Walking Barefoot

Life is our playground and our sandbox. So it’s about time I started playing and creating. How can you be afraid to play? How can you be afraid to create? Only if you’re waiting on somebody else’s opinion of how you play or what you decide to create do you actually accomplish, well, …nothing. Not a damn thing. For 49 years I’ve been waiting on someone else’s approval, pat on the back, good job, agreement, gold star etc. Not anymore. It’s no longer, “One day I’ll start that blog…One day I’ll write that book…”
No. Today, this day, is day one.
No more dreaming, no more wishing, no more talking. It’s Game Time.

I thought I could do this chronologically but that’s not going to happen. So then I thought my blog? My book? Well then, my rules. And here are the rules:

There are no more damn rules.

I followed them my whole life until life stopped me dead in my tracks and the very earth’s foundation began shifting like sand in an hourglass. Cognitive Dissonance became a very real construct in my scrambled world. My entire belief system was shaken (not stirred) to the core of my being.

Following the rules keeps you safe. I promise it does. But do you feel joy, contentment, fulfillment? Does following the rules make you happy?
That cookie cutter mold (Social Image) that you have spent your entire life creating, conforming, enhancing, or forcing yourself to be, is it really you? Do you even know?

When I say rules, I don’t mean the necessary law abiding rules of a civilized society, I mean the “rules”-the unspoken ones, the ones that if you don’t follow you are frowned upon, or not invited to someone’s wedding, or talked about behind your back, or excluded from a circle of friends perhaps.

I’m over it. I was recently told that I lacked a filter. I was honest about my feelings by simply allowing a physical response to an emotion of sorrow move up, out and away from me. Teardrops. I was very hurt and had yet to process the new and uncomfortable, no, downright painful information I had just been given. And right away I was perceived as being difficult, or not having the reaction or response that I should have had, and that there was just something different about me and something wrong about me. I didn’t used to lack a filter. I had tact and a courteous manner and I could fake a handshake and a gentle smile, but when you’re backed into a corner and you’ve jumped through all the hoops and you played all the games and you’ve danced all the dances, knowing all the choreography by heart, because at the deepest level of my being, EVERYTHING I did, everything I said, the friends that I surrounded myself with, EVERYTHING was to ensure at all cost never having to experience the following: judgment, abandonment, ostracization, exclusion, isolation-and rejection. Yet every single one of my deepest terrors still occurred. I manifested every single one. Everything I feared, everything I navigated my entire life so carefully around so that would never happen to me, well, it still happened.

So now what? Do I dance the dance again? Do I jump through hoops again? Do I fold my napkin properly across my lap? Do I tell you everything‘s fine when it’s not? Do I talk about the beautiful weather we’re having? Do we sweep all those nasty little dust bunnies of life’s experiences right under the carpet again?

Or…Can I be real finally?

I am unladylike. I am honest. I stay up too late and I sleep in too late. I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks…and it’s summer. I don’t always think things through. I don’t fill my gas tank until the red light has been on for a few days and I don’t pay my utility bills until the 48 hour notice. I pick up hitchhikers every once in a while and we talk about Jesus, the cosmos and the best taco truck in town. I drink out of the milk carton. The other day I flipped off a driver that passed dangerously on my right while I had my child in the car… and started using curse words my child’s never heard me use. He was impressed.

I am beginning to feel emotions that I have not felt since the age of 13.
At which age I learned to adapt and endure multiple traumas by inducing a numbed perception through self injury and subsequently alcoholism and drug addiction.

The first thing you get to experience in recovery is emotions. Feelings. For some that may seem a very simple concept but when you have existed for close to four decades dodging, swerving and leaping over them, it’s quite a challenging and difficult experience to acclimate yourself to.

Yet, Today I wear them openly. I cry too much, I laugh too loud, I wear clothes that don’t match, I’m too loud, I’m too lazy, I’m a whole lotta “too much” everything.

And you know why I think that is, because I did follow all the rules all the time all my life. And something shifted and the transition began about five years ago.

When you’re arrested for attempted murder… Life takes on a whole new meaning.

