Word count: 1001

There are a few more ideas of this type bouncing around in my brain.

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A young woman cannot recall how she came to be on a lonely Louisiana highway at night.

Cecile tugged at the sleeve of her dress. It was torn and dirty. She looked around and tried to recall how she came to be here alone. She struggled to remember the details of the evening. There had been a party, or perhaps she had gone to the dance hall. She remembered drinks, and handsome young men. There had been one. Eddie. She remembered him. Eddie invited her onto the dance floor, and she smiled at the memory of the slower song later in the evening. The details were still unclear.

She stepped onto the road and began to walk.

The road went on into the ink-black night. Light was diminished from overhead. The moon peaked tiny beams through the old live oak trees that reached across the asphalt. The small fingers of light cast shadows of Spanish moss where the light broke through. It swayed in the evening air. The trees went on along the winding highway. They were like a grove of twisted guardians, with gnarled fingers that pointed at passers-by. Cecile tried to peer beyond them. She was met with darkness.

She searched for any sign of Eddie. Where could he have gone? He had a car. It was a fast car. She could recall him inviting her for a ride. Cecile initially declined the invitation, but it had been merely a ploy of playing hard to get. Ultimately, she acquiesced.

Eddie drove fast. He drove a bit faster than she had been comfortable with. However, she smiled and did not fuss over it, even if the tires hugged the curves at a frightening pitch. The fog floated in veils, and Eddie’s headlights moved so quickly that the lines were blurred against the reflection of the fine moisture in the air. She watched the trees fly past in a blur in the darkness.

And yet, he was not here. Eddie had left her. She had been on the side of the road, confused. Cecile began to cry. She wanted to go home. She continued to walk. She had the sensation of being watched from beyond the trees. All manner of wildlife lived within the trees, and to the other side of the highway, the marsh and swamp. Cypress trees were nestled within the murky wetlands, their knees punctuating the surface of swamp lilies and swamp grass. She listened for the low growl of alligators. Instead, the lonesome bellow of a bullfrog seeking its mate joined the chorus of rain frogs crying for a storm. She kept walking. Cecile searched for signs of a house beyond the trees. A nice house, with a nice yard, with a nice family who might allow her to use their telephone to call her parents. She began to worry that she might only find hunters or less than savory people who would cause her harm. And then there were the stories of the Feu Follet that might lead her deep into the swamp. Or the Rougarou that might take her as a victim.

Cecile wept now. She could not recall when she started walking, nor for how long she had been traveling this stretch of highway. Cecile shivered. She was growing colder as she walked, though the air smelled sweetly of summer honeysuckle. She realized that she had been walking without her shoes. It seemed impossible that she had never noticed before. She had been walking for so long that she could scarcely feel her feet anymore. They were numb. Everything was numb. She tugged again at her sleeves, trying to warm her skin. She could not recall the last time she saw a car, or even a house. It felt as though she was walking in place. The road appeared to go on and on and never ended. But she knew it ended, and so she continued to walk.

Beyond the S-curve ahead, lights illuminated the stand of trees. Cecile felt her heart leap in relief. She hoped that it was a police car that she might have flagged down for assistance. She watched the lights as they slid along the highway. The lights were a beacon of hope. She stood near the side of the road, ready to wave to them. The car drew ever closer, coming at a reasonable pace. Would the car come too fast to see her on the side of the road in the dark? Yes, she would have to step into the road to stop them. Cecile walked towards the lights, down the center line.

The lights kept coming. Cecile was sure they must see her. She was in the middle of the highway. Even in the dark, the lights must be hitting on her dress. It was bright yellow. It was impossible to miss. The car rounded the second curve. It would soon reach the straightaway on which she had been walking. Cecile kept walking towards the car, waving her arms frantically to get the driver’s attention.

The car was not slowing. It kept coming as though they could not see her. Cecile felt panic in her throat. They must see her! She was in the middle of the road. She yelled at them to stop, waved in a panic as the lights hit her. It took a full moment’s time to understand that the car was not going to stop. She heard the horn sound. The driver saw her, but it was too late. In reflex, put her hands out as though to stop the car from making impact. She squeezed her eyes closed, bracing for the sensation of being hit. Cecile felt the shiver run through her. She felt weightless for a moment.

When she opened her eyes, she was on the side of the road. Red taillights continued down the highway past her. Cecile stood up, and looked back towards the long, dark highway. She could not recall how she got here. She did not know for how long she had been walking.

Cecile wanted to go home. She began to walk.

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This past week was the gold standard in Shit Show. My sister finally got her battery replaced in her van, only for the van to up and die. She was on her way to buy groceries and had to use that money to tow her van back home. Her youngest was kind enough to send a care package of things we needed (toilet paper, cat food, bread, etc). Meanwhile, the bank keeps taking money in the form of NSF fees, which is hilarious because I have checks notes insufficient funds.

But sure, let’s just put me $400 overdrawn, so it can eat up a huge chunk of my paycheck and start my month off trying to come from behind. Some friends donated NSF amounts ($34) back, and I got some money from book reviews, so that paid back about 4 of the 27 NSF charges I’ve had since the beginning of the year.

Yep, $34 times 27. Do the math. I did. I realized that is almost a full paycheck worth of insufficient funds.

If you’d like to donate an NSF click below:

Donate an NSF ($34)

I am backing away from book reviews for the time being. I have had a lot of issues lately with Ocular migraines and the books are mostly e-pub so it’s a lot of screentime in addition to my day job. I was getting behind in reading, almost missing due dates for reviews, so I’m taking a breather for the time being. I did enjoy a good number of the books I was able to read, and I can always go back later. I’d like to get a Kobo at some point. My phone is too small, and I’d like to not have to read on my computer (plus I can bring a Kobo to work and read on my breaks).

While my sister’s van sits dormant until we can get money to figure out if her alternator is going, my poor Camry is holding on for dear life. I still think my drive shaft may be losing its soul. No money to speak of for that either, let alone just the way overdue oil change that I need. The way shit is going, I am not going to be able to afford gas. That would be an interesting conversation: “Sorry boss, I can’t come in—I can’t afford gas for my car.”

I finally stopped wallowing around in my bed rot state and got some cleaning done. Not a lot, but it is a start. The house has been in a stagnant state of clutter and chaos since mom was diagnosed in 2021, followed by my sister and her daughter moving in. We never really had time to transition into some semblance of order, and since mom’s passed in 2024, and the niece moved out last year, Sis and I have been, well…just…here. It’s overwhelming. I added the two cats to the mix last year in January, and so that’s made things also interesting.

