Tag: dailyprompt

Me, Mostly

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What bothers you and why?
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It’s hard to point fingers at anyone else for bothering me when I am such a handful. I didn’t even know whether to put an emoticon after that, because I don’t know that I’m joking. From my writing to my behavior, there’s nothing I cannot criticize, but I’m trying to be kinder to myself. If one’s behavior affects treatment of others, then it is up to me to be happier on the inside.

The first thing I did to make myself happier was to buy a membership to the National Aquarium. I was invited to go on Sunday, and the price of a membership was cheaper than buying two tickets individually. I thought that was a much better deal as I am obsessed with aquarium fish and don’t want to have an aquarium at my house. Plus, I’ve never been there before and I hear it is world class. Many of you don’t know this about me, but I watch videos on aquascaping all the time and look forward to being able to set up my own tank once I have a living situation conducive to it. I have had freshwater tanks in the past, but I’ve never actually landscaped one with live plants. I think that I would be less bothered once I was paying attention to my minuscule pets. I’d like to have shrimp, catfish, snails, and a betta. A cleanup crew and a betta fish wouldn’t take up that much room, probably 10 gallons, and that way the tank wouldn’t be a monster job to clean.

The reason my living space couldn’t handle an aquarium is that the water pressure is so low here it would take hours to fill a 10 gallon tank. It bothers me with every sink and the bathtub. I could write an entire entry on why this apartment complex sucks and why you shouldn’t live here, but I don’t want to give any indication as to where I live. Baltimore is close enough.

I am thinking now of moving back to the DMV in December, because my lease ends on November 30th. I love Baltimore itself, but the public transportation isn’t as good as I thought it would be. I need to be back on the Metro. My current group, Cognitive Behavioral Health, has another office in Rockville. I would like to stay with my people, and one of my counselors would be the same. It all depends on what kind of deal I can find with my living situation, because like I said, Baltimore is not the problem when I can get around. Uber is too expensive to take all the time, but it does provide an excellent stopgap when a trip on the Metro/bus is going to take two hours.

I do know that I need to stay in Maryland because I am getting so many benefits from Medicaid expansion. We will have to see how the “big, ugly bill” affects me in the future, but so far I have had no interruptions in service. So while I love Virginia, I am solidly staying on this side of the Potomac.

It bothers me that I have to think about all of this. I don’t want to be disabled, but here we are.

It bothers me that I have always been disabled, but these problems are just now being addressed. Better late than never, but I could have been helped with government services in Portland when I spent so many years without health insurance. I have been eligible for services since I was 18 years old, but I didn’t know why until my mother died. I found solid proof that I have had cerebral palsy since I was a baby, after she spent years trying to convince me that I was fine. My dad was overreacting. But interestingly enough, cerebral palsy is not why my care team wants me to file for disability. My bipolar disorder got the best of me, and that bothers me, too.

Most of the reason it bothers me is that I have a hum in my brain that will not go away. I think it was caused by stopping Lexapro suddenly, because even though I’m back on it now, the sound has not gone away. It is similar to the Emergency Broadcast System that used to play on TV during flood warnings (ahem), a minor second that drones 24/7 and demands my attention above all else. It’s hard for me to pay attention at the best of times because I have the ADHD/Autism combo meal. This is just shitty icing on a burnt cake.

I suppose the one thing that doesn’t bother me anymore is having to prove that something is wrong with me. I am settling into the life of a disabled person, learning to contribute to society through being a voice for other disabled people right here on this web site. My voice counts because as people read about me, they identify with my struggles. Or, if they cannot identify, they at least learn to have empathy.

It bothers me that most disabled people are written off as living off the government, when most of us would do absolutely anything to return to normal life. My life is anything but normal. I spend most of my time by myself. It’s isolating and lonely not to have a place to go each day, which is why I’m so grateful to have a group of other disabled people to meet with twice a week (once on Zoom, once in person).

However, at least with an aquarium membership, I have a place to go whenever I want that will feed me. I remind myself of the character Sam from “Atypical.” He goes to the aquarium to feed his love of penguins. Perhaps I will also find an animal that will be my special interest. I do love puffer fish……….

It helps to be bothered less by my living situation now that I’ve figured out a plan- Rockville is on the Red Line, with easy access to the National Zoo. It’s the place I love to write the most when it’s not hot, so until I move I want to try and find a place to write at the aquarium. All I require is a bench, because I carry a tablet and a keyboard in my backpack at all times. After I move, it will be back to finding a “replacement Kevin.”

Some of you may remember that Kevin is a giraffe. I used to sit next to him and write blog entries, having no idea what the giraffe’s actual name might be. I just named him Kevin for my own amusement. Then, one day I went to find Kevin and found out the Zoo had closed the entire giraffe exhibit. Kevin had moved.

Kevin is probably the reason I felt the most comfortable moving to Baltimore in the first place. I needed out of the DC area just to catch my breath, and it felt like he was the last tie to that area. But now I would say that my breath has been caught, and I miss DC more than I thought I would. Now that I have settled on a place, I feel at peace. My time in Baltimore will be much easier to survive knowing it won’t last forever.

It might even make my apartment less bothersome, but I doubt it. I’ve been without a dishwasher for what seems like a lifetime because the water pressure is so low it makes washing dishes incredibly taxing. I have submitted requests for everything that is wrong with my apartment and no one has come by. The last straw for me was finding a mouse eating my bread and hot dog buns.

I am paying too much for this apartment to have problems like this, especially those that go unaddressed. I am bothered that I cannot seem to be “the heavy” and get the repairmen out here on my own. I just hate letting people in that I don’t know, so I work around the problems on my own. I know I need help, but I have trouble helping myself. My dad and my sister advocate for me as much as they can, but it’s hard when they live so far away.

However, my sister is a lobbyist, so that’s another reason why Rockville is a better choice for me than Baltimore. When she’s in her DC office, I’d like to be closer than I am now. We have too much fun together to make her come all this way. However, I know that I have introduced her to a place she loves as well. Again, Baltimore is not really the problem. The Inner Harbor is gorgeous, as is Fell’s Point. It’s getting around Baltimore that’s the hard part. When she comes to visit, she rents a car and all of my problems disappear. I don’t drive, so it’s nice that she’s willing to drive me around.

The most fun I’ve had in Baltimore is when she’s come to visit, because she looks up restaurants and decides where we’re going to go in advance. It becomes a “staycation” for me because it’s always a place I haven’t heard of yet. Of the two of us, she’s the social butterfly. I wish I was more like her, because she’s so headstrong that I feel taken care of in her presence. I wish I could extend that feeling to others.

It bothers me that I’m her older sister and I’m not able to provide that feeling of safety to her. I am sure I had my moments when we were young and this is just payback, but still. I wish that I was large and in charge, but I have a struggling relationship with taking care of myself, much less others.

Which brings us back around… it’s hard to point fingers at anything that bothers me more than my treatment of myself, so it’s time to get happier.

It starts with looking at fish.

I’m Not Sure There Are 10 Certain Things in Life

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
List 10 things you know to be absolutely certain.
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Here we go. I will try:

  1. I am a sinner, a worm. All I can do is ask for repeated forgiveness. That’s the beauty of faith, I guess, but somehow God forgiving me doesn’t do as much good as being able to forgive myself. That will take a lifetime, and I have to be prepared, because no one gets out of life without sin, including me.
  2. Evangelical Christianity will bring about its own death due to hypocrisy, but the social justice warriors dedicated to the message of the historical Christ are doing their best to stop the death of the church altogether. I have chosen the right side of history because even if the church dies, I still have the message of the historical Christ inside me. There are many messages that the church has handed down that deserve to die, such as Evangelical treatment of queer people. The reason the Evangelical church deserves their fate is the unfailing attitude that the net was full after they got in.
  3. I am certain that you will forgive me for ending a sentence with a preposition.
  4. I am not good at reaching out, but I am certain that I am getting better because I have to do so. It is not my choice to be more extroverted, but I do want to be included in a social safety net. No man is an island, probably the truest sentence I know. Perhaps my need will lead me back into a church, but I’m not quite ready for that yet- I’m certain. If I do re-join a church, it will be because the music got me there. I miss being a singer, and could use the money if I was hired to be a section leader.
  5. I am certain that I am a spoonie, and I am dealing with those repercussions. Having bipolar, AuDHD, and cerebral palsy are all problems that I’ve masked and ignored since I was old enough to be aware that I wasn’t like other kids. Now that I’m aging, they are all a straight up problem to be solved. My care team is recommending that I file for disability because I already have a solid case due to my last two hospitalizations, and I am not sure how I feel about that…. the “hallucinations” I experienced were curated by an unknown quantity, and the only reason I cannot prove it is that I was too dumb to remember to take screenshots. It’s a rabbit hole I could go down for hours, trying to prove that I did not make up the reasons I was hospitalized. Alternatively, if I just say that I hallucinated everything, it’s better for my disability case. But I wish I could put my illness on the organization that caused it, because my illness was nothing if not organized. Of that, I am certain. I am also aware that I sound “crazy” to anyone that would read this paragraph in abstentia, that only the people who were there would know what I meant. This paragraph is for them. I really wish my relationship with Heytch had been real, whether we were off in our own little world or I’d been accepted into her family as one of the crew. Because of the power of suggestion, I had created a deep inner landscape, a garden with deep roots and a master gardener to tend me, kissing the top of my head as she scoots out the door for her next adventure.
  6. I am certain that I am not a gardener, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try and create deep roots in other areas of my life. I am one who waits for nourishing rain, of which we are getting a lot of this year. In fact, the skies are dark surrounding my apartment, and it is up to me whether to stay inside or to dance between the drops.
  7. I am certain that I am making progress in Spanish, and may take home the gold trophy this week for the most XP on Duolingo. Because I do not work, I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to perfect learning a second language instead. From Duolingo, I will graduate to reading books and watching the news. I do not know if I will become fluent, but that is not the goal. The goal is to be able to have comfortable conversations with people, which I can do at the Home Depot next to my apartment. As ICE gets more and more active, I need to have my finger on the pulse of the community it is trying to destroy.
  8. I am certain that even if I never have a “real job,” I will continue to write. Sometimes that will be here, sometimes that will be on Medium, and sometimes that will be with published books. I look forward to creating an anthology for Kindle Unlimited, and I will let everyone know when it is finished. You’ll find some of your favorite entries, and some of mine.
  9. I am certain that I have a lot of apologies to make in all of my sinning, and look forward to the chance to make them. But again, you can only resurrect a relationship if both parties are interested. To my Finnish baby, I am so sorry. I popped off and got too angry, too fast. I don’t deserve your forgiveness or your friendship, but I hope that one day you’ll remember that I wasn’t always angry. That there is a lot of love we are both throwing away in the moment, and we’ll have to wonder whether it was worth it to move on rather than trying to compromise our way to healthier patterns. Perhaps that will come with peace and forward motion to other things, and perhaps it will bring us back together. I am uncertain which way is healthier, but I do know that it’s not only my feelings that matter. Your feelings matter, and I was too hasty. Of that, I am certain.
  10. I am certain that I will die someday, and I’m thinking about legacy on this web site already. That’s because I do not think about what is going on in the moment, but about what someone will discover when they read 50 or 100 years from now. Even though the dues for the URL may not be paid, the Internet Archive holds all our secrets. I am trying to paint a portrait of real life- how one human lived. It is something that is missing from the thousands of years before us and I think it’s very important. I don’t need to know how kings and queens lived their lives, but the struggles of the everyman. I do not think that my words are exalted in any way, it only matters that they exist.

