I am a middle aged woman of no consequence. Regardless, your story has invaded all of my social media feeds and as a result, you have become a person of consequence to me. As such, I would like to respond to your recent post about your Beckham-family misalignments. I think at least the Western World has put our fear of Trump’s next impulsive power grab on pause and collectively stopped to ogle. Way to break the chaos! Yet interestingly enough, even though your experience is conveying a bit weird and un-relatable, it is universal in its relatable-ness.
“Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me (us) in Are you aware the shape I’m (we’re) in? My Our hands, they shake, my our head, it spins Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me us in.”
In all sincerity, I’m sorry you’re struggling. Your feelings are valid from every vantage point. You’re not alone. Family stuff is hard. Most of us do not hail from the top .001% like you, nor do we live our lives as publicly as you and your family have done. Unlike you, when we have big feelings, if we do post online, you can be certain that unlike the response to you, a million people will not care to take our side while a million other people to hate us. I mean, look, as I mentioned, I am a complete unknown and you are the son of David Beckham and Posh Spice.
Let’s get to the meat:
I say this next part gently and with compassion: The way you publicly articulate your problems, stating things like, “the performative social media posts,” and, “I do not want to reconcile with my family,” make you appear performative, spoiled, entitled and tone deaf, exactly like the people you are addressing in your, “I am standing up for myself for the first time in my life,” post.
Brooklyn: (may I call you Brooklyn?) You are not like us. My hope is that you want to be more like us. I really hope you didn’t intend to come across as an out of touch, rich, spoiled, white boy. And because this is what I understand to be a parasocial interaction, (me to you), I recognize I will never know if you’ve connected the dots, yet I feel entitled to weigh in nevertheless.
What I have observed is that you’ve lived in a fortunate bubble echo chamber, a magic land where you have the funds to create a hot sauce brand on a whim. (I want the funds to create a hot sauce brand on a whim.) Sure, you were required to show up for family photo ops and yes, I am sure a bunch of it was a facade. Hey look, even while scream fighting with my dad, my mom was always able to stop and answer the phone in a friendly voice.
Truthfully, for like five minutes, your beef was a delightful distraction from our sad, heartbreaking world.
What would it be like if our only worries revolved around an annoying mother-in-law and having to replace a promise of an expensive custom wedding dress with another fabulous custom wedding dress? My wedding dress was altered incorrectly and the sleeves were too tight. I could not lift my arms and was forced to hold my arms at my side the entire day. My mom was missing-in-action and I didn’t have the funds or the know-how to make it right.
Stay with me.
Contrast your wife Nicola’s wedding dress & your wedding dance drama with the millions of people who are losing healthcare and the ones fearing for their safety.
Yes, we all agree: your family seems to live by the steely, cutthroat veneer your words so aptly reflect. Ultimately, you chose to air your grievances publicly, and I’m sure life with your mom is complicated at best. I have sons. I get it. I want to respect and care for the women they love. Sometimes that space is hard to navigate and I fully screw up.
I’m not asking you to show your mom grace. Maybe offer her a sandwich.
Like I said, and for like the billionth time, you don’t know me and I don’t know you. What I am conveying is gratitude for my sons who show me grace and care. Here is a thought? No matter what happens with your family, I hope you continue the healing process. I want to believe your post was you trying to break your dysfunctional family cycle. Am I right? Is that what you were trying to do? Some would argue that breaking cycles is simply growing up. I, myself, like the idea of breaking cycles.
So if that is who you are, keep breaking cycles!
Maybe you could start by removing yourself from the public eye. Set private boundaries and trust in us lookie loos to see you as the person you want your family and future generations to know.
Spitballing some ideas: You could refocus your energy toward volunteerism, say working with women’s healthcare, or make it a constant priority to donate time and money to a food bank. Open a wedding dress shop that gives dresses away to disadvantaged and marginalized women. I promise if you do something more than telling us how much your family sucks that you will be able to break the pattern of your crappy rich entitled family. You’ve got this!