I did some decluttering, did laundry, washed my bedding, and vacuumed. Dishes got a little backed up. Our hot water heater has been out since November (again…no money to fix), so we have to heat water to wash them, and it is tedious and annoying. Thank everything for the big gumbo pots that mom had. Also makes showers very cold.

I was trying to trim my bangs and thought I could kind of shape my hair, which is growing out from a super short pixie. I ended up fudging it and chopped it with scissors. I now have one of those middle-aged woman haircuts that is super short but big and fluffy on top. You know the ones. I should have just taken the clippers to my head again, but we had a cool front come through and it’s a little chilly.

Next weekend, though—back to the undercut faux hawk.

I’ve been spit balling some ideas for writing. My shortlisted entry to Southern Screen was based on a local ghost story. Louisiana has some really good and creepy folklore and ghost stories. I’ve contemplated writing a collection of short stories based on several. I submitted a short a few years ago that took place in a subdivision based on one that I grew up in, and I’ve gotten ideas of doing scary stories that take place during each season (an homage to Stephen King’s Different Seasons, sort of). My biggest goal, though, is to finish the first draft of my novel. It has to be completed. I can’t put it aside any longer.

I have not really picked up anything new to watch. I’ve cancelled most of my streaming in an attempt to save money, so the shows that I was watching (The Testaments and Daredevil: Born Again) will go unfinished until I can resubscribe later. I was going to cancel Netflix but saw Lord of the Flies is coming so I decided to just drop to an Ad based program because that is one of my favorite books. And I loved the film with Balthazar Getty (80s or 90s). I also love Yellowjackets, which is in the same vein, only with girls.

Reading for reviews meant my pleasure reading got put aside. I am FINALLY finishing up The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones. I will likely write a review for it over on Goodreads, but even broken up in spurts, this book is everything I had hoped for. By far one of my favorite Vampire stories. I have a Nat Cassidy tome waiting in the wings, and also, I wish to start on some Daphne DuMaurier. I have My Cousin Rachel and Rebecca ready to go. I also picked up some Shirley Jackson books (her stories about raising her kids), and I want to dive into those as well.

There are a fair number of movies coming up soon, but with money questionable, I will likely just miss a lot of them. Bummer. I’m hoping that funds balance out, but it’s going to be a struggle.

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I have been having a couple of very difficult weeks. My mental health has been in the toilet. I have been fighting through several days of migraine headaches. And I’m just tired y’all.

The website “academy” brought up some old trauma. While I was not drugged, I was raped as a young girl. This and the E-files have been like a dark cloud over my psyche. No matter how much I try to avoid going down those rabbit holes, I find myself doing it anyway, like Alice, and then I pay for it with crippling depression.

On the financial front, my car insurance is paid, and I avoided cancellation. Unfortunately, I think my drive shaft may be trying to go out. Add it to the list of this that I can’t afford to have checked, let alone have fixed (that includes an oil change—now 16 months overdue). I’ve just accepted that I’m going to have to juggle and stretch for at least another year. My last ER bill was almost paid off but the bank declined the last $60. I’m hoping to knock it out this month and be done with it. I’ve cancelled all our streaming except BritBox (we kept it because Mom enjoyed a lot of the shows, and so do we—keeps her close to us in that way) and HBO Max (it’s included in my mobile phone service). I’ll be getting AMC+ back next month, though—The Vampire Lestat is starting June 7, and I am NOT missing that.

I’ve been writing more essays and memoir than on my novel. I have the thing swirling in my brain, but I just feel like I have to empty the noise out first. It’s also difficult to concentrate on anything when one cat is in heat every other week (another thing I need money for-2 cat wellness checkups and also spaying) and she absolutely will cry at my door until she stresses herself out. Very clingy, my girl Freya.

Work has been a bit back and forth. We had an absolute exhausting week and then a couple of quiet ones. I interviewed for a position in a different division but sadly, did not get it. There are talks of possible raises coming. I hope so. Even a little helps. I was all caught up on my backlog, but migraines put me a couple of days behind again. Nothing I haven’t done before. This week looks to be pretty even so I should be able to get it all on lock again.

Fun stuff: My sister had her birthday last week (she is 64, 11 years older than I am), and I won a ticket lottery to a softball game at my college alma mater. We both played a long time ago, as did mom when stationed in Italy, so it was a fun day. We are talking about getting season tickets once the finances balance out.

Television and Movies: Finished The Pitt. Noah Wylie gutted me in that final episode, and with all my own mental health struggles, I was quite a mess after. I finally got around to watching Adolescence on Netflix. I can see why it won so many awards. DareDevil: Born Again and The Testaments have been decent. I won’t get to see the end of either season, since I cancelled Hulu/Disney, but I’ll get it later on again and finish then. I also got my sister to start Game of Thrones. She enjoyed Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and said she may as well start GOT. Neither of us have read the books, but I do plan to start later in the summer. She also watched the first two episodes of The Haunting of Hill House. Not sure if we’ll finish before Netflix cancels on us.

Reading: I am reading a couple of indie books currently. It’s been rough with ocular migraines though.

Listening to: I’m on a Wet Leg kick, as well as Amyl and the Sniffers and Limousine Girls. And Nine Inch Noize—so happy they released stuff that was played on tour.

Until next week…

Did it take away the atrocities in the world? No, it did not. But it kept my algorithms happier and my own mental health needed that little bit of joy to break up the gloom, doom, and dumpster fire happening everywhere else.

My work week was thankfully easy, and I caught up all the shit I was horribly behind in. A huge weight off my overloaded shoulders. I still have a small bit of this month to tidy up but I’m hopefully back on track.

Financially, nothing has changed. I am still staring down cancellation of my car insurance, and don’t even know how next month’s mortgage payment will play out. At this point, I’m just flying by the seat of my pants, and it’s all I can do. In this economy, everyone (except the top 1%) is struggling, and it won’t get any better any time soon. My car is shimmying really bad and I fear it may be engine related, not tire related. 16 months past an oil change isn’t helping. Our cupboard and our refrigerator are very skimpy. I have a pay day coming this week, but it won’t be much after I try to pay off the necessary utilities and (hopefully) my insurance. And gas, which is $10-15 more a tank now than I was paying previously.