Wisdom

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What do you think gets better with age?
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I think that the only thing that gets better with age is wisdom. You have enough life experiences to react with more ease and grace than you did in your younger years because so much has happened to you that you know what deserves your time and what doesn’t. You have enough regrets to know not to commit the same mistakes, as well as enough victories to know what works.

You become better at regulating your own emotions, and controlling your own behavior. You realize that every problem begins and ends with you. You have no need to count on others to provide the answers, because you realize that they are only speaking from their experiences when they provide advice, which cannot line up to your own. It isn’t that you stop taking advice (necessarily), it just looks different because you have a better sense of what will fit you and what won’t.

I have recognized that these are the things I need to work on in my own life, this continuing to learn emotional regulation and impulse control. I lost the great love of my life over it, because I was so angry that she lied I could not function. As a result, it made me so depressed I needed counseling and still struggle with those demons. The thing that makes me feel better about the whole situation is that I am not the great love of hers, so we will drift apart naturally over time as I forgive myself and move on.

The thing is, though, I am being dragged kicking and screaming toward my own redemption. Getting better with age feels so far away because this relationship did not express any wisdom in controlling impulses or emotional regulation. I popped off. Full stop. That comes with my brand of neurodivergence, but it doesn’t mean that I am not accountable for my actions. I am filled with sentences like, “if I could go back, these are the things I would change.” But they are useless and would fall on deaf ears.

I sit like an old wizard twisting his beard, alone in my castle.

What I can do is provide comfort to myself- that I haven’t met all the people I’m going to love in my life, nor have I met all the people who are going to love me. I can only work on myself and try to become the idealist my personality profile says I am. I am tripped up by my own mental illness, and that comes with its own set of problems. They require addressing, because I am tired of not being included in the safety net of a local friend group and it’s my health that stops me from getting out and making one.

I have become too introverted with age, refusing to leave my house in favor of communicating through writing. Though there is nothing wrong with that in moderation, the pendulum has swung too far. Letters are not enough, but it’s amazing how much they’ve provided over the years. I have more friends in other places than I do in Baltimore and DC, and keep in touch with them daily thanks to the Internet. But something is missing without contact comfort, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t need handshakes, hugs, and face time.

I suppose that also had to come with age, because I had to go on this journey to figure it out.

I have spent the last 12 years touch-starved and lonely because I was more interested in learning about my pen pal than reaching out to people in my area. I gave her too much power, another morsel of wisdom that has only come with age. I am not sorry that I fell in love with her writing, because she’s damn good at it. But I’m sorry that it isolated me to the point where I didn’t want relationships with other people. I just hung on two words:

Someday, perhaps…..

I still hang on those words occasionally because none of this feels real. Nothing feels final because it never has. We will always have a reader/writer connection because even when she’s not in touch with me, she’s still reading here. I can only hope that I will write something that will resonate with her, because she sees that I am learning and growing in wisdom. That may be a pipe dream, but I’m allowed to have them.

Wisdom is telling me to have a wait and see attitude, because every time I think that my connection to her is shallow, she surprises me with depth. She has always surprised me with depth, because I will get two or three words from her for months on end, feeling rejected and small until the Mama Wolverine claws come out of nowhere and slash my problems from me. If nothing else, I will miss that about her in the future.

Getting better with age is allowing myself to be my own Mama Wolverine, slashing problems away on my own. I think that has been the point all these years, learning to stand up for myself. I didn’t so much fall in love with a pen pal as I fell in love with the person I was when I was writing to her. Even she says that meeting her in person couldn’t live up to my imagination, which made me blush because she knows my imagination better than I do and I think was trying to poke a little fun.

Eventually, what I hope gets better with age is letting go of her as the voice in my head to which I compare my own.

Spanish and Sundry

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What are you most excited about for the future?
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I have finally reached a section of Duolingo that has vocabulary I haven’t studied and I’m on my own. It makes me excited for the future because I can’t skate by on 30 year old lessons in school. I am actually using the software to prepare me for trips to Mexico in the future- none of which are planned, by the way, but I have a better shot of going to Mexico than anywhere else. Granted, when I get there I will mostly be asking them why they don’t wear the green t-shirts and where the bank might be, but it’s a start. 😉

Kidding, but not by much. I remember the first time I went to Mexico on a mission trip. My Spanish was equal to that of a Mexican toddler, but the people were so kind and corrected me with such love that it lit a fire in me to learn more. I learned that Sylvia and Hector were getting married, that Marta was building a new house, and that little kids don’t listen to me no matter what language I speak (I was on a trip to teach vacation Bible school). It was my turn to listen because I picked up more just soaking up conversation than I would have trying to talk. For instance, those are the real names of the people I met, stuck in my brain even though it is now over 30 years since the last time I went to Reynosa. There is just no substitution for immersion, so it’s time to start finding telenovelas on Pluto TV, or watching the news on Telemundo/Univision.

I had friend recommend “La Reina del Sur,” but I have already watched “Queen of the South” on Netflix. It would be a good brush-up to have a show with which I’m already familiar, but there are others I haven’t seen that might be better after I finish it. For instance, I have not seen the original “Yo Soy Betty, la Fea.” That’s “Ugly Betty” for you American viewers. I have found it on Peacock and Apple TV+ according to reddit, so I will be searching it out after I finish this blog entry.

Because I have an auditory processing disorder (comes free with neurodivergence), I like to have the subtitles on as I listen. People don’t have subtitles, but I need the extra help while I am learning.

There is a point to all of this. Many of the homeless people I have encountered, as well as the workers in my neighborhood, speak Spanish and their English is poor. Instead of making them learn English, I want to turn the view of Americans on its head. I’m perfectly willing to put myself out there, mostly because if I get a job in the future, I want to work at Home Depot.

That’s another thing I’m looking forward to in the future- discussing jobs I could do with my care team so that I am not reliant on SSI/SSDI unless I really want to be. I am eligible for both because I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy when I was 18 mos old. I don’t regret the choices I’ve made in my life with my career, but it would have been nice to know that I could have gotten disability from the jump. The reason I didn’t know is that my mother hid all the paperwork I needed to file and my sister found them among her personal effects after she died, well into my late 30s.

My mental health is not helping the situation, so I am looking forward to working all of this out. I either have a journey into the workforce or a journey into the court system in which I’ll have to fight for my right not to party.

But there are things I can do on my own to further my education, and a second language has filled the hole in my heart at not being able to work in the immediate future. Right now, my job is to attend classes at Cognitive Behavioral Health and learn all I can when I’m not there.

I actually started with Finnish, but after a 43 day streak, I was hospitalized for my mental health. After I got out of the hospital, it had been just long enough since I’d studied that I don’t remember much. It seems like I forgot Finnish in “kaksitoista sekuntia,” or 12 seconds.

Duolingo is also not the best learning tool for Finnish, because it does not have the AI features that Swedish and Spanish do. Everything is done with the keyboard and reading, so you don’t get to practice by speaking out loud. The reason Swedish is important is that the cooking school I would like to attend next year is in a Swedish-speaking region of Finland, Vaasa. The school is called Vamia, and it was recommended to me by a YouTuber named Cyril:

At this point, I do not know if this school is right for me because the tuition is free, but living in Europe is not. I am saving my pennies and riding out the lease I have in the United States until November, and then I’ll decide what to do. I know I would like to go to Vaasa before I decide to move there, but even that is a stretch on my budget. I just have to hope that I will get more subscribers to both my Medium and WordPress blog, because every subscriber here adds to my ad revenue, and every reader on Medium adds to the income I get the longer you scroll through my drivel. 😉

Culinary school would accomplish two things. The first is that I would like to work with Finnish YouTubers like Cyril to create a channel with Finnish content. I think I would be hilariously cranky like Anthony Bourdain, because that is my kitchen personality. The second is that I want to start a ministry for unhoused people that revolves around the kitchen, and I would be better equipped to do that having been trained as a chef and not merely the line cook I am now.

Traditional advice is to work in a kitchen before you go to culinary school to make sure you like it. I have 10 years under my belt, from dish to pantry to sauté. I have worked every station and though I cannot say I am excellent at any of them, I know I will get better by hanging in at school. Plus, there are plenty of jobs I could do without learning Finnish until I’m ready, because most Finns speak English, especially in the hospitality industry. Vamia also instructs in English, with (I’m guessing) the requisite amount of French required.

In the meantime, I am looking forward to all the nonprofit ideas I have coming to fruition. I have to have a Plan B in case going to school in Europe is not feasible… and it’s probably not, to be perfectly honest. I want to go more than anything, but again, it’s going to take a lot of money I don’t have yet. But that’s the thing about dreams. When other people know you want something, they are willing to help. For instance, my readers showing up every day. Each little bit helps.

If I stay in the Baltimore area, my idea is to create a nonprofit called “The Sinners’ Table.” It centers around accepting all the people that society rejects, giving them a fine dining experience they could never afford on their own. I am doing the hard work of identifying stakeholders and writing a business plan, because that is something I can do in my spare time while I am waiting to see what is going to happen with my job and school aspirations. If other people have to run it because I am not eligible for a job, I will be able to volunteer.

But why Finland in the meantime?

I would only have to worry about my living expenses and not the fabulously high cost of tuition. Any Le Cordon Bleu institution in the United States would bankrupt me quickly, while I can find housing for the rough cost of living in DC or Baltimore. Some things would be more expensive, like clothing (I’m not skimping out on cold weather gear), but an apartment is roughly the same. The biggest cost to my family would be me being so far away that it’s hard to visit. However, culinary school does not last that long. If I like Finland so much that I want to stay and get permanent residency or citizenship, that’s a bridge I’ll cross when I come to it. I don’t get to see my family that much as it stands now, because they’re all in Texas…. far away from the current flooding, I might add.

My biggest problem is that I am an idealist who doesn’t necessarily know how to break down large ideas into small steps for execution. I generally work best in a team for that, and I’m lucky to have one under me now. I have gathered the best and the brightest at Lanagan Media Group, most of whom went to high school with me at High School for Performing and Visual Arts. Instead of using AI, I get immediate feedback from an arts brain trust.

Because make no mistake, cooking is art in any language.

And in the United States, the language in the kitchen is overwhelmingly Spanish. I want to be able to speak to my employees in whatever language they feel the most comfortable. Therefore, Finnish can wait.

But not for long.

The Aada-See

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What could you let go of, for the sake of harmony?
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The Homerian epic that has been my relationship with Aada needs to go for my own peace of mind. We have hurt each other over and over, trying to change… neither one of us has done well in that area. So now, it’s a blessing and releasing. I have asked God before to go with her where I can’t, and I repeat that prayer today. If I cannot be the friend that she needs, then I don’t want to be her friend at all.

It’s not that I don’t have hope of a redemption story, it’s that you can only have a redemption story if both parties are interested. She says that I have a need to manipulate both her and our relationship, without taking into account all the ways she’s manipulated me over the years. That’s for her and her therapist to work out, because her therapist will never meet me. She will never take in the drastic changes in my own personality as Aada’s edicts came down from on high.

