Therapy Roulette

I would not say that I am an expert at therapy, but I have certainly had my brushes with the noble art. Some of them I have written about in this very blog, like poor Marueen, others I have been rather tight lipped about. But I think, just as we need to be more open about therapy to reduce the stigma of getting help, we need to be more honest about the quality of the help we are receiving. And what to do if your therapist just doesn’t get it.

So just like with poor Maureen, the names have been changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I honestly don’t know what the protocol around that is. (And you know my love/fear of protocol.)

Let’s start with the most recent former therapist. Rodger. He was actually a fantastic counselor. I met with him after my sister suggested I try online therapy at a particularly rough time for me. She sent me to betterhelp.com, and it was not false advertising. Up until now, it was the best help I had ever had. He was a veteran of the war in Afghanistan and specialized in trauma as well as addiction. I had no problems with addiction but he also had experience with bipolar and LGBT issues, so when the website set us up, I went with it.

Like I said, he was one of the best counselors I had ever had. We would meet up online, and even though you can do video chat, I chose to text chat. That is just a better situation for me with my social anxiety. He was a bit of a typo guy, but his advice was really solid. This was so much better than the last therapist I had… His name was Jack.

Oh, Jack. I will always think fondly of Jack if only for the material he gave me. I came to him when I was in a particularly horrible phase of my mental health rehabilitation. I was going through awful medication side effects that included- night terrors, panic attacks, nerve damage, skin irritation, deteriorating self esteem, worsening ADHD symptoms, and probably the worst one of all, the sudden “fight or flight” feeling while being intimate. Essentially, I would feel like I was being raped in the middle of fooling around with my husband. It was traumatic to say the least, for both of us.

Jack was the kind of therapist that you sometimes questioned how solid his life was. He was a very nice man, don’t get me wrong. But he made huge gaffes in our sessions. When I told him about my son being autistic, he grimaced and asked, “Oh no, is he a screamer?” I honestly almost left after he said that, but I figured, he’s just like everyone else in this small town. So he might still be the best I can do.

Second gaffe came when he kept telling me about his other patients. I am a people-pleaser, so I didn’t say much when he repeatedly brought up other patients, but still, it was off-putting.

Third gaffe, or perhaps, just a bad therapist moment, was when I told him that I was LGBT, and he suddenly found ways to keep bringing up Jesus. I dig Jesus, but the conversation was suspiciously not about spiritual matters. It was definitely not WWJD.

Anyway, after several months of therapy, where I was just starting to understand my own autism/ADHD, I repeatedly tried to get him to talk to me about what I was feeling on that subject. In response, he repeatedly tried to diagnosis me with Borderline Personality Disorder. There is nothing wrong with being BPD, but it just wasn’t my situation.

Here are some of the problems associated with BPD (and why they did not apply to me)

  • Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment by friends and family. (This is similar to Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, but I never actually thought they’d abandon me.)
  • Unstable personal relationships that alternate between idealization (“I’m so in love!”) and devaluation (“I hate her”). This is also sometimes known as “splitting.” (Not an issue for me.)
  • Distorted and unstable self-image, which affects moods, values, opinions, goals and relationships. (Again, similar to RSD. But BPD can refer to distorted in a “delusions of grandeur” kind of way. Not my problem. )
  • Impulsive behaviors that can have dangerous outcomes, such as excessive spending, unsafe sex, substance abuse or reckless driving. (I have impulsive behavior from my ADHD but no where near this level of harm. I’m in a healthy relationship with no substance abuse and I’m a relatively boring driver.)
  • Self-harming behavior including suicidal threats or attempts. (Any suicidal idealization I had came from medication side effects and sensory over-stimulation, which I tried to make him understand, but he didn’t want to listen.)
  • Periods of intense depressed mood, irritability or anxiety lasting a few hours to a few days. (I was being treated for Bipolar so this always felt a little like lazy diagnostic thought to me. Duh.)
  • Chronic feelings of boredom or emptiness. (I have ADHD, I am not bored. I get depressed but that is different.)
  • Inappropriate, intense or uncontrollable anger—often followed by shame and guilt. (Ahem… Bipolar, RSD.)
  • Dissociative feelings—disconnecting from your thoughts or sense of identity or “out of body” type of feelings—and stress-related paranoid thoughts. Severe cases of stress can also lead to brief psychotic episodes. (This was a problem for me only in the aspects of Autistic burnout. Different animal.)

