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Chapter Five: Black and White-ish

It seems like everywhere you turn these days there’s another male politician/actor/entrepreneur/singer/journalist being accused of sexual harassment or sexual assault. Some people are surprised by the names coming out of the darkness. Some people are screaming that due process hasn’t been done before these men of power lose their jobs. Others are, of course, attempting to impugn the characters of women who have come forward, especially if they felt their grievances haven’t been aired in a timely-enough manner. Besides waking up every day to see if this sham of a president has started World War Z yet, we all flock to Facebook or whatever ‘news’ source we rely on in the morning while in the bathroom to see who else went down in flames overnight. Who else are we boycotting/trolling/mad at today? What did he do? Who did he do it to? How long ago was it done? Do we try and counter the not-so-good from the past with the good works they’ve done since then? And do I really have to sort through all of these emotions before I have had my first cup of coffee?

I also see people getting taken apart for saying harassment and assault fall along a spectrum, and that you shouldn’t necessarily lump one group of men with the other. People who are rapists or who have exposed themselves to women in the workplace aren’t the same as the guy who grabs your hand walking down the street to get your attention or who makes a gross comment about the sway of your hips as you walk past him on the sidewalk. People come out with pitchforks whenever they hear this comment made! If a man says it, then he is complicit. If a woman says it, she’s a femi-nazi or self-loathing or something else altogether. My counter to that argument from the woman’s perspective, is that she herself has likely been harassed and/or assaulted and has compartmentalized these experiences into their own little boxes of misery. She has put her entire life’s worth of being made to feel powerless in one way or another on her own sliding scale of gross behavior so that she is able to push forward and continue with the business of living her own life. Not letting what happened to her keep her from being successful both emotionally and financially, whilst also burying deep in the back of her mind the knowledge that with each passing day she loses any credibility if she chooses to bring her assailants to justice – if she even knew his name in the first place. She is aware that people will think that if she speaks up at work against the Water Cooler Flirt, people will think she is being too emotional and that they can’t even speak to her without offending her and making her run to HR. That she only thought his comments were inappropriate because she wasn’t attracted to him, but if it had been Copy Room Dude instead of Water Cooler Flirt she would have blushed like a little school girl virgin and loved the attention. I’ve recently seen talking heads on cable news saying that all of these complaints are ruining company Christmas parties, and grown men as asking if they can even say someone looks nice or is wearing a pretty outfit without it causing a complete scandal in the office. Will telling Susan you like her new haircut lead to Ted losing his job? Stay tuned for next week’s episode of “Can You Seriously Not Tell The Difference Between Harassment and a Compliment?” for the answer!

Now. By this point in my post you’ve probably formed an opinion about why I feel the way I do. You either agree with me or are perched atop your moral high horse (who is black and white in color), and you feel justified in thinking about just how WRONG I am on this subject. You cannot fathom how I could think that sexual assault and harassment can be, and sometimes must be, looked at on a sliding scale of unacceptable, and you probably feel good about that opinion. You have decided I am either seriously misguided or a self-loathing, pick me, these-women-should-have-said-something-sooner person. You’ve decided I am not mad enough at the men who are being accused, and feel that because I have given any room for grey space at all that I am essentially victim-blaming, even without saying the actual words. For me, very few things in life are black and white, and I say there are degrees of unacceptable behavior that must be addressed and reacted to accordingly. I shall provide examples for people who are sitting there reading with a furrowed brow already forming their responses to how wrong my views are on this matter. To them, I say to indulge me a bit while I walk you through some of the most painful parts of my life, and if you still don’t understand where I am coming from…well I honestly don’t care if you understand where I am coming from because my views on this as a survivor are pretty set in stone for my own self-preservation.

I am, and will always self-identify as a survivor of sexual assault. I am also a woman who endures sexual harassment on an almost daily basis from complete strangers who feel entitled to my body and my time. Given that I am both of these things at the same time, and I definitely was affected on a greater level by my assault rather than any subsequent harassment I faced, I rank my personal traumas on a sliding scale. I have to wake up every day remembering what happened to me, and live with the idea that instead of calling the police or  fighting back, my dignity got dismantled right in front of my face and I did nothing to stop it. Let’s share some examples, shall we?

I went home with a friend from college for the weekend during my freshman year of school. I remember my mom telling me stories of the fun she had going home with friends during college, and I was so proud of myself for getting on that train to Baltimore that day. I am a nervous person by nature and going so far from school felt like such an adult thing to do since even in college I would call my parents and tell them where I was going and who I was with, just in case I came up missing in DC. That city scared me up until the day I left it, and I haven’t been back to Baltimore at all since this incident. But I digress…After arriving in Baltimore, the plan for the evening was to go hang out at her friend’s house. That was cool with me since I was never a person who enjoyed clubs, and I envisioned sitting around with wine and conversation just like when my friends and I would hang out. I could never have imagined how different my life would become after that night. How different I, myself, would become.

Instead of a group of her friends hanging out at home, we went to some guy’s house who she was sleeping with and he had a roommate. It was weird, like being set up for a blind date and not knowing it was happening, but I tried to be cool about the situation like I hang out in strange men’s homes all the time. No big deal…all the while I sat there stiff as a board because if this had been a date I already knew this guy wouldn’t be anyone I would be interested in. He had just recently gotten out of jail, seemed more than a little rough around the edges for my personal taste, and something about his energy seemed…off. I was not comfortable being around him because I think he thought I had been brought there *for* him, and that was clearly not the case.

We sat around talking and I was watching the clock getting more and more over the situation with each passing minute. Just when I was hoping we would be leaving soon, my friend and her dude disappeared into the back room and the music was turned on. Clearly I knew I was stuck there for a while. This was before Uber and I didn’t know where I was to call a cab and leave, so I sat there and waited.

The guy could tell I was nervous, and told me not to worry. That we were just going to chill and watch some TV until our friends were done, and that I didn’t need to be in the corner sitting stiff as a board. He offered to bring me something to drink, and I naively accepted. I asked for water and he brought me wine. I was thirsty and my mouth was so dry that I took a sip. One sip was all it took for me to know he had put something in it. I kept pretending to drink to throw him off, and all the while I noticed the movie on the TV had been replaced with a porno where the actress had a similar shape and skin color as myself. I also noticed in between blinks which were lasting longer and longer that we were no longer the only two people in the room. He had called over a group of his friends, and they were all standing over me. I never took more than one sip of the drugged drink, so I didn’t black out, but I was definitely not coherent and I was also paralyzed by fear. The man are all watching the porno and talking to me about doing to me what they saw the woman doing on screen, and I kept trying to find my voice to scream for my friend in the back. Neither my voice nor my legs would work. It was at that point when I was surrounded on all sides of the bar stool I was sitting on, the stool was picked up with me on it, and I realized I was being carried off to the other bedroom. I had to think fast. When we got near the bathroom I pretended I was going to vomit and rolled off the chair. I locked the door just in time, but the group of men were trying to beat the door down. I made violent vomiting sounds to throw them off and ran the shower to drown out the phone call I made to my cousin Craig for help. I had my phone tucked in my bra, but even after calling him I couldn’t tell him where I was or how to come find me. I was helpless and alone and terrified.

