The Greatest Love Story I’ve Never Told

The first time I can remember feeling beautiful was the first time I read what it meant to be a Libra. I do believe that moment sparked my lifelong love affair with astrology. There are a million reasons why I grew up feeling like the ugliest girl in the world. But when I saw myself through the eyes of the stars, I was Venus, the Goddess of love.  It was the first time I didn’t feel invisible.  I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself.  Astrology has always been my warm blanket on a cold night. When I can’t rationalize the razor blades of life, when my heart is in pieces, when my foundation is crumbling… I look to the stars.  The night sky pours reason and hope into my empty little life, filling my soul with infinite possibilities.

The fact that Uranus has been in my seventh house of relationships for the past few years is one of those situations. Uranus is the planet of surprises. And every guy I have dated during this transit has been full of fucking surprises.  Knowing that I am supposed to be going through this helps me to learn.  It’s proof that my life is a course in soul evolution.

One guy had a family that I didn’t know about.  Another guy kept up a fake personality for two and a half years, only to reveal his true self after I moved my children into his home.  But there’s one guy who shocked me more than anyone else.  A guy who’s sweet soul still lingers in my bones.  

I met him the day before Christmas Eve. We had been talking online for more than a while and I really couldn’t believe how easily our conversations gushed and poured into each other.  Our correspondence could have been a best selling novel.  He was beautiful inside and out. A red headed, blue eyed beast of a man with a huge gleaming smile. On our first date, he showed up with homemade DVDs of the old Beetlejuice cartoons because I told him my kids loved that movie. He was sweet like that. He talked a lot, but I liked that about him, because I don’t like to talk when I’m nervous. 

Of course I had looked his birthday up before meeting him. I’m an astrologer, that’s what I do.  Of all the things that I had learned about him, his astrology chart had me intrigued like a mad scientist in a morgue. On the day this guy was born, the sun, the moon, Mercury, Venus, and Mars were all in Scorpio. My natal Mercury and Mars are in Scorpio too. Scorpio is one of my favorite signs. The energy is highly intuitive. When two people with heavy Scorpio energy come together, they form a bond that cuts directly through the bullshit and right into the soul. This was exactly how my relationship with this guy unfolded. Scorpio is intense. It’s the strange, the weird, the marvelous!  I knew there was something different about him, as soon as I saw his chart. I was hoping for a ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ situation. That’s not quite how it panned out.  

I have never in my life been treated the way this guy treated me. If he could have afforded red carpet and rose pedals upon my arrival, they would have been there. Every time I went to his house, he would cook an amazing dinner for me, he was an incredible chef.  He had playlists prepared with my favorite music. He had a little silver dish filled with joints rolled up and ready for my lungs.  He made me feel as if his whole life revolved around me.  No one had ever made me feel that way before. It was uncomfortable at first, being treated like a queen. But I’m not going to lie, I got used to it real fast. My time with him was exactly what I needed. He was the first guy I fell for after my divorce. And the only guy whom I have ever confessed my love to first. I didn’t mean to say it. But the first time we made love, it just came out. It’s all I could think about while in the throes of the most amazing sex I’ve ever had.  

The first kiss came the first night we made love, about a month after our first date. I thought it was strange that he didn’t kiss me at first. I couldn’t figure it out. Every other guy I’ve ever gone out with spends all of their time trying to get into my pants. Not this guy. If he hadn’t treated me like such royalty, I would have wondered if he even liked me at all. This mysterious form of seduction had me hypnotized with desire.  His ability to worship me while holding his space was a direct and precise shot into my heart.  I was obsessed with the mystery of him.  It all soon made sense after the night that he slipped a letter into my purse.  

We had spent another long night of getting high, listening to music, and talking. We had finished the last of the series, “The Pacific,” about World War II. I absolutely loved watching that series with him. He had always been fascinated by history and was a living encyclopedia of that war. In a weird way, I felt like he had helped me to better understand my dad’s experience in combat, with his commentary about the show and the backstory behind every character.

