I am in Bozeman Montana. I visited Montana right before one of my surgeries, but the focal point of that trip was Missoula, ewam, and Flathead Lake. I have been “in” Bozeman for almost 20 years. I lived in Montana from 2004-2008. I lived, grew, and died a bit when I was here. Some of my most auspicious moments as a human happened while I resided here. A few worth mentioning were getting diagnosed with my autoimmune disorder after almost dying from MRSA because my immune system, due to my undiagnosed Hashimoto’s had tanked. Alongside that were moments of doing AmeriCorps VISTA, taking Buddhist vows at ewam, accepting I had abilities, recognizing I had trauma that needed to be addressed, validating that I attract certain types of people as a healer, and that I loved the state.

I left Montana in 2008, grieving the end of a 7-year relationship that I thought would be the one that checked all the boxes. I landed back at my parents’ place, close to turning 30, and feeling like I was behind schedule on what was expected of me by others. Little did I know that on the horizon was a woman that was going to break me in a way that left a permanent scar no one could ever see.

When I see mountains, I see a majestic and mystical challenge. I want to know what is at the top. One of my exes shared that what she saw staring at the mountains was a feeling of being trapped. I always felt that the stubborn Sagittarius in me felt compelled to see the way through to the other side. The indigenous people knew not just a way but the way. I felt that in my soul. I did not do as much as I wanted to when I was in Montana or, realistically, anywhere I lived and roamed before my weight loss and knee replacements. This was due to being in daily chronic pain. I lived off Tylenol and Ibuprofen. I should probably start a Go Fund Me now for a liver transplant.

Mountains for me are the bones of Pachamama. To be able to traverse them is sacred on all levels. I have had the privilege of navigating many mountain ranges, including Machu Picchu. The mountains also heal me in a way that I forgot until today. I have many joint and bone-related medical maladies. I have learned what makes it better and worse. I am currently in the middle of a flare-up because I was missing the subtle signs my body was giving. This means my trip is being cut very short, and I may not be able to visit Yellowstone or Grand Teton, which was the whole point of this trip. If I push it now, the payout later is devastating and costly.

While I am traveling I am open to how nature and spirit communicate with me. One of the most common questions I get about such topics is how do you know when it is something spiritually significant, like a sign? I say, you feel it first, you rule out all common possibilities second and third, if all that has been deduced and your experience seems “out of place,” it is probably spirit. Truly, only you know. In the Badlands, 12 Pelicans were circling over a pond in the middle of nowhere, 3 Cormorants flew over the to of my car, and once I got past the Dakotas, the Magpies started appearing.

My first big spiritual moment with Magpies was in the Garden of the Gods in Colorado many years ago. I was standing near a structure and felt like I was being stared at. I turned my head, and perched on a rock next to me was a Magpie. I had never seen one before, but I immediately sensed they were part of the Corvid family. Corvids include Ravens, Crows, and Grackles, just to name a few. These birds hold a special space in my heart. Later on during my first trip to New Mexico, I was in the middle of nowhere, and Magpies were flying over the ditches at the pace of my car. It was breathtaking.

Crows have held significance all of my life. There was a tree that they roosted in behind my grandparents’ home. It was almost spooky to watch the murder grow and disperse, early dawn and evening. Magpies have this Coyote energy about them that I admire and appreciate. We have a lot of similar qualities, good and bad.

An up-and-coming blog is diving into the spiritual characteristics of Mountains and Magpies.

source

[sôrs]

noun

source (noun) · sources (plural noun)

1. a place, person, or thing from which something comes or can be obtained:”mackerel is a good source of fish oil”
   • a spring or fountainhead from which a river or stream issues:”the source of the Nile”
   • a person who provides information:”military sources announced a reduction in strategic nuclear weapons”
   • a book or document used to provide evidence in research.
   • technicala body or process by which energy or a particular component enters a system. The opposite of sink
   • electronicsa part of a field-effect transistor from which carriers flow into the inter-electrode channel.

verb

source (verb) · sources (third person present) · sourced (past tense) · sourced (past participle) · sourcing (present participle)

1. obtain from a particular source:”each type of coffee is sourced from one country”
   • find out where (something) can be obtained:”she was called upon to source a supply of carpet”

Origin

late Middle English: from Old French sours(e), past participle of sourdre ‘to rise’, from Latin surgere.

Is where something starts as important as where it ends? Is the significance and impact of the ending only contributed to its origins, its beginning, its source? Most do not recall the in-betweens. The experiences that thread and weave together the totality of the moment. I have had experiences that lasted seconds that are seared into the cells of my being. I have had experiences that were so consistent that it found a permanent residency like an unwanted squatter in my body, mind and spirit.

Most of the sources for the things that ail me most were not self-inflicted. Things that I will never rid myself of are adaptations to people or situations that I would not punish anyone with. I struggle every day to just maintain a level of normalcy that took me decades to manifest and finally I feel that those changes are finally settling in. I can see those moments where the trauma cycle starts to hum ready to engage and slide perfectly into a slot. Now, I can take a moment, step back and engage. What is the cost of and expense of these materials and resources? Who should be held accountable for the things that I did not consent to?

