generational trauma

darnold1975

My Inner Child Isn’t Healed. She is Fermented.

“My inner child isn’t healed. She’s fermented. Armed. And ready to defend the peace I never had.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Warn the neighbors. Tell the ancestors to buckle up and grab the holy water. My inner teenage child is not healed. She is fermented. Rebellious. Allergic to unbalanced rules in a way that should probably be studied by scientists. Or at least documented for future generations.

 She’s not pickled. Not preserved. Not gently marinated in therapeutic insight. Fermented. Like Appalachian moonshine brewed in a bathtub behind a Dollar General. She’s the kind of inner child who, if you say, “Don’t touch that,” will absolutely touch it while maintaining unbroken eye contact just to prove a point. She is the spiritual embodiment of a teenager who got grounded and said “Bet.” And then climbed out the window with eyeliner too dark and a plan too bold.

 And from that bubbling vat of defiance, spite, and ancestral side‑eye rose her. My main protector. Equal parts guardian angel. Petty deity. Rabid raccoon. And one who keeps a sword in her purse “just in case the Lord sends a sign.” A back‑alley swordfighter with a vendetta. And a loyalty so fierce it could bend metal.

 Today we’re talking about the one who meets a perceived threat with a blade in one hand and a laugh full of venom. Sometimes she has the personality of a pit viper. Sometimes she has the comedy that makes you dribble pee. And always, she has the full support of three generations of ancestors already rolling up their sleeves.

 My inner child didn’t heal into a soft, glowing cherub. She fermented with headphones too loud. And a moral compass that points directly toward, “I said what I said.” She is allergic to hypocrisy. She breaks unbalanced rules on sight. She will defy you simply because you thought you had authority. And she’ll do it with a smirk.

 That fermented teen spirit is the raw material my protector was forged from. The one who shows up like, “If you try to control us, I will absolutely climb out the window and join a biker gang.” She is loyal. She is vicious in the name of safety. She is the first to meet a threat with a sword in her hand. And a laugh that sounds like a demon gargling sweet tea. And she is me. 

 She bubbled. She brewed. She aged like ancestral sauerkraut left too close to the summer sun. And from that fermentation rose her again. She who steps forward like, “Oh, you thought you were gonna hurt us? I’ve been waiting for enrichment.” Loyal. Hilarious. Headstrong in a way that makes therapists sigh. And ancestors clutch stress balls. She is the spiritual equivalent of a possum with a PhD in boundary enforcement.

She is absolutely the one you want on your side. Because if you’re on the other side, she will meet you at dawn with a laugh that sounds like a snake hissing through a megaphone. She is just the version of me who survived childhood by turning into a mythological creature with emotional brass knuckles.

 Let me introduce her properly. She will replicate whatever energy you lead with. You want respect? Lead with respect and accountability. You want chaos? You’re cooked. That’s her specialty. And she won’t hesitate to use it in whatever situation presents itself. She’s the part who wakes up before the sun. Stretches her shoulders and says, “If anybody tries us today, I’m ready to ruin their lineage.” She could be violent. But that’s not her first choice. She’s efficient. She can escalate. But she also finishes. And she declares war with a smile. 

 Examples of Her Energy

  • Example One — Someone raises their voice at me. She appears like a Pokémon evolution and says, “We can use our words. Or we can use our ancestors. Choose wisely.”
  • Example Two — Someone tries emotional manipulation. She pulls out a sword she absolutely did not have a moment ago and whispers, “I’ve been waiting for this side quest.”
  • Example Three — Someone disrespects my boundaries. She summons the ghost of Big Mama. Who materializes holding a wooden spoon and a tax bill from 1974.

 Her Loyalty Is Biblical to those where the connection is solid and not wavering. She defends me and the underdogs of society with the intensity of a Southern grandmother guarding her potato salad recipe. She stands in front of me like, “If you want her, you gotta go through me, the ancestors, and three generations of unresolved trauma.” And honestly? That’s love. That means sometimes I’m just trying to buy cat litter at Walmart and she’s like, “Why is that man looking at us? Should I brandish the sword?” And I respond with, “No. He’s comparing prices. Put the sword back.”

 My ancestors watch all this from the spiritual balcony like they’re at a family reunion talent show. Some cheer. Some pray. Some sip sweet tea and say, “Well at least she’s not boring.” And one ancestor, my sassy nannie, always yells, “Let her cook!” That’s the one my protector listens to.

 Healing is beautiful. Growth is powerful. But sometimes the inner child doesn’t heal into a soft, glowing fairy of emotional regulation. Sometimes she ferments into a battle‑ready guardian with a weapon in one hand and generational trauma in the other. Sometimes she becomes the protector who says, “We are not repeating cycles. We are breaking them with flair.” Sometimes she becomes the part who will square up with a shadow, a memory, a stranger, or a poorly worded email. And sometimes she becomes the reason my therapist has to pause. Take off her glasses and says, “I’m gonna need a minute.”

So, here’s to her. To the protector. To the fermented inner child. To the sword‑wielding. Ancestor‑backed. Chaos‑certified guardian who keeps me alive. Safe. And laughing.

And if anyone ever tries to hurt me again? She will rise from the depths like a spiritual tax audit and saying, “You picked the wrong system today.” Thanks for reading! And Praise Be To Teenage Protectors!

Affirmation: I honor the parts of me that survived. I honor the protector who rose from the chaos. I am safe. I am whole. And my fermented inner child is a force of nature.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Prayer So Wild Even the Angels Clocked Out Early

“Some prayers lift the spirit. Others just lift the eyebrows.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Hide your children, your casseroles, and your common sense. Because what I witnessed at that unfortunate local Mississippi event wasn’t a prayer. It was a theological Nascar crash. And every angel in heaven refused to file the insurance claim.

Picture it. A field full of red hats bobbing like a colony of patriotic mushrooms. The air thick with humidity, Axe body spray, and generational resentment. A folding table sagging under the weight of mayonnaise‑based salads. And a speaker system held together with duct tape and denial.

Then he stepped forward. The Chosen One of the Red‑Hat Prayer Circle. A man built like a refrigerator with opinions. A man whose shirt had more eagles than the actual sky. A man who looked like he’d been baptized in Monster Energy. He grabbed the microphone like he was about to drop a mixtape called “Gospel of the Grievance.” 