The pounding at the door stopped, and eventually the roommate opened the door by picking the lock. I was on the floor by the toilet, curled up in a ball crying, and he suddenly became kind again. I knew it was an act and I played along because I didn’t know the angle, but I was still trapped in the bathroom. He told me it was safe to come out, that he sent his friends away, and that he was sorry if they scared me. I tried yelling for my friend again, but the music was just too loud for her to hear me and I wasn’t getting past this guy to bang on the door. I looked at the front door, but I had never been in an area like this before and somehow being outside was more terrifying than staying inside because of the trees, darkness, and isolation.

It was in this moment where the friend laid his cards on the table and gave me the kind of choice I pray nobody reading this ever has to make in their lives. As a ‘thank you’ for not letting his group of friends run a train on me, he was expecting me to show him some gratitude for being such an upstanding guy. And I got to choose how I thanked him. I could thank him with my mouth or I could thank him with what was between my legs. But he made it very clear that gratitude would be shown or those men would be called back over. So I made my decision, was stripped naked by a man for the first time in my life, and lost a little bit of myself that I’ll never get back that night. It was the single most horrific evening in my life, and my very first sexual encounter of any kind. I put that experience in a box and buried it. I told my friend what happened, she confronted him, he denied it, she believed him, friendship over. She even gave him my number so he could check up on me and ask if I wanted to see him again. I hate her to this day. I feel like I hate her more than I hate him, but even as I write these words I have a hard time articulating why that is. All of these emotions and memories live in a box at one end of my spectrum.

After I take the brief moment every single day to relive one of the most horrific instances of my life, I then have to prepare myself to have fortitude against every single man I will encounter that day who will touch me without asking, make lewd comments about the shape of my posterior and what they imagine they could do with it, or demand I give them my number even after I tell them I’m involved with someone.

I have to prepare for any rejection I give to be met with violence, because I have endured violence in the past. I have been followed down the street being screamed at by a man I would not speak to while walking alone. I have had a man drive in reverse down a one-way street to try and get my number, then when I told him I wasn’t interest he threw a glass bottle at me, called me ‘fat’, then drove off as I stood there in complete shock of how close that bottle came to breaking the front of my face. Elevators? I want to stand in a back corner so that wandering hands don’t touch my behind and then get blamed on it being crowded. Construction sites? Terrifying. The gas station? I’ve been getting proposed to at the pump since I was 12 years old. Men can be so goddamn disgusting towards little children, it makes my stomach turn.

In addition to daily, run-of-the-mill harassment, I have been violated by people with whom I shared an intimate relationship. I have had partners lie about putting on a condom. I have had partners pull the condom off during sex. These are both instances of rape. In that very moment the act becomes non-consensual if I never agreed to having sex without protection, but who has ever gone to the police with this complaint? I just recently learned they even gave this behavior a cute little name – Stealthing. Sounds like something a superhero would do or a private detective, not a person who just exposed your body to STI’s and an unwanted pregnancy just so he can enjoy the moment more without a latex barrier.

Even a man I had been dating for months allowed friends of his to drug me at his house and take pictures and videos of me in various stages of undress. I was then blamed for not being able to hold my liquor and acting out of control around his friends. I can only pray nothing else happened while I was blacked out because I have many hours that I cannot account for from that night. I found out the truth a few weeks later because his roommate let slip at dinner that they had intentionally gotten me intoxicated and doped up as part of a hazing process to join their friendship group. And he was so bold that he admitted this while we were having dinner with my mother present. I didn’t say anything. I did not confront either my boyfriend or his roommate in that moment. I just stopped eating, gathered my mother who was holding her knife like she was about to do some serious jail time if I didn’t get her out of there immediately, and I left. Sadly, just as in college, I did not report him to the police because I was embarrassed and knew I couldn’t prove what happened all those many weeks later. Plus he was well-respected and admired in the community, and I knew it would be my word against his. I just froze the memory, put it away as a lesson learned, and kept moving forward. Again. I wish that I hadn’t, but I did, and now for me it is too late to say anything.

The perversion of Rape Culture is that it does not only extend to outward manifestations of violence towards women. And in this area, there are none who are without blame. We all have to own the mess we’ve created. We must own every ‘boys will be boy’ comment that took personal responsibility from the child for his bad behavior because those lessons and exceptions have followed him into adulthood. For every time we made not being raped the responsibility of the woman and not the man, we as a society must own it. For every time a woman felt she had to lie about having a man or being gay or anything else besides simply not wanting to give a random stranger her phone number, we must own that. Teaching little girls that little boys hit them or are cruel to them because they have a crush. Not teaching little boys how to communicate feelings and intentions with genuine emotions and not simply forgiving their hyper-aggression towards women because ‘boys don’t cry’. By being told we are being ‘too sensitive’ if we actually *do* speak up about behavior we found offensive, especially in the workplace. By allowing ourselves to be slut-shamed for not being a virgin or for dating multiple people at a time. By feeling that we owe anyone an explanation for our bedroom behavior so that we aren’t viewed as a whore. By allowing any dialogue at all that does not cement the phrase ‘NO MEANS NO’ and the fear of prosecution, persecution, and penalization into the minds of each and every man and woman out there to make it known that the days of victims fading quietly into the background are done. Until we made pedophilia as much a deplorable crime to some people as being homosexual or wearing a mini-skirt at a bar on a Saturday night (I’m looking at YOU, Alabama). Until we make it where women and men feel empowered to speak up, come out of the shadows, ruin the lives of those who ruined theirs, and make society itself a caustic and hostile environment for these behaviors, we must all sit back and allow the victims to come forward with their stories. And we must allow them to put their trauma on whatever scale they need it to be on to help them cope and live their lives with the dignity they deserve.

