The Thrill of the Thrift

Thrift store hunting is so much fun!

Oh, how I love a bargain!

Some folks enjoy a daily cup of Starbucks. I save my spare cash for the thrift stores. 

Plus, I just love the vibe of these quirky little stores in general. There’s always someone younger and way cooler than you picking out pieces to add to their eclectic wardrobe. These are my people.

Nothing gives me a joyous hit of dopamine like finding a treasure amid piles of literal junk. Finding the proverbial needle in the haystack is the thrill of thrifting. 

My older daughter has picked up this love as well; so well that she has practically elevated her skills to an art form. 

Her strategy? Take a quick look through all the sections you typically want to peruse, noting anything worthy of picking up the first time and doing so. Go back again with a fine-tooth comb so you don’t miss anything good. 

I tend to go straight to the things I’m interested in first, then work through the rest of the store. 

What’s on my list?

Books

My list always includes books, as I’m an excellent hunter and gatherer of quality reading material. Just ask my husband how happy he is with my stacks on the floor in my library because my collection has outgrown its bookshelves. 

You will be amazed by what you can find, like that copy of The Secrets to Tantric Sex that I almost bought. Reading the title alone made me blush!

Just the other day, I spotted a coveted title: Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 2022 and is currently only available in hardback. Its retail price is $32.99. It was marked $3.98. I nearly fainted. And I’m thrilled to read it!

One local Goodwill location, in particular, is near a college, and I can typically pick up some fascinating books dumped by the college kids at the end of the semester. I found Phyllis Schlafly’s book this way. (A bit of history here: she spearheaded the anti-ERA movement.) It was essentially the outline of the Republican party’s agenda through the years. To say that it lacked substance would be an understatement. But I will gladly pick up the discards of the poly sci students!

Some of my thrifted books. Photo by author.

Vinyl

Although I’m sad to say that I haven’t scored any truly magnificent records this way, I still look. I’m certain I’ll come across someone’s stash of 80s gems one day. This potential keeps me looking, and I had the best luck with this overseas. 

An REM 12″ single I thrifted in England. Photo by author.

Housewares

We always look for housewares. Top on our list of goodness here: Pyrex, Fire King, Tupperware, funky glassware, and vintage dishes. Pyrex used to be plentiful, but since these nods to the past have become way more popular, their appearances are scarce, and usually expensive if so. 

Nonetheless, the other day I found pieces of both Tupperware and Pyrex, both in good condition. The Pyrex was a more modern pattern: a rectangular casserole with the coveted glass lid. It was $6. At the same price was a large, yellow Tupperware bowl that matched my daughter’s collection of 70s kitchenware. Both came home with me. 

A small part of my vintage Pyrex collection. Photo by author.

Clothes

I always look for denim. Jeans are a fashion staple. Sometimes I’ll get really lucky and find some designer jeans. I recently picked up a pair of colored, wide-leg jeans by Madewell, which would easily cost over $120 retail. Levi’s are also a great find in this aisle, as are jean jackets. 

Vintage dresses are my daughter’s main thrifting addiction after the aforementioned housewares. She has built a wardrobe around these treasures, flocking toward frocks from the 60s and 70s. She wears them so well!

Looking out for quality brands is always helpful. I once scored a pair of Lily Pulitzer pants for $6. Not my size, but they did fit my Lily-obsessed friend!

And if you’re interested in upcycling clothes and making unique works of art, thrifting is the way to go here. Want to practice altering t-shirts and jeans? You can start with pieces from the thrift store and feel pretty good about it. 

The Madewell jeans I thrifted. Photo by author.

The Unusual

Once, I walked into a local Goodwill and spotted something that had been on my dad’s wish list for years: a hammered dulcimer. A musical instrument popular in Appalachia, its uniquely moody sound is a hallmark of its beauty. Of course, I bought it for him as a Christmas gift. He was speechless. It is probably my most unusual find while thrifting. 

We used to have a thrift store in the skilled nursing facility where I worked for ten years. It was called Fagie’s Room and was a big hit with the residents. Open only on Thursdays, it was super fun to entice my patients to go and browse. I would turn it into a more functional task by making them stand to look at items. Shopping, as we know, truly is great therapy!

Because of the quality of donated items and the limited customer set, it was not out of the ordinary to find cool vintage items. I found a shift dress with a matching coat from the 60s, a pair of Gucci boots (a gift for a friend because they were too small for me!), and a super fun, owl-shaped ice bucket among my best treasures from here.

The Fun

The most important part about thrifting is just to have fun. I don’t go in to resell my treasures. I tend to keep them for myself!

My daughter and I recently visited a new-ish thrift store that has expanded quite a bit since our last visit. 

I picked up a pair of blue, brushed aluminum lamps on another thrifting adventure years ago. They were screaming for a perfectly funky set of lampshades, but my extensive search was fruitless. I bought ones that were super yawn-worthy, but functional.

But upon a quick perusal of the lighting section of this store (Yes, there’s an actual lighting section!), I spotted the perfect one. Round, sleek, with a cute circle pattern. Only one. I snatched it up, thrilled that one of my old treasures would have the perfect accessory. Turning the corner, however, I spotted a second one! It was meant to be. The treasure was mine. And they are perfect. 

My thrifted lamp and lampshade. Photo by author.

Thrifting can be fun if you have the patience for it. Plus, it’s a very sustainable way to shop! If you think thrifting isn’t your thing, that’s fine. More treasures for me! But you may be surprised by what gems your local store holds!

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Do you love to thrift, too? This is a love I have learned as an adult, a gift for finding a different kind of bargain as taught by my in-laws. I’d love to hear about your treasures!

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

Addiction is Not a Moral Failing

It’s a symptom of trauma.

Do you think you know who an addict is? Think again.

Our society generally pegs people with mental health issues as being guilty of some kind of moral failure, particularly if your issues include addiction. 

You lack self-control. You don’t trust God enough with your problems. You are too lazy for this world. 

The litany of conjured sins is endless. 

We picture addicts as forlorn, unhoused people on the streets, begging for money. They are the scum of society. Grifters. Unsavories. Am I right? 

But addiction is an equal opportunity symptom. 