I am in debt to others and myself simply because I maintained an unhealthy coping skill of “running”. It is expensive to start over and I have done it so many times that I lost so many “things” and mastered the skill of pack and go. I have stayed longer in relationships that I should have and bailed on ones that I should have tried harder at. I have been catfished, in situationships and everything in between. The source of the outcome on most of these instance’s stem from fear of abandonment and the source from this stems from unhealthy parenting skills. This absolutely comes off as a blame the parent’s statement but there is something to be said when there are now noticeable generational behaviors that are still at play.

The thing about being alone is that the accountability stops at the end of your nose. I can see where I use to rely on my spouses and exes in ways that allowed them to absolve me of significant parts of our relationship. I did not realize I was raised by parents who were trauma bonded due to behaviors via an altruistic narcissist. That absolutely fucks with the depth perception and filter of attempting to navigate a relationship.

This is where the work comes into play that has been happening since my divorce. I know where the source of my mistrust, abandonment, and many other issues reside so I started focusing on my role in those matters. I own that I allowed transgressions to happen. I am not a perfect partner but I vehemently state that up front to a fault. I word vomited my warning label out of the gates because I was used to settling for those that stayed. I was convinced I was damaged goods and needed to stickered as a discount. That has ALL changed. I will die alone before I settle for someone who cannot meet me in the middle.

The source of those revelations come from sitting in my own shit and owning my own misdeeds. I have said and done things that I cannot take back but God as my witness I have never laid a hand to a partner or violated them; the same cannot be stated in regard to my persons. I have done the work to overcome generational trauma and to stop it where it sits in body, mind and spirit. Now I embark on helping others do the same. This is why I share as I do and even when I feel like I have lost my way, I look for a light whose source cannot be dimmed because it comes from within.

Per Article 33 of the Geneva Convention regarding collective punishment states the following:

Individual responsibility, collective penalties, pillage, reprisals

No protected person may be punished for an offence he or she has not personally committed. Collective penalties and likewise all measures of intimidation or of terrorism are prohibited.

Pillage is prohibited.

Reprisals against protected persons and their property are prohibited.

My faults are deep like well-worn creases in working hands and smiling eyes. I do not often make eye contact with people, and it is often viewed as a means to hide lies and deceit. Only in part is there truth behind this. Some eyes have witnessed such travesties that they cannot bear the possibility of observing something unwillingly that they can never unsee again. I have witnessed such events. I have experienced a somatic version of collective punishment in that my eyes have seen that which shouldn’t be observed, which lead to my mind becoming a prison for memories that I can never parole.

When I feel like I am being backed into a corner I do not initially take the warriors pose, I try and sink as deep into the shadow that I can. I want to become invisible. Yet, the other side is that I have been forced to be invisible. When my presence was garnered as too much I was removed from my family and relocated to my grandparents. My items were collected, and I had to choose essentials. I had to start learning what was important and critical for survival; I never knew how long the displacements would occur. These placements were often seen by my other relatives as special treatment that prevented my sibling and other cousins from access to my grandparents. What was never understood was that this felt like exile, and it felt like I was a refugee of war. A war that raged due to emotional immaturity from the adults in my life. All parties involved by their own definition were being collectively punished and they weren’t wrong.

I cut out access to others and from others because a few were making my life difficult. I had to take a step back and realize I was empowering them by removing myself completely. I will categorically state that I did all the right things. I ignored, I disengaged and eventually blocked them. This is not “a person” this is a collective of people with the same type of persona, which is that of someone who feels entitled to access. This is not my ego stating that I am worth such energy it’s their actions supporting my claims. As a person who is sensitive and influenced by their environment and the changes within them, moments of “blocking” can come in forms such as silencing my phone and physically denying access. What is not a “thing” is cloaking myself from these forms. One simply cannot reject energy by thinking they cannot be afflicted by it. A person can no more do that than stop the wind from blowing through their hair or to stop the Sun’s UV from penetrating their bodies. You can ignore it and with invisible vigor it can still penetrate your form, access areas internally and collectively wreak havoc on your body.

The two oldest core memories regarding collective punishment on a personal level happened at home and at school. The best examples of this were when my dad perceived an action as punishable and shouted, ” I am going to start whooping asses starting with the oldest first.” I am the oldest. It did not matter who was the actual culprit, it made his job easier as the enforcer to not have to do the work of figuring it out. So, in a sense I took on the role of the preventer to the point of punishing her before I could get in trouble for her actions. This became a form of abuse. I did not see it that way due to the fact that I knew my punishment would be harsher than hers if I did not intervene.

The second mentioning involving school was the same idea. A teacher in the position of power to educate actually takes the form of a propaganda when they can weaponize 30 kids against the one that “isn’t”…. That is forming the idea that every person is absolutely responsible regardless of maturity level or comprehensive capacity of ensuring their own safety and wellbeing by fixing others around them.

Person A, for whatever reason cannot DO THE THING, person in power uses their place of authority to weaponize 25 others to take care of the issue. Person A realizes immediately how much power as an individual they have. “It takes ALL of you to stop me.” This is a recipe creating foundational pieces to form things like narcissism, enabling and fixing later.

