanticize that time. Too easy. Almost encouraged by our societal conditioning. Youth is really pumped up, I guess?

Here are some ideas that I’ve been thinking about recently:

- Cutting myself some serious slack

- Being endlessly self compassionate towards myself; reframing negative thoughts to more positive, realistic facts

- Perfectionism is a form of shame. 

- How much imperfection can I handle? Probably a lot more than I realize or give myself credit for.

- Celebrating the successes!

- There are so many new movies and tv shows that I haven’t seen yet. Not that I mind a rewatch binge of “Vanderpump Rules” from time to time...

- I am almost married. And that thought is really comforting to me. And the fact that Hayley will be our officiant? That feels beyond grounding to me. I want my girl up there with us!

- I’m happier when I’m off of social media. Like worlds happier. I don't fucking care about Addison Re and I hate that my Tik Tok thinks that I do. 

- At my job, I realize that I am out to please the parents. What does that say about my own need to please my own parents? I say this with compassion but: it’s time to outgrow that habit. 

- The more plants, the better. 

- Walks mid day are a god send. 

- It’s okay to slow down. To slow WAY down. And to stay slow. Until you’re ready. 

- I really like making new food and experimenting with recipes. I should bake more, honestly. 

- Friends don’t care if I’ve cleaned up the house. No one cares but me. And maybe my Mom. 

- Elizabeth Gilbert is still one of my favorites. 

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Montana.

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riding the swiftcurrent~

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wonderful blues & greens of a wild montana

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May 18, 2020

There’s something so deeply exhausting about being present. Especially at a time like this. I think that I find myself making excuses to not be present. I’m working out less, journaling less, never doing mindfulness exercises. Slowing down and breathing is so terrifying to me. Maybe it always has been, but it feels that way right now. 

I make a lot of excuses to watch hours of TV a day. “I’m tired from work” or “I listen to people all day” or “We’re all in a pandemic.”

All valid reasons. 

But I think that there’s some beauty in the exhaustion. I really listen to my clients and I think seeing behind their curtain, snapshots on their internal worlds, is so refreshing and invigorating. I can’t help but not always practice what I preach. 

I could be doing more intentional movement, journaling, doing art projects, utilizing coping skills. This isn’t me parading myself for not doing those things, it’s just an observation that I am not doing those things. 

Like walking! I don’t even really walk much anymore. And then come the weekends and I’m so tired. 

Like when was the last time I went on a hike? I do love hiking. I could watch “Girls” with the blinds down on a Saturday anywhere.

I’m torn between wanting to push myself and motivate myself and wanting to give myself a break. What is the difference between continually cutting yourself slack and being stuck in a rutt? I feel like I’m in a creative rutt right now. I guess that’s okay. I think it’s been happening for a long while. And I got distracted and it felt okay and then every once in a while, it doesn’t feel okay anymore. Like right now. 

I guess the obvious question is: Okay, great. You’re stuck. 

Are you interested in being unstuck? Yes. 

What are you going to do to unstick yourself? Ugh, that requires effort. I don’t know...

Maybe I should write myself a schedule or have someone hold me accountable, do the things I ask patients and their parents to do all day fucking love. When was the last time I did a self care schedule? Or treated myself to 10 minutes of stretching at night? Or a yoga video that wasn’t trying to “Get me abs in 2 weeks.” 

Abs are overrated. There, I said it. 

What is one concrete thing I could do daily to improve my rutt?

Here are some ideas:

- Gratitude journal

- Morning pages from the Artists’  Way- basically just 15 minutes of free writing in the morning and see what comes up

- 10-15 minutes of stretching at night while listening to classical music

- Cook myself some LAVISH AF and then enjoy every single bite

- Deleting Instagram for a day and taking a minute to journal every time I have the instinct to open the app

- Journaling about some lessons that I have been taught recently

- Taking up a new skill... and figuring out what that skill is!

Just some thoughts, people!

