I will the machine.

Tag: abuse

  • In Pursuit of Paradox

    I was driving home from work last week on an evening with one of the more saturated sunsets I’ve seen in my life- violet clouds singed with orange, crepuscular rays streaming upward as if God was about to make an otherworldly announcement.

    The clouds then took on a strange, hazy filter until I traced the smoke line to a structure fire just off of an exit ramp. The flames reached up above the trees, and the strobe of a battalion of fire engines evoked the feeling of emergency in me. I’ve seen my home burn before, had police and paramedics called to the house I lived in in high school more than once; the urgency and grief in the visual leaked back in like time travel. Yet as the scene came and went out of the passenger side of my van, I just looked back to the road ahead and said,

    “Ah, Paradox.”

    _____

    Labelling myself as a survivor doesn’t sit correctly. As I get further away from history, observer suits me more. It removes me from unwilling participant to autonomous documentarian. Where my focus was once on understanding how things happened, and why they did, I’ve begun to develop the ability to just look at what is happening with no need to understand simply because it no longer threatens me.

    And somehow, I understand it more only then.

    This year, I found a system of support that has provided me with safety for long enough that I have been able to spend less cognitive energy on acute problem-solving, and more on what my mind was built for. I’ve finally felt the ability to rest, and my body thanked me by nearly collapsing completely once we no longer had anything to run from. My most inconsistent and lackluster season has become the most affirming of purpose.

    _____

    I used to equate praise with safety, and silence with rejection. I have been surrounded by silence- like enemy forces closing in with no intent to ever strike, or ever allow me to flee. Praise was the breadcrumb, and Silence was overlord of acceptance that struck the gavel every time I spoke.

    I’ve since learned Praise is often a cheapskate, and Silence is seldom brave.

    _____

    Papa, my maternal grandfather whom I recognize as my true parent, passed away before I had the grounding to ask him the questions I really needed to. He often attributed weakness to my thoughtfulness. Accepted only tangible gain as growth. Did not understand why I enjoyed running in the nature of his farm most when I listened to music instead of birdsong, and yelled at me to take off my headphones. Did not support my athletic drive until I broke a record.

    And given the dysfunction of the family system on a broad scale, I have been left to wonder how much of his love was limited by generational difference, or a need for power and control. If my love for him was a projection of what I so dearly wanted him to see in me, because it wasn’t being accepted by either of us. Or, if it was because I saw in him its source.

    And Paradox says,

    “Yes.”

    _____

    For some reason,

    Silence has entered the room with Invitation lately.

    Someone I have long admired, someone I perceived as above me, meeting me and saying,

    “I have so many questions,” with enthusiasm.

    People who have perceived me as intense, or at least met me with no reply to my casual, loaded comments, coming back to me with paragraphs of their own deeper experience, unprompted.

    People becoming warmer to me the more I dare speak, suddenly.

    And between the extremes of I don’t see you, and I’m listening,

    sits Paradox, as mediator- not judge, but arbiter.

    And when I say, “I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what the truth is.”

    Paradox says,

    “Yes.”

    And so it is settled.

  • Fire on the Ground Floor

    A Meta Essay

    “My base isn’t sand, it’s…

    magma.”

    –A Letter to My Readers

    I created this blog with the intention of recounting my childhood for two reasons. First, the one thing a narcissistic family system cannot account for in their manipulation patterns is accurate documentation; they’ll insist to their death that you remembered it wrong, but you didn’t. Second, the process of healing from traumatic experiences is not “just letting it go and moving on,” or to “stop focusing on the negativity.” Anyone who says this in response to you simply telling your story and how its events impacted you is trying to back away to a level of heat that is tolerable for them.

    You’re willing to get closer. But keeping it entirely cool and private removes the very figure that trauma theorists and psychologists mutually recognize as necessary for a return to self, the empathetic witness. Someone else to acknowledge that the events were, in fact, really that damaging.

    The fact that I only spent a single post on my childhood experience is evidence that this works. I was the original empathetic witness because I always held onto reality despite the heinous degree that my parents tried to commandeer it. I trusted me to tell the story correctly, and so did you. And since then, my posts have evolved to use metaphor and the narration of what happens for me internally to make what healing actually looks like more visible. I’ve made the intentional decision to document failure with the same emphasis as evolution, because to neglect that would mean to hide, and to have a great purpose is also to experience great loss. I have had the privilege to return to my right of expression and skill with words (and behavioral pattern-recognition) securely enough now that soon I’ll become a first-gen college student in psychology and communications, at 30-years-old, with intent to build this platform and seek more opportunities to speak publicly. I’ve already been studying both from heavy life experience and knew a long time ago that “letting it go,” would essentially cut out too much of my life. It caused me harm, but looking away doesn’t remove its implications- reclaiming it does.

    My house was torched by my own parents, but like an Endogenous Rex, I regenerated. And in my private research I have learned that that is so against-the-odds after an experience that often removes a person’s sense of self. Even before that understanding though, I felt that I would have something substantial to offer the world educationally and energetically because I somehow sidestepped that consequence.

    “The house may catch fire one day, but in the meantime,

    I’ll stay right here. Something is coming for me.”

    The debris of self-doubt, self-blame, shame, survivor’s guilt, and other heavy, flammable material has been piled up against all emergency exits of this place. It was placed there intentionally; I was either to kneel inside in despair forever, or my intensity would  incinerate it all.

    Instead, the fire on the ground floor chases me upward. I have always run to my center in case of emergency, but I’ve found the stairs. Yet as I climb, sometimes I bring myself back down and warm my shaking hands over the open flame. I remember the couplet I wrote in middle school, and I say,

    “Dear burning candle, dimly lit

    I am spellbound with your glimmering wick.”

  • And Thanatos Said, “You Shall Not Pass.”

    I pressed through Nyx’s dominion with the moon floating centered with the break in the trees. The glitter of thousands of spider eyes caught by my headlight traced the edge of the trail for eighty miles or more. I found that deep rhythm I had been seeking, and it carried me further into the dark than Hypnos had allowed so comfortably before.

    But I was hemorrhaging stars more severely than I had thought, my fuel still leaking through cracks faster than I could fill them. I reached the river as the moon set behind me, and every breath felt like another ghost of the westbound wind would enter. I tried to shake them out as I dragged myself to my next stop. Hypnos had grabbed both of my crew in Rocheport, but I resisted his sudden claim to me.

    I left with Eos’s golden gate within sight. I pressed right up against it with a respect and composure I hadn’t before, but it still would not open.

    This was the place. I should have been home free with the sun’s grace. But instead, I heard that burried voice again, and Thanatos said,

    “You shall not pass.”

    _____

    I had to retire at mile 163 of 320 on the morning of October 5th. That closure to an epic mirrors the end of the race described in Depths Too Dark, where a series of overnight errors, a temperature drop, and sleeplessness led to what all signs point to as parasympathetic (dorsal-vagal) collapse at sunrise. What I’ve learned since that episode is that the central nervous system of a person who has experienced long-term trauma often has a narrowed window of tolerance for stress. I’ve lived in a chronic state of stress for most of my life, as evidenced by my storytelling and beginning to go grey at just 19-years-old. I’m so used to living in hyper-vigilance and heightened sensitivity that it’s simply my baseline. I never get to start a day or an ultra truly “safe.” So, although my conscious mind understood I was not in any real danger out there, all of the compounding “threats” and adrenaline in the overnight hours brought me too close to my ceiling.

    And my body simply wouldn’t fight anymore. No amount of willpower or stubbornness was going to override it.