I do this when I feel scared and ungrounded. In some cases, its necessary and in other areas I just remove myself completely as a means of empowerment. When I feel that I cannot navigate a situation my initial knee jerk reaction is to remove myself before I am forced to evacuate. Because before I did not have the means and resources to negotiate with. I was a kid. Then I was a young adult with the coping skills of a kid. Then I became a woman who is capable of establishing her own resources, but the default processing capacity is still juvenile. The collective punishment presents as preventing long term sustainability in my finances and professions.

I am currently in the middle of housing crisis that has nothing to do with me and to no fault of my own. I am once again temporarily displaced. The timing for this is not ideal but nothing really that I have ever overcome had been in my favor timing wise. This is what putting in the work looks like. This is what changing years of programming looks like. This is sitting in the shit and remaining engaged, simply engaged and aware. I have no idea what is next regarding my housing situation. What I know is that I am trying to stay present and focused. My last EMT Basic class is August 12th my boards are the 17th, and I will be doing my clinicals with Gundersen. The Paramedic program starts September 2nd and by August 2025 I will be wearing my patch.

I need community and I am blessed to know so many people whom over the years I have formed long lasting relationships with. I cannot allow the few to dictate the whole. I need to learn to cut out those that need removed or acknowledge rotten fruit takes care of itself.

Today I start from where I am.

I read something on social media where some expert stated that the reason for boredom is that the brain finally feels safe, recognizes no immediate threat and has nothing to focus on. In the moment of boredom, it doesn’t have an assignment or purpose and will seek out stimuli. I know these moments personally and have been the victim of what happens when your brain starts to run amok. The tsunami that erupts internally and is forced out through actions and words that seem so foreign to the consistent observer. Many erratic behaving adults were unprotected children.

When I was a teenager, my bedroom was my safe haven. I grew up in a trailer where I had friends whose bathrooms were bigger than my bedroom. I shared my room with my younger sister until the level of violence between us required separating and adding an addition to accommodate our parents’ bedroom. I protected my space at all costs as there were moments were the refuge it gave me kept me safe. Those four walls over time absorbed pain, suffering, creativeness, sadness, art and so many other emotions that the materials themselves understood life. During the time I lost my best friend to a car accident those walls became a living journal of black Sharpie on faux wood paneling. Every inch that was accessible from squatting to tip toe was written on.

Each letter connecting a thought that I could not articulate from my mouth in conversation but could wield a pen like a conductor to a symphony, I found my way to communicate.

My parents were livid. We all knew that what I was capable of during emotional dysregulation was nothing they wanted to deal with. They did not want to see the byproduct of their own inability to parent a non-neurotypical person, that was not a thing in that era. I was not applying myself. I just needed to try harder. I was choosing the hard way. The consequences for not doing what I was told permitted the physical subjection I endured. Those moments at the receiving end of my dad’s hands and my mom’s words, molded a monster.

Even in those adolescent years I understood the need millennia before my time to establish ones claim to the space they occupied even on cave walls. It proved I was extant.

I was taking up space. I felt often that my presence was not welcome or wanted. I would counter this by either being in my room or outside until it was time for bed. I played sports as much as I could or was allowed to. My bike held more power than money because as long as I took care of it, it did not cost me a thing to use. It got me away when needed and returned when desired. I left my mark on everywhere I could. I had this deep fear of being forgotten or swallowed by the monster that was growing within. I was in my late teens when it really started to sink in that I was different from my peers in many ways.

I had behaviors that were not typical and coping skills that seemed out of place. The place those skills were created was an environment many were left out of. If more people would have been let in behind closed doors it would have made more sense. When the walls cannot be breached from either side, a level of psychological inbreeding takes place where you do not know it’s not ok, until you are observed doing that behavior in the world at large.

In February for only the 6th time in my life, I was moving into a place alone. This may seem irrelevant until you are allowed into the back story of how many places I have EVER lived, address wise. I have moved so many times that I cannot tell you street names but can recall most city and states. When I have to account for my whereabouts over even a 5-year span, it takes over an hour to document accurately. I have left something behind in every move and relocation. I am turning 46 in December and have lived in IA, TN, MT, WA, NC, MN, IL and WI. If you look at how long I was in each location and how many times I moved for whatever reason, I have occupied many dwellings. I lived a nomadic lifestyle.

My first place on my own was a trailer co-signed by my grandparents in the trailer court my parents were managers of. I was 18 or 19 and had no fucking idea what I was doing. I remember going with my grandma to help me get a checking account and direct deposit without any understanding of how it actually worked. A core memory of the only time my grandma actually said she was disappointed in me still lives to this day in my brain focused around a moment where I naively trusted a bank teller with cash. I was so excited to make my first trailer payment. I understood that because my grandparents also held the loan that if I fucked up, they got in trouble. My grandparents were held to a pontific level in body, mind and spirit for me, my grandma more than my grandad. I remember speeding from work to the East side of Des Moines to get to the bank before it closed. I walk into a lobby full of agitated Eastsider’s in various stances waiting in lines.

The banks systems were down, and they were doing everything by hand. I knew that I could not wait, or my payment would be late. So, I waited for my turn. I handed over my cash payment, gave her my account number, and she asked me if I wanted a receipt. I told her no. That decision absolutely altered me and haunts me to this day. The money never made it into the loan account. My payment did not post, was considered late and I was out the money. I went all weekend hella proud of myself until midweek, I get a call from my grandma. Not only did she express her disappointment she all but referred to me as ignorant for not knowing any better that I needed a receipt for proof of deposit. I know to my core that moment has absolutely fucked with my connection and ability to deal with money and finances. Of all the people on the planet to hear and feel that level of disdain from changed my brain.

