Category: Mental Health

  • two minutes late

    We were having lunch on October 20. That room-service grilled cheese was among the better grilled cheese sandwiches I have ever had in my whole life— it was a double-stacker with cheddar cheese and despite the room-service delivery, the bread was not soggy at all. Perfect temperature, too. I guess that’s what you get with luxury hotel room-service.  

    There was a client call to make. I offered to step out of the room. He said it wasn’t necessary. He called two minutes late; I had to remind him he had to make the call because we were busy talking. 

    I listened as he made the call to the client in question. They were on speakerphone, so I heard all.

    And as I sat there chomping on my grilled cheese sandwich, slightly concerned the party on the other end of the phone would hear my chomping, I sat, thinking about the absurdity of it all.

    This guy made a power play by giving client advice, right in front of me, on speakerphone. 

    He gambled that I would remain silent for the call. And, I did. 

    I did not ask questions. He offered just enough information after the call to let me figure out later exactly who he had been talking to, though. 

    It was a reckless show of pretend power by a very arrogant man with the maturity of a 11-year old boy, showing off to me.

    It reminded me of sitting in his office in the late winter or early spring of 2000, transcribing bits of his cornerstone paper.   

    It didn’t take me long to realize exactly what had happened, or exactly what it all meant.

    It didn’t take me long to realize that we had come full-circle from November 12, 1998. 

    It was later that afternon that he asked if I wanted to show him the concerning skin spot that led to my recent diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.

    It was later that afternoon that he asked if I ever dressed up as a school girl for my husband.

    And it was about the middle of watching the movie “Uncle Buck” with him that I realized the entire situation was absurd; that he was not interested in substantively helping me with my job search or with career advice. He was not even really interested in being my friend.

    He was interested in himself. And that was pretty much it. 

    And so, I left. 

  • school-girl fantasies

    Let’s talk about school-girl fantasies.

    It’s a tired trope, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it the most tired, boring stereotype that a lot of men fantasize about being with a school-girl in the bedroom?

    Apparently it is something alive and well, nonetheless.

    And it never, ever occurred to me, though I suppose it should have, that I have, for the entirety of my adult life, been the object of that precise fantasy. A fantasy that did actually play out in real life 27-22 years ago. 

    The realization hit me like a mild ton of bricks a couple of weeks ago. 

    It’s so boring though, isn’t it? 

    I’m going to talk about something personal here— I mean, we don’t need fantasies or games or role playing fantasies in my marriage. Just saying. That bond is just that intense, that real for us. 

    So when, recently, the person I talked about in my last post suggested that I should perhaps “dress up as a school-girl,” for my husband…. I remained silent, as I recall, and said no, when he asked if I ever do that. 

    Because I don’t. The honest truth is, I absolutely 100% do not have to. 

    Of course, it was none of his business, but that was beside the point. I knew that too, and I know harassment when I see it. I may not have known it 27 years ago at 18 years old, but at 46 years old I 100% do now.

    And I recently have actually started wearing my hair in pigtails, actually, at 46 years old.

    And I realize I do look slightly younger than my age anyway.

    And I realize too that even though the pigtails are legitimately the best way (and most comfortable way)  to put my hair up at its current length:

    I am aware of the stereotype that hairstyle, especially at my age, feeds into. 

    sigh

    Except when I was an actual college student, I ignored the possibility that I was being objectified.

    I was so desperate for positive male attention. I was so very desperate to escape the emotionally manipulative relationship I had been in for so many years at that time that, to be honest: my standards were not high. I was attracted to what I read as confidence at the time, that I so clearly see now was exhibitionist narcissism. 

    And that’s the honest truth of how I let myself become objectified for so many years: I wanted to only be with one person sexually forever, and it happens that something unfortunate happened and I latched onto someone who objectified me. 

    And it’s true that that happened to me at age 19 while I was in the midst of a psychotic episode. 

    And for years, after I realized the truth of that situation in 2010, I really and truly thought I was the defective one.

    But that is clearly not the case, in so many ways.

    I was ill but I was in no way defective. 

    My character was not defective. Still isn’t. 

    Except now I am 46 years old. And I pay close attention to what happens around me. Especially when intimate details regarding my marriage are questioned, except it’s funny because actually, my particular husband would 100% find that particular old school-girl trope completely repulsive. 

    Because he has no perverted tendencies at all; my Jared is the real deal for sure. 

    And, you know what? I didn’t actually wear my hair in pigtails when I was in high school or college. I was much more likely to go for a french braid. 

    So, I am going to wear my pigtails, at age 46.

    And I am going to hold my head high, knowing that I stuck up for that college-aged version of myself that didn’t know she needed to be protected. 

    And I am going to write my stories, and I am going to continue to get stronger and stronger. Because I am no longer afraid; I realize I was never the one that was defective; and I am on a rampage of telling my truth. 

  • november 12, 1998

    Today is a trauma anniversary from 1998.

    November 12, 1998 was a beautiful day today, just like today, November 12, 2025. It was cooler that morning though, as I recall. 

    I took the photo above, of the railroad tracks, in that morning sunlight on November 12, 1998. 

    And I wrote the following on October 30, 2025, in correspondence with the perpetrator from that day, edited for my own protection: 

    “This will seem out of the blue for you. It is not for me.

    There will be no absolution, no forgiveness. I never actually responded directly to your statements last December imploring me multiple times desperately to “not be mad at you for the things you did.” I simply wanted to see if I was strong enough to face you last December. And then I did the thing I always do in the aftermath: I retreated into myself, doubting myself, deferring to you all these months after. 

    The truth is, it is my literal cross to bear that my beloved alma mater continues to “honor” someone who never probably should have graduated from its halls 25 years ago. 