He clears his throat like he’s about to summon the Holy Ghost, the founding fathers, and the HOA board all at once. And then. Lord help us. He opened his mouth.

What came out was not a prayer. It was not a blessing. It was not even a coherent sentence structure. It was a spiritual Yelp review written by a man who thinks the Holy Trinity is God, Country, and Bathroom Legislation. Then he begins The Prayer. The one that made the angels file HR complaints.

“Heavenly Father. We come before you today under this blessed Mississippi sun. Which you made hotter every year to punish the radical left for their wickedness.

Lord, we know that every single problem in this world can be traced back to them. The hurricanes? The liberals. The price of eggs? The liberals. My gout flaring up last Tuesday? Father God, that was the liberals too.

And Lord, we thank you that our sins don’t count. Because we carry the “Jesus Warranty.” We swipe it like a rewards card. We sin. We repent. We sin again. And you just keep stamping that little heavenly punch card. But the liberals, Lord? Unforgivable. They are the real ones on the predatory registry. Not all the republicans. But that’s none of my business, Father.

Lord, we thank You that here in Mississippi, we stay focused on the things that matter most like genitals, bathrooms, and our loyal governor who kneels so faithfully before the Orange Messiah. He bends the knee so hard, Lord, he’s got calluses shaped like patriotism.

Father, we lift up the windmills to you. Those demonic pinwheels of destruction. They’re out there slaughtering birds. Driving whales insane. And screaming so loud they give people cancer. Lord, we know the whales are acting up because they can’t handle the noise. They’re liberals at heart, Father. Sensitive. Emotional. Always protesting something.

And Lord, we rebuke the immigrants who are coming here to eat our dogs and cats. We know this because someone’s cousin’s neighbor’s Facebook post said so. And that’s good enough for us.

Father, protect us from the left trying to make everyone gay and transgender. They’re out here handing out pronouns like coupons. Even though they say that pronouns are in the English language. And that’s also a hoax. Next thing you know, my truck’s gonna identify as a Prius.

Lord, we thank you for the brave idea of firing nuclear weapons into hurricanes. We know it would’ve worked if the deep state hadn’t interfered. We thank you for the tariffs on penguins, Father. The money is pouring in. We don’t know where from. But it’s pouring in.

We thank you for answering our prayer about gasoline. It’s the lowest it’s ever been. Even though the sign says otherwise. But we don’t read numbers. Lord numbers are liberal. We thank you for the funds for the Pedophile Patio at the White House. We don’t know what it is. But the liberals said it’s bad. So, it must really be good. And that’s enough for us.

Lord, we ask You to bless our crosses. Which absolve us of all wrongdoing. We wear them proudly, Father, even when we’re screaming at cashiers or crashing Grindr. Not that we’ve ever crashed Grindr. That was the liberals.

And Father, we rebuke the rumors about ladybugs we may or may not have contracted from Lindsey “Lady” Graham. We don’t have them. We’ve never had them. We don’t think. That’s the liberals’ fault too. Lord, we pray for this nation. We pray for our bathrooms. We pray for our genitals. We pray for our Orange Messiah. And we pray that you continue to forgive us instantly while holding everyone else accountable forever. In your holy, conservative, red‑hat‑approved name we pray. Amen.”

As the final “Amen” echoed across the field. Bounced off the port‑a‑potties. Ricocheting through the humidity. And startling at least three confused squirrels. I realized something profound. This wasn’t a prayer. This was a confession disguised as patriotism. A spiritual tantrum. A theological meltdown. A holy‑ghost‑free revival sponsored by conspiracy theories and lukewarm potato salad.

The red‑hat faithful walked away feeling forgiven. Justified. And spiritually moisturized. Not because they’d repented. But because they’d shouted loudly enough to drown out their own guilt. Meanwhile, the rest of us stood there blinking like we’d just witnessed a raccoon steal a wedding cake.

If delusion had a megachurch, this prayer would’ve been the keynote speaker. If hypocrisy had a hymn book, this prayer would’ve been track one. If nonsense had a national anthem, this prayer would’ve been sung at every football game.

And here’s my final word. May we all be delivered from prayers that sound like Facebook comments. May our humor stay sharp. Our queerness stay loud. And our spirits stay unbothered. And may the next local event have better food, better theology, and fewer polyester hats. Thanks for reading! And thank you for your attention to this matter. Praise Be To Allah!

  Affirmation: I stand rooted in truth, humor, and queer resilience. No amount of red‑hat chaos can shake my spirit or dim my brilliance.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

International Overdose Awareness Day: The Day We Stop Pretending Willpower Is Medicine

“Shame has never saved a life. Compassion has. And still can.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re not just cleansing the house. We’re cleansing the collective delusion that addiction is a moral failing. The sage is smoking like it’s trying to file a worker’s comp claim. The charcoal is popping like it’s gossiping about the neighbors. And I’m standing in the kitchen with the kind of determination usually reserved for Southern women who’ve had enough.

Piper struts in first.Tail high. Eyes narrowed. And a clipboard already out like she’s conducting a federal audit.

Piper: “Before we begin. I need to know if this is a cleansing ritual, a public dragging, or a memorial service. My paperwork differs.”

Me: “All three. It’s International Overdose Awareness Day. And I’m about to educate the masses.”

Coco barrels in next. She’s breathing heavily like she just ran a marathon but actually just walked from the living room.

Coco: “Is this about the humans who say addiction is willpower? And overdose is a moral collapse? I once ate an entire rotisserie chicken while sleepwalking. Explain that with willpower.”

Tinkerbell descends from the top of the fridge like a Victorian ghost who died of judgment.

Tinkerbell: “If willpower cured anything, half this household would stop doomscrolling at 2 AM. And the other half would stop emotionally eating Cheez-Its.”

Me: “Exactly. We’re dragging ignorance today.”

Piper adjusts her glasses. The glasses she does not need and sighs.

Piper: “I’ll prepare the minutes. This meeting is already chaotic.”

International Overdose Awareness Day started in 2001 as a remembrance event at a Salvation Army needle exchange in Melbourne, Australia. It was created to honor those lost. Reduce stigma around overdose. And to push the world to stop treating overdose like a shameful secret instead of a public health crisis. And let me say this plainly, with all the Southern sweetness of a peach cobbler baked in righteous fury, “Addiction and overdose are not moral issues.” And it’s not about willpower.