The real question is, how did those people get to the point where their lives sucked so much that they required the escape from their lives that substances provided? 

We all have band-aids for our mental and spiritual wounds. Whether you think about it like that or not, that part is truth. Some of our coping mechanisms may be healthier than others, of course. 

We need to look at addiction for what it is: a symptom of past trauma. It’s not a moral failing. 

“People of unusually high intellect often have more intense degrees of addictive thinking. Thus, highly intellectual people may be the most difficult patients to treat.”

-Abraham J. Twerski, MD, Addictive Thinking

That’s right. Addiction is prevalent in intelligent people. 

Why is that? Perhaps it’s because the more we think about and rationalize injustice, the more pain we feel. If you have the capacity for empathy, you feel all the emotions. And sometimes it’s just too painful to bear. 

What I learned in rehab is that there are process addictions in addition to substance addictions. Process addictions include activities like gambling, scrolling social media, exercise, disordered eating, and shopping.

As with most trauma recovery programs, this one liked to treat addiction and aimed to pin patients into some form of addictive thinking, even though trauma was its main focus. My team assumed that since I did not have any substance addictions, that I had a process addiction of running. 

Yes, I’m aware that training for a marathon seems intense to the average human, and the mileage can appear excessive. This is what my primary therapist was trying to convince me of. I mean, running 20 miles on a Sunday morning does seem weird if you don’t understand the discipline it takes to train for endurance races. 

Calling my routine of running an addiction is a stretch. Yes, I do use it as a healthy outlet for anxiety. But I don’t spend every moment of every day thinking about running. 

Some would even argue that my veganism is a process addiction; a symptom of trauma. 

My real addictions, however, are future tripping and ruminating over the past way too much. 

These thought patterns can cause absolute misery. We look for ways to manage these. For me, it is running, a socially acceptable tool for quelling anxiety. But what if I had chosen a different vice?

I met plenty of people in rehab who were addicted to substances. Their stories were heartbreaking. You would not believe the level of evil prevalent in this world. 

Addicts use substances to survive the pain endured from the agony of fighting in wars, abusive husbands, the suicide of parents, murders of family, fathers and brothers raping them repeatedly as children, and neighbors molesting them among these. The list of traumas is long. And it’s never just one thing. There are typically layers to these traumas, including how others in their lives who were supposed to care for them actually didn’t in the face of the truth. 

Studies show that there is a correlation between childhood abuse and trauma and substance abuse later in life. One theory as to why links the resulting dysregulation of the nervous system as the result of trauma to the tendency toward addictive behavior. The percentage of the U.S. population dealing with substance abuse is staggering.

The temporary relief from pain achieved by using alcohol and drugs becomes overpowering. The substance becomes a companion. But seeking that comfort is a symptom, not the disease. It’s the trauma that a person has experienced that causes the symptoms of addiction, in my opinion. 

People do all kinds of things to survive the pain of trauma. Some people pass on patterns of abuse to others, including their own families. Some people seek the hit of endorphins from winning blackjack or finding the perfect outfit to buy. Some people exercise. Some find it in eating a pint of ice cream. Some people turn to alcohol and drugs. 

Before you judge an addict, I want you to ponder what must have happened in their lives to force them to choose that path. And then think about what you would have done in their situation. 

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If you are someone who struggles with addiction, I’m so sorry that you experienced the pain that drove you to seek comfort in that way. I hope you can find the strength and courage to seek help to heal from your traumas. 

You can call the SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) hotline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) for assistance. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

I Am a Human Voodoo Doll

My experience with acupuncture

Lying on a massage table, my arms, hands, lower legs, and feet exposed, giving my body to a woman I don’t know, is a pretty vulnerable feeling. 

My acupuncture therapist asks me what I’m struggling with. The answer has been the same for a while: anger. With a bit of pain between my shoulder blades where I’m holding it all.

She methodically taps needles into my feet, hands, face, elbows, knees, and lower legs. Although small, some of the needles feel more potent than others. 

I’m under a blanket, but I’m still freezing. She turns a heater onto my feet. This helps.

I try to succumb to whatever power the needles can give me.

I can feel my body become tense, so I try my best to force my muscles to relax. This sensation comes in waves, and I have to fight each one.

I imagine each minuscule hole in my body as an avenue through which to release all of this anger I’ve been holding, some of it for years.

And then my brain goes to a really weird place. You know that scene in Shrek where Fiona has just kissed Shrek, and she transforms into her ogre persona, light flowing out of her body, floating off the ground as her metamorphosis completes? Yes. That scene.

I can’t help but laugh at this visual, and then I remember I have dozens of needles stuck in me. My convulsions from stifling inappropriate giggles make me wince with the slight movement of said needles. 

The last time I had acupuncture, sleep came easily. And it was welcomed. But this time, I struggle to relax enough for slumber. 

But I also had a terrible dream the night before. I found a friend lying under a blue tarp with only her face exposed. She was covered in acupuncture needles with e-stim running through them. It was a horrific mess to encounter. I asked her who did this to her. She was like, “The other guy.”  And I asked her how many needles she had in her. “However many I paid for,” she replied. I remember feeling shocked that she was just taking it. Then I woke up. 

Maybe my brain doesn’t like the idea of acupuncture after all. But it did seem to help me to relax. 

My husband had his own experience with acupuncture recently. 

He is one of the many unfortunate people who contracted Alpha-Gal, a tick-borne meat allergy. He spends much of his time traipsing through the woods and gets bitten by ticks frequently. It’s just a part of being outdoors. 

At first, I was super excited that the universe seemed to tell my husband he should be vegan like me. He was not amused. (I was.) But then I felt sorry for him.

My friend told me about this super weird acupuncture technique that has been developed to “cure” people of this meat allergy. Not covered by insurance, of course, but perhaps worth trying. 

The technique focuses on auricular application, with the points of needle insertion determined by manual muscle testing. Yup. It’s as strange as it sounds. 

And why the ear for application? Because it’s tied so closely to the vagus nerve in controlling so many bodily functions and relaxation. This is why our dogs and cats love to have their ears rubbed so much!

Eventually I told my husband about this, and he eagerly found a practitioner in our area skilled in the methods. And, low and behold, it worked! 