Now, if you know anything about RSD or autism, you can understand how Jack might have been confused. Especially because of the longstanding psychiatric idea that women are not autistic, and men do not have BPD, which has lead to misdiagnosis all over the place.

My problem with Jack was not that he misdiagnosed me, but that he wouldn’t even listen to my objections to that diagnosis. Then he made the mother all gaffes, that allowed me to leave him without any second thoughts…

He told me all about his former patient that was “just like” me. More and more I agreed with his description, until I finally asked with hope, “Well, what did you do for her? Did she get better?”

His face went white, he gave this very old man clearing of his throat and said, “Well, she told me that she would always remember the time that we shared together, and that made me feel better after she… uh… passed.”

That’s right, folks. His patient killed herself. And he forgot about it right up until I asked about her.

So, even if he were not so incompetent, I would still say that he just didn’t get me.

Before Jack, was Marueen, who you can read about here. I only had two appointments with her a year apart. And neither were helpful. Not only because Maureen didn’t get me but because I wasn’t telling her the truth. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was masking.

Before Marueen, there was Debrah, when I was about twelve years old. She told my mother that I was depressed from the novels I was reading. Yeah. That was over before it started.

So that brings us back to today, where I made the difficult decision to leave the best therapist I have ever had. Why? Did he compare me to his other patients? Did he try to diagnose me with a disorder that I didn’t have? Did he compare me to a tree? (Again, check out Maureen’s story.) Did he completely ignore my autistic diagnosis?

No, he was a great counselor. But he just didn’t know enough about autistic people to help me with my atypical relationships and problems. He was great for emotional regulation and RSD, but when it came to my autistic traits, he dismissed them. Purely from a lack of knowledge on the subject. He fell for all the usual tropes, assuming that I had a lack of empathy, that I don’t understand emotions or that I would be unable to understand facial cues (I do not have this particular problem, some autistic people do, I don’t. Don’t make assumptions.)

STILL, he was the best I’d ever had. But was that “best” good enough to keep seeing him, even though his advice was becoming more and more neurotypical? No. It wasn’t. So I took the chance that I might hurt his feelings and asked for a new counselor on BetterHelp.

Again, it delivered. I am starting with a new therapist, let’s call her Donna. She is LGBT with personal autistic experience (!!!) And I am hopeful, if not confident, that she will get me. And I would have never met her had I not had the strength to stop using Rodger’s services.

So like the title of this post says, therapy is a bit like Russian Roulette. Counselors and therapists are still just people. And people can be both good or bad at their jobs. They’re either the bullet you need to take out your problem, or they’re just an empty chamber. (And the damage from an empty chamber is worse in this scenario, in case my metaphor is mixing you up.)

My point… If the therapy you are experiencing is not right for you, get a new therapist. There is no shame. As always, reader, I implore you … demand help.


Check out any of the internet based therapies out there, but I will always suggest betterhelp.com. They really made a difference in my life.

Also, if you are interested in the fun “finding yourself” journal check it out in Emily McDowell and friends shop. She’s one of my favorites. Like she says in the product description, technically that journal is a lot cheaper than therapy.

Who Am I?

While being sick in my bed, I don’t have a lot to do but daydream. Sure, I’ve watched some movies (Oh Greta Gerwig, your Little Women makes my heart ache it’s so good.) I’ve listened to a lot of ASMR. Done some writing, of course.

But mostly I’ve slept and daydreamed.

And in all this dreaming I’ve begun to wonder, Who am I?

No, the coronavirus does not also include amnesia now in its list of symptoms. No, just now that I am post Autism diagnosis so late in my life and I am living without a mask for the first time in years…so I’m wondering who I am, for real.

Well, for that, I think I should start with what I was. I was definitely a performer. First in the theatre itself. I spent a lot of years in semi-lead roles and secondary parts. Nothing to sneeze at. Performing throughout high school and the years in college before I dropped out. Then after I dropped out, my mother’s school failed to pass a referendum. So they cut the middle school play due to financial reasons. This didn’t sit well with my mother, so she brought me in as a ringer to direct a show. When I say ringer here, I mean “for free.”

