The morning after

My facebook feed is full of friends’ fears today. A white, gay friend of mine raged against this having been going on for 18 months already. Another friend of mine, this one a straight, black woman shared the hate speech she and her husband endured hearing in line to vote for their safety. Two girlfriends of mine, who are engaged to one another, are fearful about getting married now. A straight, white, cismale called me last night genuinely afraid of what was happening with the election. Relationships that seem solid are shaking at this political insanity. Women are voting against themselves and racists are gaining power they don’t need. To my personal horror, I am the only non-Trump supporter of those who vote in my family. That’s four aunts, a set of grandparents, my mom and a racist marry-in uncle. I love most of those people, but it does not mean I agree with their beliefs. If I was talking to Steph, I imagine we would not be discussing this election. She shocked me by announcing her Republican inclinations last time Obama won.

Of the women I know who voted for Trump, at least three of them have been raped/molested/violated by men with Trump’s values. It baffles me that survivors would vote a sexual assault advocate into office. Any office, anywhere.

The election is one more area that makes me wonder if I’m in reality. PTSD makes things space easily, and despite meds and grounding allies, I wander in and out of knowing where I am. Surely I can’t be in this world because it’s unreal. Surely I can’t trust my mind because I hear things no one else hears. I see shit that can’t be happening around me I am an unreliable narrator, and I’m aware.

During the bridal battle between my sister and I, she referenced my “fragile state of mind”. That plays in my head every time I forget how old I am, everytime I come to with tears and snot and loving faces near mine, looking concerned and telling me I’m in Colorado. My lack of ability to function within normal societal standards keeps me in a state of questioning my value. Being a person with emotions and feels, not to mention a lunar cycle that blinds me with blood at times, I dwell in illogical whims. I re-read the message telling me that if I don’t pay, I don’t love Steph. I re-read her confusion about letting Aubrey have the letter I wrote her. What does Aubrey think about me? Does she think I didn’t tell her that I’d broken my word to see her? Would my sister let that happen? And then, sharply, the blade of reason slices through my brain sending chills down my back with the realization that it maybe doesn’t matter. Maybe I don’t matter in their lives, if I could so easily be discarded and replaced due to money misspent.

My biological siblings visited me a few days ago. They flew into town for a literal 24 hours, just to see me. I’ve been living away from them since 2004, and while we’ve visited, the trip had never been focused exclusively on seeing me. I had all the good feels from their efforts. Having Steph bail/fire me has made me see the mom-given sister I have for more than I’d previously allowed. Allison has always been someone I both admire and fear. She has strengths I can never comprehend, and then misses obvious facts, like how amazing she is as a person. She was braver than me as a kid, sneaking out with Adriene to drive the car and smoking cigarettes with Steph in the backyard. Her ability to work a normal job, and be a fuckin baller at it, humbles me. She grew up in the same house as me, and I cannot make that shit work to save my life. Granted Allison coped/copes differently than I do, but still. She makes it work, and she looks good doing it. My brother is the same badass that I’ve known his whole life. There’s never enough time to just hang out and banter with that boy. My only regret with Allison and Alex is that the same demons haunt us all. Really, this shouldn’t surprise me. As children, we all had nightmares on the regular. We all slept with night lights, TVS, radios, and each other. We all climbed out of windows and stayed with friends rather than be home. Maybe it shouldn’t be a regret, but it can be an asset. My mom always said to be kind to my siblings because we’re the only ones who will have the same memories when we grow up. I don’t trust most of my memories enough to try and fact check any of that shit. Nonetheless, it’s good to hear Allison say something in passing about our childhoods, and know that my idea was correct. Or good, at least, to know I have company in my memories.

I’m dating four wonderful people, all of whom are poly and currently, ironically, not dating other folks. I am as judicious as possible with my spoons. I am still coming up short more often than I’d like. Beyond my partners, I have great more-than-friends who are struggling. Life is heavy and weighs on the hearts I love. My friends stand strong, fighting their battles with bravery and grace. I am surrounded by people who work hard, hold jobs, love others, and contribute to their communities. I feel less broken in my cave, watching the currents of life around me, knowing that my allies are weaving waves of goodness near me. When I’m able, I can come out and contribute. My friends will love me despite my need to nap frequently. I sit and repeat to myself that all my people are strong, independent folks who can take care of themselves. I remind myself that I am my own job. My physical well-being, my mental health, and my stability are my priorities.

