Having believed that  “I. Am. THE. Problem”– the designated cause for other people’s shame, pain, hostile silence, cruel words, and overall mental health could only be relieved through recovery and repair. That is NOT who I am–not ever who I was. But accepting that as truth, sure shaped me in some unfortunate ways. Scapegoating—That is how sick systems circumvent issues of the group and individual members. What might it have been like to face the world with confidence of my worth and belonging, with just a little dignity, and hope? My mother thought herself exceptionally generous each time she reminded me of how she loved me, in spite of me. I suspect she loved me exactly as she had been loved. Unfortunately, I was not equipped for that brand of love. I failed absolutely at being a gracious recipient and participant. Because difficult feelings are inadmissible, people in my family of origin prefer to offload discomfort rather than openly deal with it– leaving the culture ripe for secretive, gossipy, resentful, passive aggressive, petty– underhanded expressions of difficult things– because honestly admitting to/confronting emotional pain and struggle, we have been notified, is negative and shameful. I had accepted, for decades, that what I needed– was a cure, when actually I required and deserved healing. And, that was forbidden. BECAUSE — If I needed to heal, that meant that I had been hurt. Labelling a person asshole difficult and trouble-making, is easier — because judgment requires nothing of us. Compassion, curiosity, and empathy, however, require humility, courage, faith, and patience. Blame and judgment are definitely preferred by many. Who I am: a survivor, a newcomer to Faith and God, an HSP learning to live in an overstimulating world, a friend, a helper, a partner, a woman in recovery, a learning mom, a divorced person, a direct and transparent communicator, a woman of my word, a loyal employee and teammate, a considerate neighbor, a spiritually striving and developing soul, a work in progress. These are ways I choose to live and to love. I learned HOW, in my program of recovery.

So, an Instagram Ad for a pore vacuum appeared in my feed…eeew gross, right?–What kind of dirty loser needs to vacuum their pores…only the most unfortunate individual, obvi. IG algorithm must have determined that I am the type of person who would use this— Ok, anyhow, I ordered the device and promptly got to working on my face, moments after its arrival. And apparently, if you linger too long in one spot, with the pore vacuum, capillaries will burst and telling hickey marks will be left. My pre-recovery thinking would have me believing “serves me right” and “best to not tell anyone”– because only a gross person would have or need a pore vacuum and only the truest of fukkups would use it in such a way that hickies and bruises mark their face—-affirming it ALL. Recovery teaches me to feel shame– only for saying or doing knowingly harmful things. Recovery also gives me the gift of amends, when possible. For this though, no shame, no amends. Just a good laugh, a lighter hand, and a lower power mode on the pore vacuum. I am happy to openly joke about my large dirt-filled pores, all the things I could store in them, and about my first attempt with the June Julien Black Head Remover Instrument–only 27$ on Amazon.com. (What a deal–You know you want one). I cannot recommend, at this time. My unvacuumed pores remain clogged and my facial hickies are slightly darker than the ones in my photo. Maybe I will post an IG story later. Like– an unboxing video/cautionary tale.

One of the most amazing aspects of life with Sweet Greg is our partnership as equals, our collaboration, working as a team, though often I attempt to be his boss, he will not allow me to strong arm him. I treasure his badass healthy boundaries; saying NO to me with grace and love–even when forced to say so, repeatedly. Sweet Greg does not become mean or passive aggressive. I marvel and fawn each time. After four years it still holds its magic and seems possibly a little perverse how I adore him when he is saying no to me. It makes me feel safe. He says things like: No, Please don’t. I would rather not. I don’t like that. Please stop. He does not say yes or maybe when he means no. And he does not ignore or stonewall, hoping I will take a hint—because A) I won’t. And B) that is dishonest and shitty. When he uses sarcasm, it is funny for everyone – not diminishing. Sweet Greg is direct and loving, unfailingly so. Together we work, sharing ideas and projects—not just meals, bills, unwanted sex, and responsibilities(as in my marriage). For me, working together is the hottest foreplay of all. Laughing, damage control, and trouble shooting from different angles—nothing makes me feel as close. Greg and I have totally different processes–and it is not a problem–except when his is wrong. Hahahaha. My ex requested something of me this weekend. I needed to say no because it was not in the best interest of our sons. I wanted to explain why and typed out a few sentences before realizing, he is not interested in my thoughts, only my compliance and I felt a little assholey just saying: “No, not at this time”. He is buying (not adopting or rescuing) a puppy knowing that the puppy (a baby dog) will be left alone 5 days a week for 10 hours/day. This to me, is as unsurprising as it is disturbing. Puppies, from what I understand should be alone for no more than 1 hour at a time for each month of their age. Our sons suggested to him, to get two, so they don’t get lonely. He told them NO– he will not get two because then they will rely on each other and not just him. WTF? His most recent request to me: That our older son stay there at his house, all of the week days(by himself) so the puppy won’t be alone… So– split up our sons during the week – leaving each of our boys isolated. BUT–Since the Covid quarantine, our sons have begun to work and play together—as equals. I would like for this to continue, if only when they are here, since this is not a shared value. If the boys’ father(or my sister) ever shows signs of treating me as equal or worthy of kindness, I would be happy to work together, to help– because I am home all of the days and the boys would love a dog over there too. The unrecovered part of me must resist the temptation to offer— thinking: cuz then maybe he would be nice-ish for a while, but f**k that- I now know better than to hustle for the possibility of kindness.