I’m recovering from a meltdown. An airshow (and the practice leading up to it) shut me down like an off switch. Bose QC35 noise-canceling headphones, worn from sunup to sundown, couldn’t shield me from the ridiculous pilot shenanigans; she said, acidly. I was in air defense units for several years of my military career. I’ve been vigilant of the sky ever since as if programmed to assume watch whenever outdoors. It wasn’t part of my specialty, but I had the opportunity to witness, and a few times, (range) fire all of the Army’s air defense weaponry. Cherished experiences.
I don’t worry about war, as many do. America has been at war my entire life, and likely yours. I have a tremendous amount of faith in our military from experiencing it firsthand. I paid for this comfort with sweat, tears, and anxiety that too often manifested as inopportune hurling for distance. (Raising fist in solidarity with anyone who has ever been beaten up for accidentally barfing on someone.) It was worth it. Plus, I had access to a lot of cool shit a decade before civilians; (like email.) I just deleted a whole paragraph about the old days. You’re welcome. 🙃
I’m hoping to regain my ability to speak aloud today. I’m confident Solange’s A Seat at the Table on repeat will draw out my voice. Music’s power over my neurology and mood astonishes and delights me. It’s my favorite survival tool. When I can’t talk, I tend to stop communicating altogether. People are especially dangerous at these times, so it’s isolation without my consent. When I recover basic functionality, I may enjoy solitude a little too much. The rock I used to dwell beneath sends such warm invitations. (In my head, Stevie Nicks clears her throat, then burns them while making eye contact.) No worries on that front. Heh.
I’m off to start wrapping my head around a mini-vacation this weekend. Good thing I like obsessively planning for shit. 😂✌🏾💜
A Black Lady Sketch Show on HBO is my new favorite show. I’ve been streaming it like it’s Homecoming by Beyoncé. I’m an okay bitch with autism, yo. (Flutters my bald eyelashes.) HBO is still the only network that can tell me where to be and when; (so bossy.) 😉 I hope they have Wanda Sykes and Whoopie Goldberg on there at some point. (And Regina King, Ellen Cleghorne, Aisha Tyler, and so many more.) 😆
I’m going to stream it again after this. Heh. I keep wanting to talk about Solange, but words don’t work here. It would be a post of me typing Solange over and over again while grinning like a doof. (You have no idea how close I came to doing just that.) At least it would feel kind of like expressing my joy for her existence. Sigh.
Solange isn’t just the newest member of my Healing Sisters Internal Advisory Panel (HSIAP via music.) She’s the boss. In my head, she walked right up to Stevie Nicks, Amy Lee, Agnetha Faltzkog, Sheryl Crow, Mary J. Blige, (there’s more) and Beyoncé, and said, can I hold the mic, please? (All signs indicate Solange won’t be giving it back any time soon.) She skipped trying to reach me with mere lyrics and went right for my spirit. 😳🤭
Solange has been here before. Her music. Nobody who only lived that long for the first time can do that, yo. That’s the best I can articulate. (And yes, I’m working on it.) I know a lot of other artists are popping right now, but frankly, Solange practically owns my ears at this time. Aside from Brown Skin Girl, of course. That song is on repeat whenever I’m not listening to Solange’s When I Get Home. Everything else is on pause.
I’m getting ready for a solo road trip north. My sister needs me, and she’s the one person left on this planet who has mom-like powers over me. (Otherwise, oh hell no.) It’s a big deal for me to drive five hours in a single day with ridiculously monotonous scenery. I’ve done it before, but not often. To go from that challenge immediately to being in someone else’s space to offer my services as a sister is bigger.
My spirit stirred me to do it, which is something I haven’t wrapped my head around yet. (I don’t think I would have even picked up on it if not for Dr. Keia mentioning these things happen.) Hence, running with it. My sister knows me well enough to avoid hinting since it’s futile with me. (Tell me what you mean, or disappointment will ensue.) It’s time to stretch my more healed self and flex my growth. I’m terrified, but I’m going to do it anyway.
When I get home (heh), I’m going to Denver for a mini recreational vacation. Guitar Hero is going to buddy-sit while I transform from a nodder who never makes eye contact into someone who suddenly uses gestures, looks at people, and won’t STFU for an hour after two hits. He finds it amusing and claims it’s like hanging out with my anime version. (Possibly said animated, but I like anime better.) Enough oversharing. I’m off to belly laugh over my new favorite show. 💜✌🏽
Welp. Healing is hard. It takes a lot of energy and mindfulness. I didn’t realize it, but living on autopilot for so long has consequences. I’m having to train my brain to be present without exhausting my energy levels at an alarming rate. It’s rocket science, yo. This level has a lot of work involved. I feel surprised every time I get a moment to catch my breath (thanks, Solange) and look back at what I just accomplished. It’s not a comfortable feeling; more like, whew! I don’t have time to over-analyze everything while zoning out anymore. It requires me to trust my values and make decisions before I feel confident in my choices.