That doesn’t mean I can’t play and work well with others. I have good friends who will talk, share, ask, and help me meet them where we can. I am able to hold relationships. I am able to be productive. I am able to be in ceremonies and not be rejected for my lack of financial standing. I am safe to be around children.

My brother said that Steph was a bad friend to me since high school. A partner of mine keeps calling her a bitch, which only reminds me of how Steph and Eric called Christina a bitch after she cut Steph off. I know that’s happening to me now. Name calling doesn’t help me feel better. Steph isn’t more or less of a bitch than I knew she was before, and neither am I. Allison was quick to defend Steph as having hurt feelings. It’s true, that if Steph and I had been present/able/willing to discuss our feelings, maybe we could’ve fixed it. Maybe we can in the future. Maybe she’ll reach out to me some time. Maybe I’ll reply. Or maybe I’ll just take a nap.

It always surprises me how much the whole Steph thing is in my head.

Snows are due soon, and then winter will lock me into place for a few months. I start painting Niki’s room tonight, and then the guest room. Hopefully, both done before her family visits for Xmas. The basement is almost done. I took a break from the dust due to allergies, which are awful. The deck isn’t done, and while Niki’s dad would place that as a number one, I’ve placed Niki’s room as the top priority. Still, getting the garage and deck done before moving would be ideal. I want to get Niki on an even playing field, not in a ditch.

I brush my hair and throw on a clean shirt that can be splattered with primer. I should eat soon. Yoga and then real movement. Despite the world, I turn and try again.

When Your Partner Has Anxiety: A Meltdown Guide

Kyla Rose Sims

What do you do when your partner is having a panic attack or a depressive episode?

It can be really scary and super frustrating watching someone you love go through an episode, especially if you don’t know how to be helpful.

This Meltdown Guide was created to help those of you who are in love with people who struggle with anxiety and depression to feel like you can be helpful when your partner seems to be spiraling.

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Self-worth and self-trust filtered through betrayal.

A few years ago I was victim to a shitty breakup. It’s taken me a long time to be, more or less, back on my feet. I struggle to consider myself as more than a blight on society. My lack of nine-to-five employment and my lack of automotive ownership make me an easy target, for myself, if no one else. I look lazy, perhaps, to those who don’t know me well. My fear is that I am lazier than I realize. I’m diluted and unreliable.

“Trusting Yourself” was a small chapter in The Courage to Heal when I read it religiously. About three pages, I believe. Now, last I saw, they’d updated and expanded that section. It’s hard to coach someone through trusting themselves because it’s a slow process. Like building trust with a therapist or new partner, it takes time and effort.

My bad breakup left me feeling like I was the least trustworthy person in my life. I’d rolled the dice and lost. It seemed I had poor taste in men after all. I had fucked myself over by betting on love and wild abandon, only to be abandoned. I followed up those feelings by choosing bad roommates and then bad jobs. I got better with partner choices. I also started going much slower with people outside my head.

At the crossroads, I see my choices again before me. No matter the direction, the outcome is of my choosing and therefore, is flawed.

I was replaced in my sister-of-choice’s wedding, according to a picture on social media. In the time it took her to exchange me for a more financially available bridesmaid I was asked to be a photographer at another commitment ceremony. I spent time in therapy discussing my principles concerning marriage and where my values stand in relation to said institution. I have been writing haikus and journal pages about what comes between choosing, engagement, wedding, and marriage. I think the legal status of “wife” would prevent me from being dumped with nothing. I think that making a decision about my long-term adult life based on fear of loss is as smart as having a kid for company through old age.

It was presented to me that one reason to marry is to make a commitment to be together for as long as possible. That sounds obvious. It also sounds cliche and unrealistic.

When James died, about three months ago, I saw his wife survive insane legal nonsense to break even with accounts. If she’d been legally single, she’d have been left without the ability to maintain her life. A life that I know James wanted her to have and enjoy. If I hook my trailer and don’t make it legal, I’m possibly setting myself up for failure.

If I ever were to get married, I fear I’d be a hypocrite for everything I’ve said against marriages. Although, by and large, I think weddings are a way bigger problem than marriages. Although marriage is not an institution I respect, I can see it’s legal benefits. I feel worlds better knowing I can marry either my girl or my boy. (I don’t know how I feel that I’d have to choose, though.) I can also point to a small number of marriages that are happy. Mostly I see divorce, second, third, fourth marriages, and people who just save their money and live together.

