Divorcing the Shoulds

I’ve lived under the weight of Shoulds for as long as I can remember.
The “supposed to”
Unspoken and unspeakably high expectations.

Through the last decade or so, I’ve been breaking free of the Shoulds.
Liberating myself bit by bit,
Loosening, though not breaking my shackles.

The external ones were easier to see,
“Don’t Should on me!” I’d shout at the world.
My self-imposed ones are subtle, insidious.
Harder to divorce, they squeeze tighter and snap back.

Today I see my anxiety is rooted in Should, and the stress to make it so.

When I can say “This is how it is,”
And leave the “How it Should Be” alone
I can breathe more freely, more deeply.
I can be me.

Holy Bones

This week the grief has been heavy. Eating away at my bones like osteoporosis, til I’m too weak to stand. The slightest pressure causes collapse and I don’t know where to find the strength to rise again. But I must’ve found a source of strength somewhere because here I am again. Breathing all day, walking around looking like a human when really I’m just a stack of empty, hollow bones, covered in muscle and skin, passing as a human.

So I pour myself another cup of coffee and let the warmth revive the wavering spirit within me.

I hold my daughter close and try to keep my tears from dripping onto her curious little head.

I call my representatives and beg them to do SOMETHING, anything. And I try to stay afloat while Grief strives to pull me under. I tell myself this is the darker side of love, that the waves may come but eventually they will relent. That though I may feel this way forever, I will not feel it all the time.

That the anger and sadness weave in and out of my days, sometimes thicker than others, sometimes longer than others, and while they can dominate my brain, they are not the only players. There is also joy and levity, there is beauty and light, even if right now I cannot see it.

When I was a child, my parents took us to the Griffith Observatory and it was fascinating. I loved watching the world grow smaller while our perspective grew, and took great comfort in the vastness of the universe. When the show was over, they warned us that upon exiting, we would not be able to see for a moment. Our eyes would need to adjust after being in the dark for so long.

I feel that today. I know there is sunlight and beauty in the world– flowers and birds and dogs and yet– I cannot perceive them at this moment. My eyes are accustomed to the dark. My senses cannot yet register the joy and freedom around me. I feel tied down, incapacitated. Just a pile of bones Grief is gnawing on.

I want to share this, I know that I am not alone, I know that naming it zaps its power but I am afraid to share my fear, my sorrow, my anger. I know how uncomfortable it makes everyone . Especially those closest to me. Nobody knows what to say so they resort to platitudes which are just the very worst.

I know there is still joy in the world, but I cannot see it. Telling me that it is there, to have faith, to believe and trust that it will return— I know it comes from a good place, I know that it’s TRUE, but what’s also true is that is not a helpful message. That messaging helps the teller escape discomfort, it does not extend comfort my way.

And I do not want to pollute your feed with my angst and grief and anger and despair. I long to trumpet out calls to action and messages of hope and resilience. Am I not always saying “Keep Going!” And yet… today I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to curl up in a ball and hold my girl close and disappear into our little cocoon.

I’m afraid of the holidays. I’m afraid of my resentment and my grief. I fear my heart is not strong enough to hold them any longer and I don’t know what will happen when it cracks open.

I am so fucking sad.

So if your bones feel weak, if you feel like the tendons that were holding you together have gone on strike, I feel you. If this holiday season you are torn between gratitude and grief, oscillating between joy and sadness, unsure which parts of you are invited to dinner… I feel you. If one more perky message threatens to send you over the edge or into a puddle and you’re afraid you may tell Santa himself to Fuck Right Off, you can come sit next to me.

We can wear our sweats and watch spy movies and eat M&Ms and curse when the kiddos aren’t paying attention.

We can have a cranky Christmas together, without anyone asking us to cheer tf up.

(We can’t really, there’s this whole pandemic thing, plus I’ll be down at my parents… but in spirit. I’m right there with you).

You may feel lonely, but please know you are not alone. My grieving bones and I will be right there with you.

2021, the longest year for a Mom Demanding Action

For the last (four?) years I’ve been part of our local chapter of Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America.

For those who don’t know, it’s a grassroots organization of both mothers and others, gun-owners and non-gun owners, who refuse to accept 100 gun deaths a day. We are the gun safety version of Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

The last couple years I’ve been the legislative lead of our group– pushing for changes at the federal, state, and local level. (To be clear, I am writing here as an individual, not as a representative of the group as a whole). I was just reflecting over the last year’s work, all that we’ve done, all that’s yet to do.