[lettersforyoulettersforme]

Isolation Journals- Day 41

Think of a brick-and-mortar store that you love. It could be a place you go all the time, or at least you did pre-pandemic. It could be a favorite shop from childhood—a place where you went to buy sodas and candies or to eye things way beyond what you could afford on your allowance. Write about what you saw, smelled, tasted, purchased—or didn’t. Write about the first time you visited, or the last one, or anytime in between.

I’m actually too busy at work to answer this right now, but this feels like food for thought for another day! So many NY restaurants and Charleston restaurants and a place in Slovenia that Stephen and I found are coming to mind... more on this later!

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Wisteria (by Annie Spratt)

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I will remember the kisses  our lips raw with love  and how you gave me  everything you had  and how I  offered you what was left of  me,  and I will remember your small room  the feel of you  the light in the window  your records  your books  our morning coffee  our noons our nights  our bodies spilled together  sleeping  the tiny flowing currents  immediate and forever  your leg my leg  your arm my arm  your smile and the warmth  of you  who made me laugh  again.

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1-19-2015

The sex. We’d never talked about it. I did that on purpose, I suppose. Because I knew I would cry and I always cry with Jessica and I wanted to keep it contained. For once. She knew mostly everything, I certainly didn’t censor myself around her. But I wanted to keep this part to myself. Until it slipped out. 

“Wait a minute, you never told me that.” Jessica said. Her resting face, always intent and neutral, only given away by the flicker of her eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” I tried to back track. “ I mean, I don’t know why I never told you. I guess I was embarrassed. Or I just feel awkward talking about what our sex was like.”

“What was the sex like for you?” She leaned forward in her chair, asking the question in such a clinical manner that it caught me off guard. 

“Ha. I mean, how do I answer this?” I smacked my lip, stalling for time to gather myself. “It was good. It was always great, actually. I loved having sex with him. Except for the first time.”

“What was different about that first time?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Our sex always felt…  adult to me. If that makes sense. And by adult, I just mean it wasn’t like sex I was used to. There was dirty talk. He was rough with me. There was talk of his hard cock and my tight pussy.” I laughed as I said ‘pussy.’ “I guess my point is that I thought it would just be a one night stand. I didn’t think I could ever go back to that bar again. I was devastated because I love their veggie burgers and I remember telling my roommates, "Fuck, I guess we won’t be going there anymore." 

"So what changed?”

“I guess I got over it. My initial embarrassment of being treated like a sexual object. It didn’t feel that way at the time, I thought I was doing something wrong. I thought I was supposed to like being slapped in the face. I thought I was supposed to ask for it, to crave it, to demand it. So I trained myself to like it and to demand it. He liked being hit, too. He told me that the time I slapped him across the face was the hottest thing anyone had ever done to him. He told me he masturbates to the thought of me hitting him. Of me taking control like that.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“I mean, it makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel like a strong, empowered woman. Or at least it used to.”

“But now?”

“But now I think that it’s hard to decipher if that physicality was treatment that I really wanted or just something that I thought he wanted me to want.”

“Hmmm.”

“Yeah! It’s fascinating, because it’s like I enjoyed being treated like shit. Like it was some sick foreplay. He made me work for him and I did. Without question. I jumped through hoops and hurdles. He treated me like shit out at the bar, he barely gave me the time of fucking day. But when we got into bed, I was the one in charge. I craved that. Not just the sex, though I mean, sure, I craved that, too. But I craved the power play, the shift of power between us. For so long, he would be the one calling all the shots. But when we actually started to fuck, it was all about me. All about what I wanted and how I wanted it. I made the executive decisions. I would say "Make me cum” and then he would. I would say “Fuck me like this” and then he would. It was great. But then in the morning, I would say “Stay” and he wouldn’t. Because the drunkenness was gone, because it was light out, because it was no longer a dream.“

"A dream?”

“A lot of is a dream to me. It’s so hazy, all of it. The memories have dampened and softened. I think about them all the time and I wrestle with their luke warm complexity. I ask myself to iron out the rivets, make the intricacies simple. But I can never get the story straight. I remember only the weirdest times." 