The summer before my senior year of high school, Allison and I went to a leadership camp. It was required that we graduate from camp to attend our brother’s graduation from his program later that year. On the first night, we were required to agree to hold all things said in confidence. I refused. I said that I planned to speak freely with my Pastor or my church family about anything I desired. Allison cried, telling me that she didn’t want me to have to leave camp for not making this initial agreement. After discussion with a kind woman whose name I forget, I decided I could consent. I asked her if the other people would believe me, knowing I’d told them all I planned to say whatever I wanted already. She assured me that someone who announces their views so clearly can be trusted when their change their mind.

Standing up to Stephanie was a great thing for me to have done. I’m proud of what I did, however upsetting the results. I have plenty of friends and love from people who don’t require down payments. My allies don’t tell me that if I love them I won’t say no to them. Still, my heart aches without her imagined companionship.

I’d rather have bitter reality, where the tart taste reminds me that I’m a part of the world. It’s a world full of appealing fruit with sour insides and shady trees that won’t filter out sunburns. Nonetheless, until I figure out a working portal gun design, it’s the only world we have. I, for one, plan to stay near the good things and reject the bad, whenever possible.

The Interdimensional Shifts in my Brain

Off to my left, I hear a child singing, “It’s a web like a spider’s web, made with silver lining shadows”. A quavering intake of air. A beat passes. The song continues, “Spun by the moon in my room at night”.

“Bree?”

“Brittany!” She cries out like she’s hasn’t seen me in years. It’s been about twenty minutes, in reality. ‘Reality’ being a place we’ve clearly departed. I reply and start to follow the sound of her voice. She’s crying now, washing away all pretense of bravery.

Blindly, I grope forward. I find her hand and hold tight, pulling her into me. She’s shaking. Or I am. Either way.

“I can’t find my signal and so I sing my song but I wanna go home.” Bree’s sentence runs out between sobs and snot is wiped on my shirt through the word “wanna”. I hold her close, rocking slightly, making hushing noises. I look around her curls and try to locate myself. It’s dark. I ask Bree if she can help, and she casts Lumos and buries herself back into my shirt. I can see the shells that line the counter in the bathroom in Ponchatuloua from the glowing ember that sailed across the room. I’m in the bathtub, hiding. I see the half-eroded dalmatian puppy on my soap. I try to keep my breathing steady. I hold Bree closer, making sure she can’t easily see the room we can’t possibly be inhabiting. This room is gone. It was gone before Jim’s death, and it sure as fuck is gone now. I can’t be in this room.

Of course, I shouldn’t be holding a child version of myself, lost in my own head when my thirty-year-old body is probably still being held accountable for my normal functioning in the Outside World. I sigh. Courtney’s gonna be pissed.

In another place and at another time, not so far away, I sort through the drafts of wedding speeches I’ve been writing since March. After an hour of crying, I delete the folder holding them all. I delete the joke folder I made of speeches I couldn’t have given. I read some of them to my sister when she debated calling the whole wedding off because her fiance stole $1,2oo from her and humiliated her in front of her child and in-laws.

Tomorrow night I am going to be social. I will converse with grace, tact, and in a dry-eyed manner than most adults can maintain. I will portray myself as one of many ‘most adults’ and I will pretend I am not fighting my own battle. Although, doubtlessly, everyone I encounter is also fighting their own battle. I pass up potential allies for the sake of proper decorum. Warriors pass me in blouses and ballcaps, seemingly strolling through the city and in actuality, they are engaged in mental warfare. This tall vixen grieves loss so deep that I cannot fathom, and yet smiles and works to share knowledge and kindness with others. That spectacled man has a chronic pain condition and is gritting his teeth behind that grin. The blonde parked in her car on her cell phone is being dumped after months of lies and betrayal. A woman passes the parked car, walking her dog, to avoid her abusive boyfriend at home. I’m not alone, and I’m not in the worst circumstance. If I reach outward, I can find help.

If I go find help, I have an obligation to follow said advice once it has been sought. Bearing in mind that unspoken agreement between folks of integrity, I isolate.

Being poly and in a handful of dynamics, I cannot completely isolate. It’s a horrible gift that I’ve given myself over the last few years. My partners love me through my weak moments. I am useful in unexpected ways. I have skilled advisors questioning my motivates and values, as I need to be questioned in order to draw closer to what I want from life. I am creating my dream life. I’m getting pretty goddamn close, I must say. I go days without flashbacks. Some of those days, I even get to have sex and not forget who my partner is or what year it is. Plus, I’m a coping ninja. I fucking Kill Bill this healing shit. I got lists and everything. A coping ninja is probably slightly more useful than a golf ninja.

