Tradition might be one of my favorite things. I love traditions. They make my world go round. I have traditions for everything. And it takes very little for me to create a new tradition. Seriously, I could like doing something one time, and it is immediately a tradition…. That I will uphold for the rest of my life. The more I write this, the more I’m thinking this is solely an autistic habit creation thing… But I’m gonna stick with calling this… tradition! And let everyone believe it’s just a cute quirk of mine.
We love Starbucks.
It’s a cathedral. This caption will make sense shortly.
Please don’t get “tradition” mixed up with “traditional.” If I call something “traditional,” that is very much a bad thing. If I’m calling something traditional, I’m being polite in front of people I don’t trust. Whatever it is is likely rooted in heteronormativity, the patriarchy, capitalism, or something generally shitty.
Traditions, though, are lovely and often little things that bring me joy. I have so many. So, so many. I’m only going to share eleven that are all over the place in importance. But I’m not going to tell you which ones are the important ones and which are not. Also some have been practiced for decades and others a year. Just know, if I ever rope you into a tradition, you’re stuck with it for life. So take part wisely.
Every time Dylan drives me to the airport, we get Velvet Taco. Every time he picks me up from the airport late at night, we get Waffle House. This tradition does not go both ways. It’s only when I’m the one flying.
Marshmallows with a little bit of hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls with Christmas music while opening presents on Christmas morning.
Dumplings whenever I’m sick or extra-spicy sad.
Getting a Starbucks I got to a new state/place. There are limits and terms to this agreement, but there is a state cup for everywhere I’ve been.
Matching outfits on trips. I rarely travel with people, but when I do, there are coordinating outfits and a lot of photos. Alex has been on the receiving end of this tradition more than anyone. Although, Amanda is a fast second.
Lighting a candle in every cathedral I go into. I’m not religious.
Going for a swing on a swing set late at night when I’m sad and can’t sleep. Extra awesome when it’s a cold winter night and the stars are clear.
Photoshoots for absolutely no particular reason other than… I can.
Birthday tattoos.
Mommy-Doggy ice cream cones every time we go to the vet.
Throwing trash in the backseat of my car and yelling “ROADTRIP!” We do not need to be on a roadtrip. We will pick up immediately.
I feel most myself in nature. At the top of a mountain, there’s a sense of possibility and belonging. From a high vantage point, the world lays itself out to be seen as it is, and in that raw existence is the truth that it can be changed. It can get better. People deserve to live vibrantly in this beautiful world rife with chance. I am overcome with a calling to exist, to be a part of the global landscape, to create enough ripples to spread far enough that eventually someone will be affected in some way and the world will be a better place for one, for many, hopefully, for all.
Standing with my toes in the water on the beach has always been one of my happiest places because it is devoid of hope and utterly isolating. It’s how I feel all the time. At sea level, my view is stunted. I am still overcome with possibility and beauty, but my ability to see past what is is impeded by being in it.
Sometimes, I walk. Sometimes, I stand.
Maybe it’s not even nature that makes me feel like myself, it’s that I’m almost always alone in it. I travel, do life alone. Even when I’ve been in relationships, I almost always exist in the world by myself because no one can keep up, I’m a lot, I don’t want to let people in, so many reasons. I’ve never really had a partner. Not a real partner. So maybe it’s just the fact, I can breathe because I’m not being anything for anyone other than me. Except I’m alone far more than I’m around people, and I can only truly take a breath when I’m surrounded by nature.
I remember being on a deserted beach on the coast of North Carolina in front of a lighthouse with the one person who knows me best in the world. It was an amalgamation of my literal favorite things: solitude, beach, North Carolina, lighthouse, this one specific human. It was a beautiful day. The thing I remember most was standing in the ocean. The waves wrapping around my legs, and the sand burying my feet deeper and deeper. Time passed me by, and I just stood there. Overcome by the senselessness of it all. I don’t know if I would have ever left that spot if he hadn’t come up behind me, putting his chin on my shoulder, hugging me out of my head. He let me stand there for over an hour because he knows me. He knows the despair in my soul and my need to honor it, but he also knows the need I hate to admit exists to feel connected, and for so long, he was the only one I was connected to. The only one who saw, accepted, and loved me.