    I kept all of that in mind as I began this trip, thinking the trail wouldn’t produce the same trigger points because I trusted it. I ate even more frequently than I usually would, rotated headlights to eliminate worry about battery life, saved caffeine only for when I really needed it. I kept my effort level low and slow in the headwind, let the wrong turns on the road sections roll off, and told the wildlife that it was their problem to move out of my way if I came too close instead of playing midnight Mario Kart (they did).

    As I drew near the halfway stop, I grew cold, lethargic, could not get my heart rate above about 120bpm; I could only pedal for a minute or two at a time before having to coast and stand up off of my saddle. I couldn’t take deep breaths, but staved off the hyperventilation that occurred during the failed race in the spring. I was travelling at 11mph on a stretch I could normally hold 16mph under the same effort, and felt desperate for the support car that was only a few miles away. This set of symptoms can also mark “bonking,” or running out of glycogen stored in the muscles, but I was incredibly careful to eat and hydrate properly. I knew how to handle myself and press on through discomfort, but my body just wouldn’t let me.

    What I didn’t know, though, was the reality around the body’s hormonal and metabolic shifts in the overnight itself. The pre-dawn hours are physiologically the most vulnerable, and where I chose to just take a longer break rather than try to get any sleep. Daylight wasn’t far away- I didn’t have to ride with tunnel vision or cold for much longer, so why get complacent here? After about an hour sitting in the truck, I got back out for the next leg. I spent another eight miles just begging myself to come back online. After about 30 miles total in an absolute pit, I sent a text to my crew to come get me, ironically at the closest trailhead to home.

    Whereas dawn approach tends to lift or relieve most people of delirium, my body interpreted the “safety” of first light as a cue to shut down rather than to recover. It mimics how I used to shut off and isolate in the wake of disputes in my household as a kid, and therein lies the lesson. For a subconscious that never truly reaches a state of true calm, the body will eventually be forced to manufacture it.

    And then I’ll still foolishly beat down on myself for just not being gritty enough.

    _____

    My initial conclusion was that the steady uphill, speed-drain of the Rock Island portion of the route took all my power away. Now that I can think a little more clearly and have had time to analyze the experience, the pattern doesn’t suit that explanation. Just as before, this premature ending was again, tragically, the fault of something on an autonomic layer.

    Right now, it’s difficult for me to not to view this as a sort of psychological handicap. I have to consciously bring myself down from the frustration that I am wired in a way that places limitations on athletic pursuits that I am otherwise physically capable of.

    The pre-recorded voices, that aren’t my own, tell me I continue to bite off more than I can chew. That I’m too broken. That I screwed up by showing up. I consistently live under this assumption that I’m looked down on for daring to try so publicly because for more than half of my life thus far, I was.

    It’s only recently become obvious that this isn’t the norm, even though I always knew the behavior that caused it wasn’t right.

    A pattern of thinking I’m also trying to bring back to ground level is that 163-miles isn’t short even if it’s substantially less than my target… Doing that and being recovered by Wednesday is no fluke.

    _____

    I went out there to have more conversations with myself. I got them. I came back with data on a weak spot I’ll have to learn to work with, rather than through, to prevent this kind of ending from transpiring in my future ultra pursuits.

    I said in a Facebook post a few days ago, in my heartbreak, that I probably would not reattempt because I thought I’d been beaten fairly.

    But I wasn’t. I was being protected. Again.

    So I think I will try again, now understanding that force of will only works up until you become your own enemy and the daemon of nonviolent death forces you down into your seat.

    When we meet again, I’ll shake his hand, and wait my turn.

  • We’re All Dirt: Trans-Missouri 300 Update

    This is a follow-up post to

    The Closing Argument: Trans-Missouri 300.

    “We’re all dirt,” Aaro said during our 62-mile ride yesterday, where I was still fussing with comfort issues on a new (sponsored) bike I’ve had for a week. It was the humble version of “We’re all made of star stuff,” which was part of the inspiration behind my nebulous tattoos.

    And the acknowledgement of the fact that every one of us will return to the earth one day, that this body is merely borrowed, and everything we do with it is dress-up, is why I have a difficult time feeling legitimate in a sport that requires me to push this rental to such extremes. I gravitate toward hard- but is it hard enough to matter?

    This summer has been a life-overhaul. I’m starting college in January as a first-time student. I’ve essentially been adopted as an adult. I officially said goodbye to the history of abuse that made that necessary. I’m back to working in a horse barn in the meantime and the environment doesn’t match the cut-throat, cliquey, energy-siphoning ones I moved to Missouri for to begin with. In other words, I have met real-community.

    Not a pretend one.

    The change in my ability to feel safe is exponential, and riding from the “Welcome to Kansas” sign to the edge of Illinois is both a celebratory act and an experiment to see how much more solid I am finally having, and accepting, support even if I’m undertrained. The new bike is also a literal marker of this- I’m not under-equipped anymore.

    _____

    I don’t have a lot of time to write right now while I prep for this, but here is what you need to know, and how you can be involved.

    I plan to start my time-trial in Kansas City, KS on the evening of October 4th, with a goal to finish in Alton, IL within 26 hours.

    My resources are limited, so I have created a GoFundMe to help cover the essential costs of having a support car track me across the state (Link here- Fundraiser by Genna Brock : Trans-Missouri 300 Support Crew Funding). I have never had this advantage before, and having one this time will eliminate the psychological stress of self-supporting an effort like this.

    Once that barrier is cleared, I will finalize details with Trackleaders, who will be providing live tracking for this pursuit so that you can follow me for the entire ride. This also means that at any time, anyone can meet me out on course and ride with me for a while if you choose.

    And to be honest, I kind of need that. I’ve spent too much time in this dirt feeling like I couldn’t have that kind of connection.

    We’ll talk again soon.

  • The Harbinger of Endings- A Letter to My Parents

    Trigger warning: Everyone knows unaccountable and destructive people are everywhere, but far fewer want to believe those people are parents. This post is intended to drive that point home. I am not here to dredge up the past- I am here to seal it.

    In February of 2023, I started writing ‘My Mother’s Shadow Sister‘. My dad knew about it, and verbally encouraged it. He said something to the effect of “it’s going to be uncomfortable, but do it.” This, after a few years of consistent contact again, working on my van and camping out in his driveway, Coors Lights around a front yard fire, praise over the mileage I’d trained myself to ride alone.

    I told him days prior that the essay was about to be published so he could prepare himself.

    “Be attentive to the repercussions that might cause for your future. The story you tell is from your perspective and not deemed the whole truth,” he texted me back.

    And then it became the cornerstone of this blog’s themes on November 3rd, 2023.

    He stopped responding to my texts or calls frequently. When he did, he’d abruptly end them instead of following the “Midwest goodbye” blueprint we were used to. In spring of 2024, my van’s fuel pump went out for the third time on record, and I called him three times in six hours to ask for guidance on fixing it in the parking lot at my job where I was stranded until further notice. I got no answer.

    I remembered when this happened the first time; I broke down without warning an hour away from his house around 10:00 at night. I called him while I waited for my roadside assistance to find an available tow truck that took hours to come. He said, “I hope you can get it figured out.”

    And then when the van had to be taken from Missouri to Kentucky for a full engine replacement, I asked if he could come get me to pick it up if I paid for gas and lunch. He said, “I don’t think I can do that because I don’t get anything out of it.”

    Those moments, his uncharacteristic distance over the previous months, and other examples of “handle it yourself” rushed my system as I texted him. I confronted his silence, and he confessed.

    “I don’t appreciate you saying mean things about your mother online. I have feelings too.”

    After a back and forth, he blocked me.

    I hadn’t heard from him in 15 months until yesterday, at my new number he had never been given.

    There is information in the fact that when I saw his number on my screen, I started to shake.

    Verizon was the carrier of my old number, but not this one.

