Sticks and stones may break my bones

But MAGA trolls will never hurt me.

(My Mother’s Day musings are a wee bit different this year).

I’ve been punched in the face. I’ve been held down and spit on. I’ve been kicked in the stomach, had my hair pulled and my eyes nearly scratched out. I’ve had two hands around my throat long enough and hard enough that I legitimately believed I was going to die. I’ve been hit with a heeled shoe so hard it essentially split my entire upper lip in half and left me with a scar that at 4 years of age became a forever part of my face.

I was taunted and teased for as long as I can remember, from being called a boy because of my very short haircut to Pepé Le Pew because no one in our chaotic household had the time to explain hygiene to 5 year old me after my mom took off. I was always the last “picked” for square dancing, which meant that I wasn’t picked at all, but rather the routinely demoralizing bad luck for poor Jason G. who had to know what unfortunate fate was coming before the picking even began.

My virginity was taken from me by a rapist I thought was a friend and then as is so often the case, that horrific event meant that I would be the one cast out of friend groups and thrown alone into the wilds of the lunchroom Thunderdome while being labeled a “whore” at the same time.

The married adult son of the owner of the campground where I was a snack bar cook at 17 seemed to think my ass was a hand towel he could daily wipe his hands on before I spit in his cheeseburger, watched him eat every bite and then walked the fuck out. A French restaurant manager tried to slap me across the face in the middle of a busy dining room in the middle of an insanely busy shift. My boss in the PR world despised me so much, she tried (and failed) everything she could to make me miss a hugely important event with a VIP I worshipped.

I lost my father suddenly who was my world and my mother slowly who I’d always believed had destroyed my world, in the span of a few years.

I’ve seen my cabinets so bare of food I couldn’t even bring myself to open them anymore. I’ve accepted secret stashes of frozen vegetables, rice and pasta from friends so the kids wouldn’t know. I’ve sold passed-down jewelry and cried on the phone with utility companies just to keep my lights on and my water hot.

My marriage ended a few months before my big brother Nick died which was a few months before the lockdowns started which was a few months before our 12 year old Lab Otis died from Cancer.

And I’ve been up into the wee hours of the morning assuring my weary children that it was all going to be ok, despite the fact that I didn’t know, and honestly, didn’t even really believe, that it was.

But here’s the thing about all of that, and this is a realization I was very late to, almost too late to, one which may surprise you, as it once surprised me, one which has forever changed me for the better and reshaped my outlook on literally everything…

I am not a victim.

I am still here. I’m still here.

I’m still here, and not some collection of flowers occasionally left at the foot of the telephone pole I so often imagined running my car into when I was alone.

I’m still here and I’ll tell you what, there’s no fucking chance in a million trillion years that I made it through all of that just so that at the age of 49, I’d let some fucking loser with 22 numbers, a cross and an American flag in his handle hurt me with some stupid fucking words he all-caps slammed into a keyboard in his mommy’s basement.

I’ll be Goddamned if the constant stream of vitriolic nastiness I encounter in a virtual space not reflective of reality is going to do anything at this point beyond making me laugh.

I recently participated in a live event with the incredible Stephanie Miller, and I posted some photos of myself before and after the show.

As I fully anticipated, it was like a troll tractor beam. If you post it they will troll. And troll they did. Attacking every single aspect of my face and body. They even suggested I had filtered my fingers to make them look “longer.” My fucking FINGERS. And I read some of the replies, because I always do, because I want to reply to the nice replies buried in the hate. And it all made me laugh. I swear to you, I was cracking up at the ridiculousness of it.

But Steph, being the truly amazing, beautiful soul she is, saw the comments too. And she was so troubled by them she called me the next day to see if I was ok.

“I’ve never seen anyone get as much hate as you get.” She said. “Are you ok?”

I told her I was great. I told her that I saw the comments, and that they made me laugh. And I told her they couldn’t hurt me. They didn’t hurt me. I was never going to allow them to hurt me.

