When you realize you stopped, start again

Good morning,

It’s very early in the morning and I can’t sleep. It’s been a minute dear reader and the first question that comes to mind is, why do I write to be read instead of just writing for myself?

Truth is there are a lot of things I write just for me. You can’t read them. It’s all part of the process. So many documents in random places as I have moved about mediums and storage spaces, changed emails that link to google docs here and there. Writings were lost in the divorce forever encapsulated in her external hard drive. That has happened twice actually. I wonder if some of it has ever been read by the ones who got the devices.

I digress. I haven’t written for you, beloved, in a hot minute. It’s been on my mind to do so. If you are reading for the first time, there are troves of treasures hidden in varios blogs, ha, even vlogs from other lives. It would be a fascinating project to link them all, out there in the inter-webs.

I realize I haven’t written in some time. I realize it. I am starting again. No shame. No guilt. Just now. My present.

There are lingering thoughts that weigh on my mind. I recently had a loss. A first in recovery for me. I lost my beloved Prius. She was the nicest car I have had since the Nissan Maxima that I bought when I was 20. She died on the way home from my last trip to my parents. Some kind of belt that pushes the coolant to the engine died, murdering the Prius in total. We looked into fixing her. She needed a new engine. It was unexpected as I had been taking care of her better than I ever had.

She had three and a half newish tires on her. She had brand new brakes and was far from her next oil change. She had a new windshield that required a patch in the bitter cold of winter. Even my therapist asked why I spent $400 on a new windshield when it wasn’t blocking my view.

All that being said, she was beat to hell and back. She bore marks of a different time. With little recall, I could point out three very visible body damages from my days of drinking and driving. At one point she had been my home, housing all my worldly possessions. She was my in between when I had lost the privilege of being housed with other humans.

Responsible: party of one? AAA took her to the dealership for diagnosis.

She was taken from me suddenly. And I was faced with, talk about privilege, ha, a CHOICE. Alone, I was relatively content on my bicycle for a whole week, but I am not alone anymore. There is a child who does not reside in biking distance. There is a wife who exists in my world, in my space, in our shared experience. A wife who was experiencing stress. A wife who came to my aide.

A wife who, very calmly and diplomatically with a world of grace, helped me make the choice. A wife who did the leg work through my sadness and immobility. A wife who signed papers with me. And held my hand.

5k to fix beloved Prius with little guarantee of her life expectancy. 13k for her death. 13k for a new start. Thirteen thousand dollars! I have never taken on a debt such as this and it’s unnerving. I drive the new car in fear.

Her name is SeaGlass and she’s beautiful. We upgraded Prius by six years. We took out a loan for five. It weighs on me. I am processing the fact that I just threw away a whole car. I am processing driving ten thousand dollars around town scared to bump into something. Scared to throw a hatchback full of wood in her. Where will be stow the kayaks when we paddle ten miles on the Kansas River?

We made the transfer in the back lot of the dealership. I bought a whole car at a dealership! Walked in, talked to car guys, was offered and drank two bottles of water as I sat in the lounge waiting on them to look at the door panel. We drove SeaGlass around back and emptied the Prius into SeaGlass. No warning. No prep. Ten years in a car grabbing what I needed and just abandoning the rest. “Leave the trash,” the finance guy said.

My baby grew up in that car. We brought her home from the hospital in that car. We had our bohemian summer in that car. We camped, went to the lake, the pool, the library, uber, vomit, five years at KU. I moved to Wichita and back in that car.

In my sobriety, I have a tendency to let things sit. For a long time… like years and the Prius was no exception. There were baby toys, baby hair clips, souvenirs, paperwork, so much paperwork from repairs, blankets, clothes, tennis gear, old letters, pictures, baby sunglasses, car games, umbrellas, chairs. Life.

My understanding of the world has increased. My understanding of money has increased. It was at an all time high to begin with having one more payment on my very last undergraduate class. Having paid regular ole bills like the mortgage and house bills reverently for the last five years. Knowing how much money I make in a year versus by the hour. Rising to the occasion of caring for a whole house. Thank god for my wife. Praise the very breath of her life. I could not do any of this without her. I mean, I probably could, and I would, but my gratitude speaks that I do not have to.

I am working through this, Dear Prius. Thank you for ten amazing years. You will be missed. You were loved. You are grieved. I pray you are stripped of any part of you that might be useful to another Prius owner. I pray you save someone money with a gently used part. I hope that you went to a good home where crafty car people know what to do with you to help others.

I will cherish SeaGlass, pay her off religiously, and drive her till she dies. Thank you for teaching me the value of my very privileged resources.

First time in the Kansas River

Kayak trip.

Staring at the lights one day when I was laying in bed. Decided to clean the lights like grandma.

Taught to drive. Grandpa always said it costs money to brake a car. Thinking about grandpa when I drive.

Pen in pocket.

Grandma preparing was showing love. Also control.

Send wedding invite to Gary and Rebecca Blanton. Call and just ask for Chris address.

What do we do with the thoughts of those people that will never leave us? Kate. Chris. Erynn. Heather. Sam. How do I keep the line open without badgering them. Why are they still in my thoughts if the universe removed them AND the relationships were not mutually beneficial? Do I just need to remember the past or is there supposed to be more in the future? Tell the stories of the past.