I have Dee and Charlie laying down the deafest poetry and I’m gonna be ok. I’m doing better at grounding, and I’m working to resolve the trigger incident. I’m strong in my convictions to maintain the relationships I deserve and to weed out those that harm me. Really, maybe I’ll weed out all of those that don’t serve me. My self-worth can be high enough to require a benefit from my relationships…I get to feel heard, or loved, or supported, or desired, or appreciated, or maybe all of the above in my relationships. If I’m in a relationship with someone who doesn’t appreciate me, takes me for granted, or throws away what we’ve worked to build, so be it. I would tell anyone I love that they deserve equality, understanding, and happiness in the majority of any dynamic they maintain. I can tell myself the same. If I don’t love myself enough to believe it, I’ll practice until I do.

In the meantime, I have the Gang. I’ve got a new violent drama on HBO. I have cool weather right outside my window and love in my home. Love in a few homes, actually. I have abundance where it matters. Those who want to tell me otherwise can kindly fuck off. I don’t have the time for any more of that bullshit.

Hitchhiking New Orleans to St. Louis — shakemyheadhollow

“People don’t hitchhike any more.” “It’s harder to hitchhike these days.” I started hearing these comments in the 1980s, but I never found them to be true. Until Jackson, Mississippi, two days ago. OK, I admit, I haven’t hitchhiked in the U.S. since the early 1990s, so there’s a gap in my data. But still, people […]

via Hitchhiking New Orleans to St. Louis — shakemyheadhollow

My Partner Was My Future: Or How Disney Screwed Me Up

Bakersfield: Home of the Now

As a girl who grew up in 90s America, I and other women my age were treated to a delightfully weird mash-up of feminism and misogyny. We had Daria, Gwen Stefani’s “Just a Girl” and Buffy the Vampire Slayer subverting expectations of women: brainy, openly sexual, physically strong, pierced, pessimistic. At the same time, those women were often talked about in relation to whether not not they had a partner and we were demonizing women in media, including the Anita Hill and Monica Lewinsky stories. (Read a neat perspective about media coverage in the 90s here.)

I also grew up with Ariel, Jasmine and Belle, who wanted to be independent women and see the world…until a man came around. I’m so excited that Disney is finally making characters like Elsa and Judy Hopps, but I grew up with the idea that happily ever after with your prince was…

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All the words that poured out of me. TL;DR: Ugh.

Words make up the bulk of my relationships. I choose mine carefully. Sometimes too much so.

Integrating my stream of consciousness blog space with where I’m attempting (and failing) to write fiction and self-help may not be a good idea. I really don’t have the energy to comb through that subject in any way right now. Fuck it. I’m gonna say whatever I want. People I love read this and then I get support because I’m not a bad person. Even if I was a shitty maid of honor.

I got fired. Well, technically, I stepped down. I was given the option to step down and took it. The other options, all of them, involved still more money. I am maybe coalition building (Sorry, HD) but I’m mostly just sad.

Why is it that we live in a world where girls are sold impossible fairy-tale dreams from infancy? No one can live up to them. For the girl, she’ll never be enough. If she’s pretty like Ariel, she won’t be smart like Belle, or one with nature like Pocahontas. A girl must find her love and get married. And of course, it doesn’t really matter. But doesn’t it? I’ve rarely seen a comedy movie, animated or family, where someone doesn’t end up happily monogafied by the end. (“Monogafied” being a word I just word scienced into existence with my powers of English degree. It means coupled off in a hetero-normative couple.) As girls, if we aren’t going to grow up and get married, what ARE we supposed to do? Well, you get a job and then be good at it and still be sexy and young and then get married and make everything go together with your vagina magic. No self-care needed.

I don’t want to diminish the Second Wave and all their dedicated work in the trenches of 1950s sexism. That being said, standing on a platform that our mothers carefully crafted for our futures, we see still another gap too big to cross. We’re still not there.

These fantasies of imaginary happily ever afters harm our boys, too. They grow up thinking they can’t feel fear or confusion or hesitation. They need to be big, strong, unfeeling heroes that charge forward and save everyone. Then they get married and….what? He works a 9-5 in a stuffy office and donates sperm to kids he’ll never see? They miscommunicate forever because he has no emotional training from growing up exclusively male and she has no ability to be honest because nailing a husband means survival.