When I got in my car that night, I could not wait to open his letter. He had asked me to wait until I got home to read it. I couldn’t.  I pulled into the parking lot of a church down the street and ripped that envelope apart. I began to read his first few words of the hand-written six page letter. My heart was pounding, reading about how he was starting to fall for me. I knew it!  He adored me as much as I adored him. He went into detail about why he liked me. This was his way of proving to me that his words were real. And then he started to write about his childhood. He told me about crying in the corner of his bedroom, wishing his real dad was around to save his mom from the stepfather who had abused his mom.  He told me about the men in his life that he saw as heroes and the men in his life who terrorized his young heart.  And he told me that as a child, he had liked to dress up as a pirate because he liked the way he felt in his mother’s clothes. He told me that he has worn women’s clothes in the privacy of his own home throughout his entire life. He told me that he wanted to look into taking hormones to grow breasts and live as a woman full time. He told me that he wanted to keep his penis. He told me that he had only shared this part of himself with only a few other people.  He told me that he had never been with a man, but had fantasized about it.  And he told me that he would understand if I never wanted to see him again.  That moment was surreal for me. That was Uranus in my seventh house. I was definitely shocked.  Speechless.

He seemed so masculine to me. He wore work boots and a torn up Carhartt jacket. He was obsessed with sports and war and guy stuff. His rough, edgy manliness was what attracted me to him.  

My emotions were on fire. I was heartbroken. I thought I had found the love of my life, only to learn that I knew nothing about him. And yet I was honored that he cared so deeply for me, that he gently tucked his darkest secret into the palm of my hand.  His vulnerability was beautiful and sacred.  
I thought about my family, how they would react to this. I thought about my daughters, how they would feel about it. But what I thought about the most is how much I wanted to hold him. His letter was so full of shame about his secret. I felt an emotional pull to comfort him.  That was all I could feel.  
So I sent him a message…
‘We should definitely talk more about this. But I’m not going anywhere.’

And the next time I saw him, we held each other. We kissed. We made the most beautiful kind of love. I had more orgasms in that one night, than I had throughout my entire eight years of marriage. Scorpio rules sex and connection. And together, we had so much Scorpio going on. It was like we had traveled to another dimension, where we moved through our bodies by sharing them. It was hot. It was steamy. It was raw and real and spiritual. To this day, I have never experienced anything like it. He went down on me so perfectly, I came faster than if I had done it myself. And he slurped it up, swallowing every drip of me he could get to. I now understand why men want to know if you swallow. It’s fucking sexy to have someone ingest the pleasure they just gave you. We went at it all night long, over and over. He cried a little when he told me how much it meant for me to be in his arms. And at 4am, after he thought I had fallen asleep, he got up to scrub his bathtub so that I would have a clean place to shower in the morning. No one has ever taken better care of me.  I have never felt more like a Goddess than I did when I was in his arms.

The next day, I told him that he could wear panties if he wanted. And I offered to let him wear mine. It was a little kinky and kind of hot. He was turned on beyond belief that I would go along with his desires. I was turned on beyond belief that he was so turned on by me.  

I was mystified by this guy. I’m writing this, wondering why the hell I ever walked away from him. There were a few reasons I guess. The first is that old fear of commitment that came creeping back when I had mentioned wanting to buy a house and I could see disappointment in his face because he obviously had thoughts of a life together.  I couldn’t handle that level of commitment at that time in my life. But I think the biggest reason I walked away was that I didn’t want to be the girl who held him back from pursuing his curiosity about being with men. I really did love this guy. And I wanted him to fly. I couldn’t live with myself, had I been the girl to cut his wings.  I wanted him to adventure through this hidden piece of himself, to discover his heart’s desires.  I guess you could say that my love for him was unconditional, because his happiness meant more to me than my possession of him.  I also had some concerns about the effect my family would have on him.  

