Rambling thoughts as I chase some clarity and peace with psilocybin microdosing:
The only last name that ever truly felt like mine was the one I chose—Mills—on September 12, 2011.
I’ve always felt connected to the people I was born to only by genetics, not by a deeper sense of belonging.
The name I took when I married connects me to someone I no longer share a life with—but it’s also the name I share with my sons.
So, there’s that.
I value both strength and gentleness—together, when balanced, they look like courage. But some people use force and aggression, active or passive, and call it strength.
Ralph wasn’t who he said he was. He never told me he was strong or gentle, but I saw both in everything he did, and I loved it. I miss it. He is by far the most lovable, forgivable person I’ve known. I know he caused harm. I don’t think he meant to, and I think he was unwell and didn’t know how to stop. Some would say he enjoyed it, but I can’t find a place in my heart or mind that believes that’s true. It doesn’t lessen the damage, but I’m still not angry at him.
Some people think I’m weak because I suffer. They expect me to fight, to push back with aggression. But in recovery, what looks like giving up is called surrender.
I’m seeing people move with ease, not panicked about a bottle of water or sunblock. They look at each other, communicate without fear of being punished or ignored for simply existing or expressing themselves differently.
I’m sad for a vacation I never had—one where I felt completely relaxed about money and the people I was with.
Watching others relax, play, eat, swim, and talk together—really together—makes me ache. I didn’t get that. And it feels like proof that I’m incapable. I don’t believe that’s true, but I believe that others believe it.
I’m here at the beach—my favorite place on earth—and I can’t get comfortable. It humiliates me. I’m reminded that I am joyless. It’s always been called a lack of gratitude, but I don’t have the internal architecture to hold joy. I don’t think such a structure can stand on a foundation of panic and shame.
Rapid weight loss has left me unable to exercise, and my bathing suit is sagging, gaping—just more evidence. I’m lying on the beach and can’t find a comfortable position. It feels like a cruel confirmation: if you can’t even be comfortable here, now, it must be because you’re broken.
The architecture for joy never got off the ground. I was always afraid, panicked, ashamed. Today I want to go into the ocean, but I can’t trust my body. Trails hurt. A root, a divot—anything can destabilize me. Pain and panic follow. So how can I trust a wave? The ocean used to bring laughter, not fear. I used to just get back up. But now, I don’t know that I would. It hurts. It’s scary. I’ve never felt fear in the ocean—until now.
I see a mother and a little girl stand to go to the water. The mother gathers all the things—bucket, shovel, toys—in one hand, and with the other, she holds her daughter’s hand. She carries it all, including her. I think I showed up as a mother in this way. But I never had anyone show up for me like that.