But that decision turned into a program between my mother and I that spanned almost two decades. I wrote and directed several shows, published one with an international publisher and continued to publish the rest on my own. I’ve created online courses on directing, costuming, and set design. My shows have been performed by schools all over the world, and I don’t mind saying, have made many, many children happy.

So, I’ve done things. I was successful despite my difficulties. But I was still not completely myself. Part of that was being queer, but by in large, it was because I knew I was different.

And because I was different, I was also just a little bit lying. That’s why the subtitle to my blog is “honestly.” Because even before my diagnosis, before I knew what I was, I knew that I was tired of hiding who I was. Tired of performing a reflection of what people thought I should be.

That kind of performance, that kind of masking, it tears you apart. You begin to fracture your personality for the consumption of others. Carve away at your soul, just to make sure that you are palatable to everyone. So no one sees the truth. So no one is angry with you, for being yourself. (It’s a lot like, a less evil version of horcruxes, only the person you are murdering is yourself. You do it to protect yourself, but in the end, it destroys you.)

But that kind of brings me to a different, more hopeful thought. Once you reach the realization that you have been masking for a very long time, or in my case, three decades, you start to grieve for the time that you lost. (It’s interesting that parents often grieve an Autism diagnosis, not knowing that without that diagnosis, their child could be grieving a misspent life. Maybe if they knew that it wouldn’t be so hard.) In grieving the lost time, you can go down a really dark hole. I was really starting down that hole when I came upon a post from Autistic Women and Non-Binary Network, it was a quote and a link to a blog from another adult autistic woman.

 “Despite my late discovery of being autistic, I am learning to flick on the switch of possibility and reinvention, instead of obsessing over lost time”

Possibility. It was so simple. Now that I was aware and open about who I was, everything seemed possible. I could be who I really wanted to be, an open, honest, person, who helped others by example.

It is literally all I have ever wanted. To help others. It is my calling. More than theatre, more than writing, I want to help. All the children, my students, that I failed to connect with on a deeper level because of my mask. I will devote my life to overcoming that regret.

I will still honor the person that I was, the innocuous nuggets of truth that managed to surface over the years. Like the fact that I am a huge Harry Potter nerd (see horcruxes above) or my love of science fiction and comic book movies. My years teaching in theatre. My love of writing and reading.

But I will also eat more pineapples. And wear more tights. I love tights. I might even perm my hair. Color my hair more! Pink! It’s gonna get wild folks. More than anything, I’m not going to live afraid.

Because this is a rebirth. This is who I am.

Holly Really, Really Loves John

So, being sick at home, or quarantined at home, is probably putting a lot of marriages to the test. If you are one of these people, skip this post, because I will probably piss you off.

My husband John is pretty much the best person I know. Strike the “pretty much”, he is legit the best person I know. Of course, like any other marriage he does little things that occasionally drive me crazy, but that’s just run of the mill differences. He was raised a Republican, I was raised a Democrat. He likes video games for relaxation, I like books. And honestly, none of those things “drive me crazy” more than they occasionally perplex me.

We met on Match.com, like a lot of other people of our generation. And he got me with alliteration; the phrase was “ham-handed”, and instantly I knew that he was something special. This is one of his proudest achievements. He got me, his wife, with alliteration.

He’s a lawyer that started in computer science, you know, like most lawyers, right? He’s a partner in his own firm. He works incredibly hard to be the big bread winner in our family. (Even though he would be just as willing to stay home and take care of our son.) He is patient, he is kind, he is literally all the things that Corinthians said love should be.

He’s also autistic. If you have read my blog before, that’s probably not a surprise. But it sure is for everyone else.

“You don’t look Autistic,” they say.

Anyone who is autistic knows that is not a compliment. (Just ask Autistic Barbie on Instagram. Smart and gorgeous woman, who also happens to be a fantastic advocate. I’m a big fan.)

John and I both discovered our autism after our son was diagnosed when he was about two years old. And honestly, our son’s autistic traits were so “normal” to us that if it hadn’t been for his Apraxia, I don’t think anyone of us would have ever understood why we were so different from everyone else.

(That is probably the only time I will be grateful for my son’s Apraxia. Apraxia is the reason he is non-verbal, at the moment. That deserves a whole other post though, so look for that one on the horizon.)