At least my husband got a feel for what it’s like to have to eat in a restaurant on a limited diet. And, yes, it’s a colossal pain in the ass. 

He was only a tourist in this world, thankfully. He’s back to eating whatever he wants. 

Acupuncture has its roots in Eastern medicine, and while some may consider its science questionable, it did seem to help my husband and me. The best part is explaining the methods to peers who have never experienced the practice before!

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Have you ever tried acupuncture? What did you think? I’d love to hear about your experience.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

Rage Against the Patriarchy

I declare this the theme of 2024

Should we harbor a grudge against Eve? After all, she, with all of her womanly powers, convinced Adam to eat that apple. 

This biblical parable was the beginning of the tripe that women are cunning, evil, immoral, and need to be controlled, and women are still paying the price for Eve’s fictional crimes. 

Throughout history, women have been relegated to subservient roles to men. We are supposed to be good girls: meek, obedient, modest, and humble. But we should also be beautiful, nice, and nurturing. Any deviation from these societal standards is to make scorning us permissible. 

The infamous witch trials of the late 1600s in Salem, Massachusetts was a great example where women became the scapegoat for the maladies of society, reinforcing the idea that we should not hold positions of power or be outspoken. 

As times progressed, women became more educated. In the U.S., our great-grandmothers fought for our right to vote in 1920. Our grandmothers and mothers fought for our rights to abortion access, to have credit cards independent of a man, and for the no-fault divorce, all of which weren’t a thing until the 1970s. It wasn’t until 1978 that it became illegal to fire a woman for being pregnant. Although we never successfully passed the Equal Rights Amendment, we still made significant progress in fighting for equality with men. 

Education is empowering. There’s nothing more dangerous to the patriarchy than intelligent, well-informed women. As an educated woman, perhaps this is why the backlash feels so shocking.

Never would I have imagined the major backtracking of women’s rights in the United States that we have seen over the past 2 years which has coincided with the rise in the Christian Nationalist movement. 

With the reversal of the Roe vs. Wade decision in 2022, it’s clear that we have lost the right to bodily autonomy. Looking at Texas, it’s become a literal nightmare for women who need life-saving medical care. And now women are being imprisoned for having a miscarriage. Our uteruses are officially more regulated than guns.

We all know the rules would be different if it were men who were the magical incubators of human life. I don’t even think it’s possible for men to truly understand what a massive undertaking it is to grow a human. You could die.

Conservative lawmakers won’t stop here. They also want to take away medications that induce miscarriage in the early weeks of pregnancy and limit some forms of birth control. Some states are also looking at taking away the no-fault divorce. 

Ah, yes. Let’s revert back to the world where a woman’s place was to be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen, and she had so few rights that she had no choice but to rely on a man for support or tolerate abuse. 

Shockingly, there seems to be a rising movement of the traditional wife and its companion, the stay-at-home girlfriend. I don’t get it. As someone who holds a Master’s degree, I’m baffled by the phenomenon of embracing submissiveness. Social media exploits these roles, making it seem glamorous to obey and serve one’s male partner. 

This brings about another manifestation of the tricks of the patriarchy: pitting women against women. This is a game as old as time. As a Gen Xer, I’ve lived this dichotomy of working women vs. stay-at-home moms. And we are simply damned if we work, damned if we don’t. We even criticize each other for the supposed crimes of either choice. There are no winners in such a moronic battle.  

What’s worse is that in this modern world, women are expected to do all the things: be a fantastic mother, work full time, clean the house, and still manage to look beautiful. Yes, some husbands are willing participants in parenting and household management, but this isn’t always the case. And if they do help, they are bestowed an abundance of praise.

Women are scorned for so much in this world. We can’t be sexual, but sexuality also sells. We should be nice girls. We shouldn’t be assertive. We shouldn’t dissent, show anger or fear, or say no to unwanted attention. We should dress a certain way. We should remain beautiful for our husbands, or he has the right to leave us. If we don’t follow tradition and get married and have children, we are criticized. We can’t even have tubal ligation without the permission of a husband. We are supposed to smile if a man addresses us, but that smile is also read as an invitation for a man to make sexual advances. If a man buys us dinner, we should assume that he has bought his right to have sex with us. We should listen to mansplaining with eager eyes and appreciative head nods, and then say thank you for pointing out our stupidity. 

Hell, even the concept of gossip being a bad thing was meant to silence our complaints and warnings to each other about bad men and to squelch our power. It has nothing to do with being nice, but in controlling us. There is power in the unification of gender. Men know this and exploit this, but they don’t want women to have the same benefits. 

We elected a president who openly admits to sexually assaulting women, ignores the sanctity of marriage, incited an insurrection, and spearheaded the decline in women’s rights. And yet despite these egregious facts, some people believe that he was chosen by God to lead America.  He embodies the patriarchy. He is the patriot of the theocracy movement despite his immorality blatantly on display. And yet the chance that he will become president again is very real. 

Aren’t we all tired of this game? 

I don’t want to live in a society governed by archaic, religious, Puritan rules. We earned our equality, and we deserve to keep it. We must preserve our rights for our daughters and granddaughters. 

It’s time to rage, ladies. This year will be crucial in deciding the fate of our gender in the U.S. Will we vote for leaders who will help us regain our rights, or will we let our de-evolution to a theocracy proceed without a fight? 

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Yes, I know. Not all men. But I’m strictly discussing societal norms as a whole and observations of trends. And in the collective safety of the gender of women, ALL women, we have learned to navigate a world where we must treat men as guilty until proven innocent as a means for safety and survival. That’s just a fact. 

And, yes, I’m fortunate to have a husband who takes pride in protecting me from harm. But the point is that our world should be safe enough that I don’t need this. 

How many men have to think about where they walk, how safe they will be at night, or wait to engage with the outside world until they have a companion? Do men think about how to carry their keys in their hands a certain way, ready to become a weapon? Do men have to deal with catcalls while out for a walk? Do men have to apologize for showing anger? No, they don’t. Even in accusations of sexual assault, it’s not the man who is on trial. It’s the woman or girl. 

Hypervigilance is the way of life for women.

I’ve had enough. How about you?

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

We’re at the “Find Out” Part in the “F*ck Around” Game

Nice white boys always win.