I will continue to keep certain actions compartmentalized and view assault on a gradient because that is *my* coping mechanism. I am deeply affected by it all, but the pervert who got handsy in the elevator isn’t the same monster who raped me. He could be that monster to someone else, but I cannot take responsibility for every hypothetical worst-case scenario out there or I will lose my mind. While I agree that embarrassment and punishment should happen to anyone who abused their authority to dehumanize a female colleague, I just can’t put a cat-caller and date rapist in the same category. I cannot say the person who took a stupid and vulgar picture pretending to grab a woman’s breasts is the same as the person who took a drunk girl into the alley and raped her behind a dumpster. I cannot punish the douche-bag boss who said I looked ‘exotic’ the same way that someone should be punished for exposing themselves and ejaculating in front of a subordinate as a show of force. Those men are different to me. They could be monsters to someone else, and everyone else will compartmentalize these behaviors differently based on their experiences, but for me they are not the same.

We are all responsible. We are responsible for the men being raised feeling entitled to a woman’s time and body. We are responsible for the women who forgive and ignore it. And we are responsible for media and entertainment that project women’s bodies as being used at the discretion of whoever can overpower her mentally or physically. We are all responsible. And we should also acknowledge that everyone’s trauma will feel different to someone else. That people who react on a sliding scale of awful aren’t trying to be complacent and aren’t condoning the behavior, but we are saving our reserves of outrage for the charges that most reflect the worst moments in our lives. Trauma is not black and white. People are not black and white. Life is not black and white. Therefore my personal logic dictates that outrage cannot be black and white either. And it isn’t. And my views on this will remain unchanged forever, or until the parts of me that have been broken and damaged are made clean and whole again.

Chapter Four – Homeless As Fcuk, Rooted In Myself

I was raised in a small southern suburb of Dallas, TX. I grew up in a home with my two parents, my younger brother, and my puppy Cocoa. We were as close to The Cosby Show as a family could get – both parents were educated professionals, we lived in nice homes in nice neighborhoods, my dad golfed, and my mom was a member of various organizations and never missed a school activity. As for myself personally, I got good grades, was student council president, an honor student, danced with the drill team, had a lot of friends, and never got into ANY trouble. I traveled, attended charm school, loved to read and write, and was about as sheltered as any child could possibly be growing up. I never saw real poverty, was protected from death and illness until I was older, was never physically abused, had my own phone line in my own room, and I was happy. I had a very, very happy childhood. Not perfect – but happy. And through all of my happiness growing up in a small city in Texas, I had always dreamed of going to college in Los Angeles to be near my father’s side of the family and where I was always super happy. My father assured me that he had the power to bestow upon me dual citizenship as an official Angeleno since he, himself, was from the City of Angels, and that was what I always wanted. I was a Texan, but had always been in love with LA. I was going to attend UCLA where my aunt was a professor, spend time with my cousins, go to the beach all of the time, hug a palm tree, and just live the Golden Life. I was on a path. It made sense. It was safe with just a dash of daring, but nothing too crazy because my family in LA would make sure I was ok being so far from my safe little suburb and my parent’s protection. And then I walked through the doors of my high school the first day of my junior year and had a complete and total breakdown. There was no way in HELL I was leaving Dallas, never mind leaving Texas! I couldn’t move away! My entire life was in Texas. My family was there, all of my friends were applying to schools in-state, and I didn’t want to leave the only life I had ever known. Not even to fulfill my love affair with the West Coast. I just wasn’t having it. I immediately decided I was going to school in-state, and in my mind there was nothing else to think about. Texas has some great schools, and I would go to the best one I could and get a scholarship and be near my family and friends. Like high school part two. Duncanville continued. Nice and safe and familiar. My mind had been made up.

I made good grades, did well on my standardized and advanced placement exams, and then put together a list of the top schools I was going to apply to. There was Southern Methodist University at the top of the list since that’s where my best friend Genny was applying, The University of Houston because that’s where my *other* best friend Kellye was applying, and some other schools that have escaped my memory so far removed at this point. But I was accepted to all of them and I had never been happier in my life! I decided I would attend SMU, and my bestie and I started plotting on how to become roommates and daydreaming about all of the fun we would have together! I wore SMU t-shirts, SMU flip flops, would go to North Dallas to visit campus and daydream about what a charmed university experience I was about to have. I was over-the-moon excited! I was going to be a Mustang!! And then my father put the application for Howard University on my desk, said to fill it out because I had already missed the early application deadline, and I needed to make sure I could secure a spot for their Fall 2001 class with financial aid. I looked at him like he had lost his mind. Totally and completely lost his mind. There was no way I was going to Howard University. In Washington, DC?! I would rather have thrown myself onto a fire ant pile covered in honey than move to DC. Never mind the fact that I didn’t want to leave Texas, you wanted me to head in the opposite direction of my second love, Los Angeles? Nope. That wasn’t going to happen. So I threw the application in the garbage as soon as he left my room, and began to put the unpleasant memory out of my head as I started daydreaming about attending SMU the next year. My father, however, was hip to my shenanigans, and after three more failed attempts to get me to fill it out on my own I was made to fill it out under duress. I filled out my application to Howard University with him standing over my shoulders to make sure I didn’t toss it away again like I had the first few copies. When I asked him through tears why he was making me apply to a school that I was hands down not ever going to attend, he looked me dead in my face and said that I needed to leave Texas and experience the real world. That no daughter of his was getting stuck as a “Texan” if he could help it, and that as proud of me as he was for getting into the other schools the only option was Howard because that’s where his money was going to go. And I completely lost my shyt.

See, even though he lived in Texas for roughly thirty years, the state and people in it never quite grew on him. From what I have always been told, he and my mom only settled there after getting married because my mom’s dad was sick and she wanted to spend time with him before he died.  If that hadn’t been the case, my brother and I would have been raised in Southern California where my father was convinced everything made a lot more sense. He had good friends in Texas and a lucrative career, but something about the idea of Texas exceptionalism, Evangelicalism, and covert racism disguised through the smiles of neighbors and law enforcement really bothered him. He wanted me to live in another part of the country and attend an HBCU to learn that there was more to life than what was in the Lone Star State…and I hated him for it. And that hatred intensified when I was accepted to Howard University and given a full academic scholarship because I knew there was no going back. There was no denying my father as I didn’t come up in a family where you told your parents what you were or were not going to do, and the decision of what college I attended was no different. I was going where I was told to go, and that was the end of that. My fathers words kept bouncing around in my head about not wanting his daughter to be a “Texan” and how he wasn’t raising me to be one. I didn’t know what that meant or what the big deal was. Of COURSE I was a Texan! It was the only home I had ever known, and now I was being forced to leave and move to a big city far from my family and friends without any consideration of my wants or feelings. I had one cousin at Howard already, but it was of little comfort since he and I weren’t terribly close at that time. That last summer when I was at home, he and I barely spoke to each other and when we did speak it always devolved into a screaming match. I even opened my mouth and told my father that I hated him. And I meant it and he knew it. The morning that I we were leaving for DC, my father came into my bathroom while I was getting ready, pulled me into his arms, told me how he had cried like a bitch the night before thinking about how his daughter was growing up and leaving, and how proud he was of me. I stood there with my arms by my side and wouldn’t even hug him back. I wouldn’t even look at him. He told me one day I would understand why he was doing what he felt he had to do, and then he turned and left.