Federally, we’re fucked. The filibuster is fucking us over. We have gotten meaningful legislation through the House again and again and then it just sits in the Senate. It’s bullshit and it raised my blood pressure to dangerous levels, so let’s not talk about it anymore. But please, call your Senators, tell them to ditch the fucking filibuster.

Statewide, there is more movement and more progress. We pushed for an were able to obtain meaningful funding for gun violence intervention and prevention programs. Y’all– these groups, like Advance Peace, Urban Peace Institute, and United Playaz, to name a few– are INCREDIBLE. The statistics are both heart-breaking and breath-taking, we know these programs work, they save lives, they need to be funded and thankfully now they can be!

We passed legislation to increase police accountability, open up victim funds to victims of police violence, and finally create a process to remove abusive cops. Locally, cities all over California created safe storage ordinances and school boards sent home safe storage notification to parents.

One of our own volunteers was elected to the school board and she got a resolution passed here in Napa.

And we mourned shooting after shooting. We lit candles and cut out hearts. We gathered in parks to write care cards to survivors. We marched and we called and our children drew hearts with chalk.

We called voters and texted our friends and defeated a dangerous recall. We said adieu to one of our local co-founders, as she and her family moved back to France.

It was such a long year. It was such a hard year.

And everyday we hear about more. But we will not give up. We cannot. Not on our kids.

People often ask me, “Aren’t you tired?”

Of course I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m infuriated. I don’t understand why more people aren’t in this fight with us. But I won’t stop. I can’t. Even if it’s Zoom meetings and phone calls with representatives and card after card after card sent. I will keep going.

Ready to Burn

Last night, my daughter asked me how to get a flat tummy, and she sucked her little belly in.

“I want it flat, I don’t want it fat, like this” and she exhaled her tummy back out.

She’s six.

I know I’ve been pulled back into my eating disorder but I thought I was keeping it compartmentalized enough to keep her safe.

I know toxic diet culture is everywhere and kids are super perceptive, especially mine, see “A Child Who Notices” here https://prettygoodugly.com/2021/11/16/a-child-who-notices/

But, I thought we’d have more time. She’s in Kindergarten.

I tried to keep it neutral, I asked her if kids are school were talking about bodies.

She said yeah, that L____, was saying that ___ was small

I told her her that some bodies are fat and some are muscular and some are skinny. Every body is different and it’s pretty rude to comment on someone’s body.

I said maybe someone was making L___ feel badly about his body, which is sad.

What I really wanted to say was THE FUCK.

I remember dieting in 2nd grade. All the women in my life were dieting so I wanted to too, I thought that was what it meant to be to be a woman.

I’d hoped to spare her the same ugliness. I thought that throwing away my scale would liberate us both.

I was wrong. And I’m shattered. And furious.

Fuck diet culture.

Mom Tips

If you sit on the couch, you’ll be asked for something.

If you sit in your room, you’ll be asked for something.

If you sit at the table, you’ll be asked for something.

But if you sit on the floor of your kitchen, you can find temporary peace.

There’s a frightening amount of Cheerios and popcorn down here, but that doesn’t bother me.

Follow me for more ways to live the dream 😹😹

Me, on my kitchen floor, finding some peace.

Sondheim, SLOHS and The Woods

There are a thousand and one tributes going on, at this moment, for Stephen Sondheim. This is one more. To him, and to the students at San Luis Obispo High School in 1992/93, who introduced him to me with their production of Into the Woods.

I was in elementary school and my sister played the Baker’s Wife. She had her rehearsal cassette tape which I often borrowed/stole to listen to over and over and over again (especially after she left for college, but I digress).

The performing bug had already bitten me years before but this took it to the next level. The words were so fast and the music fit in differently than anything else I’d heard. It danced with my brain like nothing I’d experienced before or since, save a couple top notch Shakespeare performances, but that’s different.

So to the production team of SLOHS’ Into The Woods circa 1992/1993– Mr. Huttle, and (the woman whose name I don’t remember but she had glorious cheekbones), thank you. To Beth Curry and Erik Austin and Bryan Barnhardt and Amy Sinsheimer and Christa Nichols and everyone whose name I don’t remember but whose performances have stayed with me for decades, thank you. To the musicians, HOW? and thank you. To my sister, thank you thank you thank you, and don’t ever get crushed by a giant for real please. To Beth’s dad who filmed it, which gave me something beautiful to watch over and over once she was away, thank you kindly.

To the teachers and the creators and the performers and the enjoyers… thank you.