Thanksgiving Start 2024

I can’t help but think that we are just starting to fuck our kids up. If we fuck our kids up, then the next generation of adults is going to be fucked up. Did it start with us? Of course not.

Depression and anxiety and anger have a long history in as many of my family members as I know of. My beloved Della used to wring her hands back and forth, back and forth. She would usually start noon lunch at 10:30 am ensuring that most everything was overcooked. It was endearing to me as a granddaughter, especially as an adult granddaughter. It was an impossible act for my mother to follow enhancing the anxiety cycle.

Before that, what little I know not even first hand but second is that the very old man that I knew as a great-grandfather whose skin was thin, whose movements were slow and deliberate, at one time beat the hell out of my great-grandmother. He probably beat the children, My grandmother and her siblings too.

That’s just a drop in the hat of one of the 4 sides of my grandparents. That’s a tiny piece of what I know from my own experience. Fast forward to my own family. The children of the afore mentioned. Boomers. Still okay to spank your children. That’s me, the spankee. Now 4 generations of hit or miss, pass and go first and second hand knowledge. I know more. We know more. Here’s my question: are we doing better with what we have? Okay there are more questions: Are we evolving? Is that even the right question? Are we blaming evolution? If we know better, are we doing better? Are we refusing to do better even though we know better? Are we just switching tactics which are just as harming?

I just got back from Thanksgiving 2024 with 90% of my family from my father’s side. I could write for day about how much I love each one of them. I could write a blog post about each individual family member, wha they mean to me, what I love about them, individual experiences we have had, and how I pray to have many more. My gratitude abounds. That’s not what this particular writing is about.

My family is challenging to be around. This too, I could write for days on. While cooking breakfast on our last day, one of my brothers took to blaming his eight year old daughter for the reason he yells. Imagine, blaming an eight year old child as the reason you cannot control your own anger. After I raised my mouth from the floor, I took the opportunity to explain to my beloved niece and brother as well about victim blaming. I doubt I was heard. My daughter was in the room as well, though, and so was god.

What I wonder, with all our resources and knowledge though is if we aren’t propelling our children into destruction at an ultra modern rate while claiming no need for new age baloney, or that’s not how we were raised. I no doubt think this could have started as early as my parents, but who knows before that. I have friends who were not spanked, and when I say spanked, I am giving my parents the absolute most amount of grace and antiquated speech within my reason. Let me remind you that I could write a book on how much I adore my mother because, there is a huge part of me that would like her to read this. Will it draw anger from her? Will she throw up her hands and say, we did the best we could while continuing to make the same mistakes? Will she continue to turn a blind eye to the generation below her, and the one that follows that?

Upon leaving my parent’s house, my daughter went in reluctantly for her goodbye hug. She goes to all who want a hug reluctantly. How can I have a kid who’s not a hugger?! That’s a different blog. Daughter goes to Grammie for the hug. Grammie holds the hug and claims that they have a better relationship because they have now been through a conflict and have come out the other side. I was aware of the conflict. I had spoken with both after the skirmish. Cousin wanted to watch the Macy’s parade. My kid didn’t want to and she was using her influence to draw cousin from the parade. Grammie stepped in to attempt to let my kid know what she was doing. My kid spouted off that she didn’t care or something of the sort that my kid would do, and instead of slowing down… anger struck. When I looked over, my mother was in my kid’s face with a finger and I was out of my seat to stop whatever was happening. My daughter was in the process of being shamed for not thinking of others. Conflict.

There has been some kind of shift. Some kind of glitch in the Matrix. My grandmother might have beat the hell out of her children when they were young and they might have had the hardest lives know to boomers when they were babies, but by the time my grandmother got to me, I would have never experienced that kind of anger from my grandmother. This is, of course, all my own experience. I feel bad for my kiddo. I want to protect her from the anger I experienced. I also want her to know and love my family like I do! I cannot think of a single reason at this moment that I would shame my kid. But I think in that moment, she was called a name or had some kind of shame placed on her for not thinking of her cousin. She ran upstairs crying. My mother walked into the room where a family is enjoying a holiday tradition announcing that a child is somehow malicious because she is using her child influence to keep another child from a parade.

Again, I spoke with both sides. To my mother, I explained that my kiddo has a hard shell and a slow processing time. “No” first, process later. To my kid, I explained what my mother failed to when she was too pressed to take the time, add grace, maybe she didn’t know how with my daughter’s face or mouth saying “no” and “I don’t care.” I explained that my kiddo that she was using her cousin influence to keep her cousin from the parade that the cousin really wanted to see. Of course my kiddo didn’t want her cousin to miss the parade. Her cousin was having trouble expressing how strong her desire was, and that’s okay. My kiddo wasn’t taking the time there either. She recovered quickly and came down to let the cousin know she wanted her to watch the parade if she wanted to.

Now I don’t know if my mother ever spoke to my child about this conflict, but when she hugged her goodbye she said, I think we have a better relationship now that we have had conflict. And I am sorry by the way. But now that we have had a fight, we are better. Next time, fight back.

