darnold1975

The Gaslighting of America: A Nation Told Not to Trust Its Eyes

“Gaslighting only works when the truth stays quiet. And America is done whispering.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Tell the ancestors to pull up a folding chair. America is being gaslit so hard the national thermostat is stuck on delusion. Today we’re cooking up a full-course feast of fury, sass, and Southern‑fried truth about the “Gaslighting of America.” And baby, the stove is already shaking. The billionaires, the power‑hungry, and the morally dehydrated keep trying to convince us that what we’re seeing, we’re not seeing. That what we’re living, we’re imagining. And that the chaos we’re choking on is actually a patriotic perfume. Bless their hearts. And by “bless their hearts,” I mean may their Wi-Fi forever buffer at 2%.

We’re living in a time where billionaires lecture us about “hard work.” Pedophiles hide behind power like it’s a weighted blanket. And the administration keeps insisting everything is fine. While the country is over here clutching its pearls, blood pressure meds, and its last functioning brain cell.

They tell us the economy is “booming” while we’re over here choosing between groceries and therapy. They tell us democracy is “strong” while they duct-tape it to a folding table. They tell us the moral fabric of the nation is “protected.” While they’re the ones spilling wine on the damn upholstery. America isn’t confused. We’re being gaslit. Manipulated. And served lies with the confidence of a toddler holding a crayon saying, “I didn’t draw on the wall.”

Gaslighting is when someone tries to convince you that your reality isn’t real. This is a classic tactic among abusers of all kind. And America is currently being gaslit like a 1950s lantern in a horror movie. The powerful elite billionaires treat the country like a Monopoly board. And the predators who hide behind political shields keep telling us, “You’re overreacting.” “You’re imagining corruption.” “You’re misinterpreting authoritarian behavior.” “You’re dramatic.” No, sweetheart. We’re observant. We’re awake. We’re done. 

They want us to believe that the erosion of rights is “necessary.” That the cruelty is “strength.” And that the chaos is “strategy.” They want us to bow, bend, break, and behave. But America is built on rebellion, not obedience. We don’t bow to kings. Especially not the wannabe ones who crown themselves with ego instead of integrity.

10 Examples of Gaslighting in America 

  1. “The economy is great!” Meanwhile, eggs cost more than therapy. And therapy costs more than rent. If this is “great,” I don’t want to see “bad.”
  1. “Your rights aren’t being taken away.” Yet every week feels like a legislative Jenga tower collapsing. My rights are not a suggestion.
  1. “We’re protecting children.” While actual predators sit in positions of power untouched. Protecting children doesn’t mean banning books. It means banning abusers.
  1. “The media is lying to you.” But somehow the administration’s version of events changes every 12 minutes. If the truth had legs, they’d try to trip it.
  1. “We’re restoring morality.” From people who treat ethics like a clearance rack. Morality without accountability is cosplay.
  1. “We’re unifying the country.” While actively dividing it like a pie at a dysfunctional family reunion. Unity doesn’t come from threats.
  1. “We’re defending democracy.” While simultaneously poking holes in it like a toddler with a Capri Sun. Democracy shouldn’t need life support.
  1. “We’re listening to the American people.” But only to the ones who echo their delusions. Selective hearing isn’t leadership.
  1. “We’re fighting corruption.” While swimming in it like Scrooge McDuck in his money vault. You can’t fight corruption with a corrupt sword.
  1. “Everything is fine.” America is screaming into a pillow. Gaslighting is not governance.

At the end of the day, America is tired. But we’re not defeated. We’re bruised. But we’re not broken. We’re furious. But we’re focused. And let it be known, written, carved, embroidered, tattooed, and shouted from every rooftop. America doesn’t bow to want‑to‑be kings. Not to billionaires who think they own us. Not to predators who hide behind power. Not to leaders who mistake fear for loyalty. We are not subjects. We are not pawns. We are not fooled. We are the people. And the people don’t bow. We rise. Thanks for reading! Make sure you’re registered to vote. It’s the only thing that will save our democracy.

Affirmation: I trust my voice, vision, and truth. I see clearly. I speak boldly. And I refuse to bow to manipulation.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Apparently Everything Is Communism Now

“When misinformation rises, let your ancestors steady your spirit and your sass sharpen your truth.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve at Thanksgiving when Uncle Red-Hat started yelling about “Socialism Turning Us Into Communists!” Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors especially Big Mama, who survived segregation, three husbands, and that one church lady who kept stealing her potato salad recipe. Today, we are gather in the sacred, smoky glow of your living room m. To address the aggravation, frustration, and the spiritual constipation caused by folks who insist that socialism → democratic socialism → communism → gulags → the end of biscuits and freedom. The ancestors are already pacing. PawPaw whispered, “Lord give me strength.” And reached for his flask. And your great-aunt is clutching her pearls so hard they might turn into diamonds.

Let’s talk about the red-hat choir who believes any government program that doesn’t involve tax breaks for billionaires is “communism.” These are the same folks who cash Social Security checks. Use Medicare. Drive on publicly funded roads. Send their kids to public schools. And call the fire department when Earl deep-fries a turkey indoors. But the moment someone says, “Hey, maybe people shouldn’t die because they can’t afford insulin,” suddenly it’s, “Communism, Martha! Grab The Bible And The Bug-Out Bag!”

Pumpkin spice patriot, communism is not hiding behind your Kroger pharmacy waiting to jump out and seize your property. The ancestors are tired. Our spirit guides are tired. And even our pets are tired. It is emotionally exhausting watching people scream “Communism” at things that are literally not communism. It’s like watching someone confidently shout the wrong answers on Jeopardy. Or watching a toddler insist the moon is a cookie. Or watching your cat try to fight its own reflection. You want to help. You want to explain. But you also want to lay face-down on the floor and let the ancestors take you home.