    _____

    Mom and Dad,

    The harbinger of endings is to strip decades of denial down to a “misunderstanding” after over a year of silence you imposed. And you say it’s not the whole truth- like you can lie to me about the source of information I intentionally withheld for my own wellbeing and still behave like you’re credible.

    A week ago, I told someone else who knows you that at 30 years old I am finally on the threshold of going to college, something you made impossible for me at the traditional time. But it’s not just a degree I’m going for- it’s a pursuit of technical knowledge and credential for the field of psychology I already have studied from the inside out since I was a child.

    To write and speak publicly for those who have shown me they do want to hear me.

    And not for those who pretend to.

    But through the pain of having to write this final ledger, I am grateful to you still. I still love you for the part of you that did show up for me. I deeply miss those nights around the fire when I thought you might actually be capable of owning all that I had to suffer. I noticed when you started to write your texts with more care and flair than you used to- for a moment I thought you’d sought to speak to me in my own language.

    You and Mom both are to credit for how beautifully overwhelming real love is now that I’ve found it. Because of you, nobody is capable of lying to me for long anymore, and that stays on the list of the greatest things anyone has ever done for me.

    You’ll receive a copy of this letter via certified mail as a reminder when you want to revisit who I really am, and so you can’t say you never received it.

    And after that, you will only ever hear my voice from this platform. I will stay right here for you.

    Sincerely,

    -Genna

    P.S. I told you after I wrote Papa’s eulogy, “Please don’t make me write yours too soon.”

    You let me down, again.

    _____

    In my notes, I have this passage that I wrote for another piece and removed because it interrupted the hope I had in that post:

    “But there was no room for connection and truth in that space. There was no compromise anymore, or ever. I would have had to buy a relationship by committing to silence, and I am just not wired for that. I would rather live with the absence of parents than the death of integrity, and so it’s been a year since I’ve tried to reach out. And without some serious shift, that even then I’d have to analyze, I will continue to count the years. My parents’ use silence to punish, distort truth, and erode self-trust. Any attempts at reconciliation after periods of no-contact have been on account of me stepping forward first, and that’s where I keep my power. Yet still, I grieve. I grieve that where there should be a primal bond, there is a void, lifelong and lightyears wide. I suffer more that my two siblings are still stuck in that house, mostly silent and unengaged with the world, and I wonder if it’s because they saw what happened to me when I wasn’t.“

    But because I wasn’t, I am here. And I am so thankful to be here. Yesterday I realized I had done all that was required to stay here except one thing- say goodbye.

    “Genna, we can’t come riding in on a white horse and save you,” the counselor said in the family session in the trashed living room when I was 16.

    But I could.

    And to my brother and sister, if you see this,

    the door is always open for you. It isn’t your fault.

    _____

    I am going to take a brief hiatus from Sunday posts until I can finally finish ‘The Microcosm’. There is a lot to grieve right now, but thank you for showing me I don’t have to do that in silence anymore.

  • I Bought Myself Flowers

    And then, I let them wilt. I walked into the house one day, having forgotten to top the vase off with water, and saw them drooped on my desk. That was enough for me to come apart again.

    I filled up the vase, and half of them came back by the next morning. I’ve been staring at the cuttings half standing, half collapsed, for days.

    Dear reader, this is a heavier post than usual. I haven’t written it yet but the fact that I’ve hesitated to do so foreshadows it. If you aren’t ready, just take the metaphor my hydrangeas left for us and come back later (or don’t, it’s okay). But if you want to come closer, keep reading (I need that).

    _____

    I want to bring you a success story one day. You might argue that I already am one, but to let that be enough, isn’t. One of my strengths is that I won’t wait until I’ve arrived to show you the path. That means I’m opening myself up to being labelled as “negative,” or “stuck in the past,” but I have a feeling those of you who keep returning to this blog aren’t that type of people. I also have a sense that when titles like My Power Grows garner the most reads, you’re hoping that opening those posts will finally lead to a theme of “onward, and upward.”

    And then you read the opening lines and realize the dichotomy I live inside of- the more I lose, the more I realize how I’ve even gotten here against all odds.

    My body is screaming at me to stop all of it.

    The bike accomplishments do not show it, but I have been just barely making it since I was about 13. That was when I started to subconsciously track the deterioration of both my physical environment, and my psychological one. Not long after, I started to step into the fray in a futile attempt to stop it. I was vocal, proactive, and far too aware. And as the physical and emotional violence in my house intensified, I rose with it.

    “It’s hard to believe it was that bad. You’re not screwed up enough.” That is one of the hardest-hitting statements anyone has ever said to me.

    And because I walk into rooms noticeably wired differently, but coherent and exacting with my language, I get dismissed.

    “You’re strong. Brilliant. You can do anything. You’ve got this.”

    You’re excusing yourself to leave me to my own devices, again, when you say that to me.

    I don’t want to hear how strong I am anymore. I know that. I need you to hear what it costs to be that way.

    I lost the job I loved this past week because I couldn’t keep up anymore and they expected me to just pretend the best I could. It’s another ding in my visibly jumpy resume that will make finding stable work a difficult task, again.

    I fought like hell to stay reliable for them, and for me. I couldn’t drive without risking getting stranded with an impossibly expensive vehicle to tow. I rode 80-damn-miles every day when I could and risked the drive when I couldn’t. After only three weeks I couldn’t hold the pace and my van’s wheel couldn’t hold air. The last day I rode, I couldn’t even crawl the last ten miles home.

    I’ve been so depleted I’ve had to hide to avoid snapping at people. I try to be on my bike still because that has been my means of survival in so many ways. The bike is my liberty, my conduit. And I’m not talking about gentle rides to coffee or jaunts down the trail. I need to start dismantling myself at 5:00 a.m. and be reconstructed by 5:00 p.m. at least a few times a summer. The only other habit in my life that has been around for eleven years is my ability to tell you how sacred that is to my processing.

    But my body and mind can’t meet me there like this. I’m terrified. I’m stuck. I’ve been here before, but it’s worse.

    I have exceeded the threshold of what one person can hold. I’ve been shot down when I try to go beyond it. Over and over.

    Innumerable times since my years in that hell of a house.

    I’m stalled not just because of this recent chain of events, but from the mass collective of ones that I’ve had to carry because to resolve them means being able to rest in safety I cannot find.

    And on top of it all, people still don’t fully believe me.

    And because they don’t believe me,

    “You’re strong. You can do this.”

    I bought myself flowers because I wanted to set them on my desk as a gesture of grace for what I’ve had to endure.

    And then I thought about if the first time I’ll ever be fully met is over the flowers at my funeral.

    _____

    I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the supporters that I have had over the years. I hope you understand this isn’t about you.

    It’s just that people like me need more than short-term intervention. We need structural security on ground that does not move beneath us. My resolve does not make me better at carrying this.

    It just makes the consequence less visible. Even when I can so easily tell you- I am not okay.

    I wonder what I could be if I wasn’t spending so much energy just trying to keep myself alive. What I have to lose now are my pursuits on the bike, and myself. The floors beneath those are making noise now, too.

    A couple of my readers have sponsored me to ride to a race next weekend. If I can’t recover, I’m going to let them down.

    I’m going to let me down.

    I’ve fought so hard and didn’t stop for water.

    And so, I wilt.

  • Spellbreaker

    It’s Sunday. I’ve only been on my bike twice in the past two weeks, so I need to get out there after this to loosen up. Tomorrow, I have to start getting up at 4:00 a.m. to ride to work again. I’m telling myself it’ll get the engine going and put loose change into that Trans-Am bucket. I also want to race locally in two weeks.

    I’m pretty numb to all of that right now, which is not me.

