I’ve been meaning to write this post since last year, when I went through each and every post on my blog since 2020. My motivation was partly curiosity, vanity–to remove anything I don’t want any the Internet any longer–and practical–to free up space and remove dead links. During the process, I deleted about half of my 1200 posts, so I accomplished the latter two goals with ease. I left up some posts but changed some pretty cringeworthy internet lingo du jour.

As for my curiosity, I was pleasantly surprised. I was expecting mostly site updates–and there were plenty of those–and a lot of not-always-teenaged angst, depression, and anxiety. So much of my life felt so very dark for a long time. And while I saw some posts of that type, there were far fewer than I expected. Maybe I hadn’t written during some of those tough times. Perhaps my memory is clouded by my strong feelings and things were better than they felt.

At the very least, I was surprised by the sheer quantity of posts mentioning–or speaking to (Hi Ben!)–my friends. And so many of those people are still in my life. I was–and am–so very loved, and I feel incredibly grateful for that. I’ve known many of my close friends for over two decades, and I realize how uncommon this is and how lucky I am. I especially felt grateful after my divorce, when I returned home to so many open arms, even from those who rightfully had reasons to feel frustrated with me. I had a new lease of life and was the best version of Cole I ever had been, and I felt like my loved ones had stuck by me through the times when I was at my worst. Perhaps I was more redeemable than I had realized.

I had a similar feeling while going through my blog posts. As a person in my mid-thirties, I felt sympathy and compassion for the younger person who wrote those words, not (secondhand) embarrassment. It was a much-needed reminder during a difficult time in my life that I had value, so much that people have remained in my life for over 20 years. I wrote about parties with Ashley, who I recently shopped and hiked with, and road trips with Oli, who sends me a message about how much they miss me as soon as they return home to Minneapolis after a weekend together. I could write half a dozen of sentences like the two previous ones. Going through my blog posts was for me, I imagine, like pouring through old photo albums for some people.

Yet the exercise was bittersweet. For as many people who will be my lifelong ride-or-die friends, there were a seemingly equal number who were significant enough to write about at the time, were only blips on the radar of my life. Some people, mostly Internet friends, I struggle to remember at all. Multiple people have since passed.

And there is no way to go through 20 years of your own blog posts without seeing the evolution of the Internet and all its trends. My first blog was on Blogger, and I hand-coded my layouts, after all! It was an evolution to move to SSI, then PHP and WordPress, and the countless site update posts showed just how much I enjoyed the tasks and projects I created for myself along the way (and may be undertaking again…).

But the Internet isn’t what it once was and never will be again. Something, perhaps nameless, is long gone. I can–and do–lament with some of my friends, but I will miss the particular feelings of creation, potential, and community, among others, that I could only achieve at certain points in time. After all, going through my blog posts would be a wholly different endeavor in 20 years due to changes in quality and quantity. On the other hand, I’m likely experiencing something at this point in time–whether my life in general or as I type these words–over which I will feel nostalgia at some point in the future, so at least I have that to look forward to!

Funny how looking backward can make you look forward, too.

The post What I Learned from Reading 20 Years of My Blog Posts appeared first on 7and1.net.

It’s Ashley’s birthday, the first anniversary of my grandpa’s death.

The first day of Autumn was a week and change ago, and the weather flipped like a switch. Step outside, and you feel the cool breeze and the scent of leaves and fire. I hope I walk many miles before the snow hits.

It’s also three weeks into the semester. In fact, I am typing this as I wait for my class (Monsters and the Monstrous) starts. My class schedule also includes LGBTQ psych, psych of women, and plagues. Instead of a fifth class, I’m participating in an internship with Sexual Health Alliance, which I started over the summer and brings me one step closer to my career aspirations.

Combined with my freelance writing and work with America’s Black Holocaust Museum, which started as a volunteer opportunity/class requirement but became a paid position, I’ve certainly felt overwhelmed at times this month. But this week should be a bit less intense, so here I a taking a few moments to blog.

What’s up with you?

The post Oh. Hai. appeared first on 7and1.net.

During the conversation, my doctor asked if there were any new small stressors in my life. I guess I ignored the word “small” and mentioned deaths, a breakup, self-image. Perhaps I should have expected the look he gave me when, those things, he said, are not small stressors.

We discussed the short timeline in which all those things happen. I left my appointment hopeful that a dosage change would help and reassured that, yes, those things I’m struggling with would make anyone struggle, and I should be kind to myself.

I’ve struggled with that. Maybe I’m in the middle of that struggle, if I’m being honest. When things are difficult, I think should take it easy on myself. I let myself sink into the couch. But, without fail, doing so only makes me feel worse. Taking it easy on myself isn’t helpful.

Sometime yesterday I realized that what I should do is to be good to myself, and that looks different. Being good to myself is pushing myself to go out for a walk, at least a little. It’s Getting up when I want to sink into the couch and bed, and putting on Real Clothes (TM) even if I’m not going somewhere. On the other hand, being good to myself means not wallowing in guilt for eating a candy bar or not going on a walk, but not letting accountability slip for too long.