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Neither my novel nor the gym got any attention this week. The mental exhaustion of work and the pull of depression have just worn me out beyond any coherent thought. It sucks because I need to do both. The gym for my health (another entry later) and the novel for my brain. I need to put that puzzle together for completion.

Things I Watched This Week:

The Pitt is winding down. My own battle with depression and ideations took a knock this week watching Noah Wyle’s Dr. Robbie. The show is fucking masterful. If you have not watched it, run, don’t walk to it.

I started The Testaments. The book was really good, and I’ve enjoyed what I’m watching so far. It, too, feels a little too close to home right now.

I convinced my sister to watch Freaky with me. It’s Christopher Landon’s horror take on Freaky Friday, except Vince Vaughn is a serial killer who switches bodies with a high school girl (played by Kathryn Newton). My sister isn’t much for horror, especially if it’s gory, but she can deal with horror comedy, even though this one is obviously a bit over the top. Vince Vaughn playing a high school girl trapped in his body is hilarious.

Things I’m Reading:

I have a couple of indie releases that I’m reading for review. I’m almost finished The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones, too.

I am looking at picking up My Cousin Rachel by Daphne DuMaurier. I scored a 1952 International Collectors library edition of it through ThriftBooks last year for a steal (as well as a 1938 edition of Rebecca). I really want to read both.

Until next week…

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Before I get into the extended version of the Shit Show Sunday musings, I have a herd of elephants in the room. I’m struggling—financially and thus, mentally. The latest hurdle is my car insurance declined last month. Now I owe two months plus a late fee (about $350). I’m not even concerned about the credit card bills that won’t get paid, but nonpayment on car insurance means cancellation and I cannot have that. I commute 45 minutes one way to work and back. I need my car. It’s struggling, but insurance is important.

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There is a laundry list of things that I also need, but that’s the most pressing. I’m just happy our utilities went down this month.

Whilst convalescing after being jabbed for Pneumonia (I’m over 50) and boosting for Covid (my immune system sucks—please refrain from anti-vaxing here), I contemplated my content here. I’m still trying to find my rhythm while working on my novel and reading books for reviews. I want to offer more content while not spamming subscriber’s inboxes and not working on the other writing that needs to be done. I postulated on a subscribers’ chat the following:

• Sunday Shit Show (public recap of the week that was)

• Monday Memories – Growing up GenX and all that it implies (Subscription)

• Wednesdays for Writing process, concepts, novel updates, and so on (Paid Subscription)

• Fridays may be surrounding the fitness bullshit I’m working on. Middle aged, perimenopausal, recovering from three years of caregiving and so on. Not just the physical but also the mental and emotional toll. (Subscription)

• Saturdays – shorts. Most scary because of my job, though I considered spicy because I have written erotic fiction in the past. (Paid subscription)

It’s still a swirling little mess in my overcluttered brain but those are the ideas. Leave some thoughts.

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I’m waiting for some news that I’m not quite sharing yet but just keep fingers and toes crossed for me, okay?

Media I am consuming: Daredevil: Born Again is back on so I am watching that. I just finished the latest season of Dark Winds. The Pitt is about to wrap up—that show is just perfection.

I am curious to watch The Testaments, the follow up to The Handmaid’s Tale. I read the book when it came out but it has been a minute.

I have a few movies that I want to watch: 28 Years Later: Bone Temple, Hamnet, and a few others I cannot think of right off hand.

With review books, I have slacked on finishing The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. I thought I would get more reading in this weekend but between the vaccines and the migraine meds, I slept a large part of it.

Health Shit:

Somehow, I managed to lose a couple of pounds. We stocked up on loads of fruits and vegetables on the last shopping trip so lots of volume foods, less refined stuff. As a middle-aged woman, I need to also keep my protein intake up. So far, I am nearly hitting the goal, but not where I need to be.

Working out is back tomorrow. I wanted to let my body rest one more day. Extended migraine headaches take a lot out of me.

I have been keeping up with Artemis II since they launched. I could not watch the launch, the trauma of seeing The Challenger explode still makes me super anxious about watching actual launches. The photos of Jupiter are fucking amazing. If you get a chance, check them out. I feel like they should be cranking Pink Floyd when they go around the moon.

That’s about all for this week’s installment. Thanks for reading!

Because I was mainly a diarist, my writing stemmed from real life happenings and real-world occurrences. As I ventured into fiction, the question that I am asked by people who discover that I am a writer most often is the one every writer is asked: Where do your ideas come from?

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I’m back.

Last week was a rough one. The world at large and the existential dread of my current financial situation paired with a completely chaotic week at my regular job just made for much anxiety, depression, and fatigue. My phrase was “too many plates, not enough spoons” for the vast majority of the days. My brain has unloaded a bit of heaviness, and the urge to cry over stupid shit was quickly explained when my ovarian hens laid yet another egg (i.e. my period) from the roost.

I’d apologize to the guys in the room, but menstrual cycles are nothing to apologize for, and in the throes of perimenopause, it’d be wise not to expect me to feel sorry if you’re disgusted by the topic in the year 2026.

But I digress.

A few positives financially: I made my first real income by reviewing books. Not enough to clean up the mess, but a little to soften the blow. I got my first paid subscriber here. A former co-worker was kind enough to pay to read my writing, and it is an honor that she was generous to do so. Unfortunately, it does not offset the numerous NSF fees that I’ve accumulated. Nor have I ever understood the thought process of charging ridiculous fees to people who obviously do not have enough money already. Just decline the transaction and call it a day. It’s a shitty practice by banks, and it has always pissed me off.

Spring is pollening all over everything. My car is currently greenish yellow. I could get it washed but I’d be in the same situation the next day. Live oak pollen is relentless at this time of year. Just ask my allergies. Where I live, we also have buck moth caterpillars that come out at this time of year. Black spiney caterpillars will sting the ever-living shit out of you. My poor mom used to get stung at least once a year. She joked, the last time, that at her age and as many times as she’d been stung, you’d think she’d have been immune to them. I’ve only been stung once, and it was awful. I have oak limbs to cut, and they hang out in the pollen laden oak trees, so I have two things to worry about when I finally get out there and work in the yard.

