Webs


Three spiders have made their homes outside my apartment windows. Sometimes, I watch them spin their webs in the dark, orange streetlights barely illuminating the fibers. Usually they’re sheltered from the rainy Oregon weather but every so often, when it rains sideways, huge holes appear in the meticulously symmetrical designs. I’m always so amazed at the spiders’ diligence. They never stop. They’re never deterred. I’m assuming they’re never discouraged, though I don’t have much understanding of spider brains and emotions.

I’m proud of them. I’m inspired by them. They’re my little friends, my little roommates, and I root for them every night while I fall asleep. I hope they know how much I care about them. I hope they know how much they matter to me.

I hope they feel me, silently cheering them on in solidarity, because if they can rebuild, so can I.

Remember?


Remember when I used to blog? Yeah, I barely remember either….

I’m watching Julie & Julia, the movie that started this whole blog off in the first place. I figured if Julie Powell could utilize her writing and cooking skills through a blog, that maybe I could try my hand at it too. At first, I wrote a lot about how much I loved Julia Child — her spirit, her television persona, her life. Then, I wrote complete and utter silly nonsense. All the time. I’d write a post almost every day, about the books I’d read, the things I noticed about people.I wrote sarcastic posts about boys who had rejected me. I wrote about my declining mental health. I wrote about writing. About college. The Bachelor. Rabbits. Dancing. Barney…

So when I started writing almost 7 years ago on this very site, I didn’t really expect my life to go this way. I thought I’d be a writer by now. Then I thought maybe I’d be a psychologist. Now I’m in cosmetology school, which I wouldn’t have predicted but definitely won’t complain about. Clearly this path hasn’t exactly been linear. I just…thought I’d have it all figured out by now. I’m 23, after all, and when I was 17, I trusted my future self to take care of everything.

This blog was my everything. I had a solid following, an actual subscriber base that cared about my wellbeing and loved my humor. It used to be called Writer’s Block. “You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll run kicking and screaming,” the caption at the top warned. A picture of typewriter keys occupied the banner. The web address? bymyink.wordpress.com. Now? Cappy Writes. A web address that matches the blog’s name. A picture of a packet of letters I bought at an antique shop. No tagline. A lot of sadness. Anger.

I’m not lamenting what used to be, really, so much as finally remembering. Realizing.

Obviously, I haven’t put the time and effort into blogging that I used to. At its peak, blogging was a tool to help me learn about and expand the world that I occupied. It was a way to gain support, to express myself, to hone a craft. It was pure. It meant everything to me. It was how I showed the world who I was, at a time when I thought I knew.

But the past few years haven’t been easy on me. My “mood disorder not otherwise specified” developed into generalized anxiety, a panic disorder, and depression. I was suicidal for a while when I was 18. I went through a surprisingly complicated breakup. I found Hinduism. It helped. New obstacles popped up. I got through them. I went to India. I got E. coli. I came out as bisexual. I graduated college, moved to a new city. I started cosmetology school. And through that all, the anxiety ebbed and flowed, but stayed mostly beneath the surface.

So now? I don’t know. I’m not okay, honestly. Something new is happening inside me, and I can’t understand it. I dealt with some serious depression over the summer, which is unusual for me, as it tends to stay contained within the “fall and winter seasonal affective” bubble. The panic disorder seems to have stayed away, which is one of the only things I find myself grateful for these days. The world doesn’t seem real lately, and neither do I. I’m going through the standard identity crisis that most people in their early 20s seem to experience, sure. But on top of that, some weird depersonalization/dissociation issues are cropping up. Therapy is happening. It’s rough, trying to stay afloat, stay alive, when you’re not even sure what’s going on anymore. I know all of that is vague, and I wish it could make more sense to me too. Just know that I’m dealing with it. I always do. I just don’t always know what to do anymore.

