Category Archives: Life

I painted my nails this morning, a seemingly small thing. But I cannot remember the last time I painted them. Perhaps we still had snow on the ground from last winter. The parallel of our early snow is not lost on me.

My nails are short, which makes the manicure imperfect. It’s hard to make nails this short and uneven look good, but painting them feels like an accomplishment nonetheless. I’m going to call it a win because when I am anxious or otherwise struggling, my nails are often the first things to go. When everything seems pointless, I am not going to take the time and effort it requires to paint my nails without butchering them.

So when I’m dealing with family drama, health concerns, poor pet behavior, frustrating clients, or trying to pay my bills like a functioning adult, nail polish falls to the wayside. After all, it’s such a trivial thing. It’s more important to vacuum or do the dishes.

But my naked nails break so much more easily. They become weak and uneven, and every time I look at this I feel frustrated that I haven’t been able to keep up with such a trivial thing. What’s more, I worry that others will see them and similarly judge me, perhaps not because they are judgmental but because I have similar thoughts about others’ appearances. I am hard on others, harder on myself.

On the other hand, I cannot help but wonder if people might take note of my nails, which have been naked for much of the year and make note of my struggle. They are, after all, a gauge of my mental health. It’s something I have not been able to forget over the last few years, but perhaps no one else has noticed.

I noticed, however. I also noticed that things have been on the upswing. This year started more positive. It felt like a fresh start. And while COVID and several injuries have added some stress, the trend of my mental state has generally been positive. I legitimately feel better than I have in a few years, and sometimes thoughts to that extent pop into my mind. I stop and notice that I’m enjoying myself. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed that, either. But I have.

Yet, I am still brought down by the state of my nails. Sadly because my nails break so easily, it doesn’t feel worth the effort to paint them when they’re short. That’s why they’ve remained naked aside from some inconsistent clear polish this year. I have to convince myself that it’s worth doing, anyway, that starting now will offer some protection and perhaps help them grow out. It’s like the awkward stage bangs go through when you’re growing them out.

And I was finally able to convince myself of that today after considering it for the last few weeks. To be honest, it feels like a bit of a waste to pick a pricier polish as I did, but I wanted to motivate myself to paint my nails, and I did. I did an okay job, even though it’s hard to keep them neat when they’re so short. I even bought and used a cuticle pusher. The process took a bit of time. I forgot how long it takes for the polish to dry.

But dry it did. They’re painted. I set a goal and achieved it, even if it took much longer than I would have liked. And maybe I won’t keep up with it long enough for my nails to grow a bit more so I can shed that silly sense of shame. But, for today, I feel a bit better. And maybe I will tomorrow, too.

Today’s episode is sponsored by a weird ‘gentleman’ who, from the looks of him, likely has a complex similar to that of George Costanza. It is, of course, not kind to judge someone for their looks and perhaps hypocritical of me given that he went on a tirade about how “fucking ugly” I was, but those same comments don’t motivate me to be an especially good person in response.

The length of this man’s tirade may have been a bit “Extra”, but the sentiments or the fact that it occurred at all are not entirely surprising. It may be the first time this year that someone has yelled at me through their open car window, but this is mostly due to my own activities. Today is the first day in a while that I’ve head into busier parts of town, mostly due to the fact that I’ve achieved an average six miles a day this week, many of those miles spent climbing hills. Today I aimed to complete my goals with another six, cooler weather and wind be damned, but stayed on flat land to appease my griping muscles.

But that people yell out their car windows or from the side of the street is nothing new. They honk, they rev their engines. They make suggestive comments or whistle. Once or twice they tried to trap me with their vehicles. On the other hand, they yell about my appearance and how it is not good enough for them, as if that should matter to me or determine my value as a person. I am too ugly and too fat, usually. I may be climbing hills in the middle of humid summer and my very existence in their line of sight has caused them enough grief to comment, to yell.

In fact, I look forward to those days when the temperature falls below freezing because the sidewalks and street will be cleared, everyone snug inside while I am still walking and bettering myself. It’s part of the same reason why I enjoy walks in the dead of night, as long as I can avoid the drunks around bar close. It’s serene, and disturbances are few and far between.

But I shouldn’t have to change my activities to avoid these negative experiences. My experience, and most others’, indicates that while it’s not only men who do these things, it is the men who participate in these activities with the most menace and the men who are the most likely to do us harm. I haven’t been physically harmed by these people, but that’s not the point, is it? Even if I were offensive to look at, do I not deserve a little dignity? Can people not just leave me the fuck alone?

That’s what gets to me, really. I see people of all sorts of natures, yet never take it upon myself to disturb them by yelling obscenities and insults. I certainly don’t think it’s up to other people to please my sensibilities. I suspect I wrote some similar words last year, so I guess that some things haven’t changed. I do think that are fewer comments than there were when I was younger, so that’s something.

But I’m torn from my thoughts I’m reminded how fucking weird (read: rude) people (read: men) can be when I’m out for a walk and not even compensated with the grim satisfaction of watching those fuckers drive their cars into a lightpost.

It is a grey day, the first after a stretch of sunny days. Waking up to the gloom and chill is a harsh reality to face after so many days of light, warmth, and melting snow. The world was just beginning to reveal itself again, and my spirits were lifted with it.

That is not so today. My spirits are overcast, just like the skies.

And while I could argue that my mood simply reflects the weather, it’s more than that.

Today is a grey day, but it is also the day that Elizabeth Warren has resigned as a democratic candidate for president.

This, too, has lowered my spirits.

Warren was my candidate, a progressive with a flawed past. But that past showed an ability to learn better and do better. Those who would critique her would focus on her imperfections and not her growth. Even when reading those accounts, however, I would Elizabeth Warren relatable. I, too, have been wrong in the past, have become aware of my mistakes, and have tried to do better. In that way, we don’t seem so different.