I sit here now, 24 hours later in a quiet house rubbing my face while I think of what to type next. Conflict resolution? Therapy? For me? For my kiddo? Serenity prayer anyone?

Pretty sure what happened in real life at the time was me looking at my kid with my eyebrows raised as high as I could raise them, and then looking at my wife for help, and then back to my kid with an “eh or not” kind of permission for my kid.

Send help. What are we doing to our children? How far apart will the separations be when we still have people, within the same family, participating in old disproven irresponsible behaviors that they refuse to even see?

Ellsworth without Grandma

The headstone has been up for at least 5 years. The new addition, death date, was dark after having just been added.

I was pretty nervous about my first trip to Ellsworth after my Grandma died. I found some pretty unexpected results. First and foremost, I was able to take care of myself amidst all things Ranker. Secondly, my memories tended to focus on times when I was a kid.

Surprisingly still to myself, I was able to take care of me. My family is loud, argumentative, and often unkind to each other, especially on the male side. There are often arguments, unkind words, impatience, and we all have control issues. Sometimes this hits me upside the head because my brain helps me forget, every time I go there. Thanks, brain, but sheesh, it can be jarring.

I focused on myself, had the privilege of focusing on my child, and choosing how I speak to her and the rest of the family. My Belly and I just had a good time and did what we needed to do. First stop: Grandma Della’s grave. Throughout the years, I have almost exclusively stopped by Grandma’s first, so I thought it fitting to visit her grave first. Seeing the fresh dirt was gross at best. Someone had put peonies on her grave. One of if, not her very favorite flower. I added my 3 year coin.

I only saw my Grandma cry twice in my life, and both were alcohol related. One was exclusively my doing, staying out all night and cheating on my first wife. That’s all I have to say about that. And the second I will not speak on.

Bella was by my side and we inspected the grave, the new carving, and the amazing sculpture that had been added to my Grandfather’s side. This was made by my Uncle Duke and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen him make.

The blue N is for Northern Natural, my Grandpa’s company that he retired from before I was born. And I guess piston parts, and a circular crank from the plant as well. Other additions that were from my lifetime: the gearshift from my Grandpa’s truck, and his hammer. The back, a handmade hand-welded cross, all made by my Uncle Dwayne, who we also call Uncle Duke, who is a welder. Behind is a separate yard art sign that reads:

On Angel’s wings you were taken away, but in our hearts you will always stay. Your loving children. Dorsey Ranker. November 11th, 1924-September 23rd, 2017. Grandpa’s side is also decorated with the American flag and the Navy Flag.

They done already mowed over Grandma! Lol. And Grandpa’s grass isn’t looking too hot either.

Belly and I went, we saw, and then we headed for mom and dad’s. The weekend went off without a hitch. I was able to nap one day and sleep in the next. I was able to hold my tongue mostly most of the time in a very conservative place. I was able to be myself without shame or fear. I was able to take care of myself and my daughter.

I tricked her into this picture when she wouldn’t look up by yelling, “What was that?”

The most surprising thing was how easy it was to take care of myself and Belly. I had to laugh at myself upon reflection because the surprise was on account of me forgetting how much work I have done to be okay. 3 years of sobriety has never been achieved in all my attempts starting in 2009. I have done the work. I have taken the steps. I have failed forward hundreds of times with the only thing going for me is that I never died. I lived to tell, and try again. This time I am succeeding, thriving, really truly living. I am the only one to whom I answer, to whom I am accountable. That used to scared the shit out of me and I didn’t love me enough to show up. Today, that is so far from the truth that I still get to delight in it.

I get to grieve. I get to mess up. I get to show up. I get to “embarrass” my kid. I get to be bored as shit at horse shows. I get to swim with my belly hanging out because a sports bra is the only thing I can wear with the neuralgia. I get to love myself in my obese skin. I get to stay calm and speak kindly to EVERYONE. I get to travel with my kiddo and not worry my wife. I have a wife!

Back to Grandma: I may have put some of this on my family, but I think the result was healing for all. I started talking about homemade ice cream weeks before our visit. Now consider that Grandpa died 5 years ago and Grandma lived with my folks after he died and then the nursing home. So we haven’t made homemade ice cream for years, even before their deaths. But that was something that we used to do on big family weekends, so I had my heart set on it.

My folks have their own hand-crank ice cream freezer. It needs to be soaked in water before we make ice cream to seal up the cracks so the salt water doesn’t leak out. Bags of ice and rock salt must be acquired as well. And I needed them to find Grandma’s recipe, which I had taken for granted that someone had saved. I urged my folks to prepare all the things and I would bring my cranking arm. They delivered and we had a really nice time making 2 freezers, each a gallon, of homemade ice cream.

I’ll tell you right now that it was not as good as grandma’s and I had not one, but two alcoholic scares in making the damn shit. Grandma always mixed up the batch. Always. I often watched, but even when I “helped,” I probably just pored the sugar that she had measured out, whipped eggs that she had already cracked, or did two teaspoons of vanilla. Once everything was set, she would always add a little bit more sugar, and, I think, vanilla. To taste. Her taste. She had it perfected.