Though our time together was rather short, his love for me was strong enough to impact my heart to this day.  He set the bar rather high and for that I am forever grateful.  And wherever he’s at on his journey, I often wish him the very best of love and light.  

We were together only a short time after that first night of passion. Life carried me away and he had some adventures to explore for himself. We’re still Facebook friends today. He still likes my pictures.  I still like his.

I saw him for the first time since we split a few months ago. It hurt a little bit to look into his beautiful eyes again.  



I keep repeating myself, that I will not fall in love again. My friends keep rolling their eyes, telling me that I just need to heal and then I will change my mind.  

Nope. Not happening. 

It’s not that I’m afraid of being hurt again. I have always been an optimist about love. I am down right gifted at getting over a heartache. Getting hurt doesn’t scare me at all.  

There are two reasons why I won’t allow myself to love again.  

The first is my daughters. I still feel guilty for letting them down with the last guy. I fucked up. I made a huge mistake. I changed their lives by moving them out to the prairie. And then deciding to stay here so we don’t have to change schools again. And I will admit that we are doing just fine right now. I came out of a shitty situation, smelling like a rose. I got lucky. We found a cute little place to live. My girls are in an excellent school district. We’ve all made some really amazing new friends.  I’m 8 weeks out from being a certified massage therapist.  That old dream wouldn’t be in my grasp had I not moved here.  Good things came from this big mistake.
But those positives don’t cancel out the big fat negatives. My kids had to move….again. They had to live with some guy their mom fell in love with. They had to deal with his tantrums. They had to deal with my depression about it. They have to finish up childhood with the stigma of a single parent household, along with the financial hardship.  They didn’t ask for any of this. They were just born into a broken home, with a mom who throws her heart at people who don’t deserve it. I won’t do this to them again. I can’t.  It’s not even a possibility.

The second reason is that I don’t trust myself anymore. I have a really hard time holding on to myself when I’m in love. There’s some sort of instinct in me, I can’t help it. When I’m in love, I wrap my entire life around the person of my affection. I feel that real love is accepting the other person exactly as they are. So I accept the good, the bad, and the bull shit until I can’t take it anymore.  I have accepted rage.  I have accepted constant criticism.  I have accepted being bullied and belittled.  I have accepted so much more than any one person should.
My skin has grown very thin. I don’t have it in me to be anyone’s emotional punching bag anymore. I have never experienced love that didn’t feel that way to me.  And I don’t trust myself to maintain my boundaries once my heart is set on love.  So, it’s best for me to just leave that part of my life behind.  

Does it hurt a little to know that I won’t get to share my life with anyone? Absolutely. I’m currently grieving that idea as I type this out in an attempt to somehow find some peace about it. But this is the way my life is unfolding. And I’m trying really hard to accept it. Now if I could just get my friends to understand…. If I could just get my heart to understand.  

A Simple Twist of Fate 

My therapist suggested that I have PTSD. He wasn’t really specific about what situation in my life would have contributed to this disorder. We’ve covered a lot of my story so far, and I can’t be sure. 

At first I felt ridiculous. I don’t get to have PTSD. My dad gets to have PTSD. He is a combat veteran from the Vietnam war. He still screams in the night. Do you have any idea how heartbreaking it was waking up in the middle of the night, hearing your hero, your dad, scream from the night terrors of his past?   I can’t imagine what he went through.  I love my dad. He has been the only person in my immediate family that I feel any sort of connection with. He and I have always been able to understand each other. I don’t have that with many people. He has been an amazing dad to me.

 My parents are still married, but I didn’t see my dad a lot growing up. He worked a lot. But when he drove home after a sixteen hour night shift, he would drive me out to the bus stop at the end of our long winding driveway through the woods. He always had breakfast waiting for me, and we would sit in his warm truck and chat about life until the bus rolled up.  Sometimes we would watch deer run through the field across the street.  My dad and I both find amazing peace in nature.  