I spent my entire youth trying sincerely to adhere to all of the strictures and standards the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints expected of young people, while growing up in the Church and eventually attending Brigham Young University. The pressures and expectations eventually overwhelmed me, and half way through BYU I let loose and allowed myself to break the rules, which involved drinking alcohol and engaging in premarital sexual activity. It didn’t happen all at once. I would break the rules and feel guilty and repent, then transgress again and repent again. Over many years, I eventually came to see the Church’s prohibitions on drinking and its purity standards with some nuance, and I allowed the guilt for my transgressions to fade. A few times, in my attempts at 20-year-old-college-student authenticity, I nonchalantly drank coffee. When I did, I was haunted with a heartbeat of thoughts. I knew with every fiber of my being that every sip was pushing me farther away from my eternal salvation. I am not kidding. I don’t understand it either. My fear of coffee’s wrath was deep and far reaching. Somehow, among all of my rebellious transgressions, coffee drinking stood alone. Maybe because the coffee prohibition is unique to Mormons, its violation is most especially policed by the community, an outright rebellious act, and therefore it prompted a feeling in me of the most foul betrayal.
Instead of coffee, I sourced my caffeine by drinking copious amounts of Diet Coke. I drank so much Diet Coke that I’ve developed an aspartame sensitivity and can no longer drink Diet Coke without getting a migraine. During this era, the LDS church also disallowed drinking caffeinated soda, but the taboo against Coke was never as strong as the one against coffee, and most people, even at BYU, turned a blind eye to a Diet Coke addiction. I needed a Diet Coke replacement at the same time I was drifting away from Mormonism. That is when I shifted to green tea.
I was not able to simply drink green tea, however. Though I no longer attended church, my moral compass remained synchronized with LDS doctrines. I worked out a rationale that because green and white tea are the non-oxidized (non-fermented) type of the tea leaf, (black tea being the oxidized type), that drinking green tea was not violating the Mormon Word of Wisdom, in the same way that Mormons can drink grape or apple juice, but not wine or cider. Even after I was completely inactive in the LDS Faith, I continued my green tea superstition, which conveys to me now that I wasn’t just freaked out about coffee. I was paranoid about the eternal consequences of drinking coffee or black tea.
Green tea felt safe and kept me one step into my faith, which out of a similar superstition, I was fearful about fully leaving. Deep down, I was daunted by the idea that if I completely abandoned my upbringing, something super bad would happen to me like a piano might fall out of a window just as I walked by – killing me – because I deserved it. Nevertheless, my tea habit was a bit of a nuisance. Because green tea is light on caffeine, I drank it throughout the day. Ask Dave or my kids. They were always good sports. When we traveled the world, a world with super easily accessible coffee shops, free coffee at car rental dealerships and hotel rooms with more free coffee and coffee pots, I would find a way to procure green tea or white tea. They would never complain and instead helped me locate my favorite teas like the now retired Clipper White Tea Vanilla. Sure, many hotels have tea in the room. It was typically decaf or black. I preferred my tea with almond milk and little packets of stevia. It is my experience that the odds are high that even if there is green tea in the room, most hotels won’t have what I need. I started packing tea and stevia in my carryon. Everyone knew I drank copious amounts. My favorite tea order: Starbucks Venti Green Tea Unsweetened Light Ice.
Then two years ago I found myself on the brink of death. (I am not exaggerating.) I had been terribly ill for several months, including an continuous, choking cough that prevented me from speaking and that sometimes left me on all fours unable to take in a breath, severe chills, night sweats that soaked me head to toe several times during the night, sudden weight loss, fingernails peeling off, pallor, chronic tachycardia (my Apple Watch noticed my tachycardia and saved me twice by warning me to go to the hospital immediately). I spent months in home isolation, filling my days checking in with my doctors, seeing specialists, having endless blood tests and while I was surviving alone on my couch, watching the reality tv show “Alone,” about people surviving alone in the woods.
On a cold, late autumn afternoon I found myself at my allergy appointment when my internal medicine doctor called:
“It’s serious. Your bloodwork is bad. I’m not sure you’ll be ok. Your blood isn’t oxygenating well. You’ve gone off a cliff so to speak. I want to have you admitted to the hospital immediately. Can you go there now?”