Guilt is something I definitely need to work on, but I think this shift in thinking might be helpful. Knowing that being good to myself requires me to push myself will combat some of the worry of the self-sabotaging worry that I will be too easy on myself.

Anyway, I’d like to end this post with a list of things that made me feel better this week.

• Taking a walk in the warm sun and enjoying the smells and sounds of spring (not so much the dead shrubs and mud, but it’s a far cry better than a winter so slippery even looking out the window would cause you to land on your ass).
• Replacing both my lost cards.
• Realizing I have not one but two bottles of the body wash I like so much but that is sadly discontinued.
• Having a functioning phone after a frustrating week without service. Bonus points for not having to speak to customer service or wait on hold or in line.
• Finally getting some sleep. At night. Without having an appointment in the morning! And falling asleep quickly!! Sure, it was broken (thanks, cats), but it was calming nonetheless.
• Waking up to Goliath sneaking under the covers next to me.
• Catching up with work and feeling more productive and clear-minded than I have in weeks (months?).
• My clothes coming out of the dryer completely dry after only one cycle.
• Supportive friends.
• Winning a Tornadus raid and getting a snapshot to finally move forward with a quest line in Pokemon Go.
• My pretty new glow-in-the-dark phone case arriving in the mail.
• A responsive therapist.
• A new song from Adelitas Way that’s definitely a bop and makes me wanna move.
• Looking forward to spring break next week and realizing I have time for leisure reading!
• Talking to my aunt on the phone.

I guess this isn’t as short a list as I initially thought, and that makes me feel even better.

The post It’s About Time appeared first on 7and1.net.

It will for sure be helpful if you’re familiar with the Ask vs Guess model. It’s not entirely applicable, at least not to me, but it’s useful to think about our unwritten communication rules and analyze whether they do us any good. At the very least, it’s beneficial to remember that others made not abide by or even recognize those rules. Be flexible, I guess.

So here are the ways I’m not flexible.

I’m mostly a participant in guess culture–except when I’m not, heh. I think it’s rude or uncouth to be direct in certain ways. Asking for favors (or even questions in general)? Directly talking about yourself without making an effort to inquire about someone else? As Stephanie Tanner says:

I’m hoping that interjecting a little humor lets me keep things light because it’s so easy to go from “I’m not perfect” to “I’m a fucking unlovable monster” and let my anxiety take the wheel. I have no chill. But if you’re reading this, you know that (this example of my inflexibility was totes accidental).

So where was I? Being forward almost seems vulgar. It just isn’t.what.you.do in polite society. We can avoid the rough unpleasant edges if we’re more suggestive than forward. It would make everyone’s life better if we all followed those rules.

Maybe some people, sometimes.

Except it’s infinitely useful or preferable to be direct in some situations. It saves time and energy. And there are a whole bunch of people whose lives would only be made worse by trying to live up to the standards of guess-culture. And if I expect people to suggest what I want, I’m putting the onus and energy on them. Trust me, it even sounds ridiculous when I type it.

On top of that, guessers can seem disingenuous or manipulative by others. I know that it’s “rude” to ask directly, but she thinks my hinting is manipulative or dishonest because she doesn’t know or believe that you just.can’t.do. that.

Compromise, am I right?

It might seem positive that I am sometimes an asker or prefer others to be–if you ignore the fact that the ways in which I am inconsistent tend to be self-serving. I’m annoyed when he doesn’t answer directly but wouldn’t do the same myself.

And I can become resentful when I feel like I can’t speak up about things because of unwritten rules that say there has to be a perfect way or time (hint: there never is). So I only say those things when slamming the metaphorical door. And I am shocked, shocked when others say things that I would never say because you just.don’t.do.that.

While the unwritten rules in my head tell me to abide by guess culture, but it also allows me to save face–at least, I feel like it should. Maybe that’s an aspect of guess-culture. Maybe it’s just me. Either way, being direct can sometimes make me feel so self-conscious, embarrassed almost. I can feel like this super uncool dork for saying what I’m thinking, even when I’m talking to people who ostensibly care about me a lot, want me in their lives, and wouldn’t judge me even if I were a little uncool. But it’s all so intimidating.

Prescribing to guess culture feels like a way to help me avoid that potential fallout. But you know what’s coming, right? A sort of fallout I never expected that’s probably worse and entirely avoidable.

Being healthily direct is something I need to work on, then. And I’m glad to say it’s better–with some people and in some situations. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take time (or that I wish I could make everyone else adapt instead, haha). I have to force myself not just to change but to be direct because it feels so uncomfortable.

So this is me forcing myself to be direct. Not just with myself or any one person but with any stranger who might stumble across this blog post.

I think it’s good for me. I think it will be good for me to continue blogging more regularly as I tackle certain issues and not expect those around me to listen as I process every thought in an attempt to uncover all my insecurities and prove that I’m doing the work. Because that’s me trying to make my problems into “our” problems, and it’s pretty selfish.

But you, dear blog, exist, and this is exactly the sort of thing you can help with.

So, see you next time (not a Kwik Trip reference… or is it?)

The post Guess What? appeared first on 7and1.net.

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.

The post Call It a Win appeared first on 7and1.net.