This weekend was perfect for such things: sunshine. Nice cool days. But the week (and my uterus) took me out. I did have a small side quest from grocery shopping Saturday with my sister (and housemate). Mom and dad always had a beautiful yard and garden. My mom especially loved flowers. So, we went to one of the larger nurseries to just browse. The yard has a huge amount of clean-up to be done, but we have some really good ideas of what we want to dig up, what we want to plant, and so on. Walking through the flowers and plants made me feel closer to mom. We are coming up on 15 years since dad left us in July and 2 years since mom went to meet him in September. The house has them everywhere, and it is one of the reasons I plan to stay here. I will make it my own, of course, but dad put so much work into renovations, and mom’s footprints are everywhere (roses, flowers). Both passed away in the house. It has and always will be home for me.

The work in progress is coming about slowly. I’ve been handwriting and for some reason it just works a bit better for me. It’s where my roots were established, and I guess as GenXer, it’s just how I was taught to write. I have a long weekend next weekend and hope to get some focused work done.

That all depends on how much my cats demand attention. One just got out of heat and the other is now in heat. The one currently so is very clingy and very demanding of my attention. She’s currently crying outside my door, because if she were in here, she would be headbutting my hands as I write. I love and adore her but trying to read while one’s cat is climbing on one’s chest and head butting one in the nose makes it quite difficult to concentrate. These are the first cats that I have ever had. My parents were strictly dog people, though dad was quite afraid of them. They were not fans of cats at all. Mom even told me, “I know the minute I die you’re going to go out and get a cat.” I told her, “Not the minute you die, mom. I’ll wait at least a few weeks.” She called me a smart ass. I said I learned it from her. We laughed.

I miss that part of having both of my parents around. The quick wit. The humor. The encouragement to write. My melancholy kicked off last weekend when I was cleaning old voicemails off my phone and stumbled on several from my mom. They remain on my phone. But man, I missed her voice. I am sad that I don’t have any from my dad.

It is going to be an early night for me. I am trying to get the gym habit back on track, and it is going to be in the morning before work. Which means getting up at 3:30am to have enough time to get a full workout in, shower, eat, pack lunch, etc. I have done it before, and quite honestly, it is nice because there is really no one in the gym at that hour, save a few OG guys. As a middle aged, overweight, out of shape former gym rat, I prefer the quiet in comparison to the after-work crowd in the evenings. After work, I just want to come home, take off my work clothes, relax with a book and my cat making biscuits on my clavicle.

Let’s see if I can get this body back into some semblance of shape. A shape other than round.

I can recall my first successful letter A.

The dotted guide on newspaper print paper, in a kindergarten classroom in Germany. The school was on an Army base. I was an international traveler at age 3, already having lived in two other countries than that of my birth. I remember the overly fat pencil and the way the lead made its marking on the page. The lines were wobbly, but mostly true to it is pale blue guide upon the soft grayish paper. First capital, then lowercase.

The act of writing upon the page was the norm back then. There were no computers or electronics, and the only tablets were those of paper. We wrote our letters, and then words. Later, we wrote simple addition and subtraction. By later elementary were moved from print to cursive. Ah, yes—cursive. Some of us developed wonderful penmanship. And some were doctors in the making.

Writing for me, personally, really began around the time I was learning cursive. I was already telling stories to cassette tape (another artifact of my generation), so writing them down became a better way to tell them. I also received my first diary around the same time. This was how I became a writer.

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Musings seemed too charming for what has been going on in my brain as of late, so Shit Show it is.

If you’re new here: a head’s up that I tend to use salty language, I’m emphatically liberal, and loudly feminist.

I have sunk deeper into the financial hole, and it’s really difficult to stay positive lately. The sharp jump in gas prices and just the cost of living, even on a full-time salary, keeps the weight firmly on my shoulders. I have/had a solid plan in place but shit just continues to trickle down from the cesspool that is above, so here I mire in the muck, hoping something breaks through soon.

Before I break. Cue up the Limp Bizkit.

Migraines cost me a couple of hours of pay. I was out of PTO, so it was LWOP which left me SOL. It’ll likely reflect on my yearly review but at this point, I just shrug at those things now. It isn’t like I was getting a raise from it anyway. Support staff is a lot like “essential workers” were during the pandemic. Important because we keep the shit running, but not so important that we get any sort of financial lift for it. It really irks the everliving fuck out of me when people talk about vacations and eating out and all manner of things they enjoy, but when I say I am struggling to keep the lights on, or that I’m overdrawn, I get the, “Yeah, I feel ya!” response.

No. No, you don’t. I doubt any of them literally have to walk around Aldi’s with their calculator out to figure out what they can spend and cry as they put back shit they need. Or pray to any of the gods listening that their vehicle makes it another few years, even though it is over 260K miles and struggling.

There was a change in process that I alluded to last week, and now, “it raises expectations.” Expectations of what, exactly? More work, to add to the unending pile of tedium I do every single day? A faster turnover, when I am juggling twenty other things? Well, golly, just what I asked for.

The countdown to retirement continues. 2 Years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 1 day to go.

Writing book reviews has also become a bit tedious. The time constraint becomes difficult to really enjoy reading, and the stress-induced migraines have made it difficult to nearly impossible to squint at a screen to read e-books. I don’t have a proper e-reader so it’s on my phone or on my computer. Working 8 hours at work on a computer to have to come home to read on a computer has not helped my brain exhaustion. But still, it’s something to bring in a little bit of extra, even if it doesn’t much make a dent.

I got outside yesterday to try to knock out some yard work. The yard knocked me out first. I did get the front of the house mowed, so the yard doesn’t look like a total mess, but there is a lot of other work to do. My dad used to pay kids around the neighborhood to help with odd jobs and yard work (when he wasn’t able to do as much later on), and he paid them well. He taught them skills along the way, too. One of those kids is an adult and he lives right down from us and has offered help. He also refused to have us pay him. I am stupidly independent and hate asking for help, but the last few years have humbled my stoic ass, and I will take all the help I can get.

Writing has been null. I keep looking at my WIP and I keep setting it aside. My own self-criticism is unrelenting. I need to finish the shitty first draft so I can write a better second draft. After 8 years, I’m beginning to wonder if I should just chuck it into the unfinished projects drawer (even if it’s been over a year since I wrote anything on it) and move on.

Its inspiration taunts me from the back yard. It knows its time is coming.

My physical well-being is about as great as my mental well-being. It really is my own fault. I could just drag my ass to the gym and get something in, but I let my depression and anxiety wear me down. I worked less than half an hour yesterday pushing a mower and I was wiped out. It wasn’t even hot outside. Summer will be absolutely ridiculous. I need to get my strength and stamina up to where it once was. It is doable. I just need to put my own Doc Martens to my own ass.