Dave and I made our way over to the University of Utah Hospital where they were waiting, and spent several days having every imaginable test done, while being carefully monitored. A big part of what they were doing was systematically eliminating every type of cancer and acute illness, starting with the deadliest ones. One by one, we ruled out the various instant death sentences and horrible terminal diseases and eventually I was diagnosed with Anemia of Chronic Disease. Essentially, my bone marrow wasn’t functioning and all my intense symptoms were a result of my system’s inability to oxygenate my blood. My body couldn’t process iron in my diet or with oral supplements. I learned I would need iron infusions for the rest of my life. I received my first infusion in the hospital and for the next year, I had my blood tested every four weeks, and received fifteen additional iron infusions.
During that time I became aware that, besides having a few autoimmune issues, another thing that could be blunting my iron absorption was caffeine. See, I sipped my cups of green tea all day long, including at meals when I was receiving nutrients. As I became more run down, I craved a caffeine boost even more, and that created a vicious cycle. In my vulnerable state, my body wasn’t able to do what it was supposed to. I wasn’t getting iron. I was tired of being tired, and tired of feeling and thinking like I was going to die. I did constant research trying to figure out what I could do to get my body to work. Then in the Summer of 2024, I read that it’s easier for people with chronic anemia to absorb iron if they get their caffeine in one big dose at least an hour before or after meals, (as to not inhibit absorption). Honestly, I was probably drinking so much caffeine (like all my life) because I had undiagnosed celiac disease and as a result was already not properly absorbing nutrients.
That is when a miracle happened. I thought to myself, “What if I drink coffee?” I started low stakes and bought a can of Starbucks Medium Roast instant coffee. I heated up a cup of hot water, used a ½ teaspoon to measure my servings. I already had become accustomed to frothing almond milk for my tea. I made the switch. I began spending an hour or two in the late morning each day sitting at the northeast corner of our kitchen island, drinking two cups of coffee. Coffee became my church. I frothed. I read. I wrote. I sipped.
Because I fear their Mormon judgement, I intentionally withheld my new “church service” from my family, especially my mom. My coffee time became sacred. It was my new religion. I shared how much the switch to coffee helped. Dave quickly picked up on this new space. I didn’t excuse it. I owned it. Occasionally he would forget, walk into the kitchen, see my sipping or frothing and say,
“Oh wait. Is it coffee time? I can wait.”
I loved him for respecting my boundary.
Soon, I started feeling well. I don’t want to make a spurious correlation and suggest that coffee is what moved me to better health. Then again, maybe it was the space I gave myself to have coffee and to feel good about myself. On Christmas 2024 Dave gave me a Moccamaster, a fancy pour-over coffee brewer from The Netherlands that looks like a chemistry set. He had purchased it at an auction—it had been returned because it had some chopped paint. (I think he paid $23.00.)
“Don’t worry. If you don’t like it. It’s no big deal. We can give it away.” He said.
Thanks in part to the lack of fanfare and pressure, I purchased a coffee grinder and embraced the ritual of grinding the beans and working the Moccamaster, and it became a keystone of Coffee Time.
Shortly after that Christmas, I was on Facetime with my LDS sister when Dave eagerly announced,
“Beth is using her new coffee machine.”
My shoulders tightened. I couldn’t force my sister to unsee our coffee machine. I felt the shame of someone who had committed a major sin. I felt an urge to confess – to her. I started rationalizing and explaining why I needed to drink coffee. I hung up the phone, my face red with shame. That is when I decided I didn’t need anyone’s moral approval or permission to drink coffee. I never looked back.
We found the right cone-shaped coffee filters at Costco and I fully transitioned from instant coffee and learned to brew an excellent pot of coffee. A local roaster, La Barba Coffee, is my favorite. I love their House and Anchor varieties. I’ve gone through several frothers and am glad we purchased the extended warranty on the Kuerig Brand frother. (I’m currently on my third Kuerig frother.) I’ve taken our backup frothers all over the world, including to Chile where we hiked the W Trek in Torres Del Paine.
Last week I opened my 2025 Christmas present: a Breville Bambino Plus Espresso Machine. It’s cute and shiny! Kyle, my oldest, gave me a coffee subscription and two coffee mugs, one is a double walled glass mug and the other a personalized Prospect Lefferts mug & Brooklyn Botanical Garden coaster from the NYC nieghborhood he lives in. The learning curve wasn’t as steep as I thought it would be. I learned why we tamp, how to tamp, and even bought myself a tamping station. By the end of the week I was making the perfect-for-me Americano. We spent the entire holiday talking, connecting and making coffee drinks.
