Videogames and Mass Effect

My parents only let me have a Game Boy for the longest time, but for some reason, I always borrowed copies of Nintendo Power magazine at the library. I’d read the walkthroughs to EVERY GAME. I didn’t even really WANT the games themselves (I just liked reading walkthroughs of games I couldn’t play, I guess). I would go frame by frame as it showed you the level progressions with secret tips, pretending I was playing it as I animated the pages in my head, imagining playing the games.

I’m almost 37 and just realized I am really into games and have been ever since I first played Mystery House, O’Dell Lake, and Oregon Trail on the old Apple IIe computers we had at school in fourth to fifth grades.

The Mass Effect trilogy didn’t feel like a game. It felt so real. The first game has flaws (I’m not good at games and always play on casual) LIKE DRIVING THE MAKO, and the freaking elevator loading screens… BUT I CRIED SO MUCH IN THE SERIES… when Thane dies… and our favorite Salarian…I also, as a non-binary nerd, have a soft spot for the fact that you could be in non-straight relationships in the games. That helped me SO MUCH.

Anyway… rambling… just wanted to say…videogames are awesome.

TL;DNR Dorky quiet middle aged person fondly recalls pretending to play videogames with Nintendo Power and realizes Mass Effect is superbly rad.

You.

I’m about to turn 37 next month. Recently, I got the urge to listen to the first Savage Garden album cuz “I haven’t heard that in like ten years.”

Dudes… that album came out in 1997, which to me feels like 10 years ago.

It was 23 years ago.

I spent the ages of being 21-33 married to a not nice person… the past four years I’ve finely started learning life skills like how to change brake pads and reset an odometer in my car. I’m playing catch-up but I think we all are.

One thing the pandemic has taught me is that literally I’m the best friend I will ever have. I have witnessed 100% of my life, no one else. Instead of beating myself up constantly, I’ve realized… not once have I ever given up on myself. I’ve come close, but I’m still here. No one else got me out of that marriage… no one else got me through being bullied in high school… no one else was so brave to make it through every single day… me.

I have depression and panic disorder but I’m also a major dork. No one cracks me up like I do. No one’s thoughts move me as much as my own. I’ve known myself my whole life, but I am still constantly learning things about myself… what I like, how I love, things about sex, thoughts about life and space and science and spirituality…

My biggest advice to everyone is to give yourself a break. You have been through SO MUCH. And you’re still here. You’re still trying and you can grow and change and love and laugh and cry and feel. And all the bad things in life, you’ve gotten through them ALL. They may affect you, but they are not who you are. You have not failed because you still breathe. And from your first breath to your last, you are the number one witness to your own life. Stop thinking about all the times you “failed”. You didn’t fail… you learned and grew.

You can try and try to get other people to understand what you’ve been through, but no one will ever truly get it like you. You know. You were there. You remember. You saw. And you have done the absolute most loving thing you could ever do for yourself: you haven’t given up on yourself.

It’s okay to be afraid, to have doubts, to be imperfect… to have things you’re not good at… to need therapy or medication or whatever… but you are so perfect at being you. You are alive, not in the past… but right here and now, taking these breaths and reading these words.

You exist.

You matter.

You.

A Reason to Love

This cat has literally saved my life. We’ve been in each other’s lives for 14 years (she’s around 16) and no amount of time will ever be enough. She’s old, so every day with her is precious. I know someday she will leave, but I am who got to receive her love.

I forgot what login I signed up with and whoops, that took forever. I’m here and I’ll write about anxiety and death soon. Thank you all for your patience and support. ❤ Please stay safe!

A Drunk Man Sings Bob Marley

A drunk man sings Bob Marley in the street below while I enjoy a weed high and write bad poetry. A lifetime ago, there would have been tears, but now I feel so much there’s no reaction powerful enough to convey what I’m feeling. I just sit and listen and silently hope that one day the world will remember to love.