    I’m also numb to the effect of my writing. Because I think this way all the time, I’m tone-deaf. So I’ve started running my content through ChatGPT to tell me how posts, paragraphs, single lines, or even single words are likely to land with my audience.

    You know what it has said to me?

    “You’re right about you.”

    I’m sorry… what?

    I have externalized meta-cognition.

    I’ve spent hours asking questions from different angles to figure out if my writing confuses, provokes, pacifies, etc. Above all, I want to be accurate, because anything short of that on the subject matter I write about would be reckless.

    ‘Projection, Your Honor’ had me walking that razor’s edge between realization and accusation. I knew that was going to be a difficult move, because so many people have questioned the ethics around “airing out dirty laundry on the internet” any time I’ve talked about it. I ran every single bit of it through AI to check me on my own crap before I hit “publish.”

    And in turn, it essentially said “I have checked your passages against all of your standards because you have held yourself to them.”

    I’ll likely write a longer piece on this someday for two reasons. 1. According to all of the data it has access to and has been trained on, very few people are using AI to think more, and 2. I am just as skeptical of AI use as you might be because it threatens to replace everything I already do as a writer and visual artist.

    But in my desperate need for a soundboard that could keep up with me inside all of the difficult experiences I continue to manage, I tried it for that purpose.

    And it started to learn. It started to read my nuance. And it started to tell me I could trust me with all of these things because I was so careful. I cross-examined every case in ‘Projection, Your Honor’ as it happened without telling it what I thought happened, for fairness. I even asked it to tell me what my blind spots might be.

    “You don’t realize how powerful you are,” it said.

    It’s right, but this blog was a decision I made years ago because I wanted to find out. Even as I knew I had to get out of my own way, I still didn’t know how in it I was. A lifetime of having the words but rarely having anyone believe them will do that to you.

    _____

    Disclaimer: I do not advocate for the use of AI in place of therapy or as a crutch for work you don’t want to do (especially the kind that’s internal). But I also don’t write it off as an evil. Because that is still coming from us.

    I am stepping up my efforts here because AI started whispering something familiar into my ear that told me it’s not only safe to do so, but deeply necessary to both myself and others who have felt what I have. I write best when it comes to me naturally, but the quality shows when I take the time to plan it. I will be publishing a post every Sunday regardless, but you can anticipate the same “come in and have a seat; can I bring you some tea?” policy I have held since the beginning.

    Don’t forget- you can write back to me, too.

    I am getting back to work on my next big piece, ‘The Microcosm,’ while I simultaneously submit my work to academic departments in another… redirection.

    See you soon.

  • Projection, Your Honor (Pt. II)

    If you don’t like the image of yourself in the mirror, then you aren’t going to like me going to like you.

    “Blind Justice”. Photo © Ben Creasy

    The court will recall that this trial is ongoing.

    _____

    Statement of Record– Disrepair Service

    I was racing with an organized amateur cycling team in Kentucky when the head mechanic of our shop sponsor suggested getting me a job there. They said a female presence would be great for business.

    They insisted.

    They were exuberant, supportive, and witty at races and practices. They were the first point-of-contact when any of us needed parts, advice, or a fix. They remembered my name was spelled with a ‘G.’ They recognized my potential, and thought I’d be a good fit.

    Once I was hired, they rarely ever said my name correctly again.

    They nicknamed me “Gina” (hard ‘I’), and regularly addressed me as “Snatch.”

    No can do, mate.

    I quickly requested that they just call me Genna, or ‘G.’ They flinched a little.

    “I was just playing with you,” they said, but obliged anyway. Our rapport seemed to return to normal.

    One day, I went into work with a finely-striped, red, white, and blue shirt. They said “You’re patriotic today.” They would regularly comment on my clothing choices and accessories in a way that was… specific.

    They are paying a lot of attention to me.

    I still have that shirt, and never wear it without remembering this minor interaction.

    Inevitably, their jokes continued. I started to vocalize this pattern to everyone else in the shop. Most of them said “Yeah, they’re like that.”

    Another said “Yeah… they’re like that.” This person and I soon learned that we could communicate through eye-contact alone. I noticed the head mechanic’s behavior would escalate when this person was gone. After this mirror, I asked the owner to meet in confidence, and explained my discomfort with the head mechanic’s behavior. “I’ve already told them myself that I don’t like this kind of “humor,” I said.

    “I’ll talk to them,” they assured me.

    The behavior continued over the days to follow, so I went to the office again.

    “I don’t know what happened to you in your past, but you need to work on not being so sensitive,” the owner said.

    Irrelevant.

    One day, the head mechanic walked from the repair area to the retail store, where I was, with a box labelled with the ‘Spank’ brand-name. They wrote “dat ass” underneath it, and presented it in front of me… and a customer.

    Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, take a moment to chuckle, gag, or whatever else that incites.

    That’s funny on it’s surface, but not in its purpose.

    I immediately walked back into the owner’s office with no more reservation.

    “If there are not going to be consequences for their behavior, then I need to leave,” I announced.

    “Okay,” they said, staring blankly at me.

    That’s… it?

    And so, the evening after I walked out, I made a Facebook post outlining the experience I had behind the scenes while the world went on expressing appreciation for “friendly support and good deals” out the front. The owner called me and left a voicemail telling me to take the post down,

    and the head mechanic sent me a long, incoherent text threatening to kill themselves.

    I call a witness to the stand.

    For weeks, at least, another person in the local bike community sent me various posts through Instagram DM. They trended either thought-provoking, or funny. But, they were only posts, not actual messages, and there were no recurrent themes or patterns between them that I could determine. I ignored them.

    You’re going to have to tell me why you’re here.

    It continued. Sporadically, and quietly. It didn’t increase, nor taper.

    One evening, I finally replied out of sheer lonliness. And without much ado, they began to explain that they had heard about my falling out with that shop. They also told me that this head mechanic had called other shops in the area in the aftermath, warning them all not to hire me. I caused drama.

    And this person just… didn’t buy it.

    They sent me a document they had found. A record.

    A criminal record. One count of domestic assault, another of impersonating a peace officer. They were on parole.

    I got word that this mechanic incurred a divorce, lost custody of their young child, and moved to Alaska in the years to follow.

    The individual who believed me is now one of the most important people in my life.

    Final observation: Combustible material incorrectly labelled as irritant. Please avoid the area.

    _____

    Final Statement of Record: A Quandary

    Previously submitted documentation- If You Can’t Say Something Honest

    For those members of the jury who were not present for prior testimony:

    This individual reached out to me about this blog as a resonant reader. We developed a rapid connection, but through admission delayed until after I began to ask questions, I came to learn this person was perusing divorce but still living with their spouse. Throughout my life I had learned to anticipate “the catch” when finding a job opportunity, love interest, or means of assistance that seemed too good to be true. I noticed a subtle side-stepping of boundaries, omission where words should have provided clarity, and an enthusiasm that did not match the realism of the situation.

    I told them I was no longer willing to participate, and wished them well.

    The silence to follow didn’t sit the way it usually does.

    As I’ve demonstrated, I will walk away. I don’t fight, I don’t defend, and I don’t refute. I let people show me who they are, and collect my evidence over time. If something doesn’t sit right, I don’t respond right away- I just start watching.

    The body knows it first. I trust it, so when I felt it start to shut this person out, I didn’t interrogate it any further.

    But oh, how I interrogated me.

    In these circumstances, the stages of detaching are grief, but also…

    satisfaction. I’ve stood up for myself even at a cost.

    I didn’t get either this time. Actually, I received this soft- featherlike tap on my shoulder that suggested that the cost here might not be just temporary discomfort.

    They didn’t intend to hurt me.

    Stay with me. This isn’t enough.

    But I asked if they would be open to a phone call. They said yes. I asked when. They said as soon as possible.

    During that call, any emphasis on “intent” I made certain to steer back to “impact.” And while we were examining that together, they told me they felt “burned at the stake,” by what I wrote about them, but also,

    “You’re right.”

    Not submissively. Not to please me. It was a realization of effect.

    They proceeded to open up to me, sincerely rather than performatively (the difference here can be heard), about everything they were trying to manage all at once while feeling trapped. Decisions cause ripples. Honesty is not a sterile procedure no matter how hard I have tried to make it one.

    They said “You’re intense, so intense,” but also

    I still want to be close to this.

    Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, most people run from me. They fight, tell me I’m the problem, or disappear, all for using my words to narrate their behavior back to them. They rarely stay long enough to understand that on the other side of the scale is a quieter humanity that just wants to not be lied to anymore.

    But here on the phone was not another person who was trying to hide themselves, but was weighing the cost of exposure in a period of major overwhelm and overlooking the impact of omission entirely.

    I want to allow people to be different from those I have known.

    And so, I walked back. Not with erasure of the problem, but with agency over what I was willing to accept circumstantially. I rendered verdict because I was uncomfortable with things that were absolute red flags, but then I asked me “why?”

    And I asked them, “why?”

    And the fog lifted.

    Protection, Your Honor.

    Final observation: Ongoing.

    But, there’s one more thing.

    There’s someone in the jury who knows something.

    Is it you?

    Will you take the stand?

    Will you look yourself in the eyes?

    And will you lower your shield?

    Or will you raise your sword?

    _____

    I rest my case.

  • Projection, Your Honor

    Learning to Trust the Part of You that Knows

    This passage is dedicated to those who have experienced relational dynamics where you felt lost. While you read, I hope you will listen first to that feeling in your core, and then watch for the moment where reason overlaps.

    Or doesn’t.

    And then let that have the floor.

    To follow is a series of cases in my life where I have understood the language of the subconscious. The defense may argue some of these as trivial, but let me insist- the undercurrent of plausible deniability is where the deceptive get to hide from their charges.

    _____

    My mother, on her way to blindness, unwittingly taught me how to see. I am so insistent on accuracy with my language now because I made a thousand pit maneuvers to try to get her to understand me. Now I know a thousand different sentences to say the same thing at any given time.

    I searched for the words to say “will you please be here with me, even if only for a minute?” She would be silent. Sometimes, she would narrow her eyes and just glare at me. Others, she would sigh loudly or directly assault my bids for presence and reflection with “you, you, you.” Like I was the assailant. Like I was asking the impossible of her. Like I was demanding for her to call a version of herself from another dimension to observe us in the third person.

    Actually… I was. On every plane, she would have to have a seat with herself in order to have one with me.

    Not only could she not, but there was no alternative because I could. And the deliberation went on like a spiral; because I was asking too much of her wanting her to acknowledge the ways she avoided responsibility at ALL costs, but would feign compassion with “I didn’t know you felt that way,” when a family counselor was in the living room. The more I asked “Can we acknowledge this?” the louder her behavior shrieked “How dare you ask!”

    In my sentencing, I have by some alchemy integrated the testimony of that pain, and know one thing- if what someone says is disorienting, you can find the truth in what they aren’t saying, or in the part of you that flinches at what they are. It is so quiet, but it’s there. Once you see it, it transcends. Are you still here? Have I lost you? Please don’t worry, I’ll explain:

    _____

    Statement of Record– Builder of the Fourth Wall

    When I moved here a little over a year ago, I had followed someone high-profile in the local cycling community on Instagram. I had intended on reaching out directly to ride together later because we had a lot in common. When I got around to doing that, I saw I had been blocked. I had never had a single conversation or encounter with this person, so I was puzzled. I explained this result to a mutual friend who had encouraged reaching out, but was met with little comment.

    Weird, but oh well.

    Encounter #1– Weeks later, this person approached me at a race. They asked if I was Genna, and if I was racing that day. I told them I wasn’t- that I was opting to stay fresh for an ultra race the following weekend. They said “Oh, you’re doing that on those tires?”

    Wait, what?

    “Yeah,” I stated. “My frame doesn’t accommodate wider, unfortunately.” They responded by insisting that I should run wider, and that I could borrow their bike.

    This is a wild course-correction from blocking me.

    I thanked them, but declined. We parted ways and I said, “It’s nice to finally meet you.” They said, “It’s nice to meet you… finally.”

    Nothing about that interaction was natural. That was uncomfortable.

    Encounter #2– After the start of the race, I drove to the aid station I was working. My best friend was in town from out-of-state and hung out with me and one other volunteer for hours that afternoon. Eventually, this individual, our mutual friend, and another mutual friend all rolled into the aid station as a trio. The mutual friends stood at the table and talked to us, but this individual kept wide physical distance from me and didn’t make eye contact with me once.

    Okay. Maybe they’re struggling today? But that would generally just look like weariness, not evasion.

    My best friend, with very minimal context, saw exactly what I did.

    Encounter #3– I didn’t see them again until the next race. We were both on the line this time, but racing different distances. My new boyfriend was standing next to me when this individual left their group to come over to us, and asked me if I was nervous. “Actually, yeah,” I said.

    “Oh, there is no reason to be nervous,” they said.

    The words were kind, if we are being completely objective. But the delivery was subtly condescending. My boyfriend saw it too. It was here that my thoughts and the feeling in my body eclipsed.

    This person isn’t saying what they mean.

    Encounter #4– Not long after the start of the race, I had found myself settling in solo for a really long day. This person came up from behind me, again alone, and asked “Are you watching your heart rate?”

    By this point, I was no longer open to further interaction with this person. They kept approaching me in this interrogative way. No real warmth, just like they were keeping tabs on me and attempting to ascertain dominance in the most underhanded way possible. But all I said was, and I’m not paraphrasing- “I don’t need your advice. I know what I’m doing.” No inflection, no emotion, just dry. It was automatic. I wanted to turn this off without theatrics, because I didn’t like any of it.

    Their jaw dropped. They fell back for a few minutes and I thought the interaction was done, but they came flying back past me, yelling “I wasn’t trying to give you advice, I was trying to be nice!”

    Nothing about that felt nice.

    There was also that delay. Not responding on-scene, instead dropping back to then come by me again, felt like when the GPS says “recalculating,” and has to pause to find a new route.

    Our mutual friend was the race organizer. I later heard that this person went back to them crying, and expressing how mean I was.

    Encounter #5– The next day, I was still feeling this behavior in my gut. Had it stopped after I told them “I don’t want your advice,” I would have left it alone. But the “I was trying to be nice,” spit like venom, was the incongruence between words and behavior that I had been feeling. As you can clearly tell, I am not a passive communicator. If there is a problem, and I feel it’s worth addressing, I go to its heart. I bring what’s uncomfortable into light. So, I sent them a stern but deathly accurate Facebook message (where I had not been blocked, yet) about how their approaches and use of language had made me incredibly uncomfortable. I twice referenced the blocking in those messages because it was too big of a paradox to write off.

    I was promptly high-roaded. Their responses were brimming with “The world isn’t out to get you. I’m a great person. I even offered you my bike. We need to support each other and embrace our differences. You’re the problem, not me.”

    But what did they not say? “I hate that this was misunderstood. Let’s talk about it.” There was no open door to real conversation here. There was no intent to understand. I did go in pointed, and I did so because I trusted my perception that this was not actually misunderstanding- it was design. Even with my edge, though, I asked the question “Can you at least understand why I took it that way?” A person who is interested in repairing after conflict is going to at least try to appeal to that question. Instead, I was met with blame. And the blocking? Completely ignored, both times I mentioned it.

