books, writings, shoes & nudes

Category: Writing Reconnection

  • I’d smash every fucking clock on this earth to prove we are not bad timing. Yet, the dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed. I’m on my knees before you and trust, it’s not to pray, but damned if I won’t worship you in an entirely different way.

  • you walk through my dreams as if they belong to you

    In the silence of the city at night, I lie awake cradling the weight of missing you. An ache that hums beneath my ribs. This weak soul of mine is caught in a loop—always choosing you, even when the world whispers there might be something better, something easier, something brighter, something softer. But better doesn’t feel like you. Easier doesn’t feel like the way my chest tightens when I think about you. The fear isn’t just losing you to the path you didn’t choose. It’s realizing that no matter what comes along, this daddy-issued tainted soul has already made its choice. And maybe, that’s both the most beautiful and the scariest thing of all.

  • hey there little lindsey

    I fought for this life for you. I made some mistakes along the way, but I fought every battle to make sure you wake up safely in this life tomorrow. I worked hard. I scooped you up, brushed off the trash covering you, wrapped you in a blanket of empowerment and left you on the footsteps of the safest family I could find. where you would grow and never wonder again if you are enough. I fought for you. I burned down buildings that didn’t deserve to stand tall for you. I spoke for you, I put you first and protected you. I fought for this life for you.

  • clarity in the show

    I feel balanced while walking on a tight rope over my beautiful city while wearing glossy red Jimmy Choo 7 inch pumps. At any moment I could fuck up permanently. Lean too much to the left and fall. Crashing down to my death. I would never lean too far to the right, so I’d auto-correct, miss a shot, and again, splat. I feel at peace while doing one of the scariest most acrobatic acts of my life. I am a professional on this rope. Teetering, wind in my hair, but never falling. So cultivated in my craft. Ivy League legend. But that’s just it, you only get one fall to stop being on top. One mistake and we go tumbling down with no Lauren shaped umbrella to save me. everything is in balance, everything in the power of the skill I studied. All on this thin rope across this city. walking across in the highest of high heels, one too long exhale one misplaced earring and it all ends. But at least I died in great shoes.

  • Sometimes in life we show up incorrectly. We say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. You can try and try and try to live by your values and principles, but then your human bits come swinging in. Just incorrectly. Being human is hard, being a human with integrity while also having emotions that don’t want to be understood is harder. I didn’t choose correctly today. I didn’t grow 1%. I stepped backwards. The direction I don’t love going. The incorrect direction.

  • 🕊️

    we have our own language, you and me. one that doesn’t have a word for goodbye.

  • 26

    slip behind the noise,
    a shadow folding into walls,
    a whisper lost in the hum of daily life.

    no need for edges or light,
    just the soft fade of presence—
    becoming the quiet space where others stand.

    invisible, not by force,
    but by choice,
    a calm background in the storm of being.

  • FriendsGiving

    Roasted Pumpkin Seeds, Roasted Sunflower Kernels, Cheddar Pretzel Crackers, Pecan Mini Tarts, Italian Dry Salami, Cranberry White Cheddar Cheese, Dark Chocolate Pomegranate, Black Olive, Basil & Cheese Tapenade, Fig & Olive Crackers, Prosciutto, 4 Fruits Preserves, Red Grapes, Pepperoni, Candied Pecans, Cinnamon Roll Almonds, Pumpkin Spice Mini Biscotti,

  • best yogurt of my life

  • blooms

    You were my most stable flower. Beauty in your own right. You weren’t my person, but you were such my person that I no longer know how to do this life without you. You were my base. Mine. My stability when Gwen visited, when ghosts from the basement of my brain would darken the hallways, when the color red blinded my eyes. You were the stable brick house with the smoke coming from the chimney I could run to when running in the forest from the big bad wolves of my past. You loved me, you never said it, but you cherished me. You heard me clearer than anyone. Even when I couldn’t pay you, You still had ears. Never was it you and I against the world, it was you, me, and Little Lindsey against all the voice boxes and swinging rage. I miss you swaying in my meadow. Whenever I looked, there you were standing tall. You’re not there any more, one too many rough seasons took you away from me. Nothing left, not even petals to collect. I miss you deeply, my beautiful flower. The growth in this field may never bloom the same.

  • et tu cleopatra

    A quiet moment alone,  

    where touch speaks louder than words,  

    a journey inward,  

    finding comfort in the skin you’re in,  

    a celebration of your own presence—  

    no need for permission,  

    just the gentle knowing of yourself.

  • an unsent hoodie.

    a bittersweet reflection on something that didn’t quite work out—maybe the relationship or the favored chapter in life. acknowledgment that things don’t always fit perfectly, and that’s okay. feels like a metaphor for life’s unpredictability and imperfection.

    even if the experience was complicated or bittersweet, there’s something valuable in it, especially when you savor the last moments. hints at a sense of finality and moving on. leaving behind chaos or pain for peace and healing.

    a touch of warmth and gratitude, implying that despite everything, this experience has a place in the story of life, like a decorative piece at a family gathering—something to remember and appreciate.

    accepting imperfection, finding value in endings.

  • this is so not the right time

    a new feeling stirs, unexpected and loud,  

    like a sudden storm in the middle of a drought.  

    the timing is off, the world feels heavy,  

    and yet, there it is—bright, confusing, and unwelcome.  

    you catch yourself staring, heart skipping,  

    but the calendar reminds you—now is not the moment.  

    there’s a weight to this crush, a quiet tension,  

    because sometimes the heart wants what the mind knows it can’t have.  

    so you hold it close, a secret wrapped in hesitation,  

    waiting for the right time to let it breathe,  

    even if that time feels far away,  

    and the feeling lingers, restless and unresolved.

  • to you my ragey poo,

    You spent so much time afraid of me for literally no reason. I fucking adore you. You made me feel safe in silence, you’ll never know how much I needed that. Under that loud rough exterior, you are soft and compassionate. And under that you are strong and brave. I admire how deeply you care about your people. That is such a huge gift. Your parents sucked, I can only imagine you were a spectacular kid, because you turned into spectacular human. You show up for the people that matter.

    We whispered Thrive into the world, you overheard and immediately said “I want in.” I’m so incredibly proud to call you part of our baby. You belong in this family and you fought for this family. You’ve done well Rage.

    You’re a cool kid, and I love you.

    ps: NO MORE THRIVE TATTOOS! You cannot have more than me. Pulling the cancer card. It’s my last dying wish, it’s in stone, sorry.

    #cancerletters

  • to you my husband,

    We never got to see what our marriage should have been. The cruel epileptic mistress took that away from us. We deserved better. It wasn’t our ideal time, but I am grateful. Thank you for showing me what a relationship without fear and eggshell dancing is supposed to feel like.

    You not only taught me, you shaped who I became. When the memories weren’t there, kissing my head goodnight still was. Thank you for dancing in the kitchen with me even when you were frustrated. Thank you for loving me as best as you could. You were my husband, even when you weren’t.

    Thank you for choosing me to be your wife, I hope you believe I did it well.

    I love you, Stevie Andrew.

    #cancerletters

  • to you my emma,

    We met and we loved each other. It was wonderful and simple. I will never be able to express how grateful I am for every time I cried over a boy, and you didn’t tell me to shut the fuck up. You are so fucking smart and compassionate and you were made for this work. You are going to impact so many lives just like you did mine. Your hair is beautiful, but you have an unhealthy obsession with Aquaphor. Thank you for loving me through your words and your time. And thank you for loving Gwen with understanding and thank you for loving your most self-aware client. Please take my job at Thrive, Moosh will need you.

    You’re a cool kid, and I love you.

    #cancerletters

  • to you my nora,

    You are the example I use in life for always finding the bright side. My real life Pollyanna. You could take any situation and make it a fun memory. You are a good mom and you only care about the things that actually matter. I don’t remember a moment where you were silent, but I also don’t remember a moment where I didn’t feel heard by you. Please keep yelling at exes, doctors, and skool aid. You’re a fighter through and through and I am honored to have gotten to call you my friend. Thank you for being so fucking authentically Nora.

    You’re a cool kid, and I love you.

    PS: Please forever let me be remembered as Dance Battle Aunt Lindsey.

    #cancerletters

  • to you my judith,

    I have written about you so many times and you have no idea. My nerdy friend, I loved you more than most. I could only hear half of the things you ever said, but every time you opened your mouth, I liked you more. Please hear me: your brain is your abuser, and you don’t deserve the horrible things it says to you. I will never understand the battle you go through daily, but I am in awe of your strength. Please stay here for Moosh, she’ll need you. I know that’s super selfish to ask, but do what I say lady!