He is a very opinionated guy.  There are some major flaws in his world view. But my dad’s heart is made of pure gold. He’s the guy who anonymously orders strawberry shortcake for every kid in the restaurant before he leaves. He still sends a beer to veterans he sees at the bar and thanks them for their service. He melted one day at the post office when a little girl recognized his Vietnam Veteran hat and stopped him to say thank you for serving our country. That little girl will never know how her simple gesture made up for all the “thank yous” he never received when he came back from an unpopular war. My dad still wakes up early to plow the driveways of military wives and the elderly people in our little home town. He never takes money. He just enjoys taking care of people. Like I said, my dad’s heart is pure gold. And that had to have made it so much more horrifying for him to go through the soul-clenching terror of war. He gets to have PTSD. He earned it.

I have a friend who is in the hospital right now. He just had a piece of artificial skull placed over a gaping hole in his head. He got jumped by five thugs who beat him relentlessly for about forty-five minutes. Then they just left him for dead. They didn’t steal any thing. This wasn’t for drugs. They just beat him because they are terrible monsters and they have no humanity. My friend gets to have PTSD. He earned that diagnosis. His experience was terrifying to hear about. He shouldn’t be alive right now. But he is. And now he has to come to terms with a new reality. He also has to come to terms with knowing now, how truly psychotic some people in this world can be. People who would kill someone so brutally, so thoughtlessly, are not human beings. My heart breaks for this friend of mine. He also has a heart of gold.  And now his life will never be the same.  

I don’t have an experience like that. I have endured some tough spots in my life. My heart has been shattered. My life has twisted and turned beyond the path I imagined for myself. But the only PTSD worthy experience I have is almost dying from a burst appendix. I was fourteen years old. My mom kept ignoring my complaints about stomach pain. She pretended like she couldn’t hear me throwing up. She didn’t notice that I hadn’t moved from my bedroom floor for three days. She just kept watching her soap opera and telling people I was just nervous about starting high school. I wasn’t fucking nervous.  I was very ill.  I had a fever that burned over 106 degrees. When she finally took me to the hospital, the surgeon told my parents that they needed to prepare for the worst. She didn’t know if I would survive.  I did.  She told everyone that my pain tolerance was off the charts.  It wasn’t.  I was in more pain than I had ever experienced. But my mother couldn’t handle the guilt of everyone judging her for nearly letting me die, so we told everyone that I had the pain tolerance of a rhinoceros.   To this day, I panic a little whenever I get sick.  I am terrified of death.  And yet, it’s a process I must endure.

We are all going to die. Tomorrow has never been a promise. On some level, we are all constantly aware of our own mortality. I guess PTSD comes from having that awareness take center stage in your life. It’s like walking through the jungle. You are aware that there could be tigers out there. But it’s a big fucking difference when one jumps up in your face.  
Even so, my tiger is nothing compared to the tigers my dad faced, or the one my friend recently confronted. Isn’t it terrifying how radically life can change? A moment in time. A simple twist of fate. And all of a sudden, your world is changed forever. 

 How do you pretend the tigers aren’t real after you have touched one?  After you have smelled the wild beast up close? How do you steady your legs and walk through the jungle again? 

The Devil Inside 

I have a demon inside me. At least that’s what it feels like. There’s a wicked, hateful voice inside my head, and she’s always telling me I’m not enough. She tells me that I’m all wrong. She tells me I’m worthless. She sounds like a demon, if demons were real.  I believe this demon, who I’m going to name Stella, has haunted the minds of my ancestors for generations beyond my own. She is carried through our bloodline in our angry voices and sometimes howling depression.  

She was holding the trigger when my grandfather pointed a loaded gun at his own father’s head, only to have it misfire. She was the always unimpressed tone in my mother’s voice.  She’s the mom inside me that loses her shit sometimes because the girls won’t stop arguing.  She is my daughter’s broken heart because the boy she had a crush on called her ugly.  

