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However, it is important to note that the concept of matriarchy does not imply the total exclusion of men from positions of power or decision-making. Rather, it recognizes and prioritizes women’s leadership and authority in areas such as economics, politics, and social issues.

In Mosuo culture, women hold the primary authority, and property is passed down through the female line. Marriage as we know it doesn’t exist in their culture, instead, women engage in “walking marriages” with men they choose for short or long-term relationships.

Another significant difference between matriarchy and patriarchy is the way power is distributed within society. In matriarchal societies, power tends to be more evenly distributed among individuals. Decision-making processes involve consultation with various members of society before arriving at a final decision.

When I die, I want Stephan Jenkins to sing at my funeral. He has the voice of my soul.

“Lust is the artist for a canvas full of emptiness” -Kaleigh Gold

iyaenmcbtm please

You were Logos. You said I was Ethos but I was Pathos.

I knew it would happen.

I knew it would hurt.

I didn’t realize the sharpness of the pain, but I wasn’t naïve.

I wasn’t blind. I walked in with my eyes wide open.

I knew how hot the fire would be when it chard my skin.

I did it regardless.

I knew my place.

I knew it would happen.

I knew it would hurt.

I knew it would end.

Knowledge doesn’t alleviate the reality. The empty.

Even though.

I knew my place.

i am human and this is hard.

I wonder if you had a good day.

I wonder what you did well today.

I can’t ask you. I can never ask you again. You just have to be gone.

Your existence erased off mistakenly by the shoulder of a gray sweatshirt.

Still here, still in my mind. Wondering.

Did you have a good day? Did you think about me? Before you lay your beautiful head on your pillow, do you think about telling me what you did well today?

I accept that I am meant to live in a body full of pain.

My life has more colors in it since you walked in.

He was a garbage human and in hindsight, he didn’t deserve it.

But in that moment. He got to experience it. I’m not sure if he even knew it was the rawest moment for me.

It was a random afternoon. I went around the corner too fast, slipped on a rug and came crashing down. My rib got stuck on another one and I couldn’t move. I knew I needed to stand up quickly to pop it back out, but I knew the pain would be too much and I would collapse again.

I needed him. The garbage human who didn’t deserve the moment.

I called to the Alexa to call him. He answered. He was supposed to be at work, I’m sure he wasn’t. But he came running to help me.

I laid on the floor, helpless and dependent on a man. Because of the hands of another man. Neither one deserved me helpless.

He got there and I told him what was about to happen. He didn’t deserve it. I need you to catch me, I said. I’m going to stand up, but I will collapse from the sudden pain and I need you to catch me. He didn’t deserve my need. He braced himself and got ready.

I stood, the pain so bad, I collapsed immediately. He caught me, he didn’t deserve to catch me. His arms wrapped around me, holding me. I got so dizzy. Violently vomitted from the pain all over myself and his arms. I was mortified, helpless, vulnerable, raw. Sobbing and curled into a ball. I was a shell of a human in the most composing position in my life. Completely Broken by a man being held and comforted by another broken man. Covered in my own filth. He didn’t deserve it. We laid on the ground still, raw, in the bottom of this relationship. Completely exposed…he didn’t deserve to be part of that moment but he did experience it.

I know from firsthand experience why they fight: because the stakes are so very high.

-Kristen Luker

The broken girl

With the great hair

Who is either

Crying or laughing

Those moments when she reaches over and grabs my hand. Car rides, planes, plays.

She shared her pain with me. The broken heart, old & heavy, and so familiar.

They tell me their secrets and feel no shame. He wears diapers, she fantasizes about her husband becoming a woman.

The oil stain on the floor board of the trunk, my fingers trace for hours.

He sucked his thumb with sleepy eyes, nuzzled into my neck and fell asleep. Holding this moment tighter.

The x-rays that shouldn’t exist. The memories we shared that you invited yourself into. The things I could never tell.

The look of disappointment and devastation. And the promise I’d fix it all, for him.

The lifeless body in my arms who never had a chance. I wish life got to begin at conception.

The soothing feeling of your breathing on my ear lobes.

The things we do with the tools we use that I never charge.

The pages of notes, diaries, and journals.

Ecstasy of the moments I pretend to forget.

The reality of the past no one needs images of.

The ribs scrapbooking the trips taken without a plan.

Stories I will continue to rewrite without the original illustrator.

No more lessons.

Please, no more.

No more she, he, they are not the ones.

No more shouldn’t have said, done, or asked that.

I think I’ve hit my lesson quota for the year.

Being brutalized for years by the cute chubby guy at McyD’s was a lesson I am still dosing myself with daily.

Then the fever dream that some would call a marriage, and every single little paper cut lessons along the way.

I can’t handle the universe’s full-time mandatory educational system much longer.

This global training could have been a life saving email.

I think I’ve learned enough.

So please no more lessons.