Fast-forwarding through my Howard years (saving for future posts) and arriving at the summer after graduation, I remember sitting down with my dad and telling him that I finally understood why I needed to leave.  The skills acquired and life lessons learned while at Howard prepared me to take on absolutely anything that came my way, and I cannot say that I would be so well-rounded or resilient if I had gone to school an hour away from home in a city that was still very homogenous in its beliefs and culture. I had agreed to move home for a year before starting either law school or grad school, and I was already itching to leave. Nothing shows you just how different Texas is from the rest of the world like living somewhere else for four years and then coming home. I was home, but not really. Everything was familiar but so very different. I was different. Nothing felt like it used to anymore and I could not wait to make my next moves. I owed my father a debt of gratitude for forcing me out of my comfort zone, and I remember sitting with my daddy that summer and telling him so. I thanked him and told him that as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. He usually was about most things, and I told him how much I loved him and how grateful I was for him forcing his hand all those years ago.

I said goodbye to my father – my hero and biggest champion of my excellence – the August after graduation. His death completely devastated me. I would never be whole again, but he trusted me to hold it together and keep the family moving forward so that was what I tried to do. But I also had a promise to keep to him, so by the next Fall I was sitting in a law school classroom in Los Angeles trying to fulfill my end of the last bargain we struck with each other. I was in my favorite city, the birthplace of my father, getting the law degree he always wanted me to have, and spending time with the Left Coast part of my family. I had finally arrived! I was sad he wasn’t there to see it, but I was convinced I was finally walking in my purpose and I wasn’t going to let my father down. But the funny thing about keeping promises to other people that aren’t what you actually want for yourself is that at some point everything all comes crashing down. I had a near nervous breakdown and withdrew from school just a few days before I had to register for my 2L year courses. Took a sabbatical to be more accurate. I had never wanted to go to law school (another ‘Father Knows Best’ mandate), and I absolutely had not given myself the chance to mourn or heal after my father died, so I was in an emotional tailspin. I was heading down hard and fast with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a Long Island Iced Tea in the other, and if I hit the bottom I wasn’t sure if I would recover. I knew I couldn’t stay in school and I knew I couldn’t afford to stay in LA, but the idea of moving back to Texas caused me to come completely undone. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t go back! My father fought to get me out after resigning himself to the fact that he was destined to live and die in the place he hated the most, and if I was going to leave law school then the LEAST I could do was to not go back to Dallas.

I ended up in New Jersey for the next six years. Not sure if that was what he would have wanted, but living in NJ and working in NYC provided me with invaluable experiences and memories that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. And at the time it felt like I was honoring my father by not coming back to Texas, no matter how many obstacles I faced over the years. I stuck through it, overcame more than my fair share of shyt and economic hardships, and then BAM!! I landed in Miami, FL after being relocated for work! I had finally arrived!! I loved Miami and had wanted to live there for years, so finally getting to move to where I really wanted to live made me feel like I was making real gains in my life – both personally and professionally. If I couldn’t live in LA, then Miami was a close second and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be here!

I rarely went to Texas to see friends or family over the years, and I always said it was because I was busy working or didn’t want to leave my dog, Dallas. (And yes. My dog’s name is Dallas. I totally get the irony that I named him after the one place I swore I would never return to, but that is neither here nor there). Going home always gave me an uneasy feeling. Everything was familiar and easy when I went home, but I was always ready to leave after a week and get back to my spicy latinos and cultured Caribbeans and away from what I still felt was a truly homogenous and conservative environment. Whenever I WOULD go home, I would walk around with a head full of naturally kinky/curly hair, my militancy and Black Nationalist ideas coming out of my pores and glistening on the surface of my skin like the blessings of my ancestors, and I would not tone myself down to make people comfortable just because I was outnumbered and most assuredly outgunned. I wanted to shake people up and make them uncomfortable – to show them that there are those of us who leave Texas and have the veil lifted off of our eyes. We knew that even though everyone is nice and polite to your face, that Texas has a severe cultural rot festering beneath the gleaming facade of the state motto “Be Friendly,” and those of us who knew it was there would call it out and expose it at any cost. This mentality still terrifies my mother to this day, as she is always telling me to be careful so I don’t offend the ‘wrong person’ and end up hurt. To which I reply to her that “they” can’t kill us all, and I won’t be silent just to allow certain people’s false ideals of superiority to be perpetuated just so I don’t end up hurt. This back-and-forth always drove home the point that I could never live there again. Ever. I was just too different now. I was too awake. Too educated. Too true to myself to allow Texas to “Texas-fy” me into the submissive state in which I had been raised. I was just not a “Texan” anymore, and every time that plane took off heading back East, I was comforted that I was in the right place for me culturally and socially because I didn’t have to be less of myself to be safe and accepted and celebrated. I missed my family, but had found myself and that was worth so much more.

Which brings me to today. As I sit here on my sofa in Miami with the sun shining, palm trees swaying, and my dog resting by me feet, I am giving serious consideration to moving home. Back to Texas. Turns out my dream city has over time turned itself into a nightmare, and I find myself longing for the simplistic nature of North Texas. The overall cost of living is a LOT cheaper, the jobs are plentiful, and even though you’re sure your neighbors vote against your best interests in every election as least they’re friendly and polite. A place where I assume everyone is racist until proven otherwise, but where a thick accent, well-timed “Yes ma’am”, and a ‘bless your heart’ will legitimately solve 90% of the issues you face on a daily basis. A place with queso and cowboy hats. The best BBQ in the country and where Whataburger is king. The only problem is that the idea of moving back makes me physically ill. I feel like if I move back, or even worse if I end up staying there permanently, that I would have let my father down. Like I would have failed him. After breaking my promise to become a lawyer, the promise that I would never become a “Texan” seemed like one that I could keep because home isn’t home anymore. It stopped feeling like home while I was away at college, and Texas became Public Enemy #1 to me as soon as my father left this plane of existence. Texas just isn’t home without him there to complain about it. Leaving Texas was the last great battle that he had, and it took him dying to win it…well actually his fight endures because he was cremated and my mom still has his ashes. So even in death he hasn’t been able to physically escape the place he hated, but at least his soul is free. So what does that say if I willingly choose to go back, especially after I have fought so damn hard to stay as far away as possible for as long as possible?