It does not help that during this time frame I also had undiagnosed ADHD and CPTSD. I would observe others and even try to ask questions when I would see something pertaining to money and was often told I was being rude for prying as those were private and not discussed. The fact is I didn’t care how they made their money; I was trying to understand HOW to use it correctly. I would hear get a roommate split your bills and save money. I did that and got absolutely fucked over and realized I do not share space well with others. I was listening to so many people only getting the portion of the story that made them look like they had it figured out that I was left out of significant pieces of where a few of them were living off of credit cards and pay day loans. A habit I would later pick up.

At no point in any of those years did painting my walls take a priority. So when I found myself divorced for the second time and moving into my own place, I actually refused to do anything other than clean it. With my second wife, I bought the house, and even then, we did not paint the walls because she was too frugal too. We spent years in that home arguing over upkeep and maintenance; even the trailer court kid in me knew better. When she was forced to move due to her actions that subsequently lead to our divorce, two very big things happened, I switched bedrooms and painted the walls. While knowing that I was not going to be allowed to stay there. It was an act of defiance.

The apartment I now live in is has a very seeded and tumultuous past occupants wise. As an empathetic and intuitive person, I could feel the walls were oozing like a festered wound. I scrubbed them and cleaned them, but I still refused to paint them. This time the defiance laid in the refusal to accept that I was alone again. I did not want to be in this space. I did not want to claim it, and all this was temporary. Because the deeper wound and reality was, I going to be forced to roommate with the monster again.

I never stayed long enough anywhere to see the fruits of my labor manifest. I had to accept my monster was unresolved, untrained, unkept, unloved and the undesired parts of myself that I could avoid as long as I was coupled. I never actually dealt with any part that conceived her. I simply engaged in others, avoided and moved on. She too had been spending her alone time “painting walls”.

It came through via hair changes, tattoos, piercings, words, art, actions, lovers, decisions and many other forms. I say this with deep resounding astonishment, how any of this did not establish alcoholism or a drug addiction is beyond me as I had access to ANY of it. Yet in a whisper it was she that suggested we paint these walls, together this time. The colors are of blue hues and their names are Navigation and Freedom Found, they are bold as are we. We are both a work of art and a living installment. I don’t know what is next, but I have a new awareness of self that is not superficial. From there anything new is possible.

It’s 3:41 am and my Sunday. My corporate America work week is 7-4 Friday, 7-7 Saturday & Sunday, and Monday 7-4; all closed office holidays are mandatory as well. I get three days that consist of working with clients and personal time. I fell asleep watching Expedition Unknown and woke up to a feeling of loneliness at 1:43 am. I try to make an attempt to keep to an organic non-drug induced sleep cycle. If you have been on the journey with me long enough it is known inconsistent sleep is one of my constants. I know where the root of the issue is planted, and I have attempted in various forms to address it. Ironically these patterns have led me to mistakenly believe that I am capable of shift differentials in job form, negative ghost rider. If I have to do an overnight my brain winds up in a toddler level tantrum and true to form, I will begrudgingly do the things but with absolute annihilation to self later. My brain hits a level of “non sanctioned activities”. So, waking up briefly to the sound of gentle Spring rain rapping my window was not the non-sanctioned activity that my brain stuck to and hyper fixated on, it was the thought of why again and now? Once I was aware enough, I realized this was manifesting as loneliness. Even though I share my space and life with Palo, my German Shepherd, and very few humans; most of the time I am alone. I have been on the receiving end of insinuations that I must be out and about with “them” or “others” which is why it appears that I am unavailable or not engaging in conversations or activities. The fact is I am more than likely home alone and mourning. I feel like I have been in a perpetual state of mourning on some level my entire existence.

There is a level of uncomfortableness about mourning as it indicates there is a disconnect and a disturbance that feels out of one’s hands. Mourning looks different on everyone. It can come across as an expression or an aesthetic. It is a tool when used properly and a weapon when wielded to condemn. Though by definition its focused on a person in physical form, we forget that we can mourn in spiritual and mind form as well. We do not get extended bereavement leave when our soul or identity dies. We still societally do not accept that these are just as significant as our flesh form. Simply stated to mourn is to acknowledge loss and over the last 4 years my losses have been significant, yet not a single funeral attended, a single eulogy uttered, or a bouquet sent. I never recognize this, and it had to be pointed out to me by someone I trust. “You have experienced a lot of loss in the last 9 months let alone over the last few years……..” I have been detached and late to my own funeral. I have buried relationships and people en masse over the last few months.

Mourning requires a moment of silence for the departed equally balanced by celebrating the life that was. We are not allowed the time nor space to do this properly any longer. I have not stayed anywhere long enough to place mementos on places where something of me died. I have buried a part of me in North Carolina, Washington, Minnesota, Iowa, Tennessee, Montana, and now Wisconsin. I have said numerous times that I never return where I have been. I always saw this on a physical plane and nothing less yet here I am back in La Crosse, Wisconsin. I seek guidance often from the Rabbi out of Rochester, MN. When I shared this, she stated, “The woman who left La Crosse was not the same woman who returned. You buried her in Iowa.”