My mom delivered with the recipe. I found out that my folks’ freezer was smaller that Grandma and Grandpa’s, so she had a smaller recipe that was proportionately cut down. She also had Grandma’s hand written original recipe. I have no idea where she got it. Mom and I mixed up the first batch and off we went. Kids gathered around the freezer and asked questions about the process. Why the salt? Why the ice? Why are we making this when we can go to the store and buy it?

Mavrik, Wyatt, Isabella, Arabella, Me, and Papa.

The first freezer of ice cream is harder as the ice melts and molds around the freezer inside, but the second batch goes pretty smoothly as the salt water is already melting and super cold. I went into the house to make the second batch. Without thinking at all, I licked the side of the lemon extract bottle after measuring it out. It’s a bad habit that is also strangely a family thing. My mother does it as well. Anywho, lemon extract is 87% alcohol. I was instantly nauseated and full of fear since I take a breathalyzer every night that I have Belly at 8pm. It was about 7:20. I freaked out and put my mouth under the sink and starting rinsing my mouth out and drinking a ton of water.

I grabbed my phone and texted the Calvary, who very quickly let me know that it would not show up on the breathalyzer. My heart was racing. My body temperature was high. I dropped the ice cream mix off into the freezer so the kids could crank and I headed out to my car to grab my BACtrack. I tested the BAC, and the Calvary was right, 0.00. Phew!

The next day, we were sitting around eating the ice cream with Uncle Eugene and Auntie Louise. I mentioned how the ice cream was subpar. My mom says to Louise, that we wouldn’t want to add too much extra vanilla on account me. I was like, why-not-oh-my-god-it’s-raw-and-doesn’t-cook-out, so there is an alcohol content. SECOND FREAKOUT! It never occurred to me. Vanilla is like 17% alcohol. The recipe is two teaspoons in a gallon, so I am good, but again worried about the 8pm breathalyzer. Oof.

In the end, all was well, but it was a great reminder to stay vigilant. I was thrilled to make homemade ice cream in order to honor Grandma Della and Grandpa Duke. We crushed it. We added plenty of new tradition as well. Mom and Dad have been in Ellsworth for like 3 or 4 years and I pray they are there for many more. I will bring my happy little ass without apology as often as I can. Living amends. May we never outlive them.

Me and Mommie: She is the new Matriarch and I absolutely adore her.

I successfully navigated the first weekend in Ellsworth without my all time most favorite person. I achieved self care and brought the kid back alive. We had a really wonderful time. I continue my grief process by walking right into each situation. The definition of courage is taking that action in the face of fear. Today I am safe, sane, sober, and strong. Caterpillar to butterfly. #loveholly

Get this kid a cape, she saved the day.

It feels super dramatic to say that the kid saved my life, but really there is no way to tell. Maybe she did.

All I know is that I did not get off the couch last weekend. I went to work this past week, but I went to work from home on that same couch spot. Everything has been hitting and sitting since we got back from Arkansas.

Hitting me like a two by four. Hitting me like grief. Sitting on my chest and staying there. The house was a mess. I mean the house was a mess like we threw our own wedding and then left for a week on a camping and kayaking trip. Wedding prep, after wedding mess. Gifts, decorations, wrapping paper, cardboard, life, mess, mail, leftover food, things stored or set, all over the goddamn place.

And then we gathered anything and everything camping, which did not coincide with throwing a wedding. And left for a blissful week full of supplies and resources, tent, coolers, camping totes, food, kayaks, safety gear, lanterns, bug spray, campfire supplies, saws, axes, life jackets, bedding, clothes, shoes, bought more stuff there, and then came home and I personally just crashed. I barely had the energy to empty my own car yet alone hers.

What made it out of the cars after the wedding and the mini-moon found a new temporary home in the front room. And so started the making myself feel bad for feeling bad. This is rookie mental health stuff, but I think that even the pros could succumb to this on occasion. Stuff like, I am so blessed that I have two living rooms and one is just storing shit right now. Two couches but you can’t even see one. Laundry to do but nope, not getting off the couch. Oh, and by the way, why is it so painful to sit on the goddamn couch? If this nerve pain were a greater issue for a greater number of people, then the pharmacy companies could make money off of it and someone would have found a better cure by now, better pain killer, hint of boomer, where is the goddamn pill I can take instead of doing something about my condition. It hurts to sit. It hurts to move. It hurts to think about where to even start organizing this life in this spot.

Enter the life saving thought. I knew this kid would save my weekend. I knew she was coming and I knew, at absolute bare minimum that she would say, I’m hungry. And while I could have said, great, there is food in the kitchen, thanks only to my wife, I knew that I would not do that. I knew I would get up and assist her in getting food. I wonder if she brought a cape. I wonder if I could find my KU cape to loan her.

I didn’t tell her all of this. I told her some. I told her I had been struggling to find motivation and that it had been hard for me to be happy this week. I wanted to share as much of me as I could, at an age appropriate level. I did not want her to know that I was relying on her to pull my ass out of the ditch. That’s not her responsibility but I gladly used her as a tool.