The next time you have diarrhea, keep in mind that it’s just willpower. Sit there with a Bible verse and see if the situation resolves itself. Let me know how that works out. That’s how ludicrous that argument is.

People don’t become addicts because they’re weak, sinful, lazy, or lacking character. Many addicts die wanting anything in life other than to be an addict. They die fighting. They die trying. They die hoping. But some folks, including people in my own family, love to say, “Addiction is about willpower.” It never has been. It never will be.

I’ve been an addict. I’ve been a professional treating addicts. I’ve buried friends. I’ve buried family. Not once have I judged them for their struggle. But the hypocrites in my life? The ones who claim moral superiority while ingesting alcohol at a rate that Pete Hegseth and Kash Patel struggle to keep up with? Hypocrite, please.

Overdose is an unfortunate part of addiction. Whether it’s chemicals, behaviors, or the slow-motion self-destruction people pretend “doesn’t count.” Because it’s socially acceptable. So how about we stop demonizing people who overdose while absolving ourselves of our own harmful, numbing, escapist overdoses?

If we’re being honest, some folks overdose on alcohol, self-righteousness, denial, Amazon Prime, gossip, rage, food, religion, and control. But somehow that doesn’t get labeled as a moral failure. Funny how selective morality works.

And here’s the truth that makes some folks squirm like they sat on a church pew with a splinter. Overdose doesn’t happen because someone is weak. It happens because someone is human. Humans who loved. Humans who tried. Humans who fought battles most people couldn’t survive for five minutes. Humans who deserved compassion instead of commentary.

But every year, we lose more people. Not because they were broken. But because the world still treats addiction and overdose like a character flaw instead of a medical condition. We lose them because shame is louder than science. Because judgment is easier than empathy. Because some folks would rather cling to their superiority complex than admit they don’t know a damn thing about what they’re talking about.

So on International Overdose Awareness Day, I’m lighting this charcoal. Sprinkling this sage. And saying this with my whole chest, “Stop demonizing the people who are drowning while you’re out here drinking from your own poison well. Stop pretending your socially acceptable overdoses are any less destructive just because they come with a cute, monogrammed tumbler or a Bible verse slapped on top. Stop acting like overdose is a choice when half the people judging can’t even choose to drink water or go to bed on time. And most importantly, start honoring the people we’ve lost by refusing to let stigma bury the living.

The dead deserve dignity. The living deserve compassion. And the ignorant deserve education. Loud, unapologetic, Southern‑fried education. Today, I’m choosing truth over tradition. Compassion over comfort. And humanity over hypocrisy. If that makes some folks uncomfortable? Good. Growth never happens in comfort. And comfort has never saved a single life. But truth might. Compassion might. You might. Thanks for reading! Share this with others.

 Affirmation: I honor the lives lost. Uplift the living. And refuse to let stigma speak louder than truth.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

PTSD Awareness: Because Trauma Didn’t Ask for Your Job Title Before It Moved In

“PTSD doesn’t check uniforms. It checks histories. And some of us survived wars nobody ever saw.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just cleansing the room. We’re cleansing the generational nonsense that keeps trying to set up a timeshare in our nervous systems. And apparently we’re gonna need both if we’re talking about PTSD. And the world still thinks it only comes issued with a uniform, dog tags, and a government contract.

I’m standing in my kitchen like a bootleg priestess of the Deep South. I’m waving smoke around like I’m trying to reboot the Wi‑Fi of my soul. The sage is burning. The charcoal is crackling. And my cats are staring at me with the same expression Southern aunties use when you tell them you’re “working on your boundaries.”

The air is thick with incense and unprocessed childhood memories. The vibe is “haunted but trying.” The soundtrack is the soft hum of trauma responses warming up like an old truck in winter. And behind me, my cats have formed a semi‑circle like a furry tribunal.

Piper: “Is this the trauma purge or the ‘Mama read another psychology article’ ritual?” 

Tinkerbell: “No, this is the one where she tries to heal her inner child but ends up reorganizing the spice cabinet.” 

Coco: “I’m only here because she dropped a Cheez-It earlier. And I’m hoping for a sequel.”

Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to explain to the universe loudly, with hand gestures, that PTSD is not some exclusive club where you need a military ID and a buzz cut to get in. Trauma doesn’t check credentials. Trauma doesn’t ask for your DD‑214. Trauma shows up like, “Hey girl, I heard you survived something awful. Mind if I stay forever and rearrange your brain chemistry?” And the universe is like, “Sure, pull up a chair.”

So here we are. Me, my cats, my sage, my charcoal, my trauma, and my determination to laugh about it before it eats me alive. If there’s one thing the South taught me, it’s this, “If you can’t laugh at your pain, it will absolutely laugh at you first.”

Let me set the scene. I’m standing in my kitchen. Sage smoking like I’m trying to summon every ancestor who ever survived a generational curse, a bad haircut, or a church potluck. My cats are watching me like I’m performing a ritual to resurrect the last bag of Temptations.

Piper squints at me. 

Piper: “Is this the trauma cleansing or the insomnia exorcism? I need to know which meeting I’m attending.” 

Coco: “Wake me up when the stinky flower medicine comes out. That’s when she stops pacing like a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.” 

Tinkerbell: “Neither. This is the ‘Mama read something online again’ ceremony.”

Every time I talk about PTSD, somebody somewhere says, “But you weren’t in the military.” And I’m like, “Correct. But I was in my childhood. And frankly, that was its own kind of deployment.”  PTSD does not check your résumé. It does not ask for your service record. It does not care if your trauma came from a battlefield, a backwoods childhood, a toxic relationship, a medical emergency, or that one time your mee-maw threw a shoe at you with the accuracy of a Navy Seal. Trauma is trauma. And PTSD shows up like an uninvited cousin at Thanksgiving. It’s loud. Unpredictable. And absolutely refusing to leave. Meanwhile, my cats are holding their own support group.

Piper: “Her insomnia is so bad I’ve started sleeping in shifts.” 

Coco: “I tried to keep up once. I saw the sun rise twice in the same day. I’m still not okay.” 

