As “Baby” Francis Houseman memorably pleaded to her father, that detective from Law and Order, “If you love me you have to love all the things about me…” So, for those of you who love me, hold on. Shit’s about to get real.

I am bulimic.

Not currently and not consistently (anymore), but I consider saying “I am bulimic” to be the same sort of declaration as “I am an addict” or “I am an alcoholic”. It is something that I will likely fight forever and something that occupies a lot of headspace on particularly trying days.

I’m writing this tonight because I had a mini-epiphany while journaling for the new moon and eclipse. It’s a time of letting go, a time of releasing things that no longer serve us. You know what doesn’t serve me? What has nothing to do with my highest good? Fucking bulimia.

It’s a habit. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s a remnant from days gone by, when I was struggling to stay afloat in an awful relationship, to find myself, and to meet some pretty outrageous demands that I had stacked on my own shoulders.

Bulimia calmed my anxiety. It helped me grieve. It gave me focus. Enabled my depression and apathy and – quite incredibly – created a kind-of force field around my heart. The people closest to me didn’t know what I was doing because the disease that was destroying me was sneakily camouflaging itself. How outrageous is that?

Bulimia is a bitch. Sometimes,due to the force of the vomiting, blood vessels in my eye would burst. I had a seizure. Then another, and another. I went blind temporarily. I thought I died and went to heaven once. My heart skips and sometimes I’m terrified to think what I may have damaged internally. Why do I keep coming back to her?

At least a million times I vowed to stop. A million times I broke the vow. When my son was born I promised to do better. I broke that promise. Even now, when I feel I am more or less in control of my urges, I can hear bulimia whisper to me. “You’re fat”, she says. “Don’t take care of yourself, you’ll feel deprived.” And my favorite – “Eating this whole box of Cheerios and then purging will make you forget all about (Problem XYZ).”

I’ve struggled so long, I figured I always would. Like an addict. An alcoholic. I didn’t like my disordered eating habits, but I figured they were just a part of me.

Recently, all of that began to change. I experienced a shift inside. My heart, my soul, my mind are all transforming. I’ve learned a lot about myself and about how powerful I am, how this abundant universe really works and how to speak things into existence. I’ve learned that I am (and can be) whatever I decide, and that I can change course at any time by simply deciding to turn and go another way. I have found freedom lies in this sort of awakening.

Simply put, there’s no room in my new life for my old habits, hurts, of regrets. I am grateful for the lessons, and let them go.

Tonight, with this magical new moon in the sky representing new dreams and releasing past wounds, I intend to release this disease along with the negative and controlling thoughts, and the shame that accompany it. Tonight’s the night I will step into a new identity. Tonight I am finally ready to say I love myself – and all the things about me.


An Open Letter to Shitty Husbands, Vol. 14

Must Be This Tall To Ride


Because I failed to create any type of plan or structure to ensure preparation and acknowledgment of special occasions like Valentine’s Day, our wedding anniversary, my wife’s birthday, etc., my epic ADD-ness, procrastination and sometimes lack of money created a bunch of negative or lackluster moments in my marriage.

When two people are in a romantic partnership together, there’s always a little bit of give-and-take as it’s impossible and impractical for each partner to satisfy exactly half of all shared responsibilities.

But when someone doesn’t get anything back when they give, give, give, they eventually run out of energy. They eventually stop giving.

Until the final couple of years of our marriage that I should have (but didn’t) recognize as the End Times, my wife was always incredibly thoughtful and an organized planner about almost everything, including things specifically for me.

It wasn’t a courtesy that I returned. I’m…

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There was a meteor shower last night.

Did you see it?  Did you notice them?  Were you, like my family, standing outside, looking up, ignoring the icy cold in order *hopefully* catch a glimpse of something magical?

We stood in the parking lot, the four of us, looking up.  We laughed and talked and danced.  Yes, we danced to stay warm.  We counted twinkles, identified constellations, and hugged each other while giggling about the possibility that if we kept our gaze up long enough, our necks might get stuck this way.

We connected and played and enjoyed each other, imagining dragons as we exhaled smoky white clouds of breath.  We talked about distant planets and galaxies and the undiscovered life that might be staring up at us at the same time.  There were jokes about aliens, stories of great Roman warriors who now live among the stars, and scientific questions about just what those stars are made of and why they appear to twinkle.