It took days for that to really sink into a thinking space. Between mid-September and January 2024, I had left La Crosse, ended a multi-year friendship/ business arrangement, moved “home to Des Moines”, finalized my divorce, started a new job back in corporate America, found myself back in a toxic home life, was informed my first ex-wife succumbed to brain cancer, accepted an alternative outcome of relocating to Galena, IL, discovered that people are fake, ended an almost decades long “friendship”, found someone that divinity placed on my path, dissolved sexual relationships that were feeding a wounded version of myself, preparing to give up Palo and sleep in my car, to being reach out to from people that showed up without being asked to, removing myself from spiritual aspects of my abilities and by February I was moving into my “own place.” I don’t care to feel any of this shit right now. I am absolutely raw, unfiltered, exposed and in battle mode.

May 1st is my 3-month anniversary of being in my apartment and in two weeks I start my fast tracked EMT program which ends in August. I sit here internalizing and mulling over EVERY encounter I have had since my separation and subsequent divorce. I am fraught with the repeating patterns at someone else’s expense. I find myself slamming into ghosts of my former self yet unable to recognize myself in the mirror. I am haunted by memories and moments that no amount of concrete will sink into the abyss. It’s like the rainbow slick of oil in a parking lot, noticeable and on the surface, when shown in the right lighting. Has it ALL been worth it? Have I truly burned so many bridges that I am stranded and unable to move forward? Do I blow up the bridges I am currently occupying to prove I can swim? Do I self-isolate to be found or to truly recover like I claim? Why do I have to suffer personally to be so successful professionally? Am I meant to be partnered with again?

I have experienced more purging since February on a personal level than I have in my life’s entirety. I know this means I am leveling up which is why I put the immediate breaks on some things professionally. I have spent decades in the realm of mysticism, healing and spiritualism. My breaking point came to a head when a reading was done regarding my “person” and then a reading for them was done, and it conveyed something altogether different. It absolutely made me realize that if the integrity to a tool like tarot can be manipulated than it’s been compromised, and my level of integrity will not allow me to continue to use that tool. It absolutely changed the trajectory and possible outcome of that relationship. I felt abandoned by spirit at a time when I needed it most. Yet, after this falling out, I was getting clear signs of something more. A mourning dove landed on my inside front porch who had a mate waiting on the stoop for me to help the other one out. Ducks in pairs flying over my house or making themselves known when I am near the marina. This woman helped me take off the rose-colored glasses and start identifying people according to how they show up for me. I am absolutely struggling with old thought processes and patterns regarding “statuses” and definitions of relationships. What this finally boiled down to was boundaries, expectations and access.

I have experienced behaviors that were a key component of dead Lisa’s existence. They were put in place for a reason. Yet, they are now being triggered due to recognizing that I have only been avoiding and detaching; not truly dealing with the trauma. Now I feel guilty because I am not sure how much damage has been caused. How much is permanent? Is recovery possible or is all hopes of reconciliation dead? Should some things be resurrected??

I wanted to believe in my soul that returning to Des Moines after so many years and so much individual change that it would be different. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I wanted to believe the words of coming from those individuals that I valued so much I never questioned their intentions. My expectations have always been transparent, and my access was unlimited. I truly never had those moments where I thought to myself, see what I did for you?” Yet, I found myself over the years on the receiving end of that through words and actions. I am not perfect and never claimed to be. I am kindly reminded often that I am human. I absolutely curl my lip up to this and scowl. Pfffttt. Denying that part of me as been a disassociation on its own. If I capable of doing what I can for others, it’s reasonable to think I am extended the same level of services. I am not. That is where my detaching from my meat suit started. As much as my body has been involved in non-consenting activities its love language is still touch. Touch is how it heals itself and this is where I find myself currently struggling. I am finally recognizing it’s not the quantity of touch it’s the quality, but the caveat also plays into how often am I healing others etc.? How often is it in healer mode? When it malfunctions it’s at a grand level. It does nothing mediocre or half ass.
It has been documented multiple times where I am having experiences that are not mine personally but are being played out in my body. Most of the time it’s a loved one, an intimate partner or even a new client that I have never been introduced to. Take that on a bigger scale where my body is also trauma trained outside of my abilities. I state this because I may have to start mourning the idea of normal. Because regardless of beliefs that is my reality. Normal includes the idea of coupling and co-habitating but I am not willing to hurt anyone else in the process of figuring this all out. I am absolutely difficult to be around and hard to love.

I try to be as transparent as possible for the sake of character and commitment to helping others. I am however at a point where I need to stop allowing just anyone in on every level. I don’t know how to be this woman right now let alone all the other filters and perspectives hung on me. I fuck up, and again, I never do anything lite. It’s full throttle. I want to be in love, but I am not sure after so much damage, I am not sure I am capable of that. I have shown myself the love that has been shown to me and its superficial tied to material objects, disposable and comes with contingencies. I do not know grace or forgiveness nor how to extend those as defined.

My life from every viewable angle does not display what I had imagined. I need to sit where I no longer fit so I can once and for all break the mold that made me. The deeper realization is I might not like the woman at the core of all this to no fault of her own. I can no longer deny that I am the maker of the webs I weave. I have always held myself accountable, but have I always put in the work that makes actual changes and creates solutions? Perhaps I have always known that there was someone else to fall back on good, bad or indifferent. It’s like self-administering a shot or covid swab you want to believe that you are digging deep enough, sometimes self-awareness just isn’t enough.

This self-work does not make you weak and should never been done alone regardless of a person’s credentials and expertise. The weaker person was the one who never did the work themselves and chose instead to pass it forward.

National Hotline for Mental Health Crises and Suicide Prevention | NAMI

Talk To Someone Now – 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (988lifeline.org)

If we are taught of eras in our collective history, with names like modern and classical; we are in the era of corrosive exploitation. By definition, corrosion is the gnawing away at something and exploitation is the action of making use of or benefitting from resources. We think of corrosives as being substances that when contact is made with something it eats away at. Taking acid to any material supplies us with instant gratification of its power to eat away a surface quickly. Then there is something like rust that takes something over slowly but still with dire consequences. I have come to realize that people can have these qualities as well and that makes that type of person very dangerous as a whole. Unlike corrosive substances that are labeled and can be easily learned and identified; when people come with the same level of corrosiveness there is not a warning label.

When things like acid or rust are introduced to something, in the first case its immediately recognized that change is taking place. Yet, when we think about the latter, we recognize that the change is over time. When people do this, we just don’t give their actions much thought. The blame is placed on the person afflicted not the person afflicting. It’s the same notion that you are guilty until your innocence can be proven. The way the laws and standards are spoken of or written are not how they are applied in real life situations. A corrosive person can go about their business contaminating their very surroundings with zero accountability. They then mix and pass that corrosiveness on not recognizing their role in this cyclical behavior. Where those traits start to personify into things, we do recognize like narcissism, which we are so quick to label. The person creates chaos in their surroundings and interactions leaving others to deal with the aftermath of their presence. In people form, this appears as drop ins. A drop of them in a space leaves the space altered and unkept.

They utilize and exploit what access they have to people and spaces without any regard to what their presence is doing long term. They treat homes like “pay to stay” hotels with zero interest in sustaining the future of the dwelling, if it’s not your home it will be someone else’s.

The moment rules or expectations are applied they find ways to skirt them by stating they don’t contribute to the whole because they are not there often enough to “really make that much difference.” If these behaviors are identified early enough and redirected there is hope for recovery. If these behaviors are condoned and enabled, they structurally become part of the person. These adaptations then become transferable, and the cycle continues. When these adaptations transfer to a new generation they are often accompanied by other cyclical behaviors. Why does this all even matter? There are people running around like pig pen from Charlie Brown. The biggest issue is they are leaving more behind than just dust. They have the capacity in a small amount of time to permanently disassemble an environment. Please understand these are not critical thinking behaviors that are disassembling the patriarchy or colonization for example. They are destroying ANY form of structure that doesn’t fit into their trauma code state of mind with zero accountability or concern of the outcome. There is not a direct focus to their chaos they will dumbfoundedly blow up the very bridge they are standing on.

If these behaviors are not redirected and permitted to develop to their fullest potential, they become a cornerstone to the persons very existence. Nothing less than spiritual, emotional, physical and psychological impacts make them take notice. Like a tick that goes unnoticed even when burrowing into your skin, by the time others notice the damage has already been done. As much as this feels like a PSA for a venereal disease and how not to catch it, its actually about a characteristic in people that have very lasting effects on those they come in contact with. It becomes way more complex when they end up being family members. We can yell, “stranger danger” all day and lock out those we deem not safe to coexist with. However, it is much more complicated when those doing the most damage is family. Within a single generation of their existence can annihilate any resemblance of structure, accountability or boundaries.

Any attempt in the adult stage to rehabilitate will lead to immediate resistance. If this person’s history includes cyclical trauma and trauma bonds, the likeliness of it being multi-generational is very high and therefore the “outsider” will become the target. The outsider is anyone whose impeding on the person’s ability to stay the course of abusiveness. They will appear remorseful and understanding, that is not what is happening, they are trying to go unnoticed. They are attempting to redirect away from themselves. If they are caught up in a situation, they created that involves multiple players that become aware of the situation, they will deflect. They will avoid and lurk back into the corners hoping that everything will blow over. They will use manipulative tactics to regain control of their perceived desired outcome.

If they have children, they will use these kids as pawn’s. They will dangle them around their other family members in order to appear harmless to anyone looking in. If a person has to convince you or speak about being harmless, they are in fact not harmless. There is conscious choice behind these behaviors which makes them absolutely difficult to navigate. The people with these traits are noticeable in that they have online presence but rarely seen with others in public settings. They speak of others in a blanket statement that include, “they agree with me, there are others that feel the same way” and “I am not the only one”.

They have loyalty only to their delusions. They cannot maintain healthy long-term relationships. If any part of the illusion they are attempting to achieve or sustain is skirted, even if it’s dangerous or not, they absolutely lose their composure. They devolve and attempt to overthrow any resemblance of structure. They require attention on their terms. They are not capable of equal reciprocity. When they unravel, they are super-sized toddlers. There is no negotiating with them.