She came through with flying colors. We had food adventures, again, assisted by my lovely wife. We mowed. Then we played soccer. She encouraged me so well. I want to play soccer so your effort in mowing the lawn isn’t wasted, she said. Who’s playing who? Who cares?! We edged the garden beds. We weeded gardens. We played with the dog. We biked. She explored the limits she’s learning with how far geographically she can go and how often she needs to check in. She explored her emotional limits by stating she didn’t want to go to church. Small fits were thrown. Boundaries were tested. I took care of myself. Angela did her own thing including but not limited to being by my or Bella’s side all weekend long.

I was so happy smack dab in the middle of a heavy deep depression. I sat on the front porch waiting for bella to get back from a lap on the bike, and cried, thanking Angela for her help and expressing my feelings. I’m so happy, I said, tears streaming. This is so nice. This is exactly what I needed and I knew that my little family would just be themselves and deliver.

My current mental health meds have been the same prescription since January 2020 and I have no desire to change them. That being said, I do not cry very much, or as often as I used to, by far, by very very far. This grief and downswing after the wedding and mini-moon has brought me to tears repeatedly. Being able to cry happy tears in the midst of all of this was an incredible emotional release. I was so grateful to be sitting sadly on the front porch crying happy tears with my new wife waiting for my superhero to round the corner on her bike.

Self-diagnosed. Reference material, the internet.

No, but seriously.

Coming off my first writing drought of the year so that’s over and done with and we can move on.

Hello, it’s me, shingle girl. Ending week 6ish with some good news: I wore a bra to work two days this week. It hurts like hell to move but the girls are strapped in. Baby steps. Why the hell is everything baby steps?!

Anywho, new person at work says to me, oh I’m sorry you have shingles but you should have seen how sick I got from the vaccine.

‘Scuse me? Worse than like, actual shingles? Wonder how long that lasted? Nice you got it since you are eligible. And other grumbly stuff.

I headed out for lunch hell bent on finding out, on my own (I wasn’t gonna ask her) how damn long she might have been sick from the vaccine vs actual shingles. I decided to ask mother google for just “how long you are ill from the shingles vaccine vs the shingles disease?” Short answer is like a week, but my snark subsided. I got lost in the internets, as one does, and I found this!

“Postherpetic neuralgia (post-hur-PET-ik noo-RAL-juh) is the most common complication of shingles. It causes a burning pain in nerves and skin. The pain lasts long after the rash and blisters of shingles go away.” ~internet

And this: https://www.webmd.com/skin-problems-and-treatments/shingles/understanding-postherpetic-neuralgia-treatment

And this: https://www.healthline.com/health/postherpetic-neuralgia#symptoms

I am not one to search the rabbit hole for reasons why I feel the way I feel or any of the other feels I may be missing or ways to treat it or which celebrity had it last or any of that crap. But since I wasn’t looking for this, I figure it’s legit. I didn’t go out to prove an existing theory.

It hit the nail on the head: burning, stabbing, hurts when anything touches it, etc. New info explained why I still have all these symptoms long after the shingles rash went away. Treatment isn’t much more than time, but the team is gonna double check things for me. Worse case scenario is it lasts forever, but that’s the rare of the rare.

So I wait. And go slow. Keep going slow. Keep taking care of myself. Pray it’s gone before the wedding, that kind of thing. It’s so random, truly. I just had a physical as a follow-up with all the blood works: and guys, I’m fine. Everything in normal range except my weight. But even with the weight, no high blood pressure, no high cholesterol or any of that crap. Healthy as a horse. One of the reasons I got sober, my beloved grandmother is 94 and counting. She’s still got it.

Look at the physical: check. Look at the mental/emotional: Stress seems to be one of the causes of shingles (the one everyone knows, btw). After several people mentioned stress, I took a look at myself. I didn’t want to be missing things that were causing me stress, and manifesting in my body that I was completely unaware of.

We had court. We had thanksgiving. We have a wedding. We now have Bella every other weekend. Work. House. Winter. And what I found in the end, or if this is still the middle, is that it doesn’t matter if it’s stress related or not. I don’t have anything huge hanging over my head. I am present in my life. I suit up and show up for myself, my person, my kiddo, work, friends, family, life. It is also possible that things are a little more difficult than I realize, and admitting that changes nothing. A closer examination hurts nothing. Commitment.

There is this tail chasing in my head like maybe Ang is gonna get sick of me sitting around or not pitching in as much with the house. Or that our intimacy level is suffering. Or that work is going to stop letting me work from home. Or that things are piling up quicker than they are getting checked off. Or, that my mental health is suffering. Maybe the rest is just a cover for my own mental and physical health concerns. It all comes back to me. I am responsible for me. I love me. Commitment.

So I stay aware. Spot check the routine. Prioritize and let shit go. Be kind to myself and my beloved. Ask for help. Light a fire and wait out the winter. Oof. I can actually just sit and wait. Wat.

Empathizing with my own pain

As I lay in bed last night, in pain, starting my sixth week of shingles, something wonderful happened. A god moment, if you will.

I started feeling this strange back pain at Christmas. We were over at some of Angie’s in-laws house and I just could not get comfortable. I was in a dull pain, nothing terrible. I wanted to sit and rest, but couldn’t find a comfy spot. I was tired for no reason.