Tinkerbell: “I’ve filed a formal complaint with HR. HR is also her. It’s not going well.”

Big Pharma has a pill for everything. Which including the side effects of the pill you took for the side effects of the pill you took for the original pill. And half of them end up in lawsuits. And apparently the medication was also causing spontaneous combustion or turning people into werewolves. Meanwhile, cannabis is over here like, “Hey girl, wanna sit down and breathe for a minute?” And when I pull out the flower medicine, the cats perk up like I just announced a family meeting.

Piper: “Ah yes, peace is coming.” 

Coco: “Finally, she’ll stop reorganizing the pantry at 3 AM.” 

Tinkerbell: “Blessed be the bud that calms the beast.”

Suddenly the whole house exhales. The walls stop vibrating. The anxiety gremlins go back to bed. The cats reclaim their rightful positions as tiny loaf-shaped monarchs. And with the current state of our nation, the number of people developing PTSD is probably about to skyrocket. We’re all one news headline away from needing a weighted blanket, a therapist, and a federally funded emotional support possum.

If you’ve got PTSD and you didn’t get it from war, guess what? You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not dramatic. You’re not “overreacting.” You’re just a human who lived through some stuff that your brain is still trying to file correctly. And if anyone tries to tell you PTSD is only for soldiers, send them my way. I’ll let 13 explain it. She’s the mean one.

Roll the flower. Because healing isn’t a uniform. It’s a revolution. And in this house, we honor every survivor, every story, and every cat who has ever witnessed a 4 AM trauma spiral and stayed anyway. Thanks for reading! And keep moving forward.

Affirmation: My trauma is valid, my healing is sacred, and I refuse to shrink my story just because someone else can’t imagine surviving it.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

When ‘Too Much’ Meets ‘Not Enough’: A Survival Guide for the Spirit They Couldn’t Resize

“Let them call you too much. Some people only say that because they’ve never met someone who refuses to live on mute.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for its shift. Like it’s ready to escort every dusty opinion, every unsolicited critique, and every generational expectation straight out the front door. The moment somebody decides to inform you that you are either “too much” or “not enough,” that’s when the ritual begins. That’s when you cleanse the room. Clear the energy. And prepare yourself for the comedy of errors that is other people trying to regulate a spirit they did not create. And once that sage hits the air? The truth comes out like it’s been waiting backstage with a mic and a spotlight.

You know that moment when your family, your friends, and the entire Southern social order gather around like a committee of porch‑sitting elders. And they proceed to inform you, very gently, very prayerfully, that you are either too much or not enough? That’s the moment you realize you were never the problem. The problem was the committee.

It always starts with someone holding a casserole like it’s a moral authority. They pull you aside and say, “We’re just worried.” Worried about what? Your volume? Your opinions? Your refusal to shrink yourself into a polite, beige, church‑approved silhouette?

They’ll say, “You’re too loud,” “You’re too emotional,” “You’re too confident,” And “You’re too honest.” And then, without even inhaling, they’ll pivot to, “You’re not grateful enough,” “You’re not humble enough,” “You’re not patient enough,” And “You’re not quiet enough.” Am I a Category 5 hurricane or a lukewarm drizzle? I cannot be both the storm and the drought.

There is nothing like being raised in a culture where people will literally say, “Bless your heart,” while handing you a personality correction like it’s a church bulletin. They want you to be authentic, as long as, your authenticity fits inside their emotional carry‑on bag. They’ll warn you “Tone it down,” “Don’t rock the boat,” “Don’t embarrass the family,” and “Don’t say that out loud.” Meanwhile, the family has been embarrassing you since 1986.

One day, you wake up and realize you are not auditioning for the role of “Acceptable Human #3” in someone else’s life. You stop editing your personality for people who don’t even proofread their own lives. You stop shrinking your joy to fit someone else’s comfort zone. You stop apologizing for existing at full wattage. And suddenly the same people who said you were “too much” start whispering, “She’s changed.” No, you haven’t. You just stopped offering the discounted version of yourself.

People call you “too much” when they’ve built their lives around being less. People call you “not enough” when they want you small enough to manage. People call you “intimidating” when they’re used to being unchallenged. People call you “dramatic” when they’re used to you swallowing your feelings like communion wafers. You are not too much. You are not, not enough. You are exactly the right amount for the life you’re meant to live.

Let’s start by rewriting the script. If they say you’re too loud. Maybe they’re too quiet. If they say you’re too emotional. Maybe they’re emotionally constipated. If they say you’re too confident. Maybe they’re allergic to self‑esteem. And if they say you’re too honest. Maybe they’re used to lies dressed as manners. You are not a problem to be solved. You are a whole person with a whole personality or many. And if that rattles the folding chairs at the family reunion, then let them rattle.

The next time somebody tries to hand you a personality correction like it’s a bulletin from the usher board, just smile. Adjust your crown. And keep walking. Because if being fully yourself shakes their table. Flips their pew. And rattles their casserole. Maybe the problem isn’t your volume. Maybe it’s their weak foundation. Opinions are like buttholes. We all have them. And they all stink. Thanks for reading! And keep letting your light shine no matter what they say.

Affirmation: I honor the fullness of who I am. I expand anyway, shine anyway and take up the space my spirit was built for.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Even My Cats Know You Can’t Heal in the Same Environment That Hurt You.

“You can’t heal in the same environment that taught you to hide your wounds. Sometimes the bravest thing you’ll ever do iswalk away from the place that expected you to stay broken.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Apparently, healing requires both barbecue energy and spiritual pest control. Welcome back to my household. Where the cats run the HOA. The ancestors run the commentary. And I’m just trying to unlearn 30 years of “bless your heart and keep suffering quietly.” Today’s sermon is titled, “You Cannot Heal in the Same Environment That Hurt You.” And yes, the cats have notes.

You ever try to heal in the same place that taught you to pretend everything was fine? It’s like trying to detox from sugar while sitting inside a Krispy Kreme with the “Hot Now” sign glowing like the gates of temptation. Meanwhile, my Southern upbringing is in the corner whispering, “Well now, you can leave, but don’t you dare make a scene. And take this casserole so folks don’t think you’re ungrateful.”