The biggest is that I’d never had to keep a secret from my wife before, and that caused way more problems than it was worth. I suppose that I’m grateful I got to see Dana become violent so I knew she was capable of it before I spent any more time with her, but it all started with Aada saying “don’t talk to anyone.” The problem is that she made it where I couldn’t talk to her, either. I sat alone in my room with the weight of the world bearing on my stomach.

However, that was not our only problem.

She doesn’t realize just how much her lie cost me, and she never will. That’s because she didn’t come with me to a book talk with my favorite author. I couldn’t glance back at her and see her eyes when the question was asked, “so are you looking for a job now?” She couldn’t see the torrent of emotions running underneath my skin, but she could have if she’d been able to see my face. I was too nervous to say yes without her approval.

Through it all, I’ve charted our friendship on this web site, and I think it has helped me to see some perspective. I do not like it when Aada gets main character syndrome and fails to take in what I am actually saying. She skips over my pain and concentrates on her own. That has to stop, for both our sake. I am writing in hopes that she’ll listen to me. She is reading to look for attacks that aren’t there. She reams me out and I cry…. lather, rinse, repeat. It has been going on for 12 years now, and for the life of me I don’t know why I’ve hung in.

I guess you would just have to know how beautiful she is in spite of all her flaws and failures to know why she has been my Achilles heel.

But for the sake of harmony, I cannot hang in anymore.

She will continue to read everything I write, calling it toxic. The only way to stop that is to write about other things… I have to find a new muse, something that fills me with the passion to write. It shouldn’t be a person, because it puts too much on one relationship. I need to find nature, or God, or something.

The only thing left is to thank her for being the inspiration behind my writing thus far, and forgive her for all her missteps.

It’s so much easier than forgiving myself for mine.

Quietly

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
How do you express your gratitude?
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I go into my closet to pray, thanking God for the little things. I have an apartment with running water. I have a trust to make sure that I don’t have to work when I cannot. I have a family that understands I have cerebral palsy, Austism, ADHD, and bipolar disorder with psychotic features. I have friends who would do anything for me. I have a deep relationship with the historical Christ, who directs me toward social justice, and an ability to write about it. I have talent when it comes to crafting sentences, from which I do not know where it started. If I had to guess, it was in elementary school.

My first win was an essay on adult illiteracy called “I Forgot My Reading Glasses,” in which I was asked to read it in front of the class in fifth grade.I have always been grateful that I can communicate with many people, and I draw people to me with it.

I am grateful that I have had mega fans over the years, one that thought I was world famous and several who have thought I should write books in addition to blogging. I don’t know if I will ever write a book, but because I write so many words on this web site, I am grateful that I know I’m capable of publishing.

I am grateful that some people think I should write an anthology of the blog entries I’ve already written, and should look for a literary agent. I do not think my writing is as good as my readers do, but I am over the moon that many people think it is.

I do not know what the future holds for me, but gratitude flows within me that I have so many options. I do not want to go down in history as just a writer, so I’m also grateful that my nonprofit ideas are taking off. I really do want to give the unhoused a place to go, to eat and learn to cook. I am unsure how to do this, because both my ideas seem to resonate. The first is a set of pop-ups to give the unhoused “dinner with dignity,” food that they could never afford on their own.

The second is to build a library based on Oodi, which not only has books but a maker space as well where anyone can rent tools, there’s a kitchen space for all I want to do with my pop-ups and cooking classes, and is a bigger idea than all of my other ones put together.

Yesterday, I came up with the idea to write to Oodi and ask if I could have a copy of their original business plan for the Finnish government. I need a guide as to how to get the idea through the Maryland house. My sister is a lobbyist, and I know that she could help me with the form, perhaps sending me a blank bill to fill out. I need to find a sponsor, but I don’t know any….. yet. I know when I find someone, that will be a great day full of thanks and tears.

I do not want to sit on my laurels, I want to bring hope to other people while I am able. I am not sure that people will take me seriously, but it only takes one person to believe in me.

I am grateful that I can come up with lots of creative ideas on a dime, and these have resonated with people I admire. I have said many times that I came to the area to do great things, and I am working toward them by joining Kindle Unlimited and checking out all the books I can find on starting a nonprofit.

Gratitude will get me the rest of the way, because so many legislators go without thanks as they work towards ideas that may never come to fruition. Saying “thank you” instead of being angry that things aren’t happening fast enough is key, because right now ideas for the disenfranchised don’t pass through congress quickly if I want to take this idea to the federal government instead. I have a feeling I will need both state and federal grants to get the library I want, because Baltimore is a small city. I do not know if their budget will sustain a library like Oodi, but it would be a shame not to try since that is a democratic base.

It starts with me, though. I have to put in the work and I’m grateful that I do have enough energy to sit and type at my computer. I am also grateful for the 10 years I spent in the kitchen, because while I am not capable of a full-time job there anymore, I am definitely capable of creating a brigade for other people. I know how to organize stations, and I know how to teach. I learned from the best, and I intend to pass on my knowledge to people who need jobs and don’t know how to get started.

Those that can’t, teach…. and the hardest part of teaching is remembering what it was like not to know. I do remember those days fondly, and not every dish I make turns out perfectly. I have gratitude that other people can and will see me fail. I am not a chef lording my talent above them on high. I am human, and so are my potential students. Sometimes, failing up is the best lesson, and instead of getting angry at yourself, you have to figure out what that failure is trying to teach you.

It’s reaching up for gratitude because anger will only lead to more mistakes, especially if you are under pressure during service.

I am also taking a lesson from José Andrés, that feeding people is not political. I do not want to check political credentials at the door, but there must be a basic respect for all. I will be grateful if this library does not turn into a political fight because people of all backgrounds find themselves without a place to live.

The Sinners’ Table is being elevated because I realized that it is a great project in and of itself, but we have a chance to add even more specialties with a library that rents out equipment, gives the unhoused a place to go during the day, and provides more avenues for learning than just cooking.

We have the ability to create a performing arts center with classes of all kinds in a soundproof basement or top floor, providing beginner lessons on instruments that kids cannot afford on their own. When people think of “the unhoused,” they rarely think of hungry children who also need an outlet for their emotions.

I have a feeling that private donors would be interested in this as well, but government money is key because I need buy-in. They’re the ones that will give me the money to build what I need or overhaul a historic building without having to endure the ups and downs of private fundraising, of which I’m sure I will also do plenty if government grants aren’t enough.

I keep telling my HR and PR teams at Lanagan Media group that their favorite word needs to become “endowment.” That’s because I cannot think of a city that needs something like this more than Baltimore. There are places within my city that look like a war zone, and have the crime statistics to prove it.

People turn away from crime when they feel loved and needed, when they feel their own gratitude shining through. Recidivism goes down when people become educated, and a library like this gives all people, rich and poor, a place to go that is free.

It’s also a way to redeem my own sins and feel gratitude that I’m actually giving back to my community. My plan, should it work out, is to actually spend time in Finland at a vocational school so that I can actually get my chef stripes. I need to learn more about teaching while working in the bubble that comes with culinary school. The school itself, Vami, is free. Living in Europe is not.

My gratitude will overflow if I get my wish to study there, because I cannot find a free school in the United States. However, I do feel that it is necessary to become a chef in order to lead others in an administrative fashion, because I am not cut out for the line. I am cut out for HR, inventory, menu planning, and teaching the prep and line cooks what I need them to do. They’re the ones that will take on the heavy lifting of feeding the multitudes. I have put in enough time to know that cerebral palsy and 50 lb bags of flour do not mix.

In school, I would have a lot more support with things like that than I would in the fast-paced world of the line. I have heard too much about what culinary school is like not to believe it, because I’ve had friends that have been to Johnson & Wales, Oregon Culinary Institute, and Culinary Institute of America. All of these stories have led me to believe that I could make it through school with a lot more ease than I could work in a restaurant every day, and it is the education I am missing in order to create the fine dining experience I want the unhoused to have when I get back.

I would have gratitude that I got to sit out what’s happening in America for a while. I do not like the direction that the country is going and I need a break from the constant crazymaking. I am over the Republicans being the party of “no” and the Democrats trying to appease everyone all the time so that we cannot make headway. Gratitude would be the ability to forget what is happening and focus on Finland, even though the odds are that it would be attacked by Russia while I was there.

The thing is, though, the Finnish military is prepared and no one is better than them at fighting in that climate. I would be safe nearly anywhere, and with an American passport, I could leave at the first sign of trouble. I would stay if I became fluent in Finnish and Russian, though, because I know I could help just by overhearing conversations and reporting them.

My gratitude would be turning my blog into an important war story about someone who once was lost and then was found in the strangest way possible… that when it got dangerous, I got calm.

That’s the gratitude with ADHD and Autism. The crazier it is around me, the more calm I become. I think I would be an excellent war reporter because my instincts are sharper when my cortisol is sky-high.

I quietly take in my surroundings and triage what needs to be done, then when the cortisol subsides, I write about my experiences.

Feeling the gratitude that I was once again able to make it through something I thought I couldn’t.

Structure of My Own Making

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What are your daily habits?
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When I wrote about this prompt last year, I remember saying that I didn’t have any daily habits. That was 100% true at the time, but now I’m charged with creating a structure with which I can live. My care team at Cognitive Behavioral Health does not think I am ready for a job yet, so I am muddling through what that actually means. Am I disabled for good and should start pursuing government assistance, or am I capable of slowly creating my own recovery into the workforce? My writing does provide a little bit of income, and as I get more popular here and on Medium, I see results. I’ve been a blogger for a very long time, but so far I’ve only had one fan who was so impressed she thought I should be world famous. I would like a few more of those. 😉 But nothing good will happen if I do not take care of myself.

This starts with setting medication reminders in my phone. My day flags if I do not have the correct doses at the right time. I have always been good about taking my medication because I had a doctor tell me that most bipolar patients stop taking their medication when they feel better, not realizing that it’s the medication that’s making them feel that way. However, I was not so on top of it that I remembered to take it at the same time. I’m also on a lot more medication than I used to be……………

I’ll talk about my psychiatric drugs because I think that people need to learn about them. I am not a doctor, just a waiting room that doesn’t suck (thanks, Paul Gilmartin. I stole that line from you). Crazy meds need to be talked about because it’s such a major undertaking to be put on them:

  • Lamictal (lamotrigine)
    • The first time I was put on this mood stabilizer was the first time I knew what it was like to live without depression. It took about six weeks for the fog to lift, but I’d never been more grateful in my life. The only side effect I’ve experienced so far is nausea, and it was very hard to deal with for a long time. Now, I’ve just decided to stay on it regardless of the side effects because other mood stabilizers make my weight balloon. It’s also an old drug now, so it’s relatively cheap if you don’t have insurance.
  • Lexapro (escitalopram)
    • This is the gold standard of SSRIs, and most bipolar people don’t take them. That’s why I think my diagnosis may be wrong, that I actually have autism and not bipolar disorder. In a bipolar patient, SSRIs tend to make them flip out with suicidal ideation, negative/intrusive thoughts, etc. My SSRI keeps me at an even keel when I am really paying attention to my body. As for side effects, I haven’t noticed any of them.
  • Buspar (buspirone)
    • This is what replaced my benzos for anxiety, because it is not related to them and yet performs the same function. It’s better for me because there’s no risk of addiction long term. I do not have an addictive personality, but better safe than sorry. I have been on Klonopin for over 10 years, but my new clinic doesn’t prescribe benzos to anyone. The entire hospital system has put their feet down over it, so I have to adjust. Now that I’ve been on it for several weeks, I am unsure whether it works or not. I will keep you posted. The one thing I do know is that it’s the most important drug for me to take at the same time every day, because it will flat stop working if I miss even one dose.