I am so many muches. I am aware of it. Even masked, I am a lot. Once I get comfy with someone, I’m even more. If the trauma and true thoughts and feelings come out, well… there’s like three people who truly know how fucking much I am.
The best feeling.
I am well past existentialism and have found myself knee-deep in nihilism since I was about 20. Most people would not call it a happy mindset; however, I find it to be the most comforting. I can’t make sense out of it. Try as I might. When anxiety takes over, I just remind myself: The Big Crunch doesn’t care about my credit, my love life, sexism, or any of it. Theoretical Astrophysics… that’s what keeps me from spiraling into utter insanity. Not that billions of people deserve better than this shit show, and I’m trying to do my part. It’s: eventually, all of this will disappear, I will be forgotten, and the universe will start again. I am so fucked up. Whatever keeps me balanced, y’all!
Anyways, I need to take a trip to the beach. Until then: Here are some thoughts I’ve had while standing in the ocean. A lot of these have been recurring since before I was ten, but now I have the words to articulate those feelings. And also, my parents can’t commit me for not being happy 24/7.
Flannel at the beach since 2017… Gay.
I am the most forgettable person to ever exist.
No matter how hard I work, how exceptional/smart/cunning/knowledgeable/talented I am, I will never have the kind of systemic impact I so desperately want to have.
The world is a dumpster fire. No one cares. Knowledge is so accessible and people are still not trying. They have all the world’s information and solutions in their pocket… hand right now because I doubt you’re reading this on a computer or tablet and you sure as shit didn’t print it out to read it on paper. There are solutions to all the problems. Yet no one wants to take the first step of educating themselves. FUCK! Google that shit. It’s easy.
There is nothing unique or special about me.
I am nowhere near as talented as I once hoped I would be.
Why try? It’s futile. I’m one in eight billion people. Someone else can be known as the girl who got cyclically raped into social justice advocate.
My writing is selfish, narcissistic, and steeped in martyrdom. Also it’s boring and not a single person gives a shit.
All of everything I’ve ever done with my life, career, advocacy is done just so I can have the moral high ground because I don’t want to be seen as the truly bad human I know I am.
I’m making it all up. I am, in fact, the liar my parents decry.
I am only as valuable as my beauty.
I am alone because I deserve to be alone. Everyone sees the truth: I don’t deserve kindness, love, respect, dignity.
You know… I’ve dated. I’m 31, never married, no kids. I have yet to make someone projectile vomit when they look upon me. I have a pretty successful career, not lucrative, but successful. I’m tall. I wouldn’t say I’m a catch, but I have enough going for me that I could catch a date if I felt so inclined.
Sometimes people say stupid shit, and that’s why I love being in nature… without people.
I am not so inclined, but I have spent years romantically attached to humans. I wouldn’t call myself a dating expert; although I am in possession of stories. I was thinking of some of the more ridiculous things that have been said to me while coupled up. Also hurtful things. The people we date have access to our inner selves in a way most people never will, so our partner[s] has the ability to hurt us more deeply than almost anyone. And the shitty bit is: we give them all the ammunition.
Partnership is great. Truly. Almost all of the best moments in my life have been shared with and when I was in a relationship. As I get older and more set in my ways, I’m not sure how for me it is. At least, right now, I’m so good with what is.
The world is vast. I am so glad I haven’t let the words of others keep me from exploring and living.
I like other people’s opinions; I tend to search out criticism. Especially from people I love and respect. I am not perfect, but I do try to be a safe space for people to talk about anything and everything. I also really try to make it known that I want my friends to tell me when I fuck up, fall short, hurt feelings, can do better. Life is hard, and the least I can do is love my people the best I can—so much of that is accepting my own shortcomings and doing better when I can. Don’t be mean, I am sensitive underneath all my armor, but I can take well meant criticism. Most of the time, my people’s opinions help me grow and become a better person… But these comments, not so much.