I started Riot Women on BritBox. I’m only two episodes in but I absolutely love it. Incredibly relatable. Especially the two whose mother has dementia. Mom was in the end stages of hospice and talking to people and asking about people who had been dead for years. It hit my heart but damn I love it. The whole thing about how women become invisible once they reach a certain age is fucking accurate. I refuse to be invisible. If you’re a GenX (or even millennial) woman getting to middle age, you will love this show.

Until next Sunday…feet first into the mosh.

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Welcome to the Sunday recap of my week. I am considering changing this to Sunday Shitshows. “Musings” sounds so philosophical and whimsical. I’m definitely not a philosopher, and my whimsy is a little on the dark side, so time shall tell. I may put it to a vote later.

This week, I was able to watch nearly everyone that I work with learn in real time exactly how tedious my job is. I can’t get into specifics, but it was a glorious afternoon to behold. I also have to make peace with the fact that there is always one cog that doesn’t quite move the way it is supposed to and throws the entire system out of whack. One wheel on the shopping cart that wobbles and spins like a ballerina on Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras.

I’ve also learned that I have little patience for willful ignorance. I mean, I already knew that—that realization came circa 2016. I have long chosen to just let it go, but now? If it’s going to disturb my peace, I will not allow peace either.

Speaking of peace—As a card-carrying member of Generation X, this at least my 20^th or so skirmish in the SWANA region (South West Asia/Northern Africa for the uninformed. “Middle East” is colonizer language implemented by the British during their Empire days). It is not lost on me, as a student of history, that my own country has played a big part in all of them. I’m the daughter of a U.S. Army vet who was sent to S.E. Asia three times for much of the same reason—to clean up someone else’s mess. I understand now why he was worried when I talked about enlisting, and the relief he felt when my low blood pressure and hypoglycemia kept me out. Upon seeing how a retired Marine was treated for speaking out against the current violence, I am pretty sure I would not have lasted very long. I miss my parents very much, but I am relieved they are not alive to see the shit show happening right now.

Aside from my job and the world at large, I’ve had to worry once more about my bills. Our utilities jumped up $100 this cycle. We had a couple of hard freezes and heating tends to run more electricity. It could have been way worse, though. Groceries, and money towards the mortgage on the last pay period have me once again overdrawn. It’s become a cycle of trying to make extra money but not being able to in time to cover everything. I am once again $100+ over drawn in the first week. It isn’t just one bill or another. It’s a laundry list of things that I can’t currently pay for:

• I had to postpone the cat’s annual visit (approx.. $100) They also need to be spayed. Another $100 at a local agency that does them for lower cost.

• I desperately need an oil change (my car gave me a scare Friday on the way home with a shudder and a moment of “check engine” before it righted itself). Approximately $100 with filters and tire rotation/balance.

• My sister’s van’s battery also died. About $100+

• We have been without hot water since early November because our hot water heater is over 30 years old. (Heater is about $700. With installation: $1300)

• Gas has jumped in one week nearly 20%.

• We still need our 20-yr old roof replaced.

On a positive note: our mortgage payment will go down about $77 due to the insurance review and escrow. It’s not much, but it is something.

Buy me a coffee or a kilowatt.

I’ve been reading my little brain into mush. Two indie books were just released over on Reedsy Discovery: Broken Toys and The Hospitality. I enjoyed both very much. I just finished a massive fantasy title that was really good: The Spent Spindle: The Moon Could Only Weep.

I’ve also been reading The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones for a couple of months. I want to spend way more time with this one.

Movies: My sister and I watched Nuremberg last night. Very good film. The cast is outstanding. It feels a little too appropriate for what’s happening in the current time frame.

Hamnet is streaming as well, and I have been absolutely dying to watch it. I took two Shakespeare courses in my Undergrad studies. Only one was required, but I took both his early work and his later works. I could not just pick one or the other.

Current shows: The Pitt is just one of those shows that I cannot rave enough about. Season 1 has racked up awards for good reasons. Season 2 will likely do it again. If you are not watching this, what are you waiting for?

We finished The Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, as well. I love this show. I wish it had more episodes, and that the episodes were longer, but the cast and the writing were so good.

My sister and I are also watching Dark Winds on AMC+. Excellent show—a great collaboration between George R.R. Martin and Robert Redford, who we lost recently. I am loving all the Indigenous history and the reverence with which is treated. I think that is also why I am enjoying reading Stehen Graham Jones so much. I love learning about other cultures and history, so both this show and my current read are giving me a lot of things to learn.

Speaking of Indigenous: I would love if someone made a spin-off movie of the Indigenous vampire hunters from Sinners. Zahn McClarnon would be spectacular as a part of it.

Writing has been mostly here, though I did pull my WIP out last weekend to give it a read-through. I can see where I want to go. I just can’t find the road yet. It will come. I won’t complain about writing here. Last week I wrote almost 3000 words between 2 articles (one to be published later this week). This one will likely be about 1000 words. It’s more than I’ve written in the past year. I’ll take small wins.

My last bit of narrative is around my health. I keep paying for a gym membership. I keep flaking on actually going. Then I curse myself when my body hurts or I get winded doing anything. I cleaned out three litter boxes and refilled with fresh litter, as well as cleaning around the litter box areas, and I was damn near exhausted. True, the bag of litter is 20 lbs. but that used to be nothing for me. Spring is starting to approach, and yard work will become a weekly chore that I have to do. I absolutely need to get my middle-aged ass back into the gym and lifting. Yes, lifting. I’ve never been one to worry about being “too bulky.” I’ve always been bulky. I’ve never been this overweight though, and I hate it. Stress, menopause, and depression bed rotting will do that.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Nine Inch Nails on repeat. Nothing super new in terms of artists, though I do like Wet Leg a lot. As a Riot Grrl in Doctor Martens, I tend to listen to a lot of Bikini Kill and the like. L7 is a constant. I’ve been also listening to a lot of Chinchilla.

Well, friends, until next week, as a wise man once said: “Eat your cereal with a fork and do your homework in the dark.” IYKYK.

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Buy me a coffee (or a gallon of gas)

I was a reader before I was a writer. It began with story books with cassettes or 45 records. Then the stories presented themselves with acting out key parts with dolls and stuffed animals. I learned to write my letters, as we all do.