It’s another part of adulting that wasn’t in the brochure. I’m relieved my love of speculative fiction comes with the bonus that most epic sci-fi and fantasy novels are also ethics training guides. (You still have to do the work of understanding the symbolism and lessons interwoven into the story, though.) In my case, it means rereading and or viewing after thinking about it for a while. I often have to listen to my favorite podcasts more than once to take it all in. I love this quirk because they’re always funnier the second time. (My epitaph shall state: She lived her life on CP time.)
Speaking of podcasts; I want Crissle West and Kid Fury (of The Read podcast) to read my life when I pass. (I set up a savings account just for this purpose.) My funeral is going to be hilarious and healing (assuming they agree to do it.) I’ll leave them a note, a recent decent photo, and the keys to my apartment, and let them snoop through my stuff (and kiki until they feel like they get who I was.) Random peeks at my journals, going back to age four will probably more than suffice. (Good thing I had access to a typewriter, but my spelling was phonetic-ish.)
I want it to be for the people who grew up with me. The kids who went to school with me and played with me as a child. The neighbors who were part of my village and accepted me as a child in the community. The teachers who stood out as exceptional and excellent. The people who perhaps didn’t treat me well, but since evolved into better people, and want to heal from past mistakes — my village. I’m very attached to Sioux Falls. I’ve traveled and lived in other countries, but when I got to choose, I came home.
I recognize this is a wee bit morbid, but I still have PTSD. One of the symptoms is being hyper-aware of my impending death. (And every single time someone murders a transgender woman, I have to claw my way up from the floor and somehow convince myself I can handle living on a planet where people do such fucked up things.) When I stop having a blast planning my funeral to amuse myself, I’ll know I’ve healed. Until then, I’m good at managing it. I’m no longer treading water; I have the upper hand with depression and anxiety now. They can only challenge me, not own me, which is a blessed distinction. I celebrated hard and long, heh.
Depression: Whatever, bitch, you still have to fight me off, even if it no longer takes all your resources.
Me: Look at you, so sassy. Don’t interrupt when adults are talking, please.
This week on The Friend Zone podcast was their 200th episode. It was so good. I mean it’s always good, but this week was special. They were openly vulnerable to the degree you couldn’t help but love them to pieces. It’s so rare when people you don’t know IRL are publicly unshielded like that. Part of you can’t help but slide into protection mode and start daring anyone to criticize them in any way, (because you’re unbelievably poised to correct any such shenanigans with a thoroughness likely to result in mild emotional trauma for anyone feeling lucky.) That good. 💜💜💜
I’m still stunned these babies (to me) are teaching me so many things for which I didn’t even know to wonder. My life is more joyful since I started listening to their podcasts and trying the things they introduce, reading the books, and doing the homework. I need to get busy paying it forward because I’m building up a deficit. I signed up for Daily Harvest after Fran mentioned it thrice. (3 times is magical to me, thanks to Patrick Rothfuss.) I’ll update when I get my order. It’s as if the universe witnessed how preparing a whole chicken ruined my ability to eat meat, and said, I got you. Yay. I’m off to beat my drums with sticks. (Excellent way to recalibrate my brain when I sense an impending meltdown.) 💜✌🏾
Welp. I cooked my first keto meal today. I used an instant pot/pressure cooker and a recipe from a keto book. It was successful enough that I can still eat the results. I learned a great deal in the process. Before this, M cooked my food. He’s a vegetarian; I didn’t even ask him to prepare food for my keto diet. I’ve baked cookies from scratch, but that’s about the extent of my kitchen abilities. I blew it as a kid in my mom’s kitchen. (If the same flooring exists in the kitchen of my childhood home, I’m confident I could still create suds with just a little bit of water.)
I put liquid dishwashing soap in the dishwasher. I used a liberal amount. Then I dared to play with the resulting Bubblepalooza until my mom returned from the grocery store, horrified. I was sofa king banned from even entering the kitchen after that fiasco. I had to stop at the threshold and ask for things. It sucked. Don’t try this at home. The Army spoiled me by providing mess halls. For years after, I didn’t eat hot food unless someone gave me some.
M made me a pseudo vegetarian. (I didn’t know how to select and cook meat, so I ate what he cooked. And lots of candy.) I have a huge sweet tooth. My mom was on the health kick before I existed and throughout my childhood. I was ten the first time I had a Coke, (and it burned my mouth and made me choke.)