I saw one!  I was looking in the right  place at the right time, and I saw a star go from here to there, ever so quickly and quietly.  Before I could point it out to anyone, it was gone.  I mumbled a belated wish to the heavens, but the truth is that in that moment, with my tribe, I was already living my best life. What else could I ask for?

The Gemenid meteor shower came and went, and we lugged our chilly bodies up the stairs to our front door and into the warm, welcoming space we currently call home. Each of us tiptoed like baby birds to our respective nests, and without any more mention of stars, prepared for bedtime.

As I lie in bed waiting for sleep to come, I realized the depth and importance of what felt in the moment like goofiness…

Moments like this are what make childhoods worth reminiscing on.  Moments like this become memories that will amuse us, comfort us, remind us for the rest of our lives of the happy, silly time we had “that night”, looking up at the sky, cracking up at what the neighbors must be thinking about us, musing that we might be waiting for our mother-ship to come and whisk us away to the next universe. (Did we bring towels?)

Yes, the stars showed up and twinkled brightly for us, but it was we who brought magic to the night.




Happy Day!

I’m vegan, and part Native American so tomorrow is a different day for me.  I’ll still be gathering with my lovely family and eating LOTS of things, as well as concentrating on being thankful and in the moment.

No animal products, and a prayer for those who lost their lives in the “civilization” of our nation.

Here are some links on gratitude, veganism, how you can support the remaining tribesmen and women, and blessing loved ones with love and light, if you’re into that sort of thing.  If you’re reading this, I love you and I hope your day, however you choose to spend it, is full of joy, fellowship, and delicious food.

Ball of Light Blessing (Audio Only)

30 Vegan Thanksgiving Recipes

Native American Rights Fund (NARF)

Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary

One last thought: In the hustle and bustle of the holidays, please remember two important days that come AFTER Black Friday.  The 25th is Small Business Saturday, a day to support small businesses, shop local and purchase thoughtful, sustainable gifts for loved ones.  The 28th is Giving Tuesday, a day designated for supporting whatever causes you believe in, so please choose a charity near and dear to your heart and rain down love and affection (and generosity!) on them.  It will come back to you tenfold.

You are light

You are love

You are MAGIC.


Thankful and Hungry,



I leapt off a bridge today.  I let some people know I was going to do it.

“Sorry to hear that,” they said.

I held my breath, close my eyes, and thrust myself forward, into the cool air.

I felt myself falling.  It felt good.  Refreshing.  Right.

My toes hit the water and quickly after, my whole body was submerged.

This is right. This is right. This is right. – I told myself.

Now, looking up at the bridge from the water, the thrill subsiding, the moment has passed and I feel something like regret.  I wish someone had asked me not to jump.

They’ll be talking about it today, telling each other of my decision and sharing the details and the gossip.  Life will go on, with one minor adjustment.

“Sorry to hear that,” they’ll say.


i don’t know

what to do || how to move || when to breathe

and i’m angry

that you don’t see

the truth of me

























our secret place

your embrace

touch my face

just in case

it’s a dream


Oh, Irma

If my mother 

Had her druthers

I would be 

In Tennessee 

By now. 


In my head

I’m on the beach

Just out of reach

Of it all.

Holding On vs. Letting Go

We broke up because of bread.  That’s what he’ll say.  Stupid, seedy, sandwich bread.  He went to the store, at 9:15 at night no less, to get some grocery items for me and he got the wrong bread and now we’re getting divorced.  Sounds ludicrous, doesn’t it?  Well, it’s the truth, and at the same time it’s nowhere near the whole truth.  So what’s the rest of the story?

To oversimplify, he doesn’t pay attention –  to me, to the things I like, to what I eat, to whether I’m happy or sad or indifferent.  He doesn’t know me.  He doesn’t notice.  Part of that lazy unknowing is bringing home the wrong bread and then, in the morning when I’m hungry and emotional and just want a piece of toast but I can’t have it because it’s not the right thing, he says helpful things like, “Oh, so I’m the asshole now? I got your bread.”

