When Your Family Hates You, but Loves You for Your Lie

I don’t specifically talk about my politics. I vote. I study. I make informed decisions. As an author it’s quite common to be told not to be political. Just write and shut up. Politics and religion are a downer. But in the political climate and the crescendo of panic building to the next election there’s something that bothers me more than anything.

My family hates me. Well, maybe not in the sense of personal hate, but everything about me. And that’s what I wanted to write this post about. I have a few members of my family on my social media accounts. I usually snooze them, so I don’t see the hatefulness they have for me.

Don't Use Me as an Example: A Short Essay

Although, I’ve done this publishing thing a time or two, but I’ll tell everyone, or anyone who asks don’t use me as an example for this writing game. Everyone has their process—what works for them. I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating, when I was eight I wrote the worst poem in literary history, but my love of writing formed. My mother wanted me to grow up to be an investigative journalist. We both quickly realized I wasn’t diplomatic enough for it. Although she was sure she’d see me on TV one day she just hoped it wasn’t in handcuffs. My Evil One aka Mommie Dearest aka Lifegiver always had the sweetest opinion of my personality.

But I digress. I grew up loving the written word, the way authors compose these perfectly imperfect symphonies of words, sentences, and paragraphs. Authors who paint mentally picturesque landscapes for us to disappear into. I’ve written before that I jotted down short stories in my notebooks with the dream of publishing a story someday. Anne Rice, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Patterson, I wanted to see my name on the cover of a book gracing the shelves of a bookstore. My dad’s parents were voracious readers and I spent weekends at their house growing up. Every night it became a habit to curl up before going to sleep and read. I read everything from pulp detective novels to true crime serial killers. I was way too young for those types of stories, but my love of reading wasn’t stilted because of that.

Romance Body Positivity and Diversity in 2020: a Short Essay

Let me back up a few years and tell you where it all started, I came out as lesbian later in life. I lived with my internalized homophobia. I lived with these words in my head it’s good for everyone else but that’s just not me. While I choked on my jealousy of others being out and proud. I self-destructed on whatever drugs I could make disappear up my nose or however much alcohol I could get down until I reached the bliss of blackouts. I make no apologies for the past. I can’t change what I’ve done; all I can do is accept it and pledge to myself to do better.

For decades of my life I was too fat, too depressed, too manic or whatever the fuck the weekly stigma was to elicit self-loathing. I wrote my dreams on the lined pages of well-worn notebooks. Swearing to myself that I’d never share the stories I hid. Then one day I started posting them anonymously online. Saving myself from the inevitable trolling that the internet is famous for.

Bipolar & the Seven Deadly Sins: A Manic Essay

The first panic attack I ever remembered having I think I was around twelve. The details of the triggers or the event itself are hazy. But, oh, how I remember my current ones. I lose time as if I’m outside myself. My brain a misfiring of billions of neurons, I recognize them for the way my skin feels. It’s like it’s not…mine. Foreign and cumbersome, almost like a cheap suit that’s too tight and the legs too short. Millions of bugs crawling beneath my skin. I pick, scratch, attempt to hurt myself for it to go away. It’s only when I skip my count, my prayer beads don’t spin as smoothly as I roll them between trembling thumb and forefinger that the rage starts.

Hallucinations form with the building crescendo of every labored breath—each more ragged and painful than the one before it. Time ceases and I’m frozen, skinning the flesh from my arm, setting myself on fire, removing fingers, and driving 100 miles per hour into oncoming traffic and it doesn’t stop. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour goes by and I’m back, yet always a piece missing. I know I should feel terrified, no, horrified at what my mind devises for me. Yet I’m not.

The Year of Body Positivity and Diversity and Beyond

This year marked three years of sobriety, and six years of being off drugs. My mental health has taken hits left and right, but as the years progress I learn to adapt to my brain’s needs. We work together like a dysfunctional team and at this point in my life I couldn’t be happier with where I’m at. Yes, things could be better. Yet I won’t complain because it could be so much worse. While I still think about alcohol and drugs daily, my darker thoughts are fewer and farther between. Days can pass without thought of self-harm. Again, I have adapted to my brain’s, shall we say, eccentricities.