I don’t think I love you anymore. This is number one. This is the worst. It’s an absolute gut punch. I’ve heard I don’t love you anymore. That doesn’t hit quite like the addition of think. Cause guess what that means??? There’s still a chance. Which means… I’m gonna spend way too much fucking time trying to remind you of all the reasons you fell in love with me to begin with. It did work… It just took nine years, a lot of money, a bunch of tears, and then I came out as a lesbian.
You’re conniving cunt. Yes I am… Said in the heat of a break up after I was tired of having my money stolen from me.
If you need to have sex with women, that’s fine as long as you love me. Oh buddy… Sweet, sweet dumb-dumb. That is not how that works.
Ex Nothing Situationships are the best. I did cry after this one. That stung.
You’re so fucking quiet during sex. I sure fucking was. I earned that. My high school rapist, I mean boyfriend, had a penchant for violence. He liked to hear the pain he was inflicting. So I didn’t make a noise. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. No matter how hard he hit, no matter how he raped me, no matter what he said, I never even let him see me cry.
If you break up with me, I’m going to kill myself. I did. He tried. It was not a good day.
Will you marry me? This is wild. I’ve been proposed to four times. I said yes once; it did not last more than ten hours. Good times. Thank god that didn’t happen.
You show signs of psychopathic tendencies. It’s called dissociation and compartmentalization due to extreme trauma and CPTSD with psychotic features, thank you very much. I was just serviving and didn’t have time for sharing feelings. I’ve done a lot of work in the ten years since that comment. But also being private with feelings does not equate to psychopathic tendencies.
I’ve never met anyone like you before./You’re different. It’s called trauma.
You’re fat. High school rapist again. After two years of severe abuse, this was the comment that made me leave. I wasn’t fat. I knew I wasn’t fat. And there’s nothing wrong about being fat. But when it’s said the way he said it… Fuck right off.
You only talk about getting raped because you like being a martyr. Yeah… That’s it. It’s super duper fun being this open and honest with the entire world about my past. The pity is 100% worth the rape/death threats.
Back in April 2022, I started getting really serious about consistently working out. For the first time ever. Granted there was a very long period of time where I was super active as a dancer up until I was 23. I didn’t have to make a conscientious effort to move my body; I just always was. I’m an active person. I love rock climbing, walking, and playing sports with friends, though I am more than very bad. My vacations trend towards adventure with a lot of hiking or walking. Me out of shape is still very in shape.
Are those abs? What in the world?
Then I got into shape for realsies. Or at least, I was on the path. I was running six days a week and going to yoga at least four. In the span of two months, I lost 20 pounds and was in the lithest shape I’d ever been in in my adult body. I even ran a couple races and finished solidly just above mid-pack. Yay me. I hate running.
My dedication to working out floundered in July when I was constantly traveling. In August, my best friend and co-pawrent had a hip replacement, which took all of my time for four weeks and most of my time for an additional four weeks. A quarter of the way into his recovery, I seriously broke my hand—it’s still healing—and, being the fall risk that I am, exercise was even less possible. So working out became a thing of the past. My body started shifting away from lithe and lean because of course it did.
Rock climbing again and figuring out I can do more even after I broke my hand.
But I’m getting older. It happens. I actually really love it. Our society has such a negative view of aging, and it’s so common to hear people complain about how their bodies turn to shit after 30. I’m not experiencing that. Things are changing, 100%, but I’m choosing to have a positive *insert serious internal gasp here* look at aging. So much of what our body experiences is influenced by how we view something (I have sources on this if you want to call me on it because this is a science based fact), and this is particularly pertinent to aging. So often we blame aging rather than a lack of stretching, not exercising, not stimulating our bodies/brains, poor form, overexertion, so on and so forth. It’s easier to blame age. Thirty is not old. Thirty is still so fucking young. I suffer from a lot of health problems. If I don’t want to die in the near future, it’s extra important I take care of my body in any and all ways.