A day or two later in the shower, I noticed something on my skin. One glance from Ang decided shingles. I went to prompt care, got a prescription, and started working from home.

Two more doctor visits, and hundreds of dollars later, despite insurance, here we sit. The physical rash is all but got. The internal pain remains. My brain protects me in a way that I don’t remember what the last phase felt like. I am really only aware of where I am with the pain.

I am grateful to remember how it all started, so I can be vigilant if I feel that again, but the in-between phases are a blur. The current phase has me googling things like, what does nerve damage feel like? And, what does nerve damage from shingles feel like? I live in a very visual world with computers and emails and gifs. It felt strange to try to find something that probably didn’t have a picture and a meme to go with it.

So last night, when I was laying in bed, feeling this burning stabby internal pain that happens in waves like contractions, this experience pops into my head. When Isabella was very small, probably toddler age, she got some kind of bump on her butt that was causing her a lot of pain. Today I don’t remember what it was, some kind of little infection, maybe kind of like a spider bite. We saw it and she complained about it, so we took her to the doctor.

At the doctor, they were going to drain it or pop it or something. They knew it was going to be painful. She was young enough that they didn’t think she would lay there on her own. I was tasked with laying on my back on the exam table and holding her to my front. I’m laying there, holding her to my chest, telling her everything is going to be okay. When they did whatever they did, her whole body shook like an intense shiver in pain. She yelped out and then started crying.

I held her tighter as she squirmed. I cooed and hushed her and said things like, it’s over now. Or, there there, that’s better. It’s gonna get better now. I held her till she started to calm down. It was a very intense experience as a mother to be that close to my child and feel that kind of raw pain. I was experiencing her pain as well as my own holding her through it. My poor baby.

One of my therapists one time told me to talk to myself as if I were talking to my daughter. I instantly burst out in tears. I was not talking to myself anything like I spoke to my daughter. I would never speak to her the way I spoke to myself.

Last night laying in bed, I dialed in to that feeling as a mother, holding my child on the exam table, only the child I was holding was me. I remembered the shivering intense pain and the ability to hold her tighter and tell her everything was going to be okay. I remembered those words from the therapist. Everything is going to be okay. This can’t last forever. There there. Shhhhh. I know. I know.

I’m so tired of this pain. I went back to the doctor this week for a physical. I have gained weight as a result of my inactivity. I can’t be out and about for long before the pain creeps in more and more. And I haven’t worn a bra since Christmas! I hate it. I miss my frickin’ bras. I am certain that my boobs will sag more after this experience and I don’t want saggy boobs! I have worn a bra my entire life to prevent that before it’s rightful time! Bah! I can’t even have my therapy cat on my chest without pain!

There there. Shhhhh. Everything is going to be okay. I have you. I am holding you. I feel your pain and I will not leave you through it. I will help you take care of yourself. I will speak kindly to you and help you continue to ask for what you need. I will advocate for you at work and be gentle with you at home. I will not call you lazy. I will be patient with your recovery. I will not make excuses for you but help you stand in your truth. I will be frustrated with you but I will not let you lose heart or hope. I will help you cut back on spending to rebuild your financial cushion. I will help you reel in the crazy with the upcoming wedding. Finances, planning, details, and I will help you remember to enjoy the process. I will help you manage the stress, not deny it. I will see you through your recovery process and help you back into an more active life when you are ready. I will hold space for you. You are doing a really good job with something that you have never been through before. I love you with my whole heart.

Pretty sure I fell asleep quite quickly after that.

Let’s talk about Sam Muse

Well we talked about the Badge Man, so let’s talk about the real love of my life, Samuel Muse Brown.

Sam was a gift given more than 10 years ago. For many of you who don’t know the story of my life with cats, I had a cat curse for many years. All during my 20’s I could not keep a cat for more than three years.

In the course of the 20’s I lost maybe close to ten cats! One got into some poison under the sink and died howling in my arms on the way to the vet. One was hit by a car in a parking lot. One was taken from my front yard. One got a blood clot above his back legs and had to be put to sleep. Several were donated to a friend of mine so I could get help for my substance use disorder. In my 20’s I never had a cat that got to age four.

In 2012, Ex-spouse got me a cat as a surprise. I guessed it before she even had a chance to give him to me. She mentioned quite casually, I got you a surprise. The first words out of my mouth were, is it a kitten? She was shocked. Who guesses kitten right out of the gate, she asked. Me. It’s me. At the time, I was living with two mangey dogs.

Sam around 2012-2013 making his needs known.

I am a huge fan of farm cats and ex-spouse had someone at work that had a litter of farm cats. And so Sam came into my life. I named him after my best friend’s child. Upon hearing the name from Facebook, he called and asked directly, did you name your cat after my kid? Yes, yes I did.

Sam has been a rock over the last 11 almost 12 years. He has been fostered twice in the name of recovery. I could not be more grateful to those that cared for him. At one point, he was named an emotional support animal by my therapist and waived of all rent and pet deposits. He’s pretty special.

Our bond is amazing. He truly is the emotional support animal that I have needed and continue to rely on. He is a cat after all, so he does his own thing, but I do not think there is a day that goes by that I don’t find him in my lap once or twice.