These types of behaviors are flourishing like an invasive species. You are disposable and interchangeable. They require a host, but that host can vary. They are parasitic on every level. At the end their comfort is the only thing that matters to them. You don’t matter to them and never will. The only way to starve them is to quickly identify them and remove yourself from their grasp. If you were to hold your breathe for the amount of time it would take them to own up to or understand their role in the constant “shit” that happens to them, you would pass out. They will never accept accountability for their role or actions because they justify their behaviors because of perceived past misgivings. This is a disease with no cure.

“You are like the Swiss Army Knife of the spiritual realm.” I was once compared to tool/weapon that I wished to own as a kid. I did not want some thrift store knock off, I wanted the REAL one. The one that was made by the Swiss Army. I was a young girl who loved to poke, stab, explore and dig and having one would make me invincible. I would be the girl version of Indiana Jones. I didn’t need no stink’n whip, I had a Swiss Army knife. I would look for used ones at garage sales, thrift stores and flea markets. I found many knockoffs but never the real deal. Then one day with my dad out thrifting, I found one. The white cross across, the blood red, BINGO, the real deal.

I picked it up and felt its weight in my hand and just knew I had found the holy grail. It wasn’t rusted and as I opened each sharp part, there was not a broken tip to be seen. It was perfect. I wanted it. I had allowance money in my pocket. If I was with my mom, she would absolutely not allow me to get it, but I was with my dad. I was only short about 5 bucks. I sought out my dad and as I was multi-tasking, I noticed that there was a port in the upper edge of the knife that was empty. I could not figure out what would be significant yet small enough to fit there more so why isn’t it there any longer. Everything in a Swiss Army life mattered for life and death situations. I found my dad and was utterly crushed when he told me I was not old enough for a pocketknife yet and my mom would absolutely have his ass if he bought it. I asked if he knew what went inside the empty spot and he said, “nothing.” I knew it wasn’t nothing. I had never handled a new one to know and at this point I might never discover the truth.

It was not until my ADHD based obsession with Swiss Army knives had been replaced with something else that I got my answer in early adulthood. The spot was for a removable toothpick. A toothpick? A pointy piece of plastic? That is going to save your life in the Swiss Alps or wilderness, a toothpick? The more I thought about how many I had come across scavenging as a kid, where the toothpick was missing. One cannot appreciate a toothpick until you absolutely NEED a toothpick. It’s like you just assume one will manifest in that exact moment where your ribeye or broccoli is wedged nice and tight between your teeth. You are rummaging through every drawer, cupboard, glovebox or center console in your car finding anything that will release the debris. You hit a level of desperation that a dentist would cringe at by finding anything that will fit into the space.

The realization is that the Swiss Army knife is still functional even without the toothpick. It can do other jobs of importance and significance it does not take away the sum of the whole. The toothpick is simply stored in the space that’s been designated its “spot”. That does not mean you cannot put it in a pocket, and it is still fully functional. It does not have to put back in order to be what it is. It is still a toothpick even when it’s not being used as such.

As a practitioner, I have been blessed to be in spaces that were solely mine and shared spaces with others. The space and location did not factor into my actual purpose or the work that was performed. It’s like saying you cannot pray without a church, or you cannot find redemption outside of a holy space. This is about finding reverence in the smallest of things, and knowing the some of the most powerful things are things we cannot even see with our naked eyes.

The toothpick has a purpose and so do you.

pat·tern

[ˈpadərn]

NOUN

patterns (plural noun)

1. a repeated decorative design:“a neat blue herringbone pattern”SIMILAR:designdecorationmotifmarking
2. a model or design used as a guide in needlework and other crafts:“make a pattern for the zigzag edge”SIMILAR:samplespecimenswatch

VERB

patterns (third person present)

1. decorate with a repeated design:“he was sitting on a soft carpet patterned in rich colors” · “the boxes are patterned with black and white chevrons”
2. give a regular or intelligible form to:“the brain not only receives information, but interprets and patterns it”SIMILAR:shapeinfluenceformmodelfashion

I saw the similarities after the fact. As a person who is consistently in a state of feeling and experiencing the world around me, via emotions, I am terrified. I push the utter definition of being terrified to the pit of my gut, inhale and hold that single breath until my lungs burn. My ego says, “You are back where you started”. As my brain fires off alarms that I need to exhale and repeat, my spirit says, “She’s being reborn”. If that statement stands true than this is not a repeated pattern of exactness but a break in the mold. The verging of past and present and landing on the tracks that move me forward. My model may look the same with a bit of wear and tear from usage, yet my upgrades are immeasurable. The model that is me, was built with a lifetime warranty into a society that doesn’t understand sustainability. There is not a sense of urgency of what moments may come because we have adapted a nanosecond lifestyle. Some of us were programmed differently for the moment where our understanding of life and its possibilities needed to be remembered. Our user manuals were tossed with the box and packaging without ever even breaking the spine.

For me, patterns are decorative designs, that mesmerize my mind and keep my ADHD brain busy deciphering what may or may not be, until it gets bored. While walking through the chiropractic office in La Crosse where I worked, before the office opened, a feeling started lurching into my throat. I stopped midway through and instead of gulping it back down, I let it surface. If “awe fuck”, had a tangible sensation that sent up so much stomach acid that a whole bottle of antacids was required, that was what I was experiencing. A leather sofa used for patients is where I slowly sat for a moment to reflect. I felt immediate defeat, I felt like I was actually aspirating on air. I always arrived significantly earlier than anyone else and knew that I had “time” to sit in authenticity with this revelation. I had done the same exact thing after leaving my first wife.