When the whole community really doesn’t know when, why, how, who, or where, well then they fill in the blanks themselves. And the story takes on a life of its own that isn’t remotely possible to break apart, even with the truth.

So I stepped back and I accepted that people believe what they want to believe. It’s much easier to construct, believe, pass along information however erroneous and untruthful, it’s much easier for people to swallow than the ugly monster called the truth.

So,I will never again take another breath for another human being to decide whether I was worthy enough to breathe.

I lack a filter, because I expressed an authentic human response to news that my new normal life that I had finally just adjusted to, was now being thrown up in the air and juggled around and landing in places I never expected. My heart and my mind, my sense of security, my sense of familial relationships, all of it felt like it was just thrown out the window and anything short of immediate readjustment, reacclimation, acceptance and overwhelming joy was unwelcome. Well it didn’t happen that way and so once again I was different from everyone else. I was (perceived/or real) the cold, unsupportive, selfish disfunctional / toxic black sheep of the family.

Humans feel. Humans hurt. Humans make mistakes…often. I am one of the messy humans so quadruple all of that.

I can’t be neat and tidy and proper anymore. Nope. I cannot live in such a fashion to make me suitable to invite to tea parties or luncheons or to meet your new fiancé. I am inappropriate and coarse. My clothes are wrinkled and your feathers will likely be ruffled.
White Trash? No. Low Class? Not even close. It’s called, walking barefoot through the soft, green meadows and shards of broken glass that together create this experience called life.
True compassion, understanding, and humanity that can only come from experiencing it all.

One More Thing:
I say “Fuck” a lot more these days…and not in a whisper.

Lemondrop Liars

“And it was determined that THAT was a lie. “

Maury Povich

I learned to lie by the very best, my mother. A theatrical, dramatic, and visually stunning woman, who could charm her way through life, or so she thought. I learned early on about white lies. Harmless lies that quickly evolved into what I now refer to as lemon drop lies. But it took me a “minute” longer, more like 40+ years to discover that my Mama had leveled up in the lying games.

The occasional white lie went something like this, “Oh no, we can’t make it, my husband has to work that night.”

Then came the lemon drop lie, “Oh no honey, we’re not racist, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s black. We don’t have a problem with it. We’re just protecting you from the other parents that do.”

When I say leveled up, I’m not sure how to describe the lie other than a complete and unstable depart from reality. It goes something like this, “ You know Kasie, I just realized that I’m not as strong as you are anymore.” We were on a Skype call and she was down south at my brothers house. Now also important to mention, no one was talking to me at the time. Except for her. I mean for months. Nobody would talk to me, or answer my calls or my emails. But she would, sometimes. And she picked this specific visit at my brother’s house 600 miles away, to skype me out of the blue. Why? To set the trap. That is why.

She’d begun to wage a smear campaign against me. At first I didn’t understand what she kept talking around/talking about (you know exactly what I mean if you’ve ever experienced one of the covert narcissist’s attacks. They’re often so confusing but of course you’re the one, the only one that can’t understand them) so I asked. Her timid, childlike reply was, “Well, that time I came to your house and you shoved me out of the garage, I realized that I’m just not as strong as you are Kacie.”

She had certainly upped her game to a new level alright. I was frozen in sudden confusion but slowly what she was doing began to take hold. I slowly replied, “Mom, …what are you…doing?” She proceeds to repeat herself in the same manner as before. I suddenly realized she was laying a trap. I firmly responded, “Mom…listen to me clearly, I have never touched you or pushed. Not once, not ever.”

“You most certainly did Kacie, you just don’t remember. You were probably drinking. Anyways you know that isn’t why I am calling you, I’m only talking to you because I love you and I’ve missed you. Why do you always want to fight” Then leaving no opening for a response, she continues, “I’m not going to allow this. I’m having a good time here with your brother.”

Yeah, um…ok. No. She clearly called to set me up on camera alleging that I’ve physically abused her. I appropriately defend myself because it never happened and now somehow I’ve started a fight with the intention to ruin her trip.”

Continue reading “Lemondrop Liars”