    Thank you for every joke I got to roll my eyes to. You bring so much joy to the people around you. And you made me care about environmental science. As much as you don’t believe it, you are a main character at Thrive, and you’re a leader. People look up to you. I look up to you.

    You’re a cool kid, and I love you.

    PS: If you’re smoking after sex, you’re doing it too fast.

    #cancerletters

  • to you my valkyrie,

    You have no idea how important you are to the Thrive community. You make people feel loved and important. When we dreamed up this place, you were exactly who we hoped would walk through the door. You are magic in blue & pink glasses. All the gifts, and ‘I have something for you’s, you are so much more than the glue. Your smelly food will forever stain the insides of my nose even when my smell goes away. I am grateful for so many things when it comes to you; your passion, your crafts, our long talks, (about so many things but my favorite was sex) your ideas, and most of all your mother’s shoes. You are never heavy, you are just pure joy, and you belong here. Thank you for loving my baby and being part of the cool kids table. Thank you for being my family Auntie Andra.

    I love you.

    PS: an orgasm lasting 20 minutes is a seizure. I died on this hill.

    #cancerletters

  • the loudest memory

    It still plays in my head. I hurt you.
    Not just skin, but something deeper cracked. A fracture in trust, in the quiet spaces between us. You said it’s forgiven. But forgiveness doesn’t erase the echo of that moment, the weight of my own hands, the coldness that followed the heat of the moment. A moment we never get to fix. I carry the regret like a shadow that won’t leave, a constant reminder that some things can’t be undone, even when you say it’s okay. The pain I caused lives inside me now, a wound I tend to silently, knowing that some scars don’t fade, they only change shape.

  • I wish I could cradle my pain like a child, whisper lullabies to soothe its restless soul. I wish I could lift it gently from my body, calm its rhythm with a hand pressed to its chest. If only I could speak to my pain, reassure it that we’re safe, that we’re okay. Then maybe the emptiness wouldn’t feel so vast. I wish she could rest outside my body, nestled close against my heart, Where I could truly see her, understand her. She’d feel safe, loved, never ignored or forgotten. If I could just hold my pain like that, maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much.

  • My parents’ differing  actions, words, and behavior played a significant role in shaping my understanding of gender expectations for myself and the perception of gender in the rest of the world. My family of origin is the institution that has the most influence on my personal understanding of gender roles.. This matters because the lack of my dad’s presence majority of the time helped my mom combat a lot of the social conditioning, but then my father would randomly pop in and shove gender stereotypes down our throats causing us to have complexes. 

    My mother had a very equal mindset while my father did not. My mother was forced to be a single parent so she took on both roles of mother and father. I grew up not knowing where a “woman’s role” ended and a “man’s role” began because she did it all.  She taught me about feminist theory by questioning the status quo to promote equality for everyone, not just women.

    Growing up my mother did many things to challenge gender roles. One being through gifts she gave us. When I was eight I received a pet sea monkeys kit for my birthday. Stem is stereotypically not encouraged for girls. The box was blue and could be found in the boy’s toy section in the store.  When I was 10, for Christmas I received a sling shot (It was taken away four days later for shooting out my neighbor Edna’s window). I did not grow up with a pink bicycle, my brothers didn’t grow up with blue bikes. We had green or orange or red or black. Easter baskets were not color coated pink and blue. They also contained things like potato shooters, soda, cookies and nerf guns not the norm of barbies and race cars.

    When it came to choosing our extracurriculars, my mother challenged gender norms by encouraging us to learn, not focused on gender traits while never discouraging our curiosity or passion. She would not let me join Girl Scouts because  “There is more to life than learning how to care for babies and cook.” All my siblings and I were signed up for snowboarding and swim lessons. I was put in horseback riding lessons because “You’re not going to be afraid of animals.” No matter what our gender, all activities and sports were an option (with the exception of Girl Scouts). There were no gendered sports and if there was a gendered sport we wanted to play, my mom would fight for that spot. For instance, my freshman year of high school, I wanted to play football. I was told no by the coach. “We don’t have the kind of equipment to keep a girl safe.” I let my mom know, and I was on the team, along with three other girls the following week. My younger sisters played competitive coed hockey from age five to eighteen. My youngest brother was in showchoir. Singing is usually reserved for girls and women. I also never had gendered sport equipment such as pink cleats or pink gloves. My father would take my brothers hunting, I was never allowed. 

    The tasks around my home growing up were not separated by gender, but instead were set by skill set. My brother and  I are allergic to poison ivy so my younger sister mowed the grass because she had no allergies. Mowing grass is typically a male task. Christmas lights were hung not by the man of the house, but by me, the only one not afraid of heights. We all had to learn how to change the oil or a tire on the car before she would let us take our drivers test. I grew up watching and helping with the home maintenance my mother would do, from laying new flooring, painting, and installing doors. 

    I grew up in overalls, muddy, and barefooted. At my dad’s house, I would get disciplined for having dirt under my fingernails when my brothers did not. To my mother, marriage and babies were never the goal. Education was. Even my father’s family would reinforce gender roles by saying  “When are you going to give me grandbabies” as if that was my only job in life. My brother heard “Are you going to play for the NFL?”. Being a mother and being expected to be good at sports are not the same, but to my father’s family it was life. 

    Emotions were meant to be felt. If my brothers were hurt, they were given the opportunity to cry but not by my father. They were “given something to cry about”, or “suck it up, men don’t cry”. My mother did many things to challenge gender roles when it came to clothing, but my father saw life a different way. I was forced to wear dresses to holiday events. I went through a “tom boy” phase where I only wanted to wear ball caps and my dad would make negative comments “you look like a boy”. 

    This had such a big impact on who I am as a person now. I have a deep rooted belief that I am capable of anything. I work in a male dominated field. I am the owner of a business. I teach self- defense and coach Brazilian jiu jitsu. I also grapple for recreation. I challenge power, roles, and expectations that are shaped by gender and I often challenge traditional ideas that keep women in less powerful or unfair positions. Traditional ideas like marriage. I am attracted to female lead relationships. I am the head of my household. I make the decisions in my intimate relationships. I am very comfortable as the protector. I also respect women as leaders more than men. 

    Although I am very grateful how I was raised, I am aware being a white woman raised in a feminist, inclusive home equals privileges. I benefit from racial privilege, meaning society often treats me more fairly just because of the color of my skin. Growing up in a feminist environment, I had access to ideas about equality and self-confidence that helps me challenge unfair stuff. I had more support to pursue my goals without being boxed in by traditional gender roles. 

    My maternal side mostly spaced how I understand gender, with the occasional social conditioning from my father. Thus highlighting my mother’s way vs my fathers way which is a fantastic example for the broader stereotypical world.

  • elemental

    I crave the touch of water. I long to leap in and feel the cold shock to my eyelids. I want to linger beneath the surface, until my fingers prune and the bubbles dance like sugar plums around me. I’m convinced I was a storm-chaser in the last life. The fear of rain, wind, thunder or lightning has never darkened the doors of my brain, only decorated the walls. I find solace in the shower, eventually shivering when the chill seeps into my bones. I’d choose cascading waterfalls over the vast ocean, a chlorine filled pool over a serene lake. What’s the point of a boat if one does not dare to jump overboard? I have hoped drowning is the way I go. Almost embraced in the womb again. Fully touched but not harmed. I want to be aquatic life and stay in the safeness of humanities’ most unknown. Hide in the dark forgotten unfound caves where silence sings and the water whispers my name.

  • let’s do the time warp again—because life’s too short not to dance like a sweet transvestite

    movie night baybeeee

  • Girlfriends in my corner, fierce and wild,

    Sharp like a blade, untamed and styled.

    Not just pretty faces, but warriors in the fight,  

    Lighting up the dark with their rebel might.  

    We laugh in chaos, break every rule,  

    Living loud and proud, no one’s fool.  

    Together unstoppable, a storm that won’t bend—  

    Yeah, having girlfriends like these? That’s the real badass blend.

  • hushabye mountain

    This is for the best. The writing can’t always go well together. It doesn’t always blend. Sometimes you capitalize letters sometimes you don’t. Consistency isn’t in the pen. It’s one of my favorite numbers, the number of my birth. I see it for what it is and what it was. A magic bottle of wine you eventually enjoy every drop, especially the last one. No promises were ever made. A fleeting memory of questionable reality. They’ll be gone soon. The village can’t wait for that. As the dust on the baseboards start to become forgotten back drops. Your circus will calm and the forest becomes the normal yet again. I’ll feel the breeze once more before I sail far away to lullaby bay. This was needed and fought for. It made a lovely table runner for Thanksgiving dinner.