Stella’s a real bitch. She has terrorized everyone I love. And we never even knew it was happening. She hides herself away in our minds, our inner voices. We don’t even know she’s there, because she camouflages herself amidst our own thoughts. But she is always there. She is always reminding me about all the things I can’t do, all the places I can’t go, everything I can’t be. She holds me down when I want nothing more than to fly. After all, I’ve worked so diligently at transformation. I have earned these wings, but Stella has them shackled.

Honestly, I don’t know what I would do without her. I’ve never lived without Stella. I am certain life without her would be awkward and strange.  She’s a part of my DNA, my family heritage. She has kept us in check for generations. Life without Stella would feel like being naked in a park. Freeing and beautiful, but terrifying at the same time.  Is it possible to stand completely naked in a park without fear? I suppose some would say yes, but those people have never met Stella. I know this because she feeds on fear and clearly those people have none.  Stella has gotten fat off my fear.  But I’ve had enough.  I’m tired of always feeding this demon.  I’m tired of believing all of her bullshit.  

I have a long way to go. I want to pry Stella’s creepy little hands from under my skin. I want to believe in myself so fiercely that I can stand naked in a park.  Maybe I will join a nudest club.  Maybe I will slice Stella’s throat and finally move on in my life.  I am working on it.  And I will.  I will kill that bitch before she gets to my girls.  Fuck Stella. 

Valentine’s Day 

In honor of being single on Valentine’s Day, I would like to take this opportunity and write about heartache. Getting your heart broken is probably the worst part about being human. Every person I know is terrified of it. If a broken heart wasn’t so painful, we would saturate ourselves in vulnerability. But no one does. Every single person I know is so hungry for love, to feel loved, to submit to love. Every one I know has an instinct to be accepted completely by another person. We are driven towards validation.  
And yet I’ve met very few who were able to let their guard down and place their heart in another person’s hands. At this point in my life, I’d rather give someone a kidney, than give them my heart.  

And I hate that I feel that way. If heartache wasn’t real, I would give my heart out every chance I could get. But heartache is real. And after you experience it, you never forget how it feels to give your heart so graciously to someone who drops it on the dirty floor.  It hurts.

There is also something very beautiful about heartache. It’s that sweet feeling you get, after you step back into the world with your newly independent feet. It’s that warm feeling you get, having a beer and watching a sexy young Brad Pitt get naked in Thelma and Louise by yourself on a Friday night.  It’s that feeling of wearing your cute new slippers and robe on a rainy day.   It’s cuddling with your friend Charlie (my cat) and sharing a plate of the amazing salmon I just made.  At least someone appreciates my culinary skills.

Jesus Christ, Brad Pitt looks damn good in this movie!  I do believe she owed him that money.

Seriously though, I love the way I take care of myself when I don’t have to take care of anyone else. I love the feeling I get when I tackle some situation that is hard for a single mom and I knock it out of the park. Hell, even if I don’t knock it out of the park, I love the feeling I get when I try. I really do feel happier on my own. I love that my house is my house and I don’t have some man bullying me around in it. I love that I work harder to feel happy because I am all I’ve got. I’m also all my kids have got. I love that feeling I get when I find a little piece of my long lost identity hidden in some extraordinarily mundane moment.  I love single me.

So, I have decided to write my own astrology reading for Valentine’s Day. I have written hundreds of astrology readings for people around the world.  But I have never written an analysis of my own chart.  Here it goes…

As a Libra sun and rising, with all of my planets equally divided between Scorpio and Virgo, my life is a swinging scale of opposites. I always find myself leaning between the emotional intuition of Scorpio and the critical logic of Virgo. I feel pulled to feel something and my brain drags me back to reality. I come from two families, one with traditional values and one with intelligent heathens.  I am the dirty virgin and the virtuous witch.I want love but I hate when I have it. I have big ideas but I talk myself out of them. I see both sides to everything. And so I see the good in evil people and I see the many imperfections of good people. I have the innate ability to sprinkle pixie dust over reality. And I can whittle a dream down to the bone. Every person in my life is a hero and a villain. I find myself in long stretches of solitude and I use that precious time to heal, to have adventures, to fall in love with my own life. I also find myself wandering away from solitude from time to time because I am a Libra after all, and Libras are always tempted by love. As I get older, I will find myself molding these contrasts together, and that is where I will find true happiness.  That is where I will change my world.

