Day 514.

Day 513.

Day 512.

Day 511.

Day 510.

Day 509.

Sometimes the sheer amount of shit and people and attachments that I know I need to let go of is so absolutely terrifying that I want to crawl into my bed and close my eyes and not come out for so long that the next time I do, the world is guaranteed to be drastically different.

Being with change, as it happens, slowly or suddenly or however it feels like doing its thing that day, is so excruciating sometimes.

Day 508.

Off to celebrate the last bit of the high homo holidays.

Day 507.

On Pride

I'm proud, this year, of Hanifeh, the young, Shia Muslim, Afghani woman whom I've never met, with the Sunni husband of whom her family does not approve and the three year old daughter named Dayana, and who lives on the 10th floor of my grandmother's apartment building in Toronto, and who has begun to help my Mamani bathe, as she has trouble stepping in and out of the tub on her own.

Day 506.

Day 505.

This is the first photo I have ever posted in which I am not looking directly at you.

It is the first day of summer and I am bleeding something fierce. I am in a lot of pain. Cramps, yes. But they are a physical manifestation of all the other stuff. Sometimes I think that's what they are, in general. For all women/people assigned female at birth/people with vaginas. A reminder, once a month, that the world is a hard place for you to be born into, a hard place for you to live in. And if there's even some little bit of pain from the assaults you have surely experienced daily just because of who you are that you are not letting yourself feel, here's a reminder. Feel it. Feel that pain.

Day 504.

No time to write because of all the editing.

Day 503.

Today's public sobbing happened like this:

I am leaving Berkeley Bowl with a shopping cart full of groceries and become annoyed to see a taxi parked behind my truck. I maneuver around it and am loading my purchases when the driver comes out of the cab and asks for my help in translating between him and his passenger. (How did he read me as Iranian? Even with his broken English, he has to have lived here in Berkeley for long enough to have seen a shitload of us, because unless it's a delighted white person telling me how much they love every Iranian they've ever met, most folks usually call me something like, "That Mexican girl with the funny name.") 

Day 502.

Day 501.

Today's stories brought to you by: exhaustion, and the overwhelming guilt brought on as a result of asking for help and allowing myself to be vulnerable.

1) no one is ever going to commit to me
2) no one is going to care about me if I'm not there every single time they need something
3) I am going to have this job forever
4) nobody sees that I am valuable
5) I'm going to die before I leave any kind of mark on the world.

You know. Just a little light Father's Day thinking for ya.

Day 500.

So profoundly fatigued.

Day 499.

This morning, I was to help a friend move. Before that could happen, she was hit by a car while riding her bicycle. I found her; I rode in her ambulance. Said, "I'm here," while the EMT shone lights in her face. She thought she was hallucinating my presence.

Day 498.

Day 497.

Poring over stories of displaced queers,
Resisting white heteropatriarchy,
Writing a letter of appreciation to my father that seemed to just pour straight out of my heart,
Picking up boxes that will contain the belongings of a piece of my heart as she moves away,
Doing stupid computer things that help my spiritual home function so it can help my little broken-winged baby bird of a community heal.

Just another day in the life of Mahfam.

Day 496.

Impermanence means, among other things, enjoying goodness while it is around and not getting too caught up in the end or the change or tomorrow or next month.

Day 495.

Impermanence means, among other things, enjoying goodness while it is around and not getting too caught up in the end or the change or tomorrow or next month.

Day 494.

Check out these puffy eyes!

(I don't know why this didn't post yesterday. But here it is. Blogger, you are weird sometimes.)

Day 493.

Day 492.

Day 2 of Session 2 of Somatics & Trauma. Lots of experiences. Nothing to say.

Day 491.

Day 490.

It is in fact my job to decolonize my own self. It is in fact my job to examine the ways I've been oppressed and the ways I participate in the oppression of others, and to attempt to heal from my trauma and the trauma I inflict on others, either directly or through being complicit in traumatic systems. It is in fact my job to be a better person to myself and a better person to others. It is in fact my job to be a better person.

Day 489.

Day 488.

My friend called me a hipster today. So I called him, "old."

Day 487.

Day 486.

Today's breakfast, set to the soundtrack of "The Love Below" by OutKast:

Iced coffee from Sweet Adeline with a splash of half and half and a splash of soy
A whole wheat tortilla with a couple slivers of organic monterey jack cheese melted onto it. A couple of mushrooms, a leaf of kale, some pinto beans, and part of a green onion stalk all sauteed together, and folded into the tortilla along with some fresh green onion, a dollop of organic whole milk yogurt, half of a small avocado, and some Valentina hot sauce.
A bowl of cherries. Please find above, the last of the breakfast dessert cherries.

Day 485.

Last year, on this day, I walked out of the side door of my old home and stepped into our small concrete yard in the morning, ready to go to work, and it was hailing. I began to cry and walked back inside, had to go find my partner at the time and have him tell me it was going to be okay.

I like marking the days like this. Next June 1st, I will look back and maybe not remember this day at all, or maybe remember it as the day I woke up and got on a conference call about Disability Justice, got canceled on by a friend, and hung out with another friend and talked about healing and intentional self-work and relationships while lounging by the Fairyland sign.

I look forward to these markers. I look forward to looking back and remembering, last year, such and such thing happened, not having anything to do with my ex, or my old home, or my old sadness, or the hail on the first day of June. I look forward to next year. I look forward to the days to come. I look forward.