"I know we’ve talked before about your tendency to feed off of these memories. Like they give you something to hold onto? Some semblance of hope, perhaps?”

“Absolutely. The memories are all I have at this point. The only way I can put this story back together or make it make sense it.”

“You want it to make sense to you?”

“Of course. I think that that’s why I’m still talking to you about him. It’s difficult to grapple with the idea that someone can pull behavior out of you and make you feel like a different person. And then just walk away.”

“How did he make you different?”

“He made me feel unworthy. I’m not used to that. And now that it’s over between us, I still feel unworthy. Unworthy of being loved, of having someone tell me how they feel about me, of someone wanting to date me.”

I saw her frown.

“But you know,” I said. “As unfortunate as all of those residual feelings are, I have walked out the situation feeling like Kevin isn’t worthy of me. So at least that’s something. From here on, it’s just a matter of rebuilding all of the self worthy that was slashed. And as I’m sitting here talking to you, I realize that it isn’t Kevin who slashed it as much as it is me. He made me realize that I can be self destructive, something I thought I was too mature for. I understand now that self destruction and self loathing is not something I grew out of. I thought that I was past that after my awkward middle school stage. I thought that if I had a decent amount of sex and wore the right clothes and had fun girlfriends, I wouldn’t implode. I thought that was happiness.”

“And now?”

“And now I know it’s not. I realize that I have to take another look at everything around me and see who and what is causing me to self destruct. It’s not just Kevin and it’s not just me. It’s people and patterns I haven’t even pinpointed yet.”

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The Voice of Someone who Loves You- Isolation Journals #14

Write a love note to yourself. Write it from someone else’s point of view. It can be a real person or a made-up person. Start with the line: Dear [your name], If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are ______. 

Dear Myers, 

If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are so hard on yourself. That you are doing an incredible job. That your life has gone in a direction that I did not anticipate and I’m so proud of you for being where you are. You’d see that I have so much respect for you and your view of the world. You’d see that your body is beautiful at every stage and that criticizing it does not help, not even a tiny, fucking bit. You’d see that you really like reading, if you can just put down your phone. You’d see that you’re pulling yourself in 100 different directions at all times, that your anxiety is making you feel like you’re a failure, when in fact, you’re succeeding at so much. If you can see yourself from the way I see you, you’d see that you have so much compassion for others. You have this gentle leadership quality about you, you are well liked, you are special, you are a great cook, a sweet and attentive partner, you are an amazing listener: seriously, those skills are unparalleled. You have the ability to be friends with so many different types of people, which is rare. You can stretch outside borders, outside of yourself to see it from other’s perspectives. Which means you take on a lot, arguably too much. You’re an empath, an introvert, someone who doesn’t like a dirty house. You’re going to be a great mother some day. When you’re ready. And I know you’ll be ready because I can see it inside you now, you’re afraid of failure, of not knowing what to do, of society’s expectations, of your relationship taking a bit, of never vacuuming for pleasure again. Vacuuming out of necessity just isn’t quite the same. 

I wish you could see that your fears are so justified, that they make sense given your childhood, your traumas, conversations you had on summer nights you don’t remember, drunken toasts that have informed so much change. It happened slowly and then all at once. 

You hate snow, you love warmth and you like the beach more than the mountains, but you’re willing to try (most anything) once. You will probably never have anal sex. Ha and that’s okay. You could get there with some alcohol... maybe. But probably not. 

If you could see yourself, you’d see that loving reality TV is something you’ve spent enough of your life being ashamed of. You spent years and years and some more years putting other’s needs before your own. And I suspect you’ll do it again, but I know that you know better. That selflessness is not selfishness. 

If you could see yourself through your clients’ eyes, you’d see how patient you are, how curious, how quick you are (at times) to solve problems, to see the silver lining, to tie a bow akin to Christmas morning, all in an attempt to hold their pain. You’ve held so much of your own pain and you’ve had a hard time letting others hold it with you. You don’t want to be a burden. You don’t want anyone else to have a less than ideal day, time, hour, conversation, lunch, dinner, party, drink. 