Beauty is Therapy 

I see beauty in everything. Literally everything. This has been both a blessing and a curse in my life.  
The sunsets out on the prairie are so exquisite, I sometimes cry in awe of the magnitude of the moment when the sun dips out of sight. But I also find beauty in the ruins of downtown Detroit, a city once full of hope and hustle, now a broken reminder of abandonment. In some ways, the city reminds me of myself, and that resemblance is beautiful to me.  

I think every person I’ve ever met is beautiful. I love to go to concerts and festivals, watching people, wondering what this human experience has been through their eyes.  
I think elderly people are the most beautiful, holding a lifetime of love and heartache in the wrinkles drawn across their fragile skin. I can’t help but to wonder what they’ve learned here, what feelings they have experienced along the way of growing from a brand new baby into a weathered old soul.  Who have they loved? Who has loved them?  

At the same time, I think children are just as beautiful. Their tiny little worlds, so full of wonder and learning. Wouldn’t it be great if we could experience the adventure of discovering this world for the first time again? With our senses not yet jaded, minds still open, and emotions raw and genuine?  

I see beauty in the pageant queen, just as easily as I see the beauty in a beggar clothed in dirt and hand me down rags. The human experience, no matter who is experiencing it, is awe inspiring and beautiful.

Last spring, I took a very informative tour of the old State Hospital in Traverse City, Michigan.  An insane asylum that operated differently than any other facility of it’s kind.  Talk about beauty, this magnificent building is a masterpiece of architecture. Most of it has been rebuilt, but we toured the untouched remnants of buildings left to the destruction of time and vandals. The first of it’s kind, the State hospital opened up with a brand new concept in mental health wellness. Beauty is therapy, their motto for this self-sustaining facility where clients were given purpose by taking part in all daily functions. The property was surrounded by beautiful gardens, where patients helped to grow and produce their own food.  They also helped to prepare, serve, and clean up.  Every patient had a job.  There was such an abundance of resources there, that the hospital donated produce to the townspeople on a regular basis.  This facility was the beating heart of northern Michigan for many years.

There were no fences, gates, or bars on the windows. People didn’t want to leave. Every ward was equipped with a large screened in porch and ceiling to floor windows, allowing patients to feel the warm healing rays of the sun.  

This facility opened at a time when women could be checked into a mental hospital, simply for going through menopause. Their husbands would sign them in and then pick them up three years later or sometimes not at all.

I like to think that the beauty of the facility helped those patients to cope with such cruel abandonment and suppression. I like to believe that they were probably even thankful for the opportunity to live in such a therapeutic place.  

Patients who were feeling over stressed were allowed to lay in a deep warm bath, complete with a canvas cover to hold the heat in, stimulating an almost womb like experience. Patients were cared for with great detail. Beauty is therapy. Aesthetics are so very important to our wellbeing.  I walked through these old, broken down buildings.  I could see through the falling bricks and faded paint.  I could see the love that went into creating this oasis of lost souls.  I could see the empathy brought forth by the designer of this space.  I could see respite and reprieve in days gone by.

I see beauty in every person. Sometimes I have to work at it, other times it comes easily. But seeing people the way that I do, is therapeutic for everyone involved. 

When you find beauty in every aspect of your world, your world becomes a dreamy and beautiful place to exist. And when people come into your life, you allow them to see themselves through your own beautiful eyes. And they will then share that experience with the people in their lives. And this admiration for each other’s souls will spread like a wildfire across the land. How beautiful would that be?

Soft Parade and the Staves

Have you ever wondered why recently single people always drop a lot of weight right after the break up? It’s not the reason you think. It’s not because they are so depressed they just can’t eat. It’s not because they are so stressed out they can’t keep the weight on. It’s because when you shed the heaviness of another person’s bullshit, you fucking feel like dancing…all the time.