He loves the outdoors. He goes outside daily and has most of his life. He absolutely loves the sun and the heat. He will lay outside in the direct sun until the temps reach close to 100° before he moves to the shade. He loves getting dirty. He lays right in the dirt and rolls around scratching his back on the earth. He often comes to the back door covered in dirt or dried grass.

Outside working with mom, filthy and not giving a shit. 2021

Assisting with water removal from the crawl space. 2021

He is a hunter as well. He has presented me with several birds over the years. One particular time at a First Thursday Fellowship Fire, he came around the corner with a live bird in his mouth, only to be scared by one of the guests, lets the bird go, and it goes flying away. We all stood there dumbfounded going, what just happened?

He loves cuddling and sitting in almost anyone’s lap. He loves being outside with us when we have fires. He will wander around the fire and hop into anyone’s lap that has settled in. He’s black and quiet, so hard to see at night under a camp chair by the fire. He has scared the crap out of me more than once by jumping in my lap or rubbing against my leg before I had visual.

Sam has boundary issues and I like to think that I made him that way. He loves laying on heads when we are in bed. He loves getting right up in your face. If it is therapeutic to put your face in cat fur, then Sam should get an award for all the therapy he allows.

Sam has taken his show on the road at least once. Many years ago, ex-spouse worked at a retirement center for mentally disabled adults. She thought his presence would bring them joy, so we strapped him in and took him down to the retirement center. Once he got his bearings, he allowed anyone and everyone to get a pet. At one point he was in the lap of one of the animal lovers and stayed there for some time. She was beside herself with joy.

Unlike most cats, Sam is down for pets. He will fall over on his side and expose his belly if you are around him outside. He allows scratching of the back, and loves anything near the head, neck and shoulders. He lets me pet his belly when he is in our bed and sleeps dotingly at my feet every night.

He is outside with my just chillin’ anytime I am out there.

I cannot believe how long he has been in my life. The only souls in this world that I have spent more time with, are my family of origin in my first 18 years. He’s on his way to outlasting that time as well. What an amazing guy. I love you, Sam Brown.

Transformations 2023: The Finale

The final Transformations was held this weekend. It was full of emotion for me and many others. I competed in Transformations in 2016.

For those of you who still don’t know what Transformations is, it started as 10 women, then later changed to 10 men, competing as female impersonators, or drag queens, in a pageant style event for the charity of their choice. I competed for DCCCA Women’s Treatment Center. There are an evening gown, talent, and onstage question portions. Each contestant has a consultant who is an active drag queen. The consultants helped with everything from costumes to makeup and wigs to talent.

Me and Miss Priscilla, my consultant. (2016)

For me, and I believe many others, Transformations was an incredibly intense event that led to extreme bonding with those in the same experience. As I attended Transformations over the years, there was an instant connection with those that were fans, audience members, other participants, and other consultants. Many of the contestants bonded deeply with their consultants.

I was among those. Miss Pricilla MC’ed and performed at my wedding reception in July 2016. Another consultant from my year in Transformations altered our wedding dresses. I stay connected with other contestants and consultants via Facebook. It also changed the Kansas City drag scene for me. When I go to Kansas City for a show, I usually personally know at least one of the drag queens performing.

I got 10th out of 10 contestants in 2016. I wouldn’t change a thing.

In 2017 I performed as a backup dancer for two other performers. It was a thrill to be on the stage again. The creator/director of the entire 12 year event is Brandon Eisman and he is a joy to work with. I can only imagine wrangling 10 seasoned drag queens and 10 men and women who may have never performed before in their lives. Not to mention backup dancers, stage crew, friends and family, and Brandon always ran the show as Deja Brooks herself.

After 2016 and 2017, I was always on the lookout for tickets to the event. The event changed from men to women and sells out rapidly. As most of you know 2017 is when I hit a tumultuous time in my life. I missed Transformations 2020 due to relapse. That is something I will never get back and it stings.

Transformations 2021 was a redemption year for me and a living amends to my person, who had bought the previous year’s tickets. 2022 was just gravy. I was emotional the whole night. I was able to bring my kiddo with me and show her the love I and many others had for this gift to the community. Over the course of the 12 years running of this show, Transformations donated over $120,000 to local charities, and, like I said, brought so many people together.

We dressed up, did makeup, went out to eat downtown, and made it a real Lawrence, KS night on the town. From the moment we arrived, Isabella was on the hunt to get her picture taken with the drag queens.

Isabella and Deja Brooks. This moment was spectacular. This red carpet spot was swarming with people. Isabella has attended Reading Rainbow hosted by Deja Brooks for years and was on the lookout for Deja. The moment we saw her and asked for a picture, she took us to the red carpet, dispersed all the people for this one on one shot with Isabella. Then waved her hand and the crowd was back.

Isabella and Daisy Bucket (pronounced bouquet). Daisy hosted a KU drag show in 2015 that I attended with Isabella strapped to my chest.

Baby’s first drag show with Daisy Bucket. (2015)

Isabella and The Whore of ‘84, Genewa Stanwyck. Ang and I are huge fans of Genewa.