If you could see yourself through your past lovers (uhh, we hate that word, but if you could see yourself through your past **PEOPLE who you’ve fucked or done something like that with**), you would see that wow, you tried really hard. And we knew you were trying hard. But then some of us didn’t, some of us thought you were this magical, mythical woman who never took a shit. Who fucked us whenever we wanted. Who had the ability to be at the right place at ANY time, even in Brooklyn in the middle of the goddamn night. You would see that we didn’t think you were fat. You would see that we thought you were too good for us the majority of the time. You could see that we saw your flaws and met them with our own flaws and you assumed responsibility for us and we did not know how to help you, so we let you help yourself. 

You would see that we were young and stupid and selfish and have moments at night when we feel terrible, marred with regret, composing an email in our heads, wanting to make amends. And then we don’t apologize because it’s morning and we never really spoke in the morning and if it was, it was always a goodbye. 

If you could see yourself through Stephen’s eyes, wow. It makes you emotion to even think about it. It makes you feel... so seen. Maybe too seen and then you might start to feel unworthy. And realize how low your self esteem really is. But if you could see yourself through Stephen’s eyes, you’d see how much he loves it when you cry, how you taking the blankets at night is really your own little act of rebellion against all harms you’ve faced, that you don’t take out the dog enough, but that he is happy to do it anyway. That you are his soul mate, even though he doesn’t believe in those. That you are hardworking, the most empathetic person he’s ever known. That you are a trooper, that he wants to travel more together in the future, that he loves you the same, even when you’re in a bad mood.

 If you could see yourself through Stephen’s eyes, you might feel invincible, incredible, all of the things that you know you are, but that history and self doubt have a way of making you forget. He thinks you’re perfect, even if you don’t think it yourself. What to you is imperfection is to him looking into the eyes of God. But a God that isn’t tied to any religion, just a metaphor for the overarching, aching sense that we. are. connected. That the world is wide, but we found each other, despite everything. That even with all the shit show, the negative self talk, the boys, the hammocks in back yards, the parks with a springtime picnic, that of all the people, all the grocery stores, all the coffee shops in the entire world, the whole of DC, we found each other. And Stephen would say that you looked beautiful after that yoga class in Whole Foods, that your smile was so easy, that your hair wasn’t greasy, that your cart was wine was an appropriate choice for a snow storm. That the world had rotated us one one millionth of a degree closer and now, our lives are on a parallel course.

If you could see yourself the way I’d do, you’d see how special you are. How you are enough. Plain and simple. 

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Located in the Northeast Atlantic, the Faroe Islands comprise 18 small islands, characterised by steep cliffs, tall mountains, narrow fjords – and a population of 50,000.

The Faroese language derives from Old Norse, which was spoken by the Norsemen who settled the islands 1200 years ago.

Through the centuries, the Faroese have defied the harsh nature and living conditions. Enduring today is a nation in which the living standard is one of the highest in the world. A highly industrial economy mainly based on fisheries and aquaculture continues to flourish, while a Nordic welfare model ensures everyone the opportunity to explore his or her own potential. Faroese maritime expertise is widely renowned and the Faroe Islands export seafood to all six continents.

Positioned strategically between Europe and North America, the Faroe Islands are only a couple of hours’ flight from the metropolitan centres in Northern Europe. Upon arrival, the scenery renders visitors a ravishing natural experience in a society with advanced infrastructure and digital networks.

Centuries of relative isolation have resulted in the preservation of ancient traditions that to this day shape life in the Faroe Islands. The unique mixture of traditional and modern culture characterises the Faroese society, constituting a strong sense of local community and an active outlook as a globalized Nordic nation.

by : © S. Mifsud 

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March 25, 2020

I had a great therapy session yesterday. By “great,” I mean that it was very revealing and it’s always nice to have opening realizations. Even if they’re painful. Kind of like knowledge is power. And recognizing that I had this knowledge inside the entire time, it just took the gentle guidance of another to help me say it out loud. 