I just put my kids in bed, smoked a bowl, and turned all the lights off in my living room. I then helped myself to a cold bottle of Soft Parade, from Shorts brewery. And now I am dancing to Spotify’s “Top tracks from 2016,” a playlist they so graciously created just for me. What a great idea. I can’t wait to listen to that playlist in ten years, like a soundtrack of the most difficult year I’ve ever experienced. I’m not going to lie, this soundtrack is like therapy right now. Music, pot, and a bottle of beer that tastes like strawberries making love in my mouth, I am content in every possible way.  I suppose most people would climb above their high horse and shame me for being so irresponsible. Society tends to look down on catching a night cap, especially for a single mom.  I can imagine most people would think of me as a trashy person because I like to get high. I’m probably even spending my child support on drugs. I’m not, really. I just imagine that people would think that about me.  Mom’s are always held to a higher standard than most.  But guess what?  We’re human.  The only women I know who actually try to keep up with that ridiculous image of plastered perfection are the most insane people I’ve ever met.  And I have met some very insane people.

That Mom that you see at the school, with perfect hair and her shit all together, strapping her little soccer stars into the back of her mint condition Escalade… That woman is made of plastic, inside and out.  She only appears to have her shit together, much like a piece of plastic fruit appears to look edible.  I will take a stoner mom friend any day over those perfection Barbie wannabes.  Fuck those bitches.  A friend of the devil is a friend of mine.

Here’s what I think about me…I think I wake up every morning, alone in the dark, cold Michigan winter. I think I throw some clothes together, usually running out the door with a light on or I forgot to take the trash out, so now it’s piled up for another week. I usually brush my teeth at work, because I can’t afford to be late again. I think that I am that girl who is non stop worrying about the bills and the social life that I don’t have, and my homework, and the sex I’m not having, and what’s for dinner, and did I mess up at work, and how are my girls doing with life, emotionally? Because if they aren’t 100% perfect, it’s 100% my fault. Karma, I guess. My life is a hurricane right now. I don’t see that changing any time soon. But I choose to take care of myself through this endless storm. I choose to get high and have a beer and dance by myself in the dark.

Honestly, I think my girls are doing really well. And I think we’re knocking this single parent family thing out of the park. My children are thriving in life. You want to know why? It’s because I fucking tuck my kids in every night, and then I let it all go. I forgive myself for being imperfect and a little irresponsible. And I release all of the tension in my shoulders. And I dance to music that I don’t have to argue with anyone about. And I feel beautiful, because when I am high, everything looks beautiful, even my reflection. Stress falls away and I feel happy. And I feel confident that I can not only survive this lifestyle, but I can thrive on it. And because I allow myself to unwind at night, I’m able to wake up the next morning, feeling calm and content with a smile on my face. I’m a better mom because I get high. I don’t smoke pot every day. I don’t get high around my kids.  And I usually only have a couple beers a week.  But when it’s just me and the moon and a collection of my favorite songs, I wallow in the sweet solitude that has draped over my life.  Instead of feeling smothered by it, I feel swaddled in the comfort of it. And I don’t care what the law says, or what society has to say, or even what you might be thinking. I feel good. And I know that I’m doing better at succeeding in life because of my choices.  

Society has been shaming stoners for a long while, now. And then they gaslight us by saying we self medicate, that we are just catching a buzz in an attempt to relieve our depression symptoms. You know what I think about that? I think, yes! We are self medicating! And it’s fucking working! I have not been this happy to dance alone in my living room since the last time I was single and high. 

 Do you know anyone who has ever quit taking antidepressants? Me neither, because they are designed that way. 

 Tomorrow, however, is going to be another great day. I might get high. I might not. But I will wake up feeling satisfied with my life, and filled with gratitude for these precious moments I have to myself.  
You can enjoy my Spotify soundtrack here: