Day two: Manifesting. Mourning. Masturbating. Repeat.

Because healing isn’t a straight line — it’s a wild loop of hope, grief, orgasms, and starting over with a little more glitter and a lot less shame each time. We don’t talk nearly enough about how real healing isn’t some Instagram-worthy, zen-like image of tranquility.

Nope-real healing looks like whispering desperate manifestations at sunrise, ugly-crying into your iced coffee by noon, and pulling yourself back together with nothing but sheer spite and lip gloss by dinner.

Prompt:

What cycles are you currently riding out in your healing journey — emotionally, sexually, spiritually?

Feel it. Touch it. Write about it. Heal like the hot mess masterpiece you are.

Emotionally, I’m a train-wreck wrapped in a half-ass rolled blunt, served with a side of existential dread. Perimenopause isn’t just knocking at my door any longer – she kicked it wide open, strutted in, and set fire to my sanity while sipping a martini made of my tears.

Bitch. 

And if that wasn’t enough, I fear my oldest son might genuinely stop speaking to me if he continues living under the same roof while being scrutinized under this hormonal dictatorship. Honestly, half the time he doesn’t want to be in the same room with me for fear I might snap.

I hate sensing his tension. Sometimes, I’m not sure what to do — I certainly don’t want him to feel like he’s walking on eggshells in the house, but if he…

JUST LISTENED AND WAS MINDFUL OF BASIC COMMON BULLSHIT, I WOULDN”T HAVE TO ACT LIKE A FUCKING PSYCHO!!!!!!

WOOOOOoooooooppphhhhhh…

…I digress. 

Let me be clear – I have great kids. Actually, they’re particularly great humans under ALL of the circumstances, and I don’t complain much about them. They all have great work ethics, mindsets, and bright fucking futures. But when it comes to common sense? Goddamn it, genetics truly screwed us all because apparently, I passed down my ‘what the actual fuck were you thinking?’ gene.

Great. 

Perhaps my frustration is heightened by newfound hyper-awareness, courtesy of my friend Adderall and plenty of manifestations and healing.  She’s great when she’s invited to the party, and a chaotic little devil when she crashes unannounced.

Before I became a chemically-enhanced version of myself, I blissfully ignored obvious red flags. Now, intuition – AKA my inner “Hoe-liness” – is dialed up to eleven, and that bitch is never wrong. 

Intuition is a thing. And when you start becoming aware and listening to your inner Hoe- you realize, Bitch is a god-damned genius.

The nausea I would once feel in a shitty situation was, in-fact, Her— screaming, ‘Pack your bags bitch and buck the fuck up out of there.’

Why I never listened to Her before is a complete and utter mind-fuck, because I probably could’ve been where I want to be in life, about fifteen fucking years ago.

I give a big FUCK YOU to the saying, “you live and you learn” because it can’t be closer to the truth.

Intuition segues nicely into spirituality – because intuition and spirituality are clearly twin flames, holding hands and skipping into the sunset of existential enlightenment.

My inner Hoe-liness, after all, feels suspiciously like my spiritual badass alter-ego, guiding me through life and rolling her eyes at my questionable choices.

Raised Catholic, I’ve evolved into some blend of mysticism, angels, spirit guides, and whatever else makes my soul vibrate higher.

Honestly, at this point, my guardian angels must be permanently face-palming, whispering, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, not again.”

Ah… and well, speaking of vibrations- let’s talk about sexuality. I’m confident enough to believe my partner isn’t complaining or lacking in that department. As a perimenopausal woman in her early forties, I’m having a hell of a time keeping my mind off of dick. 

I had a heart-to-heart with my physician recently and explained to her that there is one thing in life I refuse to give up. And that my friends are ORGASMS.

The fact that my anti-anxiety medication likes to numb my clitoris, isn’t a win in my book. I’d rather live with my anxiety and jerk off all day with some actual feeling in my genitals. Life is short, and orgasms are sacred. So here I am, prioritizing my  sexual sanity above all else because let’s face it, there are few joys in life as pure and uncomplicated as a mind-blowing orgasm. 

Welcome to my midlife crisis, Hoe-linesses.

It’s vibrational and hormonal – but never do we have to let these chaotic energies tear us apart. Instead, we can harness them – emotional storms, sexual awakenings, and spiritual revelations alike – to heal, to grow, and to empower ourselves.

By embracing our messiness, we become strong, more resilient, and more unapologetically ourselves. 

Let your emotions guide you, your sexuality liberate you, and your spirituality ground you.

Manifest. Mourn. Masturbate. Repeat.