What does this all mean? In terms of this post, this blog, me, my life? I don’t know. All I know is, I got 15 minutes into watching Julie & Julia and I just got this itch to write. I’ve been cooking a lot lately, too. I’ve noticed that the worse I feel mentally, the more I cling to activities and people that used to make me feel calm and human and happy. This blog, more than anything, steadied my life when everything felt like it was going up in flames. So maybe it’s time to jump back in, ya know? To see a little humor in all the bullshit around me. To tell the world what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling. To share my story again with anyone willing to listen (and some who are very unwilling but are forced to because I’m a witch and I’ve hexed them).

So I’ll try, if you’ll help me. Your job is very simple: to show up and to read. I don’t even know how many of you are still out there, how many are new to my blog today, how many of you aren’t spam robots trolling through wordpress………

But yeah. I’ll try. No guarantees I’ll be funny, because half the time I just want to cry. But I’ll be here, writing into the abyss, for as long as you’ll have me.

 

November 9, 2016


You may have noticed that uh…my country has made a terrible decision.

The fact that Donald Trump is the president elect made it hard to get out of bed this morning. Just existing today has been a struggle for so many of us; I’m afraid and angry and sad and disappointed and horrified. And the fact that I am not alone in my terror just seems to make it worse. I’m not only worried about myself and my rights, but the rights of millions of other minorities, people of color, LGBT+ people, immigrants, etc etc etc…

I want to shut down. I want to scream, I want to cry. I want to give in to the most primal parts of myself that are trying to tear me up from the inside out. And in a few ways I have. I left school early because I just couldn’t see straight. Breathing is hard. I’m trying to see the sunlight for the gift that it is, trying to smell the fall leaves and feel joy but…there’s a fog covering my brain and I don’t know when it’ll lift.

The only thing keeping me afloat is a sense of duty toward America. I want to take care of her now. I know a lot of people’s immediate reaction is to run away, to move elsewhere. And if that’s something you feel you have to do in order to be safe, then do it. Really. I promise I understand.

But I’ll be here, because I won’t abandon this country only to watch it be destroyed. When something you love is being abused and mistreated, you don’t leave. You support it. You love it. You take extra care of it. You fight for it. I never felt particularly patriotic before, because patriotism felt tainted by selfish, radical right wing politicians. But today, I feel the need to hold this country tighter to my heart than I ever have before. Because we need it. We need extra love, extra kindness, or we might just fall apart.

There are too many unknowns. I’m scared for my rights as a bisexual woman. I’m scared for the safety of those I love. But I promise you we will find a way to get through this. We’re gonna be okay. I don’t know when, and I’m not really sure how, but I’m gonna go with my gut on this one and say somehow it’ll all be okay.

Take care of yourself. Do things that make you feel alive and happy. Take care of your soul, lest it be crushed. Take a break from the news if you feel like you can. Do what is best for you. Eat well. Sleep if you can. Kiss your mother. Find a dog and pet it. Allow yourself a few moments to rebuild, then move forward. There’s a lot to do.

Its time to be there for this country and make sure everything we value is taken care of. I’m very angry, but anger has never solved anything. We have a chance to truly define who we are as a country, so act with grace and love. Let unity dominate your thoughts. Let your every action be driven by kindness, not hatred. Allow yourself to be afraid, and know that is valid. But try to be motivated positively by that fear and be productive, not destructive.

Be a beacon of light, because this is the darkest time we’ve faced in a long while. Remember that peace has gotten us through tough times before, and it won’t fail us now.

I love you all. Please take care of yourself and everyone you know. We are flawed, but that doesn’t mean we can’t rebuild.

Dear Mr. Trump,


Please stop lying to me.

I know you wouldn’t hesitate to turn your back on me if ever I really needed you. I know you hate the LGBTQIA community. I know you hate racial and religious minorities. I know you hate anyone different from you. 

Why are you lying? Who are you trying to fool? It is so obvious how you really feel. I’m sitting here, watching your speech after watching four full days of right-wing bullshit, and I’m insulted. Not because you hate me, though that doesn’t feel so great either. 

