My eyes peer through sleep-pretend lids. One of my older brothers enters our room after using a screwdriver to unhinge the chain lock. Without a sound, he walks over to my older sister. I cannot see his face or the expression on it. After observing her, he extends his right arm placing it on her. He pauses. He lifts her shirt from at her waist, pulling it up slow. She’s facing the wall, quiet and serene, away from him and me. First her bra and then her breast, or was it already just her breasts without a bra? Perhaps I blinked or closed my eyes too long. Bra or not, he’s touching her skin. I wish for blindness. I keep watch as best as I could, as I had promised my sister I would. I watch paralyzed that I might be next, that his hands may be on their way to touching me at any moment. 

My sister lies motionless, as if really asleep, dreaming a good dream.

He does not come to me. Not that time. I’m not sure if he ever did, if he touched me before that day, while I slept. Did I wake up with a bare chest once or twice? I cannot be sure. I felt so a few times. Maybe I disbelieved it. Was it just the one older brother or both? Maybe my sister knows. 

After that day, we barricaded our door every night and every time when we took naps until the day we each moved out. Stacks of old thick discarded books always stood behind the door like a line of soldiers. 

I don’t know if my sister told Mama before or after the conscious slumber, but I remember her sitting and saying, barricading our door was necessary.

~~~

The night he took my virginity, I went to sleep with a throbbing in my cunt. He forced himself on. He forced himself in. He wanted me, not just physically but as his wife -it was how he marked his territory. Mama’s presence, on the adjacent couch, didn’t help, it didn’t stop him from his actions. She fell asleep while on guard. 

The night he took my virginity, I knew I had to marry him. It only takes one time, they said in sex education, just one time and you could get pregnant. By the time I eloped with him, it had been more than once. Save face. Save face. Save face.

Suppose I had screamed that night. Suppose I kicked him in the shin, or where his penis swelled. Suppose my mother didn’t fall asleep. Suppose I was not attractive to him. I might still be single. I might be married to someone else. 

~~~

We don’t kiss or hold hands in public. In bed, I’m just a sack collecting semen. Orgasms occur once in a while, when I’ve been deprived long enough. When it happens, I am reminded of what isn’t supposed to happen.  

When done, we wipe ourselves with a soft cotton dress. 

A few months ago, I yawned while he was inside of me. He stopped and it didn’t matter. I don’t remember the last time we had sex. I know that it happened but the details escape me. It could have been a month ago or two months ago. Ninety percent of the time, I don’t experience an orgasm. Sex with him is sometimes as casual as tying my shoes. I know there could be more, it could be better. My first orgasm happened without anticipation years into our sexual relationship. 

He rolls over when done; his spine to me, his arms and legs away from me, his heart and mind somewhere else. Almost immediately he seems to sleep. I sometimes cried. I used to cuddle his back, touch his skin with the tips of my fingers and lean my cheek onto his shoulder when my face streaked with tears, hoping he’d turn around and comfort me in some way.

Sometimes when I climax, I listen to my body and try to understand how it happens, this way I can invoke it myself. I’m sure there are more ways than two to earn orgasms -yes, to me orgasms have to be earned. Like a prize. 

Random bouts of impotence have been a problem. Without permission, I seek Hmong herbal cures. Drink this tea I’d say handing him a coffee cup, it’s good for your blood. 

Maybe the fault belongs to me. I started an exercise regime. I set better health and more energy as a goal. I wanted to be me again, to have a career, a purpose, being more than just a student, being a woman. Not wearing make-up and gaining weight masked me, on purpose, to detour attention. Wearing a new dress, putting curls into my blonde-streaked hair, wearing gold eye shadow and lip gloss, I am me.

I look at myself in the mirror. Scars dot my belly where they made incisions to take out my abnormal left tube. In the shower, my scars disappear underneath the running water, where the water is comforting, where my hands are supposed to rub against my skin and body parts meant for sex. I am not a virgin, I’ve done it many times, to the same man, the only man, in the same way, in the same way, in the same way, in the same way. My fingers stop, my insides don’t. Desires. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t climax alone in the shower again.

