Real, Actual Politics Aside

Back when we were leading up to the election of Barack Obama, I thought I recognized a readiness of U.S. citizens for something entirely different, and Obama had the face and the charisma. Politics aside, as I still would have been impressed with us (somewhat) if he had been a hardcore Republican loyalist, I knew the idea of "change" was a big part of his following. I stayed up late the night of the election, and I don't mind admitting I got a little choked up when it was announced. We had done it-- not elected another democrat, but voted for change. I have a soft spot for underdogs, and... well, people who looked like me used to own people who looked like him. Go, you, man. Go, you! I was raised to believe in exactly this kind of country, and we did it. I was disappointed and frustrated with Obama sometimes; I was disgusted by the obstruction he faced. I couldn't think of a single job I would still have if I had steadfast refused to work with my boss-- and I am not talking about disagreements or whatever any person would use to completely oversimplify the point-- I'm talking about losing all decorum, turning my back and putting my fingers in my ears like some childish asshole.

Anyway, eight years later we went from decorum and diplomacy to... dumpster-diving for idiocy.

I'm still just all... Fuck... about that one.

Why You Will Absolutely See Me With A Safety Pin

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That is to say, I have experienced sum. shit. and it blew my mind, quite literally, in that it physically altered my brain. Anyone who has read just about anything I have ever written knows that I poke fun of it; I embrace it to the point I consider my hypervigilance one of my superpowers.

A person experiencing this symptom of PTSD will be motivated to maintain an increased awareness of their surrounding environment, sometimes even frequently scanning their settings to identify potential sources of threat. What Is the Definition of Hypervigilance?

 I let "Beastie" out to play, burn off some energy, sometimes in the form of slightly over the top humor inside my own truth. She wears me out otherwise, and she's capable of provoking laughter anyway, while on a leash, of course. It's a sort of multifaceted advantage. I do it because at one point and a few others, I knew I was going to make peace with Beastie, or Beastie was going to take me out-- one way or another. Out.

So, how does that relate to me and that safety pin? Because, yes.

-- via Snopes.com

Have Y'all Lost Your GD Minds?

"..."

Can we just... not?

Protesting in the streets is about as American as it gets. Riots, vandalism, violence, and other bullshittery sucks for everybody.

I can't even.

Between that and the ever-so-naive, "You should tolerate opinions different from your own," some of us are left shaking our heads, trying to find the words.

Um,.. yeah. See, the thing is not all opinions are tolerable. At all. If you're standing next to a man who suddenly turns to you and says, "You know, I think we should lower the age of consent to 10," then... I hope like hell you get what I am saying here!

Signed, One Embarrassed American

Really, Washington? Really?!

The Ultimate Facepalm.

My Blue Eyes Can See That Black Lives Matter

First, if you just can't take it without all the PC, move on. Sometimes, you just have to keep everybody on the same page. Everybody understands "black," "white," and "red."

I am pretty sure I am as white as European mutts come in this shade of skin color. I was born blonde -- I am still blonde, but I work at that-- whatever. I have some Dutch, German, and Irish. Rumor has it that some time way back when, someone red "jumped the fence," and made me a little pink. I doubt it; I am also pretty sure most white American families carry the same rumor, "We're actually .7689378328929856th Native American."

Yep.

Fighting the Stigma of Mental Illness: Your Language Means More Than You Think It Does

A Clue.

Personally, I don't deal with a lot of stigma around my mental illness. I will explain things the best I can to the sincere, but I just do not have the patience for the willfully ignorant-- and it is intentional dumbness since information about not only mental illness, but the myths and stigma around it is everywhere. However, I have had it long enough, and have known others with it long enough to not only know it exists, but to understand how the smallest seeds, such as everyday misuse of language, grow into the darkest, thorniest, and scariest forests. People suffer.

Dear Mama

Mama, 9 years old

It has been two months and one week since you left. I know you taught me everything I need to know, except how to live without you. I know you would frown upon that, considering your own fierce independence and that of which you expected of me.

I am sure somewhere within me, you have left all the tools I need to now be the matriarch, but right now, I feel like the bumbling fool. I tried on a pair of your shoes, and they were a bit too small. How funny, I overfill your shoes, but fill them not at all.

Some nights, your five year old grandson tells me he is sad. I ask why, and he tells me he misses his grandma. "I miss her, too."

And we snuggle a little closer.

There are so many things I would like to say, though I thought I had said everything once your health was clearly failing. Still, some things to tell you about hadn't happened yet. I've kept every voicemail. I listen to them sometimes, when I think I am strong enough to breathe through them. 

Daughter, Mother, Grandmother

I miss you every day. Sometimes, I think to call you --and not that I wish I could, but I think to pick up the phone and talk to my mom. Then I realize I cannot. A friend of mine, one you adored, one who adored you, and one who lost her mother long ago, said that never really goes away.

There is so much of you I will carry on, but I know more of you will spread through my daughter, your granddaughter most like you, once she grows into herself, and even a little now.

There is much of you I might not have gotten the chance to know, though I listened to and recorded and often retell your stories. Yet, it was not until toward the end that I think I might have caught a glimpse of you when you were younger, before you were married, before you were a mother. Once you were widowed and began to somewhat heal, it was so fascinating to watch you pursue new interests and embrace new experiences for all they were worth. It is such a shame your life was cut short before those things could fully form. I suppose I just wish I could have seen more of it.

I don't want to end this, Mama. Maybe someday, I will write more, and I think I probably will. However...