2018 has turned into an amazing year. I lived my dream of writing full-time and while I believe my time is limited in that aspect I enjoyed the months with nothing but words to toil away upon. There is no way to thank my readers enough for reading my stories and embracing bodies in all their shape and sizes, shades. When I branded myself as a body positive author to describe the characters I wrote, but it was a label I always wore no matter the tales I told.

The Struggle of Being an Inferior Storyteller

I debated long and hard about writing this post, but I had a need to get my thoughts out. If I deemed to post it than that’s why you’re reading it now. Let me start at the beginning, when I started this creative process of putting words to paper. Yes, I started writing back in the day when it was nothing but notebooks and those chunky word processors. Not everyone had a computer or internet, that was mainly for libraries and school computer labs.

I fell in love with the written word early in life due to my dad’s parents. I’d go to their house every weekend or every other, each night they’d lie down in bed before going to sleep to read and it was the start of a lifelong habit. Yet I didn’t read kid books, they loved detective stories and horror. I don’t know if I even understood them or the words, but I remembered loving them. It was getting lost in worlds where the good guy always won. I developed a fascination with Zane Grey and the mystique of the old west.

When people ask when I knew I wanted to be a writer, I always say at 8 when I wrote the worst poem know to the literary world. And maybe it did start there, but my life changed with one book. Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. He created a gritty world with all the nastiness and horror, surreal and realism combined. All I knew is I wanted to write one day. Be a published author.

#Preorder Bull (Brawlers 3) #MMRomance #LGBT

Coming Soon from Hostile Whispers Press

Bull

(Brawlers 3)

Blurb:

Welcome to Brawlers Bar…

They said men only get better with age, all distinguished and all that BS, but Archer “Bulletproof” Woods hadn’t gotten better. At fifty-six he was still as much an asshole as he’d been in his twenties and thirties, hell, maybe he was worse. Being a bouncer at a bar called Brawlers suited him just fine and he even tolerated the rest of the crew who’d taken up residence in his house when they’d had nowhere else to go. He was big, growly and homely that kept the parade of men passing through Brawlers at arm’s length for the past decade. One night changed all that.

On Days When Self-Care Seems Impossible #Bipolar #EverydayStruggle

This isn't a post as a cry for help, it's just things floating around in my head, and, well, I do have a blog, so here is today's bullshit.

For just one day I want...

1. Silence

I don't mean silence where I can turn a deaf hear to what is going on around me. The silence I require is the type where a particular pitch in someone's voice doesn't enrage me. The type where I can smile and not feel as if someone's laugh is pulling my skin so tight I can't breathe. Day in and day out, I spend my time with my jaw clenched and my fists tight to the point I have to shake them out to ease the tensed muscles. Noises of any kind seemingly harsher than necessary

Every day, I live with a rage so great I want nothing more than to put my fist through a wall. It's a struggle no amount of medicine, meditation, or coping mechanisms can ease. I'm just...angry.

I'm an Atheist Lesbian Who Writes Stuff

-Walks up to the podium and taps the mic- Hello, my name is J.M., I am an Atheist. I am a Lesbian. And I like to write stuff that a minority of people like.

-group- Hello, J.M.

-Someone in the back- Why, J.M., do you write Atheists? Do you hate religion?

Why? Thank fake Jesus you asked. The simple answer is because I can and no I don’t hate believers. I respect their right to believe in whatever but don’t trample on my lack of belief and the fact I openly write Atheists.

I’ve been a non-believer from the moment my parents thought, “Hey, wouldn't it be cool to contribute to the world's overpopulation?” I'm pretty sure I was a horrible accident though because I'm….me.

Mending The Broken Pieces

A friend wrote a post this morning and emailed it to me. After reading it, I didn’t feel worthy of the words she wrote. The thank you for holding her hand. I don’t even think I’d still be here without her. You see I’ve been suffering from one issue or another since my teens. A few months ago, I thought I was having a heart attack. I went to the hospital, tolerated the tests and the constant wake ups. One of my cardiac enzymes came back funky so they admitted me. To be honest, I’m not the healthiest person and I’m coming up on the big 4-0.