I recently found out my sweets craving has an off switch, much to my delight. Increasing the (right) fats in my diet turned it off. I didn’t even notice at first. I just stopped craving sweets. My challenges with cooking today were based on not having the proper equipment, and not reading the instructions for the instant pot, beyond the warning labels. I overcooked and slightly burned my Mexican Egg Casserole. (It’s breakfast until it’s gone.)
While still edible, it lacks flavor, probably because I overcooked it, which is something I’m surprised I identified with my middle school taste level. (Thank goodness for hot sauce.) Had I read the instructions, I would have realized pressing start was necessary for the timer to begin counting down. Whoops. (Fortunately, it told me my food was burning with a beep and text.) 😂🤭 The recipes are not autism-friendly. They leave out a lot of information. Chopping an onion for the first time (with a crappy steak knife) took a while.
I wish it had given precise instructions on how to go about this task, including which tool to use. Start from washing the onion, and finish with chopped onions ready to be added to the pot. Pictures in progress would be immensely helpful. (They say a thousand words and all that.) Next time, I’ll choose a book that has a better quality of presentation over the number of recipes included. (600 seemed like a good idea at the time.)
Since there’s a good chance the grocery delivery person has more meat choosing experience than me, I ordered my ingredients from Hy-vee grocery. (+10 for accepting available assistance.) I just ordered all the tools I need for next time. A food scale, measuring cups and spoons, knives and cutting boards, and mixing bowls. Now I know why M only cooks at his place. 🤣 (He’s too polite to tell me my kitchen is lacking, no doubt.)
I’m proud of myself for barely succeeding on my first try. Heh. I’m amazed by how much food I got for so little money compared to buying junk food. I have all the ingredients for a week’s worth of lunches and dinners in my fridge. This weekend will be my second attempt. I anticipate it going much better. Fortunately, M’s cooking is keto-friendly if I skip the bread, so I have time to learn. (Premature publication) I’m off to continue reading Fall by Neal Stephenson. I love it so much and am at about halfway through. 😆✌🏾💜
It’s been a challenging week. I think my dietary changes have messed up my executive functioning. The red flags consist of:
Excessive wandering (Exhibit A: Fitbit data indicating 20k+ steps in a single day without leaving my apartment)
Sudden inability to complete basic quests in World of Warcraft due to complicated instructions
Unexpected difficulty in recalling how to respond to simple internal messages like nature calling
Increased rigidity requiring time-consuming self-talks on being reasonable
Excessive frustration from minor failures, even though I know, intellectually, they’re helping me succeed, eventually (Yep. I’m Komma Kamelion)
There’s more, but this is discouraging, so enough already
I strongly suspect my brain needs me to eat sugar in the form of fruit daily. The only things I crave are water, protein, sugar, fat, and salt. (My body doesn’t usually ask for anything more specific.) I eliminated sugar a week ago today. Ever since I’ve been thinking about mangoes, bananas, and pears; it seems to be the only thing my mind can hold on to at the moment. Everything else is annoyingly just out of reach. (Including my grammar, no doubt.)
I’m convinced I need to acquire some fruit and rectify this situation. I’m using an app called Carb Manager. It’s deep with helpful tools (premium version) to track my intake and develop a food plan tailored to my particular body. It allows me to determine my goals in several categories. Five stars. It’s like having a friend who’s studying to be a dietician in my phone. Everyone in my social tribe is striving to be their best self. The support and information sharing helps tremendously. I’m going back to gummy vitamins and supplements, too.
I’m sending others to attend The Beyoncé Movie (aka Lion King) on my behalf (due to excitement regulation issues.) 😆🤪🤭 Sending local friends is easy peasy. Then I tried to buy tickets for friends of a friend in another state. Unfortunately, Fandango sucks so severely; it made me wonder if the company is just a front for some illegal activity. Enter Fandango scam in any search engine, and you’ll see. So shady; my bank automatically won’t authorize transactions from Fandango. Period. Wow.
In my head, Crissle West, (First of Their Name), from The Read podcast, responded with a read so scathing, hilarious, and spot-on. Then (I imagined) she ordered the CEO to take a naked Walk of Atonement down Internet Street until they emerge open-mouthed wailing while covered in shit, feet bleeding. (I also imagined) Kid Fury was ringing a bell and yelling shame the whole way while wielding a shield to keep the flying filth from touching him. (Just like they did the Goodwill bitch from Illinois this week ((who since got a clue.))) 😂🤣😭
Congrats go out to Gwendolyne Christie for submitting herself for an Emmy and getting nominated. That was even cooler than beating the Hound so thoroughly he decided to embrace karma. I’m thrilled by so many nominations; it’s ridic. I’m off to beat my drums with sticks. 💜✌🏾