Father's Day Joy:

1. I am fatherless. This depresses me;

2. Shitty boss was canned. Hope shined through until I found out that I and my favorite co-worker are the next in line to go;

3. I absolutely fucking hate job hunting;

4. I absolutely fucking hate crazy work environments;

5. I will absolutely find a way to work in a place that is not toxic;

6. A regular cleaning service is the key to happiness. Thank you, Merry Maids; and finally

7. I'm gonna roll with all this funk and rise above it, 'cuz there ain't no sense in letting the bastards get me down.

Dear Universe and World-Wide Internets:

I have become the laziest human being on the planet. Some days, I don't recognize myself. I have managed to get myself back into the same old, same old lunatic job situation. I have a completely incompetent boss who changes my job description weekly, leaving me to wonder about my own competence. Maybe I suck at this? Maybe it's not the shifting of focus from one moment to the next? Maybe. I. Just. Suck. At. This? Silver lining--at least it's not a conservative shit hole. Short version--at least we have queers.

Thanks for letting me win that magazine prize. Um, could you please send me some writing buddies? Or...something? 'Cuz, ya see, I haven't done shit since then. Barely even blogging. Have created exactly ZERO content for the new website. Don't work out. Don't cook most days. Nada. On the surface, this looks like depression. Inside, it feels like a sci-fi film where I have been frozen in a state of icy identity crisis. Who am I? What do I want? Why can't I make myself do something to get there?

Also, thanks for bringing Tiny back into the fold. She speaks truth like no one I have ever met. What a gift. Latest pearl of wisdom: You need to make up your mind and get in the relationship. You'll drive yourself nuts with that shit. Just get over it and make the commitment. Right.

I suppose that could cover everything. Just get over it and make the commitment. Because right now, I feel like a walking ghost. Tethered to nothing and no one. Aimless.

Yours truly,
Lunatic

E took me to San Diego and Coronado yesterday for yet another birthday adventure. Botanical gardens, chocolate festival, checking out a city everyone always refers to as a town and an island that everyone always refers to as quaint. Well, SD is a city, not a town, and Coronado is definitely quaint but doesn't feel much like an island. Maybe it was the huge ass warship parked out front that sucked the island feel out of the wind for me.

Anyhoo, it was grand to chomp down delicious chocolate and stare at all the pretty plants and greenery. I have a new obession now--chocolate with spices and/or hot peppers in it. Oh yeah. Mecca.

As always, I felt enternally grateful to have a chance to gab all day long with E, as she is a splendid conversationalist. We both talk our asses off but allow the other to chatter as well. With my growing annoyance over a beloved who NEVER SHUTS THE FUCK UP and talks over everyone, dominating every conversation, it was like sipping on a nice cold glass of lemonade in the middle of a desert. Thank you, baby Jesus.

If you'll allow me a moment of self-absorption (ahahahaha, on a blog, the hallmark of narcissism! ahahahahahaha), I gotta say that spending time with E is often like looking into a mirror. Or rather, gaining a better understanding about how others see me. Perhaps it is our shared fattie and fabulousness status? I don't know. But I always find myself thinking after I've hung out with E--Oh, now I understand what so-and-so means when she says X, Y & Z.

This mirror-of-sorts affect has given me a tremendous amount of compassion for myself, which is a stark contrast to my usual uber judgmental harshness. Yesterday, I learned the following: It takes a tremendous amount of courage to get up each day and remain open and generous to a world which is, yes, beautiful, but also so often unkind.

The Oprah-philes will chatter on about how we really should take better care of ourselves, put our needs first and blah blah blah. And to them I say, I hear you. I understand your point. Now, hear mine. The First Nation folks in the book Daughters of Copper Woman would call us the Children of Happiness, but you'll have to read the book to know why.

While you hunt for it, marinate on this: Our capacity to give is only equaled by our capacity to suffer, a skill which most of us did not have a choice in gaining. Instead of seeing a large generosity to others as a fault, maybe we can begin to appreciate that those who are generous of spirit keep thousands of souls out of the grave each day. Perhaps you are quick to see a lack of "self-care" because you are so slow in seeing your own apathy towards the world outside of yourself?

I realize that in the end, it is all about balance, something which is rarely achieved. But I understand now that I give big because I was hurt big, and quite franky, that's a damned fine way to respond.

This is the part where you remind me to breathe. Then I remind myself of all the good things I have in my life. Breathe. Gratitude. Breathe. Gratitude.

As I started to write my gratitude list, I found myself bitching about each blessing. Isn't that helpful? Perhaps I should blame hormones. Or something.