No, I’m insulted because I’m sick of being lied to. Sick of being told you’ll protect my wages. I’m sick of being told you’ll respect my Hindu religious beliefs and my Hindu brothers and sisters. I’m sick of being told you care about my rights as a bisexual woman, that you care about the trans, gay, lesbian, poly, asexual, intersex, queer community. That you care about the welfare and safety of racial minority groups in this country. 

You don’t care. You’re a selfish, lying bigot and I’m disappointed in how many people you’ve got supporting you. 

So stop lying. Because honestly, Mr. Trump, if you hate who I am, you could at least fucking tell me. 

Think Less, Live More


Cosmetology school is hard. Not “bachelors in psychology” hard, not “this statistics class is so confusing” hard, not “I live in India and have had E. coli for 3 weeks” hard, but it’s hard. It’s a different form of learning and living.

I don’t always want to touch people. A lot of times, my anxiety is through the roof and hearing a thousand blow driers doesn’t exactly help. Sometimes clients are rude, ungrateful, weird… Sometimes I don’t want to give a hand massage to a total stranger. Sometimes I think I never want to give another haircut again in my entire life.

But I try to remember that every moment is temporary, so I can choose which ones I hold on to. I can constantly think about the client who was rude to me after I gave her the raddest highlights ever, or I can think about the client who squealed and hugged me after I colored her hair cherry red and gave her a cute bob. I remember my nice clients; they come back to me, and they’re excited to see me and chat. I don’t need to hold on to the bad experiences, because they’re just memories…neither of us wants to see the other again.

I’m lucky to have some amazing friends, both at school and in other parts of my life, who give amazing advice. They remind me that I’m new at this, so nothing will be perfect. They remind me it’s totally normal to be scared, because if I wasn’t terrified I probably wouldn’t try very hard. They tell me I’m gonna be a badass stylist someday (and they’re right). They tell me they’re scared too. They say, “Think less. Live more.”

Analyzing the unknown is futile. There are too many possibilities to predict what could happen, and it would be a waste of my life to even try. So every day, I’ll work harder to just live. I’ll prepare myself the best I can, but the rest is out of my hands.

This might be tricky, but I’m gonna try it out.

7 Signs You’re A Crazy (Awesome) Cat Lady


  1. You frequently wake up to your cat head-butting your face for kisses and immediately oblige, no matter the hour.
  2. Your Instagram feed is entirely composed of photos of you and your cat.
  3. You spend an enormous amount of time showing people the above mentioned pictures and/or talking incessantly about your cat.
  4. You choose to stay home and have an “evening in” with your cat instead of going out.
  5. Your cat has started jumping in the shower with you and you’re kinda okay with it.
  6. Your cat insists upon peeing in her litter box while you’re peeing. And you’re kinda okay with it…
  7. All photos of your cat are sassily captioned:
12291733_196087254064400_9202323615311881252_o

Luna is experiencing ennui

 

Beauty School (Dropout)


I should not be awake. I also shouldn’t be sick and full of snot and coughing like a choking dog, but such is life. 

I started cosmetology school yesterday. Surprise! I didn’t tell y’all…possibly because I haven’t posted in like 4 months because I’m a failure working gal and got busy getting my life in order. 

Buuuut anyway, I had my first day of class yesterday, which consisted of:

1. Going through my kit (it was like a stressful Christmas morning involving way too many different curling irons and sharp objects that I will no doubt be impaling myself with at some point in the near future)

2. Getting my hair done by an older student (who, as I walked up to her, declared, “I’m gonna give you an Afro” and the rest was history) and subsequently missing my entire lunch hour because she got so into it. I shoved a scone in my face real quick, guys, don’t worry

3. Logging into a million different programs while trying to forget that there were mannequin heads in my kit that could spontaneously come to life and eat my face while looking at me with their dead eyes

4. Walking to my car in the pouring rain as my “Afro” deflated, only to discover that my battery was dead

5. Waiting for AAA while shoving trail mix in my face because I was starving and had a cold

So let’s hope day two is a little less insane! But I’m having fun so far :) This is a really exciting step in my life and it’ll be really interesting to see where it leads!

Free to Be You and Me…Until You’re Uncomfortable?


I’ve noticed that people tend to be all aboard the gay rights train until their kid or friend or coworker comes out to them. For whatever reason, we can theoretically accept strangers for who they are but are unwilling to tell loved ones that they’re still important to us and that we love every bit of them, even the gay bits. I can guarantee there are several sociological studies on this phenomenon, and I’d be interested in seeing WHY we do this to each other.

It’s fucked up, y’all. Sorry, but I have to say it. Also, I’m definitely not sorry. Nope.

Denying people the right to come out to you is not-so-subtly implying that you disapprove of who they really are. It means you’re scared of the truth, that you’re unwilling to let them live a happy and full life, that you’re being willfully ignorant.

People also tend to be very accepting of gays until you tell them you’re bi. At that point, they tend to act like you simply like to slut it up with both genders, or they ask you if maybe you’re just going through a phase.

Yes…I’m going through a phase that has lasted my entire life. Look, I knew I was bi before I knew that being bi was a real thing. I knew I liked both women and men when I was five years old. If five-year-old Cappy knew, then 22-year-old Cappy knows, and 99-year-old Cappy will still definitely be on that bi train screaming “choo choo” at the top of her lungs. You know, to carry on with this weird train metaphor that I started at the beginning of this post.

I don’t have a whole lot of openly bi role models. Bi people tend to be pushed to the wayside because we’re not “fully straight” but often aren’t classified as gay either, so it puts us in this weird limbo where nobody wants to accept us as part of their group. The governor of Oregon is an openly bi woman, which means a lot to me. It’s nice to see bi people doing amazing things with their lives regardless of the fact that they’re majorly discriminated against by several large groups. I remember she got criticized about being openly bi, though, because people said that wasn’t an important factor in her identity so they didn’t feel she should be open about it.

While I understand that people say these things in an attempt to be accepting (“I’m so accepting that I don’t even want to know if you’re gay or straight”), they are actually being discriminatory. Nobody says that to straight people. If we can’t be out as gay or bi or trans or whatever we really are, then we likely cannot date openly or share this big part of ourselves with friends and family. It encourages people to stay closeted, feeling like they’re living a lie and experiencing huge mental stress. Saying there’s no reason for people to come out is like saying you don’t care about them, because you would extinguish a huge part of their identity. It’s selfish and wrong to expect sexual minorities to just shut up, put their head down, and go about life as if they were straight or cis het.

Basically, the rule of thumb should be this: are people letting the straight people do it? Marriage, dating openly, having sex, talking about their sexuality…we’re letting the straight people do it, so we should let gay and bi and pan and trans and all the people do it. And for goodness sake…when someone comes out to you, don’t push your insecurities onto them. Tell them you love them. Tell them they should be open and wild and free with their gayness. And if you’re feeling uncomfortable with all of it, talk to someone! There are like…500000000 online forums and information centers for you. We want you to be comfortable, too. Just not at our expense.

#actionsports


  I bought a hammock two weeks ago and FINALLY took it to the park with a friend today.

Why have I not been living in a hammock my entire life? Probably because I’m not homeless, but still. Hammocks are a freaking revelation.

A coworker of mine jokingly said hammocking is an action sport, which is why I brought a helmet along with me today.

Swing fast, die young. #actionsports.

cherry pop


Its my day off, so I’m laying on a blanket in the park reading a book and watching people play with their dogs. There’s a little breeze, the kind that barely glides across your skin, the kind that feels so soft it’s like a little kiss hello. My feet sit in the sun, the rest of me shaded by dark purple-red leaves, just a hint of sunlight filtering through. 

Sometimes the city can be so loud. People yell and cars backfire, and I live too close to the hospital to expect peace and quiet. But here, there’s nothing but the rustle of leaves, the clink of dog collars, the gentle whiz of bikes rolling past. I pull the stem off a cherry and hear a satisfying pop, something I’ve never noticed before but want to hear again, over and over, and I wish I could record it, post it here, remember it. 

I’m just pleased to be here. Happy to be alive, happy to have moved, happy I have the day to myself. Happy to hear the cherry pop.