I became a writer in fourth grade, creating my first story. Granted, it was a plagiarized version of the television show V, but I was not familiar with the term at that time. My teacher obviously had not watched the series, or she might have recognized my idea of turning one of the other teachers (whose name was changed to avoid any similarity to persons, living or dead) into a lizard alien being.

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Buy Me a Coffee (or leave a tip)

This was one of those nights, probably 15 to 20 years ago, when I was just spitting out random shit on a page. Images would come to me, sometimes on a drive home or in the middle of a work shift. I can kind of remember exactly where I was when this one came: on a back country road, at that time of year where Summer wasn’t quite done, but you could smell Autumn on the horizon. The skies look different. The clouds become pink, like Cotton Candy. I’m pretty sure I watched some dystopian movie or something crazy was going on at the time.

Without further Ado: Cotton Candy (circa 2006 ish)

Cotton candy-colored sky gave way to the darkening earth below. Just beyond the line between day and night, she focused on the narrow path. Lines blurred past her, a single headlight haphazardly lit the way, and she reminded herself that food was a necessity. It had been hours since her last meal. Her hands trembled at the thought, and she tried to refocus on her destination, with the hope to will her trembling hands to remain steady on the wheel. Darkness would be upon her soon, and then she could move to more open roads.

The pinks dulled to orange, then purples, before the cloudless darkness enveloped her and the vehicle she drove. In the next few miles, she assured herself, she would find a safe spot to stop, check her gas and supplies, and get nourishment, but for now, she needed distance.

At last, she found respite, parked within a grove of trees, already off the beaten path, now even more so. She killed her lights, making each movement small, using only the smallest of lanterns to find her way around the back of the van. Black and unmarked made it easy to blend into the evening. She fumbled through her bags and found the last of her food. She’d tried to ration for as long as possible, but the scavenge for more would be a chance she would have to take at first opportunity. For now, the stale chips, even more stale peanuts and a small bottle of sports drink would have to do. At the very least, she had enough to hold her steady for a few hours. If exhaustion did not take her down, she might make it quite a distance away.

After a quick check on the vehicle, she climbed into the driver’s seat and started the ignition. With care, she eased from the grove. Her eyes scanned the horizon in both directions for any sign of vehicles, then once, determining that the coast was clear, she eased onto the road.

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How did this come along so quickly?

My usual Sundays are for laundry and things around the house. The washing machine wanted to dance all over the place when I had a load of towels in. It is absolutely no fun being 5’3” with a top load washing machine, having to practically heft half of my body up and over to pull saturated towels out, then redistribute them evenly and hope they level out. It took three rounds before the shimmy cycle went back to just normal spin.

The first Sunday of the month is “Cat maintenance” day: cleaning out litter boxes and exchanging the litter; changing out the filter and cleaning the water fountain. Giving their ears a good cleaning and their claws a once over. They neither like the ears or claws, and the vacuum picking up the litter that’s been kicked out of the boxes isn’t their favorite environment. Sadly, the replacement litter is late this month—funds were short when the subscription billing went through, so next Sunday will be the litter change.

This weekend is also for changing the filter on the HVAC (every three months). This is one thing I am adamant about keeping in order. Living in the Deep South during the summer means the A/C must function. With cats, the filter may have to be changed every two months, though. They are shedding their winter coats so brushing has been added to the Sunday rituals.

My finances are shit. There is no other way to say it. I was already drowning in credit card debt when my mom passed away, and I took on her remaining mortgage. It’s really out of necessity, rather than obligation. I’ve lived in this house the longest in my entire life, and the mortgage is half the price of a studio apartment. There is work the be done inside and outside, and the yard is a lot of upkeep, particularly in the previously mentioned Deep South Summer, but it’s home and I am determined to stay in it. Since the life insurance money ran out last summer, I have not gone a month without being overdrawn in some respect. This is with a full time, salaried job, with paid benefits. I don’t even know how people who are making minimum wage are surviving. I can also thank the overwhelming generosity of friends, who have pitched in to help out time and time again. Hence my reason for side gigs: I did surveys for a little while but that got frustrating very quickly. So, I started reading and doing reviews/blurbs. It isn’t groundbreaking money but it’s something I can do in my spare time that doesn’t really feel like work. I have discovered some pretty good indie writers, too.

And now I’m here. Again, not an immediate paycheck, if any income at all, but maybe it’ll pay for a tank of gas, or for go into the fund for the replacement water heater we need since ours went tits-up in November.

First, though, I need to rediscover that old writing groove I used to have. That has been the difficult part, but I’m figuring it out. I’m hoping to make this Sunday thing a regular entry. A life update on the weekly.

Outside of the domestic, this was our busy week at work. I managed to get through, despite migraine headaches stealing time from both job and side quests. They’ve been an issue since adolescence, and I don’t foresee them every going away. I can sometimes work through but not always. Hormonal shifts of being perimenopausal have really brought them on more frequently.

Speaking of hormonal: Freya, one of my cats, is in heat and yowling at the door. Her cycles are like mine used to be—every two weeks. I have not been able to get her or her sister cat, Skittles, spayed yet. I had to miss their yearly exam due to lack of funds. Yet another thing my shit finances have put on hold.

I am not sure if anyone else is like this. I try to find small things upon which I can splurge, just to feel a little better in the wake of all this…well, THIS. And as soon as I do, and the overdraft hits, guilt sets in. Anyone else?

Just me?

Okay.

Back to the regular 9-5 (or 8:00 to 4:30, as it were): I have retirement within my view. It sounds insane, to be able to retire at 55. I mean, I’ll retire from the current job. That does not mean I will stop working, though. I’ll still have two years left on the mortgage, but more than half my credit card debt will be paid out. So, two years, ten months, thirty days to go. I’m a bit behind on monthly projects, but we’re only in March so I can only go up from here, right?

My last rumination is regarding health. The three years of stress, financial balancing, and just physical and emotional toll that taking care of mom (along with my older sister and youngest niece), while working full time, have wrecked my already torrential maelstrom of a body. The absolute chaos of going through all that in the throes of perimenopause, while living with anxiety and depression have made me a blob. I didn’t used to be a blob. I was active. I loved weight training and I was a belly dancer for ten years prior to all of that. Now I am hovering at the 300 lb. mark. I’ve actually lost weight. But the fatigue, and the worry of money, and the re-acclimation of “normal” has been a tough journey. In five years, I went from living with mom, to mom in hospital/on palliative/back in hospital/on home care/hospice to mom passed and having to pick up the mess after. I’m thankful to have my sister here. She moved in when mom got sick, and now we’re two old biddies with two cats.

I couldn’t think of a better roommate. Her kids are all grown and married. So we’re just here, living our best lives.

Well, within our very stretched means, but you know what I mean.

That’s the story of this past week. Looking at next week: probably more of the same. Only with the possibility of WWIII on the doorstep.

It’s ok. I’m GenX. This is my fourth or fifth of these. Just stock up on Pop-Tarts, Pizza Rolls, and Kool-Aid, and we’ll be fine.

Previously posted over on Blogger.

I entered this essay on a whim.  It was partially catharsis, partially an attempt at personal essay writing.  I do have a memoir of sorts in mind for later on, so this was writing something outside of my usual fiction.  What better subject than the worst day of my life?  While I did not place in the top 10, honorable mention out of 3056 entries from 47 countries is pretty amazing.

My Dad Was Like a Sunflower

Honorable Mention winner in Memoir/Personal Essay for the 92nd Annual Writer's Digest Writing Contest.

Sunflowers have always been my favorite flower. They stand tall above everything, and their faces follow the sun through the day. When they fill with seeds, the heads bow from the weight. Eventually, the head falls to the ground and what remains nourishes the birds, the soil beneath, and though its bright petals are gone, the memory of the sunflower’s light remains.

My dad was like a sunflower. 

Not in literal terms of course, but at six-feet, three-inches tall, he stood well above most men. He was always strong, resilient, smart, and resourceful. His gentle way of speaking, even when he was angry, was at odds with his outward demeanor. The visage of a long-time Army soldier, coupled with his height, scared many of my friends (and a good few potential boyfriends). He found small joys working in the garden he and my mom tended, or with a fishing pole in his hands. So, to say the visual of him suddenly slumping over at the kitchen table on that late July day over a decade ago was not something for which I was prepared is certainly an understatement. 

I was on my way out to teach a dance class. I had been a belly dancer for about five years and was getting my toes wet in instruction. My mother indicated that dad was not feeling well, and she was taking him to the emergency room. Both assured me that I should go on to the dance studio and they would call me and let me know what was going on. My sister lived just a minute or two away, and right near the hospital, so she was accessible if needed. 

Something told me to stick around. His pallor was gray. He was sweating but cold to the touch. My job as a clerk for a law enforcement agency required yearly in-service training, and one of those required things was First Aid and CPR. I used my dad’s blood pressure cuff to check his blood pressure and pulse rate, both of which were incredibly low. His heartbeat was registering erratic, even with the pacemaker he’d had put in a few years before. I decided right then that I was going to call an ambulance instead and wait. 

As I stepped into the hallway to make that call, my dad made a sudden jerking movement in his chair. The sound that came from him was a guttural shriek. No amount of therapy or E.A.P. sessions can ever remove that sound from my mind. It echoes there sometimes. He jerked back and then slumped forward. No response to my exclamations of “Are you okay?”

In the initial moments, I struggled to process what had just happened. My mother, who had just come in from letting our dog out, walked in just as Dad’s heart gave out. The little gray-haired woman, who had always been the calmer of the two in medical emergencies with the three of us, immediately went into panic. I cannot say if I was more shaken by my father face-down on the table, not responding, or by my mother shaking him hard enough to shake the table. 

“Don’t you know CPR?!” My mother gripped my arm and I suddenly realized that I did, in fact, know CPR. Training began to kick in. I hit the alert button he wore around his neck and told mom calmly to go to the receiver by phone and tell them his age and that he was unresponsive after what looked like a cardiac event. I heard the words coming slowly and calmly, even though my mind was racing to remember the compression to breath ratio. Then I told her to call my sister on her phone. She heard the receiver and rushed to it, and not so calmly reported to the voice on the other end that he had had a heart attack and we needed an ambulance. 

I, in the kitchen, had to determine how to get this big man off his chair and onto the floor. I shoved the kitchen table away from him, taking the remaining three chairs with it, and stood in front of him to keep him from going face down. With every ounce of control, I could muster; with internal thanks to my dance practice for strong legs, I wrapped my arms around his chest, under his arms, with his back to mine, and slid him from the chair to the floor, and flat onto his back. My dad weighed a decent two-hundred thirty pounds and was a full foot taller than me. Once there, I prepared to look and listen for signs of life. My mom, in full panic, returned, grabbed his face, and began slapping his cheek and calling his name. 

“He needs his oxygen,” she said, unceremoniously dropping his head to the floor and grabbing his oxygen tank. It was both horrifying and almost funny. 

Almost.

While she tried to put cannula into his nostrils, I searched for a pulse. For a moment, I thought he might still be breathing, though in very shallow gasps. It was agonal breathing. No pulse, no breath. I began CPR.

I discovered at that time that the mind goes to some incredibly weird places when it is attempting to deal with trauma. My first few compressions were lackluster because I felt his pacemaker and reasoned I didn’t want to go too deep lest I dislodge the pacemaker. Then I remembered the required two-inch depth and recognized that the pacemaker wasn’t doing what it needed to, and I needed to get his heart pumping. Once I got going, I heard my sister come in. I heard my mom trying to explain what happened. I saw them peripherally watching. 

Out of nowhere, my brain remembered a scene in a book by Stephen King in which someone had a heart attack in the kitchen. I searched every dark recess of my brain for the title. I remembered the scene. Why couldn’t I remember the title?

As I said—weird places. 

Our town is small. It takes less than five minutes to get from one boundary to the other. The fire department arrived first, then the ambulance. Two police officers also showed up, and thankfully, both were known to our family. One had lived just a block over, and the other’s father had worked with mine. In my mind, I had been doing CPR for a long time, but it was about five minutes. Fire took over at first, picking up compressions from me, while I spoke to the first medic on the scene. An IV. bag was set up, but there was no place to hang it. So, I held it. The AED was preparing. I heard my dad’s ribs creaking with each compression from the very robust first responder. I wondered if I had gone deep enough.

A little-known fact that most people won’t know is that if there is any gas within the intestinal tract, CPR compressions will more than likely push it out. My dad, bless him, was quite flatulent alive, and in death, he was much the same. 

I hid my face to keep from laughing, because, again, the mind goes to ridiculous places. I’m sure my brethren in the room would understand. Emergency personnel tend to have gallows humor to deal with the sights and sounds they experience, but at that time, I felt that I would have been side eyed.