Does anybody know what we are living for?

My sister of choice, a woman whose daughter calls me “Auntie”, is spending big money on her wedding. She can (apparently), so cool. It makes her happy and it’s her money. I don’t know why that surprised me. Steph lives in southern California. Big weddings are popular. There is big money in the industry surrounding crazy huge weddings. They happen so often in our culture that not only do we have a TV series about it, but it has a spin-off show about the couples who were already featured and now are having critical marriage problems. We condone this huge wedding nonsense on such a level in our country that we bundle it as entertainment.

How many conversations does Snow White’s prince have with her before he kisses her dead body? Or Aurora? If Belle were in a realistic situation the live action wouldn’t be starring Emma Watson; it’d be something starring Ashley Judd and listed under “thrillers”. Granted Disney has gotten better, but now we’re adults. Our basic relationship skills have been formed. Few people spend dedicated time introspecting and then changing. Change scares most people and many stay scared. We live in the age of the Internet. There are plenty of distractions from ourselves. And as we grow further and further from our own selves, we lose the ability to reach out to other human beings. We’re all living in a small cave inside our minds, walking around with the motions of what society instructs us to do.

Why? I’ve been given the word “milestone” a few times recently. According to most accepted American customs, there are a few traditional milestones: birth, graduations, marriages, babies, retirement, death. At those moments your loved ones gather to celebrate your next phase of life; your passing into a new place and a new way of experiencing the world. That seems cool phrased as such. However, in reality, it usually involves fights and drama, money and debt, travel and panic, rushed pictures and superficial performances.

Fighting with this sister is the worst. I hate fighting with either of my sisters. They are cut from the same this-is-it-and-fuck-you cloth that I am cut from. Fighting with them is terrible. But fighting with this sister is worse because I don’t know her as well. I’ve known Allison since she came home from the hospital. I’ve watched her skills in getting away with shit grow over the years. Steph and I met in high school. I can’t think of her as less than family, but I can’t read her like I’ve known her since birth.

I also have to face the facts that I haven’t been communicating. I read a book upon being named as one of the maids of honor, and it gave a list of things never to say to the bride. I couldn’t believe that any woman would advise other women to lie to their friends with such canned phrases. With further research, I was heartbroken to find countless wedding sites, Buzzfeed-type sites, and advice columns saying to do that same thing. We, as high ranking wedding party people, should not mention how much things are costing. Because someone is going to sign a document and throw a huge party we can’t be straight with matters of money. What kind of sense does that make?

What dynamics are we, as women, setting up for our daughters and nieces, showing them how to lie effectively to their friends and sisters? What the fuck are we doing?
“Suzy dear, when you and Peggy grow up and one of you gets married, the other should be ready to spend hundreds of dollars and lie in favor of not canceling if she asks for your opinion in a moment of life-changing seriousness, no matter what you have seen, heard, or think. Okay, girls? Now, who wants cookies?”

I can’t say that I blame my sister, although throughout the last few months I have now and again. I’ve always known I hated weddings. Being a part of one was just all the more disgusting. The level of consumerism and patriarchy should be enough to make anyone turn up their nose. Plus, I just lost being in my sister’s wedding, so I’m bitter about a bit of this.

Knowing Steph, I should have known that the money would become a problem. I should have made sure that I’d looked her in the eyes and made sure she knew I didn’t have money. I did tell her. I have the copy of the email I sent to her bridal party and herself explaining how I had no funds and I was worried about it back in January. Everyone knew. People I don’t even know got to hear about Brittany, the maid of honor without a job.
“Oh, so she must have kids?”
“No, no. No kids. Just her. She lives with her girlfriend. She just doesn’t work.”
“Oh.”

I really don’t know how those/if any conversations like that took place. Still, various Masterpiece Theater pieces have been mentally performed in my mind about the shame of the broke maid of honor and the bride who suffers through for her poor friend. And maybe it’s me. I am crazy-ish. I have depression and PTSD, at my very best. If I can sleep about twenty hours a week I’m doing well. I lose time occasionally; although admittedly less and less over the years. If I could stuff all of my head inside and tune out like I did in high school I bet I could hold a job and just not feel my life around me. And I think there are lots of people who can do that. Much to everyone’s annoyance and mostly my own, I am not one of those people.