It says that I am my father’s daughter after all, and I have been instilled with the ability to make the difficult decisions to achieve a desired outcome further down the road. The foundation of making me the type of woman I am meant to become has already been poured and set, and the framework for the house that holds my most basic and fundamental personality traits and belief systems has been raised. The hard work began in Duncanville, TX while growing up, was refined on the campus of Howard University from 2001-2005, and the work will never actually be completed because every major life event or transition will add a brick or apply a layer of paint to the exterior as the House of Ashley continues to grow upward, outward, and inward. I am now strong enough to be an “Ashley” in a sea of “Texans” and thrive. I thrive everywhere I go, and Texas will be no different if I decide to make the sojourn back up north. In Miami all major roads lead north, and from the way I have been feeling lately I have gone about as far south as a person can go before they end up upside down. Home will never be home again, but maybe I can create Home 2.0 or Home The Rexim and figure out the next steps in my life with my family and childhood friends by my side. Maybe I can move back to Dallas to regroup and refocus without it being seen as a failure or like I am spitting on my father’s wishes. Surely my father, who only wanted the best for me, would not judge me harshly if I make my way home for a better standard of living and to spend quality time with the only parent I have left? Doubtless he would trust that any children I might have will possess that same fiery rebellious spirit in them that I have now, and that they won’t be raised as “sheeple” and perpetuating a lot of the negative stereotypes associated with my home state? These are thoughts that have kept me awake at night. But if I am being honest, at this point I am no longer keeping promises to ghosts. They’re not here to clean up from the fallout, and as much as his opinion has always meant to me, from now on I do what is best for me alone.

I grew up in Texas, have lived in California, New Jersey, and Florida, and am thinking about going back to where it all started. But it still doesn’t feel like home. Still doesn’t feel like it fits. I am a woman in search of stability in a sea of uncertainty – of a future that isn’t bleak and exhausting. I yearn for simplicity and it might be possible that Texas is my route along the road to my next stop. To my forever home. It is said that you can never go home again, and I find that to be true. Texas is not my home any longer, but it may very well be a necessary stop along my path to the next great opportunity. I don’t care which ZIP code is attached to that endeavor as long as I am successful. I have a lot to prove to myself and to my father, but no matter what I chose and no matter where my journey takes me, my father can rest easy knowing that he did his job making sure I came out as well-rounded and multi-faceted as possible. He made sure to raise a citizen of the world, so no matter where I next plant my feet and raise my flag a part of him lives on. The woman I am now will not be easily influences or swayed back to the girl she was when she first left home. My home is inside of my spirit, so whenever I go I will always be home and my father will always be with me. One fist in the air, making the status quo uncomfortable, and being a voice of rebellion and sedition so that the veil of friendliness and Evangelical Christianity and unfounded exceptionalism comes tumbling down and people have to face their hypocrisy. That was his gift to me, and no matter what state I live in that gift will always be with me. That gift is my home.

Chapter 3 – Wedding Revelations

Last weekend I was honored to stand next to my oldest friend in the world as Co-Maid of Honor at her wedding. She was a beautiful bride, and happiness was radiating off of her in waves because she had found the man with whom she wanted to start a family. I had been asked to stand with her as she took her vows before family and God, and it will always be a memory that I treasure. However, as happy as I was for her to be marrying the love of her life, I initially wasn’t terribly excited about attending the ceremony. It wasn’t personal against her or her fiancé, but over the years I had somehow convinced myself that I did not like weddings. Marriages? All about them. But a wedding? The ceremony itself? Nah. Hard pass dude. Public displays of affection and emotion make me very uncomfortable, and I thought that they were just a giant waste of money – the ultimate scam that played off of people’s sentiments and conned them into paying for crap they didn’t need to impress people who didn’t matter. Not only did I not want to attend other people’s weddings, I was 100% sure that I never wanted one for myself if the opportunity ever presented itself. The fuss over the dress, the flowers, the venue, the guest list, the wedding party?!? It all seemed to be a waste of energy and money, and a surefire way to start your new life together in debt and exhausted. Plus, the way my anxiety is set up I can promise that at some point I would have had a complete breakdown and contemplated calling the wedding off or just eloping. I had convinced myself that I wanted no part of this ridiculous tradition, and because of my own feelings I was finding it hard to get excited to attend and participate in the happiest day of my friend’s life.

Well it turns out that I was lying to myself and did not know it until I was standing up at the alter during the wedding rehearsal. Watching my best friend and her then-finance in front of the priest together, seeing the intimate smiles and glances they shared with each other, the excitement from both families about the union and path forward as an extended family, I felt a tugging deep down inside of myself that I thought was dead and buried a long time ago. That tugging sensation worked its way up from the pit of my stomach, came crawling up my chest and into the back of my throat, and almost came tumbling out of the corners of my eyes before I was able to snap out of my trance. I didn’t know what had come over me until I watched my friend and her dad take their first rehearsal steps down the aisle together. Then the realization hit me like a ton of bricks and almost knocked me clean off of my feet. I don’t dislike weddings at all. I had simply convinced myself that I didn’t want any of these things back when my father died twelve years ago. The truth of the matter was that ever since I was a child I had always wanted an intimate, quiet, romantic wedding surrounded by only my closest friends and family. I wanted to get married in a beautiful champagne-colored dress bathed in candlelight and the warmth of a setting sun. I wanted to walk down the aisle to an Etta James song or to Claire De Lune by Debussy. I wanted to jump an actual broom as an homage to my ancestors, and walk through a shower of cream-colored flower petals or bubbles leaving the church. I wanted to share a laugh with my new husband in the car on the way to the reception as we opened the waiting bottle of champagne and toasted each other for becoming the other person’s everything for the rest of this life and the next. But I could not picture any part of this happening without my father by my side.

Finding a man who will love me forever – a man who will love me like my dad loved my mom – is almost too much to wish for. To find a man this special and not be able to share that singular moment of saying ‘I Do’ with my father was too much to even fathom. No daddy to walk me down the aisle and give me away? No father-daughter dance? Do I acknowledge him during the ceremony or act life there’s nothing out of the ordinary about him not being there? What is a fitting tribute on my Big Day to the man who isn’t there to participate? How could I possibly enjoy my wedding knowing that on the happiest day of my life I would still feel pain and loss and grief? How does one celebrate the moment when two hearts become one when a part of my heart died the day that I lost my father? What if the part of my heart that died was the part I needed to build a meaningful and lasting marriage with a good man? Is that why my relationships fail? Is that why I have tried to convince myself to not want a wedding because I also convinced myself that I don’t want to get married to protect myself from any additional pain? All of these questions caused me to shut down and close that part of my heart off. In relationships, I would play it cool when the subject came up and say how I’m not into conventional weddings, don’t like diamond rings, and how I would be cool with a courthouse wedding and the money could go towards something more logical. Lies. All lies. But convincing lies when confronted with the fact that any wedding I have will be unconventional because my father won’t be there.   These revelations I had while I was supposed to be paying attention in church almost brought me to my knees.

So now that I know the truth and can acknowledge that I actually do want a wedding one day, what does that all mean? Does that mean that my heart is beginning to heal and make itself ready to receive a man with whom I can build a life? Does this internalized moment of honesty mean I will start to attract the kind of man who doesn’t mind a little bit of conventionalism in his life, and who will also understand that the part of my heart that was my father’s will always be something I keep for myself? Will he love me enough to help me mourn and grieve during this transitional part of my life and hold me so tight that the parts of myself which were broken are made whole again through patience and prayer? Will he help me have a truly new beginning and not feel guilty about giving up my last name without my father’s blessing? Will he be someone who builds me up and doesn’t tear me down? Who won’t hurt me because that means he would be hurting himself? I think for the first time in more than ten years I am opening myself up to the possibility of this kind of commitment. And in doing so, have opened myself up to the idea of celebrating this kind of union in front of family and friends and not a judge in a courtroom with a random person serving as a witness. I’m doing the work now to make sure that I can be all of the things to my future husband that I pray he will be for me, so with God’s guidance, some real conversations with myself, and breaking down the guards I had installed on my heart against being hurt again maybe the right person will make himself known. He will love my scars, protect my heart, pray for our future, honor my father, and love me so deeply that for one perfect day we can live our fairytale beginning and vow in front of family and friends to work tirelessly towards our Happily Ever After.

A good love story is inspiring, even when the middle parts have some sadness and struggles. I will never get over losing my father, but if I can fix my heart to allow someone else to come in and make the rest of my heart feel so full of love that the part that died doesn’t take up as much space as before, I think that in and of itself will be a reason to throw one amazing celebration.

Chapter 2 – My Life Is My Own

I promised myself that this week’s post would be lighthearted and funny since last week took a lot out of me emotionally. Not every step taken towards self-enlightenment has to be serious and super introspective, right? We can have a bit of fun as we bounce along on our journey! So I spent the last week waiting to be struck by inspiration to write something that is thought-provoking, but in a cheeky way that makes you laugh while having an ‘a ha!’ moment. And. It. Never. Came. ::insert mild panic attack:: So as of last night I had convinced myself that my two week career as a blogger was over – at least for this week. I justified putting off until next week what I should have been working on for the past 7 days, and prepared myself to slumber away into mediocrity. Then my best friend in my head, Tracee Ellis Ross, came to my rescue. Shout to my girl Vanessa for the Facebook tag 🙂

I watched the speech she gave at the Glamour Women of the Year Summit, and it resonated with me and gave me chills. She started off by saying how interesting it was for her to be 45 years old, single, with no kids. How no matter what she accomplished professionally, in a matter of seconds she was immediately brought down a notch or two by well-meaning people questioning her life because for many people in society having a husband and kids is the true way for a woman to measure her success and happiness in life. How a woman becomes truly fulfilled.Neither Tracee nor I are for those shyts at ALL! She made me exclaim “Yass girl!” and nod my head in total agreement every 10 seconds as she big upped herself and gave herself credit for all of the wonderful accomplishments she had made, and it will likely be a speech that sits with me in my spirit for a long time. And I thank her for it. She said that your life is your own, so just fcuking live it the best way you want! And I feel that shyt on a very deep and personal level.

For better or for worse, I have lived a life of complete duality – As a child I always did what my parents expected of me, but as an adult I have consistently marched to the beat of my own drum and done what I felt was right for my life in that moment. My pendulum swung so far in the opposite direction that a lot of my friends and family thought I needed professional help or to reconnect with Jesus or something. They might have been right, but I didn’t see it that way and kept doing what I wanted to do. Grow out your perm and wear your natural hair? You’ll never find a man or get a job. Move to NJ after living in LA for a year? Sure, why not? Date this guy or that guy or both at the same time? Absolutely! Party in NYC on a weeknight and go to work the next day on three hours of sleep? Sounds like living to me! Move from NJ to Miami? Sign me up!

My Aunt Bertha used to tell me that I needed to stop moving around, settle down, and have a family. My Nana would say she was proud of my education, but that if I was too smart no man would ever want me as a wife. And when I graduated from Howard University and brought my degree to my grandmother so she could tell me how proud she was, all she said was how she didn’t understand how I went all the way to that colored school in DC and didn’t come back with a husband. People say that ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss,’ but who the hell wants to get all mossy when they can be covered in glitter and stardust and champagne bubbles as a result of all of the adventures out there to be had!

At this point in my life, there are certain opinions that other people should no longer feel comfortable sharing with me or they run the risk of getting their feelings hurt when I read them for filth. I do not need to be reminded that my ovaries are shriveling up with each passing day and that my window for having children is closing. I have pretty consistently said I do not want children, so this threat is not a major loss for me. And I still have time to change my mind if I choose to. Not one person who voices their opinion on this matter will be financing a thing once the kid gets here, so hush up. Your kids might have completed you, but I feel pretty fcuking complete having a clean house, money in my bank account, and a restful night’s sleep. Mind your business folks, and stay out of my uterus.

I also do not need to be reminded that the pickings for a good husband diminish with age, and that the risk of me finding the kind of man I could settle down with is fading like many of their hairlines. GAH!! Why on EARTH would I SETTLE for just any random guy when I can be FABULOUS by myself? I am free and complete in myself, even if I am a work in progress, and if I am to give up any part of that freedom it will be for a phenomenal man who doesn’t want me to settle down but who wants to run wild and free with me!