And to Stephen Sondheim, you are dead, so you you will not hear me, but you are not gone, not as long as there’s music. Thank you for the glimmer.

Tax Suitcase of Keep Forever Things:

I hold onto things for a ridiculously long time. I’m rather sentimental.

I have my Poppa’s old tax suitcase (It’s a little old suitcase with a labelmaker label on it that says “Taxes”). It’s where I keep my Keep Forever things.

I keep my Keep Forever things in the tax suitcase because there are two things in life you can count on, death, and that I’m-going-to-keep-that-forever.

I kept, not every, but many of the many cards my grandparents sent me. Encouragement cards during days of visible struggle, birthday cards, Christmas letters, Just Because cards. Notes pontificating on religion, family, politics, and the world, saying they’re proud of me and in my corner. The handwriting gets a bit shakier over time, his more than hers, but every card is stuffed full of love. Gone for almost a decade but still with me.

Last night I smiled more than I cried while I read them. My gratitude is now bigger than the grief. I ate up every card and kept diving in for more treasures.

Birthday cards and notes from my parents, cards from friends, and drawings from their children. I have an envelope my now high-school niece scribbled “I Love You” on when she was probably 6. Cards from our engagement and wedding– words of advice and celebration. Cards of sympathy and notes of understanding– generous and compassionate.

I held them to my heart and smiled. I felt so loved. It felt SO GOOD.

The opposite of a Dementor– my own little Patronus.

So for those of us who live with depression (and standard folks too, why not), I highly recommend gathering up a box of collected memories—words from people who know and love you, who can remind you who you are when you forget. Because we forget. And the disease can get loud.

Chocolate helps but only so much. You gotta cast that patronus. Fortify yourself with the armor of love.

Because you are loved. By me and by others.

My Mother, the activist

My mother would never describe herself as an activist,
But I do.

She never allowed Nestle in the house,
She vetoed Carl’s Jr on every road trip,
And never participated in Black Friday.

My mother was an activist, in her way.

With three kids to raise, a husband, and a job to juggle,
She protested with her purse,
Refusing to support those who didn’t support others.

Not for all the “But Mom”s in the universe.

“But Mom, strawberry milk!”
But honey, those babies.

“But Mom, criss cut fries!”
But honey, women’s rights.

“But Mom, I want to see a movie!”
But honey, those workers.

That was how she showed her values.
Pocketbook protest, economic Evangelism.

She claims to not know where I get it from.
But I know I get it from her.

I know where we get it from too,
I’ve been studying the branches.

Our Family Tree tells me
of a woman named Belle who stood up for others.

She fought for benefits she would not reap.
She planted seeds and we get to bloom.

Confessions of a Depressive Optimist

Found, while cleaning. MySpace mention indicative of early 2000s (2006 at the latest).

I’m combing through boxes and came across a lot of old writing- some scribbled onto napkins and paper towels, some cursive on lined paper/backs of receipts, some typed and printed,

This gem stood out. Call me Cassandra.

“I wonder what will be born from a society that’s obsessed with commentary (ironic pause). It used to be some what of a goal to escape judgment or commentary, to breeze by without anybody noticing or commenting on our existence. We now thrive on comments. I can’t log onto MySpace (2021 addition: LOLOLOLOLOLOL) without finding at least one friend fishing for comment s (new pics! Please comment!) and I have to admit, my heart sings a little when I see someone has stopped by to comment on me.”

Okay, (2021 voice), this is too much. Fifteen years later comment culture has eaten us alive. We developed an entire vocabulary around thirsty behavior. Then 2020 moved our entire lives online and y’all don’t need my thoughts on that because you lived it too. But wow, early-2000-self, you saw it coming.

“But what will come from this self-obsessed falsely inflated sense of importance? We’ve seen cell phones separate and alienate people (2021 addition: and connect and amplify historically silenced and excluded voices), and with iPods and DVD players in the car, a family can go on a long trip without having to acknowledge each other’s presence at all.

“It frightens me, to say the least.

“We inhabit a world where you have a million friends but nobody to talk to. Where if nobody saw it, it didn’t happen. And if nobody snapped a picture of it, it doesn’t matter.

“And religion, which used to be a place for sanctuary and acceptance (and also torture, war, and the like) has turned into another petty political machine.”

So, yeah, I guess I’ve always been like this. I just used to express it privately and now we live in a broadcast culture. So… here you have it.

Be gentle with yourself and each other today. Humaning is hard. Xox