Of course, this story is biased towards my feelings, since I’m the author.  Is it reasonable to get so upset over being “forced” to eat the “wrong” bread?  Probably not.  Honestly, though, my hurt goes deeper than the fact that 9 times out of ten he brings the wrong grocery items home.

The bread fiasco is just one in a string of unfortunate events, each of them hurtful to me.  Each time it happens, instead of apologizing or trying to understand what is upsetting to me, he defends himself and points out my flaws.  It’s not exactly a recipe for productive conversation or progress.

Am I saying I’m blameless and my husband never gets hurt?  Not at all.  However I don’t believe he gets hurt very often, which is perhaps a benefit of being so faintly invested.  From my perspective, he has it easy.  He works all day.  He doesn’t contribute to the household in any way aside from that.  I cook the meals, clean, pay the bills, take care of school things and appointments, do all the laundry and homework, plan all the vacations and pack us for them, and so on.

I’m not a quitter.  I am, however, beginning to wonder at what point do I cut my losses?  At what point am I allowed (by society, by my parents, by my own conscience) to move towards my own healing and happiness?

We don’t have the same goals (or if we do, he doesn’t vocalize them).  I have been working on my own for a year to clean up our credit.  The most I can get out of him is a “that’s great babe” when I talk to him about it, but forget about active participation.  I’ve been hoping to purchase a home and I have spoken with mortgage lenders and realtors and he doesn’t get involved in it or even ask questions.  I plan an annual Disney trip and this year I’ve asked for help from a friend because it’s too stressful and involved for me to do on my own.  And I know that when the time comes, he will go and enjoy the fruits of my labor, and never say thank you, and never have helped with the decision making, and just thinking about this makes me cry.  I’m crying.

I want a life partner.  Someone who has dreams, someone who has a plan, someone who cherishes me.  What I don’t want is to have to drag someone along. Every day that goes by I worry I am wasting time with someone who thinks that just working is enough.  Who thinks that he shouldn’t have to hug me or buy flowers or plan date nights because he works and because I’m living off his money.  (I’ll admit that part is terrifying.  How will I live?  My job pays peanuts.)  By the same token, I’m very careful with the money and budget because I respect all that he does to earn it.  I don’t take that responsibility lightly.  A few days ago I asked if he might help me with it, at least be involved in it, and his response was that if I keep complaining about it he’ll just do it.  He’ll take over.  I don’t want him to control it, number one because he’s not great with saving and number two because I like doing it.  I honestly do.  I just need help.  I need a husband.

He is a kind person.  He’s a nice dad.  I don’t know if I’d say he’s a good dad, because he doesn’t really do things with the kids unless I make him.  Our son deserves to go fishing and hiking and to learn about being a guy, and there are things that as much as it chafes me, I cannot teach him.  But my husband isn’t teaching him either.  Again, I cry, but this time it’s hot angry tears.  My sons both deserve effort.

Maybe he’s depressed.  He has mentioned it a few times, and I’ve encouraged him to get counseling and even try medication if that’s what he thinks will help.  Has he taken any steps in that direction? No.

We’ve both made mistakes.  I planned a hypothetical lunch about 8 years ago with a guy who is a friend from high school but he saw it as me being shady.  Last Spring I found nudes on his phone of girls (plural) who aren’t me and spent a few days swallowing pieces of my heart and trying to figure out if anything I thought was real had ever truly existed.  He had an explanation. It was plausible.  After about 2 days of me moping he began acting annoyed that I wouldn’t “let it go”.  I still haven’t let it go completely, though I don’t bring it up to him.  It’s here inside me, though.

Do I worry he might read this?  Not for a moment.  Despite sharing links with him from time to time I’m reasonably sure he’s never read my blog.  I wrote a book, published it on Amazon, and shared it with him after years of being too scared to let him see any of it, and he never even looked at it.  Didn’t read one word of it.

He’s going to go the rest of his life thinking he married a crazy person who divorced him over bread.  It’s heart-breaking and frustrating.

So that’s where I am today.  Right now I’m making list a la Ross Gellar:  Reasons to stay vs. Reasons to go.  What’s better for me? For the kids? For us both?  Apologies for oversharing with my handful of readers, but this blog is a journal for me and it’s important when you feel something to speak it, and that’s what I’m doing.


If I got a tattoo 

Right now 


I think it would say

“I give up.”