I’m unwilling to say that I’m broken or wrong as a person because of this limitation. One of my favorite lines in Game of Thrones plays in my mind when I think I’m broken:
“Some people are always going to need help. That doesn’t mean they’re not worth helping.”
I am not good at doing all the normal adult stuff. I limp along as best I can, but I am not good at most of it. My friends all know that my plans are subject to last-minute change, always. I may flash and be freaking out instead of making that movie we’d planned. I may lose time and not even know it’s the day we’re supposed to hang out. I have tactics to help me and my friends work with me. Or they aren’t my friends. Over time people have been weeded out of my life because of this reality.

Steph told me tonight that there was no way our friendship could end. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving Steph or her daughter. I think she’ll always be my sister. Right now she’s not treating me in a way that most of my friends treat me. And we’ll have to fix that.

I’m exhausted thinking about it.

I am entitled. It’s wrong of me, but I’ve been ruined by years of therapy work on boundaries and creating safety and healthy communication. I won’t settle for certain interactions because I know I don’t have to do that. If I’m uncomfortable, I can leave. If something is said that is not ok and it’s not agreed to be put away, I can leave. If even after trying to work things out and loving someone, if I’m not happy, I can leave. I get to walk away from love if I’m not happy. That seems crazy out loud. For so long I felt undeserving of love. I told myself I’d better cling to all the love I can because it will all end sooner or later and I’d be alone again.

Now I don’t worry about being alone. I like me. I like me enough to be alone if it’s better for me. I don’t worry about running out of love. I’ve maintained an active poly lifestyle for the last three years. Over that time I’ve seen love multiply, not divide. Instead of feeling the need to keep someone in the wings of my life for whenever my relationship ended, I maintain a few relationships that have different timelines. I am never without someone to hold me. I don’t worry about telling people to back off. I shut my mother out of my life for three years. If I can do that to my mom, I can cut anyone off. That doesn’t mean I want to do that. It just means that I will if it comes down to me or you.

I will always choose me. Always. I have to. I need me in order to survive, and I can’t kill myself. I closed that door. I don’t even want to hurt myself, really. And so if I have to live, and I need me to do it, then I have to pick me. Every time.

Planning a wedding is mad stressful. I have three girlfriends getting married over the next couple years. It looks insane from the outside. Just like parenting looks big from the outside and is way bigger in reality, I assume planning a wedding is even bigger than I know. I’ve never done it. And not only is Steph planning a three-day estate wedding (it’s three days, but the wedding is only one-how is that phrased?) but she’s raising a kickass kid, working, taking care of Eric’s grandpa, and saw both her parents go into unexpected surgery last month. She’s got a lot. I don’t want to minimize. I also don’t want to be minimized.

“Then do something that isn’t minimal. Like fucking earn a living, you lazy ho.” My self-talk generator is a bitch.

At the end of the phone call Steph told me to relax. It’s no longer something I need to worry about. I’ll be able to attend the wedding with the money I’ll save on the dress, hair, makeup, nails, shoes, alterations, dry cleaning, hotel, food, drinks, car rental, airlines, bachelorette party game supplies, food and drinks for three days at the bachelorette weekend, money for tours and fun during the bachelorette weekend, and whatever other costs would have popped up. As it is I wasn’t able to fess up for the bridal shower flowers, which Steph covered for $200 in my name. I didn’t get her a pair of panties for her panty tree or a gift for the shower. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get a gift for the wedding. It’ll depend on plane tickets and if I can refund my bachelorette weekend ticket. I regret buying supplies at Michael’s for crafting that damn sash.

She asked if we were ok, and I told her no. I love her and I’ll be there, but this is not ok. I feel like I publically humiliated myself (and am adding to it now?) for months in front of her bridal party. I was edged out of planning because of my economic state, I guess. I don’t know why exactly because I was edged out. I was held responsible for not making it to a shower that was supposed to have airfare provided. On top of it, I was told that I wasn’t “being a friend”. That part really sucked.

I have to look at my boundaries. I need to spend some real time thinking about what I’m sending out if this is what I’m getting back. I know changing myself affects my immediate world, but maybe Steph and I have shifted orbits. Maybe she’s beyond my understanding. It doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I just have no idea what the fuck she is doing. Or what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

Well, now I won’t do anything but try and return wedding things to buy other wedding things. That is much easier.

I’m gonna work on my meditations. It’s halfway through the month and I’m only 1 for 10. Granted drop, death, and drama have been thick this August. Still. I am not just a lazy ho. I want to reach out for the goals I’ve set. I have goals. They just don’t involve veils. And I don’t want to be sorry about that, please.