Prior to my bariatric surgery, the only DDs in my life were my cup size, now it accounts for being divorced twice. My first ex-wife and I returned to the Midwest after living in North Carolina. There is a back story that is not significant right now. We ended up in Rochester with longtime friends of hers. She was a teacher that was starting the new school year in Rochester Public Schools. I was recovering from an extensive back surgery and ready to continue my massage career. Through a serendipitous moment, I found myself in a town called Dodge Center and after negotiations, I landed a space in a salon. My massage room was literally the room under a staircase, think Harry Potter. It could barely fit my table and my persons. I made it work. In another twilight zone moment, I was introduced to a chiropractor who was looking for a massage therapist in St. Charles, MN. What I did not realize was that while I was making all these moves, I was missing significant patterns in my marriage and the people in my circle. We landed in Rochester by the end of August by the week of Christmas I was heading to Des Moines alone for Christmas and would be returning to my apartment that I signed a lease for above the chiropractic clinic I worked out of. My boss was also my landlord. In addition, I still had my location in Dodge Center as well. By the first of the year, I was separated and in the process of a divorce.

As I zoomed my focus back to the then and now moment in La Crosse it was clear that I was repeating history. Yes, I was different with different resources, spouse, location etc. but the model number matched up. I gave myself a moment to let it sink in and recognize that all the signs were there that things were not as they seemed. This space of healing and wellness was the water cooler where my professional and personal life collided daily. As a practitioner I was adapting to being back amongst the public while I worked. As a person I was trying to keep my insides from spilling out and my outsides from “appearing” mean and unapproachable. I just wanted to do my work, under the terms agreed upon and make it through my last divorce. I had already sold the home I built and had been commuting back and forth between Lansing and La Crosse. My days were getting longer and sleep shorter. I was malfunctioning and worried my body would start to revolt. I was not that many months out from double knee replacements and my bariatric surgery. I know firsthand what stress does physiologically to a person. After decades of being in constant pain that part of my life had been permanently altered in my favor. There was nothing not even love that was going to change that. I was choosing me. I didn’t know which version I was saving but I knew I had to be relentless. I deserved the same investments I had been shelling out for years. Against my better judgement and with trauma man handling my emotions, I signed a lease. My employer was now also my landlord. I hold on to money like a strainer holds on to liquids. Money is a language that is foreign to me. I know this so whenever possible I place others in that role. 99% of the time I get fucked and burned. In business I would hire someone to help me. In relationships my partner would take on that role. In a nutshell, I am either sitting on a load of assets or zero assets exist. I can blame it on my ADHD, culture, lifestyle, environment etc. it doesn’t matter, I am still the responsible party.

As I sat on the leather sofa and the clocked ticked away, I would be losing my silence to arrival of both colleagues very soon. This epiphany was at my expense and was starting to explain the changes in the mood, relationship and energy of the environment. I had ignored spirits directive that my time in the area was coming to an end. I was trying everything to nail down long-term goals so that I could stay. I was drowning emotionally and financially. I had attempted to deal with my credit card debt on my own and absolutely wasted a significant amount of money. I was putting pieces into place that started resembling a drunk’n game of Jenga. I was not being stoic and avoiding asking for help, the outlets I was using were being criticized.

I saw certain patterns like choosing to fuck my way through my 2nd divorce much like I did my first one. It was a distraction, and I was mindful enough to stay safe with one exception. I used my other avenues like staying active and engaged with friends to find peace and balance. Palo was my main focus, and I was paying out the nose to keep us together in a safe space. I cannot convey enough that I will live out of my car before I get rid of him for something he has zero control over. The bells on the door entering the office ring and I have to wrap up my moment, check myself and carry on.

At that moment I wanted nothing more than NOT feel and recognize what I had done. Things were unraveling and literally falling apart. If my divorce was not caused by what it was it would have been just a woman dealing with a divorce, not the healing that was needed physically and emotionally as well. It’s never that simple. I was mourning one issue after another personally and professionally. I did not realize how much space I was holding until I couldn’t any longer. When shit hit the fan in the office it was evident that I had missed some patterns. Patterns repeated by the same person are essentially a significant fiber of their character. I had to make some tough decisions.

The evening after my office epiphany I took Palo for a drive. I deserved to recognize that I have positive patterns as well. I honestly would not be alive if all I ever did was repeat stupidity. I made myself acknowledge how this time around I figure it out sooner so that there won’t be a next timed. The decision to step away from everything I knew to relocate back to an environment that I swore to the higher powers that be I’d never return to was humbling not humiliating. I am not starting over. What I am not doing is allowing others to bully, violate, or force me to break my boundaries. Those are patterns that are worth repeating.

I own the duality that makes me who I am. I am responsible for my perspective and perception of the world around me. By allowing others to dictate any part of this I give them power and permission to treat me as they see fit. My empowerment comes in knowing that I can but not needing to but more so in recognizing when I need to take a step back and be better. I will lean into every edge, curve and version of me with openness. If patterns represent replication, it is up to me to determine what I will allow to repeat or not.