  • something i never told you

    i wanted to be the one who bought you your first pair of heels

  • sex is medicine

    Sitting in this airport just in awe of this past week. A life altering experience. Thank you conference besties for sharing all that you shared with me. Every conversation, every session, every meal, every text and every moment challenged my perspectives and ignited a transformation within me. I walked in with one version of myself and walked out a completely changed human—wiser, more inspired, and ready to embrace new possibilities. I am so incredibly grateful for your experiences and insights. This week rewrote the script of who I thought I was, leaving me excited for the person I am becoming. Onward to Lindsey Falcon Ph.D. And making waves in this spectacular field we are in.

  • i was in the wrong.

    I am so deeply sorry for the choices I have made.

  • i will wield this privilege

    They will not silence me. I will fight for you relentlessly. My voice will not be stifled, nor my fists be lowered. Their threats hold no power over me. I will stand on the front lines for you. I will absorb the blow for you. I will defend your humanity. I will fight for your body and mind. I do not fear their cages, I embrace the choice. Their weapons hold no terror. I will die on this hill; forever being worth the death. I will yell at the top of my lungs for a life where you are safe. I will not let them speak for me. I will use my privilege to fight the war you should have never been in. I will fight and never stop fighting.

  • i’ll leave your key to my heart under the mat incase you ever decide to come back

    -m.razon

  • he’s still in there, but i’m not.

    I saw his dark blue eyes, they were the same as they always were. They’re missing the passion and the spark, but they’re the same eyes I looked into when I said “I do”.

    It’s hard to find him, but he’s still in there. I married him because he was my definition of a “man”. No toxic masculinity or beta energy. Just simple good human energy. He cared about the people in his orbit. I loved that.

    He talked about all the things in his little world. Tame compared to mine. I listen,, searching for the glimpse of him lost in a sea of memories. I can find him. The him I needed then. I needed to walk down the aisle, I needed that to happen. I can find him in between words, but there is no trace of me.

    I no longer see who I am in the same eyes of who I was. The love for him so different now. Still there, but different.

  • I don’t know how you feel. You’ve never actually told me. I’m not going to ask the hard questions, I’m too afraid of the answers.

  • i had a good run

    I’m not afraid of death; I’ve had a good run. It’s inevitable, regardless of my fear. Being scared won’t make it slow down. Won’t make it less real. Fear won’t make me die less. Fear doesn’t make people less sick. Within at least 2 years I’ll have done the things. The book will be publish. The building will be ready. I’ll have ran a marathon. I’ll have had a successful business for 7 years. 7 is my favorite number, so it seems fitting. I will have read 3000 books and taught so many people all the things I can. I think dying young feels ok if you’ve lived so many lives. I was told I was going to die 10 years ago, and here I am. Every day since then has been a bonus. I hope they forget me. I hope they don’t remember. I know I was joy, and bright days and boldness. I hope they find someone else to fill that void. I don’t want to be remembered. I want to go peacefully into the forgotten bliss in their minds. I don’t want them to grieve or reminisce on the things I did or say. I don’t want the sadness to be the lingering love they had for me. I want them to move on. Not hold on. I don’t want something named after me. I don’t want flowers on my grave. I don’t want my name to be remembered, I want the legacy to live on. I want the things I started, the choices I made, to just keep going without ever knowing the author. I want the stories to be retold for years to come, but I don’t want them to be signed by me. I want to silently disappear as I go. Because I’m not afraid of death. I had a good run.

  • You’re the only one who can do anything about it.

  • it’s a lot to ask.

    I know it’s your right, but please don’t leave me in this world alone.

    Please don’t leave me in this world without you.

    Please don’t leave me in a world where my abuser is still alive and you are not. Where Trump is golfing and you are gone.

    Don’t abandon me in a world where rapist walk around freely and you don’t.

    I know it’s selfish I ask, but please keep fighting your battle so that I can fight mine with you beside me.

    Please don’t leave me in a world where your smile is only a memory.

    Our last interaction wasn’t enough for me. I want more. I need more.

    Please don’t ask me to continue while waking up without you.

    I know I have no idea. I know I don’t understand. I know I can’t imagine. I know it’s not fair for me to ask this of you.

    But please. I’m asking for you to do this for me. Please don’t leave me behind in this world.

  • arthritis

    sharp pain shoots up my hand reaching my fingertips. it’s a particularly rough pain day. remember when you snapped my fingers like a carrot. they dangled there. you did it multiple times within 5 years. the knuckles don’t even exists anymore.

    i don’t take deep breaths without gasping. hiccups are a repetitive shock to my system. tears blur my eyes with every little blip. stops me in my tracks. remember when you gave me cpr when i didn’t need it.

    remember when you held me under the water until the bubbles stopped. my sternum still clicks in and out like your palms are still pressing. you never really let me go.

    collarbones pinned under your kneecaps as your open hands struck my kidlike face until they cracked unable to hold your weight. not stopping until I begged “like the annoying bitch you are”. and I begged. every single time. i begged my last with you.

    no one knows about the bald spot hidden in my perfect hair, your second favorite handle. i will forever have a side part.

    the body you had no right to wreck hurts more in the cold. little acts of rebellion like hating socks and not wearing gloves. spite warming the blood. i hate that our days together linger on my being most in the morning.

  • lindsey never chose lindsey

    (Trigger warning, this writing is about murder.)

    Lindsey never left him. He proposed. “Well, I guess we should do this.” She never said yes. She knew she needed to say no, but Lindsey never chose Lindsey. He didn’t notice she never said yes. Lindsey wouldn’t say no, Lindsey never chooses Lindsey.

    He comes home from work early the next day. She had just gotten out of the shower. She didn’t know he was home, she would have toweled up the water on the floor if she knew.

    She stared at the ugly gold ring on the scratched dresser. Lindsey didn’t put the ring on. She wasn’t ready.

    He startled her. “Hey Moo Moo,” while the sweet words came out of his mouth smoothly, she turned to him.

    He’s in a good mood. Today is a good day. She coached herself.

    He noticed the ring in the same spot it had been when he left 8 hours ago. 8 hours too long. “Something wrong with my ring?”

    “my ring..” It’s his ring Lindsey is supposed to have on her finger.

    Lindsey blinked those rebellious threatening thoughts away.

    The silent-treatment-torture-timer had begun. That all too familiar dark cloud covering the hell that resembled a one bedroom apartment. He left the room. She tried to save herself, but the air cleared ever so slightly as he left. She stole a tiny exhale; knowing it would be the last ounce of peace she would be getting tonight.

    Suddenly interrupted by the sharp cut of words.Words grabbing ahold of her throat.

    “What the fuck is this?”

    Lindsey never chose Lindsey.

    She met her fate in that tiny one bedroom apartment on the third floor.

    The water she never toweled up. She immediately got on her knees. Lindsey never chose Lindsey. He grabbed her by the hair to get a better angle for her to see him, then to see the floor. Lindsey, his hand tight in her hair, saw him, heard him.

    Lindsey saw the floor, then the side of the tub, then the blood. Lindsey saw the blood, the side of the tub, then him. Lindsey saw him, the blood, the side of the tub, the floor until Lindsey saw no more.

    Lindsey never chose Lindsey.

    Lindsey. Never. Chose. Lindsey.

    12.2.21

  • If your words could paint the walls, what would the room look like?

  • god, the scapegoat

    I want there to be a god. I want to believe I will see my people again. The gates can be whatever shade of white, as long as they get to walk through them. I’m ok with the threat of hell as long as they’re in some kind of heaven. Eternal punishment sounds fine for me, as long as they get the peace they deserve. Peace in their world and peace in their minds. Angels or fluffy clouds, I don’t care.

    I just want it to be real. I want to believe there’s a purpose. Something better than us. I want to believe there’s a net to catch us all as we fall. I don’t believe. It won’t change my behavior, I will still choose to be a better human every day. I miss it. I miss talking to someone more powerful than me. The hope it brings. When it gets so very bad down here, we can just pray and that’s our I-did-something-to-help box to check. Without the box, we have to actually attempt to make things better. Everyone has imposter syndrome, so no one will. Without a god guiding us, who’s going to make a move?

    I want to believe there’s justice or rewards in some kind of afterlife. Some magical equalizer. I want to believe when we die, you sit in a room and watch in 3D all the moments you hurt someone else. You have to feel all the feels your victims had to endure. I want to be in that chair. I want to know what I’ve done, how it felt and the impact I made. I deserve that. I want the people that hurt me to have to sit in that chair and feel how I felt. They deserve that.