My crazy meds aren’t the only ones I take, they’re just the most important for keeping my structure stable. It feels like everything is hitting all at once as I age, because I didn’t have to worry about hormone replacement therapy even a year ago.

As an aside, it’s a big joke with my sister that because I’m enby, I thought that if I was going to do hormone replacement therapy, it would be in the other direction…. after that particular doctor’s appointment, I went home and consoled myself by buying both the book and audiobook of “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.” I needed some Stress Tabs #10 and some candy bars (but maybe not 11). As it turns out, the book and audio were not enough. I also watched the movie on Prime just to see Kathy Bates… “how do you accidentally run into someone…. how do you accidentally run into someone six times?” I get it now. I’m older and I have more insurance.

My medication is working, and for that I am grateful. Now, my schedule runs from sun up to sun down, skipping the night owl routine altogether. And in fact, when I took my sleeping medication yesterday, the sun wasn’t even fully down yet. I prefer to work in the quiet of the morning, especially on the weekends before the kids in my apartment complex wake. The ones who live above me are particularly loud, which is why I’m glad I have good headphones. I hunker down in my office after a night of wild dreams and try to remember what they are. It provides a writing exercise that’s all my own, propelling me into really thinking about my life and what I want to accomplish. I accomplish nothing without coffee, through which all things are possible.

Coffee is also part of remembering to take my medication, because I have found that a lot of caffeine is just enough to control my ADHD, but Ritalin or Adderrall is too big a jump. I have a coffee machine that makes a cup at a time, and my preferred coffee is Cafe Bustelo. It’s in honor of my old chef, John Kinkaid, because we used to walk to a Cuban restaurant between prep and service for their Cafe Bustelo lattes.

I mentioned in “Why It All Still Hurts” that I was working on a nonprofit, and I am… but that dream has been deferred. Kinkaid was killed in a car accident. I am still reeling from the grief, but I got Kindle Unlimited and added five books on starting a nonprofit to my library. Again, the idea is dinner with dignity, offering the unhoused food they could never afford on their own, and opening my kitchen up to take homeless people on as apprentices if they’d like to learn the trade. I am still sold on this idea, it’s just going to take a lot longer to accomplish than I thought.

That’s because the longer I think about it, the more ideas I have. What if instead of this one nonprofit, we were able to build a library like Oodi in Baltimore? There, I could have my cooking classes and a place to serve food, plus books and maker tools for everyone. My structure these days is centered on how to spend the government’s money for the good of the people. Learning about Oodi and all the services they provide gave me a bigger goal than just “dinner with dignity.” It would give the unhoused a place to go. Maybe my purpose is not to go to Finland, but to bring Finnish ideas to a city that needs them. I want to redirect Maryland’s money from the DC metro area and Annapolis to Baltimore, because it is so underserved. A lot of the city is completely trashed out with no way to fix anything…. or so it seems from an outsider’s perspective that just moved here in December.

I need more time to watch and wait, gathering stakeholders and formatting a business plan. Perhaps my structure will always be internal, because that’s how autists work best. I do not want to go down in history as merely a blogger. I want to create something beautiful that will last and bring hope to people that might not be feeling it that day.

I find that working on giving hope to other people is the easiest way to claim hope for myself. I am slowly building a structure into which I can grow, taking others’ ideas and implementing them like a plant takes root in the soil.

But it all starts with remembering to take my medication.

Bold of You to Assume I’d Have to Be Forced

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
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I have a lot of clothes, but really only two outfits. In the summer, I wear jeans and a t-shirt with a hoodie in my backpack for those buildings where the air conditioning is turned down to “Ice Capades.” In the winter, I add leggings and a thermal shirt because my hoodie is often warm enough without a coat if I have on layers. If I were forced to wear an outfit all day, every day, it would fall under those guidelines.

I am just very particular.

American Giant hoodie

Bombas socks

Uniqlo HeatTech long underwear (and if it’s really cold, Merino wool or Reebok synthetics under that, because your base layer must be waterproof. Cotton is not.)

Uniqlo midweight HeatTech shirt

They’re so comfortable I miss them in the summer. I don’t do well in heat, and wish I lived in Finland. I am still holding out for going to school there next year, because I’m stuck in a lease until the end of November. It just depends on what kind of financial position I’m in, because school itself is free, but living in Europe is not.

Plus, there’s the added complication of getting my family and friends to visit me or vice versa. I have recently learned that planes go both ways. 😉 Of all my friends, Bryn ( @one4paws ) is the most likely to be comfortable because she lives in the Pacific Northwest. Our summers would be drastically similar. Winter is where it differs, but I believe we’d have a blast looking at the northern lights and going to see Santa. The woman is not afraid of a parka, and neither am I. We are also a united front when it comes to animal skins. There is nothing wrong with using what has worked in that climate for thousands of years. But try synthetic first.

My current favorite synthetic is a pair of lined waterproof pants for playing in the snow, and my favorite organic is lined wool trousers on the few days a year I have to play dress-up. Both would come in handy in the wilds of Finland…. but not nearly as much as my extensive collection of hoodies (bunny hugs). My favorite says, “Baltimore…. there’s more than murder here.” It has a rainbow and the fonts are choice. It’s my favorite gift I’ve ever gotten from my sister except for the apron that said, “be nice to me or I’ll poison your food.”

Baltimore is so quirky that I choose that sweatshirt as my ghost outfit. I believe Edgar Allen Poe would laugh.

One of the reasons I wear it constantly is that I dream of running into John Waters while I’m wearing it. You never know who you’re going to meet just walking around. I got to meet David Sedaris in a coffee shop in Frederick, so meeting my favorite writers is not impossible.

I also tend to wear sweatshirts year round because I don’t like the sensory experience of the wind on my skin. I will take them off if it gets too hot, but it has to be extraordinarily still outside for me to feel comfortable. I have one very lightweight hoodie that accomplishes this- a full zip waffle weave that isn’t really to keep me warm. It just keeps the goosebumps away.

All of my clothing issues are tied to autism, because once I figured out that I was more neurodivergent than advertised (I was diagnosed with ADHD in college), I started paying attention to them.

The reason autistic adults call it “unmasking” is that we were often pushed into ignoring our discomfort to please others, or told that our sensory issues just aren’t that bad and to get over them. Now that I am in control, I try to buy the best clothes I can afford when I have to buy new, or I spend hours at Goodwill searching through crap to find gold. It’s out there, like Burberry, Brooks Brothers, and London Fog. I am still searching for Thomas Pink. It will be my coup when I find it.

And in fact, I would rather find those things at Goodwill because they feel better when they’ve already been laundered a thousand times before they get to you. Fine clothing outlasts fast fashion by a mile, and I will always gravitate towards it.

I have also somewhat given up on jeans. I have one pair, but I prefer an elastic waistband and tailored cuffs (I rarely tuck in my shirts, so the waist doesn’t matter). These pants from ParisDiary are my go-to and I have them in tan, brown, and dark red. They look great with any outfit and the material is extremely comfortable. They say that they are joggers, and this is true. I’ve worn them in the gym, but they seem too fancy for it. I think they are meant for traveling. I wouldn’t wear anything else on an airplane. And, of course, because of the brand I would like to go back to Paris just to walk around in them……………….. with my diary.

They are also the perfect pants to wear in the winter because with the elastic waistband, they expand to accommodate my layers. I would much rather wear leggings under joggers than stuff myself into trousers. I am also not immune to a good pair of cargo pants…. alarmingly out of fashion in today’s world but too comfortable for me to ignore. I love Dickies when I can find the right size, particularly at Goodwill because again, they’re more comfortable after they’ve been worn in and laundered.

For shoes, I vacillate between Converse, New Balance, and Crocs.

Crocs are always on my list because even though some people would say they’re ugly, they’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned and I do not buy the classic style with holes. Mine are the ones that you would wear in a professional kitchen or hospital, and look more like Dansko clogs than shoes for little kids.

Speaking of Dansko, I wear Crocs instead because they do not have a heel. I have worn Danskos in the kitchen before and I have fallen off of them. That’s too dangerous when everything is either hot, sharp, or both.

I don’t work in a kitchen anymore, but my love of Crocs is undying. They make me feel safe, and that’s the point of all my clothing. I have cerebral palsy, and wearing constrictive clothing makes my movement even more stilted than it already is. There’s no way for me to mitigate every time I fall (balance is my biggest issue), but comfortable clothes and shoes help. Plus, Crocs have the added bonus of cooks actually wanting to talk to me because they know I’m already in their tribe.

One of my favorite trips on the bus was when my seatmate and I were comparing kitchen shoes. I asked him where he worked, and it was my favorite restaurant, Zaytinya. We chatted away in Spanish (I’m not fluent, but I try hard) as I asked him questions “talking shop.”

I guess that’s my complete outfit. You know, if I was “forced.”

Butt Stuff

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What’s the one luxury you can’t live without?
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Now that I’ve got your attention, I had to have an endoscopy and colonoscopy today. I was glad that I live alone when the prep set in (last night), which tasted like SweetTarts covered in salt. I made the best of it by saying that it was not terrible medicine, but some exotic Finnish candy I hadn’t tried yet. It sort of worked, but I know for sure that some salmiakki (salted licorice) is enough to turn my face inside out. Therefore, I was able to trick myself into thinking I liked it long enough to get it down.

And in fact the hardest part was not the prep and the absolute fecal Jackson Pollack that occurs afterwards. It’s that the doses are spaced out by six hours. The worst part is that you go through hell and then you have to keep going. The second dose is at 2300. By 0430, I felt that I had no liquid in my body at all, and I was unlucky enough to have a 1015 appointment. It was a long time to go without water, and I just had to roll with it.

My sister picked me up at 0930, where I stared at her coffee lovingly. We got through admissions quickly and went upstairs to the gastroenterology unit, where we were entertained by the front desk clerk. He said something about “the storal of the mory,” and I said I would be saying that from now on. He said he stole it from “Hee Haw.” This led to a discussion about Minnie Pearl and Roy Clark, and I laughed that he didn’t think either one of us were old enough to remember it.

I’m probably including details that are boring to most of you, but the nurse after the procedure was over said that I probably wouldn’t remember most of today after I slept. What I learned today is that the one luxury I don’t ever want to be without again is Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.

It’s the next day, and I think something may be both right and wrong. The first is that my body processed the anesthesia extraordinarily fast.

My sister and I were able to go out for dinner last night and have a great time without me even taking a nap. We got all kinds of seafood, appetizers, a cocktailDucks for her and a mocktail for me. We laughed at the “scam artists,” ducks who were going table to table in search of people to feed them. Our waiter, who looked a stunning amount like Nate Bargatze, slipped one a package of Saltines and I just knew that 15 more ducks were about to show up.

The thing that feels like it’s going wrong is that my guts are twisted up. I’m not sick, per se. I mean it literally feels like something has turned. I’m sure this is normal, but if it gets worse I will go back to the hospital. I am sure that they would rather me come and see them and it turn out to be nothing than for me to ignore something that’s actually a liability for both of us.

Today has been filled with shopping. I needed a few things for my apartment, and we both found a number of things to exclaim over at Five Below, because their character licenses make us both happy. I didn’t end up getting anything today, because I realized that I still had Spy Family toys to put together at home. I’ve had them for eons, but I seem to enjoy the idea of putting blocks together more than I enjoy the tactile sensation. My fine motor skills are not the best in the business…..

I am certain that a duck could put together Legos better than I could… some days, anyway.

I suppose the storal of this mory is now I know what I need to know for the next colonoscopy, or at the very least, how to support my friends. You need baby wipes and Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.

It’s a luxury you won’t want to live without.

Schrödinger’s Happiness

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Do you remember life before the internet?
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I remember life before the Internet very well, but whether we were happier?

I cannot say.

I have learned, certainly, that there are limits on how much happiness the Internet can bring you. I’ve also learned that sometimes when you cannot find friends in your own area, you need to cast a wider net. Life before the Internet has been idealized as utopia, but it brought the smartest minds in the firmament together.

That’s been a long time gripe of people my age, because In the Beginning,â„¢ only smart & truly dedicated people were on it. This is not because America Online didn’t exist. In those days, most computers did not come with modems and you had to get that working, first. If you managed to install your modem correctly, then the install software for AOL, CompuServe, and a few other smaller players could get you up and running fast…. but even then, you were running a modified version of the Internet; none of those companies told you that once you were connected, you could download Netscape Navigator or use Internet Explorer to get out of the curated version of the Internet those companies presented.

People my age were the first to go through this ultimate transition from offline to on. We’ve seen every iteration culturally, because of course the military had ARPANET to be able to talk to each other years before…. but we were the last generation to go from completely analog (free) to not being able to leave the house without some sort of device (tethered). Most children do not have that now, because even if children aren’t allowed a cell phone, they’re generally allowed a wi-fi device and they are sometimes given away by their schools.

In my fifth grade classroom, I could not have known that this was the case while I was playing The Oregon Trail. I could not have known that the computer was the red flag to all of this, that people would take desktop computing so seriously that they made an entire society around your computer in your pocket. And in fact, the newest Samsung devices are designed to be both your desktop and your phone using the “Dex” interface. Android is designed to be your one stop shop for all computing needs because God forbid you go a single moment without your electronic babysitter.

Electronic babysitters crept up.

First it was our beepers. Then it was our cell phones. Then it was our cell phones with access to our e-mail and a terrible web browser. Then it was smart phones. Now, it’s smart phones that can connect to your computer monitor and become a desktop.

There is no more room in our society for “dead zones,” which for me used to mean going on hikes in the Columbia River Gorge where my phone and GPS were no use. Not having access to those things doesn’t generally make one panic. It makes everyone around you panic. In that way, I do miss life before the Internet. People had more tolerance for it taking a half hour to get a call back. Now, it is expected that you are available for everyone’s every need all of the time.

The flip side is that I knew I was queer when I was 10 years old in Texas, so by the time America Online rolled around, I was ready for it. I didn’t have queer friends where I lived, but I had them in lots of other countries. Before I had the Internet, I was indescribably lonely. It wasn’t the echo chamber you see now, because Internet Relay Chat and America Online were not curated so that you only saw the news your side of the Congressional aisle wanted you to see. The schism took years to complete. It was easier to get along with everyone when we all had differences of opinion on funding, not whether only white, straight, cis, male people deserved to be American. White, cis, straight women are encouraged to be people as long as they understand they are nothing more than their husband’s pets.

Yesterday (Memorial Day), the current American society pissed on the graves of everyone who fought to eradicate fascism during WWII while the rest of the world scratched their heads at our “unique” antics (read: insane). That would not have happened if the disinformation campaign by Russia had not been running for many years. It’s all connected. Ignorance is bliss in this case. Not only can your device create a complete profile of your likes and dislikes, the information is forwarded to the government. Notice I didn’t say “our government.” You actually don’t know which one is mining your data, which is another reason to long for 1985. Sometimes, it’s the good guys, like CIA and NSA.

I may be rancid butter, but at least I’m on your side of the bread. -Jim Mattox

Sometimes it’s our collective enemies, like Russia and China. The American president has oft been accused of cozying up to them because he wants that kind of authoritative power… and he’s doing his best to get it while throwing the rest of us under the bus. Ukraine has been put in an impossible situation, Finland and Poland are preparing to be next. However, it is hard to get the average American to consider the Ukrainians, Poles, and Finns. It is hard to get the average American to care about more than the price of eggs, especially when they will believe a lie easier than the truth. What is more plausible? That the American president can wave a magic wand and bring down the price of anything, or that prices fluctuate and it has very little to do with the current president at all? Generally, when we are talking about the economy, we need to look at who was the president eight to 12 years back.

Democrats spend time cleaning up after ideas like Reaganomics, but the trickle down theory hangs on like a bad penny.

Poor people are still waiting for Reagan’s theory to work, and he’s been dead for years.

The gaslighting put forth by the Republican party is that it will, if given long enough. Meanwhile, greed envelops the nation and somehow the cup which is supposed to overflow keeps getting larger to accommodate more wealth. That message was the predominant one before the advent of the Internet, because Reagan’s “Morning in America” was all the rage. In this way, life has not changed one bit. Instead of Michael Deaver (known as “The Wizard of Oz” for the packaging of news content on the administration and sending it straight to the station to make Reagan look competent) and his bag of tricks, we have an entire party, along with its own news channel, trying to tell us there’s nothing to see here. It’s not a different message. It’s just a different scale. You’ll all be richer and better off if the greed of the billionaires is allowed to run unchecked.

Instead of three television stations, though, we have social media and a 24 hour news cycle….. along with foreign actors that are willing to help spread that message because it brings about more destruction in the unity of the country. There is no way to get a break from your news being tailored to you so that you only believe what you’re allowed to see.

The only answer is to unplug.

I’m Still Figuring That Out

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What are you good at?
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I treated myself to new-to-me running shoes today, because my old ones were bought in 2015. I do not know what happened to them, because they’re still perfectly comfortable. However, the rubber is starting to fall off and the tread feels like it has been dipped in chemicals so that they do not grip. Instead of being able to walk/run, I tend to slide around when I’m wearing them, particularly at the gym because everything is tiled. When I changed into them, I could tell an immediate difference because the floor at the store was polished concrete and I was able to jog in place without slipping.

I suppose that I am good at shopping, because a parishioner at one of our churches when I was a kid gave me a black belt in Goodwill. I have bought everything there, including important occasion outfits, just because I know my brands. That’s the secret to being really good at shopping, in my humble opinion. Even if I struck it rich, I would still rather have a $3-500 suit that’s been laundered a thousand times to make sure it’s soft than something brand new off the rack. My best find was in the early aughts, a full London Fog trench with liner for $24.

I also don’t mind not having the latest style of anything, because my clothes could best be described as the “Visiting Professor’s Collection” at Macy’s. Anything I buy is going to look timeless, because my shirts tend to come in three colors:

  • White
  • Blue
  • White and Blue pinstripes

However, I also like a bit of whimsy. These shoes remind me of Warhol and Lichtenstein, so I think they’ll look perfect with jeans and a button down. I am going to calm down the orange laces a bit by changing to UpUGo elastic laces. They’re not quite as bright, and I don’t have to tie them. I’m certain they’re mostly for children, but I wear boys’ shoes, anyway. Plus, who doesn’t love shoes with a cute little button on top?

I suppose I am good at writing, although writing is like courage. In the moment, you’re just doing what it is you need to do to survive. You don’t realize until afterwards that you’ve been courageous. I do not think I am a good writer. I put things out into the world and other people tell me if I’m a good writer or not. My therapist said that I must know I’m a good writer…. I did not know what to say to that. I’m glad she thinks that, mostly, because she’s more learned than I am. I have learned that I do not want to be an egomaniac, I just want to have confidence. I know that’s what she was talking about, but even telling people I think I’m a good writer sounds arrogant to me, so I don’t.

I do think that I could do a good job handling communications for modern executives, though, because most people do not know how to write introductory e-mails for basic correspondence. I was actually talking to my sister about this the other day, that the secretary she would have been given in the 1950’s would have handled the heavy lifting that AI is trying to do currently. First of all, it is unlikely that a woman would have had her job in the 1950s, but I definitely could have been the Peggy Olson to her Don Draper if given the chance.

I might be happy as a church employee of some kind, because that’s the type correspondence I can manage easily. I was reminded of this today when my sister asked my dad if he’d had a mobile phone in the early 1990s and I replied how I used to answer it. In the car, it was “Rev. Lanagan’s rolling office!” At home, it was “Lanagan summer home… summer home, summer not.” One of the parishioners had some alternatives to this which are really, really funny…. and also unprintable.

I have a good memory because they’re not really memories. An autist sees everything, everywhere, all at once as if no time has passed. This is both good and bad as I also have no friendship degradation mechanics. That’s a psychological term for calling up your best friend in third grade as if they’re still in the same place you are. If they are also neurodivergent, like as not, they are. If they are neurotypical, “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

I am not good at reading a room, and that has served me well in some cases. Please believe that I have crashed and burned in others, but sometimes not reading a room correctly takes away the fear one feels in an unfamiliar situation and allows me to talk to people I never would have otherwise. For instance, I wasn’t approaching Jonna Mendez, chief of disguise and better than a mere mortal. I was approaching an old friend of Aada’s. Now that I know Aada lied and there’s no connection between them, I fear Jonna like the goddess she is.

That’s probably not healthy, but it is what it is.

Realistically, I know that Jonna puts on her running shoes one foot at a time just like me. But in my head she has attained a mythical status. I got all my books signed when I went to see her, so I have no need to bug her again. It’s probably just embarrassment on my part and she wouldn’t think twice.

But in my head, what if it’s not?

What if I’ve embarrassed myself to the point where I’m no longer wanted? I’d rather just keep my memories sacred and walk away, because I’d rather not find out what happens next in this particular story. I have other friends that work in intelligence and can regale me with stories when we’re both old and, more importantly, “outside with a drink in our hands……………” as Jonna so eloquently put it at the book talk for “The Moscow Rules.”

Those are the friends to whom I’d like to be a research assistant on their books, because I like writing non-fiction. I am not a novelist, and doubt I ever will be. I’m not running away from writing fiction, I just don’t get it. For instance, I don’t visualize inside my head, so I don’t really know how to write setting. I’m a gardener, so I have problems with plot. Because I’m a blogger, I’m solid at character studies……………. sometimes.

I am sure that I could learn these things over time, but conventional wisdom is to write what you know. So far, what I know is the world around me. Washington reads like a novel whether you aim for fiction or not. The characters and plots are interesting in and of themselves, and you do not have to make them up. I will never know what my real story in Washington is, because a lot of it happened behind my back. This is not a bad thing, as I fell into a safety net of sorts. One I hated, but still. That whole time in my life would just be a book called “Heytch,” because the trap I fell into was wanting to love her the way she wanted to be loved.

For the record, I showed up at the hospital because two incredibly unlikely stories were presented to me and I was betting that at least one was true. It was the one where she and her husband were wild about each other, and I could just come and live with them as a member of the family. That she was not poly and never had been; that she made it up to entice me when she didn’t need it. I would have followed her into the ocean no matter what.

If you really know me, you know just how little dating means to me, and how much I love deep conversations over coffee that never lead to romance. I could picture us as little old ladies together, and that meant more to me than gold, especially with her big sister right there to kiss the top of my head as she walked by on the odd occasion we ran into each other. Maybe I will write that story, if only for me, because of course it’s fiction now.

Sometimes I wonder how much of fiction is really fiction, and how much of it is people writing down what they thought was happening to them that later turned out not to come to pass. Fiction equals nonfiction plus time, I suppose.

Lots of people will tell you that I had hallucinations, and it is up to you to decide whether I really did or not. It has to be fiction now because all of the evidence has been scrubbed, even by me. I wish I had taken many, many screenshots…. but I didn’t. It would have been nice to have the photo of Heytch’s hand bound to mine, her saying that she was my River Song, because even if it wasn’t real, it was beautiful.

I would have been excellent at telling fact from fiction in person, but everything was presented to me over the internet with the ominous phrase “you are always the best.” One version of the story took this literally, a woman laying her heart at my feet. The other talked about all the destruction I’d caused with my blog because I was too arrogant to see I was causing it. Both stories are true, because I have never pretended to be the best at anything and yet, these people are also entitled to their opinion. What I believe to be true is that no one in that bunch believes in second chances, and I could have explained a lot with one, but in person.

Adding more to our internet history was only adding fuel to an enormous fire with no opportunity to put it out.

I just thought “Heytch” was cute once upon a time. I would have cut off a limb to meet Aada. Both were unique experiences, but they were completely different. I’m also in a completely different emotional place regarding both of them, that I will continue to write what I want because they had no shame in absolutely submarining me. I will never feel credible in the way that I did before I was hospitalized, because when I talk about their internet shenanigans, they are written off as hallucinations that never happened…………. all the evidence is gone.

I’m not sure whether I should thank them or not, because I am good at being sober. I was never abusing any substance, but I wouldn’t have given them up if they hadn’t intervened. It’s not that I realized I was an addict, it’s that I got a better offer. I don’t know what that offer is yet, because I haven’t chased it. My cognitive behavioral health counselor says that I’m not ready for a job, and I believe him for now. We’ll be reevaluating that in the future, because I know that I am capable of a lot more than I’m doing right now, and in fact, capable of a lot more than most people when I can give up my habit of assuming everything.

It’s not possible to be an autist in a neurotypical world without assuming things because if you don’t, people will talk down to you as if you are stupid and just don’t get it. I have found that I needed to switch to a neurodivergent workflow, and that was the kitchen at first. It just cannot be now because everything is too heavy, too hot, and too sharp. I am done with the hit parade of injuries at every shift because I cannot move fast enough and my balance leaves a lot to be desired.

I’m not healed enough from my trip to the hospital not to dwell on it here, because it threw me for such a loop. Because it was over the internet, I can tell you that many things were told to me that simply were not true. That’s part of my not making assumptions gig. Just because I was told I was talking to someone over the internet doesn’t mean I actually was. For that, particularly to Dana, I am sorry. She got roped into this because she was there from the beginning, not because I had this burning need to reach out to her after 11.6 years.

I still think of her fondly and hope she is well, and wish I could take back the e-mail I sent her because she did not deserve it. If I could have words with these internet people, I definitely would. They know who they are, and they haven’t stopped reading. I assume that I am still always the best, both for evil and for awesome.

I’m quieter, though, and take up a lot less space in the world because I don’t want it. A writer is a person who wants you to hear all their stories without knowing you’ve actually read them. I will take these running shoes and use them to propel me further away from controversy because I’m done with it.

I got a better offer, but it remains to be seen whether it still stands. We shall find out, though, because I am always the best.

The One I Want is the One I Got

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Who would you like to talk to soon?
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I sent my dad a funny text message the other day, that it was time for baby’s first colonoscopy, so add that one to the baby book (I sent my mother a similar text message the day I got my first gray eyebrow). A few days later, though, I started to panic because I don’t have any close friends in Baltimore. I just moved here in December, and having a colonoscopy requires someone to drive you home and keep an eye on you after the sedative. My dad and my sister are too busy to fly up here at a moment’s notice, so I don’t generally ask them for anything due to fear of hearing “no.” I could hear what my cognitive behavioral health specialist would think of that and he called bullshit in my head before I even asked him.

I chose my sister, Lindsay, because at the moment there was more chance that my sister would come up than he would as he’s already in charge of a million different things, much less my ass.

See what I did there?

So, gathering my strength, I sent my sister a text message asking if, since I could schedule around her, could she come up for this procedure? I was surprised and pleased when she said yes, and I might even get to see her twice as she already has to be in DC for something later (DC and Baltimore are not far apart, about 35 miles….. the time to travel varies greatly by traffic……. pro tip is to always take the train.). She said that if I scheduled the procedure for 10 June, then we’d be able to celebrate my mother’s birthday on the 11th. I told her I had to see the gastroenterologist first, but that sounded entirely doable depending on the availability of the hospital schedule.

I know for sure that it’s going to be my first time drinking the sludge, two years past when I should have done it because the original guidelines were that I didn’t have to worry about it until 50. It has moved to 45 without me noticing so now I’m late. Typical. But better late than never. I don’t have a history of gut problems, so I don’t foresee a problem with cancer or anything else. I just know that my sister’s job is to do some work while I sleep it off or something.

But this isn’t the only medical thing happening in my life. I have to have a Well Woman exam, which I am calling a Well “Woman” exam. Here’s why this is exciting. My doctor asked if I had a problem seeing a male doctor, and told me his name…. but the hospital system isn’t updated and his deadname popped up. Therefore, for the first time EVER IN THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE I GOT A TRANS MAN AS A GYNECOLOGIST!!!!!

I think.

His deadname could be a man’s name, but it would be highly, highly unusual….. like me. There are male Leslies out there, but not many in the modern age. If he is a bio male, I don’t care. Doctors don’t really have a gender to me. Their pronouns are they/them because the doctor and the God inside them live concurrently. You cannot be successful as a doctor if you do not make peace with the fact that you are God every day to the people sitting in front of you…. and that they will think you are Old Testament if you accidentally kill their loved one, and New Testament if you succeed. If there is a gender in my head, doctors are divided into surgical and medical.

I have so little community that I thought about calling the gynecologist’s office and asking if that doctor would like me removed from his service because he needed friends, too. I haven’t seen him yet, so no harm, no foul. But in the end, I decided that I would need an ally inside the system as well as friends in the community. If I am right and the name in the system is a deadname, then I am sure he can point me in the right direction of people who’d be willing to drive me home after a medical procedure because I actually know them well enough to ask. For instance, just pointing me to community resources is enough, and I know he would care about those things.

Gynecology is already set up to take care of women culturally, so I don’t think trans men would be any different. There is a different questionnaire for my gynecologist’s office than I’ve ever seen in any doctor’s office ever. Taking care of women culturally is asking questions like:

  • Have you ever been a victim of domestic violence?
  • Are there guns in the house?
  • Are the guns within reach of your children?

My psychiatrist is also trying to protect me because I told her that as an enby, I had body dysphoria over my breasts and that I had a lot of back pain due to them, anyway, so I would like a referral. The big beautiful bill passed the House, and she has never mentioned trans medicine again, saying, “did you ask your PCP about your back pain?” Coded language. I’m into it. If this bill fails in the Senate, we’ll have a buffer zone with which to work. But we are both preparing for the worst. That’s because I am not lying in order to get a breast reduction/double mastectomy. Body dysphoria is not genetic, but the back pain I experience certainly is.

The good news is that with exercise, I’m losing some of the fat tissue in my breasts on my own. Life doesn’t feel so heavy. Even my mammogram technician said that my breasts were very dense. My stepmother (a medical doctor) told me that caffeine makes it worse, so I have never done myself any favors in this area. If you were here watching me type, you would laugh. There’s a tallboy of Death Wish Coffee next to me (it’s delicious), so obviously I follow instructions to the letter.

Rule following gets you nowhere in my line of work, which is probably why I’m willing to lay out my medical history and future in front of you. You will learn more from me than you will hurt me with your criticisms of what I’m doing, because those will be different audiences altogether. Trans men need to see themselves, and I don’t know what kind of trans man I am yet. Am I the kind that wants drugs to rearrange my fat deposits as well? I do not know. What I do know is that of everything I struggle with in terms of trans medicine, it’s my voice that bothers me the most…. for evil and for awesome.

On one hand, I will tell you that I’m a soprano and when I’m warmed up, I’m cooking.

This is just an example because it’s unaccompanied, a loop for my friend Aaron to use in a storytelling podcast for The Sinners’ Table that’s coming down the pike. Now, let’s turn it up to 11:

This is another clip from a voice lesson in which I laugh about the fact that I do not know what happens when I’m singing. The afterburners turn on and I just go. It makes me wish I’d chosen voice at HSPVA and Clements (though at Clements I was in one year of choir and made All-Region). Now that it’s 12 years later, I can tell you that I was fighting a war in my head, two women battling it out for my affections…. the one who trained my voice vs. the one that deserved the victory lap. When Joseph (Houston voice teacher) says, “are you thinking differently?,” it’s realizing that this piece was designed to serve up gratitude.

Now, my journey is to decide what kind of singer I am, because drugs to redistribute my fat deposits so that I look more like a trans man than a woman will also make me a tenor. Some days, I think that would make me happy. Some days, I lean into my diva attitude because it’s very much like my trumpet player attitude. I have also noticed that most trans men develop vocal fry, and that is not appealing to me, either. Again, priorities.

I think I am happiest with staying in one place for now, moving cautiously toward enby because I do not know what the drugs will do and cannot predict whether I will be happy with them. I have been stuck on the idea of breast reduction or double mastectomy forever because Tig Notaro has my perfect body. She doesn’t identify as nonbinary, but she looks exactly like I want to look.

It makes me feel bad that she got her look through cancer because I can imagine us getting into a huge fight over it. “I got this look through cancer and you want to do this voluntarily? Are you crazy?” Well, now we are talking about a completely separate issue. I am most definitely crazy, but I take medication for that. As far as I’m aware, there is no brain surgery that removes crazy, but if there was, I would have gotten a referral for that, too.

I’m tired of talking into a void, and want to get louder about trans issues. That’s because nonbinary and trans do not mean the same thing, but we are the same umbrella. I can wear either flag…. and in fact I would like Jonna Mendez to know that I got the most fabulous t-shirt for pride ever created. It’s gray and has the enby flag colors across a bar code, with “Assume Nothing” up the side.

The reason Jonna would think it was cool is that “Assume Nothing” is rule number one in her world (she used to be Chief of Disguise at CIA). I could learn a lot from her, I think, because as an autist I have to assume everything. It is what allowed me to compile scripts in my head to be able to respond like a neurotypical………… when I could social mask.

Now, I see that she has the right idea and I don’t. Go into every conversation as if you don’t know anything and join other people’s realities. It is the only way to see all of them with grace. The transition has not been the smoothest, but I am learning. I am certain that everyone in my life deserves my sincerest apologies for the way I’ve acted over the last 12 years, because I’ve been completely alone, trusting in my own intuition. It’s not ideal.

Now, I’m branching out. I’m trying to be more open in hopes of attracting energy to me. I am done hiding in the shadows.

But I might want to hide in the shadows until after my colonoscopy is finished. Nobody wants to see that. 😉

Exercise tells me which way I will go, because I cannot make a decision about my body while I am consumed with depression and anxiety over the way I look. I do not struggle with weight loss or gain, I just needed to feel good about something and I chose having the routine of getting to the gym as something that would help me feel less terrible. I have cerebral palsy, so I chose my workout carefully. There’s a program on the treadmills that will keep your heart rate in the target zone with incline rather than speed. Therefore, every session feels more like hiking than jogging.

It makes me happy because Bryn lives in Portland, Oregon and I’m sure that if I asked her, she’d be happy to drive me out the Gorge when I visited. I do not remember whether she likes to hike or not, but if she doesn’t I am sure she would drop me off at the base of Multnomah Falls and pick me up several miles down the road as I limp toward the car, energy spent. It makes me feel good to be prepared for that kind of hiking, because Multnomah is easy…. as you go, it gets harder. I haven’t made it to Larch Mountain without feeling like death warmed over, but perhaps I will as time goes on. And that’s without even researching hiking in my area, because I haven’t done it yet. I need to, because my entire hiking experience cannot be based on sacred memories.

The treadmill is my hiking sandbox. I can wander as far as I want through the rolling hills of any city in the world thanks to being able to watch YouTube on my phone. It’s a lot more fun to think about difficult questions and answers while also staring at the beauty of Paris, Copenhagen, Helsinki, and Oslo.

What is not difficult is realizing that my life is bigger than me. Recording it for other trans people to read is my gift to you, because there’s just not a lot out there. Of course all who show up are welcome, but I am trying to reach an intentionally small audience. We are in a culture war where the focus is on trans women and what they might possibly do to cis women.

The biggest indicator of who the real perpetrators of violence might be is a movie I watched long ago. I’d tell you about it, but boys don’t cry.

The Long and Winding Road of Words

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What is the legacy you want to leave behind?
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The legacy I want to leave behind is obviously this record that I was alive. It is not valuable to everyone, all the time. That’s because I do not write what anyone wants to hear except me. If it was not a real record of what I was thinking, I would not have a character arc, the ups and downs of mental health in real time. I do not want to be an influencer, because that gets people killed. Their neediness for likes makes their self esteem rise and fall depending on how often people respond. I need people to come toward me rather than trying to attract you. One leads to a sustaining career as a working writer built on mutual respect. The other leads to jumping up and down for attention in hopes that someone will notice me, eventually giving up my real self for someone that more find palatable.

It’s important for women to have a voice, and as an enby, that’s part of my identity. The other part is trans man….. but I’m pretty sure I also identify as a train wreck. Sandi Toksvig brought it to my attention that women are not given equal airtime on Wikipedia, therefore they’re not given equal airtime in AI, either…. even though Microsoft Copilot’s begat is a matrilineal line (Ada Lovelace). I am trying to add to the diaspora and it does not matter to me whether history judges me as right or wrong. I need it to judge me as being marked “present.” I know that I was a C student, but lots of neurodivergent people are. It’s not that we’re not bright. It’s that we’re not all that clear on how school works and don’t care enough about authority to find out.

I am certain that if I’d played the game better, I would be in a different place now. One of the things that occurred to me when I was thinking about my writing is that my mother, Dana, and Ada all came from military families. Yet none of that military structure passed onto me. I didn’t just pick it up by osmosis, much to my detriment.

Let’s be clear. I already know I’m a mess. I’ve told life experiences that other people just aren’t brave enough to put to paper, but I am because I am full steam ahead. Write now, think later. Writing now and thinking later is what allows growth and change. I pore over the entries where I’m angry, then figure out why. I was so angry in “Doubt” that I spent money on a gym membership. I thought, “at least if I cannot flood my brain with good feelings through care and connection, I can do it through exercise.” I don’t think Aada is ever coming back because she reads my web site and decides what kind of person I am based upon it. She reads my letters the same way. Therefore, there is nothing to indicate that a hug or a handshake would make things better. It is incumbent upon me to move away from her, because she was gone many years ago. She just decided not to tell me.

If she hadn’t been, I might have been invited to get to know her and her family on a different level than our relationship sustained. I realize all of the ways I isolated her, but I would have isolated myself from her if she’d said “this is all our relationship will ever be. You will never meet me in person.” The longer we went without meeting and kahvi was a daydream, the weirder I felt about the state of affairs.

She’s a people pleaser and didn’t want to hurt me. I’m a people pleaser except when it comes to my blog. It’s the one place I have to call my own. Therefore, meeting me in person would have led to us both trying to please each other, and she would have gotten a much different version of me than she was used to seeing.

Aada was always inordinately funny, and that’s the person I wanted to meet. The hardass she displayed could kick rocks. I am sure that she would say that I was funny, and the blogger could kick rocks. But that’s the thing, right? People fall in love with you, or your writing. They rarely fall in love with both…. not that Aada was ever in love with me. The “in love” butterflies were my domain, but they were reigned in and settled into a comfortable nest; I didn’t give into them, I worked through them. That’s another legacy piece for me….. that I felt such incredible intensity for someone and realized how to walk it back into something viable and sustainable….. I think. I will never know if I did or I didn’t, trusting in my own intuition. Aada’s story will always be that I betrayed her.

She made up an egregious lie that is too detailed for me to ever believe that it was a lie, not really. Not when she accused me of having people’s lives in my own hands if I published something she wrote. This is where my mental health nose-dives, and where Michael steps in to remind me that Aada was the pathological liar, not me.

She’d been lying so long she didn’t even realize she was doing it, and I had to remind her that “the receipts go to fuckin’ CVS, Aada. We met in 2013, which by my count is not very recent.” She said she did it because that’s what I needed from her, as if I asked her to foster this ridiculous fabrication.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- she could have worked at a car wash and I would have been no less impressed. I’ll be spending the actual 12th anniversary of when we met without her (I’m guessing), because Michael told me that there is a game afoot based on a novel here, and I have to figure it out. The only hint I’ve seen so far is that I’m probably the Ethan Allen.

Obscure joke. Talk to your parents.

Aada would say that I left myself with no options, because I did not play the game correctly. If I’d played the game correctly, she could have made all my dreams come true. I saw that in the curated version of our friendship’s future. There was a job, a dog, support services, and all of it taken away because I wouldn’t do exactly what she said at all times. I have no respect for authority and I never have. Her life is ruled by it because she doesn’t follow rules, she makes other people follow them.

When I go off-book, it’s a disaster. When she goes off-book, they just write a new one.

I could cry about it, and I have in the past. Not so much anymore. I realized that I did not want to be subject to her laws, that I wanted to be treated like an equal. Where was the part where she showed up for me? Where was the part where she proved she was capable of being my friend? She said she’d done all of this to meet a blogger, and I surmise freaked out when it worked.

I wish I’d been the person I am now when we met. The person I was then was too brash, too boastful, too full of herself because that person could social mask. There was no easy entry into the softest parts of me until baby Aada whispered her name.

I struggled with recovery from sex abuse and got my wires crossed in a way that couldn’t be undone, and in some sense, may never in terms of sentimentality. It’s not the big picture that makes me cry. It’s things like looking in my Apple Watch face gallery and seeing that Apple has used the picture she took of herself for my contact list to create the most beautiful watch face I’ve ever seen and cannot bear to use.

She has never gotten her wires crossed, which made her a safe person with whom to lose my mind. I’m not saying that I didn’t cause her emotional trauma as well, only that she’s trained to deal with crazy people and I’m not.

(This might be a clue we’ll use again later.)

I didn’t guard against her in any way, and therefore all of her emotions controlled mine. She did listen to me there, because what I had to say resonated… that yes, I’d gotten my wires crossed, but that wasn’t the sum total of me. That the part of me who views her as family in an “I’m so sorry, this meeting is over because I have to get on a train to Virginia RTFN” kind of way was hurting in the same way her other family members would hurt if she was in trouble.

It was my error to separate myself, but that was a mark left from childhood. It’s gone now. I am constantly trying to appeal to my better angels and to not repeat the mistakes of the past, because I didn’t just hurt Aada in my own misery. I hurt everyone around me because I couldn’t see them.

I couldn’t even see me.

Thankfully, you could.

Balance

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

I am seeking a new balance to home life and work life because I know I’m a writer and need to keep at it. I’ve been the same character for 12 years, and now is a time of explosive growth as I no longer have a hard shell around me keeping me from connecting to other people. I have hid not only in my one house, but one room of one house, trying to avoid the simple act of being a blabbermouth. Now, that restriction has been lifted and I can tell what I want, when I want, within reason. I just had to choose. Do I want a relationship with Aada, or do I want a relationship with me?

I chose me, because her idea of choosing me was simply to write to me over the internet. I would keep living in a small room, my life incomplete, while I stared at the ghost in my shell. I think the nickname is apt because we slowly hacked each other from the inside out. I say that I fell in love with the wrong woman all the time, because she did not fall in love with me. I was stuck, because she loved me in the way that she could…. deeply, grabbing for approval at times. She just didn’t need my approval and didn’t trust in her own instincts. Her last interaction with me was a huge fight in which I fell asleep and I woke up to, “you know what?”

If someone starts a sentence with, “you know what?” then you don’t have to read the rest to know someone is going to take a bite out of your ass. I told her not to assume that just because I was taking a nap that meant I was abandoning her. Just recently, I went back and re-read our conversations and what I found is that I did not want to connect with her anymore. She was offended by everything and I could not find a topic that made both of us happy. Michael told me that I would be happier without her, and he turned out to be right, but not for the reason he said. He calls her “the fraudster.” But the things she lied about were inert. Nothing that couldn’t have been forgiven because I liked the goofball she was inside when she let loose.

But I wasn’t allowed to see that person. Every sentence I wrote caused defense, and I became an angry person in response. I hated being that person and so did she. I can tell because she has blocked me on everything as if I never existed. That’s how she gets through life. There’s no working through something and coming to resolution. There’s just moving on. I don’t do that. I work hard at changing what was wrong. I commended her for being vulnerable. And yet, her e-mail to me was still a flame war in which her therapist supposedly said that I was responsible for manipulating her for 12 years. Maybe that’s true, because her therapist will never know my side of the story unless she’s reading me here. I hope they are. Because I am as angry as I was in “Dope” and as sweet and sentimental as I was in “All the Things You Never Knew.” I do not have one attitude when it comes to Aada because there’s not a single day that describes our relationship except the distance of never working together in person. I believe it would have solved a lot, and there would never have had to be a flame war in which I felt threatened.

The impossible position she put me in was that she wasn’t real. She just taunted me saying that I wanted fame and fortune by publishing something she wrote, when in reality I was starting to look like a crazy person, in love with a ghost who never showed up. In love with my own imagination. For one shining moment, she was there in all her glory and it didn’t matter that I looked like a manipulative asshole. It didn’t matter that she thought that. I could deal with those consequences easier than I could deal with my friends and family always saying that she was a figment of my imagination.

Now, the whole world thinks I’m an absolute lunatic and that just has to be okay. There’s a reason I am the way I am, and it’s because it was revealed to me how the Internet actually works. I cannot speak to that, either, except to say that I discovered that the mirrors talk to each other. We are skating on an ice rink in which the machines underneath control the hardness. While you’re “elbows up,” everyone underneath is making sure you don’t fall through. It was a wild ride, and I talked how I normally talked…. I’m sure managing to offend several people in my life because I thought I was only talking to “my girl.”

It was a dream, all of it, a conspiracy to get me to the hospital. I needed it, but their methods were absolutely cruel. I will never forget thinking that my night was going to be flying to Finland with someone I hadn’t seen in 12 years and really liked, after 12 years of sitting alone. She was already married, but was telling me she was poly and her husband was cool with it. I didn’t want a full-time girlfriend because I’m working on myself. This seemed like the perfect solution because she doesn’t even live in my state. She works in media, or did, anyway, and would have been good as a sounding board no matter whether the date lead to something else or didn’t. I wasn’t ready to commit; I was ready to hear her out.

This is because I wasn’t sure she was out as poly to anyone but her husband. There was a big chance she’d hide me away in Africa or Asia and I had to know if it was worth it first. All of my emotions were stirred in a way they hadn’t been because I’d been so cut off from feeling anything that it was nice to feel something genuine. My move to Baltimore had just been one more way to isolate myself because I was having trouble taking care of myself in light of all the pressure I was under. It was just more social masking so that no one had to see me suffer because I didn’t want them to. And in fact, they wouldn’t have without Aada’s access. She’s the one I told everything, and I don’t regret it. I regret that she is too angry to see that me publishing her e-mail is not her biggest problem.

Her biggest problem is that she crushed me for 12 years and I just took it. I just fell down and let her, because it wasn’t my secrets that were killing me. I got to where I was fucking feral. I can’t apologize enough to make a difference, because I’ve already done all the apologizing I’m going to do. So has she, because every time she says, “I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know,” I know it’s just words to placate me. She’s never going to actually do anything different.

“I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know” would have been “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

In the immortal words of my friend Aaron Brown when I asked him if he was making room for grief, “I don’t have to make room for grief. It makes its own.” I’m just sad. Everything I’ve known for 12 years is gone and I am going to be blamed for it ad nauseam. I should, in a lot of ways. I was the one that sexually harassed Aada over the internet 12 years ago, when my marriage was ending and I was trying to make Dana angry, not Aada. But Aada decided what kind of person I was from the very beginning, and treated me like a jackass even when I was on my knees praying. There are some sins that cannot be forgiven by another person, they can only be forgiven by God. I didn’t take the hint. I wrote volumes. I sent presents. I changed how I thought of her because you don’t think about your heroes that way. Anything I could do to move on from that one time in my life was positive progress, and she accepted me for who I am…. eventually…. without telling me that she’d never see me in person just in case.

We could have started there.

We could have started with honesty, but that’s not her policy. Her policy is a web of lies in which no one can get through. Try, and she’s the spider that has no problem injecting poison. She won’t listen to reason, that vulnerability is necessary to survive a relationship with someone who is all vulnerable, all the time. Because I was never angry she lied for a living. I was angry she lied to me.

I justify publishing what I did because there’s no way to unpublish it, not because I actually meant harm. They’re all the lies I tell myself to keep myself alive. She didn’t deserve to have her e-mail published in its entirety because I was a dumbass and didn’t proofread, but there’s a million reasons why it was necessary to save my own sanity. It’s a sacrifice I’ve made along the way, and now I think I’m getting it back.

I didn’t choose to stop smoking weed when she said I should, or when the twins said I should, but when I was given actual anxiolytic medication to replace it. I didn’t decide to start taking care of myself until my anxiety was solved. When I was trapped between her lies and my silence, I didn’t know my next move and staying in my room was the only one I could think of that wouldn’t cause damage. From the Internet, I could be watched. From the Internet, there are no private conversations. From the Internet, she is “from whom no secrets are hid.”

The problem was when I treated her like God, I treated myself like a worm.

It was a bleak outlook for the rest of my days, when what I wanted was freedom with her. She hid from me when it would have delighted me to see her flash a smile in my direction at least once. Even the picture she took for me only has a hint of a smile, but I’m glad I have it in my box of treasures from that time in my life. I cannot look at it, but someday.

Maybe when I get my smile fixed, I’ll be able to return one. My medications have ruined my teeth and I haven’t done anything about it. I only now think I am deserving of a new smile. I only now think I am capable of growing into the person I was meant to be, because the last 12 years have been so stunted. I was trying to take care of someone else’s inner child, and ignoring my own while she cried.

All I got in return for that was lots of defense and anger. That’s not my bag. I own that I did sin against her, and what I said was not small or easily forgiven. But what should have happened is blocking me on everything immediately and letting this process happen 12 years ago if she wasn’t going to put on her big girl panties and work it out. She just got the chance to snipe at me every day instead.

I put up with it because I thought I deserved it and didn’t have enough strength to block her…….. until I did. She noticed and sent me two e-mails reading me the riot act over shit I never said. That should have been even more of an indication that this was going to end badly, but I did not pay attention. I just let her have her say….. because she only pays attention to the ways in which I hurt her.

She’s never really taken in my pain, and never will. That’s because she cannot see it. Having boundaries means teaching people how to love you, and she’s a people pleaser. No one knows how to relax around her because she does not give them any directives. If you tell her that it doesn’t matter what she does now, she takes that as “you hate me.” When I literally meant “I can welcome you or I can push you away, but the next steps are on you.” She chose to step away, as I knew she would. Abandonment is the only skill she’s actually practiced.

I have grieved this relationship over and over because she doesn’t want to work on it. She would like to say she worked on it. But she’ll get to three internet exchanges and get so heated that she tells me to fuck off before I can even breathe. I have done the same, but less and less over the years as I have dealt with my trauma and learned how to breathe.

Bryn and I have a code phrase for this… “HOW DARE YOU LET ME HELP YOU?!”

I used it on Aada, and she said, “100%.” She understands that she’s the one standing outside the group of people who will accept her for who she is and catering to the people who see her for the way she’s curated.

She doesn’t like people that are fucked up because she cannot admit that she’s fucked up. She has to believe that she has it all together. I could have offered her friends and a future not based on social masking, but based on who she actually is….. a six year old covered with layers of PTSD that made her invincible to the outside world while she’s dying inside.

I’m in this position because I wouldn’t join the narrative that she’s fine. I’m in this position because publishing her e-mail was just the last thing that happened. The real truth is that she was never going to unmask.

She’s a trademark, and she likes it that way.

I’m a spoonie, and I don’t have the ability to mask anymore. As I got more and more into finding my true self away from other neurotypicals, she became more defensive. Because as I’ve said, I think she’s neurodivergent and a spoonie as well. She just pushes herself to the very limit of her abilities and explodes when it comes to her personal life. Or, at least, I hope that’s only my experience of her. She makes me think that everyone around her is in danger of the cold disconnection I got. I wonder if her divorce from her first husband years ago actually happened the way she thinks, or if she didn’t know all the things about herself that she does now.

Because in Aada’s life, everything happens to her. She doesn’t cause anything. Everyone is toxic but her. If you view your life that way, you will end up only talking to yourself, only connecting with yourself, and thinking that’s normal. For instance, I’m toxic because I hurt her, but she’s not toxic because she hurt me. I have a more nuanced view. We both caused each other damage that could be resolved and our relationship healed.

But there’s no room for nuance with Aada. She’s not vulnerable enough to admit that her trauma causes me pain. She’s not vulnerable enough to admit that she causes problems inasmuch as I do. It’s so much easier to “blow ’em off and keep goin’,” but at what point do you just run out of people to lean on? I hope that in our conversations, it led her to let other people in to everything that I know, because the disembodied voice of a stranger on the internet didn’t help me over time. Hugs might have, though. Since I can’t hug her, I hope someone did.

I chose to move to Baltimore so that there would be no one around to hug me. I chose to be alone because I thought I was doing the right thing. Now, I’m trying to leave my house as often as I can, because eventually I hope I’ll find someone to love that is actually available.

No internet connection needed.

Maybe You Should Talk to Someone

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
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The advice that has always served me well is that one conversation leads to another. This is how the world gets built. The old axiom “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” is axiomatic for a reason. In order to get your ideas implemented, you have to be seen, first. Without the right eyes on, your ideas will languish in obscurity. Most people die thinking that their great ideas aren’t that great… when the truth is much simpler than that. No one saw it.

Monty Python has a great skit called “How Not to Be Seen” and you learn the biggest lesson the hard way…. “don’t stand up.” When you stand up, you are open in your vulnerabilities and weaknesses. You are ripe pickings for anyone who wants to do you harm. But what the skit doesn’t tell you is that your friends cannot see what you’re doing, either. I have found that your friends do want to help you when they see the concrete steps. They will not jump in if they don’t know how.

For instance, Riker had a great idea for our storytelling podcast theme song. I just need to make sure that it’s legal. Otherwise, I will sing the loop he needs myself, because he picked something that reaches so far back into my history that I could sing it in my sleep. He’ll even give me time to warm up. 😉

Now that I think of it, if I put the loop here, he can grab it on his own.

Meanwhile, I used Kindle Unlimited to get three grant-writing books this month alone. I need them because I have huge ideas and little money. Grants are the first step towards provisioning, and The Sinners’ Table is a large undertaking, even if we only manage to feed 50 people at a time.

My vision for The Sinners’ Table is to get chefs I’ve worked with and possibly known quantities like Gordon Ramsey, Tom Colicchio, and David Chang to come to Baltimore for a few days to both cook and teach. Number one on the call sheet is my friend Evan Henson, because when we worked together at the Laurelwood Pub, he’d been to culinary school but hadn’t run his own brigade. He went on to become Andy Ricker’s chef de cuisine, and if you don’t know that name, it is dear to me. Andy is one of the most talented Thai chefs I’ve ever run across, and not having Pok Pok in my neighborhood anymore no matter where I live is just grief.

I have told Evan that if he knows how to make Andy’s chicken wings, I will have trouble letting him go home. 😉

There are two reasons I would like to get “names” to Baltimore:

  • The unhoused could never afford this type meal on their own. It is dining with dignity to give it to them free with no expectation of payment. To have someone like Gordon Ramsey is not because he’s necessary. I can teach people how to cook. I’m just not a beacon of hope like he would be, because my words don’t carry the weight that his would.
  • Those at the top of their field have no problem teaching. Everyone gets to eat. Those who wish to learn to cook in hopes of getting a stable job at a restaurant need to see how it’s done by volunteering on prep and dish before service.

I’m not just talking to my friends, though. My therapist is a big part of all my success, because in order to move on, I had to give up my old life and prepare for the new one. I didn’t give up much. Aada was so all-encompassing that I gave her too much power she did not see. There will be no thank you for the 12 years she got out of me while I was dying inside. There will only be anger that I could not be dead inside forever.

But luckily, that will not be my story. My neurons are healing and I am starting to feel real feelings. I could not connect to anyone else while I was connected to her. It’s not what she wanted, but it is what happened. I will have to wonder if she would have come toward me if I’d decided to keep quiet about all the cuts we made on each other’s skin.

I don’t wonder much, though, because the best indication of future behavior is the past.