My body is hurting. Chronic health issues are no joke. I am working with all my might to heal right now. Napping like a damn toddler because of the intensity of the healing process. I'm also excavating some of the deepest emotional wounds of my life, processing this
But do you have joy? Do you stop to admire with delight the light on raindrops on a sunny day? I am a wave arching up to meet you, dripping hands caressing your cheeks to see how it is with you and I find: a life carefully made neutral. I
Hands and voice shaking in equal parts fury and fear, I stared him in the eyes and said: I don't think you understand how serious I was, or how far I would go to protect my kids. I said this after physically shoving him to stop him from
I've heard this statement many times, usually about aliens, war, whatever. I have never actually heard anything that I thought would really rock modern humans. Aliens? shrug War? We, like, do that constantly. Even human atrocities don't seem to generate the kind of outrage they should.
This post appeared on Reddit 11/28/25 and both the post and its author were subsequently deleted. I don't make any claims or beliefs about this piece; I don't think it needs to be true for it to be wise. I'm adding it
Music is my emotional medium. Metal is my genre. Feeling the beat, listening to the music, it is like honey to my soul. It soothes me. It helps me regulate. And one day, Richard Marx elbowed his way onto the scene with a song that made me catch my breath.
One of the most formative moments in my life was watching my Dad make his plans for the future. When I retire I'll... He made all these plans involving his wife and his best friend, working 16-hour days to create the future he envisioned. I watched my mother
I remember it vividly, though the life I live now seems so distant from that time, just three short months ago. When I left my marriage, I was determined to heal. I had a strong sense that winter was for the work, because in spring something will happen and I
This is another in the series of the mystical, written just as entered in my note taking software so that I could retain the facts. I present them unedited because the truth needs no baubles. See last entry at Life Began Again on Feb. 28, 2014. Some context needed prior
I was sexually assaulted multiple times between the ages of 13 and 15. I ran away at 15, traded my body for a place to stay. My brother died in an accident when I was 13. My mother from emphysema when I was 22. My beloved grandmother, the only person
I wrote The One I Never Grieved the other day, fully feeling it, letting go the boy, looking to the man as our paths crossed again. But something has been holding me, a pain I cannot shake. And damn this Richard Marx obsession, playing a soundtrack to an ache so
I was raised in a home with plenty of money and the belief that money was inherently bad. It was A Thing. My dad was so concerned my mom married him for his money that he kept her on a strict budget, from which she scrimped and saved enough to