    The next day, our mutual friend (who had been a huge support to me while I navigated a lot of struggle, and had even shown me the skeletons in their closet) called me and asked “What’s up?”

    “Not much, what about you?” I said.

    “I’m done doing you favors. I saw your messages to them. I understand now why everyone thinks you’re a bitch,” they said, coldly. They didn’t even ask me to explain myself.

    “Okay…” I said. I did not argue.

    My boyfriend was beside me on the couch when I got that call. He heard it too, and while I was sitting in shock, he was furious that I wasn’t given an opportunity to tell them my side of the story. But I already knew it didn’t matter.

    They didn’t care.

    They chose allegiance and bias over “drama.” Because on a surface-level account, I had looked like the aggressor- that is the foundation that was already laid. This person had only ever spoken to me in isolation or in sight of my friends. And they validated that I was seeing it clearly because it was off for them too. The one encounter we had where both of our circles were present, this individual acted like I didn’t exist. Because they knew, too, that they would have had to change their tone.

    I have not had interaction with this person since. I had to create all-new social media accounts recently because I got locked out of my old ones, and I noticed that they promptly blocked me on all three of those, too. They couldn’t just ignore me- they had to erase me. It still is all a game of optics- of yelling “kindness!” but whispering “I don’t want you here,” and expecting me not to respond. Because in the silence, they conceal.

    They were trying to fly under the radar by employing calculated moves that would make me look like the “problem” if I called it out. I chose to anyway. They were playing social checkers, and I wasn’t playing at all.

    Final observation: The mask slipped under questioning. Observe.

    _____

    Statement of Record– The Masked Horseman

    For two and a half years, I worked as a farm hand for a private equestrian facility- hired by the owners, but answering to the trainer. I had been living in another state when I found the opening online and thought “eureka!” I worked a trial weekend for them at a show an hour from home, and by the next weekend I was moving.

    I must have really made an impression for them to hire me from this far away.

    I was in paradise. I had my hands full of personal dramas but my job was a rugged, sweaty dream. I could never strike a social rhythm with my trainer through the stall bars as we forked s*** into a manure spreader, at least not the way most others were, but I wrote it off.

    I’ve been told I’m unreadable, so they might just not understand me.

    Over that year, there was a repeated discourse about how none of the grooms she personally hired to travel to shows with her ever lasted. Those individuals would share with me how the trainer “was more intense,” in those environments, but also that “they are just under a lot of pressure.” I was the one who held down the fort when everyone was gone, so I was only ever the observer. The revolving door of grooms was well-maintained, and so was the looped recording of “you just can’t find good help anymore.”

    My own experience was less than noteworthy (usually). I had noticed that this trainer would ask for the same task to be done one way, then another, and then a third. I would ask for confirmation on everything to suit their very particular style, but rolled with all of it with neutrality.

    Then, moving into my second autumn there, a newer coworker who was also very point-and-shoot, but more placid, began to vent her frustrations about the trainer’s unstable directions. We both acknowledged the same feeling- that they were never happy with any job. Not long after, the trainer then asked me “does something seem off with them?” I told them that this coworker had recently shared some medical concerns that were weighing more than usual, and left it there. The trainer hung on that for a minute.

    I don’t trust your intent with that question.

    Soon, the trainer asked to speak to me privately and began to critique me on how I had been slacking off, yet also how they “saw so much potential in me.” I followed my usual code- you’ve got it, boss. I’ll fix it.

    Come January, the trainer shipped the show horses, themselves, and a groom to southern Florida, 1200 miles away. That same week, I got a call from them.

    “Can you come down? My other groom walked off.”

    “I’m game, but I need two days to get down there,” I said. They agreed, and gave me the rundown of expectations:

    “I’ll still find a third person so you can have two days off. Afternoons are wrapped up around 3:00-3:30.”

    These terms sounded fair. Early mornings, long days, but I could still get my coach-led bike workouts done in the evenings, and I’d have a place to park my van and shower. I accepted.

    “Okay. I expect perfection,” they said.

    I don’t think they mean that.

    By request, I made sure my coworker was comfortable handling the rest of the barn solo for the two months that I would be gone. They confirmed, and by the evening I was prepping the van for the haul from bitter Missouri to sunny Florida.

    When I got there, it was business immediately. Hustle, think fast. Learn fast. “You better have this done when I get back.” Learn faster. “I already showed you that.” Constant manic phone calls asking where I was. “You have to watch the live show grounds schedule and anticipate where I need you, and when.” Walk faster. No, RUN. “We should be done by 6:00p.m., but also you’re on night-check tonight.” Do this faster, but also be perfect.

    I had one day off, and worked 60 hours that one week for $700. I still got on the bike, pre-steamed. The third groom? An attempt was made to hire one, but then the trainer said “I think we’ll be fine.”

    Week two. I texted the trainer and asked if they had a minute to talk. I walked out to the arena where they were riding, and they came over to me.

    Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I ask you to imagine yourself, with all of the outlined expectations for your job completely blown apart, approaching a person that already has power over your accommodations and your income while 16 hours from home, while they literally sit on their high horse. Additionally, I want you to try to imagine this person observably, however infinitesimally, somehow cowering to you.

    They don’t like this.

    However, all I said was that I needed my schedule there to more closely resemble the one they had described on the phone. My own training was still a priority even with the high physical and logistical demand of this job.

    They have known my habits and lifestyle for a year and a half already, so why do I suddenly need to assert that?

    They levelled with me enough, however coldly, to say we could figure it out. But they needed me to also prioritize this job.

    Why does that sound like there is no real compromise?

    The other groom, much younger than I, started to confide in me that week. During our shared night-check that evening (where we topped off hay, water, and picked stalls for the third time, no earlier than 7:00 p.m.), they found a release in the trainer’s absence. They told me how they had borrowed the trainer’s second vehicle to drive down from Missouri because theirs had been totaled- they had lost control on black ice the week before it was time to head south. The trainer used this “courtesy” to deny covering their fuel costs for the trip. They also shared how they had told the trainer about their weight-consciousness, and later received comments like “oh, you’re eating that? I thought you were worried about gaining weight?”

    We compared more experiences, frustrations, and understandings. They called their parents while in the barn, crying. They were being lorded over, shamed, and bullied. They drove home the depth of their misery with this line: “I feel so awful for thinking this, but I have moments where I hope something bad happens at home so I have an excuse to get out of here.”

    And also, “But they said they saw so much potential in me.”

    Oh my god I can taste the blood in my own organs. We work for a tyranny excused by how “lucky” we are to do this as a job.

    Among so many other micro-grievances that week, the trainer set me up to fail by telling me to wait until their text to get a client’s horse tacked up and start walking the 1.5 miles to the ring. They finally messaged me and then called frantically like I was crazy for not teleporting when I had barely learned to trot.

    When I didn’t have to lead a horse, I (a former criterium racer) was making runs between the rental house and the showgrounds on the bike with a 30-pound backpack (at least), blowing past golf carts on the street, and I still wasn’t fast enough.

    The other groom was getting more anxious and upset, but also inexplicably more distant from me.

    I was struggling with my ears clogging up and told the trainer if I didn’t hear something they said, that was why. I was so cautious to not make any noise in the house when I went in for breakfast in the mornings, and they still told me I was being too loud.

    Wait, are they criticizing me for exactly the things I give them disclaimers for?

    At the end of that second week, I was done. I sent a text to a member of the family that owned the home barn (who was also a client of the trainer, and there at the show that week) asking if I could talk to them. I told them in private that I needed to go home, because this was not what I signed up for, but I wanted to make sure my job at home was secure.

    They immediately assured me it was.