    I want the foster mom with all the love to give finally gets her reward. Her throne. All the medals to make it all worth it. To remind her that her life’s choices weren’t for nothing. I need a god to tell her she did well.

    I want to believe I was created for a reason. My meaning bigger than I can imagine. I want to believe someone loves me so unconditionally they know every hair on my head. Almost desperate to believe I was known before I was in the womb. I want to believe I belong to something only made for good. How comforting that must be.

    And so, the echos of faith and justice linger. Yearning for a world where shadows yield to understanding.

  • I don’t believe I’m a good person. I do good things. I don’t think I’m a bad person. But I deeply believe I’m not good. I’m selfish, and self absorbed. The apple didn’t fall too far. I speak before I think and have perpetually been the main character. My life is and always has been way better than I deserve. I have always had the acceptance that eventually everything will catch up with me and I’ll end up justifiably murdered or in jail. I’ve always connected more with the villains, and just accepted the accountability of being the antagonist in someone else’s story. Karma will get me eventually, I’m not running too fast.

  • walls

    The walls have known us all along.

    Seen the fights, sang along with the song.

    They seen us ugly, they’ve seen us proud.

    If the walls could talk, what would they say?

    Would they tell us we were in the wrong? Would they validate or comfort?

    Would they be traumatized by the secondary trauma?

    I stutter over my words but would they know what I mean? Because they’ve heard it all.

    Seen the tears, echoed the laughter. They held the art and steadied the furniture.

    They’ve been steadfast through the move ins, and the move outs.

    Housed the moments. All the moments.

    New paint colors hiding the memories we never want to remember.

    Holding in the secrets, only the walls truly know.

    Held our bodies as we were pressed against for that storybook kiss.

    Kissed our foreheads and palms, took our abuse when we lost it all.

  • In their second special session this summer, the Texas legislature went after abortion providers. On Wednesday—the final day of the special session—lawmakers approved a bill that lets private citizens sue abortion pill manufacturers, doctors, or anyone who mails or assists in securing the medication. In a state that already bans most abortions, the law poses a threat to one of the last viable ways to obtain an abortion without leaving the state. (Ever the ones to have their priorities straight, the lawmakers also passed a bill that prevents trans people from using the bathroom that aligns with their gender identity in public buildings.)

    Laws like this one spell out a simple truth at the core of the current Republican agenda, and our current moment: it is unsafe to be a woman in today’s America. And that situation is by design—whether through abortion restrictions, questioning the safety of the most effective forms of contraception, or RFK Jr.’s targeting of safe and effective vaccines, and other proven public health interventions that save lives. We will all suffer the consequences—regardless of our politics. 

    As red states continue their antiabortion crusades, lawmakers and public officials in blue states are doubling down on expanding access to abortion care. Late last month, Illinois Governor JB Pritzker signed a law that requires public colleges and universities to ensure that students have access to medication abortion and contraception, as contributing editor Carrie Baker reports for Ms. this week. The state joins California, Massachusetts and New York in requiring student health centers to offer abortion pills. “As Donald Trump and his administration continue to pull every lever they can to rip rights away from women, Illinois is making sure every woman, at every stage of life, can get the legal care they need from providers they trust,” Lieutenant Governor Juliana Stratton said in a press release.

  • it got better baby

    Friday. Fell asleep in your cozy safe bed, living between the books and the thunderstorm sounds being the only violence we see these days.

    Saturday. Blueberry muffins and bitchin coffee in a small quiet town. Adding books to the collection. Spaced themed movie night. Outfits, break dances, galaxy cookies, & shooting star charcuterie. Inside jokes and OoTD in the lobby. I know it warmed his heart. Cool kids at the cool kids table.

    Sunday. Coffee. Moosh. Tasha. Book club, let me nerd about this book. Tabs on tabs. Stitch & bitch. Tell me about your trauma and your deviant behavior. Democracy is dying, but hey cool fireworks; dressed to the 9. 8 adults, one kid. Our people. Our asses slid closing the space between. Glowing glasses, headbands, bracelets and floggers. We sang our hearts out and laughed even harder. This little world where everyone belongs. The most sober people drunk on community.

    Monday. Holiday 5ks & pumpkin spiced lattes. Fambams and birthday trips with the gal I love the most. Hotel beds with tall ceilings and shoe shopping.

    It gets better baby. Just hold out a little longer.

  • dear paternal issues,

    I don’t write about you too often because you’re so 1900’s trauma, but today I am feeling particularly gynarchal. I don’t even know you, but I still have a lot of recordings of the speeches you gave me on repeat in my brain. Even now. 34 years and the daddy issues are still there. 

    I am reclaiming those. You were never an actual dad (insert Mim’s dad joke here) so I can’t REclaim being my own dad, so I will just have to claim. 

    I am now my own Daddy. Back up bastard mentality I gots some shit to say.

    I was a 4.0 student, Dean’s list, merits out the ass. I am a successful business owner. A business that was built on brutalization that I survived by myself. I am the strongest of all the sons. I went ahead and got all the therapy so I could stop that generational trauma. I’m not a cheater, so that’s a huge win from the blood line. I crawled through glass of my own guilt and loneliness to get to be overwhelmed with the amount of people who love me. I get to be authentically me and people still adore me. I have a hot bod, great feet and I am really fucking good at educating myself. I’m financially independent and own 2 cars, including my dream car. I have no children, so no child support court cases in my routine. I speak up for myself and others. I am an undefeated state champion in Brazilian jui jitsu. My skeleton is broken, like super broke, but I am still joy, I still coach, I still run and I’m still great in bed. I fucking taught myself how to read and read more books than Valkyrie’s professor does in a year while my brain is actively trying to make up letters and sounds. I will be Dr Lindsey fucking Falcon and I’m really fucking proud of me for that. I sometimes still have dirt under my fingernails and my hair is always a mess. But I’m fucking funny. And quite frankly I’m the best damn father I’ve ever had.

    So you sit in your unfaithful 18th marriage, and I’ll be sippin’ cold brew out of my #1 Best Dad mug.

    Sincerely,

    The spite-filled oldest daughter.

  • i will let the past have it

    I loved you deeply, as deeply as I think I could love a sister, but I had to love me more. I miss your curly hair and the tone-deaf duets of Christmas music we would sing in the car.  I think about you often. How I could change your entire existence with the magic of Thrive. But I must let you be lost in the tight grip of the past. 

    I wanted so much more for you. I wanted you to be great. I wanted you to be traveling some far off place and not have to keep you at least 500 feet away from me at all times. You chose the end for both of us. I will eventually paint over the blown kisses and butterflies. 

    I chose you repeatedly. I dropped everything and ran when you called. All I needed was for you to love me. I wiped your ass, canceled your cable, spent money I didn’t have, and you still chose to save your poison over me. 

    I broke myself for you. I lost sleep, I lost days, I lost time. You got drunk. I cleaned up your blood, your drool, your piss and your vomit. You got high. I looked high and low and every fucking nook and cranny in-between to fix it. You looked for an escape. I stressed over your daily being; you gave no fucks. You were perfectly ok with making a mess and having me safely clean it up.

    You made a mess of things. I trusted you without ever trusting you. I believed your buckets of trauma and sob stories just to kick those buckets over when I had enough. You were 6 feet 7 inches of territorial diaper wearing mommy issues. 

    I trusted you with my NDA.You weaponized my secrets. You went against the one thing you can not do. The one thing. “I know you.” You’re so careful to never say it. But you said it in the worst way you could have spoke it. I’d rather be strangled, because this was so constricting. Although I won’t be letting the past have you, I will be letting the past have the version of me that allowed you access. And you’ll never even know it. 

    I will let the past have it all.

  • the end

    This is it. The whole story. The last chapter. The last page. We had a good run. Went on some crazy adventures. I think we made an impact. Made a big enough stain on the world.

    This is it. My whole story. My last chapter. My last page.

  • I think I change all the time. Not all at once, not cold turkey, but ever so slightly. I don’t even notice a lot of the time. One of the carved into my skull quotes was from my high school boyfriend. “Lindsey, you are ever changing.” Under that is a quote from my mother’s speech at my wedding. “Lindsey is an ever changing person, if you don’t ride the ride with her, it will be the thing that destroys your marriage.”  I am an ever changing person, but it has been how I survive through the uncontrollable life I was force to exist in. I run full steam ahead changing the directions as I go so I never get trapped in a box or hit a dead-end. I equally need change and fear change. Change is the control I have and the master I am a slave to. Change is the calm and the storm I am creating by changing. 

  • tell me

    Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something that will change how I feel. Tell me I am making the correct decision. Tell me there is a bigger meaning. Tell me there is a god and my small human brain just doesn’t see or understand the bigger picture. Because I feel like I’ve figured it all out. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me there is more than this. Tell me I don’t have to gaslight myself for the rest of this existence. Call me, text me, DM me. Do something so I can have even the slightest glimpse of faith. Tell me this is the fire and we will regrow through the ashes. Tell me this is as worst as it gets. Please tell me something. I’m losing the spark. I’m telling you I can’t hold it much longer. Please tell me something. Please.

  • I’m not that girl. I won’t be that girl. I have worked too hard to become a good human. I worked too hard to like myself. To be someone to be proud of. I won’t become someone little Lindsey wouldn’t be proud of. Nothing is worth that little girl’s opinion.

    I will stay determined. I will stay focused. I will not break. I will not be weak. I do hard things. I will be the most regulated adult in the room. This will not be my story.

  • She is loud. She is powerful. Mountains question how far when she tells them to move. She never shakes or quivers. She is bold and sharp.

    She is the best friend standing up to her narcissistic father. She is the only one calling out her little brother’s coach for bad behavior. She is the soft soothing I-love-yous and you’re-so-goods spoken to so many broken children.

    She is the fake apologies that comes with being the bigger person.

    She is the yes’s that has made life an adventure. She is the voice of reason. She is the important information the doctors needed.

    She is the advocate for the little one.

    She is the “no” that needed to be said long ago. She is the grounding needed to make it through. She is the voice of the voiceless. She is the cheerleader to remind you you’re made for this. She is the mistaken outbursts. She is the heart on your sleeve.

    She is the healer and the fighter. She is the passion. She is so loved when she came from so much hate.

  • too small isn’t the problem

    I’m not a size 4.

    I don’t use my blinker while I drive.

    18 unpaid parking tickets live in my visor.

    I’m the loud one that tends to interrupt.

    Too small isn’t the problem.

    I eat dessert with every meal.

    I will talk about sex & my life all day long.

    Cracking jokes, there’s a time & a place for that, but I haven’t learned when or where yet.

    I toot in my sleep.

    I wake up early and expect everyone else to be awake as well.

    I try new things and quit often.

    Too small isn’t the problem.

    I share opinions without being asked and rant for days.

    I’m a complainer and I can’t keep a secret.

    I’m a hypocrite.

    I will forever choose to dance in the rain.

    Awkward silences feel like it’s my duty to kill.

    Too small isn’t the problem.

    11.9.23

  • at your core

    It’s the thing I feel most passionate about. It’s the only time I feel fully in my body. I can recognize the feeling of my toes clenched. The hair tie in my hair. I can feel my eyelashes on my skin. I feel most in control.

    I like the pain in the corners of my mouth. The taste of latex. I feel all of me. Existing in this intimate moment. Bodies on bodies. Sweating, breathing heavy. Nails scratching. Exploring different and new positions. Sore for weeks after.

    Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is the wildest side of me.

  • women please keep taking over this world

  • slave to the guilt

    You’ll never know.

    How guilty I feel.

    All the time.

    I hurt you.

    I broke that safe container I worked so hard to create.

    You’ll never know.

    The punishments I give myself.

    For what I have done.

    Gut wrenching. Sick to my stomach.

    I can’t imagine the sickness for you that I have caused.

    I did it wrong. I did it so wrong.

    I can’t apologize. The wound is too deep.

    I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.

    I’m sorry I failed you. I made a mistake and it cost you.

    There was no repair. Just rupture.

    You’ll never know how sorry.

    The flogging should be mine.

    I’ll take it with understanding.

    You’ll never know.

    I deserve what ever comes.

    I will accept the consequences of my actions.

  • I hope I still live there.

    The house I methodically built.

    Filled with different voices, moments, and energy.

    I hope the smell of wild flowers and honeysuckle still clutter the front lawn.

    I hope vacations and trips make you home sick.

    I hope I still live there.

  • Pleasure is good, shame is bad, and knowledge is power.

  • No longer am I going to apologize for behavior that isn’t mine.

    I won’t shield you from the consequences of your own choices.

    I won’t apologize for who I had to become to be able to survive.

    No longer apologizing for the versions of me I had to kill to become so hard to kill.

    I won’t lower my voice or apologize for the brutality of the words I speak.

    I fought for my place and I am no longer apologizing for not making myself small.

    I won’t express counterfeit regret any more.

    I will no longer apologize for the failed attempts at loan sharking.

    I’m not going to beg someone’s pardon for not following social norms.

    I’m not conforming into any box that handmaids fit into.

    I won’t eat my own words or take a bite out of the humble pie.

    This life isn’t real, everything’s fucked, I am human and this is fucking hard.

    I’m no longer asking for forgiveness for the boundaries I set to make this fake life less hard.

  • I deserved a better goodbye.

  • here is what i need..

    I need more laughter.

    More spontaneous outings.

    I need more of women’s sports and less of violence against my humans.

    I need more days when the coffee hits than days that it doesn’t.

    I need more people in our classes.

    I need more Outfits Of The Days and the tightness of this community.

    I need books, and great sex.

    I need fewer hot days I’m spending outside of a kayak.

    I need snacks, and Izzes.

    I need more good news than bad, and I need straight A’s.

    I need to nap.

    I need holiday walks, and my people to feel loved, important, and safe.

    I need more El Captain coffee, Judith’s jokes, Beastmode’s stories, Mim’s goofiness.

    I need Princess Annarky’s sexcapades, and Valkyrie’s crafts.

    I need more bows by Mazor’s Edge and car rides with Moosh.

    I need more Rage’s rage.

    I need Dilly Bar’s girl drama and facts I don’t care about.

    I need more of this community we built.

    And if it’s not too much to ask, feminist gods, I could really go for some less deaths.

  • knock knock

    The task is not to get in. It’s to stay in. Over my stove there is a framed canvas with writing.

    “Experience everything, attach yourself to nothing.”

    Getting into this heart is not hard. I force my love on people. The hard part is staying long enough to get to the VIP table and not getting left behind. One of my biggest stregnths is one of her biggest fears. I can detach from anything. I left a sociopath; I can leave anything.

    Rip my roots up and just run.

    I won’t have children because they are too cemented to the ground. I am everchanging and a runner. If you get too close, I will escape. I will leave everything behind.

    You can get in, but you can’t stay.

  • hold door

    -The 6-week-old. Sounds harmless enough, but don’t forget this is just the beginning. Her father got mad at her mother, so he left the 6-week-old in it’s pumpkin seat in the parking lot of a Walmart.

    -The 5-year-old. Her stepfather hit her across the face, catching her front tooth on his watch. It was broken all through kindergarten.

    -The 6-year-old. Her twin sisters were born. The 6-year-old became invisible.

    -The 9-year-old. He said he would come to this softball game. He promised.

    -The 11-year-old. Playing Doctor was just a fun game everyone played with the girl down the street’s older cousin.

    -The 12-year-old. The first bone she broke by her brother and one of his angry episodes.

    -The 14-year-old. Screaming for attention, silently. Having sex for the first time, getting humiliated and riding the bus home alone.

    -The 16-year-old. Her father punching her in the face breaking her 13th bone. She was so clumsy.

    -The 19-year-old. She met Prince Harming and went on to write what she thought was a romance but turned out to be a thriller.

    -The 28-year-old. She sat pregnant in the doctor’s office alone to terminate her baby boy.

    -The 29-year-old. She moved her husband into a group home.

    -The 33-year-old. Processing a lifetime of fucked up guest lists.

  • your heart is an empty room.

    The piano sounds Apple says I listened the most to in 2024.

    Her hyperness when her meds wear off.

    The green of his eyes I see every time it rains.

    Good morning texts.

    Holding of hands that once shielded the abuse.

    My blue couch.

    The tone of her voice when she says, “GUTTER BITCH or titty baby”, her fake Italian grandmother’s accent.

    Blue

    Showers too long.

    Giggles, stories, jokes.

    Seeing her face walk through the door, knowing she won the war of getting out of bed.

    Cinnamon Tea, and coffee, Hallmark movies.

    Doris Doloris, who will be the biggest heart break of all.

    The shock in a broken face meeting strength for the first time.

    The Professor getting excited to tell me about the girl he likes or the sex he had.

    Books in The Nook.

    Blankets and hockey sweats.

    The end of the day when I lay my head down and remind myself this life is real, and I will wake up still safely in it.

    Smells of honeysuckle, sugar plums, and favorite flannels.

    Lovers that forever stain the walls of this heart.

    So much feminine rage and way too many damn shoes.

  • I need you to know, I’m not afraid of you. Worst things have existed before you darkened my inbox. The wars this body and mind have fought and won. The skeletons hanging in this closet would shock you. They would traumatize your little league stalker brain.

    I’m not afraid of you, but my body has kept the score. You’re not powerful by any sense of the term, but you’re pressing buttons you don’t deserve to press. These bombs aren’t meant for you. I am a loaded gun and you’re getting awfully close to the trigger.

    I’m not afraid of you, I’m bigger, stronger, smarter, and way more tainted than you could ever live long enough to be but you’re knocking on doors that have not been opened in years.

    I’m not afraid of you. Im afraid of me, because of you. I’m afraid of the reactions that kept me safe in the past. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve sneezed out things scarier than you. I’m afraid of who will come out when you trespass and ignore the keep out signs. Paid professionals have worked tirelessly to keep the nightmare I could become locked up.

    I’m not afraid of you, oh no. I’m afraid to lose the version that was created before you mistakenly tiptoed along. I’m not scared of you little boy. I’m afraid of the punishments you’ll endure that were never meant for you. I’m scared of you winning the lottery you didn’t realize you were even playing.

  • Wind pushes things that don’t want to move.

    The song of the day text. I don’t even like most of them but I hang on every word trying to hear the hidden meaning.

    The coffee that I will be thinking about the night before.

    The “I’m obsessed with you”s

    The AirPods that make my brain happy to exist.

    The hard couch across from Emma.

    The desperate calls to Sharon.

    The green highlights when I check my progress.

    The vacuum on the mats, hardwood and carpet.

    The pop of the pad that seems so rare nowadays.

    The next book I get to dive into with its questionable titles and taboo context.

    The jokes from the Julie’s and the Steve’s.

    The “I love you”s from the best friend I miss so much.

    The calls from out of the blue.

    Dirty thoughts.

    The shoes that clutter my house.

    The little brussel sprout pics.

  • the pink blanket

    I have a blanket I bought at Sam’s Club. I didn’t need a blanket, but it was so soft I had to have it.

    One morning he had a seizure. I did all the things, put him to bed. Then the adrenaline dump came. I found that blanket, still in the shopping bag. I wrapped it around myself and silently released the ugly emotions. I stayed in that blanket the remainder of the day.

    5 years later I still have that blanket. It’s old, dingy, and straight up gross. I fucking love that nasty bitch. She’s the dingiest thing I own. I fucking love her. I just bought the same exact blanket and I go to sleep with the new one. I wake up with the old one. I love her.

    I think I’m attached to her and my couch because I wasn’t an attached kid. I didn’t feel safe around the time I got that blanket. Around the time I started to reparent myself. I finally feel safe enough to be attached to things.

  • for keeps

    There’s a box full of reminders of the memories.

    It was a beautiful day, but it wasn’t my day.

    There’s a box full of the money spent.

    White dress I hated and makeup caked on like I was auditioning for memoirs of a geisha.

    There’s a box full of obligation but not hate.

    It doesn’t taste like regret though.

    Something blue, the guarder that was too small on thick thighs.

    Something new, the white heels I loved but didn’t wear.

    Something old, Aunt Pink’s pearls, she was smaller in the neck than I was.

    There’s a box full of things that could have been, that should have been.

    Fake flowers and mini chalk boards for the pics that didn’t come out like the Pinterest picture I wanted.

    “Just married” leather jacket that was so fucking hot but the dress broke.

    There’s a box full of wedding things that sits in my parent’s garage that hasn’t been opened and hasn’t been processed.

  • over cum ;)

    Family guilt

    Mrs. Lee, sophomore year.

    Every chipotle bowl I’ve ever had.

    I don’t know if I’ve overcome anything.

    All the things are scars in my brain right?

    Shit doesn’t go away.

    To just flair up in the moment.

    Maybe I’m stuck on the word “Overcome”.

  • mess with success

    I’m sad. I’m mad. I don’t want to even be with him but he fucks with my trauma buttons. I hate him. So here I am, broken again. I’m not longer available to feel this pain.

    I’m going to live alone. I’m going to walk to work. I’m going to Domme guys and fuck people. I’m going to create rules to live by. People will know nothing about me.

  • inward i go

    I don’t want to write this week, which means I should definitely be writing. When you’re finished changing you’re finished. I don’t know. Nicolas said, Lindsey you’re ever-changing. I hated him for that. Now I don’t care too much.

    I’m going to change. I’m going to become an introvert. Share only to Spaz and in my writing. Become Rosa Diaz where no one knows anything about me. I’ve shared too much of myself. Showed my squishy bits and had my wounds called ugly. I don’t want that anymore. Inward I go.

  • shut the fuck up

    I don’t have time to think about what I’m going to do about it. If I let myself think instead of just doing the stuff, I may think too much and realize there’s a back door exit to all of this.

    I miss the days I believed I was dumb. Now that I’m fully aware I am not dumb, I have to actually find out what I’m capable of. How exhausting.

    I could be a 30-something peasant playing video games at my mom’s house. But unfortunately I got an ass ton of therapy. Trusted the nice girl with Michelle Obama arms. Started a business. Learned how to thrive without medication or a husband. Figured out how to study despite my dyslexia. I went and fucked around and quickly found out. Now I feel shit and know shit. And the more you know shit, the more you’re not ok with shit.

    So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to write then go get a drink. Wake up tomorrow make my coffee, domme the patriarchy and fuck up a whole lot of unfair shit.

  • accomplished

    He drew a picture of Miss Lindsey.

    The first thing Parker Z%^$ (or Baymax, I like to call him) ever said to me was “I don’t like no body and no body gonna like me.” I got down on my knees to be eye level with this dirty, chunky, older brother of three. “Well then, I’m Miss Lindsey and it’s really going to bother you when we become best buds.”

    Years went on and I worked my ass off to get that broken kiddo to trust me. I got him to smile a few times, but cracking that hard candy shell was so hard.

    Until my last summer camp. In their smash journals, after 30 pages of ink black tornadoes, there was a prompt that said “Who is someone you can trust or look up to?”

    He drew a picture of Miss Lindsey

    1.4.24

  • dear girl,

    Stop apologizing for living. No one knows what they’re doing and no one’s doing it right. Which means everyone is. Stop saying sorry for making mistakes you’re not making. It’s just a plot twist.

    Dear girl,

    Leave him. Please leave him. He’ll never change, and you’ll just end up with a fucked up skeleton that makes you fall on the kitchen floor needing someone else to help you. Or he’ll kill you. You’re too important to lose. Somewhere out there there’s another little girl that needs you to tell your story to save her.

    Dear girl,

    Stop being afraid to tell someone you want to join them. Take the chance. People like you. Geronimo baby. Make your own fucking rules.

    Dear girl,

    Stop letting those demons in your head work overtime. I’m sure they’re tired.

    Dear girl,

    Explore the world. And do it alone. Do it with people, but only people that don’t suck.

    Dear girl,

    Your family are not the people that surrounded you when you were born. Family are the people that show up on a rainy Saturday morning just to support your dreams.

    Dear girl,

    He’s wrong, you’re right. Stop shutting up. You are smarter than that. You could run circles around those tiny tittybabies. Also dawk them in the face.

    Dear girl,

    Be gay, be so fucking gay. Be open and be proud.

    Dear girl,

    Brag about yourself, you’re so fucking cool.

    Dear girl,

    Say NO. A lot. All the time. Never stop.

    11.9.23

  • i spoke

    Early Tuesday morning I sat in a crowded court room.

    I remember practically nothing.

    Only two people knew I was there.

    Neither being my spouse or mother.

    I’ve never disassociated so well as I did when the attorney pointed the remote to the tv.

    Probably 40 people.

    Dressed nicely.

    Watching my rape like it was the morning announcements in high school.

    Just another Tuesday.

    For the judge, the attorneys, the accused.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?” The attorney asked.

    Snapping me out of my safe disassociated state.

    She repeated herself.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?”

    I couldn’t speak; an issue I rarely have.

    I looked at my shaking hands placed in my lap.

    The writing that covered the left palm read “Today, you become his nightmare.”

    I lifted my head, stared right into the cold eyes I once felt not good enough to look at.

    And spoke the biggest thing I’ve ever said.

    “Yes.”

    11.9.23

  • we get it, you’ve got trauma

    Thank you for the constant laughter in this building.

    Thank you for making our friendship easy.

    Thank you for showing up and communicating.

    Thank you for making me feel cool and making me have imposter syndrome by telling me I’ve done things for you.

    Thank you for making me your profile picture on Facebook and your cool style.

    Thanks for being the easiest authentic friend I’ve had.

  • calgon take me away

    Everything is changing.

    I like it.

    But it’s still change.

    Beautiful home with good smells and throw pillows that remain in the same place they were 12 hours earlier.

    But it’s still change.

    Quiet sleep with the middle of the bed being an option.

    Long showers with no one interrupting to ask if I know where the TV remote is.

    5 fucking seconds of peace and quiet.

    But it’s still change.

    New routine catered to my own self care.

    Being able to make decisions based on joy and happiness instead of traumatic based fear.

    But it’s still change.

    Scary

    And exciting.

    But it’s still change.

  • expectations

    • Be straight or have a label for it.
    • Being with your spouse is “strong” even when it’s not making you happy.
    • Monogamy.
    • I expect myself not to hold on to emotions and not feel.
    • I expect myself to age terribly.
    • I expect myself to heal faster.

  • wildest thing

    When I was fresh out of high school I met a man. We will call him Connecticut. He was in town visiting his best friend, who was my neighbor at the time. I hung out with him for 3 days before he asked me to go back home with him. Home was Connecticut. I said yes, because why not? I hopped on the back of his motorcycle and rode for a few days. I didn’t even know his last name. I didn’t care. I was young, free, and dumb. It was the best trip. I ended up spending 2 months with him on a navy base. I made new friends, got my first tattoo and just lived in LaLaLand. Rode home on a train.

  • reclaibrating

    I overthink too much, but not in the anxious or depressive way. But in the caring way. I think too much about stupid stuff. Like, how I could switch all my pants for elephant pants, and how to make money from it. Or becoming a comedian to prove I’m funnier than my ex. Why? Just to do it. Or opening a bar for Stephen to work at. Does he want to do that? Probably not, but who cares. Or what Jeff’s nips look like. Or what it feels like to have sex on this mat. I overthink things that aren’t productive and don’t matter. My therapist says it’s to distract myself from dealing with complex emotions.

  • jits

    Jits is suppose to be my safe place. It’s suppose to be the bus in which I transfer the next broken lindseys. It’s suppose to be the team, the community, the family. It was the thing I used to remind myself the answer to the question I have been riddled with every night at 3am for the past eight years.

    “I can handle anything.” Written on the gym walls.

    “I am strong as fuck.” Written on my gi.

    “I am powerful.” Written on my rash guard.

    “I am still alive.” Written in sweat.

    I lost my proof. I became human, and a weak one at that. I am still broken. My body cracked and everyone saw. The mat isn’t safe. Jits is where I find out I am just another broken body. My bones aren’t made of solid belief. They are broken bones. Unusable. Hindering even. Damaged from all the damage. My body isn’t my warrior fighting for me. She isn’t the hero. She isn’t the fighter. She is the score board. She is the unusable target that’s holes are too big to be significant. Jits was suppose to be the showcase where you prove what you are. But jits became the mirror of harsh reality.

  • dear linds,

    I’ve gotten in the habit of writing you letters, so I guess here’s another one:

    I want to be that girl. I want to be that girl we pretend to be on social media or in our mind. I want to be the cute girl that looks tough as shit but goes kayaking in her bikini and choacos. I want to be the color belt that owns the gym. I want to be intimidating until you get to know me. I want to be the example of getting your shit together after about for all the women coming through the door. I want to be the person people think they want to be. I want to be the person that makes people feel seen and heard. I want to see ghost from my past and not feel stupid after. I want to feel sexy again. I want to love the way lingerie feels and looks on my body again. I want to love my body for her looks again, not just for the things she does. I want to be fun and out doorsy again. Spontaneous. I want that for you and I will. I will grow up and make it happen. I did not peak at 25. I will do this.

  • comfort

    I am a try-er. I try things. I rarely have reservations on new things. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where my zones end and where they begin because of this. I tried a therapeutic writing class. Trying the class wasn’t the step. Just another thing to try. But putting my emotion into the writing was not in my comfort zone.

    Talking about my past without joking was foreign to me. Saying things, realizing thoughts from my brain; Putting them into the circle for people to see, hear, and making opinions about. Sounds like a comfort “no”. The memories, the truths, the secrets; all floating there. Naked and exposed. Realizing the grip on things I held on to so hard

  • cherry

    You took her.

    I said I was ready, but I didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

    You took her forcefully and fast.

    I didn’t even know you. I didn’t even love you or trust you.

    You didn’t deserve her.

    I was so young. Too young. You were young too.

    I don’t remember much about that place where you took her. But I could remember every other detail about that day. Your smell, that dumb laugh. I remember the blood, the confusion, and the tear-filled bus ride home.

    You weren’t nice, but neither was I. I don’t even know if you are to blame for taking her.

    I’m sure at some point you figured in out in life.

  • Just for me I do bjj.

    Just for me I sit in the shower.

    Just for me I do word searches.

    Just for me I sleep in the nude.

    Just for me I run blaring screamo music.

    Just for me I try new things.

    Just for me I say no.

    Just for me I forgive.

  • in the zone

    My comfort zone is very little clothes.

    No shoes.

    Good smells and not being touched.

    Cold enough for a blanket, never hot borderline arctic.

    My comfort zone is in the drivers seat and never smokey air.

    Hockey games but don’t cuss around kids.

    Deeper talk than small talk.

    Pain but not too much.

    Cinnamon tea and word searches.

    Security systems and locked doors.

    My comfort zone is everyone in view and sober.

    Loud noise of my choosing or no noise.

    Escape routes and visible exits.

  • i am just so fucking angry

    Anger is the powerful mask my fear wears. It’s easier to be angry than scared. The memories and torturing moments still live in the attic of my mind, but I pretend they don’t. When I see something or have an experience that resembles the secrets, I get scared.

    No, oops. I mean angry.

    Hello triggers, it’s always nice to see you out of your cages, care to rage?

    I go zero to one hundred because I can’t relive it. I can’t be so out of control of my body and mind again. My eyebrows get low, my blood gets pumping. Ready to fight the ant hill I can only see as a fight. Kill the threat, end it. Fight and rage until we no longer fear.

    No, oops I mean anger.

    Sitting alone, broken, putting the pieces back into place, cleaning up the mess. I can’t feel that again. I can’t tiptoe around this life. So we rage. We rage before we need to, because I am just so fucking angry.

  • this coffee is so bad

    Sometimes jits is hard, sometimes mountain climbing is hard.

    I was told I wasn’t good at writing. So I never wrote.

    I don’t actually know how to answer that because I feel like I’m pretty authentic, at this point in my life.

    When I was with The Pastor, I stopped with my fascination with sex and quit the foot stuff.

    When I was with Prince Harming, I became someone completely different. I don’t know, tough question.

  • rules.

    • Always pee after sex.
    • Don’t wear sweatpants in public.
    • Text your friends you made it home.
    • Shave your armpits…everyone.
    • Shave your downstairs, no one wants to go diving into Chewbacca.
    • Fuck yourself daily.
    • Drink water.
    • Don’t be nice to people who annoy you. You will regret it.
    • Try new things.
    • Don’t get attached to anything.
    • Don’t get married, it’s a trap.
    • Elope. Weddings are a waste.
    • Kids ruin everything.
    • Vacation often even if you can’t afford it.
    • Don’t save yourself for marriage, you’ll miss out on prime sex years. Prime experimental sex years.
    • Never forget your birth control.
    • Spit, don’t swallow. No man is worth that.
    • Try all genders.
    • Learn self-defense
    • Choose violence sooner rather than later.
    • Don’t do hard drugs.
    • Admit to nothing.
    • Don’t let anyone sleep in your bed.
    • Sleep naked.
    • Go skinny dipping.
    • Trust no one unless you have dirt on them.
    • Send nudes, but never show face.
    • Keep all dirty photos of exes for blackmail.
    • If someone threatens suicide to hurt you, hand them the knife and tell them to take it outside.
    • Don’t stay in a relationship more than 3 months and you will always be “the one that got away”.
    • Shave your head.
    • Travel the moment you’re legal.
    • Nothing last forever.
    • Believe you are the smartest person in the room, and you will be.
    • People don’t roofie soda.
    • Don’t give too much of yourself to anyone.
    • Always have a run away fund.
    • Keep your own secrets.
    • Go to therapy.
    • Fuck all your friends’ dads.
    • Fuck all your exes’ dads.
    • Don’t be late.
    • Don’t say the “R” word
    • Assume not everyone loves your pets.

  • I was sitting in a coffee shop, like I do so often, and a couple walked in. An odd looking couple to society standards. She towered, at least three feet, over him. She was probably considered tall for a woman. He was considered a short man. I hate that I noticed, but I did. And I loved seeing it. I love seeing real expressions of authenticity. They don’t let it stop them from being together. They don’t give a fuck, I’m sure they have or had reservations at first . We all do, we all “care about what people think.” Even when we try not to.