Here’s the truth. Democratic socialism is not communism. Not historically. Not economically. Not ideologically. Not spiritually. Not even in the same group chat. Democratic socialism says, “Let’s keep democracy, elections, private businesses, and capitalism. But also make sure people don’t die because they can’t afford healthcare.” Communism says, “Let’s abolish private property. Centralize production. And run everything through the state.” These ideologies would not sit together at Thanksgiving. They wouldn’t even sit together at the DMV. Try telling that to someone who thinks “Karl Marx” is the name of a NASCAR driver.

11 Ways Socialism, Democratic Socialism, and Communism Are Not the Same Thing

1. Private property exists in socialism & democratic socialism. Not in communism. Your house? Yours. Your business? Yours. Your lawnmower? Still yours. Communism says, “The lawnmower belongs to the people.”

2. Democratic socialism requires elections. Communism does not. If you can vote for someone other than the ruling party, congratulations. That is not communism.

3. Socialism & democratic socialism use mixed economies. Communism uses central planning. One is capitalism with guardrails. The other is “the government decides how many shoes get made this year.”

4. Democratic socialism protects civil liberties. Communism historically restricts them. If you can complain about the government on Facebook without disappearing, that’s not communism.

5. Socialism & democratic socialism allow private businesses. Communism does not. Under socialism/democratic socialism, you can open a bakery. Under communism, the state owns the bakery, the flour, the ovens, and possibly the cats.

6. Democratic socialism focuses on social welfare. Communism focuses on class abolition. One says, “Let’s help people.” The other says, “Let’s restructure society from scratch.”

7. Socialism & democratic socialism keep markets. Communism eliminates them. If you can choose between Target and Walmart, you’re not in communism.

8. Democratic socialism works with capitalism. Communism replaces it. One is “Let’s fix the leaky roof.” The other is “Let’s burn the house down and rebuild it.”

9. Socialism & democratic socialism allow wealth differences. Communism seeks to eliminate them. Jeff Bezos still exists under socialism. Under communism, Jeff becomes “Citizen Jeff, warehouse worker.”

10. Democratic socialism preserves individual rights. Communism prioritizes collective control. One says, “You have rights.” The other says, “We’ll let you know what your rights are after the meeting.”

11. Socialism & democratic socialism operate within democratic frameworks. Communism does not. One keeps elections, courts, and civil liberties. The other historically centralizes power in the state.

So, the next time someone looks you dead in the eye usually while wearing a shirt with an eagle, a flag, and a Bible all photoshopped together and says, “Socialism leads to communism!” I want you to pause. Take a breath. Let the sage smoke swirl around your head like you’re summoning every ancestor who ever had to explain something obvious to someone determined to misunderstand it. Then smile. Not a regular smile. A Southern smile. The kind that says, “Bless your heart,” without ever using the words. And respond, gently but firmly by saying, “If socialism leads to communism, then your Social Security check is a gateway drug.”Watch their face do that little twitch. You know the one. The twitch that means their brain is trying to reboot like an old Dell computer from 1998.

Then continue. Because this is your moment. “If democratic socialism leads to communism, then your Medicare card is a communist passport. Your public school is a Marxist training camp. And the fire department that saved Earl’s house when he deep-fried that turkey indoors? That’s a taxpayer-funded socialist miracle.”

Let it sink in. Let the silence marinate like chicken in buttermilk. Because you are not arguing with facts. You are arguing with feelings dressed up as fear. Sprinkled with misinformation. Wrapped in Facebook memes. And deep-fried in cable news. 

And you have survived far worse. You have survived humidity so thick it feels like soup. You have survived hurricanes, power outages, and men who say, “I’ll fix it later.” You have survived PTA meetings, school fundraisers, and children who wait until 10 PM to tell you they need poster board for a project due tomorrow. You can survive this conversation.

So, walk away. Let the charcoal crackle behind you like applause. Let the ancestors cackle like they’re watching a soap opera. Let your spirit guides fan you with palm leaves and whisper, “You did good, baby.” Because trying to have a conversation with people who are willfully ignorant, are usually the very ones who ate boogers and glue during their childhood. And never outgrew those behaviors.

Because we, at This Puzzled Life, are armed with humor, truth, and the kind of ancestral backup that could move mountains. And when misinformation rises, you rise higher. Mic dropped. Mic shattered. Mic reincarnated as a wiser mic. Thanks for reading! What other political nonsense would you like for me to address?

Affirmation: I speak truth with humor, courage, and ancestral backup. I am unshaken. Unbothered. And fully hydrated.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Hairpiece Heard ’Round The World

“Some hair changes are a glow‑up. Others are a cry for help. This one is a cosmic event.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Prepare your spirit for foolishness. Because today’s foolishness ain’t mild. It ain’t the “someone brought unsweet tea to the potluck” kind. It ain’t even the “Coco knocked over the laundry basket and blamed gravity” kind. No. Today’s foolishness arrived like a tornado wearing a wig from the clearance bin at Party City. While holding a Bible upside‑down, and shouting, “Y’all Ain’t Ready For My New Look!” Bingo sir. We were not ready for your follicular disaster.

I woke up. Stretched. Opened my phone. And was immediately spiritually assaulted by breaking news that read Donald Trump, “Mr. Patriot Puff” has unveiled a new hair situation. Not a hairstyle. Not a haircut. A situation. A situation with layers that are emotional, structural, architectural, and possibly supernatural.