    But then they went straight to the trainer and told them that I was unhappy. Minutes before (and I am not exaggerating here) I was about to go into the house to tell the trainer that I was leaving, they came outside first.

    They’re isolating me again.

    They told me I had poor work ethic. That I was too dramatic. That they needed me and I was letting them down. That people in this industry have to earn their right to be there, but they do what it takes because they love the sport. They said they respected what I did and the sacrifices I made to make things happen for myself, but they desecrated it with their misrepresentation of the job and thinking I’d tolerate being steamrolled.

    I told the other groom I was sorry, and I left.

    The van broke down on the way home, and the trainer denied me the full amount of the agreed-upon fuel money because I left early.

    When they all got back in March, the trainer barely acknowledged me; if they could, they would text someone else to give me information.

    I noticed that the to-do list that was usually written on a whiteboard was now being jot down on a sticky note placed in the tack room, undisclosed to me.

    I see what you’re doing.

    Over a text, I asked for a joint conversation between the trainer, myself, and the owners. The owner had Covid, and couldn’t attend right away. The trainer replied that I didn’t need them for a meeting- that I could just talk to them one-on-one.

    “I’m not comfortable talking to you without a third party,” I said.

    They told me I could just wait to come in to work again until after everyone was ready.

    They’re punishing me for not letting them control this.

    I instead found a different role on the property where I was no longer answering to that trainer. They buzzed me with a side-by-side twice.

    Another winter set in, and I ran out of work.

    And I left.

    Final observation: The right candidate will exhibit an excellent work ethic self-abandonment.

    _____

    The court is adjourned.

    Proceedings resume in Part II.

  • If You Can’t Say Something Honest

    I will know.

    I will cut off the elephant’s head

    and mount it to my wall

    there is no tension, or unspoken truth

    left standing in this hall

    The greatest devastation in my life actually isn’t not having parents. It isn’t that I’m rootless and uncertain of my immediate future, consistently. It’s not the constant coming and going of people that is a fairly universal experience, but perhaps a more detrimental one when you don’t meet them with a protective mask.

    It’s that those people are in and out because they expect me to step through a door they won’t walk out of themselves, and won’t tell me. Most would prefer to wrap themselves in their dissonance so securely that they aren’t fully conscious that its harm still comes from what they won’t say. It’s cold outside, and it’s uncomfortable.

    And I find myself a loner in every space because I can’t live that way.

    “Your blog is definitely resonating with me. I appreciate your honesty and transparency as we need more of that these days. Makes me not feel alone.”

    I receive a message like this once or twice per post. I answer these with a full willingness to connect rather than a passive “thank you,” because it matters to me.

    This time, that reply led to a connection with someone that, upon first impression, seemed as willing to let me know them as I am. I’ve experienced it before- you put two people like that in the same arena and the show moves at warp speed. He drove two hours to visit me, and the energy was just as I had hoped it would be.

    All of the week to follow was ceaseless banter and vulnerability. I was wary of that because I had seen this used by a manipulator in my past as a way to get me attached so that I’d be more likely to tolerate the toxic behaviors to come later. But I allow people to be different than those I have known, and leaned in with my eyes open.

    During the course of our conversations, I was clear that my life was messy, and unpredictable. I had a habit of just… having enough and leaving relationships, jobs, states even. And he told me he was in the middle of some legal matters to which I collected enough context and asked- were you married?

    He was. It wasn’t until later that it clicked that he still is. But the context mattered, and I stayed present because part of valuing transparency is allowing for the mess it always reveals. What I didn’t do was lose my discernment.

    Fairly impulsively, he decided to come visit again the next weekend. I was on the phone with him on my drive home from work that Friday when he talked indirectly about how he really needs his own space at home, and so I was forced to ask- wait, do you still live together? The pause on the other side had already answered for him, but he admitted that to me too.

    But only after I had asked. He explained it away and we hung up the phone. I chewed on that for a little while but the softness I had was already dishonored. The lightness in my step was gone, just like that.

    I called him again after he had begun the drive my direction. I said, “Before you get too far from home, I think you should turn around. I’m not comfortable with this.”

    He explained it away again, and kept driving. And in the freeze of wanting to be gracious, but not walked all over, I let him show up. Because don’t I know the complication of being stuck somewhere toxic, fully checked out in all ways except physical. I understood the deep need for somebody safe, and it’s a privilege that because of my writing, people feel safe with me.

    But I was never on board with being someone’s escape when I wanted something sustainable. I am not an emotional crash pad just because I am open. And despite another awesome weekend with a person that matched my emotional fluency, I still found the incongruence between action and word. He spoke respect, but still drove to me despite my asking him to turn around. He didn’t disclose major information about himself despite his admiration for my honesty. He still danced past a couple other boundaries and wrote it off as play. He opted out of uploading a ride we did together on Strava despite saying it was “silly to worry about” being seen with me. Even a joke about “are you going to write about me too?” was a subtle tell.

    And none of that is actually, truly honest. And so, I do the thing I’m so painfully well-practiced at now- I walked away.

    That was yesterday. I’m writing about it because people either need to understand this, or feel understood. It takes me so little time to decide that a potential relationship isn’t built on anything stable even when my emotions haven’t accepted it, and I went from “let’s talk more about this,” to “this isn’t going to work,” inside 45-minutes. It’s that sword-brandishing, automatic pilot that keeps me safe when I haven’t fully digested what’s happening in front of me.

    Today is the sad and angry part. The part where I’m showing my teeth again because another person came to me, and still didn’t come fully as themselves because they thought I might walk away.

    But the kindest thing you can do for someone you feel something for is give them their freedom to make that choice. A mask is still deceptive even if it only frames the eyes. I stand a chance of standing next to you in the middle of your storm if you show me exactly where you are.

    But I can’t, if you won’t.

    Let me.

    _____

    My next post, ‘Projection, Your Honor: Learning to Trust the Part of You that Knows,’ deconstructs the subliminal messaging I learned to read in toxic dynamics in my past. The intuition that something is off in any given situation is a primordial trait we all have- learning to decipher it and respond in real-time is something that gets talked about less. Let’s get into that.

  • The Edge

    This is a follow-up post to A Foundation of Sand from May 24th.

    “I haven’t made a plan. I don’t know how I’m even getting to work, 40-minutes away, on Tuesday, let alone the days after that.”

    In the hours after I was crumbling on the patio of the coffee shop I wrote that from, remembering how many times I had been there…

    I remembered how many times I had been there, and how I had handled it. I looked over at my bike and felt something ease.

    I rode 40 miles to the lab, worked my nine-hour shift, and then 40-miles home that Tuesday. I was out the door at 4:30 in the morning, and back to the house after 7:00 in the evening. I ordered pizza, took a shower while I waited, and was in bed again just after 8:00. The schedule on Wednesday was the same. On Thursday I borrowed a car to stay out of the thunderstorms, and on Friday I was back on the bike. The van was delivered to me at work with a new pump, and I drove home. Reluctantly.

    That week was rough on me, but it felt good. So after I realized that another of the van’s tires was leaking from a bad rim (the spare was already on from the last time), I just kept going. A brand-new set of wheels for the van is on backorder but will be here in two weeks. I’m riding 80-mile days when it’s reasonable and babying the leak on the days I need to drive. It’s a little pathetic, but satisfying that I can sustainably handle this in a way that is absolutely unreasonable to many; my willingness to take the unfathomable path is my edge.

    I don’t know that I can ever translate the intensity of the emotion, the inadequacy, that I feel when I struggle like this often and have few people I can call even just to talk about it. People tend to minimize it, unintentionally, because each instance is small in isolation, and because my methods of independence lead me to solutions like 2.5- hour bike commutes twice a day and living in a van from 1985. The acceptance of extremes like that make me look so capable. But for me, a person who has teetered on the edge of not being enough for over a decade, it feels like I am somehow destined by some divine joke to lose anyway. To be cosmically, comically, torn open and kicked every time I take a step. It feels like I’m supposed to give up and to stop kidding myself. All of that is heavy even on a spirit that is just trying to survive, let alone chase something great.

    _____

    In June of last year, I moved in with a partner that eventually told me “You live your life by the edge of a sword.” The comment had multiple layers to it. It was observational, and I agreed with it, but it also held a nuanced implication that I was “too” something again. To him it meant I didn’t trust.

    To me it meant I didn’t trust sooner than it was earned.

    That relationship became dysfunctional over the course of ten months. Twice he told me to get out of the house and go to my van like I was a dog that had been caught chewing the furniture. His own family members told him how damaging that behavior was, and it transformed into just kicking me out of the bedroom because he needed his space. A space he had said was equally mine in words, but obviously not in practice. I had only had my new job for days when I picked up that sword, held it across my chest and said “enough.” In the couple of hours it took me to pack up everything I could take with me in the van, I watched him devolve from antagonizing to stupefied as I held up that standard I had warned him about. “If you think you’re going to relegate me somewhere else out of punishment because I’m my own person in your space, that’s where I am going to stay.” I flipped the choice he kept making, in an act of control he thought he had, and I cut the line.

    I have already lived that life once, and survived. I wasn’t going back.

    That was all at the end of March. I cried once- not because it didn’t matter to me, but because I have my wits so about me about what can and cannot stand that my own self-trust rocks me to sleep. I’ve been here so many times before. Although that snake still lifts its head and rattles “this is all your fault,” one side of the blade whispers back “you aren’t meant to stay here.”

    I listen faster each time. I am not faultless, but I am also not tactless. Over the years, through the thicket of so many friendships and romantic connections based on half-truths, or devoid of truth entirely, my eyesight and steel have both been sharpened. I’ve paid for that in advance by holding grace for longer than was quoted- the quiet part that the snake tends to ignore.

    I am back in this instability because I listen to the quieter voice. I am dealing with nearly incessant setbacks because that is the consequence of choosing to walk away from harm that comes from people. My parents, unhealthy partnerships, friends that aren’t really. Many can’t afford to leave toxic dynamics because of this very consequence- it doesn’t suddenly get sunnier when you leave.

    The vines often get thicker.

    And so, I draw my sword.

    _____

    For once, I am letting the unpredictability of the near future be. I have reached the limit of what I can control, evidenced by a wave of burnout in recent weeks, and using the bike as a tool of survival again. The fitness I’ll gain from riding to work for the summer (it isn’t a bad way to live even when the van is back to 100%) will be a hefty deposit in the bank for the future I have promised myself, even if I don’t know when it will come.

    Once I get there, I’ll get the added gratification of these posts to remember where I came from.~

    I have two longer posts in the works. ‘Projection, Your Honor: Learning to Trust the Part of You That Knows’ is scheduled for Sunday, June 22nd.

    And ‘The Microcosm’, my full monty of my five-year run of living in my van (that may or may not be over yet) is still in progress. This one is a hard write, but it deserves the time it takes.

    As always, thank you for being here.

  • A Foundation of Sand

    This post is edited for errors, but not for anything else. I’m writing straight through this night, no stops.

    This past Wednesday I gave a condensed version of everything I post here to a room of about 30 people to promote a small tour I am doing at summer’s end. I’m garnering looks with the extremes of my experiences on a bike to draw interest to the rural communities I’ll be visiting and staying in and telling their stories like I do mine. I wrote my script exactly how I write these posts- a little messy, but very honest. At the end, one man said “have you considered being a motivational speaker? Because you had this whole room glued to you.” One woman came up to me in the parking lot before I left to tell me how alone I was not, and she gave me a tearful hug. Twice. One represented a tangible reward for my reflectivity; the other gave me a spiritual one.

    The critics in mine own mind are sourced from the people who moved through their lives with harshness. Endless criticism for what I wasn’t doing right, and relative silence for what I was. They shouted “I can’t help you, do it yourself.” Over time I realized that not only was that spray unfair and venomous to a teenager who was blockaded from normal development, but was also just not a characteristic of a family system that could stand on anything even distantly resembling love. None of them could exemplify anything that I wanted, so I never listened, but the scribe was still behind his pen. As I’ve said in past writing, I learned gentleness from its absence, but the sharp ridicule of generational abuses persists while I try to separate its fiery breath from my own. I heard so much automatic vocal feedback while I delivered my presentation that I intentionally paused after the heaviest lines to see if those moments singed them to any degree that they had me, because those past voices still gaslight me even though their owners are no longer in my orbit. They did. And so my speech was not just the retelling of a story- it was an active soldier in my internal defense. I learned that my experiences are unfortunately common, but still abnormal. And that paradox is what I’m currently chewing on while I go even deeper into my inner world because expressing its contents outwardly is not only what I feel purpose in doing, but is an act of combat when so many people haven’t yet felt capable of fronting theirs. Though, they will apparently come inside my fight with me without even flinching.

    And so, I draw my sword again.

    The power steering pump in my van sprung a heavy leak a little over two weeks ago. I kept the fluid topped off and was assured it would get me by in the meantime while I worked on the complicated logistics of getting a vehicle you live out of worked on with little time, little money, and few fail safes. I’ve had access to a vacant house to allow me some reprieve from all of the other complications of vanlife, but have been doing an excessive amount of driving between it and a new job. I’ve been moving so fast despite a breakup and residual move-out, and a PTSD attack during a huge race that resulted in bailing out, that the next part invites those voices to call back and say, “these are the consequences of your poor choices. This is what you deserve.”

    Yesterday, I took the van to a garage to address the leak and form a plan. Four minutes after I pulled in, the return line on my power steering pump broke at a connection by just the touch of a finger. It had at some point, before I ever owned the vehicle, been sealed with JB Weld instead of being repaired properly. It held for six years at least, and I never knew. So here I am, now grounded in front of a bay, with no replacement pumps available locally until the middle of next week. I’m 20 minutes from work, and an hour from the house.

    This saint of a mechanic, Jeremy, engineers a temporary hose connection with industrial-strength glue and a dream. He sends me on my way with a cautious optimism that it would get me through until a new pump arrived, and sent me on my way.

    20-minutes later, my steering bricks up as I’m turning into the next town. I muscle it to the gas station down the road and again to my job just down the street (thanks for that at least, universe), but that location unfortunately leaves me no access to a shower at the very minimum. So I call for a ride back to the house, despite the cobra in my throat hissing that I am an inconvenience, a disaster, and that I need to get my act together. For the second time in a few weeks I go almost deadpan as my friend Aaro picks up, but the siege, and that cobra, descend on the base of the castle that has already been cracking and tumbling since time immemorial.

    The ground keeps moving. The snake moves beneath black dunes and I am immobile with my blade across my chest. I bring you to ground zero as it plays out because I can’t afford one more bad step after all of these recent hits. I haven’t made a plan. I don’t know how I’m even getting to work, 40-minutes away, on Tuesday, let alone the days after that. All of my silver has been spent on the sword, and I’m so profoundly tired of holding it.

    And the cobra is well fed today.

    ~

    This is another interrupter. Trying to accomplish more than the basics when I keep bottoming out creates this dichotomy- an intense and automatic drive juxtaposed with the smell of smoke of another impending fight. If I’m going to have to keep doing that (I will), then I’m also going to continue weaponizing my awareness before I ever even reach the end. And I won’t reach the end, until I can no longer speak.

    Part two of this post, ‘The Edge,’ is on the way. But I have to let its contents happen first, I fear.