Along those same lines, I am not in the construction business so I am not looking for a man who is a project for me to build up into who I think he could potentially become. Fcuk. That. Foolishness. Forever. I am working on building myself right now, I ain’t got the time nor the inclination to build up a whole nutha capable adult. I’m not saying any man I date has to be 100% perfect or established, but I’m in a ‘refining’ stage in my life right now, not trying to start off a relationship with a dude who isn’t anything but a blueprint. Give that assignment to someone else, I don’t want it.

I do not need to be reminded that I am fluffy. Do my thighs rubbing together when I walk offend you? Does my soft midsection trigger you into having some sort of psychological breakdown? Do you think fat is contagious like a cold sore or leprosy? Do you think that my dance card (or bedroom) is empty because I’m not a size 6? Do me a favor and send me your address so I can order you some business of your own to attend to from Amazon or Ebay or wherever. I’ll even spring for overnight shipping to expedite taking this extra time off of your hands because that is the kind of person I am. You’re welcome. My fluff factor isn’t anyone’s business but my own, and poking my soft edges or telling me how much prettier I would be if I lost weight will get you dismissed from my life and cursed out in ways that would make Richard Pryor blush.

MY LIFE IS MY OWN!! And so is yours! And that is a wonderful thing!! If I never get married, I am still a complete person! If I never have kids, I will still have a happy life full of love and family! If I never lose weight, I am still pretty bish! ::flips hair and re-applies lipstick:: As far as I am aware, we only get one shot at this thing called Life, and I do not intend on living it to make anyone else happy but myself. And there is nothing wrong with that! I am selfish with loving myself, but that selfishness makes it possible for me to love others unconditionally. I apply the same standard to them that I want applied to myself, and as a result I have formed the most meaningful relationships with people who I know love me for me and whom I love and respect in return. We’re all just out here trying to be great, and for some of us that greatness is found down a path that is different from what we were indoctrinated to believe we needed to go.

LIVE YOUR LIFE! Love who you want to love, eat what tastes sweet on your tongue, love with reckless abandon, always keep a bottle of champagne in your fridge to toast the happy times, and let other people find their own unique way to the finish line of Life. Being the most completely happy and fulfilled version of yourself will let the Universe know what gifts and blessings need to be sent your way, and you will be in the position to receive it with open arms and an open heart. Be the best and strongest version of YOU, and get ready to be blown away by how that freedom reverberates out and affects others around you in a positive manner.

My Life Is My Own. It hasn’t always been and will not always be easy, but until the day I die it will always be authentic. Living my best and most fulfilled life is is the best gift I will ever be able to give, both to myself and to everyone else I meet as I keep skipping down my Path with a glass of wine in my hand, my dog by my side, and a trail of glitter marking my past adventures like the Black Girl Magic version of Hansel and Gretel.

Cheers!

Chapter 1 – Fearful No More

I truly cannot think of anything more tragic, more heartbreaking, and more of a waste of time than living a life of fear. It is such a ridiculous concept that I am ashamed to admit that this is what I have managed to do to myself for the past 34 years. I’ve always doubted my intelligence, my abilities, my God-given gifts. I’ve shunned compliments like the plague (I told y’all I wasn’t faking being modest or humble), and used self-deprecating humor to shield myself from the inevitability that people will pick me apart, tear me down, look down on me, or otherwise make me feel like a lesser person. Always.

I compared myself to other people constantly. I was always happy to cheer on my friends and their successes, but every time I did well and received any praise or accolades for myself I somehow felt like a fraud. Those good grades, soccer championships, nominations for honors societies, etc. were not really for me. Not the “real” Ashley. The Ashley who suffered from intense stomach cramps since the age of 4 stemming from anxiety (What does a 4 year old have to be anxious about?!). The Ashley who would have severe mood swings and cry all day in private, but then put on a big smile for a drill team performance or a student council leadership conference. The Ashley who was constantly being compared to her mother (tall, thin, brilliant, kind, gorgeous), her brother (tall, thin, brilliant, mild-mannered, handsome), or anyone else perceived as being ‘more than’ or ‘better than’ me. This inferiority complex became a crutch to avoid putting myself in uncomfortable situations, but also became the driving force behind my desire to be successful. The trouble with this approach is that I am never satisfied. I have no gauge with which to measure what I consider to be success in the long run, which further feeds my feelings of never being enough. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I have always tried to fade into the background of social situations in which I found myself, even if it did not appear that way on the surface. I guess I am what people now call an Introverted Extrovert. I was (still am) the person who would be devastated if I wasn’t invited to a party, but very rarely accepted the invitation and always tried to find a way to avoid going or leave early if I actually did accept. I left most slumber parties early as a child because I wanted to sleep in my own bed, I refused to do anything that could possibly cause me one moment of embarrassment (karaoke? I would rather die.), and if I ever lost a game or something I would get very down on myself and vow never to play again. I still hate losing. I hate it with a goddamn passion that burns white hot deep within me with the heat of 1 million suns. But I am getting better. White hot sun flame is a definite improvement from what I felt in my teens and twenties.

When interacting with strangers I wanted to lower their expectations of me to minimize the risk that I might be found to be fraudulent or inept in any of my thoughts or actions. I also had to fight the voices from some close family members who seemed to enjoy pointing out my deficiencies which only magnified them in my eyes. My issues never really stemmed from my parents growing up, but my anxiety, depression, and fear of total and utter failure can be traced to other branches of my family tree.  I had to fight my demons while trying to slay other people’s as well, and that was a very heavy burden for a child to take on against her will. And it did damage. Serious fcuking damage that reverberates through my spirit even today.

By the time I got to Howard University, I was so unsure of myself and terrified of Life in general that I squandered my four years at The Mecca. I hid my insecurities behind books (#SafeSpace), did not get involved with organizations where I probably could have contributed a lot just by being myself, didn’t go out and explore Washington DC because I was convinced I would end up dead in the Potomac River somewhere if I left campus,  and hung out with a very small handful of friends who never really forced me out of my comfort zone. They loved me and allowed me to always be myself, but I wasn’t pushed or challenged and that was all I really wanted – a safe place. I tried very hard not to make mistakes or take chances that normal college kids took just in case I had a less-than-desirable outcome, and I was convinced this would happen given my overall bad luck that was playing out in my head. Only as an adult do I fully grasp how warped this way of thinking actually was, and I will carry some regrets with me for the rest of my life.