The other day, Kyle had been visiting for Christmas and participated in the espresso festivities, said he already missed my espresso maker. I sent him a picture, which he promptly “hearted.” As I reflect, I don’t understand why I let coffee or the idea of drinking coffee terrify me and allow it to be some sort of measure of my worthiness. I wish it wouldn’t have taken me almost dying to internalize that drinking coffee wouldn’t cause my eternal damnation. I respect that people have their own relationship with coffee, tea, or “strong drinks.” I grieve the years I didn’t drink coffee and am relieved that I finally feel safe drinking coffee on a regular basis. Maybe some day I’ll be brave enough not to hide my habit from my Mormon family. Ultimately, my body loves coffee. I feel healed. I love my new church. I love my coffee and I still drink tea — all the flavors.
I have no idea if online posts are real or just some form of AI Slop – (“AI Slop” is also Merriam Webster’s 2025 word/phrase of the year). With Social Media so full of this SLOP, I decided I wanted to be a real human who blogs/writes publicly (finished another draft of my memoir recently). I’m craving authenticity! Sure, my words might fall into a vortex only to be read by my husband and bots. Nevertheless, I love to write. I love to express myself. I promise reliable and relatable truth. I hope you will find me. I hope you will engage.
Recently, I learned that because CrazyUs Dot Com is so old (birthed in 2002), it has a high Google Trust Worthiness Ranking System, which I thought was really cool; (or possibly meaningless, depending on who you ask). Dave (my husband) and I have been talking about the experience of being an Old Time-y Blog or website. He started OS News Dot Com in another century. It still has like 2 million monthly visitors.
My children are grown and living their own lives. Like a million years ago, on the daily, I used to regale the world with stories about raising two precocious little boys. Each day brought new joy, like son-guided safaris equipped, including sippy cups & winter hats, poop painted walls, or homemade robot costumes fashioned out of cardboard boxes. I had no idea that establishing CrazyUs way back then would help us maintain a solid online footprint. I mean, it was an era before social media where people in real time would reach out and long form comment or respond via email, and then we would email back and forth for days, building beautiful friendships. YES! Email! I miss that time, which seems like a blip on the radar of technology’s progress, because it was a blip.
I’m (so) much older now. Many of you have zero idea what a blog or a Mommy Blog is and that’s totally ok. Anyway, back when I was a Mommy Blogger, I personally came to know my audience, considering many of my readers’ real life friends. I loved sharing joys and heartaches and looked forward to my daily real human connections. I loved talking with other parents about their children. I was moved to tears by others’ stories of infertility, which I was also experiencing. I found a community of women and men who really seemed to care about one another – because they did care about each other – on a personal level. Back when we were trying to decide if it was safe to enter our credit card number to make an online purchase, blogging was this bright light in a sea of the new World Wide Web.
Somewhere in there my best friend, Heather (Dooce.com) – who died in 2023 by suicide – may she rest in peace – well, somewhere in there, she and I had a famous online breakup (a burn-it-to-the-ground falling out, which I have learned since was just her style. I was the first on her long road of burning bridges.) She often protested,
“Beth, I am the bane of your existence.”
She was not the bane of my existence. I only wish whatever was broken hadn’t clouded the love and admiration I had for her. Selfish, I know. I’m a classic adaptive caretaker / enabler. Heather (Dooce) and I, in-therapy-speak, were a toxic match. In those early years, she was cool, well spoken, thoughtful and such a great writer, a fabulous friend, and yes, eventually she became mean, vindictive, paranoid and progressively unhinged. What a heartbreaking loss! She and I never reconciled. I hope if there is a life after this one that she has found peace. Nevertheless, Heather (DOOCE) absolutely owned Mommy Blogging. We all knew it and loved-hated her for it.
That is possibly why Beth of the early aughts was no match for Heather/Dooce’s power and influence. As it turned out, Beth-of-yesterday ran away and stopped blogging.