I’m not a writer. I want to pour out beautiful words on paper. Lines filled with deep painful tears. Have this tree corpse soak up all the emotional shit I’m unfortunately feeling. That’s how it works right? Poets crack open their souls onto the little brown journals and all the pain stays safely in the binding? I want that. I want to write it all out and no longer feel it. Every spoiled privileged gut ache and chest crushing pressure leaving my body, out through fingertips becoming the ink in the pen. I want that. I want to feel empty as the words create beautiful stories for no one to read. But I am no writer. I am no emptied cup. The words don’t come, and the hurt still stays.

I’m mad at you. I’m mad at you for ever walking into my life. I didn’t order ravioli. I didn’t ask for this. I’m mad at you for ruining every other option for me. I’m mad at you for making me choose me over you. I didn’t want this hurt. I didn’t deserve it. I’ve hurt enough. I’m mad at you that I can’t talk to you. I’m mad at you for becoming someone worth missing. I’m mad at you for not ever promising to stay. I’m mad at you for being honest, and trusting, and transparent. For being beautiful and kind, and raw. I’m mad at you for becoming my favorite person. I was okay without knowing. I never wanted to know. What’s the point of knowing? If it’s always a no.

Before modern English existed, an early version of the word “BITCH” was actually just another word for genitalia-anyone’s genitalia.

I choose to forgive every sleepy eyed, painful morning. After a night of nightmared-filled rollercoaster-like tosses and turns. I choose to forgive every time I make the decision to empower women and not hunt down the abuser. I choose to forgive you when I leave my rage hanging on the wall instead of wearing it out. I choose to forgive when I hear heinous stories and I don’t get sick to my stomach. I choose to forgive when I compare what you did to what happened to them. I choose to forgive, every day him and I exist on the same Earth. I choose to forgive when I put my skeleton back together. I choose to forgive you every time I almost choose to forgive him.

I chose this life. I made easy choices and hard. I chose to not settle. To run full speed up the stair case, letting go of hands not strong enough to withstand the winds. I chose solitude in my bed at night. Freezing temperatures seem so much warmer than temporary heat. I’m not scared. Only mourning what my childhood promised. It doesn’t exist whatever it is. I don’t believe there’s plenty of time. I believe it doesn’t exist.

tell me there’s a universe where this works.

tell me there are versions of ourselves existing that are pressed heart to heart, with nothing standing in their way.

tell me there’s a me and a you out there somewhere that have places to put all this fucking want.

The new federal administration has taken down the reproductiverights.gov website that explained how to access sexual and reproductive healthcare. But knowing your rights is an important part of sex education in a country that treats sexual health differently than other health issues. Here’s where you can find information on rights:

• The Skimm posted the content from reproductiverights.gov (current as of January 15, before the page disappeared) in this Instagram post and here on the web. 
• I love this new video by AMAZE that helps young people navigate how to get care. It’d be a great one to share with students or add to existing curriculum.

Those eyes of yours

Could swallow stars,

Galaxies and universes.

What hope did I

Ever have?

Take me to church
We can play with creation
Make me your god with the right reservations
His trim and beautiful body laid out on the floor,
Chest rising and falling, impressively still alive.

I watch silently from the door,
The voices are calling.
Whispers in these ears,
Eyes glazed in a trance,
He couldn’t find my fears,
With a mastochistic dance.

I was never a soldier but the art of war so familiar to my fingertips.

I have flirted with fear, made it my collared bitch.

The heart beat pulsing through my eyes. I enjoyed it all too well.

He looks at the world through ragged eyes,
He gazes lovingly up at me,
His daily façade a disguise,

His obedience runs deep,
Moments of agony are memories to keep

I became the god of his hell.

And satan has nothing on me.

I don’t have it yet, but I will. You said this to me when we ended the most beautiful chapter of my life. When you said it, you had no idea how impactful it would be to me. I’ll get it tatted right under my black belt tattoo.

Life is life. Who knows if there’s karma or a god, or justice. I don’t know where I stand when it comes to theories of science. I logically know love is just chemicals released in your brain but so are orgasms and those feel pretty real to me. I think we are spiritual beings, but there’s a “how” behind every “what”. I don’t think there’s more good than bad in the world, but I have seen the good on a daily. I don’t understand luck. I spend a lot of mental power convincing myself everything happens for a reason. But I don’t think it does or I don’t want to.

Life isn’t fair. Life is hard for some and easy for others. People that don’t deserve it, get gut punched. Life is deep and intense and ironic. You have something perfect, just to have it taken away. You fight for freedom just to have Trump become president for a second time. You find your dream house for it to burn up in a dumpster fire. Some people just don’t get the story they want. And in life sometimes, without a why or a reason,

We just have to hurt.

In New York, if you are arrested for prostitution, and you have condoms in your possession…that’s an automatically guilty sentence in a court of law.🤨

I didn’t want a bjj program.

I didn’t want to be a bjj coach.

I didn’t want to be an affiliate or a focus fight team.

I didn’t want to care what He had to say and I especially didn’t want to ever hear myself say “that’s good advice.”