Healing in the same environment that hurt you is basically a full‑contact sport. You’re dodging old triggers. Outdated expectations. And that one relative who still thinks therapy is “for people who don’t pray hard enough. And still thinks Obama personally raised your rent.” Nothing says emotional clarity like feline commentary.m

Coco (the judgmental one): “Girl, you keep trying to heal in the same room where your trauma sleeps. Move the furniture or move yourself.”

Piper (the chaotic one): “I say we knock everything off the shelves and start fresh. Healing begins with destruction.”

Tinkerbell (the Southern belle of the group): “Bless your heart. Even Jesus left Nazareth.”

And honestly, they’re right. Cats don’t stay in places that stress them out. They relocate with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s too good for this nonsense.

Southern Conservative Truth #1

“If it ain’t working, you don’t fix it. You replace it.” This applies to lawn chairs, husbands, and emotional environments.

Southern Conservative Truth #2

“You can’t grow tomatoes in poisoned soil.” But you can grow generational trauma if you keep watering it.

Southern Conservative Truth #3

“If the dog keeps biting you, stop blaming the dog and fix the fence.” Stop expecting people who hurt you to suddenly develop character.

Southern Conservative Truth #4

“You can’t sit on a broken chair and then get mad when you hit the floor.” If the environment is unstable, your healing will be too.

Southern Conservative Truth #5

“If the chicken’s burnt, the oven ain’t gonna apologize.” Some folks will never take accountability. Move on.

Southern Conservative Truth #6

“You can’t plant hope in a field full of denial and expect a harvest.” Healing requires fertile ground. Not family members who think boundaries are disrespectful.

Southern Conservative Truth #7

“If the swamp keeps producing gators, stop acting surprised when you get bit.” Patterns are patterns, not mysteries.

And of course, the cats had to weigh in again.

Coco: “Humans love staying in toxic places because they’re sentimental. Cats leave because we’re smart.” 

Piper: “If the vibes are off, I’m gone. No explanation. No forwarding address.” 

Tinkerbell: “A lady does not heal where she was harmed. She relocates with grace and a fresh can of Fancy Feast.”

https://youtube.com/shorts/FJsg9tZ8V_o?si=7jJzDhcPvsKJb8KB

Here’s the truth they don’t stitch on pillows. You cannot heal in the same environment that taught you to shrink, hush, or swallow your own voice like it was impolite to exist. You cannot bloom in soil that resents your roots. You cannot rise in a room built to keep you small. And you sure as hell cannot become your highest self in a place that only wanted the quiet, obedient version of you.

Healing requires space. Not the kind of space where you shove your feelings into a Tupperware container and label it “Later.” I mean real space. The kind where you can breathe without hearing echoes of who you used to be. Healing requires distance. Healing requires disruption. Healing requires the courage to walk away from the familiar and toward the version of you that refuses to die in the same cage she was born in.

Sometimes that means leaving the room. Sometimes that means leaving the house. Sometimes that means leaving the whole dang ZIP code. And sometimes it means telling your inner Southern critic, “No ma’am, we are not staying here out of politeness.” Healing requires new air, new light, new boundaries, and sometimes, a new porch to sit on while you process your life choices.

Leaving the environment that hurt you isn’t betrayal. It’s survival. It’s reclamation. It’s the moment you decide your healing deserves better than the bare minimum. And if anyone has a problem with it. Just tell them the cats said you’re unavailable for nonsense until further notice. And that’s on healing. Now excuse me while I sage the house like I’m trying to smoke out a demon.

So let them talk. Let them misunderstand you. Let them clutch their church bulletin and call it rebellion. Let them say you’ve changed. Because God knows you have. And thank goodness for that. You are not obligated to stay where your spirit was suffocated. You are not required to keep shrinking to fit the room. You are allowed to outgrow the places that could not love you whole.

And if anyone has a problem with your healing journey, tell them, “I didn’t leave because I was angry. I left because I was finally ready to breathe. And once you taste oxygen, you don’t go back to drowning.” Thanks for reading! And stop shrinking for their comfort.

Affirmation: I honor my healing by choosing spaces that honor me. I release the rooms that dimmed my light. And I rise in environments that celebrate my growth, my boundaries, and my becoming.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

https://suno.com/s/yUMvAAJCwb7DpPK4

darnold1975

Being an Empath: A Blessing, a Curse, and Occasionally a Loud Situation

“Being an empath means I can feel your energy shift before you even decide to shift it. Don’t act surprised when I respond like I already read the whole plot twist.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. It’s my way of announcing to the universe, and anybody else listening, that the energy is about to be corrected. Redirected. Or escorted out. It’s not decoration. It’s a declaration. The vibes will behave. Or they will be removed.

Let me go on and say this before somebody gets the wrong idea and starts assigning me spiritual homework that I did not sign up for. Being an empath does not mean I’m a soft‑spoken emotional Roomba gliding around the house sucking up everybody’s mess in silence. No ma’am. No sir. No spirit.

I am an empath with range. I can read your tone, micro‑tone, micro‑aggression, and the ghost of the tone you almost used. And if my intuition taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “They tried you,” I will absolutely raise my voice like a Southern Baptist who just found out somebody parked in her spot at church.

Empath does not mean quiet. Empath means I know exactly why I’m yelling. People love to romanticize empaths like we’re walking mood rings with good credit. But the truth is more complicated. Being an empath is a blessing because you can walk into a room and instantly know who’s lying. Who’s tired. Who’s two seconds from crying. Who’s pretending to be fine. Who’s about to start some mess. Who needs a hug. Who needs a boundary. And who needs to be escorted out by security.

But it’s also a curse. You can’t turn it off. You can’t unfeel what you felt. You can’t unsee the emotional weather patterns swirling around people like spiritual Doppler radar. And sometimes you’re sitting there thinking, “Lord, why did you give me this gift without a mute button?”

Let’s tell the truth that makes people uncomfortable. Some empaths aren’t born. They’re forged. Some of us learned to read a room because we had to. Because survival depended on knowing when the energy shifted.

When someone’s mood changed. When danger was coming. When silence meant safety. And when footsteps meant run. That kind of childhood intuition doesn’t disappear. It grows up with you. It becomes a skill, a shield, a superpower and sometimes a burden you didn’t ask for.

