bug mode

when it all starts to feel like too much

Hi sweet sparkly ones,

I just wanted to crawl in here to whisper that I’ve paused all payments from paid subscribers for the time being—I don’t know about you, but I’ve been struggling to human lately, and I want to take some pressure off of myself.

sick of adulting? try bug mode!

This doesn’t mean I won’t keep writing/posting, it just means, I’m taking a beat… to contemplate how I want to move forward. I feel like I’m going through another big life transition of some sort, and I find it tricky to write completely transparently in that state, especially when other people are involved. I want to try to do better at sharing my own stories, without throwing my loved ones under the bus.

Would it be alright if I took your temperature?

What posts of mine, if any, have resonated with you? Do you wish I wrote more often? Less often? What kinds of topics would you like more of? What are you yearning for these days, in general?

Do you think I should start another substack but use a pseudonym and not tell any people I know in real life so I can actually really write about whatever fucked up and/or embarrassing things I want?? :S

(Fellow writers, tell me you haven’t thought about this too?!)

There is so so much I’ve wanted to tell you all about, that I censored myself from sharing. As I sink deeper into mid-winter/current-political-climate nihilism and questionable self-esteem, I teeter-totter between wanting to write much more often; feeling like a total imposter when I throw a bunch of 2nd-grade words onto the page, comparing myself with the many more large-vocabularied, poetic substackers in my feed (“are they all just water signs or something?!” is a thought I had recently, as I tried to console myself); and well, quitting altogether.

Is it enough that I share all my secrets? All my worries, all my frustrations? And very rarely lately, the things that have made me laugh?

Do I also need to come off like I’ve risen above all Mortal Human Pettiness, floating around life embracing every stranger I meet and every potentially soul-crushing experience with unconditional love and poetic wisdom?

Oh how I wish I could write like this person. Or this person. Or that person. But I don’t. I’m firey, I’m emotionally turbulent, I’m unpredictable. I’d rather use a bunch of swear words than craft a sentence so beautiful, you need to read it 4-7 times to fully gauge its meaning.

Left to my own devices, I’d probably burn down every single bridge I’ve ever built just to make you laugh. To make you feel less shitty about your own struggles.

Here’s a secret… I write when I’m lonely. When I feel like I have nobody to talk to. Like, to really talk to. Someone who witnesses my anxious ramblings gently, like I witness others as a coach—with no advice, no judgment; just loving presence and curiosity.

These skills are So. Incredibly. Rare. And it’s not our fault! We are not taught how to listen. We learn how to project our own experiences and fears onto others. To judge. To ask questions that have a subtle underlayer of concern, of shame.

I’ve developed the prickly habit of writing about my partner when I feel neglected. When my abandonment wounds have been triggered. When I wish we were spending more time together. I don’t know how, but we’ve arrived at a phase in our relationship where we eat separate meals, and sleep in separate beds, watching separate shows. I get the cat, he gets the dog. I feel lucky if he comes upstairs and cuddles with me for a few minutes, allowing some time to really connect without the presence of screens. It’s rare these days, and it’s breaking my fucking heart.

I’m struggling. He’s struggling. I’m pretty sure, in one way or another, we are all struggling. Or maybe, I’m just projecting?

A part of me feels as though it’s not safe to write again, even with the paywall—because I tend to share too much when I’m here. And yet, I find myself yearning for all these gorgeously poetic writers to share MORE. I don’t want your poetry, I want YOU. The more socially-perceived “ugliness” you share, the more beautiful you become to me.

I write what I yearn to read. But I’m also tired of burning bridges. I need to get out of the water for a bit, walk along the sand, and then try getting back in. Maybe the water will feel warmer on my skin after.

Pausing payments is my compromise right now. I’m not sure where it will lead. Less posts? More posts? Maybe burning bridges is just my “thing.” Maybe I just need to take some guilt-free time off from sharing everything. February is for resting and grieving. At least it is for me.

we owe saturn bacon on a sandwich

I love you all, and I hope you are taking such very gentle care of yourselves right now, whatever that looks like for you! Life is fucking sketchy these days, and you absolutely deserve it.

xoxoxo