I am grateful.

I am grateful for the storm.

I am grateful for a reason for the women to come in the door.

I am grateful for the team and the title coach.

I am grateful that a community has been created under our roof.

I am grateful the mat has become a sanctuary.

I am grateful for bracelets women are proud to wear.

I am grateful for the joy I see on Her face when someone else does something cool.

I am grateful I get to see her proud of what she fought for.

I am grateful for the gift of coaching in a way that is good.

I am grateful for the strength we get to witness.

I am grateful for the responses.

I am grateful for the new path I get to claim as my own.

I am grateful for R.

I am grateful for S.

I am grateful for Savage Sunshine.

I am grateful for Rage.

I am grateful for K.

I am grateful for Artemis.

I am grateful for W.I.T.C.H.

I am grateful for Blue Lotus.

I am grateful for Scorpion.

I am grateful for BeastMode.

I am grateful for the Storms to come.

I am the priority. My health, mental, emotional, and physical. Stay tuned on this journey of dating myself. Treating myself better than any man ever has. 🙂

I want to run and jump like I always have.

Gone Girl is me.

“Lindsey you are EVER-CHANGING.”

I am.

I own it.

I could touch the ground, dig these fingers deep into this soil.

Roots penetrating the ground for miles and I could rip them out on a whim.

The freedom calls me.

I’m not in love with Jacob Grace. I am Jacob Grace.

It’s always been there.

I am my father’s daughter through and through.

The fear of commitment of any kind runs deep and dirty in these orphaned veins.

I am Her biggest fear.

I am a runner. And the shoes are on.

It’s an itching. No, burning behind my eyes.

I want to go. I want to jump.

But I won’t.

I won’t because of her.

I decided the day she pulled the car over and yelled at me.

“God dammit Linds, when will you get it through your brain. My love for you isn’t conditional.”

I will let that burn up my eyeballs before I ever rip up this root.

For her, I will stay.

And that will be the most daring thing I ever do.

I want to grab a fist full of your hair. Run my nails down your back and then claw the fuck out of you. I want to rip your beating heart out of your chest. Hold it in front of you and watch the fear build up in her eyes.

Gorge

She’s mine.

My first.

Mine.

My beautiful royal blue couch, I used for my bed after I bought for $500, I had to borrow from the business because I couldn’t afford her.

Mine.

Throw pillows no one complains about or throws on the floor.

She’s mine.

The 80 blankets, needing every layer for the human burrito, I sometimes turn into.

Shoes line the walls, on display for the world to see. Not ever shoved into a closet.

She’s mine.

She’s quiet and safe and mine.

Pictures and decor resembling genitalia and nudity.

She’s mine.

Fire escape where I’ve read, cried, and watched fireworks, with no one seizure or getting triggered.

She’s mine.

The floor I vacuum when I’m stressed, where I’ve never cleaned up someone else’s piss, blood or vomit.

She’s mine.

The nook, with the books, bamboo sheets, 4 pillows and what ever the fuck else I didn’t feel like cleaning up.

Home is not something I feel I have had but she’s mine.

She cries in the silence.

Sometimes people hear her, but life can be all too distracting, so they move on.

She wants to be strong, brave and resilient, but resilience was never an achievement when you’ve rather have not fought the battle.

I should care more about her. Listen to her needs. Teach her how to care for herself.

But if I take too long, if I dig too deep, she’ll need more than I can provide.

If I look at her, really look and see, I can’t go back from that.

If I really listen to her cries, I may find out they’re actually screams and that’s too loud for my broken ears.

So I’ll do what I’ve always done, what everyone’s always done.

I’ll shush her, ignoring her.

As she cries in the silence.

I will give you space to feel your emotions.

I won’t tell you to stop when you cry.

I will give you the attention they didn’t provide.

I will give you a family that is healthy and safe.

I will give you words of affirmation and grace when you make mistakes.

I will give you warmth and more than just basic necessities.

I will protect you and never let you apologize for getting punched in the face.

I won’t let your body be violated and your brain be convinced it’s anything less than capable.

I will give you education, the way you learn it.

I will let you grow and carry you through even on the ugly days.

I will stand up and protect you, because sweet broken girl, you’re so worth defending.

I will give you a home that is clean and calm.

I will give you a name you will be proud of.

I will give you proof of how incredible you are.

I will give you the time.

I will give you it all, because it was never too much to ask for in the first place.

Several studies, suggest that there is an inverse relationship between how often people have orgasms and their mortality. Studies have shown, more Os the longer you live!

My weapon is her,

the author of all the pages filled with feminist words.

My weapon is her,

the single mother of 3 who escaped years of abuse and the shelter she has in her basement and the others to follow.

My weapon is her,

the big eyed 7-year-old that was told to shut up staring back at me every time I look in the mirror.

My weapon is her,

who lays awake at night fixated on how to save the world.

My weapon is her,

who has been violated by people she trusted and fights demons in her head, meaner than any human, daily but still manages to make all the jokes.

My weapon is her,

who shows up even when the world flashes red garbage.

My weapon is her,

the women who didn’t raise a quitter.

My weapon is her,

the girl we all had to kill to become the woman.

My weapon is her,

who fought while she cried.

My weapon is her,

the one who rages.

My weapon is her,

counsels others when she herself is broken.

My weapon is her,

who is many.

My weapon is her,

educates herself when she is ignorant.

My weapon is her,

who came before me.

My weapon is her,

who suffered loudly, so I could heal louder.

My weapon is her,

and all you have is him.

About my deaf friends who are about to lose their right to interpreters and the only connection to this hearing world.

You should care

About the women’s crisis centers you’re taking money from to give to the victim’s abusive cop husbands.

You should care

About your mothers’, wives’, sisters’, daughters’, and friends’ reproductive health.

You should care

About the 19-year-old that was adopted from China by her white christian parents that’s about to get shipped back to a country she’s never known.

You should care

About what you have done. The carnage you have uneducatedly decided to create. This was too important to not question what you were voting for.

You should care

About the family I created and only still exist because of.

You should fucking care

About anyone but yourself.

You should care

About education of the thing that created you in the first place.

You should care

You should just fucking care.

El Deafo by Cece Bell

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Adorable book about growing up hard of hearing



View all my reviews

In World War 1, more soldiers were admitted to the hospital with syphillis or gonorrhoea than for any other ailment, except for influenza.

I got married because I needed to have the stone in my garden of life. I needed to know I was worthy of love enough to be proposed to. Enough to have someone cry when they saw me walk down the aisle. I needed to have the pics and the gown and the party. To know I could feel what being special felt like. To be the center of attention.

I don’t believe I was grown enough to make that decision. I don’t know that I experienced enough in life yet. I skipped some stones.

Exhibitionistic Disorder is a mental health illness that centers on a need to expose one’s genitals to other people. 🤠

In addition, rates of bisexuality in samples of men have been found to be higher among African-American and Latino men than among white men.

I’m not much of a writer. I’m not sure I even enjoy it. But, with no solid SPARK of INSPIRATION, I’m here. I’m in this new wave of exploring my brain. It’s a new little world I’ve discovered where the walls are no longer PRESSURED with an abundance of unfair and undeserved stupidity. Instead, now choosing to live in HOPE and AWARENESS of exciting possibilities of what my CONSCIOUSNESS is capable of.

The waiting room at the airport.

I use to go there when I’d feel lost or needed to hide from the world.

In high school I would break up with guys at the airport viewing center.

It became my place.

Eventually I moved to the inside where you can wait for someone to return from their trip.

It’s quiet, comfy and most of the time, empty.

You can stay there for hours and no one questions.

I loved watching the return of important people in others’ lives.

They are no one to most, but to the person they are coming home to, they’re someone.

I watch the warm loving embrace that always seems to last just a second too long.

Its outer worldly.

Like a peek into so many different stories than my own.

That was oddly peaceful and calming.

Reassuring almost.

Here lies Lindsey…

1. She saved herself until marriage.
2. Her love for animals went beyond that of a normal human.
3. She loved all people.
4. She never said an unkind word.
5. Her personal motto was modest is the hottest.
6. She was so humble. She once wrote a book about sex is meant to be between one man and one woman and missionary being the only way.
7. He was always level headed.
8. Her family was a quiet group of people that she cherished deeply.
9. She died never having an orgasm, and was happy about it.
10. Masturbation was the devil’s own creation, and as her one last dying wish, she asks you to never partake.

I have been in a long-term, committed, polyamorous relationship with a few items that live in the top drawer of my dresser. I am a sexually liberated woman, so I like to end my day by getting really intimate with these items. Because this is the last thing I do before I fall asleep, I have sex dreams often. Sometimes it’s fantastic sex with someone in my life, usually not someone I’m sexually attracted to. Which consequently does make it slightly awkward the next time I’m around them. Especially because when I see them, I have the unfortunate realization; they’re definitely not as good as they were in my dream. I also tend to have the occasional food dream. Then comes the queen-of-the-world dream, where I rule a made-up land like the one in Road To Eldorado. There’s always someone naked in my dreams, usually he’s the guy controlling the gondola in the city I run. Sometimes the people serving me in my dreams are the human versions of my vibrators. The castle is in the shape of a vulva. Surrounded by a river full of tears of my exes. No children, but most of the men are pregnant. The trees are all peach trees and Lizzo is the sheriff.

Divorcee written in my notebook next to all the mandimonium birds.

Blue belts held my rib cage in tightly.

Cocktails tasting like everlasting memories.

Exciting moments in and out of this building, watching the joy on her face through it all.

” love yous” loudly, and silently spoken.

So many thoughts of men, women, and food.

I’m ashamed of my behavior lately

How I’ve treated you.

I forgot to love you, my love.

O Body, My Body,

You, my brave, strong protector.

We worked so goddamn hard to be a power couple.

I forgot.

I let him distract me from all the work I put into loving you unconditionally.

O Body, My Body.

I stopped sitting in the shower holding you.

We sat in that shower years ago, watching the blood circle the drain.

I promised it was the last time we would spend apart.

O Body, My Body.

It was this mind’s turn to protect you.

This mind’s turn to keep you safe.

O Body, My Body.

I saved you from the abuser just to turn around and become the nightmare.

O Body, My Body.

We are stronger than this valley.

I will love you again, you’ll see.

I will see you as I once did.

O Body, My Body.

I knew the end was unavoidable.

It was coming whether I chose it or not.

The only choice I had was to; fight then retire & heal OR fight & die.

Retiring from the sport was forced upon me.

I wasn’t ready.

There was no fight camp to prepare me for how much saying goodbye would hurt.

I wasn’t fighting IN a cage. I was fighting THEE cage.

My body was done before my mind was.

I stuck it out.

I woke up that morning.

A collar bone out, 3 ribs clinging to floating meat.

15 minutes.

That’s all I had to do.

Suffer through 15 minutes.

15 opponents.

2 swallowed shots of vomit.

1 gnarly knee ride.

I whimpered.

I cried.

I fucking made it.

Blue and I’m done, I repeated to myself.

I fought while my bones grinned and popped on each other.

I fought my last fight.

I gave it my all.

Left all I had on that mat.

Pissed blood for days and permanently glued ice to my body, but I earned that color.

I knew the end was unavoidable and I won that fight against the cage.

I wish you were my people.

I wish for the spontaneous trips.

The spoiled weekends.

The guilt free loans and the countless amounts of grace.

I wish you supported me the way I needed.

I wish we were like the Irish family on the hallmark movies instead of the Gallaghers.

I wish there wasn’t a 50/50 chance when answering your calls.

I wish we communicated and you didn’t spit on the choices of my life.

I wish I had scrapbook amounts of great memories.

I wish I didn’t have to lose your future grandchild in order to end a fight or feel connected to you.

I wish you could be Uber proud of the things I’ve achieved.

I wish the text said “so proud of you!” instead of “can I borrow $20”.

I wish Christmas for me looked like the Thanksgiving episode of Ted lasso, but I get Breaking Bad.

I wish I didn’t have to fight for a seat at the table. Yelling to be heard.

I wish we looked like a dollhouse family.

I wish you were a quiet group of people who I cherished deeply.

Here lies Lindsey…

1. She saved herself until marriage.
2. Her love for animals went beyond that of a normal human.
3. She loved all people.
4. She never said an unkind word.
5. Her personal motto was modest is the hottest.
6. She was so humble. She once wrote a book about sex is meant to be between one man and one woman and missionary being the only way.
7. She was always level headed.
8. Her family was a quiet group of people that she cherished deeply.
9. She died never having an orgasm, and was happy about it.
10. Masturbation was the devil’s own creation, and as her one last dying wish, she asks you to never partake.

Eyebrows on fleek.

Long hair, wild and free.

I look at my naked body in the mirror.

Standing up tall, damn I don’t brag enough.

Being on top arm stretch out tall touching the ceiling.

Orgasms.

Hairless legs.

Messy bun, large hoodie, booty shorts.

Laying upside down on my couch.

Feet pettied.

When I get the perfect angle for my nudes.

Rash guard stuck to my sweaty skin.

Spats with swamp crotch.

Making out with very little saliva.

High heels & lingerie.

Running.

Long showers.

Blazers.

Boss mode.

Reading.

Glasses.

Latex dress.

Leather jacket.

Dirty Dancing alone.

I don’t know, but maybe that’s the answer. Not knowing. I don’t know your life. I don’t know what you’re going through or what you’ve had to do to survive all your days before this moment. I don’t know. You can tell me, but I’ll never know. I only know me. I know my life, my choices and my mistakes. I know the moments I’ve been through. The sickening cruel thoughts slithering in my head. I know I was tortured and brutalized and I know sometimes I believed I deserved it. And that’s just it. That’s the connection. I’ll never fully know, but I know I deserve the life I have now. And if that’s true, then you must deserve a good life too. The connection is the unapologetic belief that no one deserves to feel how I felt at my lowest. The belief that in this short little life we have, no one deserves to live small and scared. Because if you deserve it, then that 21 year old kid from my past deserves it too.

Remembering of things I shouldn’t ever forget, but do.

Remembering like post-it’s on the bathroom mirror.

Remembering that the long exhausting fight was worth it.

Remembering I’m better alive than dead.

Remembering that I’m loved, sexy, funny, and smart.

Remembering that there’s more mountains to climb, people to help, and stories to be heard.

Remembering that there’s more work to be done.

Remembering of being worthy of saying no.

Remembering I get to choose.

She wasn’t known for being the hyper or loud kid. Because she would rarely be seen without her little brother next to her, she wasn’t really known at all. But I knew her. I knew her favorite color was blue but that was Little Brother’s favorite color, so she’d say orange. She adored Gaga ball, she was the best at it. She’d only play if Little Brother was being held by me close by. She’d get so into the game. She’d just be a kid in very small moments until she’d remember life wasn’t about fun. She’d forget all her responsibilities then she’d be reminded and hurry to check on her little brother. One beautiful summer day she was playing. Her crazy wild red hair swinging with every smack of the ball and she got everyone out. She was on a roll. She got so excited, she ran over to me climbed on the wall and jumped on me.The most positive emotion I’d ever seen from this small human. Her little bony arms wrapped around my neck. All 40 pounds of her. “Captain Lindsey! I crushed’em! I crushed’em all!”

Lindsey was a free spirit.

She was clumsy and messy. She surrounded herself with chaos of one kind or another.

She made people laugh constantly. She was goofy and fun.

She took a spontaneous approach to life.

She was ever changing, and although she hated her ex for saying that, it was true through and through.

Lindsey was adventurous and loved hard. She was loyal, and brave. Her great hair was always a mess and never wore shoes.

She was stubborn but strong. She never lacked passion and always tried to build people up. She was loud and fearless.

She was a big dreamer and was determined.

Lindsey was bold and raw.

She could read someone almost immediately.

She had the most sex positive outlook on life and the best in bed.

She never took life too seriously and adapted to her surroundings.

She had a hunger for knowledge, and never let fear get in the way of trying new things.

Lindsey will be terribly missed.

She may have not made huge waves in life but she saved a starfish or two.

Thank you, the reception is downstairs. Help yourself to soft pretzels and icees.

The early morning prep talk “Don’t be a bitch, you’re fine. Cover your face, let him hit your body. You can take it there. No one will see the marks there.”

Sometimes I wonder if I liked it. I like skipping to the explosion because I liked how it felt to get hit. The painful contact on my skin. I felt all the pain fully. Until at some point my body would go numb. Way before he was finished. I survived again. Another battle, and I lay here still alive. Victorious. Give me my trophy because I am invincible. I can survive anything. I felt alive knowing I was an inch from death but still breathing. Sometimes I wonder if I miss the fear and the chaos. Sometimes I wonder if that was actually the simpler unpredictable predictable times.

I want to write about how I will beat someone’s skull in with a baseball bat or hang someone’s bones as a wind chime from my fire escape.

And all the other badass threats I can think of.

But honestly, I’ve been doing it.

I’ve been fighting for this life for years.

I will just keep doing it.

There are people in life that just get gut punched often.

No reason, no order, it just happens.

Life bitch slaps you and doesn’t give you other options outside of die, or do hard shit.

I do hard shit.

I have created my own spoonfuls of sugar but medicine still tastes like anal leakage juice.

And sometimes, after you swallow it, you burp it up later for another round of bad taste.

So I will, just keep fighting as if resilience is a badge I’m proud to wear.

I will still show up every day.

I will continue to laugh at all the things I shouldn’t find funny.

I will ground myself.

I will power through the nightmares.

I will continue to put on the brave face.

I will save face through the stories, I relate to so well

And let the dumb tears fall.

I will take breaks and breathe through the pain, at sometimes ignoring it completely.

I will still build women up.

And train for the battles to come.

I will keep being louder than I was the day before and I will take two steps forward every day.

I will keep doing the hard shit.

I will keep fighting for tomorrow to be better than today.

I thought you were broken.

I thought my eyes were wide open when I walked into this.

I thought I knew what you needed.

I was going to pick you up, dust you off, and heal your busted broken wings.

You stole mine.

I gave you my secrets, opened my world to you.

You left me feeling broken.

Tried to show you a world without abuse.

Showed you images of safety.

I covered your head when it rained.

I told you you could take up space.

You stole mine.

I made you believe you were beautiful.

I fed you.

You bit me.

You made me believe I was ugly.

You left no space for me.

You became a devastating flood.

You shoved images of danger in my face.

You reminded me of the existence of abuse. 

The secrets became the thrown you sat on and the weapons you used.

You stole my wings and burned them.

Covered me in mud and threw me on the ground.

I walk around you so blind now.

You tried to break me.

• Women without girlfriends.
• Men.
• Religious people.
• People without daddy issues.
• People that don’t like Her.
• People that don’t find me funny.
• Virgins over the age of 27.
• The military.
• Baths.
• People too close with their siblings.
• People that go to the movies alone.
• People super into their pets.
• Some children.
• Furries.

There once was a day.

I’m sure there was a day.

There has to be a day.

In the history of me.

In this span of my existence.

In the 11,634 days I’ve been strutting on this earth.

Taking up space.

There must be one day I wasn’t a troublemaker.

It definitely wasn’t the day I was almost a year, I helped my brother make it snow for Santa by dumping out the bean bag chairs.

Maybe the day I spray painted the basement walls, no not that day.

Maybe the day in the park when I bet Spaz she couldn’t climb up that tree, or stick her head in that fence.

Both resulting in meaning cute firemen.

I once wrapped her car in plastic wrap and replaced her bed with a dog bed.

Those weren’t the days I wasn’t a troublemaker.

Most days are filled with choices a better person than me wouldn’t make and cussing at people.

I’m the main character in life.

Therefore, behaving isn’t a chapter.

But there once was a day.

I’m sure there was a day.

There has to be a day.

Where I wasn’t a troublemaker.

Craiggers. I don’t miss the cold bowl of soup that he was, but god damn was the sexual relationship hot. I gave no fucks about him. And he gave no fucks about me. We didn’t waste time texting or chatting about our feelings. We got together, hate fucked each other and went our separate ways. I miss the simplicity of that. I miss no expectations and no emotional roller coaster. Just great sex that was rough and raw and more like therapy.

I also miss HipGuns. He was complicated, but the sexual chemistry was pretty great. He is dead now though, so that’s a bummer.

I want to burn the bridges to the memories that I’m not using as fuel to be better.

Light them up and get off on the danger of the flames.

I want to burn the bridges located in the back of my brain.

I want never to have to cross them.

The ones that lead to the good times.

The memories I hate to admit.

The ones where I uneducatedly felt safe in your arms.

These are the small, rare moments written in permanent ink.

Burn those mother fuckers to the ground.

The moments where I thought I was so unlovable but was loved. 

The times I got everything I asked for.

I wish the bad overshadowed the memories of being the center of someone’s world.

Light the match.

I want to burn the bridges that lead to the nightmares of the twisted unspeakable things you did to me.

I want to scorch the pathways to the things I have to keep because they’re too humiliating and degrading.

Things I couldn’t come back from if people knew.

The things only you and I know.

The things that don’t make me strong but weak.

I want to be the arsonist in my own brain.

I see her.

Not everyday, but I see her enough to know. I know what she looked like, as if I was outside of my body. a stranger even. She wore a green Blink 182 shirt and ripped jeans….Actually ripped, not bought like that ripped, with a studded belt. I see her every time I stare too long in the mirror. Her nose is covered in dried blood, and face is swollen. I see her sitting in the circle every class we teach. Eyes puffy and sticky from crying, although I never remember crying. At this point she’s accepting death, welcoming it even. I see her every time I’m proud of how far I’ve come. She’s all I ever write about. I see her every time I’m weak. She haunts me. She’s cold and limp. It’s dark. She’s making circles with her croaked fingers on the stained carpet floor. I see her. I see the life she had flash before her eyes. I should free her, help her out but I never do. I only join her. I climb into the trunk and hold her. Burring my face in between her soar shoulder blades. Apathetically sad, weak and hopeless. I see her. I still see her every time I start to forget about. Every time the oil smell seems too far away. The seconds and minutes. The hours and days feel never ending. Did they ever really end or are we still laying in that trunk together? I see her. I tuck her once beautiful hair behind her ear and tell her I got you. I love you and I will never stop fighting for you.

I don’t like the smell of blown out candles.

I love the smell of peaches.

I don’t like people standing too close to me.

I love being hugged by a few select people.

I don’t like the number 4.

I love American Sign Language.

I don’t like the smell of Covington.

I love living in the city.

I don’t like Sarah Thong or what ever the fuck her name is.

I love Her from writing class.

I don’t like Starbucks prices.

I love their stupid cups.

I don’t like racism.

I love how I was raised.

I don’t like fuzzy socks.

I love my feet.

I don’t like talking about my feelings.

I love writing class.

I don’t like texting.

I love face to face.

I don’t like wine.

I love wine glasses.

I don’t like being on a budget.

I love spending money.

I don’t like my dad.

I love my grandmother.

I don’t like mean people.

I love fighting people.

I don’t like the color yellow.

I love the color purple.

I don’t like my older brother.

I love my little brother.

I don’t like my house messy.

I love to do nothing.

I don’t like my story.

I love my job.

I don’t like most humans.

I love my life.

Little Blue Cross

I sat on the toilet staring at that little blue cross. You have got to be joking. It is April first after all. This was no joke. I was pregnant. I pictured that little blue cross jumping off the piss stick and strangling me. I wanted to die.

Red Nothing But.

I have seen red before.

Eyes glossing over and adrenaline taking control of my body and brain.

Kill or be killed.

Nothing but red.

I fought him enough to pin him down with my fist up.

Kill or be killed.

Yellow

Corn on the cob.

I have braces and he cut my corn off the cob in front of his family. He cared for me.

Green

Ireland, when he was the biggest man in the bar and defended me. He stood up to my brother and introduced me to the definition of a man.

Orange

Her orange curly hair and those size too small shoes that light up orange.

Black

The uniform pants She wore the first time I met her hung out with her and cried with her.

White

The ultrasound of Gummy Bear.

Brown

The door I slammed for the last time leaving him.

Purple

The margaritas we drank when we gave ourselves permission.