The ancestors materialized behind me like they were reviewing a crime scene. One squinted like she was trying to read the fine print on a bottle of expired Tylenol that doesn’t cause Autism. One ancestor grabbed her apron and whispered, ‘Lord, give me strength,’ like she was about to fight the hair personally. One whispered, “That hair is fighting demons and losing.”

I tried to scroll away. The hair followed me like a ghost with unresolved business. I closed the app. The hair spiritually lingered like humidity in August. It was giving “I tried something new and the universe said absolutely not.” It was giving “I watched one YouTube tutorial and got overconfident.” It was giving “I asked for volume and the stylist gave me a personality crisis.” And that’s when I knew that this was bigger than me. This was bigger than Mississippi. This was a cosmic follicular event. And I was merely a witness.

Let me paint the picture. The old hairpiece, bless its heart, was barely hanging on. It had the energy of a Dollar General Halloween wig that had survived three Halloweens, one bonfire, and a custody battle. It was loyal. It was determined. It was held together by hope, hairspray, and possibly a small prayer circle.

This new hair arrived like a reboot nobody asked for. This new hair said, “I’m different now.” But in the way people say it after one therapy session and a green juice. This new hair had angles. This new hair had ambition. This new hair had the confidence of a man who thinks he can fix the economy with a YouTube motivational speech. It swooped. It curled. It defied gravity in ways that made me question the laws of physics.

I stared at it so long my coffee went cold. I stared at it so long my ancestors started filing paperwork. I stared at it so long Piper began pacing like she was preparing a closing argument. And then the red‑hat crowd chimed in. Lord help us.

They gathered online like it was a tent revival for questionable grooming choices. One shouted, “This isn’t just hair. This is patriotism.” Another declared, “The new hair is a symbol of freedom.” A third insisted, “The old hair was a deep state lie.” Someone posted a meme that said, “If the hair changes, the nation changes.” Another wrote, “This is the haircut of a man chosen by destiny and possibly a malfunctioning blow dryer.” And one woman livestreamed herself crying, saying, “I haven’t felt this emotional since Hobby Lobby put out the Easter décor early.”

They treated the hair like it was a national monument. They treated the hair like it was a prophecy. They treated the hair like it was the second coming of Aqua Net. And I sat there whispering, “Y’all it’s just hair. And it’s not even good hair.” And now the cats weigh in. God help us all.

Piper strutted into the room like she had been summoned by the spirit of bad decisions. She hopped onto the couch. Stared at the screen and whispered, “Momma is that hair trying to escape?” She tilted her head. She squinted. She sniffed the air like she could smell the trauma. “That hair has seen war,” she declared. “That hair has filed taxes late. That hair has fought with customer service.” Then she added, “It’s giving Velcro couture.”

Coco adjusted her imaginary glasses. And examined the photo like it was a Renaissance painting. “The old hairpiece had grit,” she said. “It had the spirit of a wig that refused to die. It had character. It had a backstory.” She tapped the screen. “This new hair? This is a reboot that went straight to streaming. This is the haircut equivalent of a midlife crisis motorcycle.” Then she whispered, “The color tone is fighting for its life.”

Tinkerbell peeked over the coffee table. Eyes wide like she’d just witnessed a crime. “Is he okay?” she asked softly. “Does he need help? Should we send a casserole?” She stared again. “Momma, I think the hair is haunted.”

Light the charcoal again. Because the ancestors have officially logged off. The cats are emotionally compromised. I’m emotionally compromised. The hair is emotionally compromised. And somewhere in the universe, a single bobby pin is screaming.

Donald Trump’s new hair has entered the cultural chat like a raccoon crashing a baby shower. It’s loud, confusing, and impossible to ignore. Piper knocked over a plant and declared, “Some things cannot be unseen. And this is one of them.” Coco is writing a dissertation titled “The Socio‑Political Implications of Unhinged Hair Decisions.” Tinkerbell is praying for the hair’s soul. And me? I’m sitting here. Staring at the screen and whispering to the ancestors, “Why would he do that?” Hair flopped. We move forward because we must. Thanks for reading!

Affirmation: I release what no longer serves me. Including questionable hair decisions.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I’ve Had It Podcast: The Southern Sass Survival Guide for Blue Dots in Red States

“Sometimes the only thing keeping me from losing my already lost religion is two Oklahoma women yelling about petty grievances.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors. Preferably the messy ones. The ones who show up wearing house shoes. Clutching a gas‑station fountain drink. And whispering, “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this one.”

Because today, we gather in the sacred, humid, mosquito‑infested, spiritually charged arena to praise. Roast. And spiritually hydrate the chaotic holiness that is the I’ve Had It Podcast. The only place where two white liberal women from the red MAGA plains of Oklahoma have somehow built a sanctuary for every exhausted blue‑dot soul trying to survive in a country where people still proudly drink out of Stanley cups like it’s a personality trait. Let me set the table like MeeMaw used to that is loud. And with sweet tea strong enough to dissolve enamel.

Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan aren’t just podcasters. They are the patron saints of Petty Grievances. The matriarchs of Messy Liberation. And the spiritual mothers of every liberal woman trapped in a red state. While trying not to throat‑punch someone at the grocery store.

Jennifer, the sarcastically blunt atheist queen, speaks with the kind of clarity that only comes from years of saying, “No, actually, that is stupid” out loud. She’s the type of woman who could walk into a revival tent. Sneeze. And accidentally deconstruct someone’s entire theology. On a side note I’ll also say that she is an Olympic level Pickle Ball Champion like we’ve never seen before in the history of the world.