This fear and uncertainty haunts me even today. As a kid I was afraid of being made fun of or not being “enough” to be successful, and as an adult I face those same fears every day. Fear that I am not doing my job well or somehow failing as a boss to my team. Fear that I can’t change jobs or career paths because what if I don’t 100% know immediately on Day 1 how to do my job and people think I am stupid? Fear that I can’t lose weight or get healthy because I have tried and failed so many times that it’s just easier to stay fluffy and not risk facing that failure again. Fear of Love because I have been abandoned, lied to, cheated on, emotionally abused, and sexually violated. Fear of marriage because I might get a divorce. Fear of kids because I might be too selfish for them, can’t give them the life I had growing up, or I might become one of “those moms” who lose themselves in their kids. What if I emerge 18 years later totally unrecognizable to myself and those around me?

I realize how very narcissistic this all seems – to think people give me as much thought as I give their perceived opinions about me…it’s just part of the fear and anxiety that has taken up residency in my own mind. Sigh.

But a wonderful thing has finally happened. I am finally tired of it. All of it. Exhausted really. I promised myself that by writing this blog every week I will be brave enough to live my life without self-doubt moving forward. I will fall. Spectacularly, with flair, and flat on my face. I will not, however, let myself be crippled with the delusional paranoia that everything I attempt will end in disaster and with the taunts of other people cheering on my failures. My Season of No Fear starts right now, and I will no longer let anxiety dictate my direction in life or my happiness! I will share my successes and failures, my highs and lows, my inadequacies and my triumphs. I will take a major step out on faith and finally see in me what so many others have seen in me for my entire life. And I will do it all my way. I’ll apply for a job that scares me. I’ll flirt with the cute guy at the parties I’m going to force myself to start attending. I’m going to forgive myself for eating and drinking my emotions over the years, and show my fluff some love with more veggies and shyt like chia seeds and kombucha and start healing my body from the inside out so I can live a long and healthy life.

I’m giving myself permission to be ok with who I am in this moment because I know that I am going to be fine. In the past I would succumb to my feelings of fear and inadequacy, but now I will embrace it and tackle it head on. The more I love and accept myself, the less afraid I am about what comes next and the more forgiving I am about what has happened in the past.

This blogging journey is a critical step in my self-healing, and I am feeling inspired! I’m doing something for myself- I’m taking control. I’m giving fear both middle fingers and toasting this new-found self-love with a nice cold glass of Chardonnay to celebrate! Cheers to you all!

Cheaper Than Therapy – An Introduction

So it finally happened. I decided to write my very first blog post ever. I have had all of these ideas floating around in my head for what feels like forever, and then one day after being bullied (encouraged) by friends to just do it, I said “Eff it! I’m gonna write my thoughts and feelings down and then share them with a bunch of strangers on the Internet!” And it actually sounded like a good idea…which should have been an immediate indicator that this shyt was about to get real and I might want to re-think my decision.

What could have possessed me to take on such a cliché and yet terrifying step towards public exposure as writing a blog? What makes me think that anyone would ever really give a crap about what I write or think or feel? What makes me so narcissistic to think that people will look forward to my posts or secretly make me their best friend in their heads while saying, “Yes ma’am!!” when reading my latest rant on this, that or whatever? I guess because I feel like I cannot and am not the only person sitting back every day trying to put the last few years of their life together.

A bit of background: I am a 34 and a half year old Black woman from Texas. I live in Miami now, am a proud Howard University graduate (The REAL HU!) where I studied exactly what my parents wanted me to study. I never worked because I was always supposed to go to law school…which I never wanted to do. I graduated with honors, came home for a year, and then ended up in Los Angeles less than one year after my father suddenly died with law books and law school loans out of my ass. And then I quit. Just walked the fcuk away after a year and a summer and never looked back. Ifinished my first year with a near nervous breakdown, average-ish grades, and no fcuking clue about what I was actually supposed to do with my life. I spent my entire life being such a great student that I had no idea how to be an adult.

So then I started to make every bad decision that should have been made in undergrad as an adult. I got into debt, worked jobs I hated for less money than I should have been making, I traveled, I fell in love and lost myself, fell out of love and numbed myself. I moved thinking I could outrun my problems, but the way interest compounds on your problems means that eventually they catch up to you and it is never pleasant when that happens. Which brings me to this very moment. Sitting at my dining room table desperately trying to figure out what comes next. How does a person make such a dramatic life turn that they look back in five years after they have a book deal, new career, loving family, etc. and say that these dark times were worth it? Were necessary? For this lady here – she starts a blog. A place to draw in a tribe of other people just trying to sort it all out. One day at a time. One glass of wine at a time. I don’t know what my greatness is or how to help other people find theirs. But I can be open and honest and painfully exposed and hopefully we can all help each other figure out how to take the next steps into our Greatness.

And this shyt ain’t easy. I am an extremely private person on Social Media – I have a private Facebook page, don’t use SnapChat, I refuse to Tweet, etc. because I don’t like people seeing just how imperfect I am. My thighs touch and all of my 5’10” of height is in my upper-body. That is imperfect enough for the common person to see, as far as I am concerned. I mean, do you really want to let people into your thoughts, fears, insecurities, inappropriate and off-color jokes and open yourself up to their ridicule, their ire, their conflicting opinions? Do you? DO YOU REALLY?!? You have to be drinking pretty heavily from the Fcuk It Bucket to decide to do this, but if there’s one thing I do well it is drink <shrug>.

So here we are…wherever ‘here’ is supposed to be. The inaugural post for Cheaper Than Therapy – the blog where I will talk about real life shyt because blogging is cheaper than seeing an actual therapist. It’s also less destructive than drinking a bottle of Chardonnay a night while trying to figure out where it all went so terribly wrong and how do you make everything fall into place without movie magic or three wishes from a creepy genie in a bottle.

So many questions. So many random thoughts running through my head at any given part of my day. So many overwhelming feelings paired with underwhelming results to sort through. How did I get to be 34 years old, unwed, single af, and have no kids except for my furbaby? Where did my time go?  What is my passion and how do I harness it to make money off of it without actually having to get up everyday for work making someone else rich or their dreams come true? How do I change careers? Do I relocate again and keep running? Where would I go? How do some people have so much money to travel at my age and I am trying to clip coupons for my weekly Aldi shopping trip to save money for my monthly Target run? How are some people on the Gram and SnapChat looking like they’re living their Best Lives EVER and I am watching HGTV on a Saturday night trying to figure out how a 24 year old recent graduate can afford a mortgage on a $500,000 house when I am just one of the lucky few in Miami to not need a roommate?

Guess it’s time to start figuring out what next with the help of my ancient MacBook Air, my innermost thoughts/jokes/fears/confusion, and my bottle <ahem> glass of vino. I most assuredly cannot be the only person who has no fcuking clue what they’re doing, but like I said before…blogging is a helluva lot Cheaper Than Therapy.