For me, in recovery, with moments from my past that have led to broken relationships, there were no less than three people in that audience that I owe amends to. None of those three people are interested in hearing my amends. That is hard. They were once part of a strong tight knit village. I ran into one of them, who was thrilled to see how much Bella had grown. One of the tenants of amends is that we do not cause more harm, so if someone has cut ties with us, we do not force the amends. So it’s something that just sits with you. Well, it’s something that sits with me anyway.

On this final night of Transformations, I was thrilled just to be in attendance, and amazed that I had my beloved and my kiddo by my side. I can be proud of the life I have built and still be sad of the collateral damage that I have caused. For me, the emotions ran the gambit on Saturday night at Transformations 2023, The Finale.

It was a long show. Someone didn’t quite make it. Transformations wasted.

Joy, laughter, disappointment, chaos, and it’s only Saturday

I picked the moon up at the post office yesterday. Her other mom just shipped her from KCK. It seemed easier than driving.

Pause for laughter.

We actually met to sign paperwork for the moon to get her first passport. I think this could have been done without me, so I was thrilled to be asked. We sat in their little room, her other mom had done all the work of picture and documentation and money order, all the stuff. All I had to do was stand on the side and then sign under both of their names. It was pretty cool. Bella and her other mom have a trip planned later in the year. Traveling was one of the things that brought us together so I am glad that is being shared with our kid. Not that it matters what I think about their time together, it’s none of my concern. It was nice to be included.

We hit the library after that, my shingles doing their back and forth of screaming at me and then going dead silent. Screams. Silence. And so on. There is a quick burning stabbing pain, and then it’s gone and I am fine. Then another quick stabbing pain, and it’s gone. One of these pain moments, I said audibly, ow ow ow! And then it was gone. I maybe did this once or twice more in the library.

When we got back to the car, I did the same thing as I got into my seat, ow ow ow. Almost instantly from the back seat I hear, ow ow ow. I thought the moon was making fun of me. What? What’s happening, I say. She says, my throat hurts. I barely held it together. She cracks me up. Hears it twice and then boom, ow ow ow.

After the library, we headed home for some outside time before it got dark. We had some great fun.

This jump was as high as Belly’s armpits!

Nice distance here.

Different camera view.

We took turns filming the puppers do tricks and I chopped wood while she set up and higher jump and a higher jump. We got good and muddy. The attention and running around was good for Badger as well.

Shoes removed and back in the house, I wanted to test out my new seed mat with some started seeds. Yes, I know it’s still January, but there is no wrong time to play in the dirt. I got out a seed tray from last year and some recycled pots from our failed fern experiment, and we planted leeks, green onions, cat grass, and marigolds.

Ang came home at that time and started dinner. By the time our project was done, it was time to go see some art that Ang had at two Final Friday locations. It was so much fun! We caught a lively show at the America Music Academy right down the street where people were buzzing about, and live music was being played. There was art all over the walls including Ang’s pieces. Bella took an impressive tour around the place spending some good time at several pieces.

The next stop was the Lawrence Art Center where Ang was a contributor in a print exchange called Edible Art. She made a beautiful recreation of a menu from 1867. As part of the project, she will receive a copy of all the other prints that were done so we took some time to see what new art would be in our home. Bella found a few pieces that she thought she might like in her room.

It all seemed so lovely. What transpired after that is unknown to me. We returned home, got ready for bed, someone announced she was hungry since she rarely eats what we do. I suggested she make some toast since I was done with dinner for the night, so I settled in at the kitchen table to read a chapter from our book while she ate her toast. It was way past all our bedtimes at this point. She wanted to call her mom to say goodnight, and just as I was about to go to bed I hear, I want to go home.

‘Scuse me? It’s 10pm and this a’int our first rodeo. She had spoken with her mom and wanted to go home. Pretty dead set. I ask what happened on the phone and she stated nothing, but that she doesn’t get enough time with her mom, she missed her, and she wanted to sleep with her. I had a nice calm inquisitive nature about me while silently rolling my eyes out of my head.

We talked some more about time with her other mom, and time with us, and logistics of the rest of the weekend. She remained set. Her other mom said she will come get her. I am right in the middle between oh hell no and how important is it? For every definitive parenting decision I make, there have got to be ten questions that go unanswered. I want to err on the side of kindness and love and grace. I also don’t want to raise a spoiled entitled ass. I also know that what little control I have, it only exists when she is physically with me. That’s what, like 72 hours every other week including sleep time. Roughly 48 hours of awake time every other week.

I want her to feel supported. I want her to know she has a voice. I want her to feel heard. I want her to advocate for herself. All the things. I also was not driving to Kansas City at 10pm.

Once I said yes and let her other other mother know, we both turned our phones on and laid down. I don’t know if she would have fallen asleep without the yes. But once she got it, she fell fast asleep. As did I. By the time her phone rang, we were both in dreamland. But she got up and went home.

I didn’t want to make a huge deal of it. We arranged to pick her up at the place where her horse is kept the next day. I didn’t personalize. I observed. I don’t want to make a habit of this malarkey. This was the first time this had happened. Time will tell.

She came back the next day and we continued our amazing weekend. More to come on that.

Love,

Holly