Then there’s Pumps. Lord help us all. Pumps is a recovering evangelical, the HBIC (Head Beaver In Charge), the teeny weenieologist, the MeeMaw Meat Curtains because she is much older than Jennifer. And apparently the patron saint of Asexuality in the Bible Belt. Her last sexual encounter was somewhere around 1,000 days ago. And Jennifer multiplies that number tenfold with each episode until the math starts giving Old Testament genealogy. We’re approaching, “And on the 40,000th day, Pumps rested.”

And presiding over this circus of holy chaos is Kiley. The beautiful lesbian gaytriot producer who keeps the entire operation from combusting. She’s the glue, the duct tape, the Queer Logistics Coordinator who ensures Jennifer and Pumps don’t accidentally start a small fire while recording. She produces the hilarious fuckery with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how chaotic these two can be.

As a white liberal sarcastic woman myself from the red MAGA state of Mississippi, these ladies have become my emotional support podcast. They take the isolation of wanting equal rights for everyone. While surrounded by neighbors who think democracy is optional. And turn it into a family. A loud, hilarious politically petty family that supports all marginalized groups and stands up for democracy. Despite the red hatred swirling around them.

And let me tell you. And their nicknames for politicians? Baby, they speak fluent Southern shade. People like Donald “Cankles McTaco Tits” Trump, Moses Mike Grindr Johnson, the late Lindsey “Lady” Graham, “Big Titty” Bryon Knoem, “Smokey-eyed sociopath” JD Vance, “Lyin’” Ted Cruz, Flamboyant Jesse “Lady” Waters with Fox News, Natalie “The Bunny Boiler” Harp, Markwayne “Booster Box” Mullin, and others. I heard that recently they both spoke with Mitch “Dead Not Dead” McConnell for twenty minutes from his life support rehabilitation unit. They roast public figures with the same energy my Aunt Linda uses when she says, “I’m not saying she’s trashy. But she does own a leopard‑print Bible cover.”

They expose the closetocracy, the folks who legislate against the very community they enjoy on weekends, with surgical precision and the comedic timing only two women who have truly had it can deliver. Are they crass? Yes. Do they speak my language? Absolutely. Do they have a low tolerance for stupidity? Honey, they have a negative tolerance.

And Pumps, sweet Pumps, if she would stop vaping like she’s trying to summon a Civil War ghost, Jennifer might finally unclench. And if she would please stop pooping in Styrofoam cups like she’s conducting a science fair project, the online audience would stop peeing on ourselves from laughing. Get it together, Pumps. At least the saggin’ dragons are secured.

These women have been my morning oxygen for over a year. They are my people that are  hilarious. And, at times, inappropriate. Unfiltered. Compassionate. And petty in all the right places. If you’re a prude. Easily offended. Or still clinging to conservative Christianity where some Christians use scripture as a mascot for cruelty, this is not your ministry.

But if you’re like me a blue dot in a red state. A queer person whose family can’t quite figure out acceptance. Or someone who needs laughter more than judgment. These ladies feel like home. They are the family I needed. The humor I craved. And the reminder that democracy is worth fighting for even when surrounded by folks who think Jesus rode a dinosaur. And if island living as a blue dot in a red state is what it takes, then baby, I’ll take my new family without question.

So let me say this with the full force of my ancestors, my sass, my trauma, my cats, and my last functioning nerve. The I’ve Had It Podcast isn’t just entertainment. It’s survival. It’s community. It’s the comedic resistance movement for every marginalized person living in a state where Hobby Lobby aisles are filled with people who think equality is a threat to their throw pillows.

Jennifer, Pumps, and Kiley have built a refuge for the tired, the queer, the liberal, the fed‑up, the chronically sarcastic, and the spiritually dehydrated. They’ve given us permission to laugh at the absurdity of our political landscape. To call out hypocrisy with humor. And to find joy in the middle of a country that feels like it’s being run by people who failed eighth‑grade civics. And who ate boogers and glue but never outgrew those behaviors.

I will be a loyal gaytriot as long as these ladies are around. I will follow them into the trenches of democracy, petty grievances, and Pumps’ colon‑control journey. I will take this island living. This blue dot existence. And choose my new family without hesitation.

Thank you, ladies, for your humor, your compassion, and your unapologetic refusal to tolerate bullshit in this tumultuous time. You are the laughter that keeps us fighting. CACAW!!!! Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Humidity rising. Ancestors hollering, “That’s Right, Baby!” Thanks for reading! Please tune in every day to the I’ve Had It podcast for political news with lots of humor.

Affirmation: I honor my truth, humor, identity, and my chosen family. I choose joy. I choose community. And I choose to laugh loudly. Even in the places that try to silence me.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Why My Boundaries Offend People Who Benefited From My Lack of Them

“When you stop people‑pleasing, you don’t become unkind. You become un-owned.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just cleansing the air. We’re cleansing the generational rot that tried to bury us alive. While I also smile sweetly and was asked if I wanted more casserole.

There’s a special kind of exhaustion that comes from being raised in a culture where your worth is measured by how small you can make yourself. Where “good manners” means “don’t make anyone uncomfortable.” Even if you’re bleeding out emotionally. Where “respect” means “don’t you dare speak the truth out loud.” And the South? The South will hand you a monogrammed apron, a church bulletin, and a generational trauma starter pack before you can even walk. But today we’re unpacking all of it.

Let’s talk about people‑pleasing. Not the cute kind where you bring someone banana pudding because you love them. But the dangerous kind. The kind that rewires your nervous system. The kind that teaches you to abandon yourself so thoroughly that you forget you ever had needs in the first place.

People‑pleasing is not a personality trait. It’s a survival skill. A trauma response. A generational inheritance wrapped in a bow of “be sweet” and “don’t cause trouble.” And in the South, it’s practically a rite of passage.