I heard the tell-tale whine of the AED keying up and heard the call for everyone to clear for paddle application, and I realized that I was still holding the IV. bag of saline solution.

Can that electricity travel through that bag? I wondered. For those curious, it did not. Compressions resumed, and I sat watching as they tried everything to bring my father back. Eventually, after I made eye contact with the supervisor and shook my head. He called the time of death. I looked to the doorway, where my mother and my sister stood, and shook my head. 

I watched my mother stagger back a step or two at the realization that her one and only love of fifty-six years was gone. Medics tended to her, making sure she was not going into shock. I looked up at one of the officers and realized who it was and hugged him. One of the medics took the bag from me, and I led them through the follow-up procedure. 

I helped them gather up his medications, answered all the questions, and spoke on the phone with the coroner. I momentarily checked on my mom and my sister, and then returned to the kitchen to sit with my dad until the funeral home came to pick him up.

“Who got him on the floor?” I looked up at the medics’ supervisor.

“I did.”

“And you were doing CPR until we showed up?”  I nodded in the affirmative. “I advise you to soak in a bath with Epsom salt and take some ibuprofen or acetaminophen. You’re going to feel every ounce of this tomorrow.”

He was right. I felt like I had been run over by a Mack Truck and dragged.

I was not prepared for that day. Sure, I trained to do what I did, but nothing could prepare me to use that training on my own father, nor to console my mother. Nothing could prepare me for the guilt I felt for months afterwards for not being able to save him for her. That night, for the first time since I was a child, I crawled into bed with my mother. I cried. She cried. I apologized. She told me I didn’t need to.

Over a decade later, for every year that we must refresh our training, I relive that day. I have had to take a break during training to choke down anxiety. I have lost my temper with people who complain of how tiring it is to do one round of compressions and breaths. I watch movies and television and roll my eyes at heart attacks portrayal.

“That’s not what it’s like at all,” I think. 

Nothing prepared me for the day on which I had to face the reality that my parents, my incredible and loving parents, would no longer be with me. 

For the record:  The book I could not recall was Pet Semetary. 

My dad was like a sunflower. He stood tall above everyone. His face followed the sun. And when the seeds of his life became too heavy, his head bowed before he fell to the ground. The seeds of wisdom, of patience, and of a guiding hand remained with his children and his grandchildren. Though the light of his face was gone, the memory of him, of his good heart, remains.

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If you’ve stumbled upon my little corner of the ‘stack, welcome. I figure the best way to get started is to give a little background.

I was the last of three kids, born into a military family, and raised by high school sweethearts of the Silent Generation. To say I was a surprise is quite the understatement. There is an eleven-year gap between my sister and me, and sixteen years between my brother and me. There is a whole pattern to this birth order that I will likely elaborate on much later.

I’ve been a fan of storytelling for as long as I remember. I started out listening to books/45 records with storybooks, then asked to have them read to me at bedtime. As I got older, I told stories to my stuffed animals. Then I began recording them on blank tapes. The first pencil to paper story was a rip-off of the 80’s television show V, except it was about a very disliked teacher who happened to be a lizard person underneath her skin.

I managed to get an A+ on that zinger.

I was a voracious reader, as well. My parents never discouraged it, even if it was above my level. We had encyclopedias that kept me company on many a lazy weekend. I always had stacks of library books, and the Scholastic Book Fair was my own personal literary Lollapalooza. As a child of the 80s—Pure Generation X—I discovered Stephen King at way too young an age (11 for those wondering) and

was immediately hooked on all things spooky. When my best friend’s mom asked if it was okay to lend Cujo to me, my mom said, “If she wants to read it, that’s fine. She’s the one who has to live with nightmares.”

I wrote all manner of stories, as well as a fair few essays in my grade school years, and it took a while, but I ultimately finished college at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette with a B.A. in English Literature (minor in History). I took a few detours on that ten-year plan, but at least my parents got to see their youngest finally finish. There was a short stint as a sports writing for a local minor league hockey team before returning to Academia. I spent the years following college taking on the original iteration of National Novel Writing Month. I managed to hit the goal three times in seven tries.

I fell off writing (and reading, if truth be told) after my father passed away in 2011. I was also spending more time as a belly dancer—tales of which will likely grace these pages at some point—and working, as well as making sure my mom was doing okay after the loss of the love of her life. For a decade I pranced in spangly bras and jingly scarves, until I lost the love of it.

I also noticed a decline in my mom. I was trying to get back to the page, and she encouraged it, as she did with most everything I tried. Even when she ultimately ended up on home hospice for three years, she told me to go and write while she took a nap. She was able to see me get an Honorable Mention for an essay I wrote about Dad’s passing for Writer’s Digest’s annual competition before he cognition began to fade.

I became a middle-aged orphan in September of 2024. I can proudly say that I wrote obituaries for both of my parents. I was told that I should write them professionally.

I could think of worse ways to make a dime.

The transition from normal-ish life, to co-caregiver (my sister took the full-time aspect while I worked), to realizing that both parents were gone and I truly had to be a full-assed adult was sobering. I’m a year and a half on and it is still processing in my brain.

Because I’m a Toys ‘r’ Us kid—I don’t want to grow up.

This will be a sort of continuation/re-starting of a blog I had previously on another site, which was a continuation/re-start of an old LiveJournal (remember Live Journal?).

And Now…A Warning.

I have the mouth of a salty sailor, so language and content warnings for those pearl-clutchers who are offended by such.

I will add a paid subscription option, and I think this will be the breakdown of content (subject to change)

For Free Subscribers: There will be stories of back in the day, as the elders say. I’ll probably catch up on what I’m reading, listening to, or watching. And you’ll probably see pictures of my cats.

For paid subscribers: There will be some insight to the latest iteration of my Work in Progress that started as a NaNoWriMo project about seven or so years ago and has become both the bane of my existence and the project I have to finish just out of spite. I will likely drop some other stuff I’m working on within that tier.

There will also be some processing of both my own healing process and just of the world at large, dumpster fire that it is. Not sure yet which side of the paywall just yet but I know people have gone through a lot of the same traumas, and experiences, so sharing is caring. Or Trauma Bonding.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you think you might enjoy the content, hit that subscribe button. I am working out a schedule for the paid content and hope to have an update soon.

Get ready to dive into the fray.

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