The physical effects of exercise are not all that appealing to me. I’m naturally thin. It’s just genetics. I can eat like crap, do nothing, and still never go over 150 pounds at 5’10”; believe me, I’ve done my best trying. Going from a ballerina body to that of a woman with hips was an adjustment. I’ve finally made my peace with it. So I don’t exercise to look a certain way. I exercise because it is the very best thing for mental acuity as I age. My biggest fear is losing my cognitive abilities and control. Combatting that starts right now by moving my body. As much as I hate admitting it, the other really important thing for women as we age… weight lifting. I hate it. I’d rather do cardio until I pass out.
In November, I got a bougie ass gym membership. If I don’t spend too many monies on a gym membership, I will not work out regularly. I HATE wasting money more than just about anything. It’s right up there with systemic racism and all that bad shit. Running and yoga are still really hard for me. Running: I have a propensity to stumble and fall; with a hand that is still fragile, I can’t afford to lose my dominant hand again. Yoga: there’s a lot of putting weight on a hand that can’t take it yet. So I started weight lifting, and I think I accidentally became a gym rat. It’s the easiest thing for me to do with my hand. I’ve always had strong legs because… dancer. Upper body strength, what is that? Because… dancer. What I’ve lacked in strength, I’ve made up for in determination. But I hate looking weak. One way to, at least, feeling weak is knowing exactly how much weight I cannot do.
When did I get arms? Or shoulders? or abs? I’m also making a dumb ass face because why not?
I’m still scared of heights… but I can almost see muscles in this picture.
Holy fuck. There have been some serious changes in the mere two months I’ve been not so consistently weight lifting. And it’s not just limited to doubling then tripling and even quadrupling the weight I was lifting at the beginning of December.
1. Boobs My boobs are not the same boobs I had two months ago. All the muscles in my chest and abs have changed things. Lifted two things. I’ve never been known for wearing a bra because my boobs have always been right about where they should be aesthetically for today’s societal beauty standards that I hate conforming to yet historically have. My boobs are so fucking perky. It’s weird. Now, I almost never wear a bra because why would I???
2. Sleep I don’t like to sleep. It’s the antithesis of productivity, yet something I very much need for my health and a foundational element in maintaining mental acuity. Damnit. Working out has helped my sleep. It makes me tired at reasonable human times. Like midnight or one in the morning rather than never. Physical exhaustion, enough of it, can actually counteract anxiety. Who knew? It’s also made me more prone to getting up between 7:30 and 8:00 in the morning… weird. I have an almost normal sleep schedule. I wake up, like, ready to go.
3. Protein So people have been telling me for years that protein is important. Ballerina mentality means I can and do push far past what most people find acceptable levels of physicality. Limits? What even are those? Fucking weird. If I take protein before I work out… I can lift a shit ton more with ease. Who knew?? Why didn’t someone tell me that?
4. New Body My boobs aren’t the only thing that’s changing. My entire body is different. I have arm muscles. Back muscles. Abs are actually starting to show and not in the ‘my fluff is aligned in a flatteringly deceptive way’ kind of thing. My shoulders are a bit of a “what the fuck?” every time I look in the mirror. My legs are sleeker. My fluff hasn’t started falling off yet because I’m not really doing cardio. A body I’ve never had before. A body I’ve never wanted. When I bend my elbows, my forearms can feel my biceps. It’s not the ballerina body I’ve always had. It’s a strong body. It’s foreign and alien. I’m trying to get used to it. I’m still shocked as all hell that my body can look like that… this. And, truthfully, I don’t know if I like it. I’ll get there. (Especially as I keep outlifting stronger and stronger men. That helps.)
Seriously? What the fuck, shoulders?
5. My Body Feels Different Being in this body feels different, for sure. What’s really weird is how it feels when people touch me. This may not make sense. When people touch me, it feels like they’re touching me closer than ever before. Where there used to be skin, fluff, bone, it didn’t feel like there was a lot of me to touch. Now, there’s resistance when people hug or touch me because there’s muscle. It feels like they’re touching me more immediately. I’m autistic as fuck, so my sensory issues are probably in play here. But when there’s pressure on my body, my muscles have more feeling than the fluff and skin. Therefore it feels more intimate than before, like people are actually touching me rather than the buffer. I can feel people’s touch so much more intensely. In a lot of ways, it’s great… if I like the person. It’s also made me a lot, a lot, more sensitive to being touched.