We’re taught early don’t speak up. Don’t contradict. Don’t embarrass the family. Don’t make waves. Don’t question authority. Don’t tell the truth if the truth makes anyone uncomfortable. Don’t you dare put yourself first. That’s selfish. And for the love of all things holy, don’t let the church ladies hear you say “no.”

People‑pleasing becomes the currency of acceptance. The ticket to belonging. The price of being considered “good.” But here’s the sinister part. People‑pleasing trains you to betray yourself before anyone else even gets the chance. You learn to anticipate everyone’s needs but your own. You learn to apologize for existing. You learn to smile through pain so convincingly that even you forget you’re hurting. You learn to make yourself small enough to fit inside other people’s expectations. And the world, especially the Southern world, rewards you for it. Until you stop.

The moment you stop people‑pleasing. The moment you say “no,” or “that’s not okay,” or “I’m not doing that anymore.” The moment you choose yourself? Suddenly you’re the villain in a story you didn’t write. Suddenly you’re “difficult.” Suddenly you’re “ungrateful.” Suddenly you’re “too sensitive,” “too outspoken,” “too much,” “too emotional,” “too opinionated,” “too educated,” “too aware,” and “too alive.” But the truth is simple. You’re not too much. You’re just finally enough for yourself. And that terrifies people who benefited from your silence.

People‑pleasing is dangerous because it teaches you that your safety depends on your compliance. It teaches you that love must be earned through self‑abandonment. It teaches you that your needs are negotiable. But everyone else’s are sacred. When you grow up in a culture that worships politeness more than honesty. Appearances more than integrity. And reputation more than reality. You learn to disappear. Until one day, you don’t.

And here’s where it gets personal. This isn’t theory for me. This isn’t something I read in a book or heard in a podcast. This is lived experience that was carved into my bones. Stitched into my history. And dragged behind me for decades like a cross I never volunteered to carry.

On a personal note, my family marinated me in people‑pleasing my entire life. And when you don’t comply? You get labeled the troublemaker. The problem. The one who “changed.” The one who “thinks she’s better.” The one who “needs to calm down.” The one who “makes everything difficult.” But not teaching me boundaries while simultaneously demanding I people‑please was dangerous. Not inconvenient. Not uncomfortable. Dangerous.

I have almost died multiple times because I gave more of myself than I had to give. I was trained to prioritize everyone else’s happiness over my own survival. I was taught that my needs were optional. But their approval was oxygen. And in the South, it’s a shameful way of life to even question this dynamic.

I had to come to a point, not helped by their expectations, where I finally put myself first. And now that I have strong boundaries, my family and the community think I’m “nasty” because I tell them I don’t need their validation. They want me to “cow tow” to their needs while never expecting the same from them. And that, my friends, is the pinnacle of hypocrisy and controlling behavior. And at this point in my life, I can say with confidence that I’ll never allow myself to be controlled by someone else ever again.

Let me make this plain in a way even the most selectively‑forgetful, Bible‑thumping, reputation‑worshipping, boundary‑hating folks can understand. I am no longer available for my own destruction. I am no longer the family sponge soaking up everyone else’s dysfunction. I am no longer the emotional punching bag for people who refuse to face their own shadows. I am no longer the scapegoat for sins I didn’t commit. I am no longer the child who learned to survive by disappearing. I am no longer the adult who thought love meant self‑sacrifice. I am no longer the woman who begged for crumbs of acceptance from people who never learned how to love without conditions. I am done.

I’m done with the gaslighting. Done with the hypocrisy. Done with the “good Christian” performances. Done with the selective morality. done with the selective compassion. Done with the silence that protects abusers. Done with the shame that was never mine to carry. Done with the generational curses disguised as tradition. And done with the expectation that I should shrink so others can feel tall.

I am not here to make anyone comfortable. I am not here to uphold anyone’s illusion. I am not here to play the role they assigned me. I am not here to be palatable, agreeable, or quiet. I am here to live. Fully. Boldly. Truthfully. Unapologetically. And if my boundaries offend you? If my healing threatens you? If my voice rattles your cage? If my truth exposes your lies? That’s not my burden. That’s your mirror.

So let me end this with the clarity of a woman who has crawled out of the grave they dug for me. I didn’t lose my family. I lost my captors. I didn’t lose my community. I lost my chains. I didn’t lose my identity. I reclaimed it. And I will never, ever, ever hand it back. Lights out. Thanks for reading! To thine own self be true. What are your experiences with this?

Affirmation: My boundaries are sacred. My truth is valid. My life belongs to me now fully and forever.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Dirty Bird Strain Review

“Dirty Bird doesn’t chirp. It hums low. Settles deep. And reminds you that peace is a posture.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re talking about a strain called Dirty Bird. It’s a strain that struts into the sesh like it owns the whole damn yard.

Dirty Bird is a hybrid with a swagger: balanced enough to keep you upright, bold enough to make you forget you ever had tension in your shoulders. This is porch‑sittin,’ gossip‑spillin,’ “tell me why the ancestors are tapping on the screen door again” weed.

Dirty Bird is a cross between Gelato 41 x GMO Cookies. Gelato 41 is a cross between Sunset Sherbet × Thin Mint GSC. GMO Cookies is a cross between Chemdawg × GSC. This family tree is basically a reunion where everyone brought something potent, delicious, and slightly chaotic. This strain tastes like a cold brew with a splash of sweet cream. A hint of earthy funk (the good kind, the “my cousin plays bass in a soul band” kind). Peppery spice on the exhale. And a lingering sweetness that feels like dessert you didn’t plan for but absolutely deserved.