No, John and I really came together because we were just so perfect for each other. Little did we know that one of the main reasons we were so perfect for each other is that we had mostly the same disorders. Neither of us are ashamed of this, in fact we find it to be kind of amazing. Two Autistic people with ADHD, OCD, and occasional agoraphobia, unwittingly came together and fell in love. The only thing that I have that he doesn’t is the RSD and the Sensory Processing Issues. Most of the time we say that we are neurodiverse and leave it at that. Still, what are the odds?

It makes for a pretty fantastic marriage most of the time. We both prefer to stay in. We each have our own interests (or obsessions if you want to call it that.) We are both extremely empathetic to our son. We are compassionate of each other’s more difficult moments. And we both know the ironic and exquisite pain of wanting more friends, and fearing social engagements at the exact same time.

It’s true, we occasionally run into the problems of two neurodiverse minds rubbing against each other the wrong way, but we have learned to always trust the intent of the other person, and the validity of all feelings. That doesn’t mean we don’t fight. Of course we fight, we’re human. He’s a lawyer for goodness sake. He’s a professional fighter. (Not like kickboxing or anything, we don’t fight like that. Although I maintain that my old cheerleading high kick could still take out his 6’4″ nose. I’m only 5’3″… so that may be bluster.)

Where was I going with this? Oh yes, I am sick. Just like a huge percentage of the world right now, my body is fighting the Coronavirus. It’s not as dire as the poor people on ventilators, my fever is still very mild. The only worrying symptoms I have are some weakness from the the slight oxygen deprivation, and the horrible pain from inflammation hitting all over my body. Both come and go, so I won’t be rushing to the hospital anytime soon. But that also means, I can’t go grocery shopping. I can’t put our son to bed. I can’t hug and kiss either of my boys.

So it still really, really sucks.

Not just for me, but for my husband too. The grocery store gives him a lot of sensory problems, between the lights, the smells, and the people, it just makes him very uncomfortable. He can white knuckle his way through it, but I’ve always been able to tolerate it just a little bit better than him. He’s working from home even though our son is extra clingy because I can’t hug or kiss him. And he’s dealing with me, constantly making sure that I drink water, especially when I get a little loopy from the thinner air I’m living with.

It’s moments like these that you get really thankful for the people in your life. Especially when they step up to the task as well as my husband has. So yes, this is just a public love letter, friends. A declaration of bragging rights. I am so damn grateful for my beautiful family, even with the troubles we face from time to time.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Except the corona… the coronavirus really, really sucks. Stay safe everyone!

I weigh…

As you know, I’ve recently started exploring the wonderful world of Instagram. Yes, I’m in love. Not just with the platform, but with several new faces and hashtags that I am following. #effyourbeautystandards is both delicious and nutritious for my mental health. That’s where I found the downright glorious Tess Holiday. (It’s also where I have had to practice my “no flame wars” rule, because damn, people are mean.)

But it’s also where my love of one Jameela Jamil has been forever cemented in my heart.

I did not find Jameela on Instagram, though. No, I first really heard of her, Jameela Jamil, the person, not just a character on “The Good Place”, because people were being so damn shitty to her. Oh, and that hasn’t stopped by the way, just look at what her boyfriend James Blake had to say recently…

Good man, James. Good man.

No, the first time I heard her name it was because the LGBT+ community was outraged that she had been cast on the HBO ballroom show “Legendary.” For those not in the know, ballroom does not refer to the dancing you are picturing right now. This is not dancing with the stars. It’s referring to the ballroom culture started in the 1980’s (check out the documentary Paris is Burning, then you’ll know.) Now this is not my scene so I am not going to say that she was the right person for the job, that’s not what drew me into this particular media splash.

No I came in, when a lot of people basically decided to “cancel” her as a judge on this show because she is not LGBT+… BUT SHE IS… She’s queer. And after being forced to correct a lot of misplaced anger, she decided to come out as queer, even though she shouldn’t have had to do it at such a time. Did this appease the community? NO, they turned on her more. A large portion of them pointing to the fact that she was dating a man, again erasing bisexuals from the “authentically” LGBT+ community.

As a queer woman, madly in love with her cisgender husband, you can bet that this put Jameela on my radar. I decided then and there that I would go to war for this south asian queer goddess, any day. (That’s how you know I love something, my loyalty is unparalleled.)

So to find her I_weigh movement on Instagram, well, my pledge for war in her honor went from a skirmish to a full-body measure of devotion.

The I_weigh movement is about “body neutrality.” Trying to turn the focus from bodies and looks to interior beauty. I know, I know. She’s not the first to do this. But I think that she might be the first to have the tenacity, and the platform, to really take it somewhere.

She has a new podcast by the same name coming out on April 3rd and you better believe that I will be listening.

Just like Jameela, I had some health problems that made me gain A LOT of weight. (I also fell in love with a man who introduced me to the idea of takeout. So it wasn’t all side effects.) Then like most women I had a tough time with yo-yo dieting. I lost weight when I worked for Jenny Craig but then gained it back when I left to start writing full time. I lost weight when I started protein and LCHF diets, but then gained it back after emotional meltdowns dropped my manic ass right off the wagon. Around the same time I had a baby, and well, hormones + wrong medication + medical emergencies + carbs = big FAT mental breakdown. (You can read more about it in my post about my chronic illnesses.) I’m losing steadily again now that I have finally found the right medication, but it’s a journey for sure.

So in the spirit of I_weigh, I want to share some images of myself that I would normally not want the world to see. These particular images were taken when my body was at it’s most endomorphic, or you know… fat. (I’ve lost some weight but I’m actually not that far off from these pics, either. So these are not “before” pictures.) Like you will see on the I_weigh Instagram page, I’ve superimposed some of my more important attributes.

Well, I’ll let them speak for themselves.

Like I said, they speak for themselves.

Sick While Anxious

DEALING WITH TWO ILLNESSES AT ONCE

In the interest of not burying the lead, I believe that I have COVID-19. I say believe because getting tested is not something I am interested in. My symptoms are still relatively mild; I have a big boot of pressure on my chest, a dry cough, and a mild fever. It’s painful, but I can still get air. So I have no interest in leaving the house to endanger vulnerable people just to get a cotton swab shoved into my brain cavity.

But it’s got me thinking about what it’s like to be physically sick when you have an invisible illness at the same time. You see, whenever I get ill, that RSD inner critic starts to eat at me. It calls me a hypochondriac, a drama queen, it savagely whispers, “No one will believe you. No one will care.”

This is, of course, because I spend the majority of my time trying to convince others about those differences that I live with- those “illnesses” that require some occasional accommodation, i.e. ADHD, agoraphobia, autism, OCD, etc.

Now, you might say, but COVID-19 isn’t invisible. You are coughing, you have a fever. You look like shit. (Thanks for that last one.) And still I find myself on my phone, texting my sister about what else it could be. And then the obvious, irritating, always on the edge of my tongue question- Is this just anxiety?

It should be an honest and innocuous question, and it would be, if it weren’t for the ungodly amount of real life illnesses and complications that I have had that were blamed on my anxiety. And I know I am not the only woman to have this problem. Let’s get real. Female hysteria was a “legitimate diagnosis” for a very, very long time. And not that long ago, unfortunately. Ask me about Rosemary Kennedy’s lobotomy if you want a real medical horror story. Or do yourself a favor and read all about it.

TRIGGER WARNING: The article I’ve linked to about Rosemary Kennedy discusses an extreme form of ableism, medical assault during her mother’s labor, medical malpractice, and special needs abuse- abuse, in general. Even if you aren’t sensitive, it will effect you. If you have trauma in any of these areas, you might want to research a different source on Rosemary’s story.

A bright, beautiful woman failed by the medical profession from the time of her birth to her death.

Leaving the gender issue behind, people with diagnosed mental health conditions, including autism, are also being under-treated when it comes to physical health problems. (Judging from the information available about Rosemary Kennedy I think she was most likely autistic, if not intellectually disabled from her traumatic birth. So she had two “conditions” going against her.) In my life alone- where I was mostly only recognized as “anxious while female”- gallstones, pancreatitis, allergic reactions, dermatographia, and chronic infections were all vaguely blamed on my “stress.”

In one stunning moment at the ER, someone had the gall to blame my physical symptoms on my son’s autism diagnosis. I’m a very, very polite/timid person, mostly because of my RSD and anxiety, but I believe my direct quote was, “Are you shitting me?”

Maybe I just said that with my eyes. I’m not entirely sure. I was in a lot of pain.