So yes, some empaths are spiritually gifted. And some of us are trauma‑trained emotional detectives with a sixth sense and a therapist on speed dial. Being an empath means you don’t just enter a room. You scan it. You feel the tension in the air before anyone speaks. You clock the fake smile from across the room. You sense the passive‑aggressive energy floating near the snack table. You know who’s genuinely happy to see you. And who’s performing hospitality like it’s community theater. It’s not paranoia. It’s pattern recognition.

And while everyone else is like, “Oh, the vibe seems fine.” You’re standing there like, “No it doesn’t. Somebody in here is lying. And somebody else is about to cry.” Boundaries aren’t optional for empaths. They are survival gear. Without boundaries, an empath will drown in other people’s emotions like they’re swimming in a pool they didn’t even want to get in.

Boundaries are how we protect our peace, our energy, our intuition, our sanity, our inner child, our outer adult, and the version of us that still wants to believe people mean well. People who don’t understand boundaries think they’re rude. People who need your boundaries think they’re personal attacks. But people who love you will understand that boundaries are how you stay alive, present, and emotionally available without burning yourself to ash.

Let me be extremely clear in a way that even the spiritually hard‑of‑hearing can understand. When an empath sets a boundary, it is not a suggestion, a preference, or a cute little decorative fence. It is survival architecture.

Empaths don’t set boundaries casually. We set boundaries because we’ve already scanned the emotional terrain. We’ve already clocked the patterns. We’ve already felt the shift in your tone. And we’ve already sensed the storm clouds gathering behind your smile.

When someone violates a boundary we clearly communicated, it doesn’t feel like a misunderstanding. It feels like a threat. It feels like disrespect. It feels like someone walked into our house. Ignored the “Please remove your shoes” sign. And tracked mud across the ancestral rug. And because empaths are wired to detect danger that is emotional, spiritual, and energetic, boundary violations hit us like alarms going off in a building we didn’t even want to be in.

This is why people get confused when an empath goes from calm to “Oh absolutely not” in 0.3 seconds. They think we’re overreacting. But what they don’t understand is we saw the intention. We felt the entitlement. We recognized the pattern. And we sensed the disrespect before it fully formed.

By the time we raise our voice, the situation has already been analyzed. Processed. And spiritually notarized. Empaths don’t explode out of nowhere. We respond to the data. Violating a boundary is the emotional equivalent of someone looking us dead in the eye and saying, “I don’t respect your peace, your intuition, or your humanity.” At that point, the empath is not being dramatic. The empath is being accurate.

When I say I’m an empath, people assume I’m out here collecting gold stars from the universe. And waiting for someone to pat me on the head and say, “Good job for feeling things deeply. Absolutely not. I don’t need outside validation because I validate myself loudly, confidently, and with the full support of my intuition, my ancestors, and my own emotional PhD.

I spent too many years being trained to read every room, every tone, every shift in energy just to survive. So, trust me when I say, I know what I feel. I know why I feel it. And I don’t need a committee meeting to confirm it. My inner knowing is the authority. My boundaries are the policy. And my self‑validation is the final stamp of approval. Anyone else’s opinion is optional, decorative, and often late to the truth I already knew.

The next time somebody hears “empath” and assumes I’m a gentle emotional cloud floating through life, let me correct the record. I’m not floating. I’m detecting. I’m reading the room, the subtext, the spiritual Wi‑Fi, and the emotional weather report. And if the forecast says, “disrespect with a 70% chance of foolishness,” trust and believe I will bring the thunder. Empathy doesn’t make me silent. And sometimes accuracy requires volume. Thanks for reading! And go with your gut. Because it’s the most accurate feeling that you can feel.

Affirmation: I honor my intuition. Protect my peace. And raise my voice only when spiritually necessary. Which, unfortunately for some folks, is more often than they’d prefer.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Memorial Day Mourning: When Patriotism Meets Disrespect

“A nation that forgets its fallen has already surrendered its soul.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today, ancestors, I need you close. I need every grandmother who prayed over folded flags. Every great‑uncle who never made it home. Every lineage‑bearer who stood against tyranny with nothing but grit, fear, and a trembling hope that their sacrifice would mean something. I need them all gathered around this fire with me. Because my heart is breaking in a way I can feel in my teeth.

Memorial Day is supposed to be sacred. A day of reverence. A day where the air itself feels heavy with memory. A day where we whisper “thank you” to the ones who went in our place. I don’t care how they voted. What bumper sticker they had. Or what political arguments they hollered at the TV. They went. They stood in the line of fire so I didn’t have to. They carried the weight of a nation on their backs. And some never came home to tell the story.

And now. We are living in an era where their sacrifices are being mocked. Minimized. And twisted into political theater. Where illegal war chew up American lives for reasons that don’t hold water. Where the Commander‑in‑Chief has openly called fallen soldiers “losers” and “suckers,” according to multiple reports from former officials. And I swear, ancestors, I can feel you shifting in your graves like, “We did NOT fight fascism for this.”

Let me be clear. This isn’t about politics. This is about decency, honor, and basic human respect. And they are the qualities that should never be partisan. And yet here we are. Watching behavior that would’ve gotten any of our mamas slapped with a sandal for raising someone so disrespectful. Here are examples that are widely reported. Documented. And discussed. They are of how Donald Trump has disrespected veterans and fallen soldiers.

  • Calling fallen soldiers “losers” and “suckers”– reported by multiple sources which including former senior officials. My ancestors just collectively rolled their eyes so hard the earth tilted.
  • Skipping a WWI cemetery visit in France because “it was raining.” Sir, they fought in trenches full of mud, blood, and rats the size of emotional support animals. You can handle a drizzle.
  • Attacking Gold Star families-families who lost loved ones in service. The audacity. The disrespect. The spiritual malpractice.
  • Mocking Senator John McCain’s capture-“I like people who weren’t captured.” My ancestors are now pacing the room with hands on hips.
  • Using the military as political props-something every veteran I know despises. Because service is not a campaign backdrop.
  • Delaying military aid for political leverage-which put actual soldiers at risk. The ancestors have now lit their own charcoal.