My husband and I had to go to court yesterday. 

In the ongoing saga of dealing with the consequences of my neighbor’s grandson shooting a bullet through my house, the case was heard.

It turns out that the boys were shooting at a dilapidated playhouse in the backyard. Our house is not far behind the structure. 

As feared, the young men shooting, both 21, got off with a slap on the wrist. Charges were dropped from a felony to reckless endangerment, and if they meet all of the conditions of the probationary period of one year, the charges will be expunged. They will have to surrender their firearms, refrain from owning another for one year, serve 50 hours of community service, and take a gun safety class. Any deviation or other crimes committed will result in mandatory jail time.

I wonder if they were not white and if they had not had a fancy lawyer if the punishment would have been more severe. 

Those boys should be grateful that they got off so easy and that we accepted the plea deal terms. If we lived in the next county, there would have been no possibility of dropping the felony charges, and they would have been serving time. 

My husband was surprised that now the neighbors want no part in taking responsibility for the financial consequences of their actions beyond home repairs. But I knew better. Welcome to my world, honey. Where no one follows the golden rule, and no one can be trusted. 

We should not have to be financially responsible for treating the PTSD that resulted from their actions. 

We will be getting a lawyer. Sadly, it’s come to this, but we shouldn’t have to bear the burden of their crimes. But I guess the world isn’t fair. 

I don’t know what I expected, living in such a conservative, gun-friendly county. 

Another surprise? My husband was doing some work in the attic, and he found another bullet up there. He’s not sure where it entered. So there are now multiple bullets, not just one. 

Ugh. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of being disappointed. I’m tired of feeling that I bear the brunt of the punishment. I’m just over it. I want my life back.

I have to say that going to criminal court was really enlightening. There’s nothing like seeing prisoners taken from a secure area, in handcuffs, and led to the defense table. So weird. Just like TV. 

The lawyers, dare I say, seemed almost bored. They do this every day, I suppose. 

There was even a defendant who only spoke Spanish. The court didn’t have a translator. The judge asked if anyone spoke Spanish. Seriously? You’re going to trust someone not vetted to interpret for this man? Yikes. Red flag. Fortunately, the case was postponed until a translator from the county could attend. I was relieved.

Of note also is that there was yet another school shooting today. This one was in Iowa. It barely made the news.

What will it take for lawmakers to get serious about gun safety? The NRA has spent over 27 million dollars to influence our legislative representatives, and the legality of the methods they use to find and utilize these funds has been questioned.

I was already a supporter of improving gun safety laws, but after my experience, I’m even more passionate about this issue. Because now, it’s not an issue in the abstract. I’ve now been on the receiving end of someone’s negligence with a firearm. Now it’s personal. 

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I sincerely hope that the young men who shot at my house have learned an important lesson. But they also need to realize that their actions have consequences; a rippling effect into their community. And if that means having to hold them financially accountable, so be it.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

2023 Said, “Hold My Beer!”

Will 2024 be better?

This should be a year of new beginnings. That is what we all desire as we flip that calendar to January, right? A fresh start. Setting lofty goals to achieve great things. But 2023 was rough, y’all. I merely survived, so I’ll count that as a win.

It started with a run streak that coincided with a dry January that I somehow still committed myself to despite having to unexpectedly help plan my father’s funeral. Which happened on January 4th of last year. 

I was not emotionally prepared to return to the church where so many unpleasant things happened in my childhood, but I did for that event. 

Some parts of my year were amazing, like going to England for the first time. It was a bucket list trip made even sweeter by experiencing it with my younger daughter. I wrote a lot. And I made a point of reading more books, especially ones banned by my county. But the year was marked with much more disappointment than anything else. 

With my younger daughter in London’s theater district. Photo by author.

We watched our country devolve into some kind of dystopian nightmare of rescinded rights for women, people of culture, and the LGBTQ community. A world where education is devalued and ignorance is the gold standard. Where local governments consider books more dangerous than guns. 

I found myself standing up and speaking in school board meetings about the value of many of the books they banned. I spoke about how reading books with themes of sexual assault helped me realize that my instances of abuse were not my fault, as I recognized the same patterns in my life through their stories. The board may have been listening without their ears, but at least I spoke my truth. My county ended the year with almost 100 books banned from public school libraries. 

Pro book banners protesting outside our local school board meeting the night our county passed a measure to give the board unilateral control over “deselecting” books from school libraries. Photo by author.

Never could I have imagined the multitude of bad things that happened on my bingo card for 2023. Like having my marathon canceled as I was running it. Or that my neighbor would shoot a bullet through my house. Or that I would lose my shit over that to the point of requiring inpatient treatment, missing out on my two favorite months of the year. If only my astronomically expensive health insurance covered mental health services. Now I also carry the guilt and added burden of being in debt for my treatment. 

I should write a novel based on all of the chaos of my life, but my time in rehab has proven how ordinary my life is. I could count on one hand the number of women I met there who didn’t include surviving a sexual assault as part of their story. 

Considering that 1 in 4 American women have experienced sexual assault in their lives, I suppose I am very ordinary, indeed. 

It’s also not uncommon to experience trauma as a result of religion. That’s a part of my story, too, and is being discussed more frequently as a community of those of us who have deconstructed from organized religion grows. 

I wish I could say that it’s unusual to be a victim of gun violence, but that’s also a pretty common phenomenon in America. 

A sign you see only in the U.S. Photo by author.

It’s sad how mundane these traumas are. How we’ve become numb to all of this. I’ve done so much in my life just to adapt to survive it all. And living to survive is not fulfilling. It’s frustrating. Sometimes, it is even terrifying. 

So why does it seem like everyone else is strong enough to handle their shit, and I’m not? Why do I feel sorry for myself when wars are happening overseas with atrocities far worse than what I’ve been through? Doesn’t this make me selfish? 

The shooting happened on October 8th. I’m still not recovered despite spending 45 days in treatment. I still have nightmares.

My latest recurring theme? I desperately need to shower, but can’t find one that is available or functional, so I continue to exist covered in filth. I can’t seem to be allowed to cleanse my life of all of this ick. 