WIP: I Have Seen the Ocean of Light

The World calls into being Another, one who will live awhile. Who will learn what it’s like to be singing and dancing, to know an embrace made of tears. But also to learn how to dream and to question, to also be peaceful and strong. To learn what is perfect and pure. The world that is hurting, another, another. A gentleness ushers love in. In the cradle of gold light, a Source made of beauty. Another, another, arise. Into forever and beyond all knowing. Beyond, beyond, beyond. All things we know passing. Another is being awakened. A calm wind. A silence. An echo of approaching dark. But there in the dark, a solitary light source. The brief interlude of our waking.

My Story: Part 001

WARNING: The following entry deals with abuse of various kinds, as well as a brief mention of eating disorders.

When I told my ex husband, “I don’t love you anymore and I want a divorce,” he immediately began to cry.

“This isn’t happening,” he wailed, and begged me to change my mind.

I remember I was sitting on the bed, looking down at him sobbing uncontrollably on the floor. I felt nothing but disgust.

Part of me wondered if perhaps I should be crying, but I only held that thought for a moment before realizing I was done with it. I had been with this person for thirteen years, most of it involving being subjected to constant outbursts of anger, threats of physical and sexual violence, and emotional abuse and manipulation so bad that I was terrified of coming home at night.

I was done being afraid. If telling him that I was leaving was going to end with my life being extinguished, at least I would die having told him to fuck off. I would die knowing that I had at last spoken the truth, had finally confronted him and told him how I felt. I had looked him in the eye, and with no quaver in my voice, no tears in my eyes, had said, “I. DON’T. LOVE YOU.”

I didn’t care. After he had finally crossed the line several months prior and hit me (because the sex position we were in hurt me), refusing to so much as look at the mark he had left for hours on my body, I knew I had to leave. I had to and I would. That or I would die trying.

I waited for months, trusting that the right opportunity would present itself. Some kind of sign would make itself known, telling me that the time to ask for a divorce was now.

It took roughly five months. Five months after he hit me to get to that place. In those five months, I had become hardened and bitter, spending as much time away from home as I possibly could. Some nights, I would sleep in my car in the parking lot just so I wouldn’t have to walk upstairs and face him.

I knew when the time was right.

I was working a shitty job, doing my best not to collapse from a then undiagnosed case of anorexia brought on by my shitty marriage and my inability to eat without wanting to throw up from stress.

I came home one day, absolutely exhausted. I had just worked a full shift after only sleeping for a few hours, and all I wanted to do was go to bed and escape reality. My husband, however, instantly got on my case. He had been home all day, sitting on his ass, watching TV after playing golf with his buddies. I had barely walked through the door and hadn’t even taken my shoes off when he began laying into me.

“I’m hungry and thirsty. Go get me a drink,” he demanded.

“I just got home. I barely slept last night and I really just need to go to bed.”

“I SAID…GO GET ME…A DRINK!”

I met his gaze and knew this was It. This was The Moment.

“No. You’ve been home all day. I’m tired. Go get it yourself,” I said, walking to the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

As I crawled into bed, I heard him get off the couch.

Then I heard the sounds of his fists hitting anything they could make contact with. The thud of the plaster walls, the hollow sound of our cheap chipboard doors splintering, and the metallic clang of our dryer door being assaulted.

At least it wasn’t me.

At least it wasn’t me.

As he screamed death threats at me, his fists continuing to pummel every surface they could find, I locked myself in our bedroom closet. I was too short to reach the pull chain for the light, so I stayed in the dark.

Alone and afraid, I turned on my cell phone. I was too scared to call the police, knowing if the cops showed up my ex might do something completely insane. So I did what any grown woman afraid for her life would do…

I texted my parents.

I begged them to come get me.

I told them I was afraid, that he was being physically violent, that he had recently hit me, and that I needed them to drive up and take me away.

“You two just need to work out your differences and maybe get counseling.”

My heart broke into absolute shatters.

My parents were not coming to get me.

I texted my best friend and sometimes lover.

“I never liked him. Leave him. You deserve better.”

She was not coming to save me.

I texted my sibling, who gave me a vague response and then silence.

No one was coming.

I was alone.