I moved (literally). When the air cleared, I realized my pain was never about blogging. That is when I decided it was time to break the unhealthy generational cycles within my own family of origin, (where my significant pain lies). Thanks to therapy, boundaries, a husband who is committed to work through the shit, and two amazing children, I’m absolutely wiser, stronger and happier. I feel joy. I drink coffee, (the Mormon thing because Mormons aren’t supposed to drink coffee, but can binge out on Red Bull. Make that make sense.) I no longer hide who I am. I feel like me. Sure, there are wrinkles. Some of my family no longer speaks to me. It balances out, because there are other family members I have chosen not to speak to. Consequently, these days those of us who do speak usually keep it about the weather or our health.
Here is a truth: Beth-of-Yesterday may have remained a blogger had she been more confident and had not relied so heavily on the support of her family. Feeling supported was a tall ask. It makes sense why yesterday-Beth caved when her husband proclaimed,
“Blogs don’t make money!”
Beth-of-yesterday’s mom frequently shared,
“What you write hurts and embarrasses our family.”
Of course I couldn’t see what I had. I ran from future opportunities like my blog moving me into some sort of social media job. I ran from my community, which I do regret! I realized years ago that I could never reclaim that moment because that particular Mommy-Blog-Hailey’s-Comment time and opportunity will never come again.
What I can do is serve as a cautionary tale: TRUST YOURSELF! IF YOU CAN, FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS, even when your dreams make others uncomfortable!
What makes me happy is Beth-of-Today! She has grace. She understands that her husband had no clue how much money bloggers could make as they transitioned into influencers and that Beth-of-Yesterday should have pushed back on the patriarchy so-to-speak and listened to her own innate instincts. Alas, Beth-of-Yesterday was raised in a patriarchal religion by a mom who really thinks men are our bosses. I absolutely wish Beth-of-Yesterday had not given her power away to her best friend, her mom or her husband. Regardless, I have compassion for young Beth. I didn’t get it! I didn’t see that I was enough! My therapist often suggests that I was raised not to get it; and that actually I was conditioned to give my power away, (because I was. I mean, look at Mormon theology: men are literally the patriarch of the home).
I’m still working on forgiving myself.
What I can tell you is that since way back when, I’ve come to learn that I carry and abundance of fear and shame, which I’ve carried from a time before I had the words to say that I felt worthless and afraid. Consequently, my relationship with my family really had nothing to do with the words I wrote online. And in fact, keeping their secrets has arguably made things worse. I will probably always be working on shaking the fear and shame. What I finally see, however, is that my family, including me, is strong. We are survivors! We will survive regardless if I publicly share one of our uncomfortable moments.
As far as all-of-me goes, it makes sense that had I kept blogging, I would have moved into a career in social media — like so many other Mommy Bloggers did, which is another loss I’ve had to grieve. Agism is real and I don’t have a time machine.
As far as what I write, I’m certain that I cannot buffer everyone from the pain my word choice might evoke. I’m sure my revelations will hurt, embarrass or offend someone. They inevitably do. Then again, is anyone even reading?
To my family: Please know that I don’t want to hurt you.
I’m here. I’m real. I hope you will read. If I hurt you or you don’t like what I say, I hope you will talk to me. Let’s keep this going. Happy New Year. With love. xx Beth
PS Dave, if you are my only reader, I am grateful you are here reflecting back my words. What a gift.
Picture this: We are living in a 1923 tudor-style home in the 15th and 15th neighborhood of Salt Lake City and listening to Coldplay’s soul screaming song, “Fix You,” not because me and my actual husband are being splashed on a Jumbotron at a Coldplay concert, but because I am experiencing secondary infertility. I am wrecked. I don’t think I can experience a deeper pain than I felt having my first miscarriages. Beth of 2005 has absolutely no idea that she will experience approximately thirty more miscarriages, including two D&Cs as a result of second trimester losses.
I saw him. In 2013, I saw my baby boy on the ultrasound. He had five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. He had a cute little nose, just like Kyle’s. That would have been boy number three. We had already nicknamed him, “Sponge Bob.” I was cautiously over the moon at the thought that I would be a mom again. Two weeks later I recall being wheeled down a cold, lonely hallway at LDS hospital. There was no heartbeat. My baby was gone. I would never become pregnant again.