My dream the other night was over the top, though. I had bought a boat for some reason, but I was unable to drive it. My dad took over. I was obsessed with redecorating the ship and refinishing all of the wood. 

We were sailing in bright blue seas, and then suddenly came upon several other boats. We ended up docking on an island that was just a small strip of land in the middle of nowhere. It was crowded, and everyone was partying. 

But the fun time was interrupted by a siren warning of a tsunami, and we could see it approaching from both sides of the island. I happened to be on one of the highest points, handing onto a scraggly tree. My mother was with me but left me to fend for myself. 

It was strange, though, because I wasn’t scared. I’d simply resigned myself to the fact that I would likely die, and tried to make peace with it. I hoped the end would be quick and painless. I woke up before that happened.

The next day in the real world, there were stories about enormous waves hitting the coast of California, and this New Year’s Day began in Japan with an earthquake and tsunami warning. Weird coincidence? 

My 2024 will begin with a court date to start the criminal trial involving my neighbor, his grandson, and his grandson’s friend, who are all partially responsible for the shooting. I fear that the punishment will be inadequate and that these young adults will have the charges dismissed. I have to be prepared for that possibility.

I keep telling myself that if I can just get past this point, that initial court date, I will be able to proceed with my life. 

As much as I feel defeated by the events of last year, I have to hold hope that things will improve in 2024. I will get justice for the wrongs committed against me and my family. That democracy will prevail in the U.S. And that our world will begin to value all humans as equals. That we will all find some level of peace.

That’s a tall order, I know.  But at the core of my soul, there’s still an idealistic twenty-something who thinks she can change the world. The clock is ticking…

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Hope is a dangerous thing. But it’s necessary to survive in today’s world. Do you have hope? 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

I’m Not Prepared to Handle the Stigma

My post-rehab world sucks.

It’s one thing to admit that you go to a therapist for help to handle all of your emotional shit. It’s quite another to own up to the fact that you spent 45 days in an inpatient treatment facility. It’s admitting that you are a whole other level of crazy.

Even though my stint in rehab was not for addiction, but to recover from trauma, I still feel judged for needing this level of help.

Was my emotional turmoil my fault? It depends on who you ask.

Yes, my family and I survived a callous act by our neighbor’s grandson when he shot a bullet into my bedroom. 

What did my brain make up about this scenario? That when I dared to go out onto my porch in protest of his hours-long shooting escapade, he decided to retaliate. Although the shooting stopped initially after my verbal explosion, they started again about 30 minutes later. 

I imagine the conversation between him and his friend went something like this:

“Man, fuck that bitch. I can fire my gun wherever I want. I’ll show her!”

And that’s when the bullet came flying through my window. It felt extremely personal like I was under attack.

After enduring their very loud target practice all afternoon, with the gunshots so close that they rattled my windows and doors, my dog and cat huddled next to me shivering in terror,  it ended with damage to my property. 

We still found shards of glass in our room in random places weeks later, even after repeated vacuuming. 

Obviously, there was physical damage. But the emotional damage was worse. 

I felt as though I was punished for daring to express my anger and fear to my neighbor when he came over immediately after his grandson’s arrest to apologize. 

No, my dear neighbor. This was not “no harm, no foul” as you stated. It’s not as simple as fixing a window and the corresponding hole in the opposite wall. And I make no apologies for my verbal tirade or my subsequent panic attack. 

My soul was irreparably broken. It will never go back to the way it was. 

I live in a constant state of fight or flight. And as much as I can consciously tell myself that I am safe, my nervous system begs to differ. 

I’m so tired. 

I’m tired of poor sleep. I’m tired of taking medications to help me sleep and to bring me out of the depths of darkness. I’m tired of being so tired that I can’t enjoy my life.  I’m tired of the nightmares. I’m tired of the cycle of headaches that now plague me. I’m tired of the random spikes in my blood pressure for no reason other than anxiety. 

No, I’m not a lazy, fat slob who doesn’t take care of herself. (I put that out there just because I knew what you were thinking). I run marathons for fun, and I eat vegan. My resting heart rate is 51. This makes treating the intermittent bouts of hypertension that much more challenging. But what’s worse? Bottoming out and passing out, or having my blood pressure so high that I could have a stroke? Both sound super fun, right? 

As I attempt to re-integrate into my world, it’s been challenging to explain my absence. I am back to work, but not in the same capacity. When my colleagues welcome me back and ask me where I’ve been, I tell them it’s a long story. That’s all I’ve got right now.

I’m also grieving all the things I missed while I was gone.

Rehab happened during my favorite time of year. I missed my wedding anniversary (24 years), the Richmond Marathon (I should have been on the course coaching), Thanksgiving vacation with my family on the Outer Banks, my yearly meet-up with my college English professor, and my own race, the Freight Train 50k. 

Sometimes I wish the bullet had struck me. It was on my side of the bedroom. Had I been putting away clothes in my dresser or sitting in my favorite chair, I wouldn’t be writing this story. I would be dead or seriously injured.

My job is to help people recover from these types of injuries. I know the physical challenges of traumatic brain injuries, critical illness myopathy, and the struggle to get your life back after this. This is what my brain spins constantly. The what-ifs. 

It would have been much simpler to explain the physical injuries. That people can see and understand. But the emotional and mental injuries? Our society still deems these as moral failures on the victim’s part. And that’s me. 

Someone selfishly interrupted my peace and safety, and I’m paying the price for their errors. 

Those boys got bailed out of jail and went back to college like nothing happened, and I spent 45 days on the other side of the country, away from my friends and family and completely cut off from the outside world. Well, except for landline calls, outgoing only, during designated hours. I was not in control of my life while in treatment. 

While it’s true that I also have old wounds from my younger days, the new one strikes deep as well. But to heal from this one, I also had to go into my past, rip off those carefully laid band-aids applied over the years, and expose those injuries as if fresh and raw. It was not fun or easy.

Somehow, after rehab, I’m supposed to be “fixed” and pretend like my life is back to normal, but it’s far from that. 

I don’t know where to go from here.

I do have a new therapist, and she seems amazing. But I just want to be normal. I just want my life back. I want to live, but not like this. 

___________

Lead photo is from the beach; a stormy scene at one of my happy places. Photo by author.

