I’d planned to take August 23–30 off for something important: a weeklong retreat my therapist has been encouraging me to attend for years.
It’s for survivors of childhood sexual abuse, and the whole point is to actually be there — mentally and emotionally — instead of running in circles in my head.
Part of the aftermath of long-term child abuse is a kind of survival narcissism — that deep-down sense that if you ever let your guard down, the universe will smack you just for sport. I’ve had enough “coincidences” to keep the superstition alive: the guy who hit me right after I finally got past my PTSD enough to not be afraid of being alone with him. The time when, after years of wanting to meet someone, I finally did…and within five minutes of emerging from my anxiety-disassociation haze, found out they were leaving the next morning instead of staying four more days. They had a perfectly good reason, but my brain instantly logged it as, “LOL, you thought you get to be happy — oh sweetie, you precious idiot.” I could rattle off a dozen more, but you get the idea: salience and confirmation bias team up to hand me a diabolically airtight hypothesis about the grand purpose of my life.
All I can say is I come by it honestly. When I was a kid, everything in that house really was about me — just not in the good way.
So yes, this kind of self-pitying narcissism is one of my worst traits. I know it. I’m working on it. It’s my little bonsai tree of character flaws: carefully pruned, occasionally watered, but still thriving against my better judgment.
So I’ve been trying to set myself up to go into this retreat ready, present, and open. But now a couple of real-world dumpster fires have decided to hold hands and skip into my life together:
My landlord has an illegally low amount of insurance, and this week he caused serious property damage to my car. I may need to move quickly — in a market with a 0.4% vacancy rate — which is as stressful and expensive as it sounds. He’s already demonstrated a charming disregard for state law (one week notice to raise the rent instead of 60 days, for example), so I’m not counting on fair play.
The ongoing Verizon fiasco (devices I never ordered, never possessed, fraud I saw coming because I literally got the authorization texts in advance and called them to beg for help) is now dinging my credit score — naturally, right when I might need that score to secure housing.
Both situations may require legal help, and lawyers aren’t cheap.
Meanwhile, the retreat isn’t going to move itself on the calendar, and I still need to be able to show up for it fully.
So here’s the plan: for the rest of August, you’ll see a series of carefully chosen guest posts. I think you’ll enjoy them.
In the meantime, my Substack and art print income will go toward a legal defense/moving fund for these two battles I didn’t pick. If you’ve been thinking about subscribing or buying a print, now would be an excellent time.
I also welcome your prayers — I’m fairly sure nobody’s listening, but I could be wrong. And even if nobody’s listening, I’m not convinced that a concentrated blast of goodwill can’t do something. Worst case, I’ll never know; best case, it might nudge the universe into giving me one week where the rug stays put.
Guest posts start tomorrow. I’ll see you in September — hopefully with a clearer head and fewer fires to put out.