My long damp hair rests on my pillow next to me, in the dark. My hips, highest in elevation, beg attention, beg for male hands, beg for movement; I cover it with my blanket. I hold myself, embracing my torso like a person wearing a straitjacket in a mental ward. 

I understand one night stands, affairs, aliases, whores, sex addicts. No, I have no idea, except yearning.

~~~

“You want to fight! I’ll let you throw the first punch!” He paces around between our room and the hallway, coming out and going back into our room. I hear his breathing and continued pacing. I sit at the desk chair facing the wall looking away from him, my back towards him. I did not park the car the way he wanted. We were at the library so that our nephew can return borrowed items in their drop box depository. 

I look at the newspaper in front of me and try to focus on it. Instead, I think to myself, how old is he? He reminds me of the middle school students I worked with, those trying to instigate unnecessary reactions. I hear him punch the wall. I do not engage because the situation escalated over something so small. How does it matter that I did not park the car the way he wanted? Our objective was to return the items to the library. Because I chose to park how I saw best as the driver, it made him upset. I did not make the decision to park the car the way I did to spite him or to show him that I did not respect him or value his opinion. I was not trying to be insubordinate. Why does he want to fight me? Am I not his partner, the love of his life? I can see and understand that it could be a fun loving poke where it leads to an intimate encounter. Two people in each other’s space in want of close physical contact, even if rough to begin but ends up passionate and erotic, when touch is not just lust or an adrenaline rush because of being suppressed so long but touch because it is soul appropriate after iterations of waiting and preparing, countless deaths and rebirths both metaphorical and 3D physical, a soul-tie interaction where two souls are meant to intertwine in divine timing.

I do not engage.

~~~

I have needs and if we are not intimate I could get a prostitute to fulfill my needs. Let me know if you are okay with this. These are not his exact words but it is what he meant. Almost ten years together, and on the cusp of Valentine’s Day, this is our discussion. It is not a surprise that we have come to this. We sleep in separate rooms. It has been like this for years. While I am not surprised, I also do not say yes or no. My response is that I need to think about it. In July, we separate. In August, I pack his belongings for him to pick up. 

~~~

“You are my mom and my dad. I don’t feel like a miracle around him.” 

“Your dad did not experience what I experienced, all of the losses and trials with not being able to have a child. He only experienced a portion. For some reason, your dad’s ways of expression, thinking and remembering are distorted. I believe it has to do with TBI but he was not truly willing to embark on that journey of self help and self discovery. His thinking and beliefs are different from mine. We are opposites of each other. What little in common we have synced and brought us together. Our union was only meant to be as is, to bring about you and to teach us lessons. I do not know how much your dad learned but I learned a lot. You are also learning.

“What I say about your dad, those are my thoughts. You are entitled to your own thoughts, beliefs and interactions with him. He is your dad.

“Remember, my parents did their best according to what they thought but a lot of screwed up things happened. I made decisions that were not good, too. Part of being human is to make mistakes. But, from those mistakes, learn from them. Grow and evolve. We are meant to evolve. 

“You are a gift and you have gifts. You do not need others to validate you. You do not need anyone to complete you. Any shitty thing that happens to you does not define you. Stop being so distracted. Find your balance and take care of yourself. Radiate love. Follow your intuition.” 

___

*Some parts of Fragments, 6 are from my thesis. You can find my complete theses on the CSU Sacramento online library in the public portal domain titled AUB LUB NTUJ (DOG’S WORLD).

It was close to midnight and I was already in bed when I was fetched out of bed. My dad was being sent to the ER. 

I don’t remember how much my little brother tried during this incident but I know my little brother tries his best. In knowing my dad, his preference is to have the most capable person help him, capable by his measures and for his benefit and comfort. 

I don’t remember if I got to the hospital at the same time or shortly after my dad but I remember having to call my dear sweet colleague. I left her a message to pull out my emergency lesson plans for my students for the following day. Bless her beautiful heart for letting me know the next morning that everything was set, she had helped to pull out the emergency plans for my sub and the students. We had recently switched to being able to request a sub over the phone using an automated system, instead of the paper requests, which is so much more convenient when you have only just found out that you cannot go in to work the following day in the middle of the night the night before. 

~~~

The nurse comes in and asks if my dad is hungry. My dad understands enough English and nods his head. She tells him she will bring him something to eat. She proceeds to check his temperature and blood pressure. Dad is willing and even seems to gravitate towards the nurse’s touch. The nurse notes his temperature and blood pressure and exits. A short time later she re-enters the room with a tray of covered breakfast items. Dad enjoys all of the food and saves the juice box. He drinks the water from the pitcher using a clear plastic cup.

~~~

The doctor comes in. Knowing my dad is not proficient in English, he speaks to me in advance so that we could convey the lab results.

“I don’t know how your father is still alive. These numbers do not make sense. I have never seen numbers like this in a living person. Somehow, your father is still functioning as he is. Lucky that he did come in and is getting treatment through his IV.” 

“Txiv, thaj maum no hais tias zoo rau qhov koj tuaj cuag kev pab sai. Lawv tso koj li ntshav mus kuaj no lawv hais tias koj cov ntshav nyob tsis zoo. Raws li nws paub thiab ntsuas no ib tug uas cov ntshav nyob li no yuav tsum tsis zoo lawm, nws tsis tau pom dua li no.”

“Lam hais xwb, kuv twb nyob kuv li no.”₁

“Txiv, qhov koj nyob zoo no yog vim lawv ntxig txoj yas rau koj sab npab thiab tso dej tso tshuaj rau koj, koj thiaj nyob zoo li tsis ua li cas.”₂

Dad’s eyes and mouth expression let me know that he heard me but did not want to hear me. His eyes try to convince his strength and not his vulnerability. 

“Your father’s kidneys are functioning at only 12%. At this stage he will be needing dialysis.”

“Txiv, thaj maum hais tias koj ob lub raum ua hauj lwm kaum ob paws xees lawm xwb koj yuav tau lim ntshav li niam thiab.”

Dad does not look at me or the doctor. 

The doctor leaves. I sit in the lone chair quiet and not wanting to read but holding the book. I am getting hungry again. I am thirsty, too. I had not eaten breakfast. I did not bring any water or food. Even if I did, it would not have been allowed. Only cafeteria food is allowed in the ICU. I have my debit card but I do not know where the cafeteria is. Sure, I could find the cafeteria but who would stay with dad and be his interpreter if the nurse or doctor came back? 

~~~

I did not sleep much at all last night. Instead I watched the clock. I closed my eyes and tried to rest but I did not sleep. The minutes passed by and my stomach stopped growling. I tried to read but I was only repeating the words in my head. Those same words on that page made no meaning no matter how much I tried to focus on them. When the story did not progress, I stopped trying. I don’t remember how many times I shifted my body’s weight to try to find a more comfortable position but that chair, with limited padding, no longer offered comfort.

~~~

The nurse walks in. “What would you like for lunch, Wayne?” Dad’s name is Wang Neng but they always say it as Wayne. Maybe there is a resemblance with John Wayne? Mom really likes John Wayne, amongst other American actors on American tv. I’ve never seen dad wear a cowboy hat though, a cap but not a cowboy hat.

“Koj hais rau nws hais tias nws nqa li cas los kuv noj li ntawv no.”

“Dad says he will eat whatever you bring for him.”

“I will have the salt and pepper packets on the side. He needs to watch his level of sodium intake.”

“Nurse hais tias nws nqa cov zaub mov tsis qab ntsev tab sis nws mam nqa ntsev thiab hwj txob thiab, yog koj yuav rau ntsev no ces kom rau me me xwb.”

The nurse re-enters with dad’s lunch tray, covered. The steam rising from him uncovering the plate. I don’t remember what it is, maybe some chicken and steamed vegetables. I remember there was a juice box. I remember he does not drink it. I remember him placing it next to the breakfast juice box.

My stomach does not growl but a juice box seems a good option. He does not offer either of them.

The nurse takes the empty tray away. She returns some time later to take more vitals from my dad. I watch dad’s posture and demeanor towards the nurse. Her touch seems angelic. Her touch seems to provide something his body is craving. It is not anything sexual at all, she is just getting his vitals but to my dad’s physical response it seems to relieve some hidden emotions or needs. It is not anything like she is his mother, that she is trying to nurture him but to him it seems he is a boy needing comfort. It seems he needs the touching as if to say that he is alive and still has feelings. 

~~~

Sometime around 4:00 PM, I received a call from a cousin. Cousin’s plan is to relieve me if I need it. I was neither hungry nor thirsty when I got home around 6:00 PM but my mother-in-law took one look at me and stated, “Nyab es, ua cas koj yuav daj ntseg ua luaj li os, qhov muag tho tag li lawm.”₃ 

___

Footnotes:

1. “It’s not true, I am fine as I am.”
2. “The reason why you are feeling fine is because they are giving you fluid and medication treatment through your IV.”
3. “Daughter-in-law, you look a fright, your eyes popping out.”

*Translations are not word for word but instead convey the meaning.

Kuv Niam

You say my name. You call me but you only want to hear my voice. You only want me to say hello. You cannot hold the phone very long. You do not tell me your stories anymore. You only want to hear my voice. You do not know what happened. You cannot see me. You cannot be here. You cannot say any more than hello to me either.

Kuv niam, you heard my voice when I said hello. Did you not hear the sadness in my voice? It is the sadness that you are not you anymore. It is the realization that you are a plastic egg filled with sweet memories, a shell waiting to be cracked open so that we can see what you are carrying.

Kuv niam, she disappeared without even getting to live. Like you, there was so much potential. She would have been like me and you but better. But she did not make it past 7 weeks.

The first time I miscarried, Kuv niam, you said that at my age at that time, you already had x number of children. Many of them died. You said that I should not cry because I did not

even see my child’s eyes like you had seen yours, those that died in your arms, not in your body. They went to sleep and never woke up, like just peacefully sleeping and not talking or singing or laughing. What hurt was that they were not breathing and colorful. Kuv niam, you were right, but there is something else, I am not you and I live in a time and country where technology and medical advances take place. Yet, I just miscarried again for the 4th confirmed time, an ectopic pregnancy. I lost the baby and my remaining fallopian tube.

Kuv niam, what would you have done and how far could you have gone if your mother did not commit suicide when you were a child, if you were able to get an education, or if you had married the one that you loved? What would you have done if you were taught that it is okay to speak your mind and that you have choices? What would you ask for, instead of money, if money is not an issue to you and dad? How many children would you have really had if none of them died and your perceived value is not placed on how many children you have? According to your stories, I gather things would be different. This is a conversation that cannot happen because of how you grew up, how you were treated, and because of how much tolerance you had to sustain to make others happy. Even when you were still strong and able to do things for yourself, you couldn’t hear what I was trying to say. Money is not happiness. Children do not define us or our success. Men do not complete women nor vice versa. 

There is some comfort in knowing that even if you could be here, even if in your most sane and young self, you would not be able to help me much. I somehow already know what you would

say if you could. I can hear you comparing me to you. I could hear you telling me about some other female who is doing well because they are expecting their number x child. My one boy is not enough. Would you feel sad for me, for me, or would you feel sad for me, for you? Why do you and dad place your sole happiness, or worth, in the success of your children. And if our success makes your worth then why were we not invested in better? Food and shelter is not all it takes. What about emotional regulation, values, critical thinking, ethics, etc..

I like your stories, they are intriguing, but your stories are a different kind of dialogue. My fond memories of you are of your kind wide-gummed-smile, the way you watch me with proud eyes when I do something you are proud of, and when you sit next to me in comfort knowing that I will listen to whatever is on your mind. 

What did brother do that made you want to hear my voice to calm and soothe you? I have always done my best for you, that feeling of comfort that I had always provided for you is what you miss, right? What did brother do or not do for you? Brother has always been privileged. You both fostered his hindrance for being independent. Whatever he did, you did not deserve it. Parenting is hard, especially when you have absent parents.

Kuv niam, you are not dead, but you are no longer living. My daughter is not alive, but she is with me. I imagine her often. I think about what I could say to her, how I would teach her, and what we could do together. I imagine that she would be her own hero.

~~~

Some say I look like my mom. According to my calculations, her age in this photo is around the same age as me now, 46.

*This was written a few days after “Eulalia Lus Zoo,” a previous entry/post from years ago.

Wants. Needs. Distractions. There are so many distractions.

If you have been distracted then you are likely not aware: There is a new world consciousness happening.

Pause for a moment.

There was a belief that the world is flat. At one point, dinosaurs also did not exist. We now have automobiles and airplanes. Utilizing solar energy strategically has become a thing (not just for farming/agriculture).

We are transitioning into a new era, The Age of Aquarius.

Spend some time in the natural world. Pause. How aware are you of your subconscious mind? There is power in knowing the self better, in deconstructing limiting beliefs. There is an energetic potential from within that is not being utilized in the ways that matter.

December 29, 2012

Dear Baby,

There is much to share with you. There is much to do and teach you.

I was once told, that having a child would be as slim as winning the lottery. I believed it. I believed it because for a long time, nothing would happen. I wouldn’t get pregnant.

I went to the doctors and they told me my body had issues, that my body had been deformed. They found problems in my body that they could tell me about but they could not tell with precision how or why they happened, those deformities. Bacterial infections. The human body doing what it does. I was not discouraged and tried in vitro-fertilization twice, spending lots of money only to think about how that money might have been used in a different way. Eventually I did get pregnant, three times without the aid of modern doctors and their interventions. But after all the sleepless nights of nightmares, ovulation kit and pregnancy test disappointments, miscarriages and self-worth pondering, over a period of more than 15 years, you are the first to come along this far.

I didn’t have to or want to cry when I first saw the image of you on the black and white screen in the ultrasound room, the tears just came. I saw and heard your heart beat and it was more powerful than I could have ever imagined. It was not what I had expected. It was unknown to me.

Until I first saw the image of you, I continued in disbelief. The beauty of the season’s first falling snow, as your father and I walked back to our car to drive home, added to the surreal feelings of motherhood. I returned home that day, sat at the kitchen table, cried, and cried, and cried. Our doctor said that you were doing well and congratulated us. The doctor was especially intrigued about my story and asked for copies of any records I had about my fertility history. I forwarded what I could to him.

~9 Weeks

Confirming words from the doctor and your image and your heartbeat gave me the realization of you. Worried thoughts inside of me became euphoric emotions of warmth, a new experience, a new reality.

It used to be that I would attend baby showers and try to not think about having my own. It seemed impossible and was better if not thought about. I would buy baby gifts for people and want some for me. I would buy an outfit or two, some toys, or a blanket, with all of their cuteness, and then give the items away later. What did I need those items for? All four harvested and transferred embryos did not latch on, they did not survive. The three pregnancies miscarried. They were all taken, for reasons that I do not know.

It used to be that I would have baby names ready for a budding baby, but the opportunity to use any would be lost. Each time around with each pregnancy, I would have new names prepared. They are all just memories now, the names and could have been babies.

It used to be that I would wonder if that day would come, if I would ever have a child of my own. For some people, there is no hurry. Having a baby can come to them as easy as preparing or ordering a meal. For some people, birth control pills are taken religiously because they have had one too many children. For some people, a child is not a part of any dream. In the beginning, I was not in a hurry. But after a while, I became curious when pregnancy was not happening and contraceptives were not being used. After extensive testing, I was told that my fallopian tubes were abnormal, that one of them had to be removed and that the best way to conceive was through in vitro-fertilization. And then I conceived, against the odds, after the two failed embryo transfers. But the babies didn’t make it, none of them. I had to learn to accept. I had to accept how things happened.

These days, at 17 weeks and progressing, I waddle a bit when I walk with my proud and prominent protruding belly. I am spotting and always have to line my panty with a guard but the doctor and nurses say it is nothing to worry about. They tell me that the spotting will go away eventually. I am always just at home, doing my best to protect you. If only all of my close friends and family can see me and how you are changing me, physically and mentally. If only my mother could properly see me.

These days, I listen and feel for your soft movements within me, little flutters that validate you even more. Just when I had accepted, at age 34, that I would only live to see bright beautiful children being raised by others, I am given the gift of you.

I cannot wait until June. I cannot wait to take you home. I cannot wait to hold you and watch you sleep. I cannot wait for your eyes to meet mine.

A journal entry from years ago, my son is 12 now.

His room had some paper on the floor around his study area. He was cutting words for an assignment, some first grade sight words for sorting. Somehow the words ended up on the floor. He had a small desk so maybe they fell off when he moved to get something from his backpack. Or, they might have fallen down without him knowing when he decided to move into the kitchen because of better lighting there. He probably didn’t realize the pieces of paper on the floor. Even if he did, he probably didn’t think it would be a problem.

He was wrong. I saw it in how he stood, his staring without blinking as his dad yelled at him for not picking up the pieces. It wasn’t just the small rectangular pieces of paper on the floor, there was also a notebook, a handout or two and some other school supplies. 

My son stood unable to move. He refrained from answering his dad’s loud questions, they were too loud even for me from where I stood watching through the archway from the kitchen.

It was not the kind of yelling for attention, the kind where it is just a raised voice. It was the kind that had no control. Red faced, heaving chest, and hands ready to rip someone’s head off.

“At some point, on our way to a new consciousness, we will have to leave the opposite bank, the split between the two mortal combatants somehow healed so that we are on both shores at once and, at once, see through serpent and eagle eyes. Or perhaps we will decide to disengage from the dominant culture, write it off altogether as a lost cause, and cross the border into a wholly new and separate territory. Or we might go another route. The possibilities are numerous once we decide to act and not react.” -Gloria Anzaldua, Borderlands: La Frontera

My dad was a yeller. He seemed to always be in some kind of mood. There were some times when he was content. He even smiled when he played cards with mom. I remember us playing as a family, too, not all of us but some of us would play cards with mom and dad. It did not matter for me who was winning. I liked seeing my parents enjoying each other’s presence. I especially liked seeing my dad content. He would be relaxed and in a good mood. At that time though, I did not know why I enjoyed those moments.

My dad yelled at me though not as often as he did to my siblings. My brothers and both of my sisters got more yelled at than me. I was not rebellious. I also was one to not speak much. I might have been least yelled at as a kid but it set me up for being disowned the most as an adult by my dad.

Our defaults were our faults. It was a Hmong way to learn through observation. You watch and you learn by practicing. Either dad was not a very good teacher or we were not good students because we were all disappointments to him. At one point, dad told mom that if us girls did not turn out right, it was her fault. Like we were being baked in an oven, if we didn’t come out fluffy enough or moist enough or rich enough or pretty enough, our imperfections were not his fault. The boys’ imperfections would be his fault. My father took pride in his boys. Both of my parents treated them better than they treated us girls. When mom and dad died, us girls received no inheritance.

~~~

*Below is an excerpt from my MA theses:

At age 16, I was the last to get home but the first to clean. She’s pregnant, you’re

not, you do it.

Weekday mornings, at 4 AM I made breakfast, packed lunches and finished

homework to be at school by 7:30. After school, I tutored children for 1.5 hours. The

dishes, pots and pans, counters and floors, they usually waited for me. Once-in-a-while

maggot-rice were swept off the floor, too. Weekend mornings I reported to work at 5

AM, helped to open a restaurant for minimum wage.

One day, I tried voicing an opinion. We ended inside our bedroom, the smaller of

the two in that apartment. You do as you are told. He’d already broken the lamp; there

was nothing else to break because he needed the alarm. He swung at me.

Stupid or not, I cleaned.

The next time, he hit me in public, in a parking lot. We had been looking for our

missing nephew at our local New Year festival. Two children were with me from the split

for the search, one at each side. I held their hands, a boy and a girl. Or was it two girls?

The missing nephew found, the search called off, the two children and I reached

the car. Where have you been? Showing off your cunt? His arm was quicker than his

questioning. The two children, in awe at his rage did not hesitate to get into the back seat

of the car. People saw, people including his brother, sister-in-law and the two children. It

didn’t matter.

~~~

*You can find my complete theses on the CSU Sacramento online library in the public portal domain titled AUB LUB NTUJ (DOG’S WORLD).

*All photos are mine in this blog and in all my blog posts. Any music shared via YouTube belongs to the artist, I do not own rights to the music. Please respect and give credit to the artists where credit is due.

If you are on Twitter/X, you can ask Grok to make an animated version of you. They are hilarious and range from interesting to not-even-close, although I do like the one where I look like a Sailor Moon character. My son likes the Lego version.

Somehow, in February and March of 2025, my nature photography on Twitter/X were getting over millions of views. Meanwhile on Facebook, my fitness posts and data stats were getting its usual 1-3 likes, maybe 5. I don’t post for likes but I am sure they get glossed over. Seldom does anyone care about health maintenance until it is too late or some other or-else situation arises. On Instagram, I had not posted anything in years. I have had to log in but primarily to see what the Reiki community is like there.

My followers on Twitter/X continue to grow. I get DMs to which I usually do not respond to anymore. At first I did. I would follow some folks back and I would get a DM, “How long have you been a fan of me?” Excuse me but you followed me first.

I have only met a few Twitter/X folks. I interact daily, 99.9% not via DM. I have seen folks come and go in a span of about 8 months. Some return after a period of breaks or if algorithm shows them in my feed depending on how active they are and or if they still engage with my posts. I like sharing my photography there with many talented others at a global scale. I have been called Lady of the Lake or Fungi Queen. I post my fitness posts, too. I am consistent and glad to know that there are others alike who inspire me with their active journeys.

On Facebook it is different because the majority are actual family, friends and colleagues or acquaintances, folks that I knew at some point in my 3D human experience. Some have also become inactive. Many do not interact with my posts.

Whatever the platform, it does not really matter, it all seems shallow. Most people are cordial. Some are genuine. There is no real social media etiquette. On Facebook, there is an option to react. Someone can react out of care and concern but not ask why or check in via a phone call or a text. Someone posts some good or exciting news or actually has a valid response and another person or the person who posted the original post reacts with care and concern. How does this promote sincere engagement online and offline, as if the mental health crisis is not already an issue? My son likes to have multiple devices running at the same time. One for each ear hole and eye? Multitasking, dividing attention to detail, that is not my preference. I like noticing details. Tiny details matter, too. I am selective of who and what I give my attention to. And if I do not get back to someone as fast as they had wanted, it does not mean that I do not care. If I never respond to a DM, because I choose not to, it does not mean that I do not care about their feelings. I do not engage because I choose not to open up that kind of relationship. Boundaries are important. Maybe I should make it a thing to respond to DMs, “Thank you for your DM but I am not looking for a soulmate.” Which is less hurtful, to interact or not interact?

You are more than the labels that have been placed on to you. Your complexities and multiple dimensions make you unique in a human experience.

You have within you the ability to set yourself free.

Choose to believe. Choose love.

You are there, at the top of that hill. I have been waiting and wanting to see you there. That hill looks a bit dark but there is a winding road to get there. There is a way there that I had forgotten about. I was looking for that way to get there but I remember now. You are closer than I thought. There is a way. I saw the way there in a vision last night.

~~~

Re-member. You are a member, familiar. To re-member and re-see you has been a blessing.