Actions have consequences. We’ll see what these young men will face next week, as this case goes to trial. Since they are “nice white boys” with a lawyer, I’m sure the charges will be reduced from a felony. This means they will be free to own guns again. Their lives will likely only have a tiny blip from this. 

I hope I can turn this heartache and anger into something useful. I will continue to tell my story so that perhaps at least one person will think twice before having target practice in their backyard. And I will continue to advocate for laws that promote gun safety.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

The World Is at Least 50 Shades of Grey

Not simply black and white.

One of my thoughts that relaxed me into slumber the other night was contemplating the world of black and white vs. shades of grey.

Yes, it is a comforting subject likely to lull anyone to sleep (note my sarcasm). 

My husband sees the world as black and white. To him, a sin is a sin. Likewise, an act of love is an act of love. There is no measure of the intensity or extremes of any act. It simply is or it isn’t. 

In contrast, I see the world as many shades of grey.

There are degrees of sinning. For example, stealing a loaf of bread, while technically illegal and to some a sin, does not carry the same magnitude of wrong as murder. Especially if you are broke and stealing a loaf of bread to feed your family. 

One would believe that our criminal justice system would view crimes in this way, too. However, some crimes are inexplicably given more weight than others. Certain people who commit rape don’t seem to be punished as severely as, say, someone who is found in possession of drugs. Wouldn’t forcefully taking over someone’s body be worse than being caught with drugs for personal use? 

Ask any lawyer, and they will say that it depends. Multiple factors contribute to the degree of punishment, and not all are exactly fair, as most of us are aware. 

But who gets to decide this value system of crimes? Who assigns the punishments for the egregious sins of humanity?

Is it a higher power? Possibly. 

Is it society in general? Certainly. 

Is it our government? Of course. 

Legislative bodies create laws to assign protocols for punishment for crimes. But the final call on the degree of lawlessness is typically up to the judge trying a case. 

In many instances, the burden for proof of a crime lies with the victim, and that victim is the one who turns out to be on trial. This is readily seen in cases of rape, where the woman is framed to look like she was asking for it, and sometimes even based on a litany of choices she may have made in the past. As if having sex at some other time in her life leaves the door open for any man to take what he wants after that. And all this in the rare instance that sexual assault is reported. 

And if the accused is a “man of God,” watch how quickly those charges get reduced. Or in the tradition of religious authorities, the problem pastor gets punted to another church, never facing punishment for his crimes. With all of the pastoral abuse stories coming to light recently, it seems epidemic. 

We all know that terrible laws exist. I mean, Jim Crow laws were legal at one time, but that didn’t make these morally correct. And then it seems that there is an entirely separate code for interpretation of the law depending on factors of race and socioeconomic status. That’s how our world works. 

Are we supposed to accept this? 

Some would say that laws that include fines as punishment are only punitive for the poor. And if you can’t pay the fine? Into jail, you go. It’s almost as if someone is making money off incarcerating as many people as they can…

Oh, wait. That assumption is actually true. 

How can we trust a criminal justice system created to benefit (wealthy) white men and profit off of everyone else? The simple answer is that we can’t. 

And although the world should be seen as shades of grey, for many, it is black and white, both figuratively and literally. And that’s still our reality, even with as much progress as we appear to have made. And it’s wrong.

___________

My opinions are my own. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

Guns Have More Rights than Women in the United States

That’s not hyperbole.

Let’s start with a couple of stories:

Despite a cautiously protective upbringing, your twelve-year-old daughter develops a confluence of problems, and you don’t know why. 

Defiant, distant, and melancholy, she has morphed from the beautiful, joyful, obedient good girl you thought you had into this: a stranger.

Instead of trying to figure out what exactly has transformed your daughter from her sweet, church-going angel into someone so dark and unfamiliar, you discipline her. You tell her to try harder. You tell her to cheer up. You remind her of how “good” her life is; of all of the many blessings in her life. 

This intervention has the opposite effect, forcing her deeper into herself and into a crowd you have deemed unsavory. 

She is lost. 

Your daughter has a secret that she cannot tell you. Based on your flippant comments over her young years about “whores” and “sluts,” she knows you will judge her.

She does not comprehend that the forces that betrayed her, that young man who took advantage of her good-girl nature and naivety, are fully to blame for her abuse. Not her. 

But now she’s trapped. Her little body, newly inducted into the curses of womanhood, is now housing the spawn of her rapist. She can barely understand what is happening. 

She feels sick all the time, tired, and in physical and emotional pain, and she has no one to turn to for help. 

But you begin to notice the changes to her slight frame. Is that a tiny bump in her belly?

Things begin to click, and you start to feel sick yourself.

How could I have missed the signs? You wonder. 

You finally confront her, and she tells you. Through sobbing waves of tears, she explains the story. She’s almost inconsolable at this point, hyperventilating as she tries to articulate her predicament. 

That nice boy from church? The one all the parents like? The one who was so interested in helping out with the youth group? He’s a predator. 

Of course, he was super nice at first. He handed out compliments like candy. He even brought her little gifts. Frappuccinos from Starbucks. A new Taylor Swift shirt. A pretty bookmark for her Bible. 

But then weird things started happening.

He asked her to go for a ride to the Starbucks with him. He had her alone with him at last. And then the touching began.

She was so confused. He was one of her teachers, right? Why is he touching me… there?

Part of her kind of enjoyed it, which was super confusing. It awakened something inside her that she didn’t know existed. But she also felt guilty. And gross.

Naturally, he pointed out the pleasures of it all. How nice and good he was to her. And then the warning came. Don’t tell anyone, especially your parents, or you will get in trouble.

She knew she was already in pretty deep at that point, but she believed him. She thought she brought this on herself. After all, she gave in to his persistent niceness. She thought she was special.

And then that one night came. The terrible, awful thing happened. As she becomes completely engulfed by her deluge of tears, barely able to breathe, she attempts to explain how he held her down, her hands pinned by her ears, him letting go briefly to unbuckle his pants and rip off her underwear under her dress, and the pain. She froze. 

Because she “let it happen,” she thought it was her fault. After all, he explained, she brought this on herself. She led him on. She acted like she liked it.  

And now, just as she started having monthly cycles, they stopped. 