Dirty Bird’s terpene trio hits like a Southern auntie with opinions. It’s a combination of Caryophyllene, Limonene, and Myrcene. Some grows also see Linalool represented. Together they create a vibe that’s equal parts “let’s talk about our feelings” and “let’s not do too much.” Dirty Bird helps with stress, mood, mild pain reduction, appetite, and social anxiety.

Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?

Affirmation: I honor my softness, strength, and the space between. I rise steady, grounded, and whole.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I’ve Said In Therapy That Haunt Me

“Therapy is where my mouth says things my brain did not approve.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve. Because apparently my healing journey requires ambiance, smoke, and at least three ancestors supervising like I’m about to shoplift emotionally from the universe. Summon the ancestors. They love a front‑row seat to your emotional chaos. And today we’re adding a full therapy‑session script to the memoir of oversharing that already has them passing around spiritual popcorn.

The moment the charcoal sparks, I can hear Great‑Grandma Eunice whispering, “Lord, she’s going back to therapy again. Somebody get the popcorn.” And she’s right. Every time I walk into therapy, I transform from a functioning adult into a confused emotional raccoon who has been handed a microphone and zero supervision. I walk in with the intention of being mature. Grounded. And emotionally regulated. Five minutes later I’m saying things like:

  • strategic avoidance-“I’m not avoiding my problems, I’m just strategically rescheduling them.”
  • vibes-based coping-“My coping skills are vibes-based.”
  • attachment enthusiasm– “I don’t have attachment issues. I have attachment enthusiasm.”
  • fine-while-crying-“I’m fine.” While crying like a Victorian widow who just lost her husband to a horse accident.

My therapist sits there nodding like she’s watching a documentary about a rare woodland creature trying to file taxes.

Healing is wild. But it’s also tender. It’s not just me blurting out unhinged one-liners like a raccoon with a microphone. It’s also the quiet moments where I surprise myself with actual growth. And a lot of times, it’s just not pretty going through the process. So, here’s the more wholesome side of the things I’ve said in therapy. The ones that haunt me, yes, but also hold me.

1. “I’m trying.”

Not perfectly. Not consistently. But honestly. My therapist smiled so softly I almost cried again.

2. “I didn’t know I was allowed to feel that.”

And the ancestors hummed in agreement like a gospel choir warming up.

3. “I’m learning to be kinder to myself.”

My therapist nodded. My inner child peeked out from behind a metaphorical couch. Even my houseplant perked up a little.

4. “I don’t want to shut down anymore.”

That one made the room quiet in a holy way. Even the ancestors stopped chewing their spiritual peppermints.

5. “I’m scared, but I’m here.”

And honestly? That’s the bravest sentence I’ve ever said.

6. “I didn’t run from the hard thing this week.”

The ancestors clapped like I just graduated from emotional kindergarten.

7. “I’m starting to believe I deserve good things.”

My therapist wrote something down very gently. Probably “progress,” but in therapist handwriting it could also say “pot roast.”

8. “I’m learning to rest without guilt.”

This one made Great‑Grandma shout, “FINALLY” from the ancestral balcony.

9. “I’m not who I used to be.”

And that’s not scary anymore. It’s sacred.

10. “I’m proud of myself.”

And for once, I meant it.

The ancestors still show up. But now they’re less “judgmental pigeons.” And more “spiritual aunties who brought snacks and encouragement.”

  • Mamaw: “Baby, healing is slow-cooked, not microwaved.”
  • Uncle: “You’re doing better than you think.”
  • Aunty: “Tell your therapist you drank water today. She’ll be thrilled.”

They’re still loud. They’re still dramatic. But they’re rooting for me like I’m the only contestant on a cosmic game show called Emotional Regulation: The Remix.

THINGS I SHOULD NOT HAVE SAID OUT LOUD

  • descending with style-“I’m not spiraling, I’m just descending with style.”
  • houseplant trauma bond– “I trauma-bonded with a houseplant once.”
  • trust questions-“I don’t have trust issues. I have trust questions.”
  • inner child rebellion-“My inner child is tired of my shit.”
  • emotional airplane mode-“I’m not emotionally unavailable. I’m emotionally… on airplane mode.”
  • ancestor disappointment -“My ancestors did not survive plagues, wars, and the Great Depression for me to be defeated by a group chat.”
  • financial miracle plan-“I don’t need coping skills. I need a nap and a financial miracle.”
  • conflict timeout-“I’m not avoiding conflict. I’m giving it space to think about what it’s done.”
  • haunted brain-“My brain is like a haunted house. I don’t go in there alone.”

The ancestors? They’re not supportive. They’re entertained.

The Therapy Session: The Day I Overshared So Hard The Ancestors Stood Up

Therapist: “So, how have you been since last week?”

Me: “Emotionally? I’m like a Walmart shopping cart. One wheel is fine. The other three are screaming.”

Ancestor Mamaw (materializing): “Tell her about the Wal-Mart parking lot incident.”

Me: “Not now, Mamaw.”

Therapist: “Who are you talking to?”

Me: “My ancestors. They’re very involved.”

Therapist: “Okay, let’s explore that.”

Me: “No. The last time we explored something, I cried so hard I dehydrated myself.”

Therapist: “What’s coming up for you today?”

Me: “Well, I said ‘I’m fine’ earlier and my left eye twitched so hard it tried to leave my body.”

Therapist: “And what do you think that means?”

Me: “That my nervous system is wanting to avoid feelings.”

Ancestor Uncle: “She’s not wrong.”

Therapist: “Let’s talk about your coping skills.”

Me: “They’re vibes-based.”

Therapist: “Meaning?”