6. Gym I finally realized the gym is just an age appropriate playground for adults. Once I do what I have to do for my workouts… then I can play. I’m very bad at weights and cardio and all that crap. But what I am good at: flexibility and balance. It’s so fun. I get to bounce around doing things I enjoy, and it turns out it makes other people ask if my sanity is intact because it’s so hard. Thanks ballet!
7. Orgasms I’m going to leave it at: Stronger abs, stronger…
8. Things Are Lighter Things are not lighter. I got stronger. That’s fucking weird. At 31, I am in the best, strongest shape of my life. My body also probably looks the healthiest it ever has. Ballerina bodies are beautiful but don’t exude health. I love picking up heavy, also heavy and awkward, things in front of men and them asking if I’m on steroids. They can’t do it with the same ease. And that brings me immense joy. I can also now move two 45 pound bags of dog food easily and at the same time. With six dogs, this is efficient, and I love efficiency.
9. Balance I hate balance because that means I’m human. I have a tendency to go balls to the wall with everything I do. I go hard, I go fast, and I go constantly. Rest is deserved by everyone. Except me. Lifting has taught me that I don’t have to feel like my legs and arms are falling off to get a good workout. I can workout hard and not pass out. I can take a day off or even a minute for a break without being an absolute failure of a person. I hold myself to an inhumanly high standard, partially because I’m only motivated by my own constant failure, partially because of trauma, partially because I’m just starting to realize how ingrained my ballet mentality is, partially because my mother. That standard probably will never change, and I don’t want it to. But lifting has allowed me to be okay with having a modicum of physical limitations.
10. Velocity of Change Under the fluff, muscle is growing and growing really fucking fast. My body does not change like a woman’s. It changes like a man’s. Maybe even faster. It’s weird. I’m getting an entirely different body really quickly. There is clear definition between my muscles, and that started happening within two weeks. It’s only getting worse, better, I don’t know, it’s continuing.
11. Twerking I used to be able to twerk. I can’t now. My ass has tightened up so much, I cannot twerk. No matter how hard I try. Oh lord, have I tried. Nothing. No twerking for me. I should have twerked for everyone because I’m a white lady in my 30s and no one would believe that shit. I could two months ago. Then my body changed. My butt won’t twerk anymore. I’m sad. (I think that’s the most I’ve ever used the word twerk in a paragraph, day, ever.)
Hi, hey, hello! It’s been a minute. Or a whole bunch of minutes, really.
I do not sit and listen to music like this, false advertising, but I do listen to these speakers all the f*$!ing time because they’re amazing and custom made by my father.
I chose to take all of January off from this and Instagram. But, if I’m being honest, which I do strive for with varying degrees of success, mostly, because I’m also lying to myself, I’ve been on a hiatus of sorts since March 2020. If it were due to the pandemic, I probably would have been a lot more productive in this venture. Instead, it was the completely unplanned yet concurrent incorporation of a rescue dog and her thirteen puppies into my life three days before lockdown commenced. Keeping Tess and four of her special needs puppers was incredibly draining, especially that first year, so I let the blog and all its bits be ravaged by neglect and the inevitability of time.
Also over the last—almost—three years (Jesus) since my unintentional hiatus, my life has changed drastically while remaining quite similar on the surface. Navigating this new and improved[?] life has been a feat of patience, love, grace, hard work, and a whole lotta just figuring it the fuck out. I made huge life changes. I went from a passing pansexual to a raging lesbian. I’m learning to create boundaries and enforce them. I’ve chosen to be me a lot more fully than ever before. I’m being a lot more honest about my neurodivergence. I’m only allowing awesome people into my life and actively searching out people who help me grow and add to my life. I’m still figuring it the fuck out in the midst of planned disruptions and unexpected tragedies, but I have reached a point where there is a glimmer of peace in the not entirely distant future. This year, shit must change. Or I might be the first documented case of spontaneous human combustion.
Headphones mean music on the go… Or really driving home the point of this post.