What is happening? She asks. 

You already know. She is pregnant. 

You live in a state where strict anti-abortion laws have been passed. Laws you fully agreed to. Until now. Now, it’s your daughter. It’s your world. And it’s a hot mess. 

Your daughter has no rights to her body. You know this. Her rapist knows this. And now she will bear the brunt of this burden. Her little 12-year-old body, still emotionally stuck between playing with dolls and wearing makeup, will have to grow up fast.

___________

The one place left in America where firearms aren’t welcome: the airport. Photo by author.

“GUNS GUNS GUNS!”

The scrappy vinyl sign advertises, attracting hundreds to the local gun show. You know the ones. Held in that worn-down convention hall in that bad part of town. 

Inside, booths featuring firearms abound. 

A young man wanders in, overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. With his palms clammy, he nervously approaches a booth. 

“What can I do for you today, son?” the man queried.

“Um… I need a gun. I’m not sure what kind I need.”

“Well, what’cha lookin’ to do with it? Go huntin’? Or keep the nutsos off your property?”

“I guess more for protection.”

He shows the young man his recommendations. 

Despite this kid’s squirrely nature and the weirdness he exudes, the man sells him a gun. No background checks are necessary in this scenario. 

Had there been, maybe his purchase would have been prevented. This young adult has a record. And now he has an instrument of death in the palm of his hands. 

_________

You are at work when a news alert sounds on your phone.

There has been another mass shooting, and the suspect has not yet been apprehended. You almost yawn at this news, as these events are about as American as apple pie, at this point. They happen nearly every day. 

This one catches your eye, though. It is at a local high school. Stories are already emerging about multiple dead and wounded, with students jumping out of windows to escape the deluge of bullets. 

Guess who the shooter is? That weird kid from the gun show. 

___________

Although the above scenarios are fictional, they are very believable. 

As ruling attitudes keep shifting to the right, our country is not becoming great again. It’s becoming a dystopian nightmare. 

How did our lawmakers allow women to be stripped of their bodily autonomy? 

How did gun laws become so lax? 

Who decided that Jesus was Lord of America and that he loves guns, hates gays, and thinks women should be subservient to men? 

I did not work so diligently to earn a Master’s degree so that I could have a lawmaker with less education than me tell me that I don’t deserve bodily autonomy. I haven’t sent my daughters to college to become better educated just to die by pregnancy later. 

Why do I think this might happen? Only because my mother-in-law had multiple ectopic pregnancies that required termination. I have experienced two miscarriages myself. 

Women are going to jail for having miscarriages, are being forced to carry non-viable pregnancies to term (causing harm to both the mother and suffering for the fetus), and babies are being forced to have babies.

Lawmakers have made numerous egregious statements about rape and pregnancy. Statements that make it glaringly obvious that these people have no basic understanding of science. Politicians should have no say in dictating what a woman does with her uterus. 

A uterus is a part of a woman, not an object to legislate. Photo by Nadezhda Moryak on Pexels.com

No one is advocating for abortion to be the primary means of birth control. But we do need a healthcare system that takes care of the best interest of the existing human—the one who is a person with thoughts and feelings. 

My dad told me a story several times about their choices when it came to growing our family. There was a faith-based hospital in town, and my parents chose the other one that provided maternal services. His reasoning? If there were to be an emergency during childbirth, the faith-based facility would prioritize the life of the child. 

Do you think my fictional short stories couldn’t happen in real life? 

I’m a survivor of childhood sexual assault. I was only nine, and it played out a lot like the story above. Fortunately, my instinct was to fight, not freeze, and he wasn’t successful in raping me, although he did use the word. 

And now I’ve also been a victim of gun violence, as my next-door neighbors held target practice in their backyard, and a bullet entered my home. 

You know, you think you are prepared for the world in which you exist. And then everything changes.

I grew up in a post-Roe world. I felt assured that the battle for bodily autonomy had already been won by my grandmother’s generation. And now that rug has been snatched from under me and every other woman in this country. I have no idea how to make the current state of woefully inadequate reproductive freedom OK for my adult daughters. 

And I live in a nice neighborhood. Yes, it’s rural, but everyone generally takes care of their neighbors. Until they don’t. 

I have to resign myself to the fact that when it comes to guns, no one is safe as long as laws about where and when you can fire them and who can own them are so lax. How is it easier to own a gun than to get a driver’s license?

When I was a home health practitioner, part of my territory included the inner city of Richmond and the rougher parts of the East End. But at least I learned quickly what I was getting myself into. I could be emotionally prepared. 

When I got out of my car in the public housing areas, there were always a few guys looking out for my vehicle. I’d emerge in my scrubs and lab coat, and the boys would yell, “Hey, nurse! We got you!” That didn’t make me feel much better about seeing places on the news that evening where my travels had taken me, but at least I knew someone had my back.

I went into some crazy white people’s homes that were less safe than the projects. Why? Think about how comfortable you’d feel walking into a house where the owner has an AR-15 casually leaning into the corner by the front door. (It was loaded. I asked.) In one of these gun-crazy homes, my patient was being sex trafficked. That’s how she paid rent. (Yes, It was reported.)

I learned to expect these shocking things in my work. But I sure as hell didn’t expect a bullet to come flying into my own home. My personal space of safety and refuge. 

My point is, none of us are immune to the consequences of terrible laws. 

Do you think your family will be OK with the super strict laws emerging against abortion? Just wait until a pregnancy goes awry. Or your child is raped. 

Or that you live in a place safe from gun violence? Until your neighbors decide to hold target practice in their backyard (yes, this is generally not lawful, but it is in my county.)

Are you going to protect your family from harm? Don’t take your safety or your autonomy for granted. 

So many people cry against government overreach, yet this is what we’ve got with the rights of women. It’s like women aren’t even human anymore. And in the case of guns, we’ve let all the rules slide. Make it make sense to me. 

Why is my uterus more regulated than the gun that shot a bullet through my bedroom? 

Yes, I’m angry. I should be. We ALL should be. 

___________

Lead photo: free image from Pexels.

We have a simple question to answer in November of 2024. We can live in a theocracy ruled by white, Christian Nationalists, or we can live in a democracy. That’s the choice.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

The Joy of Visiting a Bookstore

It’s self-care.