Things truly are grand. I am still employed. I have a fabulous man. I live in a gorgeous place. On and on. Yet over my head, I find this looming dark cloud. Potential round two layoffs on June 1st, which could spell disaster for my bf's return. And...and...oh, fuck it.

What I really want to do is write a long, rage filled post about someone I hold dear, who drove me fucking nuts last night and whose head I nearly put through the car window today. When I called a friend to apologize about said beloved's behavior the night before (a lot of back-handed complimenting, assuming superior knowledge, blatant insults, general rude behavior like talking over us), my friend said, "She's just being X. Whaddya gonna do? That's just how she is."

What am I going to do? Put her head through a window. But yes, my girl is right. She's just...being X.

I keep thinking that loving people should be easy. It's not. Some of the most rewarding relationships I've had have also been the most challenging. I've learned hard lessons from friend divorces and one happy reunion. But I have yet to learn to speak my mind in the moment I am being driven to lunacy. I can feel myself at that point again, where I cross into the threshold of blinding rage and just Let. It. Rip. Letting it rip never turns out well, of course. I am slightly ashamed of my proficiency in verbal abuse.

One of these days, when I'm all grown up, I'll know how to juggle the mix of love and loathing. Sweet Jesus, I hope it happens soon.

Children, this site may start to become even quieter for the next few weeks. Of course, now that I've said that, I will likely post daily. But I have crap I need to do, and blabbing about bullshit on this part of the internets really isn't one of them. I have grants to write for a volunteer gig, mountains of work crap to catch up on, content to write for the new website, a house to clean (or rather, hire someone to clean 'cuz my bday is NEXT WEEK!), a weekend excursion to plan and an aching desire to both read every book on my shelves and watch each episode of As T!me Goes By (I bought the box set!).

But what I'd really like is some kind of writer-y support system. I haven't had that in ages. I gave up on the notion of a simplicity circle, but a collective to help with the process of churning out product would be grand. Consider this my request to the universe:

Dear Baby Jesus,

Send me some writing angels. Just keep in mind that most everyone annoys the shit out of me. So, please send all the brilliant people and leave the annoying twats to my enemies.

Yours 'till the end,
Demandra

Today I went to a doctor who specializes in medical maryjane goodness. It reminded me of an experience I had in middle school when I was given an IQ test to see if I was "gifted." My friends told these great stories of people administering the tests who pulled out guitars and sang them songs, practiced breathing exercises and made jokes. I managed to get a guy who barked at me and said things like, "You seriously don't know who is responsible for the theory of evolution?" I was nervous and instantly felt stupid. Needless to say, I missed the "gifted" mark by five points.

Some two decades later, I again found myself having a miserable experience where friends had great stories. Where friends' doctors had philosophical conversations or even lit up a joint, I was packed into an office like a disregarded sardine. The dude with his name on the door only made mention of things relating to cash.

Dr. Gimme Yer Cash had a new recruit in the office who was previously an ER doc. Super sweet guy who tried to stay human through the "exam" and asked me how I managed to get a diagnosis of PTSD. No one has ever asked me that question when I've had to fill out a medical history. I was stunned but managed to say, "I was raised in a violent environment."

A look of compassion washed over his face, and he continued his exam. Then it happened. Time, like it frequently does, became meaningless. All those years that have passed with their healing and growth vanished, and I was a broken kid doing my best not to cry, because someone showed a bit of tenderness in the face of what I always have to treat as a matter-of-fact, meaningless piece of data.

I tried to piece myself back together at a friend's house, eating good food and watching funny television. I thought I was back to dandy until two men yelled at me from a car. One tried to cover his friend's mouth and yelled a compliment in my direction while the other quickly removed his friend's hands and yelled something decidedly misogynist and hurtful. I turned away and immediately burst into tears, which is something I simply don't do in public or in response to drunk douchebags.

These types of moments shake my foundation. I suppose that's the nature of PTSD. It never goes away. It just is. One minute I'm a collected, confident grown woman and the next I am a broken child, desperate for someone to save me so that I don't have to suffer anymore. It's so strange how tenderness and brutality called forth the same wounds today.

Feeling fragile is not something I do well. I do my best to bury it under any and everything I can find. Lately, things have been golden, and I am genuinely happy. So of course this river would rise. The psyche is sometimes kind enough to wait until the foundations are strong enough to handle the temporary waters. I have to remind myself that broken places exist in me as well, and I must learn to sit with them, trusting that they aren't dangerous or in need of fixing.

Help Free Laura Ling and Euna Lee

As you may know, United States journalists Laura Ling and Euna Lee were recently jailed in North Korea. They were investigating human trafficking reports of refugees escaping the North Korean regime who were trafficked into sexual slavery in China. Please sign the petition to help free them and pass it on:

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