We were talking about my parents and how they constantly disappoint me with their reactions to things I tell them. To use Stephanie’s words “your parents have missed the mark on a lot of big moments.” And they really fucking have. I think of all the times they failed me, they let me know, made me feel shitty, dropped the ball, didn’t give me what I deserved. 

This all stemmed from two weeks ago when Stephanie said “I can tell that you’re suffering. You are suffering” and I keep thinking about that. And this idea of suffering and how I don’t really identify with that term. But why? Well, mainly because my parents (among others!) have always told me “You aren’t for want” and “you’re so lucky” and “you have things that no one else has, you have everything you could ever ask for.” And I’m not debating that. But what Stephanie so kindly pointed out is that while my parents have given me every physical luxury I could have asked for and beyond, they have been emotionally neglectful. I haven’t felt heard, seen, listened to, validated, acknowledged, accepted, welcomed with open arms, things that are so vital to connect and love and family. I won’t say that I just didn’t have them, but it was rare for me to get them. So much so that it felt like I had to do something to deserve them, as if they weren’t just a part of being in the same family. 

So there’s suffering in that way. And when I talk to Stephanie, I am my most vulnerable self, I acknowledge my deflections and my defense mechanisms (turns out humor is a big one for me. and while I do find it deeply ironic and dark that Dennis doesn’t know me, can’t help me, is incapable of listening and absorbing what I’m saying... there is some grief there.)

Grief. For not having a Dad who I respect or look up to. For having a mother who has a hard time speaking for herself or standing up for herself or seeing how terrible this Administration is. For being a product of her limited and close minded environment. I’m grieving over Dennis’ inability to see me, to love me in a real way. In a way that means something to me. I know that he thinks that he did a great job- I know that he doesn’t think he’s made major mistakes or if he does acknowledge those, there’s  no dwelling in that. He doesn’t seem to comprehend how his action (and his inaction) have deeply wounded Charlotte and I. And Sally too. There’s a lot of accommodating of Dennis, and it’s just the nature of the family system. It sucks because I’ve had substantial distance from it since age 14, so I can see it in a way that my Mom can’t. And there’s grief that I leave her behind. I spent years trying to get her away, to save and protect her from Dennis. But she didn’t want to be saved. And now she’ll spend the rest of her life caring for him, never knowing how else to be loved, not having what she deserves. 

Which is tough because Dennis showed me for years that I didn’t deserve  more than a steak dinner, than conversations around politics and achievements, that I could only share my successes with him, that I wasn’t allowed to fail, to be emotional, to be scared or vulnerable. Even now, he has a hard time letting me make my own choices without commenting on them. No, Dad, I don’t want your opinion about wine, I’ve been picking out my own wine for years and I’ve done just fine. Stop mansplaining sulfuric wine palettes to me, I already know all the fuck about it. 

I told Stephanie about the time my Dad took me and Kevin out to dinner. This steak house. And how Dennis and Kevin got along SO well, eerily well, two peas in a pod. I remember going to the bathroom, calling Hayley and saying “it’s going amazingly. I don’t even need to be here.”

And months later, at my senior recital, my Dad asking “Where is Kevin? I like Kevin.” Never realizing how terrible he was. Never seeing that himself at dinner or months later. After me telling him. I felt then and I feel now that Dennis chose Kevin. I want to feel chosen, seen, loved. And as Stephanie said “It sounds like you want your Dad to protect you... and he didn’t”

And he didn’t. And he current does not. And probably never will on any or on a consistent basis. There’s grief and heartbreak in that. Both for myself, my mom and for his own toxic masculinity! I have empathy for how he never got enough attention growing up (apparently?) and how he needs to compensate for that now. I have empathy for the potential personality disorder he has (narcissism, anyone?). 

It’s just this giant irony because I will have empathy and understanding for him. But he genuinely will never have it for me. The inequities and lack of reciprocation continue forever, people. And I think that’s just a shame. 

We ended session with Stephanie asking if we could use next session to me sad, for me to stop trying to fix the situation and sum things up around this situation, if I could allow myself and this situation to remain open ended, unresolved. 

I can try.