Me: “Meaning sometimes I blog. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I eat a Pop-Tart and stare into the void.”

Therapist: “And how does that work for you?”

Me: “Well, I’m here.”

Ancestor Aunty: “Tell her about the houseplant.”

Me: “No.”

Therapist: “Houseplant?”

Me: “I trauma-bonded with a fern. We don’t need to unpack that.”

Therapist: “Everything is welcome here.”

Me: “Okay, but is everything refundable? I’d like to return some of these emotions.”

Therapist: “Let’s try grounding.”

Me: “I am grounded. That’s the problem. I’d like to be airborne.”

Therapist: “What do you need right now?”

Me: “A nap. A snack. A financial miracle. A dab, joint, and edible. And maybe a hug from someone with stable nervous system energy.”

Ancestor Mamaw: “She needs Jesus.”

Me: “I need a coupon code for life.”

Therapist: “Let’s breathe together.”

Me: “Okay, but if I start crying, it’s your fault.”

So here I stand surrounded by charcoal smoke. Ancestors perched like judgmental pigeons. Therapist scribbling notes like she’s drafting a memoir of her own. And me reflecting on the things I’ve said in therapy that haunt me like student loans.

And for the record? This was a tongue and cheek blog. My therapist has the patience of Job. Biblical-level patience. Generational patience. Patience that could calm a tornado with a peppermint and a soft voice. And I’ll say it plainly. I would not want to be my therapist or have her job. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. Not even as a ghost with benefits.

Old ideologies and messages are hard to delineate from. Some of the ones about myself are probably be permanent. Others have changed or are changing slowly and stubbornly. And it’s like a mule being asked to do yoga.

But here’s the truth. Therapy can be where my mouth says things my brain did not approve. If you can’t laugh at some of the wild internal justifications your brain invents throughout the therapeutic process, the journey becomes heavier than it needs to be. Laughter doesn’t erase the work. It just makes the work survivable. So, if my therapy sessions sound like a comedy special hosted by a traumatized raccoon with a southern accent, that’s between me, my therapist, and the ancestors who refuse to mind their business. If oversharing burned calories, I’d be a supermodel by now.

Affirmation: I release shame. Embrace honesty. And trust that my chaos is still holy.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Pineapple Pizza Strain Review

“Balance isn’t about choosing one flavor. It’s about letting sweet and savory dance on the same tongue.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re talking about Pineapple Pizza. It’s the strain that proves cannabis genetics can be chaotic. Delicious. And slightly disrespectful to Italians all at once.

Pineapple Pizza is considered a 70/30 sativa-hybrid. It’s a cross between Scentuous × PuTang. Scentuous is a cross between Lemon Cheesecake × Purple Pineapple Express #4. Pu Tang is a cross between Star Pupil x Tangie. A true middle‑path strain that balances uplift with body ease, like a stoner trying to decide between yoga or DoorDash. The flavors are sweet grilled pineapple, sweet tomato, herbal cheese, pineapple, tropical notes, and a little tropical sunshine. It also has a finish that tastes like someone dropped a slice of pizza on a beach towel. But in a good way. When I first opened the flower it smelled completely like oregano. That’s not in the flavor profile. But it absolutely, also tasted like oregano.

The terpenes in this strain are terpinolene, myrcene, and limonene. Together they create a terpene symphony that says, “Yes, you can be both tropical and savory. Duality is real. Pineapple Pizza may support appetite, chronic fatigue, depression, stress, and nausea reduction. This is the strain you smoke when you want to feel like you’re on vacation but still need to fold laundry.

Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?

Affirmation: I honor my contradictions. I am allowed to be sweet, bold, weird, joyful, and whole all at once.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral

“Sometimes the spiral isn’t a breakdown. It’s a plot twist.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Because the ancestors have pulled up lawn chairs. Piper is judging you from the counter. And your last functioning brain cell is wearing Crocs and screaming, “We’re fine.” Today, we’re about to roast our own mental health spiral like it’s Sunday dinner. And the ancestors are already circling the table whispering, “Lord, she’s doing that again.” Today’s sermon: The Stages of a Mental Health Spiral. This is not a gentle descent. This is a Six Flags drop tower operated by a raccoon with a GED and a dream.

You know that moment when you feel something is off? Not enough to call your therapist. But enough to stare at the wall like it owes you money. That’s when the spiral begins. Quietly. Softly. Like a Southern woman saying, “Bless your heart.”  Right before she ruins your life.

Behold, the official stages of a mental health spiral. The annotated. Dramatized. And spiritually supervised by your ancestors who are shaking their heads in unison.

1. Denial (a.k.a. “I’m fine.”)

You say “I’m fine” with the confidence of a toddler holding a permanent marker near a white couch. Your eye twitches. Your soul leaves your body. But you? You’re “fine.”

2. Snack-Based Coping

You open the fridge like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life. It does not. It reveals cheese. You eat the cheese. You feel nothing. You eat more cheese. You still feel nothing. You consider becoming cheese.

3. Googling Symptoms

You Google one minor sensation. “Why does my left eyebrow feel spicy?” 

Google: You have 14 minutes to live. 

You: “Reasonable.”

4. Texting Your Spouse

You send a message that is 40% panic. 40% apology. And 20% emojis that do not match the situation. Your spouse replies, “Did you eat today?” You did not. You lie anyway.

5. Bargaining With the Universe

You promise to drink water. You promise to stretch. You promise to stop doomscrolling. You do none of these things.

6. Existential Laundry

You stare at a laundry basket like it’s a metaphor for your entire life. You consider folding it. You do not fold it. You put a blanket over it like a Victorian ghost.

7. Deciding to Become a Forest Witch

You Google “how to disappear into the woods legally.” You imagine yourself living among moss, mushrooms, and emotionally stable squirrels. You start pricing cauldrons. You tell your spouse, “I’m going feral.” They say, “Okay, but text me when you get there.”

I told my therapist about the levels of decent into madness. She looked at me over her glasses like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh. Cry. Or call your ancestors for backup. She said, “Dana, you cannot diagnose yourself with 14 conditions. Eat a block of cheddar. And then attempt to join the woodland spirits. That’s not a treatment plan. That’s a Thursday.” Then she adds, “Next time, call me before you Google anything. Or before you buy a cauldron.”

And that, my friend, is the spiral. A journey. A pilgrimage. A spiritual hike through chaos, cheese, and questionable decisions. But you survived. You always do. Because even when my brain is doing NASCAR donuts in a Walmart parking lot, I still show up, I still laugh. And still threaten to become a forest witch at least twice a month. My ancestors are proud. My therapist is tired. My cats are unimpressed. And I’m doing amazing. Thanks for reading! What are things you do when you’re spiraling that isn’t funny at the time? But is now.

Affirmation: I can survive my own brain, one snack, one breath, and one dramatic monologue at a time.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Blood on Mississippi Soil: Why Silence Is No Longer an Option

“Silence is the oldest accomplice of violence. And Mississippi has been silent for far too long.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal, y’all. Because my ancestors are pacing the porch tonight. I can feel them in the humidity, the cicada buzz, and in the way the air gets thick right before a storm. They’re whispering. Tapping their feet. And shaking their heads the way old Southern aunties do when they’ve had enough of the foolishness. And Lord knows Mississippi has given us more than enough foolishness wrapped in Bible verses. Dipped in denial. And served with a side of “the South will rise again” delusion.

Because let’s tell the truth. The “Christian” community down here loves to shout about sin until it’s time to call out violence against Black bodies. Then suddenly everybody’s quiet. Clutching pearls. And humming hymns like silence is salvation. They’ll condemn a teenager’s skirt length before they condemn a system that keeps killing Black people. They’ll preach forgiveness while refusing accountability. They’ll talk about “God’s love” while ignoring the blood on their own soil. And I’m done pretending that’s holy.

Mississippi has always been a place where racism isn’t just a belief. It’s infrastructure. It’s policy. It’s tradition. It’s the foundation poured into the dirt generations ago. And too many folks still treat it like sacred ground.

And now, again, violence has come knocking at the doors of Black families. Again, the state government refuses to investigate. Again, accountability disappears when the killer is white. Again, we are told to “wait for the facts.” While the facts are buried under good ol’ boy politics and backroom handshakes.

A one-year-old Black baby was shot and killed by a white officer over diapers. Let me say that again. A baby died because a grown man with a badge felt threatened by diapers.

A Black teenage boy was found dead under mysterious circumstances. And instead of answers, we get a cover-up thicker than Delta mud. Evidence missing. Stories changing. Officials shrugging like a child’s life is just a paperwork inconvenience.

And now, a Black woman found hanging from a tree in 2026. And the state wants us to believe it’s anything other than what it looks like. Mississippi has a long, violent history with Black bodies and trees. We know what this is. We’ve seen it before. Our ancestors saw it before. And the silence from leadership is louder than any confession.

This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t isolated. This is a pattern, a legacy, and a sickness that Mississippi refuses to treat because too many people benefit from the infection. And let me tell you something. I’m old enough now to stand up and say it plainly. I’m old enough to fight for marginalized groups which include Black folks, brown folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, and anyone who doesn’t fit the whitewashed mold Mississippi keeps trying to force us into. I’m old enough to say that I’m proud that I didn’t buy into the racist ideology that some of my own family members still cling to like it’s heirloom china.

I broke the cycle. I chose humanity over heritage. I chose truth over tradition. I chose justice over comfort. And if that makes me the black sheep at the family reunion, hand me the potato salad because I’ll graze in the pasture with pride. I’m proud to say I’m not like them. Not molded by their fear. Not shaped by their hate. Not carved into the same brittle statue of “tradition” they keep worshiping like it’s holy. I’m proud to say I crawled out of the same Mississippi clay. And still managed to grow in a different direction. And it was one that didn’t twist my roots around racism and call it heritage.

If rejecting their ideology means I lose my seat at the family table, then pull the chair out from under me. If refusing to swallow their silence means I’m no longer welcome in their church pews, then let the hymns echo without me. If choosing humanity over hypocrisy means I have to walk away from religion entirely, then I’ll walk away barefoot. Head high and unbothered.

Because I refuse to be loyal to a system that kills Black children and calls it “procedure.” I refuse to be loyal to a state that covers up Black death and calls it “ongoing investigation.” I refuse to be loyal to a community that sees a Black woman hanging from a tree and calls it “unfortunate.” I refuse to be loyal to people who hide behind scripture while ignoring suffering. I refuse to be loyal to any ideology that demands my silence while it destroys lives.

Mississippi may be built on racism. But I am not. Mississippi may cling to its racist past. But I do not. Mississippi may worship its own mythology. But I refuse to kneel. I am not like them. I will never be like them. And if breaking away from their beliefs is the cost of protecting my soul, integrity, and humanity, then that’s a price I’ll pay in full with no regrets.

Let them keep their “South will rise again” fantasies. I’m rising in a different direction. One they can’t touch. Can’t claim. And sure as hell can’t control. That’s my mic drop. And I won’t be picking it back up. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I honor my ancestors by refusing to repeat their pain. I stand in truth. I stand in courage. And I stand in love even when I stand alone.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife