I'll Write Already

As if

I’ve been acting ‘as if’ a lot lately. Acting as if, as Jordan Peterson said, God exists. It’s really sane here. There’s an easy code to follow. A little slowing down when I don’t know the answer because it’s as if God knows and he’s (He’s) saying, Honey Child, I got you. You’re on the path. You’re not alone. I’m right here. I’ve always been.

Photo credit: Living Your Faith Art, Etsy

Living like God exists means when I’m sweating the small stuff, I get a little reminder in my mind’s in-box that all will be resolved, and I don’t have to solve a seemingly urgent problem yesterday. When I consciously refrain from reacting, conflicts tend to resolve themselves. It’s also a great way to set boundaries.

Small stuff for me is big stuff anyway. Whereas Mr Miller freaks out over finances and the kids’ grades, I get bent out shape over perceived rejections, disrespect. Social interactions. Ego stuff. This is what it’s like for me. Always has been, to a panicky, pathological degree. Before meds anyway.

I live in an imaginary world almost all the time. This maybe makes the God game accessible to me. In my inner world I am a modern heiress. A trophy wife. It’s how I identify even if Mr Miller won’t affirm. In fact he bursts my identity bubble regularly. Even since before all the… you know. Sometimes it gets so bad I fantasize about escaping, stealing into the night with my inheritance, the dogs, and little else. Living in a split level ranch that Wright might have influenced, with a sunken living room and a central fireplace. It looks out over a lake and every morning I sit on the patio with a latte and a throw blanket. I’m surrounded by dogs. I’m a haven for like-minded ex-lefties who lost their children to trans. We kayak together. Play charades. Hike with the dogs. There’s a chef in the mix. I sleep in a kingsize bed.

The other day I got hopping mad because the manager at the salon I’ve been going to for the last decade refused to accept any accountability for the fact that my hair turned out orange—again—when I asked specifically for them to get rid of the damn orange. According to her it was my fault because my hair wasn’t lifting. It was my fault because in the picture I showed, the gal had blond ends. It wasn’t them, nooooo. The colorist told me only after I’d spent four and a half hours in the chair that brassy hair doesn’t cooperate with cool ashy toner. You can only darken it. Couldn’t she have told me this before all the hassle and disappointment? Somehow this fact did not register when I lodged my complaint. It’s not like $300 falls from trees around my way, even though in my fantasy world it totally does.

These are the things that churn my mind in the middle of the night. How can people deflect blame so effortlessly? Gaslight. DARVO. Small example but what the hell is wrong with people? Accepting accountability is the most liberating thing one can do. I learned this the hard way, by pity-partying my way through life until I woke the eff up.

In early morning light it dawns on me that I’m the one who’s accountable on several levels. One, I’ve victimized myself (again) for expecting people to have integrity, even when they proclaim to have loads. Haven’t they demonstrated over and over that they are spineless cowards? They’re all but plugging in neon signs. Elise—receive the memo already. Jeez. I could save myself a lot of sour grapes by not expecting cats to bark. I’d make so much wine. But no I wouldn’t. Today is 94 days sober. I’ll have tea instead. Two, this was the second (third?) time this particular colorist did a so-so job and I went back for more! That’s on me. Sometimes my lessons cost as much as a shitty therapist who doesn’t take insurance. There are no refunds either.

Miss Miller offered to join me when I return to Salon L’Orange for a complimentary fix job. She’ll get a haircut while I marinate in dark brown chemical juices yet stew in none of my own because Life Happens For Me, not To Me. Or maybe I should pay another $200 elsewhere? Comment below.

Part of growing up emotionally means realizing that just because you get better and better doesn’t mean conflicts will cease to arise. It just means you’ll be able to conquer them faster, perseverate less, make less of a mess. Fewer toxic ripples. Maybe I’ll be so gosh durned enlightened by Wednesday I’ll leave a decent tip for Miss Miller’s hair. Who the hell knows.

The accountability thing though. It’s good to know this is a trigger for me. It makes sense. Look at the lack of accountability on the left. The gaslighting from trans activists. And California! Not that I’m keeping up with the news. My intake these days consists of a quick scroll through Substack Activity. It’s all I need to stay up to date.

Anyway, this is my emotional spasm of the day.

As a thank you for reading, below please find my essay from summer, 2023 reimagining the acronym ROGD. Another acronym, TERF, I also don’t really qualify as since I’m not a radical feminist. But I was called TERF about a hundred times at 3AM by a twenty-something MtF. And told to “eat sh** and die.” Poor thing. Why so angry. But thanks for motivating me get writing! Assholes exist for a reason. To remind smart cookies like us, not to be like them.

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