On days like today I would give anything to go back and be July 2005 Beth. Picture this. Kyle is five years old and Eli is three. My two big, blond, boisterous boys are my world. Kyle is a runaway train of curiosity and creativity. Eli takes a beat and takes it all in. At age three he already has the comic timing of David Letterman.
In 2005, we are building our Park City home. In September Kyle will begin kindergarten and Eli will go to a new preschool. On that hot summer day, the boys are in their swim suits running around the yard in between the two sprinklers we have set up for them. The band Coldplay plays in the background on the outdoor speaker. Kyle raises his arm high and with the vibrato of Pavoratti he sings, “Lights will guide you home.” Eli gleefully jumps through the water.
Soon Kyle is throwing paint on 11 x 17” papers we have nailed to a tree for both boys, Eli becomes distracted and asks for a popsicle.
“Mommy, can I have a popsicle?”
“Of course.”
He giggles. Eli’s deep scratchy, little boy laugh fills my heart in a way I never knew was possible. The boys eat their popsicles and Kyle, now covered head to toe in watercolors, quickly returns to his painting. I am transfixed with his wonderful wide-armed gestures as he tells me all about his art,
“Mom! See, it’s a dinosaur. He is flying. It’s a stegosaurus. Did you know stegosaurs are herbivores? Do you know what a herbivore is? That means they eat plants.”
Eli walks into the house. “Mom, I think I need to pee.” I let Kyle know I check on Eli.
“Ok Mom. That’s a good idea.”
Kyle bends over, grabs a bunch of blue paint and throws it at his painting. I walk into our house.
“Eli. Eli. Where are you?”
I don’t hear him. I find him on the side of the bed between the wall and the bed. He has taken a pillow with a bug print pillowcase from his bed and is resting on it with his arms crossed behind his head. His big crystal blue eyes are wide open.
“Hey Eli, there you are. What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking. Mommy, I like to think.”
“Do you want to come back and paint?”
“I want to think a little bit more.”
July 2025: On a whim, earlier this summer, Dave bought tickets to Alaska. Eli couldn’t make it due to his work schedule. Dave bought Kyle a ticket just in case he could. Kyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. This morning Kyle shared that he wouldn’t be able to come to Alaska. My heart cracked wide open and I did that thing I keep telling myself to do.
“Don’t respond with your big feelings. Give yourself a minute to process.”
I took a beat. While I was taking my beat, Eli walked upstairs and saw me crying. Eli is signing a contract on a house today. He has already started packing his things. Aside from leaving each summer for out of town jobs with Conservation Corps, Eli has lived at home during college. After finishing his summer internship, he officially graduates from the University of Utah in August. I could not be more proud.
Eli noticed my tears and asked what was up.
“You’re moving and we can’t seem to coordinate with Kyle. I am so proud of you, of both of you. You are taking the best next steps. I just love being your mom and,”
Before I could finish, Eli filled in, “I bet. It’s hard for me too. I’ve lived here so long.”
“You are doing good things.” I responded.
“Mom, I live so close. I am sure I will be here all the time.” His words carried me.
I have never experienced greater joy than being a parent. Kyle and Eli are double rainbows after a storm. They are kind people who are doing amazing things. I want them to continue to fly and follow their bliss. I also miss the days of watching them run around the back yard, jumping through sprinklers, eating popsicles and listening to Coldplay.
Well, then again, maybe it is you, but my guess is that it probably is not.
My husband and I were on a walk when I shared that I had spent the morning in Instagram therapy. (I love-hate those 60 second self help reels!)
“Did you watch the reel I sent?” I asked. “You know the one about how friends are leaves, branches and roots?”
He had. Like the gentle dance of autumn leaves falling, we talked about how leaves represent casual friends; friends that come and go. Maybe half of our friends are branches. Those are the friends who love to hear from you, are the ones who show up when they can and are wonderful when they show up. Roots are your darkest hour friends. They are the unwavering, reliable folks who are there when shit goes down and stay.
“You are my root. I mean, sure there are people who would text me if they knew I was dying. I can count on you. It’s about how we reciprocate and show up for one another. I don’t have to think about it. I know you will be there holding my hair back when I’m puking my brains out. I mean, come on, you are solid! You let me hide under your shirt just when I am feeling sad and insecure. Um, by the way, all of this Instagram-therapy-friendship-talk-build-up is my way of letting you know that right this very moment I am feeling sad and insecure.”
“What’s up?”
“It goes back to last night. Remember when we were at the restaurant? I was trying to get your attention and that dude was in my line of sight. He assumed I was trying to engage him. Instead of blowing him off, I decided to go with the moment. Because he is a professional writer, within seconds he was giving me advice on how I could be a better writer, (I had not asked for writing advice), and seconds later, he was throwing shade on my friends. Like being thrown off a raft without a lifevest, I was flailing. What was supposed to be me trying to get your attention spiraled into him propping himself up at my expense. I have felt weirdly insecure ever since. Oof.”
“That sounds awful!”
My husband and I spent the next 4,327 steps deconstructing my “awful” feelings. What I know is that I am too old to feel bad as a result of someone else’s insecurities. By the way, I am not saying this because I am old. If you are twenty, you are too old to feel bad as a result of someone else’s baggage.
I’m sensitive. I am a barometer. I can pick up on your imposter syndrome, your need to eat, even your need for someone else to validate my worthiness before you will engage me. I can pick up when you are manipulating others. I can see your need for control.I know it’s a red flag when you announce that you are easy going. Consequently, my acutely attuned radar makes me great bait. (My guess is I am not the only one out there with acutely attuned radar.) I will drop my talk to you when I am actually trying to get my husband’s attention. I will give you the reaction you think you need. I will react to your cruelty, your jokes at my expense and play into your deflections.
Let me spell it out: Recently one of my friends, I haven’t decided if they are a leaf or a branch, well, they asked me how I was doing. I answered,
“I’m having a hard morning. I hope I don’t go off on anyone.” A few hours later and in front of our group of friends, this person asked, “Are you going to go off?” I ignored their question. A little while later, they asked again. I did not respond, yet must have had a look like I might go off because they asked me, “What? Are you going to go off on me?” I ignored them. And sure enough, shortly after that, they asked once more. This time, I put my hand to my face, exasperated. They turned to someone else and while pointing at me, said, “Look. Look. She is going to go off.”
I felt their eyes on me and at that moment all my baggage floated to the surface. It felt like I was standing in front of all of my friends naked with food in my teeth. I trusted that my leafy friend’s early morning question about how I was doing had been sincere. I felt the perspiration on my neck and rolling down my back. That is when I raised both of my arms in the air and exclaimed, “I can’t do this right now. I am completely overwhelmed.”
They laughed, looked away from me, and said, “See. I told you she was going to go off.” I tried to count to ten and couldn’t make it past two. I looked at them until our eyes met, and said,
“Will you please stop?” They did not stop. They did say,
“Well, you told me you were going to go off on someone.”
Clearly upon reflection, (like writing this entire exchange out and rereading it), that person is neither a branch or a leaf. I recognize own my stuff too. I made a choice. I believe that they are important socially so I adjusted my boundaries. I am not sure if that was a great choice.
Once again I hearken back to my Instagram-therapy and my real life therapy. Here is what I have learned and what I need to tell myself: We don’t need to be everyone’s roots. Branches are good. What we deserve is to have people in our lives who will meet us half way. I am not sure what your half way looks like. For me, half way is not a ti for a tat. My half way is fluid and looks like feeling safe and feeling worthy. I want you to trust me. I want you to like me, be interested in me, and want to be around me without your friends telling you I am cool enough to be around. I want to do the same for you. When I reach out, I don’t want you to make excuses. I hope you are happy that I reached out. I understand if we don’t get together when you are in town. I cherish that we are friends. When I accidentally talk to you at a bar while trying to get my husband’s attention, I want you to be kind. It’s about bids for connection and building our tender, amazing root systems together. RECIPROCITY. I will set that word right here. I recognize these bids for connection can be hard, especially those who are dealing with their own ugly shit. I have endless compassion for you. I want to hear about your shit. I want to help you with your shit. The nudge: I want you to actively care about my shit too. And for those who don’t see the energy sucking creatures they are, maybe it’s time to deal with your own heartbreaking shit instead of flinging it onto everyone else. Just a thought that I could totally make into an Instagram Reel.
