Vagception

Hello my darlings, I’ve known for some time I would have to write this post, but it’s not something I’ve been chomping at the bit to do. The other day, I posted something that was a way to help me process the horror in Orlando, and I was almost instantly called out for my “allyship.” And it was put in quotation marks just like that. Aside from the fact I didn’t think it was a particularly approriate time to try and pick fights with people who were trying to sort through a fuckton of grief, the lady was super not hip to facts. See, what happened was this woman had seen a Tweet, and jumped to eleven thousand conclusions based on that single Tweet. To her, I wasn’t a part of the QUILTBAG+ community, so I had no right to be commenting on anything. Except I was very clear in an accompanying Tweet, in the same thread, even, that I am, in fact, queer. This isn’t a secret, and hasn’t ever been. I even reached out to apologize to the woman who went high holy roller on my Tweet, accusing me of fetishizing the QUILTBAG+ community, hoping she would see that there was a lot more accompanying the single Tweet she’d called out, if she’d kept reading. But she didn’t reply. She kept Tweeting about the bullshit “allyship” but never acknowledged the apology I’m not entirely sure I was due to give, but I saw her point through the eyes of the isolated Tweet and wanted to make amends. My reality did not match her narrative. She had a point to make, and no amount of pesky facts was going to alter that. I see this a lot on social media. A LOT. Over the last two years, it’s...

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A Close Shave

Hello, my darlings! Do you ever have those nights where you can’t sleep and you start to get a little loopy? The other night, it was around 3am, and I was lying in bed unable to get to a snoozy place. Everyone in the house was asleep, all was quiet, and I’d been tossing and turning for two hours. Hell, even the Puggle was at the foot of the bed, snoring. As I flopped about the bed trying to get comfortable, I thought I felt something odd. The place of this odd is a place generally only seen by my husband and gynecologist. Now, see, here’s the thing: After the skin cancer scare from two years ago, and the luck we’ve been having lately, feeling anything odd on my skin really super freaks me out. My brain spiraled into a worry hole of all the things that could possibly be killing me and how I was definitely going to die because that’s the one thing that’s been missing from the last few months. I flew out of bed and went to inspect to make damn diggity sure there was nothing wrong. And. Okay. I was tired. Like, super tired. But it was 3am and maybe I wasn’t on top of my game. Because when I realized there was some visual impairment in the form of, uh, shrubbery, my idea was to grab an electric razor to get a clearer view of the area. Basically I panicked. Mistakes were made. I quickly realized all was well, there was nothing to be concerned about, I didn’t see a damn thing out of place. Except that now my *ahem* area was looking a little lopsided. And so, even though I haven’t done such a thing in like, fifteen years, there I stood,...

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Giving Thanks

Hello you magical, glorious, unparalleled loves of mine, I’ve been trying to write this post for a week. I sit down and no words come out because no words seem adequate enough. But if I don’t write this out, I may quite literally explode, so forgive me if I stumble. Not quite two weeks ago, I posted a blog updating on how life was going. It was a hard post to write, letting myself and our family be vulnerable in the digital age by letting others in on a deeply personal struggle. I posted that entry because it’d been a tough few weeks, and at that moment, a particularly tough few days. I needed an outlet to purge some of the thoughts I was having. I needed to share what our lives were like because I didn’t want to feel alone. Once I hit “Publish” it was this weight off my shoulders. Like, the reality of life was still happening, but it wasn’t a silent struggle I was carrying away from everyone I know. It never stops astounding me that people read this blog. It never stops confusing me that anyone would ever be interested in what I have to say. Within minutes of publishing, friends and readers were calling to start GoFundMe’s for our family. As notifications buzzed on my phone, my eyes got wider and wider, and my jaw got lower and lower. I looked like a mix between a very alarmed fish and Arnold Schwarzenegger at the end of Total Recall by the end of the night. Less than an hour later, two incredible women, Jessa Russo and Tamara Mataya, had set up an online auction to benefit our family, and another glorious gal, Alina Klein, had set up a GoFundMe. People started messaging me, sharing...

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The Way We Were

Hello my darlings, It’s been a long minute, amirite? I wanted to update on what’s been going on in life, partly because I miss the heck out of blogging and interacting people more on social media, but also because this blog serves as a sort of therapy to me. Where to start. My husband has been dealing with anxiety and depression for the last fourteen years or so, but he’s always been the “normal” one between the two of us. He was always able to manage through medicine and chatting things out, and it got him by. About 20 months ago, he dramatically shifted. We tried different medications, had constant contact with his doctors, and we worked very hard as a team to get him leveled out. When he said his depression had turned to the despair of not wanting to wake up in the mornings, we got him into therapy and on a new medication toot suite. Which went horribly wrong, as some medications do, and the despair turned into active suicidal thoughts. That he felt able to talk to me about those thoughts is the thing I am most thankful for in the universe right now. I won’t let myself think of how my life would be right now if he hadn’t. Because I don’t fuck around at all with anything dealing with suicide, I immediately called all his doctors and took him directly to the hospital. I’m also beyond grateful he came with me on his own, because I would have straight up called an ambulance and I didn’t want to do that to him. He was ready for help. He was terrified, but he was ready. And after evaluating him, they admitted him for the week. He’s home now, and he’s doing really well. He...

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“I’m me.”

Hello my loves! Last year, I was invited to do an interview for DiversifYA by the lovely Marieke Nijkamp to discuss life with OCD. The first question of that interview was “How do you identify yourself?” At the time, I approached the question solely from the perspective of discussing my disorder, but I found it difficult to answer. I’d asked the interview to be put on hold for awhile, but when it came time to post it a few months back, that question popped out to me again. “How do you identify yourself?” I’m a very open person. I’ll gladly discuss anything with anyone for whatever reason. I’m an open book. I like that about myself. Living an openly honest life is very important to me. And in private, when someone asks me how I identify, I have no apprehension about specifying who I am. In all my years, not a single person has been even slightly shocked by my explanations. If you know me at all, even just online, I doubt you’ll be clutching pearls by the end of this post. I’ve said to multiple people over the years that I’ve deliberately never made a post about my sexuality or gender identity because I hadn’t had a reason to. That doing so would feel like I was announcing for the sake of announcing. Not to say that is a bad thing to do in any way. Cheers to absolutely anyone who has the stones to shout from the rooftops who they are. But I couldn’t find a justification for myself. I mean, I’m a married, stay-at-home mother of two. What does my identity matter to anyone, really? Aside from that motivation, I’ve had a tremendous amount of trouble in my 34 years trying to find the words to...

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