And the emotional stability? Lord. It’s giving “someone sprinting down the interstate with their bra and underwear on the outside of their clothes.” It’s giving me chaos. It’s giving “not a single ancestor signed off on this behavior.” And the compassion? About as present as a cactus at a cuddle party.

This is not how you honor the fallen. This is not how you respect the living. This is not how you lead a nation that has buried far too many of its children. My ancestors fought authoritarianism with their bare hands. Their last breaths. Their prayers whispered into the dirt. And now authoritarianism is parading through our streets wearing a red hat and a tantrum. While insisting it’s the second coming of patriotism. It’s not patriotism. It’s performance. And it’s breaking my heart.

And so, on this Memorial Day. I stand here with the charcoal lit. And the ancestors gathered like a celestial neighborhood watch, I have to say it plainly. America cannot honor its fallen while allowing a man who dodged the draft five times to strut around pretending to be the patron saint of patriotism. America cannot claim to respect sacrifice while elevating someone who avoided service with the infamous “bone spurs” excuse. A condition that miraculously healed the moment the danger passed and the privilege resumed. America cannot pretend to value courage while applauding someone whose greatest battle was apparently against accountability.

Because let’s be honest. The disrespect being hurled at our veterans and fallen soldiers isn’t coming from a place of strength. It’s coming from a place of entitlement so bloated it could have its own gravitational pull. It’s coming from a man who has never had to work for anything. Who has never known the terror of a battlefield. Who has never stood in the boots of the people he mocks.

And the behavior? Hold my sweet tea. We are watching a grown man. A man who holds the highest office in the land. Who is behaving with the emotional steadiness of someone who discovered social media for the first time and decided to treat it like a 3 a.m. confessional booth. Extended blinking sessions like he’s buffering. Late‑night ranting on whatever platform will still have him like Temu Twitter. And typing like a raccoon who found a phone in a staff member’s purse at a memory care facility. And is now live‑blogging its escape attempt.

And the consistency? The only thing consistent is the stench both literal and the metaphorical odor of disrespect, chaos, and ego that follows him like a cloud of Axe body spray applied by a teenager who doesn’t understand dosage.

Meanwhile, our fallen soldiers. The ones who actually knew sacrifice. Who actually faced danger. Who actually gave everything. Are being used as props in a performance that dishonors everything they stood for. My ancestors fought tyrants who believed they were above the people. Above the truth. And now, authoritarianism is parading through our streets loud. Petty. Self‑obsessed. And wrapped in a flag it does not deserve to touch.

So, hear me clearly. I honor our fallen. I honor our veterans. I honor every soul who went in my place so I could live free. But I will not and cannot stay silent while their memory is dragged through the mud by someone who never carried anything heavier than his own ego. This Memorial Day, I stand with the ancestors, the fallen, and the truth. And to the one disrespecting them? Your performance is over. Your act is tired. And the nation you claim to love deserves better. Thanks for reading! God bless those who lost their lives and took a stand against fascism and tyranny. What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I honor the brave. I speak the truth. And I stand with the ancestors who fought for freedom before me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Shame: The Weight I Refuse to Carry Anymore

“Shame was never my reflection. It was the shadow of someone else’s fear cast across my life.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like a soft warning. A trembling invitation. And a doorway cracked open just wide enough for the truth to step through without flinching. Let it drift through the room the way shame once drifted through our childhood homes as quiet and unspoken. But heavy enough to shape the way we learned to breathe.

This isn’t about performance. It isn’t about survival. It’s about naming the thing that has lived in your bones longer than some people have lived in their houses. I’m not writing from a place of humor or distance. I’m writing from the wound. From the memory. From the soil that raised me. And the silence that tried to claim me.

Shame is not born in us. It is handed to us. Pressed into our palms by people who were supposed to know better. People who were supposed to love better. People who were supposed to see us as whole. And in the Deep South, shame is practically a family heirloom.

Down here, some conservative communities have perfected shame into an art form as quiet, polished, and Sunday‑morning approved. They wield it like a switch they no longer have to swing. Because the words do the bruising for them. They don’t have to raise their voices. They just raise an eyebrow. They don’t have to say you’re wrong. They just say they’re “praying for you.” They don’t have to tell you to hide. They just make sure you know what happens to people who don’t.

Shame becomes the air you breathe before you even know what air is. It teaches you to fold yourself small. To tuck away the parts of you that don’t fit the script. To apologize for the way your heart beats. The way your voice trembles. And the way your truth refuses to die quietly. The worst part is how deeply it roots itself. And how it convinces you that you are the problem. Not the rules. Not the silence. Not the fear disguised as righteousness.

Some Southern conservative spaces are experts at this. They turn difference into danger. They turn authenticity into rebellion. They turn survival into sin. They shame you for who you are. And then shame you again for hurting because of it.

But here’s the truth shame never wants you to learn. You were never the one who failed. You were the one who endured. Shame is not your inheritance. It is not your identity. It is not your burden to carry one more mile. The moment you name what was done to you. The moment you say, “This wasn’t love. This was control.” The spell breaks. The weight shifts. The air clears. And you begin to see yourself without the fog of someone else’s fear. You begin to hear your own voice again. You begin to rise. And rising is the one thing shame cannot survive.

Shame is universal. It’s a part of every culture and every nation. And every community has its own way of teaching people to hide the parts of themselves that don’t fit the script. Shame is a global language. It is spoken in different dialects. It is enforced through different rituals. And it is carried in different bodies.

But the version I know. The one that shaped my bones and rewired my voice was born in the conservative Deep South. That’s the lens I speak from. That’s the air I learned to breathe. That’s the terrain where shame wasn’t just a feeling. It was a system.

Some conservative Southern communities wield shame like a tool of order. A way to keep people in line. A way to maintain the illusion of perfection even when the truth is rotting beneath the floorboards. They don’t have to say, “you’re wrong.” They just say, “we don’t talk about that.” They don’t have to say, “you’re unworthy.” They just say, “think of what people will think.” They don’t have to say, “you don’t belong.” They just make sure you feel it.

Shame becomes the soundtrack of your childhood. The shadow in every room. The reason you learn to fold yourself into shapes that hurt to hold. When you grow up queer, outspoken, different, or simply unwilling to disappear, the shame becomes sharper. More pointed. And more personal.