  • levels of hell

    Level One- Pittsburg penguin fans.

    Level Two- Bad Dads

    Level Three- Anyone that is mean to my husband. (Talking about you Becky) He’s a fucking saint.

    Level Four- Micheal Jackson

    Level Five- Abusers

    Level Six- Anyone who has ever raped anyone.

    Level Seven- Donald Trump (Ugly fat bitch)

    Level Eight- Child Abusers

  • in the afterlife

    My paradise would be perfect smells, interchanging smells. Constant hyper motivation. Soft pretzel place next door. Candy store across the street so I’d have to work for it. Orgasms without the work of sex. Flowers everywhere with food smells. No animals. Perfect nails that don’t keep you from doing anything. Something entertaining everyday. Never needing to relax. Be who ever I wanted to be that day. Try any hobby I could possibly try.

  • Dear Daniel,

    You weren’t a person, nor were you ever meant to be, and I accept that. I have to be ok with that, because I was never meant to be a mother. Though that doesn’t mean I can blink away the “what ifs” like I blink away tears. You were my little gummy bear. I talked to you more than I probably should have. I played you irish music, and read you all the books I started to hoard for you.

    I wanted you.

    Even though I never did, I wanted you.

    I wanted you to have your dad’s eyes and my hair. I wanted you to laugh like your father and have my sense of humor. I wanted you hyper, but smart.

    I wanted you.

    I was terrified. Terrified of being a mom, having a kid and all the things that come along with being a child of an epileptic and a battered woman. I felt you, that seems so weird to say, but I knew you, and I loved you. I loved you in such a bizarre never met you, but felt you way. I listen to the recording of your tiny perfect heartbeat every night. I wanted you. I wanted to hold you, and protect you. You would’ve been safe with me, if only you could have been safe inside of me. we would have called you gummy bear forever, you would’ve hated it at some point. You’d be a freshy right now. our lives would be so different, stressful, but worth it. Your father would have been your biggest fan. He’d be obsessed. He’d be the dad to annoy everyone at work with pictures of his son. 50 million photos of the same sleeping baby. You’d be his everything. You’d be mine. I wanted that gummy bear, I wanted you.

    Signed,

    The mom I was never meant to be.

  • When my husband and I started boning, we weren’t super serious, but definitely way more than sexers. There was a moment. A simple text. Saint Patrick’s Day is my favorite holiday, it was once my birthday. At that time in my life, no one had first names or correct information.

    The text came in at the exact moment I landed in Chicago.

    “Happy Birthday, I’m in Chicago as well, can we celebrate your day?”

    That was the movie moment where the plot twist could have happened. I didn’t know Stephen that well yet and marriage was a not-on-my-radar, not-in-a-million-years kinda thing.

    I stood there celebration and friends around me. Phone in hand staring at the green river in my favorite city, wearing my sexiest green heels. Having a very wealthy man, who is fantastic in bed reaching out ready to make my birthday memorable.

    I blindly chose Stephen in that moment and for all the moments to come. I chose to break the cycle that my paternal curse had put on me. Not only did I choose Stephen, I chose Lindsey. I gave myself a chance to deserve something I didn’t think I was worthy of. I chose happiness, loyalty, hardship, grace, impulse decisions, hockey games, movie nights, Chinese food, and laughter. I made a choice not knowing the outcome. I chose the right door and I fucking won. I can forever say I never tainted this pure childish real love.

  • friendsgiving

    Moosh’s perfect meal would be a cappuccino and a protein bar inside a gym full of sweaty athletes.

    Disneygal’s perfect meal would be a tall flippa flappa mocha joka next to a fire with obnoxiously fuzzy pj’s.

    The husband’s perfect meal would be anything edible served on top of my naked body.

    Barbara’s perfect meal…Lindsey it’s weird to talk about your grandmother after sexual comments.

  • i vow to forgive and build

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will forgive you.

    I will never stop building you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will choose you over doubt, fear, and expectations of others.

    I will love the you, you have created yourself to be.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will honor the you, you had to kill to become this.

    I will remember what you went through without haunting you with it.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will continue to advocate for you.

    I will continue to unapologetically protect you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will show up for you everyday, even if I’m not the person I want to be that day.

    I will continue to break walls.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

  • My mom is the most complex human. Christmas time last year I was pregnant with our gummy bear angel baby Daniel. We ended up having to terminate the pregnancy. It was still heavy pandemic time so I had to go in alone.

    My mom and I had been fighting since June. That didn’t matter in that moment. Nothing mattered except pure mother need. My mom showed up, held my hand, laid in my bed and cried with me. In that moment everything was forgiven and I felt loved. She knew exactly what I needed and showed up when it mattered. She dealt with my in laws, cooked me dinner and cleaned my house. She walked into my home being the person I needed her to be.

  • silver lining

    Moments.

    Moments of pure bliss.

    Moments like snapshots burned into my brain.

    All day long, watching TV, eating pizza rolls, jumping on the couch.

    50 million walks.

    So much laughter, drowning out the fear of the unknown.

    Our home was our safe space a deep hole we could fall into.

    To think.

    To breathe.

    To cope.

    To heal.

    Without explanations or excuses.

    We could lick our wounds in peace, and take the time we needed to rest.

    This was forced La La Land.

  • dear weak-minded lindsey,

    I thought about writing this 1 million times, but I guess since She’s making me, now is a better time than ever. (PS: you blame Her for a lot of things, so you don’t have to think about you.)

    I know you’re scared, and alone, confused, and pissed. You have no idea who I am or that you’re capable of becoming me.

    I’m sorry for letting this happen to you. For choosing this for you. For us. I’m sorry it got so far. I knew those choices were the wrong ones, but I ignored them. I should’ve saved you way earlier, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t fight my way out yet. I wasn’t strong enough. I need you to hold on. Hold on because I promise it’s worth it and you do make it out of this. I so badly want to pick you up and hold you and tell you about the world you eventually create. You’re loved, like real, healthy, not scared loved. Like the kind of love you’ve had to work hard for. And he’s your best friend. You laugh all the time. You have a home and it’s safe. It’s your favorite place to be. You’re close with your family again. And our friends, oh Lindsey, our friends are amazing. You help people, women like you right now. You’re funny and people like you. You’re a business owner and Lindsey you’re strong, you’re so so strong and you don’t ever question that. And girl you’re happy. Like legit happy.

    It’s there and you’re gonna decide it’s yours. Just keep it together and keep your eyes open. We’re in this together.

    I love you kid.

    Love,

    Strong Lindsey.

  • little lindsey lulu

    At age 4 he forgot to pick you up again. I make time for self care.

    At the age of 7 you stared at the parking lot the entire game while playing 3rd base. He never showed. I post my writing on my blog because I’m proud of it.

    At age 13 he yelled at you, humiliating you, telling you, you were stupid, too hyper and annoying. I don’t surround myself with verbally harmful people

    At age 16 he made you wait outside the car for an hour while he made-out with his girlfriend. I rarely depend on people.

    At age 17 he cheated on you. I no longer put my worth in someone else.

    When you were 19, he beat you so bad you spent the night on the kitchen floor because it was too painful to move. I learned how to fight back.

    You pissed yourself at age 22 because you were locked in the trunk of a car for 3 days. I am strong in so many ways.

    You believed you were worthless at age 25. I fixed that hurt little shell of a child inside my soul waiting to be saved.

    I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I chose you. I met you at all those moments, picked you up and held you in my arms. I made you a safe place to grow and heal. I went back to pick up your pieces and put you back together. I got you now.

    You will never be alone again.

  • Oh girl. Listen. One on one, real talk. This is what I need from you. Stop spending money to fill the hole you have in your self where the trauma drama usually occupies.

    Be ok with the calm.

    Be ok with the boring.

    Lindsey, this is normal, welcome to the world of stability. Sit down and shut the fuck up. I know you’re only use to chaos, but over spending and over eating are not going to cause the waves you’re hoping to cause.

    And for goddess’ sake, go running again. Show up to class. Take care of your body again, and this time do it out of love. Not survival.

    Signed,

    The rational side of Lindsey’s brain.

    PS: Stop talking about sex so much, it’s getting weird.

  • sending up your bat signal

    A year ago I needed so much. 5 years ago I needed even more. I’m good where I am. A career I love, friends, joy, laughter, a great above average sex life with a husband I’m into this week. I’m good this week, not too needy, check back next week. I’ve gotten to the point where the world needs from me more than I need from it. I don’t hate it.