The color no one picks.

No one loves.

No one’s favorite.

It’s the color of mud and the color of things people use to describe when some thing is bad.

It’s the color of unclean and filth when you’re talking about a white rug after baseball practice.

And if you’re talking about skin it’s the color people have seen and automatically assume less than.

Brown is the color I pick.

Brown is what I love.

Brown is my favorite.

Brown is the color of the hand-me-down shinning eyes I got from my mother.

The color of messy perfect hair I received from my broken father.

Brown is the piles of leaves we jumped into as innocent children.

Brown is the color of skin we decided did not separate us when we adapted Him, his brother, and Her into our family.

Brown was the trees we climbed creating core memories in my story book of life.

The sand of beaches I have always escaped to.

The color of edible comfort.

She was my grandmother. She died when I was a sophomore in high school. The last time she saw me I was in my homecoming dress, hair and makeup on point. It was the best I could have looked in the time I knew her.

She taught me to sew, and how to bake and how to calm my hyper body with puzzles. I was her favorite. She was the kind of grandmother fairytales captured in their stories of cooking baking grannies. She was bubbly and always happy. Constantly laughing. Her husband was a stiff grumpy old man. He was the love of her life, and she, his. She would do something to make him mad and she’d laugh it off. I never heard her apologize. She never took her life seriously.

I use to use their marriage as the example of what I wanted as a child.

I was fun, so I wanted to marry a grumpy old man.

I think I succeeded.

She left a legacy for sure.

She saw the beauty in life. She was the definition of pure joy. And I only hope I can be like that.

I want to be me. I want to see what white picket fence life is like. I want to know what life would be like if I met Him in college, had babies and drove a minivan with a house. Try in school, get good grades.

I want this life; I don’t want the next life. I want every different version of this life.

I’ve made too many wrong choices. They weren’t wrong, just messy. I don’t want chaotic. I just want to know what boring life looks like. The right choice Lindsey life. The life where I don’t come from baggage and trash. The life where I have small boobs and perfect teeth. The life where I didn’t make Him sell his house and I didn’t spend money on dumb shit. A life with no seizures. Life where my dad wasn’t mentally ill, and I wasn’t broken inside as a result.

I don’t want to know another life. I want to know what the right choice life would be. I want to go back and rewrite what has been done.

The lesson of this life is that I am not the main character of this story. I am not the center of attention. I have had an incredibly fun fulfilling all-about-me life, but as life goes on and I become older, my life is becoming less about me and more about everyone else. I spend most of my life supporting other people. Giving to others. Even my story and past aren’t even mine anymore. It’s used to comfort and relate. It used to be the thing that kept me strong. Now it’s the what-not-to do example, we built a business on. What drives me is now what I can do for other people.

Instead, I will tell you things I will never forgive specific people for.

• My father for choosing Walmart instead of Norstrom.
• ZP for dancing with Penelope Parrot at the dare dance in 5th grade.
• MF for so many things. You know what you did bitch.
• AH for stealing my Barbie Dream Camper.
• MW for being a dick.
• Him for fucking up my ribs.
• CP, you know what you did.
• MG for not getting me a “Cute Is What We Aim For” t-shirt.
• Her for the concert she went to last night.

You have a scar; I have many.

I cut your shoulder. Grasping the ribbed handle.

I stuck the blade of that box cutter past the collar bone, down the shoulder.

The rust smell, bled for days.

You struggled to lift your arm.

I ran my fingers over the cut. Sobbing. “I’m so sorry.” Was I?

I may have been in the moment.

Swallowing the vomit from my undeserved guilt.

I was the worst. Hurting another human.

You’ll have the scar forever. Because of me.

The only mark I ever gave you.

I was crazy, so mother fucking crazy. I was so ashamed.

In this circle, I give myself permission to be creative and lead to the best of my ability. I also give myself permission to be real, and honest and raw. To enjoy what I’m doing.

I was the bravest when I terminated my pregnancy alone. At the time I hated that I was alone, but it is what it is. We couldn’t afford for Him to miss work, and with Covid, he wasn’t allowed in the doctor’s office. So, I went alone. I knew what they were going to say. The baby wasn’t developing, and I had to end it. I was not prepared for them to tell me he was a boy though. I hated that I was alone in that moment, but it is what it is. I didn’t want to end it, but I did it. I did it to protect my baby, to protect me. I made my first and last major decision as a mother and I was brave as fuck.

Spite is a great motivator.

I do a lot of things out of spite.

I’m a pretty brave person, but I also tune out of my fears a lot.

Fear is an emotion, I ignore the most.

It’s the emotion I have felt the most in my younger years, so in order to survive I just hold it to sit down and shut up.

It does very well staying in its assigned seat.

Anger tends to take over instead.

“Put your camera away and live in the moment.” This doesn’t work for everyone. Sometimes pictures are the most important thing. Memories are saved so deeply in our brains that sometimes without pictures, they stay deep. I will forever cherish these pictures and these memories with you.