    It has been my weakness, my own fragile mental illness so very well-documented at this point, that has led me to, time and again, try to befriend you.

    Your character is irredeemable, apparently. Not one thing has changed in 27 years.

    There weren’t mixed signals, as you said, on Monday the 20th. The truth is, you can’t read me anymore because I’m stronger than you. The trauma bond is broken, thank God.

    Goodbye,_____.”

    Today is that person’s birthday. He committed a trauma so vile that I won’t write it here. 

    And I withdrew with hardship due to my psychosis less than a month later, and managed to get that withdrawal the week of finals. 

    And my psychiatrist of the time who documented all then, was astounded to hear the complete story when I went back to him in 2022, about how it all played out. He said then that so much more made sense about that time, to hear what I had to say. 

    And last December that same perpetrator, when I wanted to see if I could face him, committed an equally vile trauma, I believe on purpose.

    In both cases, Jared says he is an opportunist.

    And on October 20, 2025, that person made professional missteps that really kind of shocked me, except that I knew even in the moment that he was making a severely miscalculated power play. 

    And that day, too, unprompted, he went on and on about how his program at our school was the most stressful time of his life. As if it was some sort of excuse for his behavior back in the day. 

    I wrote the following on Facebook earlier in the day today, with links to a song from Elton John’s “Love Songs” album and the “Sleepless in Seattle” soundtrack. These were the soundtracks that he played over and over in 1999 and 2000, repeat ad nauseum, as a grooming tactic. 

    “A couple of odes to my 19 year old self who could not defend herself, and also that 19-23 year old self who tried time and again to walk away, and finally did at age 23. These songs do not mean to me what the lyrics would indicate. 

    The first time I wrote this draft I ended the above paragraph with “Maybe someday I will talk about it.”

    Suffice it to say for now that groomers are very smart, and choose their soundtracks very, very very carefully, and repetitively. I cannot listen to these songs (or the soundtracks they are on) for the rest of my life without ever thinking about one specific person.”

    And today November 12, 2025, has been a beautiful day. I got to see my very nice orthopedic PA about my scoliosis, and I got to drive through my very favorite parts of Atlanta, that city I love.

    And it occurred to me, that finally Atlanta is, for me, not the scene of sadness and trauma and despair.

    Atlanta is my city, not his; Atlanta has meant what it means to my family for generations, not his. Atlanta– my very own alma mater– is mine, not his. It is my family that began a relationship with characters from that alma mater probably the decade he was born.

    That man has no claim to anything he can’t buy. He knows nothing of love, of loyalty, of kindness, of simply doing the right thing.

    I’m ready to talk about it.

  • laundry day is probably going to be four days long

    The title says it all.

    On Sunday evening, October 19, I threw in a load of laundry. I knew I’d be busy on dedicated laundry day, Monday the 20th, so I was trying to get ahead so my whole routine wouldn’t be blown to smithereens.

    I was fooling myself. Not because the premise of the idea wasn’t good, but because Monday the 20th threw me into a whirlwind of emotions I can only tangentially talk about at the moment. Mostly self-destructive despair and self-loathing.

    I think I actually did a load of laundry on the 20th, or I actually switched the laundry, early that morning.

    And, maybe three loads of laundry have gotten done since then. Maybe four.

    Monday is still laundry day. But, I am starting laundry day today, on Saturday, so that maybe laundry day will be done by Tuesday or early Wednesday– we have that much laundry. If I finish it on Monday, all the better but I am not holding my breath.

    Dana K. White from A Slob Comes Clean was the first person who I listened to about laundry day. My aunt said years ago she tried to tell me once it would be easier to just have a laundry day when the boys were little, but I have no memory of that.

    But, Dana says that a first laundry day, in no way, is likely to be only one day if you have an actual family you are doing laundry for.

    And in my experience, she’s 100% right.

    So, here I am, it’s 12:46 PM on Saturday November 8, 2025, and I am started Monday’s the 10th’s laundry day at 11:30 this morning.

    Because I was doing pretty good before the 20th. And I feel pretty good this morning, aside from feeling like my routine is gone to crap.

    And, this afternoon, there is a maternity session and it is exclusively a Cinelux lens maternity session. I am taking along the Minolta lens just in case I need it, but I don’t anticipate needing it. A former bride approached me about maternity photos several months ago, about the time I was shutting down the business and sold the bulk of my lenses, and I turned them down. But I reached out later and showed her some of the photos with the lenses and told her it wouldn’t be a typical session but that I was willing to do it for free if I could use these lenses and use them for my portfolio, and she agreed. So here we are, and it is a beautiful day with perfect weather, and I get to have a Cinelux session.

    The idea was that if the photos turned out, I might decide to take on limited Cinelux sessions in the future.

    I already used this lens once in a session, a few years ago now. I just chickened out and got complacent with my autofocus lenses.

    I forgot to slow down and enjoy photography.

    And, for the occasion, I downloaded again the UnScripted app, my posing Bible I used for so very long. I am very excited about the poses I found.

    Eight years in, I no longer feel any shame whatsoever in the fact that coming up with natural poses on my own is no, in fact, natural for me.

    But, I found the UnScripted app when it was first barely out of beta, brand new, years ago and it has served me very well. I paid for a lifetime membership around 2020 in fact, when it was dirt cheap– definitely not what it is now. It was probably 1/5 of what it is now — at $499– or else I wouldn’t have paid for it at all.

    Looking back on this week: there were nerves about the potential health scare. There was leftover fallout from meeting with someone I shouldn’t have on October 20. There was fallout from having told that person exactly what I think of them in writing since apparently I am incapable of doing so to their face though at least I can, indeed, face them. But, also: the time change hit me really, really hard, really, really suddenly.

    I do not do well with limited daylight hours. Which is why I use a light therapy lamp to begin with.