Music has always been an integral part of my life, both listening and creating. It’s something I would have a hard time living without. Thank the Goddess below, I was born in a time where I don’t have to live without. In the relativity of humanity, music on demand is incredibly new. The creation of the radio, which was not even for music, was within a century of my birth. And yet, I have the world’s music at my fingertips in technology that can do what would have been unimaginable to the world’s population a mere twenty years ago. I digress into nerdiness.
At my core lies music. As a dancer, a writer, a musician, an activist, a skeptical global inhabitant, music is a way of expressing, feeling, communicating, relaxing, inspiring, and so much more. I have loads of playlists for every occasion, whether they be necessary, hallucinatory, or jocular and all are too long realistically. This year, I chose to make a playlist of songs to keep me in check and also remind me it’s okay to be the bummer that I authentically am. Because, I truly would not have a career or passion or drive without the depression, anxiety, abuse, and neurodivergence that make up the trauma responses I call my personality. So here is my playlist for this year… It is really gay. I will probably add to it on Spotify as the year goes on and I discover new music. So, by 2024, this too will be unrealistically long.
Just vibing here. That is all.
Head Held High Sera
B.O.M.B Emlyn
Fuck Your Labels Carlie Hanson
Stand in the Light Jordan Smith
Lighthouse Collabro
Devil Is A Woman Cloudy Jane
Safe Place Hannah Hall
Pillbx Grace Gaustad
Get Off My Julia Wolf
Carry You Ruelle
Strut Emeline
Realistic Bonus Tracks Because I’m Not Completely Delusional
Stuck in My Head Blü Eyes
Red Flags Mimi Webb
by now Vérité
Lego Blocks NERIAH
Zero Feelings Zoe Clark
Not Used to Normal Jillian Rossi
Bad Timing Rachel Grae
What Doesn’t Kill You Mutates and Tries Again iamnotshane
Being alone is easier than trying to explain all the things I wish I could say.
Words are my craft. I’m decent with them. They’re familiar. A lifetime has been spent honing this talent.
Feelings are my downfall. I’m terrible with them. They’re consuming and distracting and difficult to categorize. A lifetime has been spent trying to untangle the knot that other people seem to so easily figure out.
One of my greatest fears is being misunderstood, so I trend toward verbosity. Over explaining ideas, feelings, myself in writing because I want people to understand what I’m trying to say. And I prefer it in writing because I’m truly not good at processing feelings or thoughts on the spot, so I like the time I can take with the written word and the kindness it gives me in the form of editing. We can thank a lot of childhood trauma for this, among other things.
I feel like I don’t belong to the same world everyone else does. I don’t understand them, and they don’t understand me. Like there are walls keeping us apart. Except each wall has a one way mirror that I can look through to observe the world and figure out how to exist in it, but no one quite understands the way I work or how to fit into my own. So even though I trend toward verbosity, more often than not, I say nothing at all.
Everytime I start to speak, explain. To let people into my world. To share the emotions I feel so viscerally. It’s too much. Time and time again, I’ve learned it’s easier to just keeping looking through the one way mirror. To exist quietly in the background of the world everyone else enjoys. To make do with the one I have all to myself.
Normally, I contextualize everything. But I don’t feel like doing that because I’ve never liked doing that. I’m blunt, but I’ve softened my edges to make the world more comfortable. So here are eleven things I wish I could say, but I don’t.
Alone in nature and the ocean in particular is always where I feel most myself.
I miss you. Every moment of every day. I never truly knew what it felt to miss someone until I woke up without you and missed you. I wish I didn’t. I wish I wished to forget you; it would make all of this easier. But I know I’ll keep missing you until the day I can no longer miss anything at all. But I’d rather miss you than not know what missing you feels like.
Don’t touch me.
I love you. I will always love you.
I wish I weren’t gay. (I will clarify this only so far as: I LOVE being gay, and truly wouldn’t change it for the world, but it lead to an ending of a story I hoped would have no ending.)
I deserve better.
Help.
I’m meant for more.
Please don’t give up.
See me.
There is only so much I can take without breaking.