There is another way in which I relate to Warren: we are both women. I have long since stopped listening to people who tell me not to vote for candidates on the basis of similarities such as gender or skill color.

Furthermore, I know it matters when a woman is added to the table, whether that be in the boardroom or the Oval Office. It brings much-needed diversity. When you invite a woman, a person of color, a disabled person, a queer, or trans person to the table, you are inviting their life experience, an experience that 99% of the previous white, Christian, able-bodied, straight presidents have lacked. A person from a different background becomes the desirable 1%.

We know that this diversity helps companies, and I see why it should do no less for our country.

Of course, I am not opposed to our other progressive candidate. I have even voted for him before. The problem lies not in his politics but his identity, much of which is shared with those 99-percenters.

I will vote for Bernie again, and I will do so with only a little chagrin. He was my second choice, after all.

However, he wasn’t my first choice. And because of the staggered primary voting schedule in this country — just one of many issues I have with the process — I will have to vote for Bernie. Warren has left the race, and I hadn’t even gotten a chance to vote for her in my state’s primary.

So, yes, I am disheartened. And worried. I worry not just because I am unsure if Bernie can beat Biden let alone trump. I worry that every time a woman runs from president and “fails,” we are that much further from having a president whose life experience in any way matches mine. I worry still that even if we do elect a woman president, the misogynists will come out in full force after her term and vote for a sexist pig to lead our country, much like the racists did after Obama’s two terms.

I wish I could not worry, even while knowing how much privilege that involves. I am not that privileged, however. I do worry. I care.

I care enough to write a blog post about Elizabeth Warren dropping out of the presidential race when I have not even opened a tab to discuss my own personal life.

But therein lies the crux of the issue. The political is personal. Lke I recently posted on Facebook, it always has been, and I do not see it changing in my lifetime.

This is about Elizabetha, but it’s also about Amy, Kirsten, Hillary, and Victoria god-damned Woodhull, all women who were brave enough to run for president yet were not perfect enough to be seen as electable. As if all the men who have successfully made it into office were perfect.

It is about all the women who were laughed out of sight before they could throw their hats into the ring.

And, yes, it is about me, an American woman. So, of course, it makes me worry, but it also makes me angry.

Perhaps if more people were angry, the detractors could no longer use that as a reason why a woman is “unelectable.” Perhaps a woman younger than I would not have to feel worry and anger like I do now. Perhaps a newly-minted voter, like my sister will soon be, will be able to live in a world where a woman is electable as President of the United States and know she is not just living in a man’s world, a world that makes so many days gloomy in spite of the sun shining brightly.

I worry, but I also hope.

A is for anxiety.

Anxiety manifests as anger and aloofness and alarming sadness.

(A is also for alliteration)

Anxiety is to be expected when your cat is dying, your bank account is empty, your credit card won’t work, and your debit card has been stolen.

But one of the worst things about anxiety is how it makes you feel bad for being anxious. Why should you feel so bad when other people could handle this better, perhaps in stride?

When you feel bad about feeling anxious, you don’t want to let people know that you’re experiencing anxiety. By the time I’ve made it to sadness, I’ve found myself so overcome by anxiety that I cannot hide it, even if I want to. If you see it, I’ve been struggling for a while and I didn’t want to or couldn’t reach out. It comes out because if it doesn’t, it feels like I will burst. Keeping it inside prevents me from eating, sleepy, and certainly thinking clearly.

Anxiety is not helped by those who tell you to relax or repeat platitudes like “It will all be okay,” especially when the issues are guaranteed to have a negative ending. Anxiety eases with time, with medication, with meditation, with a good sleep, with the resolution or lessening of those problems. And while just getting it out doesn’t necessary decrease anxiety, it’s easier to bear the load with a few shoulders to help.

Three weeks ago, I took Phantom into the vet because he was sick. I received a surprising diagnosis, one that was fatal and one that, fortunately, has been somewhat reduced. He may not longer be on death’s door, but he’s still sick. I still have to administer medicine. And while I don’t have to watch his every move because this might be ‘it,’ the moment that I need to humanely end his life, it’s hard not to.

I spent that first week basically unable to do anything — eat, sleep, work, breathe. The anxiety and stress was oppressively heavy. Anyone who talked to or saw me was witness to that. And while things are no longer as dire, it feels as though the wool has been lifted from my eyes. There’s something wrong in my life that I am now painfully aware of, and I can’t forget it. Even if I could, I need to be alert for Phantom’s sake.

Of course, anyone might be a little stressed over this, but I’m already anxious to begin with. And that something so small as a the health of a pet has me spiraling so far downward makes me feel incompetent, like a failure. Every time Phantom refuses a pill, I wonder why I can’t be better at such a small thing.

I’ve fill a lot of the last three weeks with TV shows, just some noise to keep on in the background. There’s not much else to do when the weather has me trapped inside.

But I can’t use this time productively. It takes me longer to get around to do chores or run errands. My Christmas tree is still up. Laundry has piled up on my bed. All of my blogs are forgotten. I’ve forgotten about games that need to be finished. I’ve managed to finish a single book, but many others have languished. My kitchen table has accumulated an embarrassing amount of mail, trash, and empty shopping bags.

I could invite people over to while away some of the time — if only I wasn’t so ashamed of the state of my apartment.

And maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’s in my head. Maybe it’s just my anxiety making me feel like everything is worse than it is, you know, the way it does. But that’s one more thing to feel bad about.

Perhaps in time I’ll forget about some of the things that are bothering me just like I occasionally forget about my own mortality and impending death. The feeling of despair will only wash over me and settle in the pit of my stomach briefly before I am able to push it back, to deny that it bothers me.

Or maybe I need a better coping mechanism to deal with life.