I could tell them to try harder, but it wouldn’t matter. They’ve tried everything. To use my kids, my looks, my weight, my maiden name, my home, my employment, my ex, they’ve tried it all.

And none of it matters. Nothing they could ever do or ever say can touch me now. I’m not going to give them that power.

This is who I am.

But that wasn’t always the case.

I starved myself in my twenties because someone called me fat. I had reckless sex with men in positions of power because I thought that meant I had value. I did things and said things and courted things I shouldn’t have sexually because I THOUGHT that was “freedom” when it was anything but.

I’ve considered killing myself in response to something painful in my life so many times I’ve lost count. I was a perpetual victim. Everything was simply too much. Everything was being done “to me”, and I simply couldn’t understand that I had the power to allow it to overtake me or not. I didn’t yet understand that I didn’t have to wallow in any of it. I didn’t have to succumb to it.

Shitty things happened. Truly terrible things happened. Painful, traumatic, ugly and dark things happened to me, as they do to everyone.

But I didn’t have to let those things hold me down. I didn’t have to let them dictate my path. I didn’t have to allow them to snuff me out.

And the only way I got to that place, was in hitting the darkest one of all. I was alone. I was asking the universe why it has dealt me the cards it had. Why my life had to have been so challenging. I was feeling sorry for myself. I was feeling like I was forever at the mercy of some larger entity determined to destroy me. And in that space I thought to myself that the world would be better off without me.

I truly did.

But then I gave myself a chance. I called a number and scheduled an appointment with a therapist. My soul wasn’t ready to call it quits. My spirit wasn’t ready to give up. I wanted to live. I wanted to be here for my kids.

They are my everything. They are my why.

But over the last year and a half of being able to talk to the most amazing therapist on the planet, I’ve realized that I am my why too.

I am my everything too.

And that ultimately, knowing that, believing that, is the greatest thing I could ever give my kids.

Their mom loves herself. She isn’t a victim. She’s a strong, brave, resolute, independent woman who isn’t going to let anyone convince her that she’s not worth loving or listening to ever again.

Everything I do is for them. I work harder than I ever have in my life for them. They have saved my life more than once, and now I get to fight every day to help save their futures.

I get to do what I promised myself I would do as I was looking at my young son who was so confused the day after the 2016 election — I get to fight to make the idea of right prevailing, true.

I get to do that because I took my life back. I took my power back. I stopped blaming the bad things in my life for all that ailed me. I pulled myself out of the deep hole of despair I was living in, I stood up, and I said, “ok world, what else you got?”

I’m still here and I’m gonna make sure that I do something impactful with this life of mine. So help me.

And today, on Mother’s Day, I’m thinking a great deal about all of that. About where I was and where I am now. About how loving myself and reclaiming my power has made me a better mom.

And I’m thinking a lot about all the other human beings out there who might feel stuck in those darkest of dark places right now. And maybe they don’t see a way out. And maybe me sharing my truth can help them see a pathway out for themselves. At least, maybe it’ll spark a thought that there is a way out.

And look, I’m not done doing the work, I don’t think I’ll ever be “done.” But I can honestly say, that every single day I take one more piece of myself back from those who seek to tear me down, I grow stronger.

And I’m not special. I’m not the only one who can do that. I mean, I know I’m unique in a lot of ways, good, bad and batshit insane, but hard things aren’t exclusive to me, and the key to unlocking your own power isn’t some secret I’m keeping to myself. It’s inside us all.

We just have to give ourselves the chance.

And man, once we do that, there’s nothing we can’t do.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms and mother figures out there and thanks for believing in me because you’ve also helped me believe in myself. And I believe in YOU.

Now, HoJo the meth addict paid DNC shill with the AI slender-fingers is gonna go cook some crack before begging the internet for cash.

Just kidding. I don’t have a finger filter.

Let’s all take care of ourselves and each other ok?

We do have a democracy to save after all.

❤️