There it is. I see it! The glow of the lights of the local Barnes & Noble that are so warm and inviting, waiting to embrace me for a spell.

I park my car. It’s after dark, but this is a great time to visit. It seems less crowded. Yes, crowds do make me anxious, but book lovers are my kind of people. 

My heart flutters with anticipation as I walk to the entrance. I pull the heavy door and let myself in. 

SNNNIIIIIIIFFFFFFF. 

I need a moment to take in the intoxicating aromas of the store before I finally exhale: the general background notes of coffee from Starbucks, and the comforting smell of books, with their goodness of paper, ink, glue, and cardboard. 

(The library smells almost as delicious, minus the enticing perfume of coffee.) 

I take in the sights. Shiny, colorful, new books are on display in all of their beauty, with the latest releases and bestsellers prominently featured. I briefly fantasize that a title I’ve penned myself is on display among those one day. There are also gifts to be perused, magazines to fondle, and seating to be found. 

I take in the sounds. The subtle music in the background. The steady roll of the mechanics of the escalators. Quiet conversations. The gentle flip of the turn of pages under scrutiny. The exchanges at the cash registers. 

When my children were little, we took advantage of kids’ story time here, and they loved playing with the Thomas the Train. It was a refuge; a safe place for the kids to burn off some steam. And it was another way to expose my kids to literature. 

I suppose I inherited this love of bookstores from my parents, both of whom were avid readers. My dad never passed an opportunity to shop in one.

The fancy bookstores are mainly for looking, though. I rarely buy from here, unless it’s a book I simply must have right then or if it’s a gift. (I made exceptions for my kids, especially during their younger years.)

Used bookstores are where the real magic happens, though. 

This includes big chains like 2nd & Charles, where my young adult daughters and I can spend hours in the stacks. I usually come in with a list of titles on my wish list, and if my first search on foot comes up empty, I then bug someone at their service desk to check their inventory to see if any are in stock. I know this makes me one of their favorite customers! (Note my sarcasm…)

But, hey, one of their associates was kind enough to dive deep into the labyrinth of stacks with me in search of a coveted title confirmed to be in stock by their computer. If you’ve ever been to a 2nd & Charles location, you know that their inventory is so massive that it’s impossible to keep their collection super organized.

And we did find that book. That associate was a true hero.

Generally, gently used titles here cost well below retail. It’s well worth the time to browse.  

Other fun items here are used and new vinyl, CDs, DVDs, gifts, t-shirts, used toys and games, and stuffed animals. They also have a pretty wicked collection of oddities to tempt you while waiting to buy your treasures. It’s the adult version of the candy aisle. Their version of the smelly candle and noisy dog toy last-minute grab chute to funnel shoppers to the register like at TJ Maxx. 

What else can you find here? Really old books. Like first editions locked behind glass. Volumes that are so aged that each legit has its own story to tell beyond the pages they hold. 

Of course, I also love thrifting books. An aggressive hunter and gatherer of books that go in the category of “will read one day,” I try to snatch up as many interesting $1 paperbacks as I can. The thrift stores near colleges are ripe with textbooks that the bookstore wouldn’t take back, creating an opportunity to pick up some very interesting material. 

I picked up Phyllis Schlalfly’s book this way. (A bit of history here: she spearheaded the anti-ERA movement.) It was essentially the outline of the Republican party’s agenda through the years. To say that it lacked substance would be an understatement. It’s a 15-minute read, at best.

It’s amazing, though, the books you can find. I guess some avid readers discard their books as soon as they’re done with them. They must be neat freaks, or very generous. Possibly both. 

I keep my books in my stacks as treasures forever, much to my clutter-hating husband’s disappointment. 

One of my most recent finds is a copy of Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. I was going to wait until it came out in paperback, as its retail price is $32.50. But something told me to visit a particular thrift store, and there it was, ripe for the picking, for $3.98. I nearly fainted with excitement at my luck! Kingsolver deserved the Pulitzer Prize. 

It always amazes me how many copies of Going Rogue by Sarah Palin are available at the local Goodwill. There’s always at least one copy, if not several, sometimes all lined up together like a disheveled army of skanks. 

But other political surprises include Omarosa’s book, Unhinged. and The Room Where It Happened by John Bolton, both inside looks at the Trump white house. With hardbacks two for $4, it was worth the investment. Still sitting in a stack of books on the floor of my mini library, unread. I’ll get to them one day.

And I swear, some fundamentalist Christian groups “donate” books just to wreak havoc. Cheap copies of The Bible and titles like How to Be a Good Christian Wife or The Subservient Woman. Planted right next to the also ever-prevalent copies of the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. Well-played, Goodwill employees. 

Just a few frequently banned titles from my collection. Photo by author.

Since book banning is a serious problem where I live, I also love to pick up books off of my county’s no-no list. Call me a rebel, but these titles have got to be great for them to be banned. I’ve read many on the list already, confirming my suspicions, but now I’m on a mission to find them all. For personal research, of course. And to collect multiple copies of the juiciest ones to share.

My favorite bookstores, however, are the little mom-and-pop shops. Some have new books. Some have used books. Some have both. I have to buy something if I go. 

You know the type: a quaint little shop in an eclectic part of town that also has treasures like books by local authors, works from local artists for sale, and a resident cat. Because a great bookstore always has a cat!

There’s a little shop in Carytown in Richmond called Chop Suey that has recently changed owners (and names). Their cat retired. I don’t know if a new one has taken residence yet. Perhaps a visit is in order…

But I’m a fan of them all. Fancy and new, used mega bookstores, thrift stores, or mom-and-pop shops, each serves a purpose in the book lover’s universe. 

Before you ask me why I don’t just go to the library to check out books (and don’t get me wrong, I also LOVE the library), I adore my collection of books, all trophies to be treasured, some waiting to be read, others already consumed and a part of my soul.

To part with them would be like cutting loose beloved old friends. And that’s never fun. 

____________

Lead photo of a small bookstore courtesy of Pixels for WordPress.

We recently ditched cable, so reading has become my primary form of entertainment.

Do you love books as much as I do?  I’d love to hear about it!

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.