God Is Dead And We're Alone

Sometimes I think I was preparing myself for middle age since I was a child. When I think about the albums that spoke to me then, they were records artists produced after 30. I would be 2 when I first heard the round mouth feel of the fretless bass in Joni Mitchell’s “Hejira”, a series of songs she wrote in her early 30’s.  Staring holes in my oatmeal just like I imagined Coyote. When, newly 20, I would hear “Wild Things Run Fast” (which she wrote on the doorstep of 40), I knew I was singing words that wouldn’t cut me deep enough for 2 decades. They were stories of hearts that were at first hopeful, virginal and young. You can hear the stories evolve, morph and you can find those wounds that don’t  heal perfectly. There’s scar tissue. There’s a toughness. As a young girl-human, I remember WANTING to have a broken heart. I longed to feel that melancholy for real and as I grew into a woman I practiced by falling in love with as many people as possible. I got to know a ...

Well shoot, I’m getting married. It’s been 5 weeks since The Boy King proposed on the top of a mountain in the middle of the West Texas desert. It still feels silly and giddy and strange. Yet at the same time it feels right, calm and deliberate. I present you with the first in many lists on this blog (Mama loves a list): Realizations of a recently engaged 41 year old human: I still fidget with my ring (not big on jewelery from the wrist down).   I still find myself texting my partner “We’re getting married!” on a regular basis. I still can’t say the word fiance without feeling like the most obnoxious person on the planet. I hate that all the wedding dress models look 12 and are a size 0. I wish it didn’t have to be so expensive. We’re adults now (or will be soon). We’re legally bound (or will be soon). I should get pre-approved for a mortgage. I should do my taxes. I should be planning, picking a venue, finalizing a guest list bla bla bla. ...

First, off; my apologies for being absent last week. There was/is a point to it, and I will get to that.  Secondly, it occurred to me in my latest therapy session, that somehow, perhaps in the night, perhaps when I was out getting groceries, I got happy. Like, I'm a happy person again.  Now, don't get all annoyed and stop reading this blog, there is still much more brooding and bleak content to come.  And as I have learned, painfully, time and time again, happiness is still a fleeting and cruel, unfaithful "fuck boy" that may rock my world and then leave me pining and insecure until it texts me weeks/months later with a "you up?".  Nevertheless, I'm fuckin' happy. Let me explain.  The thing is, you make me happy. Yes, you, dearest reader. I'm not entirely sure who you are and if there are more than one of you (mum's don't count--Hi Mum!) but I know you're out there. And every time I post, you read (shout out to my googl...

I was supposed to write this blog post earlier but I was busy googling “thin, grey, short hair” images and this close to reaching out for help after experiencing overwhelming urges to recreate the photos I had found with the kitchen scissors.  Yes, I contemplated cutting bangs. No, this is not the first time this has happened. Luckily, some divine magic prevented me from doing it. Instead I brushed my hair, put on mascara and penciled in my eyebrows. CRISIS AVERTED. But what is this weird obsession we have with our appearance dictating how we feel? I know all the stuff about the media and systems that were created and continue to be upheld that tell us we’re ugly, fat, old and need to diet, cut our hair, learn how to contour and of course BUY ALL THE THINGS that facilitate that. I’m talking about the root of it. Clearly these aren’t completely artificial thoughts planted in our brains by TV and Perez Hilton. This has got to be, on some level, human nature. Shitty ass capitalis...

I don't know if you've noticed, but there is a decided lack of positive stories about the female mid-life crisis in popular culture.  Thelma and Louise is one of my favourites out of the few and after watching it again recently, I feel disturbed. I mean, it's all you want in a midlife crisis story; sex, intrigue, revenge murder of your rapist (we all have one!) and good old fashioned blowin up stuff. That is, until they kill themselves. *wide eyed emoji* Really the only other story we are presented with are the ones where middle-aged women leave their high paced careers/wild lifestyles for what's "really important", like marriages and babies (barf).  So, let me get this straight; I should have a baby...or drive off a cliff? Don't worry, neither option is appealing to me. In a way, I've chosen a harder one. The one where there is no solution. I just have to get up, face myself and my disappointments/emotions/failures and walk through the day. ...

I would like to address something. This blog is written from a considerably privileged perspective. I am a white, (mostly) able-bodied, cis-gendered, queer/straight-passing woman from a two-parent household. (She/her). Got it? Good. I also have enough ability to hold a job that pays me to live, and enjoy some finer things in life. One of those finer things is therapy. I may come from a loving family, but I also come from some intense physical and emotional trauma. In my early thirties, I was finally able to seek (and afford) professional help. I worked hard, did my exercises, and for the most part was able to overcome many obstacles that had stood in my way in life due to the past I was carrying in my heart, body and bones. I was able to perform many activities and adopt a diet that helped me stay off pharmaceutical medication.  It’s only been recently that I have returned to therapy and also considered the fact that perhaps I could benefit from some of those much-maligned d...