The point is… and this is pretty much my continual, all-consuming, message… is this:

Demand help. If you are sick, take up the space that is necessary to protect yourself and others. Even if someone wants to downplay your symptoms, it’s on you to not only get help for yourself, but in this time of contagion, it’s on you to protect others. (Not just medical help either. Demand it from your family, your friends, your roommate, whomever. I’m not going to the doctor yet but my husband and I took the time to recognize my symptoms and make a plan if it gets worse.) Anxiety may lie to you and call you dramatic, but a virus will still infect your loved ones, whether they are willing to believe you or not.

A virus does not need outside confirmation to be legitimate, it just is. So in this case, just this one time, be like corona. Rear your ugly head (I told you I look like shit) and demand to be noticed.

It’s the only way we can live.


For interesting information on the effects of COVID-19, check out this New York Times article: What Does Coronavirus Do the the Body?

Self diagnosing Autism

TO BE OR NOT TO BE…

In one of my most recent posts I officially “came out” as autistic. I told you that I “got” my diagnosis at the age of thirty five, but what I didn’t tell you, is that I was self diagnosed first.

This may not seem like a big deal, but it is. And maybe not for the reasons that you think.

Continue reading “Self diagnosing Autism”

Watch this now…

No seriously, I can’t say this enough. Watch this now.

This TED talk from Hannah Gadsby last year would have transformed my life had I seen it sooner. If you are a woman, a neruolurker, or even a person who has experienced trauma- watch this. If you are a comic, a writer, or a person who has interest in either- watch this. If you are a human being- watch this.

Hannah Gadsby is a true lifesaver. She is a hero in every aspect of the word and I am so proud to be a fan of hers.

So without further ado… Hannah Gadsby.


Pride in Nanette

It’s June 30th. Literally, the last day of Pride month. And I’ve skirted around my own celebration. I haven’t posted anything, here or on any other social media platform. I haven’t raised any flags, and I don’t own a thing in rainbow.  And while I’ve always been loud in my support of the LGBT community,  I have never really been loud about myself and my place in that community. Mostly because, I have so easily been able to pass these last 20 years or so.

But I am a B. I always knew I was a B. There was a really frightening time in high school where I was scared that I was really only an L, pretending to be a B out of fear. (I’m a B, though. A big B, if I’m honest.)

Continue reading “Pride in Nanette”

Here comes trouble Part 1

If you’ve tuned in to holly loves john before you have probably seen that picture of me. Pouting lip, hospital gown, oxygen tube under my nostrils. It’s one of several hospital stays I have had under my belt since I’ve had my son.

I would not say I was the paragon of health before I got pregnant. But it’s fair to say that the last time I wore a hospital garment it was a swaddling clothe in 1985.

Continue reading “Here comes trouble Part 1”

Clay happens

So my Mother’s Day gardening was a bit of a bust.

(For those that didn’t read my endearing Mother’s Day post I had a whole thing on how stay-at-home moms never get a break, and so Mother’s Day was our only work holiday. And with my work holiday I was going to spend the whole day gardening. No Nemo, no diapers, just gardening. Then I gave a nice tribute to my own mom, cause that’s what you do when you’re a writer on Mother’s day. Unless you have a bad relationship with your mother then you probably write some bad poetry.)

But like I said, the gardening was a bit of a bust…

Continue reading “Clay happens”

Happy Mother’s Day!

Today is Mother’s Day and I am stoked! When you become a stay-at-home Mom (hyphens and everything) you realize that you literally have no days off. Those hyphens are there because the job NEVER ENDS. No one tells you this, but it’s true. Never Ends. You really only have the one day off. Mother’s day, that’s my work holiday. My bank is closed, the day is mine.

(John just came in asking me to change the baby and make him a smoothie, the baby, not John. John doesn’t drink smoothies unless you count the times the Little Prince flings it at him and he wipes it off his arm with his tongue. Anyway, I shouted “WORK HOLIDAY! The bank is closed!” and threatened to shiv him with my rigidly pointed finger. He looked at me like I was crazy. (I am, but that’s not the point.)  I still made the smoothie but only after John agreed to the legitimacy of my work holiday. Some husbands make their wives breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day. My husband tried to foist the eight hours I spent driving back and forth across the state to see his mother as my Mother’s day gift because it was my idea. Nice try, lawyer. Not gonna happen.)

My plan is to garden. Spend as long as I want, outside with my audiobook headphones on. It’s gonna be bliss. Hot, sweaty, composting bliss.

But first I want to tell you about my Mom.

Continue reading “Happy Mother’s Day!”