I wish I could reach the white women who voted for Trump. I don’t want to hold myself above them for being more moral or better informed than they are. Nevertheless, I wish I open their eyes to see that Donald Trump is harming America and its interests, even (especially) interests that Republicans and Conservatives embraced until very recently.
My loved ones live in a cloud of befuddlement, seemingly blind to Trump’s broken promises, rogue anti-constitutional behavior (threat of a third term), and stoked with fear—fear that Fox News serves up to fill a purpose in their vulnerable existence.
I lost one friend when I told her I had been given the Covid vaccine.
“Um, I will not be getting the vaccine.” She commented, haughtily, and I never heard from her again.
My mom still will not get her recent Covid booster. She tells me she was afraid and now just can’t seem to schedule an appointment. I offered. I am on shaky ground with another friend. She knows I am a Democrat. She is a wonderful person and a Conservative. Our politics meet close to the middle. Nevertheless, there is a line. For years we avoided talking about politics. Now we avoid talking to each other.
What do we do? What do we say? How do we hear each other? How do we heal? How do we hope? How do we protect the ones we love? It’s like I am walking in a blizzard. The noisedistracts me from any sort of productive focus. That’s why I decided to write. Historically writing helps me clear my head. I need to document our current moment. Oh my God, what is happening? I am actually freaking out!
“The jump in egg prices was due to an outbreak of Avian flu that occurred before Trump took office, although how he deals with the outbreak going forward is on him.But this is very similar to the story of the pandemic and Biden. The media kept telling us that people don’t blame the pandemic for inflation, they blame Biden. If Biden can be nailed for inflation caused by the pandemic, we should be able to nail Trump for soaring egg prices caused by Avian flu.After all, people don’t see Avian flu, they see high egg prices.”
And immigrants? People he made you afraid of, (xenophobia)! They are legal immigrants, immigrants who are now being plucked from their everyday lives. Not rapists. Not gang members. Everyday people are being taken. What happened to,
“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
“Rather than ideas competing freely on their merits, algorithms amplify or suppress the reach of messages… introducing an unprecedented form of interference in the free exchange of ideas that is often overlooked.”
You can quote me on this because after the college students are silenced, you will find next it will be people like you and me, a middle class white woman who is trying to use her voice:
“Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
Look at history. First they came for the immigrants. Soon everyone who pushed back against the current regime was taken by plain clothed, masked officials under the cover of darkness and marched to a prison camp which soon became a death camp where millions were forced to strip down, abandon their belongings and their clothes. Naked, they had their heads shaved and were given a prison number to “serve as efficient management of camps,” which was tattooed on their forearms; dehumanized. It really is Nazi Germany 1933.
“I like the lady who does my nails because she is an American. I can understand her. I couldn’t understand those other ladies.”
Implication: “English is not their first language. Immigrants are something to be feared. They are not like us.”
In my Mom’s defense, she is eighty-four and wears hearing aids. I can understand why she wants to be understood by the person she pays to do her nails. Unfortunately, her comment is clouded by the fact that Fox News and News Max run nonstop in the background of her home.
I reminded her that at age fifteen her grandfather immigrated from Luxembourg.
“Mom, I bet your grandpa was hard to understand when he immigrated here. I hope people were gave him a pass.”
She nodded.
I am not implying that my mom doesn’t get to choose who she pays to do her nails. What I am saying is I hope she will see immigrants differently. I hope she will consider that maybe there is a world beyond what Fox News is spoon feeding her.
My mom immediately followed with,
“I am not a racist.”
It was like she had been coached, given a script, and prepared to talk to her woke, leftist, non-christian daughter. How can I penetrate this messaging? How can I penetrate the fact that my mom believes I am the bad guy, better, that I am on the wrong team? How can I have a conversation like we were able to have during the George W. Bush years. I literally have a personal connection to the men who created the torture program for Guantanamo Bay. It broke my brain then. Now this dark piece of trivia feels like a helpful bridge. Like,
“hey, I know one of these dudes. His family seems really nice.”
How can we unify and save this ship before it goes down? I am not sure. Help!