You were not the problem. You were the disruption. You were the truth they didn’t know how to hold. Shame thrives in silence. But it cannot survive being named. The moment you say, “This harmed me,” the spell breaks. The moment you say, “This wasn’t love,” the weight shifts. The moment you say, “I deserved better,” the ground beneath you changes shape.

You begin to see yourself without the fog of their expectations. You begin to hear your own voice without the echo of their judgment. You begin to rise in ways they never prepared for. And rising is the one thing shame cannot withstand.

Let every culture keep the shame it created. Let the South hold the weight of the shame it taught me to carry. I am done dragging their silence behind me. I am done mistaking their fear for my fault. I am done shrinking to make their world more comfortable. I speak now. I rise now. I reclaim every part of me they tried to bury.

And the sound of that truth is unapologetic. Unbroken. And is the loudest thing I’ve ever survived. You were never meant to carry it. Set it down. Walk forward. And let the sound of your unbroken truth shake the whole damn South. Thanks for reading! And put that shame down.

Affirmation: I release every ounce of shame that was handed to me. My truth rises. My voice steadies. And I walk forward unburdened and whole.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Truth Over Tradition: My Exit From Comfortable Dysfunction

“The truth didn’t break my family. The pretending did.”

-Unknown

Here’s the bigger picture. I didn’t grow up in a family that heals. Problems don’t get solved. They get buried alive. And then resurrected during holidays like emotional zombies. Now that me and my sister are adults, childhood resentments still pop up like whack‑a‑mole. And nobody wants to pick up a mallet. Let’s all smile in public so we don’t “defame the family.” Which honestly, does a fantastic job defaming itself.

And my family isn’t special. Dysfunction is everywhere. I have enough mental health education in my background to recognize the patterns. But they’ll swear I’m the problem. If you look past the church smiles, the whole system is sick. I would genuinely rather be hit by a car than attend “family time.” And because my kids were born into a lesbian family, they get treated like they came with a moral recall notice.

You can’t throw money at children and then take no active part in their lives the rest of the time. Especially, when you do the opposite with the other children in the family. The kids notice. I’ve tried talking about it for 17 years. And the truth is this. They just don’t care.

I have a master’s degree in counseling psychology. Yet somehow I’m the ignorant one. They don’t want insight. They don’t want help. They want silence. And mine has officially expired. I defend myself and my kids however I see fit. Respectfully? No. Effectively? Absolutely.

They want healing without effort. They’re emotional pillow princesses that want the benefits of growth while doing absolutely nothing but blinking dramatically. And when truth bruises their egos, accountability never shows up. Meanwhile, my dad plays messenger pigeon flying information back and forth between me and the rest of the family so that the dysfunction stays perfectly preserved.

Here’s the part they’ll never admit. Family therapy requires guts and transparency. And those two things they treat like forbidden sins. Instead, they’ve built a giant sand pile where they can bury their heads. And pretend nothing is wrong. That’s their comfort zone. Not truth. Not healing. Just sand. Neck‑deep and breathing through a straw of selective memory.

My favorite quote says it best, “If nothing changes, then nothing changes.” And I refuse to be silenced because their comfort depends on my suffering.

Our family lives in what I call comfortable dysfunction. It’s the emotional recliner they refuse to replace even though the springs are broken. And the fabric smells like denial. It’s easier than accountability. Easier than honesty. Easier than saying, “Maybe the gay daughter isn’t the downfall of civilization.”

And as if being the rainbow sheep wasn’t enough. I’m also the green sheep of the family because I’m a medical cannabis patient. And the family’s translation is that I’m “druggin’ and thuggin’.” The “bad influence.” And the “one who needs prayer.” But that’s not even the real issue.

The problem is my refusal to sit quietly in the pew of generational silence. The issue is that I no longer participate in the family’s favorite pastime of pretending. I’m done shrinking myself so other people can stay cozy in their outdated beliefs. I’m done letting conservative Christian values be weaponized against me and my children.

They can keep their selective morality. The kind where my sister thinks being gay is “wrong and evil.” But somehow premarital sex is just the Olympic sport of “being human.” Funny how sin gets flexible when it’s their behavior on the table. 

“My family says I’m ‘living in sin.’ Which is wild coming from some of them who wave a red hat like it’s the state flower. They preach about morality and still treat premarital sex, drinking, and hypocrisy like they’re covered under the ‘Jesus forgives me’ warranty.”And trust me. They act like I graffitied the Ten Commandments in rainbow glitter.

Being gay automatically made me the family’s “problem child.” Even though the real problems have nothing to do with what gender I love. And everything to do with the fact that I refuse to pretend. My sister can have premarital sex. Drink like she’s hydrating for the Olympics and drive afterward. And micromanage her child like she’s running a dictatorship. But somehow I’m the moral crisis.

Meanwhile, my sister’s shot glasses stays full. Her judgment stays loud. And her hypocrisy stays undefeated. Funny how cannabis for medical reasons is “dangerous.” But alcohol with a side of denial is “just being human.” I’m the rainbow sheep because I live authentically. I’m the green sheep because I choose a legal, doctor‑recommended treatment. And I’m the scapegoat because I refuse to shrink so other people can stay comfortable in their dysfunction. If being myself makes me the rainbow‑green hybrid sheep of the family, then so be it. At least I’m not grazing in the pasture of hypocrisy.

So no, I’m not stepping back into the box they built for me. I’m not dimming myself, so their comfort stays intact. I’m not carrying the weight of a family that refuses to lift a finger for its own healing. They can keep their comfortable dysfunction. They can keep their silence. They can keep their outdated beliefs wrapped in Bible verses that only apply to me.

Today I honor my inner rainbow‑green sheep. I’m fabulously queer. I’m medically lifted. And completely unbothered by the opinions of people who confuse hypocrisy with holiness.”

I’m choosing truth over tradition. I’m choosing growth over guilt. I’m choosing my children, my peace, and my sanity. And if my existence shakes the foundation of their worldview. Then the foundation was weak to begin with. Thanks for reading! Do you and let the others do them.

Affirmation: I bless my rainbow‑green sheep soul today queer, medicated, and thriving. While certain relatives clutch their red hats and pearls at my existence. But don’t blink twice at their own chaos, contradictions, or alcohol fueled commandments.

***Don’t forget the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife