cmshultz.com

Blood Cursed and Book Bound: A First Look

Cayse M. Shultz — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 03:01:12 GMT

Hello dearest of readers,

Remember a post or two ago I mentioned sharing details about my current WIP and then in true “me” style I dropped off the face of the earth?

Whelp.

Consider this my apology letter. Complete with a batch of newly baked Canva treats:

Blood Cursed and Book Bound: The Pitches

First and foremost, you can’t have a project without a founding concept. For Canary it was “what if the only people who can help you are the ones hunting you, and the only people who can hide you are the ones hurting you?” Polly Olly it was “what if Pollyanna got Alice-in-Wonderlanded after her accident and can’t leave until she glad games the jabberwocky?” For this book, things started a bit different.

Instead of my inspiration coming from a question, this one came from a series of images in my mind:

A small child is having her magic permanently dampened by the government—and as they complete the spell, she winks at me.
An editor is editing a spellbook and the book starts arguing with them and defending itself. Other books on the editor’s desk join in and debate the merits of the editors “corrections.”
Two fated faeborn are foretold to bring peace to the realm. Public pressure to fulfil the prophecy ends with them cursing each other as kids. They hate each other, are forced to work together as new graduates, and have to fake date…or something bad will happen.

The last one needed some work. But it tumbled around in my mind for a while. Then I saw someone in the literary world post about looking for a Cold War book set in a fantasy realm.

Everything snapped into place:

They were prophesized to be together and that their fated pairing would pull the realm out of the Cold War—instead she cursed him at age eight and they made each other’s lives a living hell. Everyone has given up on them, except the book that made the prophecy.

This obviously isn’t a pitch. It’s barely coherent. So, after writing the first half of the first draft, I revisited my inspiration to make myself some proper guides:

Two newly graduated teens are desperate to escape each other—and the childhood legacy that marked them as a fated pair meant to end a magical Cold War, which they botched by becoming blood-cursed enemies instead.
When they’re both hired as interns at an agency that collects and corrects tampered spellbooks, they uncover a hidden message in the edits: someone is trying to turn the Cold War hot—and making sure their prophecy failed was the first step.

Which, with the magic of my brilliant critique partners, became:

The Pitch Deck

Before I got my brain narrowed in enough to write the pitch, I had to set somethings in stone. And the best way for me to do that?

Canva. Naturally.

Bonus Content: The Set Back

Everything above has recently been shared publicly on social media. But. Since you all are my very special, dearest of readers, you get to have extra bonus content.

Am I trying to buy back your love for having postponed Polly Olly Oxen Free for longer than promised? Maybe. Okay, yes. But in my defense the “longer than promised” wasn’t entirely in my control:

That’s right folx, I got me a fancy new POTS diagnosis. Likely have had mild POTS since I got a bad case of chicken pox as a kid (based on my medical history) and then it took a steep turn for the worse in college when I was hospitalized for Mono. But those are stories for another time.

You are here for BCBB Bonus Content.

Bonus Content: The Supporting Cast

I have to say, this cast has been so fun to get to know and write. My favorite is Jaret, but Fredi comes in as a close second. I see spin off short stories in their future.

And that’s it!

That’s all I have for you at the moment. As you can see below, I am halfway through draft one. And although it isn’t a ton of progress, and it is stalling the next episodes of POOF, I’m still getting words on the page as promised. Considering that my body decided being upright is the devil incarnate for the last three months, it’s not too shabby.

Y’all just wait until I have all of my blood running back up to my brain again on a regular basis—I’ll be pumping out novels like nobody’s business.*

I wish you all the very best,

Cayse

*This is a figure of speech attached to hopeful bombastic blabbery. Don’t hold me to it, please and thank you

My Annual Over-Estimation of Capacity

Cayse M. Shultz — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 17:00:31 GMT

January is not the month to seize your dreams

Contrary to centuries of social programming, it is the month of soul crushing dream destruction. Anyone who has ever made a New Year’s resolution knows this. But for me, it has always been a double whammy.

You see, my birthday is smack dab in the girthiest bit of the soul-crushery. Right on the zero-degree Capricorn/Aquarius cusp. Oh, I know. All you astrology peeps are clasping your pearls in shock. My stars scream of soul-crushing, disciplined, chaos.

And yet every freaking December 31st, I get it into my head that this year will be different.

And I get so close y’all.

I really do.

Things start off smooth as butter. But that is almost always because I’m still in the post-holiday dissociative fog and haven’t hit my crash point yet. Or, if I have, I haven’t hit my second one yet after having crashed and rallied around Christmas.

This year’s over-commit? Telling you all that I was totes gonna be done with draft one of Blood Cursed and Book Bound by the end of January.

So cute. So hopeful. So blatantly, willfully naive.

To my credit, I did give you all a “no promises,” warning:

What happened you ask?

Hh-well!

Let me ask you something, first.

Did you know that all of your sinuses can get inflamed at the same time?

Yeah, me neither. Apparently, it’s called “pansinusitis.” And when it gets infected, it’s called a “pansinus infection.” Wild right?

Did you also know that it pisses the hell out of the trigeminal nerve and triggers rolling migraines?

Ooh, ooh! And did you know that whilst you have it:

your kids can ALSO get sick with pneumonia and sinus infections
your husband will have to leave for a work trip for a week
the kids’ school will decide to throw some nasty surprise hoops at you while he is gone
then it will be Christmas break for the kids and you’ll have medication reactions to your antibiotics that make you anemic
and also, megatron dehydrated to the point of triggering a POTs-ish flair that doesn’t go away
because you actually are massively deficient in certain essential vitamins now
And you end up with something called early macrocytic anemia?

Yeah, me neither.

But apparently that is a thing.

…and since I am the “disciplined chaos cusp baby,” I got it all

Plus, I got a bonus, “what is going on with her?” colonoscopy for my birthday to make sure it wasn’t deep infiltrating endometriosis that was stopping me from absorbing nutrients. (It wasn’t).

But is any of that a good reason to not finish the first draft of BCBB like I promised I would?

Um… Imma say yes?

Hear me out.

I still wrote over 30k in an ugly draft (a.k.a., beefy synopsis + major scenes) and have crafted an Act 1 of 16.5k words based on that beefcake synopsis that I actually consider “readable first draft material,” and have already gotten feedback on.

Which isn’t bad. Especially considering the novel should land around 80k. And I exchanged critiques to get the feedback. And, you know, given EVERYTHING ELSE. (Note: snarky emphasis and rage is solely directed toward my inner critic, not at you my dearest of readers.)

Now, did I meet my stated goal? No.

Did my soul get crushed as per usual? Yes.

Does my inner critic hate both me and this public confession of failure article? Good Gods, yes.

But, that’s January. And as I have now unquestionably proven: January is not the month to seize your dreams. It’s the month to size-up your new year’s reality—and figure out how to seize your dreams anyway.

I’ll finish this draft, there is no question about that. It is just a matter of now fitting it in between my new B12 shot regimen, IEP meetings, blood draws, physical therapy sessions, and fun ENT intake appointments.

Just like any aspiring writer, I make it fit where I can.

After that, I’ll get to return to Polly Olly Oxen Free, The Copper Canary, Medium, pounceswithwolves, cmshultz.com, cheshire+jabberwocky, my normally scheduled existential ramblings, and that whole changing my pen name thing. Give or take another setback.

Like most of us, life likes to blindside me this time of year. It really doesn’t care that it is supposed to be a “new beginning” nor that it is “my special day,” when it comes around. I’ve known that for a depressingly long time. And even though I get it into my head that every year will be different, it isn’t like I am forgetting all of that. I just choose to go into each new year with hope—and a conscious denial of probability—because I know I can take the hit when it comes.

If I didn’t pretend that the hits weren’t coming, I’d never have gotten this far.

Change, change, change.

Cayse M. Shultz — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 22:16:35 GMT

Don’t Worry!

I am not going anywhere.
This blog is not going anywhere (unintentional self-burn lol… but, really).
I approach change only after months of agonizing, gut-curdling anxiety.
And only if the outcomes are in the best interest of all parties involved.

Which,[checks subscribers lists], has grown from a smattering of about thirty or so people spread across multipl platforms—plus three extremely patient in-house Shultz boys and a Border Shepsky of course—to a whopping 55 Substackers, 216 Twixters, 206 Blueskies, 122 Instagramers, and 65 Medium-ers, all since I started my focus on querying and blog growth in April 2025.

Not bad for nine months of intermittent work.

But.

When I’m in querying mode, I have more room for audience growth activities. This includes things like:

blogging
short form writing (poetry, short story, prose, lit journals)
writing community involvement
and social media/marketing

That is very rapidly not going to be the case as 2025 comes to an end. I’ve even crafted you some handy-dandy graphics to illustrate my point.

The Copper Canary: In Flux

The Copper Canary, or rather the entire Legacy of Dust series, is coming to the end of its first major trench run. Now, if you’ve been following me for a while, you might be thinking. “First trench run? Haven’t you been querying this thing for like ever?”

The answer to that is, yes. Yes, I have been querying this damn book forever. At least it feels that way. In reality, I had agent interest extremely early on in the process of writing the book. Like, not even a third of the way done with my first draft and I had an agent tell me to send it to them when I was done writing it. That was September 2017.

So, if you think my timeline of “querying” canary has been going on since then, it absolutely feels like it has been forever. But things are a bit more nuanced than that. It went something like this:

Sept 2017 - April 2018 - First Draft of Canary Complete
April 2018 - Realize that I have written an entire trilogy…poorly.
April 2018 - March 2019 - Finish second draft, somehow manage to increase the word count of the “first book” I had cut from the original draft to the length of two books. Decide maybe this is just gonna have to be an epic because…
March 2019 - September 2019 - Remodeled house and yard, sold house, and then move states while attempting to polish draft, cut words, and deal with increasing personal health issues and multiple surgeries.
September 2019 - September 2022 - ER visits, multiple operations, covid kindergarten, and then lots of line edits on actual physical paper. Oh, and crying. Lots of crying.
September 2022 - September 2023 - Revise book into standalone and prepare for querying with the help of beta readers, manuscript academy, and critique partners.
October 2023 - I begin to query Canary officially. I start with just a handful of people as I also get some agent feedback through Manuscript Academy. Three months later I have an agent revise and resubmit request on my birthday. One month after that my mom is put on hospice.
January 2024 - Agent interest. And… well. You’ll see below.

Basically, things got complicated.

Here’s a quick reminder of what Canary is via my QueryTracker stats and the last query letter copy I used.

As mentioned in the image, The Copper Canary, et al. isn’t something I am giving up on. It is in professional beta reading right now. I also still haven’t heard back from six agents as of the writing of this post. So, we’ll see what happens. But for now, I am shelving it.

If nothing happens with Canary, I can at least feel good that major agents Emily Van Beek and Natascha Morris both requested the full manuscript for it and that Maria Vicente was interested in it all those years ago. The boost that gave me has been unquestionably helpful in keeping me going over the chaos that has occurred over the last eight years. It also has brought me to a community of people that truly understand me, and given me hope that my journey doesn’t end just because it might need to be shelved.

The agents and agented authors I have met so far have recommended that focus on completing a shorter book as my debut since series are difficult to sell to publishers when it is an unknown author. Which, was originally why I had started this next project. But then it became something entirely its own.

Polly Olly Oxen Free

This book is being written and edited “live” on my Substack blog. It started off with an experiment to see how ChatGPT could handle being a writing coach for a neurodivergent writer if deliberately told NOT to generate text. The goal was to show the problems inherent with the technology while also showing the real benefits and how it can be used without cheapening the creative process in a way that would be comparable to using a writing coach or critique group. As expected, Chat’s performance had an expiration date, and now the series shows how I use a similar “back and forth” mental dynamic when writing in general, no chat needed, and how it helps keep my 2E AuDHD brain from quitting. ((THIS SERIES HAS BEEN DELETED DUE TO MISINTERPRETATION OF THE PROJECT’S GOAL AND PROCESS. FFS Y’ALL! I DO NOT USE AI WRITE!!)

Blood Cursed & Book Bound

This book. This book right here is the ONE.

It is the “standalone” debut that my writerly friends and agent-y friends have all encouraged me to get cracking on. Some have even pushed extremely hard for me to get going on it specifically because they can see a future for it.

Very exciting. Very nerve wracking.

So far though? It has been a blast to get back to “just writing.”

I forgot how quickly a book can come together when you aren’t “writing about writing” or having to show your work like I’m doing with Polly Olly. It also helps that this book has been sitting in my brain for a. long. long. time.

I’ve had this one outlined for over a year.

It even had a bland book cover mock-up and a horrendously long title previously:

I’m sure I’ll be gushing about it soon enough. I expect to have draft one done in the next month. Which means I will be in book writing mode. NOT query mode.

#amwriting Mode

What does book writing mode mean?

Well, you can pretty much take that bullet point list from the “Don’t Worry” section above and anticipate that for the next month or so all of it will drop down to about zero.

No blog posts, no social media, no poems, nada.

Any “free” time I have in between dealing with my chronic illnesses, dogcare side job, and main job of caring for three Shultz boys and the people and place we call home on this planet is all going to be reserved for writing Blood Cursed & Book Bound.

This also means that all those other projects you saw on that schmancy chart?

Those are going on hiatus for now, too.

It’s the chaotic writing cycle I live in. But it’s the only one that I’ve found that works for my brain: structured flexibility.

I will return to my normally scheduled chaos of “edit/querying mode” after I have finished BCBB’s first draft. So, don’t worry Polly Olly fans. I’m not leaving Pol hanging. For long.

The Pen Name

((UPDATE: THIS SECTION CAN BE LARGELY IGNORED AS MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS HAVE CONVINCED ME THAT I AM OVERTHINKING THIS))

You have undoubtedly noted by now that the one thing all of these glorious custom-crafted images have in common is that each features some version of an author name. It varies however. Sometimes I use CM Shultz, sometimes Cayse M. Shultz. More often lately, I use, Cayse M. Harum-Shultz.

Moving forward you are going to see a change. After much him-hawing around it, wrestling my demons, and weighing my options I have settled on the following pen name: Cayse Shale. ((SEE ABOVE UPDATE LOL))

Why?

Well, for a multitude of reasons. But here are the ones I’m willing to share:

My maiden and legal name are both tied to family. Although I intended that to be a way to honor them, it has quickly become apparent that it complicates matters a great deal. Don’t worry. Everyone is very supportive, but autonomy is often extremely important to neurodiverse individuals and I for one can completely understand and respect that.
I wrote under a pen name for a DECADE. There are downsides, sure, but the only thing I have done to “come out of my shell” is slap my actual name on top of the handles I had already developed under those pen names. If ever I was going to start using a pen name, now is the time.
I just want a buffer. As you can tell, I am not hiding the fact that I am using a pen name. I am lucky that I don’t need to. This just gives me one step of separation from being directly associated with my former and current last name.
My first name is already hard to spell. It was bad enough when my last name was “Hair-em”. I thought things would get better with the last name of “Sch-oltz.” Boy, was I wrong. I have to correct the spelling of it more often than I did for my maiden name. Did NOT see that coming when I took my vows. Spelling matters in publishing when it comes author names. Readers need to find you. My name has always been so crazy-pants that it is hard to NOT screw it up. Personally, I love this. But algorithmically and googling-ly, it isn’t ideal.

I want to keep my first name because that is the name most important to me when it comes to seeing it on anything I write. “Cayse” has always been more of my identity than my last names ever have been. Even my middle name has more resonance for me. But “Michelle” doesn’t work great as a last name.

There are personal reasons for why I picked “Shale.” Some of which I’m sure you can already guess. But the best one in my opinion is that I don’t have to change my signature lol. Someday I’m sure I’ll share the rest.

You’ll slowly start to see changes to the name of the website and logo sometime over the next couple of months. After I finish BCBB of course. :)

And that’s it!

That’s all the change I have in store for you this next year! Everything else stays the same. In so much as anything stays the same when you follow a 2E AuDHD author. Who has four blogs. And is holding multiple books in her mind while raising 2E kids and chasing dogs in her yard while her body tries to kill her.

((UPDATE: Y’ALL. IT DID. SHIT GOT REAL. MORE INFO TO COME))

So.

You know.

Keep the bar low, just in case.

;)

Happiest of Holiday Seasons to you all my dearest of readers!

Cayse

Just Don’t Care

Cayse M. Shultz — Wed, 05 Nov 2025 01:11:34 GMT

TW: overt and metaphorical representation of bullying, emotional abuse, cPTSD hyper-vigilance, and dissociation.

Photo by By Topo on Unsplash

Everyone is born with a switch.

Toggle it one way and you care.

Toggle the other and you don’t.

As a baby, this switch is still being wired and on occasion ends up with some glitches—all depending on the baby’s switch room environment experience.

Today, I happily and hastily present to you an impromptu substackorial production to explore this very concept.

In Just Don’t Care, you will be taken on a journey from the first seeds to the late stages of cPTSD; all through the eyes of our switch operator, Maggie. You will observe her heroic fight against the evil forces of chronic emotional abuse and devotional manipulations that have infiltrated her isolated switch room environment. All to better help you understand the fault logic of telling any cPTSD survivor, “just don’t care.”

We hope you and your own switchboards enjoy the show, and can successfully overlook our complete abandonment of proper conventions for stage direction, screenplay-ish formatical-standardry, and such as soon as we set off.

Let’s begin.

[orchestra vibrates to life, velvet curtains rise]

Act I:

A bare, windowless room is illuminated by a single sconce which is hung at the back wall and aimed down at a simple light switch. There are two doors being slowly rolled and they push to fit in the corners of the room by the back wall.

Right Door: A small child enters the room and closes the door behind her. She is six or seven years old, and skips care free to the center of the room. She turns to face the audience and yells, “hit it!”

The hamster dance song starts playing and she starts dance flossing while making hamster teeth faces.

The song stops at once as she cracks herself up. She opens the left door and another girl is standing there.

Once again our main character yells to the audience, “hit it!”

Hamster flossy teeth dance commences.

Girl in the door cracks up and starts doing it with her. Song ends and they high five.

[Girl in door]: You’re hilarious, Maggie!

Door closes, Maggie skips to the center of the room beaming.

She does a little happy dance and shouts to the ceiling “Hit it!”

But as soon as she starts her dance, the left door opens again. This time a crowd is on the other side.

They all start laughing and jeering.

Weirdo! Such a nerd! What is wrong with you? Ewww why are you acting like that? You’re gross!

Maggie stops and looks at the audience, the music stops. The jeering doesn’t.

Maggie’s friend rushes through the crowd and peels off the label above the switch on the wall. It says “the just don’t care about them switch.” She gives Maggie a hug and then dives back into the crowd.

Maggie beams and rushes over to the switch. Flips it. The door slams shut on the crowd.

The audience applauds and Maggie mimes waiting for them to say something. Everyone yells “hit it!”

Music starts. The stage starts to fade to black as Maggie is doing her hamster flossy dance. But stage turns back to bright as the right door opens and the music skids to a stop.

Maggie’s sister, Dottie: “What the hell are you doing Maggot?”

Maggie: Dancing?

Dottie: That was not dancing. Don’t ever do it again. I don’t want a spaz for a sister.

Maggie, frowning: Yeah, well?

Maggie runs back and flips the wall switch. Dottie stops the closing door with her palm, and shoves it back open.

Dottie: who, the hell do you think you are?

Maggie backs up: I, um, I just like the dance.

Dottie: More than me?

Maggie: No! No of course not!

Dottie: Seems like you must. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done that.

Maggie, crying now: No! I’m sorry! I’ll stop doing the dance. I don’t want to be a spaz. You’re right. It wasn’t dancing.

Dottie: Good. And just so you know? If you ever try that switch on this door again? I’ll rip it out of the wall.

Scene fades to black as Dottie slams the door.

Photo by Fairuz Naufal Zaki on Unsplash

Act II:

A bare, windowless room is illuminated by a single sconce which is hung at the back wall and aimed down at a simple light switch that is partially held to the wall with duct tape. There are two doors in the corners of the room by the back wall, the left one has cobwebs all over it, the one on the right is worn and cracked and hanging loose on its hinges. Around it are trip wires and makeshift DIY alarms you might see in some zombie movie. All of the wires are strung up and connect to a loft which is now being illuminated above the empty switch room. Up here, a teenage Maggie is painting with headphones on.

A line starts to tighten from underneath the loose door and sets off alarm bells in the switch room and the loft. Maggie tosses her brush down, chucks her headphones off, wipes off her makeup all while yanking on a rope that pulls the full alarm apparatus up and out of the switch room, then she drops from a rope ladder and hides it behind a false wall—that has a TON of obviously DIY builds behind it now.

She straightens her clothes and hair. Exaggerates her expressions a few times out into the audience and then settles on solemn non-expression and sits at the far left wall, cross legged, and staring at the floor. The lights flash on and off, and a cardboard cut out is being set in place by Maggie that looks exactly like she had just a moment before: crossed-leg and sitting there. She adjusts it and races into the false wall and up into the loft. She puts her headphones back on halfway, picks up her brush, and waits.

The right door bangs open. Dottie is standing in the doorway livid.

Dottie, glaring at cardboard Maggie : You just think you are so cool don’t you? Applying for art school?

Maggie, from the loft: No.

Dottie: Yeah? Well if you didn’t then you wouldn’t be applying. So obviously you just think you are better than everyone else. Is that it!?

Maggie, from the loft: No.

Dottie: Shut up! I don’t believe a word you say.

Maggie, putting her headphones on, goes back to painting.

We hear music while a muted Dottie starts raging at cardboard Maggie.

But then, Dottie seems to catch on. She rips cardboard Maggie in half and starts searching for Maggie. Dottie finds the hidden door. Pops up behind Maggie in the loft.

Scene fades to black when Maggie screams as Dottie rips off the headphones and the music stops.

Photo by Cord Allman on Unsplash

Act III:

A bare, windowless room is illuminated by a single sconce which is hung at the back wall and aimed down at a simple light switch that is held to the wall with what is a very obvious diy plaster job. There are two doors in the corners of the room by the back wall, the left one has been cleaned, no cobwebs, but a single alarm bell has been placed that looks to be connected to the one on the right and to an iron-barred room above. The one on the right has a state of the art security system and a large red button on a pillar that says “only press in emergencies”

A young man in his twenties enters from the left door holding a loose string in his hands that should have tripped the alarm on that door.

Him: Maggie, why is there a new alarm?

Maggie pops up from the barred loft, wild-eyed. She checks monitors that she drops down from the ceiling of the loft as Ben shuts the door and waits.

Maggie: Hey Ben, just give me a moment please. I got a text from my sister a few minutes ago.

Ben: I thought she didn’t have your number anymore.

Maggie: She doesn’t.

Ben: Then how did she text you?

Maggie: It’s… complicated.

Ben: I’m listening.

Maggie: You’ll call me crazy.

Ben: I don’t think you are crazy.

Maggie, sighing, presses a button and a metal elevator drops her back into the switch room.

She doesn’t walk to him. He keeps his distance. She sits at the front of the stage and stares at the floor.

Maggie: She posted something on social and tagged one of my friends in it that she barely knows. The message was directed at me though.

Ben: How do you know that.

Maggie, turns and glares at him.

Ben, lifts his hands and leans against the left door: Okay! We are operating under the assumption it was for you.

Maggie returns her gaze to the audience then the floor.

Maggie: She was bragging to my friend about how she was so proud of me and how she used to love practicing painting with me and remembers when she first taught me to blend colors with a finger paint set.

Ben: So?

Maggie: So?! It never happened!

Ben, sighing: Why do you care, though? You aren’t in contact with her anymore right?

Maggie, seething: But she is LYING about me!

Ben: Yes, but you don’t live with her anymore. You don’t have to care.

Maggie, frowning, looks at him pointedly.

Ben: oh. You tried that. And that’s why you were up there?

Maggie, curls arms around her knees and grunts: Yes. Stupid DIY switch always over-reacts and shunts me up there.

Ben: You know, you can use this one instead.

He points to the patched up one.

Ben: She doesn’t have control over you anymore. So why not flip the normal switch?

Maggie: Ha. Normal. Right. Look behind the switch.

Ben, leaning forward off the door: Behind it?

Maggie, sighing, gets up and walks back to the wall. This time she reaches for the top of the wall and rips the wallpaper away. A complicated network shows how there are still a ton of wires crossed behind the scenes between the switch on the wall and the diy switch network that connects to the right door and her loft with a whole family tree of who would be affected by who and how it would get back to her and in what way.

Maggie: It is never just flipping a switch for me.

…

[Slow fade to black as audience looks around asking each other if that is really all that this was. Comments of “how disappointing.” and “did it feel a bit overly specific and shallow to you?” and “trying too hard, yet not hard enough.” all float around the room. Metaphor is lost in analysis. The audience turns on the producer. Request a refund on their time. Unfortunately, the producer just doesn’t seem to care.]

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Pounce Goes to The Pool

Cayse M. Shultz — Tue, 09 Sep 2025 17:10:30 GMT

Hello lovely readers!

Over the last few months I’ve taken moments here and there to look over the “kid’s story” from “The Waiting Words.”

Over time, I edited it, storyboarded it, and then slapped some stock Canva images on to it. And…

Voila!

A book.

a.k.a., a peace offering while I finish Chapter 5 of Polly Olly Oxen Free 😬

Next time I will either just draw the dang thing by hand or find some sort of ethical way to have a robot do it—because good Lordy did that take forever! Fun though. And my kids loved it. So, who knows. Maybe Pounce will have a comeback sometime in the future.

I have one final parting message before I head off to comb through more plot holes in Polly Olly’s first half of the first act; from the wise words of Pounces themselves:

“Okee, Bye! Love yoooouuu!”

😉

Cayse

A Poet Soul Fall

Cayse M. Shultz — Sat, 07 Jun 2025 00:19:22 GMT

A NEW KIND OF EMPTY

RAW STINGS OF NOSTALGIA TEAR AT MY HEART. EMPTINESS SCREAMING FROM THE GROOVES AND GAPS IT RAKES.

THE KIND YOU FEEL BEFORE YOU CAN CONJURE ITS NAME.

BEFORE YOUR HEART ALLOWS YOU TO WITNESS THAT IS GONE IS SO MUCH LARGER THAN WHAT WAS RAKED OUT.

LARGER THAN YOU EVER LET YOURSELF SEE WHILE IT WAS THERE.

I MISS SOMEONE WHO ISN’T GONE.

I HAVE THE NOW THEM, BUT I ACHE FOR THE THEM THAT WAS “BACK THEN.”

I ACHE TO SEE THAT REALITY WHICH HAD SEEMED SO DISTANT FROM ME AT THE TIME.

TO LOOK TO THAT SPACE IN MY HEART AND SEE ITS FULL FORM BRIGHT AND ALIVE.

BUT RESURRECTION IS NOT WHAT THIS WORLD ALLOWS WHEN NOSTALGIA DOES SO WITH REGRET.

WE WERE ONE PATH, MY BOYS AND I. PASSIVE AS TIME RAN ALONG OUR SPINES AND BROKE OUR SOLIDARITY INTO THREE.

ONE FOR EACH OF US, WE WALKED UNKNOWING, UNTIL AT ONCE A GLARING LACK OF PATH APPEARED BELOW OUR FEET.

EACH OF OUR PATHS WERE HEADED IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION. NOT ONE COULD CARRY US ALL.

WE EACH TOOK TO OUR PATHS WITH HESITATION, MY YOUNGEST MORE SO THAN HIS BROTHER. BUT AS BOTH BOYS’ INCHED AWAY MORE FROM ME, THEY INCHED CLOSER TO EACH OTHER.

TODAY MY YOUNGEST STANDS ON THE HORIZON, WATCHING MY FIRST VEERING STEEPLY AWAY. HE DOES IT AWAY FROM THE BOTH OF US, BUT I KNOW FOR HIM IT WONT BE THE SAME.

I RUSH OFF MY PATH CROSS THE GREAT FIELD BUT PAUSE AS I WATCH MY YOUNGEST TURN. HE SHIFTS WITH A SMILE AND LOOKS AHEAD, AND SWIFTLY VEERS OFF TO DO THE SAME.

THE GAPS IN THE GROOVES ETCH DEEPER, MY HEART FEELS A HOLLOWING OUT. MY BOYS ARE GROWING AND WHAT FELT LIKE MY EVERYTHING, IS RELEASING

BIT BY BIT.

I AM DISSOLVING FROM WE

BACK TO ME.

AND NOTHING FEELS RIGHT ABOUT IT.

CAYSE M SHULTZ

The First Brologue: Ancient Smart Stuff

Cayse M. Shultz — Fri, 30 May 2025 23:48:40 GMT

Authors Note:
The purpose behind all Ancient Brologues are to provide a rough translation from the traditionally oral and inebriated communication stylings of ancient Fratbronese into a middle-ground written variant of modern American English: Bromish.
It is important to note that in both the oral and text translations, the terms “dude, bro, brah, man, my guy, bruh, broseph, and dude bro,” are all non-gendered and unrelated to ones ethnicity, race, or social class. Once you are a bro, you are, henceforth, always a bro. This was always true then as much as it has always been true in modern day times forever and always with no complications or problematic indications what-so-ever that this author should be sensitive to or aware of and could therefore be accused of infranchising upon or discrediting within this academic undertaking, for this is a work of science and science does not flinch from truth. And the truth, dear reader, is that this is how the people of that day and age did talk to each other and we must live with this knowledge and embrace it. As much as it may go against our sense of moral justice.
Of equal importance, as I’m sure you’ll agree, it should also be noted that “yo” and “wot” are frequently thrown around in dialogue and are seen as rhetorical exclamations despite not typically being pronounced or typed in exclamatory indicators. To which, you may rightly be thinking to yourself: wot. Which would be an excellent example of proper usage.
- Cayse,
Self-Appropriated Director & Head of Bromish-Research, 2025

Book I: The First Dude

And lo, Dude 1 spake unto Dude 2, saying:

stick fig ala Chat+Canva+Cayse

Dude 2:

I mean. I guess, I don’t? I wasn’t therewhen he learned this shit man.

Dude 3:

Hmm, so maybe we shouldn’t listen to you.

Dude 2:

Yeah, maybe not.

Thus doubt entered the circle. And they began to question the Shark Bro.

Book III: A Multiplication of Dudes

And lo, a fourth Dude appeared, saying: “I have an idea!”

Dude 3:

Who the fug are you?!

Dude 4:

I’m dude 4, brah. I am from over on the other side yonder, and we had a Dude 1, too!

Dude 2:

oh yeah?

Well, did YOUR Dude 1 get eaten by a shark while trying to teach every body his rules to living life?

Dude 3:

Yeah! We don’t care unless your Dude is shark eaten.

Dude 4:

Oh, well no.

He wasn’t shark eaten.

But he did make a whole fuckin’ field grow grapes with daily buckets of water AND taught us how to make somethingfrom them grapes that gets you shitfaced real good.

Then, bro like filled the buckets up with it. And gave it away. Fo free.

Dude 2:

wot

Dude 3:

no.

Your Dude Bro made wine out of water?

Dude 2:

That’s it. I’m dumping our Dude. Your guy sounds awesome.

Dude 3:

Right?

I want wine bro life, not shark bro life.

Dude 4:

Well, hold on now, shark bro still sounds interesting.

What did shark bro teach?

Book IV: The Shark Bro Manifesto

Dude 2 peered aft and forth, into the yonderith of hencewhere, looking noble and pondery for a proper while before daring to pronounce the subtle wisdom of Dude 1.

At long last Dude 2 gave a great knowing sigh and spoke in an octave reserved only for the most serious of matters and whales:

I need to believe in both dudes

Dude 2:

Is that a thing?

Dude 4:

Dude 3:

Yes

Dude 2:

Well shit, who’s right?

Then fell a second pondering of silence as the trio of dudes con-bro-sidered, this cobruhndrom.

Book V: Walks of Water

Dude 4, feeling torn betwixt wine and shark, spake unto the gathering:

Dude 4:

How about which ever one of us walks back out of the water without dying?

Dude 2:

Like a water walk?

Dude 4:

I was think more like a walk on the water.

Dude 3:

oh hey! I knew a guy who did that!

Silence befell the trio as Dude 3 stood triumphant.

Dude 2:

Dude 2:

I’m telling you this happened!

Dude 4:

What happened, yo?

Dude 3:

Ah, here we go.

In defiance of Dude 3’s despair, Dude 2 prepared for an encore, looking out yonder once more.

Book VI: Iron River Chaos

Dude 2, filled with the spirit of story and bolstered by the ears of an unknowing audience, began:

Dude 2:

‘Saright

Dude 3:

Um, no. Dude 2, no offense or nothing, but as a dude with non snippable appendages, I feel like it is unfair for you to say it is alright for us dudes with snippable appendages to be forced to be snipped.

Dude 2:

Fair enough.

Dude 3:

That seems sketch, brah.

Dude 2:

I’ve lost all interest in your dude.

Dude 4:

Oh what?

Like your dude just invited questions?

Dude 2:

Well… yes, sort of.

When he wasn’t being eaten by a shark.

Dude 3:

maybe we just need a new fucking dude, my guys.

Dude 5:

May I make a suggestion?

The bros then did gasp as a new Dude came forth from the shadows.

Book VII: The Dawning of a New Dude

Oh, how the bros didst lose their chill, crying out in one accord:

WHO TF ARE YOU?

Dude 5:

I am Dude 5, naturally.

Dude 2:

naturally.

Then, in perfect harmony Dude 5 and 3 spake:

third base.

Dude 3:

ooooh I like him. He stays.

Dude 2:

agreed.

Shrimp are delicious bro.

In unified agreement and solemn reverence for the seriousness of the topic at hand, Dude 2 and 3 spoke in chorus:

dude speaketh truths, yo.

Dude 4:

Fine.

Hand me a fistful.

Dude 5:

Dude, take the whole basket. Gotta eat it before it goes bad.

Dude 3:

lol like steals your wallet?

Dude 5:

Ha! Nah man, I can’t eat a whole basket o’shrimp on my own without my gut getting wrecked. But shrimpies be getting you mad sick if you leave it in the sun too long, you know how it goes.

Dudes 2, 3, & 4:

…

Dude 3:

Is this a metaphor my man?

But Dude 5 said nothing, and chewed.

Book VIII: The Fall of the Shrimp Eater

Whence the time came in which all curled crustacean treats would soon be chompethed, Dude 2 did burp headily and report:

Dude 2:

Yeah, I’m not following. Shrimps aren’t just laying around in the sun not gettin’ swallowed by something.

Dude 4:

They gettin’ swallowed by ME from here on out now, I tell you wut. Ain’t not shrimp-deniers or dick-clippers holding ME back no more.

Why you all lookin at me funny?

Why…

Dude 5:

Damn. That’s a shame. Perhaps it wasn’t the red river shrimp that did his Dude 1 in. Dude bro’s tribe must be hella allergic.

Dude 2:

WHAT THE FUCK BRO.

Dude 3:

With dejection appropriate for his betrayal, and a basket stinking of empty shrimp, Dude 5 walked backeth into the shadows.

Book IX: Book Bros 4 Life

Three bros, one swollen and curled like that which hast kicketh his own bucket, and two standing guard above who have just inexplicably driven off the bro responsible for this crustacean instigated demise.

And thus, the two dudes prepared for their journey, readying their donkey and scarves and what not, oils and such and so forth. What have you. They packed their shit and got set to bounce.

Book X: The Greatest Dude Bro of Them All

Thusly prepared for the trials ahead, the bros considered their fallen bro.

Dude 3:

So what are we gonna do when we get to bro’s house? Where we gonna bury him?

Dude 2:

Pssh. Brah. We gonna feed him to the shark yo.

Dude 3:

Oh. Yeah, aight that makes sense.

Dude 2:

Yo! Dude 2! Now we don’t need your baby plan brah!

Dude 4:

Actually, that idea ain’t half bad. But it’s gonna need a bit more pomp and circumstance.

When Quiet Breaks

Cayse M. Shultz — Fri, 23 May 2025 04:51:34 GMT

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

You chased and pulled,
Teased and poked.
Until I screamed so loud
your eardrum broke.


You stole and lied,
Blamed and abused.
Until that day you shoved,
But I didn’t budge, 
and your own hand got bruised.


You twisted truths,
Played trust to your ends.
And just as I thought
we might make amends,

you threw a kick—
which I caught with a palm.

I held you
at 
an 
odd 
angle.
While a crowd looked on.

I gave you a choice—
fight 
or sit, 

you wriggled and jerked,
and I didn’t loose my grip.

Finally,
you sat,
hard on the bench.

And thanks to the crowd,
I wasn’t bullied ever since.


This crowd was bigger,
And didn’t know like them..

But I was no longer
the only one suffering
your malicious intent.

And so, as you stood at that stage
playing martyrs for praise.
I shook in my seat,
fists cocked back in rage.

All three of you went,
Had stood solemn from the crowd,
put on quite the show,
got applause,
took a bow. 

And when you each left
and returned to your seat

I rose
from the back
of the darkest
auditorium seats.

I stomped down to the mic
shaking with fear,
Not from what I would say 
but from what they all
might hear.


The teachers watched
as I turned to the crowd,
a thousand pairs of eyes,
group B 
of our school’s
two-thousand-strong pride.

I did something then
I’d done countless times,
but never with such distilled anger
waiting with an acid sharp diatribe,

and never with the decision 
to address them all

Being
completely
And utterly
My
call.


I allowed myself to do it,
to sense them then.
Ground myself down,
Feel the soul of my kin.

Find their pain,
Sense their boredom,
frustration.

Taste their curiosity,
smell their disgust,
and hear disdains vibrations.

My heart caught,
an undercurrent,
familiar, hard, and 
always in range.

Our shared desperation for something,
God, for anything,
to
just
finally
change.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published



“I think it’s great,
That you all came down to say, 
you believe 
and want 
inclusion
today.

But.


It bears pointing out:
this is not the first
nor the second
Or fourth, 
eighth,
or thirteenth time,

that the district has sat us down
to feed us the, 
“stop being hateful, homophobic, ableist, racist, asshats”
plea line.


None
of
this
is
new.

neither the problems
not you.

Not even the message of love and acceptance
they try to convey.

But hey,

Those of you 
who came down before,
If you have 
Somehow
Truly been changed
over this last half a day?

How ‘bout you make it stick this time
instead of wiping it from your memory
as soon as you feel so inclined?

Maybe.
To start.
Don’t say that you care,
but then do
nothing
once you clique up 
out 
there.

Quit the gossip.
Quit the teasing. 
Stop with the 
passive 
aggressive
fights.

and for godssake,

stop.
back-stabbing.
everyone
who walks out of sight.

Can you give that a shot?
Is it too much to ask
That you try to care for
Longer than a bathroom hall pass?

How about going a whole month?
before one of you jokes 
about that 
“Hilarious”
hate-crime,
You heard about
from your folks?

We
are 
all 
tired 
of listening to this shit,
while you pretend to shift from it.


We slog through this crap,
do the political dance, 
for the benefit of our donors,
—your parents.
All so the district doesn’t 
embarrass Mr. Moneybags’
little offspring 
piss-ants.


You all know who you are.
I won’t mark you by name.
You do it yourselves
with your hateful little games.

Now,
last time, you’ll remember,
I gave you a choice,

This time, however,
I’m using my voice.

I’m throwing you a challenge.

And given that ‘performance’ we just saw 
I think it’s one you can manage,

Instead of playing the saint today,
and only in here,
Go act like you aren’t piss-ant bigots 
for the rest of the fucking year.”


A gasp and whoop went through the hall,
I looked to my friends, 
but the noise had not come from them at all, 

Their jaws were all slack 
and each looked …aggrieved? 
Not one of their expressions
looked impressed or pleased;

Just embarrassed.
Mortified. Almost… 
bereaved?

Irritated, then
that I’d need a new crew, 

I handed the mic back,
and up the stairs
I flew.


I went to my seat
ignoring the dramatic high-five attempts,
and all the false bravado
which just made my jaw clench.

Even pre-internet, I found karma farmers
vile horrid things.
Secondhand valor
just shame
with fake golden wings.


My friends let me scoot past
to my seat and sit down,
but all that was said was,
“you were… different.”
 With a frown.

I sighed
and said nothing, 
zoned out ‘til the end,

then snuck to the library,
to sit with my only
true friends.


I waited until no one was
left in the hall, 
no one to  give me weird looks
or yell
more dumbass
catcalls.

My mask had blown off,
my guy friends
were too stunned.

Until now, they’d just seen me
as a quiet recluse.
The reject all girl groups 
had shunned
and set loose.


They no longer saw
a helpless meek pet, 
they, and everyone else,
would see
an inferno,
just waiting
to be set.

And that,
in my experience,
no one
ever
wants
to protect.


The librarian caught me
before I could leave.
And looked at me slyly,
winking mischievously.


“I knew you had that in you,” 
she said,
“always did.”

“Never underestimate
the voice
that hides
in the quiet kid.”


I took that to heart, more than I knew.
And from that point forward,
the voice I’d hidden
grew.

It burns bridges
and builds them,
fights for clarity
and nuance.

It makes sure I don’t falter,
I risk and advance.

It got me stronger,
so I could rely on myself,
No need for protection
given by anyone else.

I keep my voice close,
bring it out only when I must.
It sits
and it waits,
collecting details,
but
never
rust.

I keep it sharp,
and wicked,
always ready to wail,

Because here’s the truth
of this quiet child’s tale—

My quiet is as alive,
Holding back armies
of truth in my head.

But.

Push me
too far
and

My quiet is dead.

The Waiting Words

Cayse M. Shultz — Sun, 11 May 2025 16:49:39 GMT

We were talking logistics, my father and I.

Where we would meet up (near that one antique mall she loved over by the fruit stand, at noon), what food was available at the house (not much these days since it is just him, I’d have to shop when we got there), if we were bringing our dog (nope, shedding gerbarian shepsky could shed at home with a house sitter, their cats…er, his cats? The cats could rest easy), and whether or not the boys would want to ride to the house with him after we met at our determined lunch spot (we’d have to see, it might be too hard for them to see him driving without her next to him).

The conversation was light and easy. A little awkward, sure, but mostly it felt like nothing. Which in hindsight should have been a clear sign that something was off. This was never something he and I talked about after all. Mom and I were the ones that discussed the details of my trips home. Beyond that, she also always insisted on cooking whenever we were there so I “would get a break.” The idea of me getting groceries so I could cook for everyone would have made her irrationally grumpy unless I disguised it as a gift.

As the conversation neared its end, my mind played the sound of my Mother’s voice, echoing the same words at the end of every one of those calls with her.

“Oooh, I’m so happy you guys are coming. I can’t wait!”

It isn’t new hearing a similar phrase coming from my Dad, but it wasn’t the same.

It just all felt… wrong.

The moment I hung up with him, it felt as if I’d cut a final physical thread connecting my heart to hers. One last emotional safety line that I had anchored myself to in order to stay afloat over this last year:

If I didn’t go home, if I just didn’t go back and see that the grass had grown over her grave, notice that the scent of her lotion in the sink had washed away, or see my children wander the house without her gathering them up in her arms, she wouldn’t have to be gone.

I could pretend she was still in the hospital. Still too tired to talk or text. Or even just in the other room while Dad caught me up on his side of things.

I could even go as far as convincing myself that it was my fault we hadn’t talked recently. It was me that wasn’t calling. I was too busy with the kids, after all, and she always understood. She would know that, even in my silence, I was sending her my love. She always said she felt it.

But now, there was no pretending, no way to delude myself into believing any of it was real. Plans were made, schedules confirmed, groceries discussed. The kids had school days off and I had our dog and house set up with a sitter.

All we had left to do was wait—and that is what broke me.

The Waiting

If you have ever lost someone to cancer, you will know what I mean when I say “the waiting” is right at the core of the credo: FUCK CANCER.

As I approach the day that marks one year since her death, I have slowly gone back to revisit my writing from that time. My previously well-managed mind was no longer functioning in the way it should during those five months and the five or so that followed them. Long emails stood in for my long-form essays. My notes app was splattered with my short quips and thought spirals, my desperate attempts to externalize my internal conversations, and draft after draft of texts.

So many unsent texts in the beginning.

Each showing exactly where my anxieties were, and what I was too worried to share with my friends or family. What would they hear if I said something the wrong way or god forbid at the wrong time?

At first glance my thoughts and even my fictions appear scattered and disconnected to what I was going through. But there is a consistent through line. Psychology calls it anticipatory grief, I call it, “the waiting.”

Many of the fictions are unfinished.

It isn’t uncommon for me to have unfinished drafts. I will often take set aside pieces and roll them into a new work. But I can’t bring myself to do that with these. In fact, I actually started writing this whole article under the title “the chaos pieces.” My intention was to go through each of the fictional pieces and show how they tied together.

But when I grouped them, I couldn’t do it. They aren’t meant to be joined together. Each stands on its own as a testament to the solitary staccato uncertainty of each moment that could have been her last.

Each individual piece exists in its unfinished form with a diary of texts, emails, and random notes that all tell the rest of the story but are scattered through my life in notebooks, laptops, phones, emails and journals—all creating a diorama that only shows the whole picture if you look at them from just the right angle where they all magically line up in a row.

That viewpoint can only be found from the aching chasm that was carved in my heart from 102 days spent both fearing and patiently waiting for this torture to our family and her to be over from the moment I woke up to the last second before I fell asleep.

I have selected only one of these through lines to share.

I feel it shows an honest journey, and one that I am comfortable sharing in that it still honors my family’s privacy.

The starting point is a letter I wrote with the intention to never send. It came about the night after we found out how severe it was this time. There are two fictional pieces and one poem in this through line. I have placed them chronologically as I believe it shows a glimpse of where my mind was at in processing the experience. Where a daughter’s brain goes as she watches her mother dying and is unable to do anything about it. Unable to ease the pain, unable to change the world, unable to rewrite the ending her family was tumbling toward.

3/6/2024

I don’t want to write this.

And I know you probably don’t want to read it.

But I think I need to work through this to feel it and I want you to know how I feel.

I wish I could hug you and you could hug me. I wish that I could take this all away. I have wished to take this all away forever. Since you first got cancer.

I begged God to please not take you.

To give ME your pain, your illness, your cancer, so that I could bear it, I could hurt, not you. I told him I couldn’t handle watching my dad and siblings lose you, but I think more than anything, I couldn’t stand the idea of me having to live through losing you.

It was a selfish wish. Don’t let her die, take me instead so I don’t have to feel the pain of her being gone.

I wish I could fix this. I wish that there was something that I could do to make you strong again. Give you my strength, give you hope. But I don’t know how. You are the one who has always given me strength and given me hope.

I love you.

I have always felt so blessed to have you as my mother.

The only reason I am still here today is because of you. Through my darkest times, when I was alone and it felt like the entire world wished for me to be gone, I have only stayed alive because I knew the pain that I would bring you if I left. I couldn’t bear to do that. Not to someone who has given me so much. You have kept me alive and it is cruel and unjust and evil that I cannot do anything to keep you alive.

I feel so much like a child. I can’t lose you yet. I’m not ready. I don’t know who I am without you.

My earliest memories are of you. All of them. None are separate from your presence, your smile, your furrowed brow as you tried to figure out what in the world I was saying. Your hug and dream sprinkles, your stories and laughter. Our long conversations and even our arguments where we both bared our souls. All of it. Every moment I have had with you in my life sits like a gem amongst my memories. They are the loadstones of my life. They give me strength and love and courage. They hold me together. And I know that will never go away. No matter where you are.

But I don’t want to lose you.

I know you have always wanted me to find happiness and peace within myself and with the world. And I am able to hope for that, see that in my future because you have taught me to believe that it will be.

I love you Momma. Now and forever and always. I love you with my whole heart with every fiber of my being and every cell in my body, all of which exists only because of YOU.

Please stay. Please. I need you here. I can’t do this without you. Please don’t give up Momma. Please.

We need you here so we can give back to you all that you have given to us. Please don’t leave us.

You are the glue of this family. Without you we are just people. With you we are whole.

Please, dear God don’t take my mother from me.

I did send it to her

But only after she got me to confess nearly all of it in person anyway. She knew I had been holding back my feelings. She always knew. And she waited in the way she always did, with that quiet knowing tension until I finally spilled the truth of what I felt.

In the tumble of confession I agreed to show her the second piece I was working on when I was done with it. When I got back home after that first visit to see her after the diagnosis. That first visit where she still tried to get up and make me tea and bring me a blanket until I growled at her to sit her cancer having ass down and she laughed until we both cried.

This next one should be familiar to some of you.

I wrote it and published and unpublished it more times than I can count over the last year and a half.

3/8/2024

I don’t know how to lose her.

This next piece changed drastically between the time I promised to send it to her and the time it was done. But so did everything we knew about her prognosis. In the end, it turned into a plea, a desperate request for her to please not look back and second guess herself, not find fault in her choices or the choices of her doctors, to please look forward with hope and find strength.

3/16/2024

Stop;

All the "shoulds" of every moment do nothing to change your now.

Lay aside the anguish of the "would" and "might."

The "you" of yesterday was no weaker than the "you" today.

No less informed. No less a fighter. No less affected by its wounds.

It chose what it needed to get to today.

And now; you are here.

Do not fall to presumptions of what could have been if only you had seen.

Sorrow, held tight in hindsight, only weakens the strength of what can now be done.

There are no assurances to claim, no promises to protect against the ills that will be birthed as we compare the new to the once known.

For the perfect path is not defined by one step or stride, one dodged boulder or sharp turn; the perfect path is the one that brings you to where you may once more choose

to step forth to live again.

You are never where you are meant to be; where you are now was yet to be formed.

Meaning is found in choice, not chance.

But it is no mistake that you are here, for this place was formed both for and with you.

The place where yesterday set you down, held you in love, and pressed you forward into

now as it bid you

Go.

By the time I sent it to her, I knew deep down that she couldn’t go through this fight again, it was too much this time.

But I couldn’t say that to her.

If she wanted to stay and fight, I wanted to be there by her side and cheer her on. I know that was true for all of us. And we could see she didn’t want to tell us she couldn’t do it anymore. We were all stuck waiting to see who could ignore reality the longest before we caved to the truth.

A brief warning before the next one: This was my brain on survival mode. A scream into a science fiction void.

3/18/24

Abundance

I wish I could start this tale with something quippy, sharp, or maybe mildly prophetic; but it seems to me that doing so would imply that I have a firm grip on the reality of what I am about to share—which is something I very much do not have. I don’t have a concrete interpretation of its meaning, nor a prediction of its significance; and I sure as hell don’t know what this all means when it comes to the future of our species and planet. Quite honestly, I’m less than confident of my ability to explain any of what has happened coherently let alone artistically. But here we are. You, a serendipitous journal peruser and me an isolated member of your species forced to “document my interpretation and emotional reaction” to my daily adventures with the They. Please take all that I share with a significant boatload of salt.

Alright. Disclaimer is now out of the way. All that is left is for me to apologize ahead of time for my inadequacies—I am sorry; and now we can begin.

Day 0:

Yes, day 0. Just roll with it.

So. The day before my …

abduction? Upload? I don’t fucking know. Before whatever the hell this is happened, I was fine. Well, not like fine-fine. But normal fine, middle-aged-American-living-through-a-pandemic and a government shutdown fine. Which I guess isn’t exactly fine in the general sense of the word, but it’s not like that stuff all happened over night.

Being in a slow-burn national catastrophe isn’t all that different from living in a slow-burn personal catastrophe. Everyone has them so it’s just normal to be struggling.

I mean, I guess I was probably struggling more than most people. So there is that. But that’s only because of family drama and some medical shit and crap like that. So I guess I was fine in an “atypical” but “still commo” sense.

Got it?

Probably not. But I’m moving on. This is supposed to be more for me than it is for you anyway…ow! Fuck..what?!

[communication disrupted; force quit; punishment administered; external initiation; 13:56:03]

Day 0 (Continued):

Jesus fuck. So apparently this journal recording thing is “not for my benefit.” And apparently those fuck faces are listening as I type it. Yes, I’m talking to you, you little creeper. What the hell do you guys want from me? If you think I’m…Aaaagggh!!!

[communication disrupted; force quit; punishment administered; external initiation; 14:39:47]

Day 0 (continued fucking again):

Ok. So ground rules have been fucking established. This isn’t for me.

4/6/24

Muffins for Mom

I was done getting the muffins ready and in the oven, and went back to sit down on the floor and snuggle her legs. She started petting my hair and said that I used to snuggle her like this all the time when I was little.

I laughed and said that it all came full circle then. She chuckled and then started talking about how “this isn’t ever goodbye, this is just goodbye for now.”

I started crying of course and we just sat and snuggled in tears until Dad came back to sit down. We tried to talk more about how things would be when she died, but they went back into a discussion about how she really was still doing fine and they were hopeful.

I carefully pointed out that they’d been doing this for over two months now, two years really, or 15 if we want to be honest, and a lot of the damage is just permanent and that means a low quality of life and all the continuation of this is eventually going to be too exhausting for both of them to continue. Mom pointedly agreed then said that she is already getting so tired of doing it and it is getting to be too exhausting to continue and it is too hard on everyone and too hard on her.

I got the muffins out of the oven as they continued to sit with the truth out in the open. More and more spilled out. We continued to talk and got to the discussion about when they want to stop seeing people. Mom said it would happen when she decides that she is going to stop getting blood transfusions to keep her stable. She doesn’t want visitors then. And that she would make that call whenever it looks like things aren’t improving or she decides it is time. Dad agreed and said that it was Mom’s call, but they do believe it is going to be soon.

This oddly lead to a conversation about verbal processing and empathy vs sympathy and well wishes etc. and how everyone is different. Mom said she really cherished everything that us kids had written to her over the years deeply and that she really appreciated what I had written her recently. I joked that that was good because I had run out of more to say (since she had joked earlier about most people not knowing what to say).

She laughed which felt like an accomplishment. I tried to explain how for me, I feel like there isn’t much to say anymore but that what I really wanted was to just be with her before she was gone, that I wanted connection. So, sitting and talking or doing something for her—it all makes me feel like I am able to still have connection to her while she is here. I thanked her for letting me make the muffins because that action felt like showing her how much I love her rather than just verbally saying it.

She sad-smiled and with sincerity said that all of us kids have always showed us our love for her and that it meant the world for us kids to be there yesterday. For us to come and stay and take care of her. For us being able to do that despite everything. That it meant so much to her and that she knows that it must have been hard because there was a lot not worked out beneath it all, so it meant even more that we did it.

I told her she was more important to all of us than any of that drama and that all the unfinished stuff can be resolved another time. We were silent for a while. Or rather, Dad and her talked about something that I’m not even aware of actually hearing while I sat silent with her. Me hugging her legs, her stroking my hair.

Eventually it became time to say goodbye. I said my thank yous and love yous and she said her thank yous and we hugged a long time.

She said, “It’s going to be all right. I’m so proud of you, you are such a good person and a good Mom.”

I laughed through my tears, and said if that was true it was only because of her. She started crying harder and said quietly, “thank you so much for saying that.”

She then said she loved me so much and that everything would be ok. That I’d always have her in my heart. That she wasn’t leaving us not really. She then hugged me even tighter and held me back so she could look me in the eyes and then gave me kisses on the cheeks. We hugged and cried some more and then Dad asked if she wanted to walk me out front. She said yes. He helped her to her walker, she let him, but only used him and her walker as much as she needed—no more.

She waved to me from the porch as I drove away. I made it three miles before I had to pull over.

It hurt so much to know that I would never see her again. I understood her choice.

But it hurt.

4/10/24

Pounce goes to the Pool

Pounce woke up to a sunny summer day

Hello?

It was the kind of day that made Pounce want to go swimming.

I mean, yeah, I guess so.

Pounce couldn’t wait to go to the pool!

Actually, you are right! I doooo want to go to the pool.

So Pounce left for the pool.

What? Hold up.

I said, Pounce left for the pool.

Hold on narrator person, I can’t leave yet!

Why not?

I just woke up!

Yes, we’ve covered that.

Yes, but—

Quite well if I do say so myself.

You did a nice job, but—

Thank you. I did. Now *cough*

“Pounce left for the poo—!”

“STOP!”

…

“Pounce cannot leave for the pool without getting dressed!”

Oh. That is a fair point.

I’m waiting.

Right, sorry. And so, Pounce got dressed for the pool.

There ya go.

Pounce put on their swimsuit, the rashguard, and their goggles and flippers.

Not the flippers.

And then Pounce took the flippers back off because…?”

I can’t ride my bike with flippers on.

Because it is unsafe to operate a vehicle while wearing rubber flippers on your feet. So Pounce put on their flip-flops instead and grabbed a towel and sunscreen.

Hey! Nice job. I would have forgotten about those.

Yes, thanks. Now! Pounce left for the…

Pounce facepalms

…the pool…

Pounce stares at the narrator and points at their stomach.

… but first they go and eat breakfast!

Pounce shakes head and crosses legs.

Oh! Yes, well. And also take care of some personal concerns in the bathroom. With the door closed?

YES!

With the door closed.

It is taking them a looong time

No it isn’t.

So long that they might not have time for breakfast before they go to the pool.

Why’s that? The pool is open all day.

Because they still have to go to school today even though it is a sunny summer day.

What! Today is a school day??? Why did you even suggest the pool!?

Because I didn’t want to make a book about you going to school. We already wrote that one.

Pinches nose.

What is wrong?

Nothing.

Come on.

No.

And then Pounce told the narrator what was wrong.

Glares. You got my hopes up! I was all excited about going to the pool. AND I’m hungry and now there isn’t even time for THAT because now I have to change into school clothes.

Oh. I see.

Next time, can we talk about these plans before you start having me try to do them?

Of course. Next time I will do that for sure.

Great. Now, can you help me get ready for school?

No.

I will do a montage.

😱

Pounce realized they had to go to school so they quickly packed some school clothes in their backpack with the towel and goggles and sunscreen (which they had put on in the bathroom)

Nice!

And then they ate a yummy breakfast that had all sorts of their favorite food and made them feel very satisfied but not too bloated to go swimming.

Haha!

They raced to the pool on their bike going faster than they had ever gone in their life!

Weeee!!!!

And when they arrived they realized that they had gone so fast that time had rewound itself! They had a whole hour to swim before they even had to get dressed for school.

Awesome.

Pounce was happy?

Looks at narrator and walks up to hug page.

Yes. Pounce was very happy.

After an hour of fun, Pounce got dressed for school.

“After showering!”

After showering of course. They were so happy that they had gotten up early to swim that day that they decided to do it again tomorrow.

No. No no. I decided to do it Saturday when I don’t have school.

Ah. Yes. That makes more sense. They decided that they would do this again on the weekend when they didn’t have to rely on narrator trickery to fit it in before school.

Smiles.

4/21/24

She called

Too weak to talk

Or to understand.

I heard her cough

heard her try

“tell the boys.

How much I

love.

So much.”

I heard a cough

Then a cry.

5/1/24

I feel her dying

I think it is starting now. It is 7:45pm. May 1st. For the last hour things have felt dissonant and hyper emotional. Something has shifted. In me or in her?

5/9/2024

Updates!

Dad called me to tell me about her being in significant decline and in pain and needing to go on a morphine drip. It was a hard update, but not unexpected. But then a couple hours later he texted me that he had a surprise for me and wanted to call. When I answered he said, “Here, one second.” And then held the phone to Mom’s listening device.

In between coughs, we had the following conversation:

Mom: Hi, honey!

Me: Oh my gosh! Hi! Oh, mom! Hi!

Mom: It’s so good to hear your voice.

Me: It’s so good to hear YOURS!

Me: I love you so much. You will always be with me.

Me: You will always be with me. I love you so so much, Momma.

Mom: [after a long bout of coughing] You are…I’ll see you soon.

Dad: She can’t say much more than that.

Me: that’s ok! Oh my gosh, thank you Dad. Thank you so much.

Dad: You’re welcome. She wanted to hear your voice one last time before she was put on morphine since she’ll mostly be sleeping now until…until she goes.

I then thanked him again but I was bawling so he let me go.

5/11/2024

The Last Mother’s Day Message

Hi Momma,

There is one thing that I don’t believe I have said and I think it is something you need to hear.

I will be ok. We will be ok. All of us will be ok.

Because you have shown us how to be.

You have lived in love, shown us how to inhabit it, exude it, and find it in every moment and carry it forward.

And we always will.

Because we will always carry you in our heart, mind, and soul.

I love you so much Momma. I feel so blessed to have lived in your light.

I love you, we love you, and I will see you soon, in the garden of love you have grown in my heart ❤️

Your Cayse

5/21/2024

Mom passed last night around 10pm. Two days after her 64th birthday. I’m not really able to talk about it yet. But my heart needed you to know.

They’ve already posted her eulogy.

The reason I wasn’t able to talk.

The cruelest part of ‘the waiting’ isn’t the waiting itself. It’s what comes after. This is the reason I couldn’t bring myself to talk about her death or process her death for so long.

After 102 days a large part of me was begging for it to be over, wishing for it to just be over. And when that moment came, a wave of relief washed over me at the same time that the gaping ache of loss ripped through my heart. The disgust and guilt that came with it was palpable and all-consuming.

It created its own layer of complexity to grieving her death. I had to process and grieve the experience of what we all had gone through before I could even truly grieve and process what life was like with her before the cancer came back.

I believe in a way that is what my brain was trying to do for me with the fictional pieces. In hindsight I don’t find it all that odd that in the middle of feeling like everyone was denying the truth I wrote Abundance, a fiction about someone being abducted and forced to give an account of reality in a way that some unseen overlord wishes them to if they want to avoid pain.

I also don’t find it all that odd that I wrote a children’s story, a genre she always loved to write, about a child who is gifted a chance to rewind time to do something they love after I saw her for the last time.

Nor do I find it surprising that only a few weeks later my mother tried to call out to me over the phone call I was on with my Dad to say she loved my boys even though she could barely speak and that I only recorded it in my journal myself in clipped sentences that eventually became that poem.

The fact that some of these pieces came in prose, some in epistolary narrative, and some in pure chaotic fiction is a perfect time capsule of how my neurodivergent brain works when forced to wait.

My hope is that this article will bring some level of comfort or camaraderie to those going through it or who have gone through it. I also hope to give a clearer picture to those who have never experienced it exactly what this process is like so that fewer people will approach someone living through this hell and say,

“I know the waiting is probably hard, but at least you can be thankful they are still here with you.”

Rainbow Dough-Balls of Failure

Cayse M. Shultz — Sun, 27 Apr 2025 23:51:06 GMT

Nostalgia, MomBlog Varietal, circa June 2015

There I was. Minding my own business, playing with the little munchkin, when I had the fantastic idea to do some developmental games with him.

Because that’s how we anal retentive moms do.

I opened my go-to hover-mom app: BabySparks. On today’s uber-excessive developmental schedule for my savvy 7 month old we are scheduled to “explore texture with baby-safe playdough!”

A lightbulb went off in my brain.

“I pinned something like that…”

Oh.

Hell.

Yes.

People. We get to use Pinterest.

Best Friday ever.

After my ovaries stopped their enthusiastic happy girl dance, I did a quick search.

As required by law, Pinterest threw me into the ever familiar land of high expectations and unachievable standards.

In an instant I went from “oh yay! I still have that play dough pinned!” To

“Pssh. Who needs that basic-bitch playdough that I originally pinned when I can have FABULOUS rainbow playdough!?

“I mean my God, look how cute. It’s a fucking rainbow-tacular caterpillar. I can teach the little nugget about colors and caterpillars and… OH MY GOD it’s pride month! I must do this for the people, because #LoveWins.”

And so I entered this pin-deavor with high hopes, as one usually does in this sort sleep-deprived and self-worth questioning stage of life.

Come, join me won’t you? Travel with me as we navigate the adventure of believing you know more than you do. Learn from my mistakes.

Imminent Failure Indicator #1: Didn’t have all of the ingredients.

Hmm, this recipe calls for applesauce. Don’t have applesauce… It says I can use water, but the other recipe said I could use any fresh fruit puree. Fresh fruit puree sounds like it would taste better, this is supposed to be edible, and it makes it seem like I did more… so fresh fruit puree it is!

[Looks in fridge]

Okay, well I have some V8 fusion and about 1/4 cup of apple and banana baby puree.

Well goddamnit, that is practically applesauce right there!

This is totally going to work.

Imminent Failure Indicator #2: Took a short cut on step two of the recipe.

“Use a kitchen aid to blend the dough”Pssh. Ain’t nobody got time for that. My hands will work just fine.

This is quite dry though… better add more V8.

Imminent Failure Indicator #3: Second improvisation.

Well, okay.

Damn…

Now it’s too sticky.

Better add more…

…

cornstarch?

Sure. Cornstarch.

[knead, knead, knead]

…

Okay. More cornstartch.

[knead, knead, knead]

…

Fine.

All the cornstarch and a dump of rice cereal.

[knead, knead, knead]

Imminent Failure Indicator #4: Let recipe sit, half done, on the counter for an hour.

Aww, baby is fussing.

[looks to unfinished dough, looks to wailing baby, looks back to unfinished dough]

Right.

I guess I’ll just leave this the way it is and come back to it after he is down for his nap.

[deep down knows her window for success has now closed, ignores this]

I can just cover it and put it in the fridge.

[Baby starts sabotagiarly screaming]

Nope. No time.

Imminent Failure Indicator #5: Realize a step was skipped back in the beginning. Improvise a third time.

Damn, that V8 fusion made it smell good but it looks kinda like cat puke… I will definitely have to add food coloring. Oh crap, I was supposed to add that before kneading it? Oh well, I can add it now, I just need gloves…

Gloves…

Meh. Recycled plastic sandwich baggies work. Look at me being all eco-friendly. I am the shit.

Imminent Failure Indicator #6: Losing steam for the project followed by immediate over-confidence that it will be awesome.

(Still kneading the coloring into the dough an hour later)

Good. Fucking. God. Why did I decide to do this. My hands look like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Can’t turn back now though.

Look baby! Mommy is making you playdough see? Look at the pretty colors! Did you know that it is pride month?

I rock at parenting.

Imminent Failure Indicator #7: Over-confidence turns to arrogance which turns to self-doubt.

There! Done! That’s a goddamned Pinterest win right there. Alright baby, are you ready for your tiny little mind to be blown by a rainbow caterpillar?

(Smooshes down the orange ball onto his high chair tray and shows him how to poke at it. Little man pokes, pokes, pokes, grabs and shoves the entire ball into his mouth.)

No no no! Oooookay… Let’s try this again. Look! We just explore the texture gently…

(He gently grabs ball, squishes between fingers, looks at mommy, shoves the whole thing in his mouth)

No no no! Ugh… what am I doing wrong?

(Looks at BabySparks for more instructions. Finds none. Googles baby playdough activities by age.)

Moment of Complete Failure: A realization that should have occurred before the project even started finally sinks in.

Google results show that baby isn’t ready for playdough until 15 months of age.

Little man is 7 months old. This playdough recipe is perishable after one week.

God. Dammit.

But hey, at least the dough turned out.

I wonder if I can make it into cookies… Better consult Pinterest.

The Daily Life of Successful Writers According to Writers Who Write Only About Becoming Successful Writers

Cayse M. Shultz — Thu, 10 Apr 2025 21:35:09 GMT

Follow these daily steps and soon you will have an instant readership of millions of devoted paying subscribers. Trust me, my method works.

Just please don’t pay attention to the fact that you are just now hearing about it in a targeted ad that I paid to promote.

1. Write Every. Damn. Day.

Write every single day even when you can’t think straight. Even when you can’t shit straight. Just write about anything. Something viral is bound to pop out eventually.

(2 hours)

2. Read Physical Books

Listen if you must, but you should know that we are all judging you and you should feel really really bad about yourself for listening to a book when you say you want to become a writer. Like, super bad. It totally doesn’t count. You are basically a poser.

(1 hour)

3. Optimize Your Time and SEO with a Free Spirit Mindset

Plan your writing schedule for tomorrow and optimize your SEO and social media presence based on seasons, analytics, and trends, while also not writing to market. This doesn’t need explanation. Obviously. Everyone knows how to do this and it isn’t contradictory at all.

(2 hours)

4. Be a Networking Ninja

Connect with other writers daily and actively engage and support your fellow word nerds. i.e. beta-reading swaps, editing trades, etc. This is crucial and the time spent meeting and discussing writing with these people will be more important to your writing career than anything else you could possibly do with your time to improve you writing.

(1.5 hours)

5. Experience Life

Get out and experience the world in a deep and meaningful way. Ideally this should be done in a foreign environment, so, travel abroad, hike, sit and eavesdrop on the bus, spy on families and couples at restaurants, do whatever it takes to get some juicy fodder for future dialogue.

(0.5 hours)

6. Don’t Burn the Midnight Oil

Sleep is more important than anything. No, it won’t have you dreaming up incredible, fully formed plotlines without any effort on your part. And no, ignore the fact that most writers have to give up some of their sleep to make any measurable progress on their writing. This doesn’t need to be the case for you. Because without a solid 9 hours a night, you aren’t going to craft a best-seller. You just aren’t. And no one is going to relate to a blogger if they don’t get 9 hours of sleep a night.

(7 hours)

7. One Word: Work Life Balance

You think Shakespeare was out there writing Hamlet with a dehydrated brain, weak calves, and unresolved childhood emotional wounds? Heck no. Keep your body, mind, and spirit in balance my friend and those golden words will flow from you like Ichor from a God’s flesh wound.

(0.5 hours)

8. Become an Expert in ALL. THE. THINGS. (And don’t you DARE ask for help)

There are ten definitions for Plot Summary and twenty for Synopsis. All of them are correct and also interchangeable until they aren’t. Your job is to figure out which agent and editor prefer which combination for which genre at what time and during which moon phase.

You should have a copy of your query, resume, bio, summary, pitch, byline, synopsis, et.al. customized to each combination. This shall take time to craft. Given that there are no shortcuts and use of AI helper bots is strictly verboten, you must begin this task now.

Alone.

By hand.

Because this is the way.

As such, it is better that you start hacking away at it now. Half an hour a day should be enough to get it done by the end of the decade.

(0.5 hours)

9. Have Money

Writing takes time and practice. And money, can’t forget that; it’s actually more than you’d think, too. What with still having to eat and all. You don’t make much at first. Well, you don’t make any at all. For like a LONG TIME. So, until you are making enough of it or at bare minimum you come into a large inheritance or marry a sugar honey, don’t quit that day job.

(8 Hours)

10. Stay On Top of Current Scamming Trends

This is EXTREMELY important. It is a fight you will battle daily. You don’t want to fall for the millions of misguided websites, ads, and blogs out there that claim to know how to write the best-seller or make the most money.

Why? Because they are just trying to sell you something. And it won’t even be good! It will just be tired, recycled advice that won’t actually help you achieve your goals or answer any of your questions. All they do is make you doubt yourself and make you feel like a failure.

What you really need is to learn from the mistakes of others, like me. And you know what, I care about you. I feel like we have really bonded over the last ten steps of this blog post, and I want to help you, unlike those other guys.

In fact, I care so much that I in the last two seconds I actually wrote everything down that I learned when it comes to who to trust and what resources are best so you don’t have to go look all of this up on your own. And oh look at that! A link is right here for you to click! Well, isn’t that strange… it says it will take you straight to Amazon where you can purchase my hard-won wisdom for a small monthly auto-renewing fee… wow, what a coincidence, huh?

Oh, and you should sign up for my hourly newsletter too.

And read it.

Or we aren’t friends. And you wouldn’t want me as your enemy.

(0.5 hours)

Total Daily Time Requirement to Become Successful: 23.5 Hours

There you have it!

As long as you can commit 23.5 hours of your day, 7 days a week, you too can become a successful writer.

Heck! With a whole 0.5 hours left in your day you’ll even have time to spend on family, hygiene, or other personal pursuits like getting dressed and eating! What are you waiting for? Go get started!

Note from the Author:
This is a parody piece.
I don’t believe this note from me is necessary, but I am writing it anyway.
This list was written in jest during a moment of frustration. It is a list of advice that is not intended to be taken literally in ANY WAY. So, please don’t.
Additionally, to those writers who write about how to become a successful writer, and actually provide helpful resources and actionable steps for their audience (like Kim Weiland for instance) this post is not about you in any way shape or form!
For the other kind of writer however, and you know who you are, I imagine you are telling yourself one thing: She is just jealous. And to that I say, yes. Yes. Sure. I wrote this because I am jealous of you. If I could do what you do, I probably would.
But I can’t. Because I have a soul. So, I pout about it and do this instead.
I hope the money you make from the opportunistic and wholly unhelpful content that you pump out to prey on the hopes and dreams of desperate artists is a comfort to you during my very warranted attack on your questionable life choices.

The Girl in the Burning Orchard

Cayse M. Shultz — Wed, 12 Feb 2025 05:15:56 GMT

Based on a True Story

I’m told that the scene is just as objectively funny as the quote; but not even a fake laugh can make it past the knot in my throat. It’s impossible while memories of a burning orchard fill my head.

I manage a sniff and a head nod in an effort to appease my roommates desire to “watch me watch it” for the first time. The three of them are huddled under pristine stadium blankets and sit scattered around our smokey living room’s beer-stained carpet.

I on the other hand, am sat stiff and on display; knees pulled into my chest while perched on a turned-wood kitchenette chair in the center of the room. Throw pillows and empties sit in the laps of the girls around me as they wait for my reaction.

We are watching Friday for my benefit after all.

They felt it was abhorrent that I had gone through my early teens without ever seeing the film. They claimed it was a rite of passage, and that I must embrace it before I could ever be seen as a legitimate American teen. No excuses.

My sniff was not the desired result.

A chorus of rolling eyes and groans rams into me as they all return their focus to the wall-sized flatscreen that glows in the hazy room.

The familiar gap between has grown to a chasm; not that they will ever see it, or feel it. But I always do. Every time they shake their heads at me, swig their seltzers, and relax in the comfort of watching struggles of those they believe to be their others play out on screen for what they believe to be for their benefit. As their ripple of laughter mixes with the sounds of scripted humor I make my escape.

Navigating the patchwork of empty DVD cases and chip bags, I avoid the looks of disappointment and mime a need for a new drink. The group appears to agree this is an acceptable reason for my exit. So, I step onto the landing and let the locked door close behind me. Still locked. I hope my lack of key is enough of an excuse for me to be gone long enough to breathe and be me for a while.

The late fall air kicks the scent of weedy cigarettes out of my lungs, but a knot of despair sticks in my throat as it goes. My eyes sting with tears as I hobble down the last paint-chipped steps of the wooden stairwell and lope to the cluster of dusty coolers. They are all still pooled at the edge of the common yard and have been all afternoon. A plastic graveyard of debauchery just sitting out in the sun. I wrap my fleece blanket around my waist and drop down to sit on the largest of the white herd.

Fumbling with both hands wrapped in the ends of my sweatshirt sleeves, and with one of them still holding my bottle of corona, I wrestle with a thick sun-cracked lip of a cooler lid and manage to pry it open. I’m proud that I’ve done so without exposing any bare skin to the night air.

I flop the lid back to hang from its remaining vinyl prop and rustle through the last of the warm cans that are all grouped in a damp pile at the back corner. I choose my next sacrificial bottle, plop it in my blanketed lap, and reach out to pour the remains of my hand-warmed seltzer into the cedar bark below the parched evergreen bushes that crowd the commons. It wasn’t water, but it was something.

“How very generous of you.”

I jump to my feet. The bottle drops from my lap with a solid thud and I turn to face the speaker. In that instant I lose the protective wrap of my fleece. An icy gust of wind that it should have shielded me from cuts straight through the worn holes of my favorite pair of sweats and completely ignores my threadbare concert tee as it billows up the bell of my extra-large hoodie.

“Still the queen of hand-me-down fashion I see.” The voice chuckles. It’s sound is mixed in my ears with the snapping pop of sapling branches breaking. “Even more than me.”

Correcting my gaze, I spot a shadow in the test orchards across the street. A figure is swinging their legs through the pruned branches that sit in the channel between each row of cherry trees, waiting to be burned.

The girl has her arms raised above her head in surrender to balance her barricaded path. Her eyes twinkle up at me between glances to the ground. She checks each step before hauling her legs over the next woody tangle of future firewood.

“Thanks?” I say as she hops over the last pile of pruning with a childlike swing from a low hanging branch.

She wipes her hands together and swipes them at her deep black jeans. Her faded pink zip-up is slightly smaller than the bright white remembrance tee underneath it. Dark hair is pulled half up and haloed with fly aways from the ridge of her hair band all the way down to the curling waves that tumble over her shoulders into the limp hood along her back.

Her brown eyes meet mine behind carefully barreled and pieced bangs, and she lets an enigmatic giggle roll between us. Skipping, she crosses the road and stops to lean against the awning of the stairwell, crossing her arms and letting a smirk spread to the crease of her smile.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

Her eyes stay on mine as she rolls her eyes, considers me a moment, and then saunters over to me and my plastic herd. She sweeps an arm into a cooler, twists off the caps of two micros as she knees it closed, and plops onto it in a straddle. She hands me the bottle that is not already raised to her lips.

“I know you.” She says, with a sigh that is neither sad nor satisfied, “You’ll remember me. Just give it a moment.”

I sit back down on my cooler, jerking and stretching the throw to cover my upper arms and death-grip the neck of my new beer. With a hard swallow I admit what I’ve known since I first heard it.

“I know your laugh.”

The giggle returns, this time with the bright shine of her eyes, which are more hazel than brown. They lock on mine as she scooches across the top of the cooler and reaches over to clink my bottle with hers.

“And I know yours.” She winks.

With her other hand, she retrieves the edge of a grit-covered beach blanket crumpled in the grass. She fluffs the dirt off and flicks it over our shoulders with an arced flourish. It wraps around me with a heavy scent of sunscreen and sea water. It covers us both more than it should, and its stiff weight blocks the next gust of wind to an unnerving degree. She gestures for me to make room on my cooler.

I scooch across the rough plastic, and we adjust the tarp-like fabric over our heads and shift my fleece throw to cover our legs. We each hold one edge of the blanket in at our center as we craddle our bottles to our chests.

She is warm, like the glow of sun through a window in an air-conditioned room. And as she lays her head against my shoulder, the lump in my throat returns.

“Are you going to drink that, sis? Or can I?” She elbows me and it hits me that I know this warmth. It isn’t the artificial buzz of heat that skates across your skin with an over-friendly gesture from a drunken, best-friend-for-the-night. This feels far more familiar. Genuine. Personal.

“I feel horrible.” I say, still staring at my drink. “I can’t remember your name.”

“It will come to you.”

“I feel I’ve known you for a long time though.”

“We are sisters. Remember? Just like me and her” She opens her wing of the blanket and taps her t-shirt with her bottle before wrapping us back up in warmth with a heavy, concerning shiver.

That shiver enters my heart and I turn to ice.

“I don’t want to remember.” I say, my words filling our small space in the thin energy of shared pain.

“Sometimes I don’t either.” I feel her weaken against me with the words and a cough of wildfire smoke rises from her heart and envelopes us both.

An ache spreads itself across my heart and grips at my throat and jaw in desperation. Tears fall in silent trails on both halves of the canvas shield that hugs us tight.

“Did it hurt?” My voice comes out choked. The words rake cold wire through my spine.

“Yes.” Her voice is soft, but steady, “But not the flames.”

“Your little brother?” I wipe a tear from the tip of my nose with the shoulder farthest from her. I turn back and take her bottle with mine, setting them both carefully onto the lid of the closest pod in our plastic caravan.

“He fell asleep first,” she nods, understanding my question, “coughing in the crook of my arm while I dragged us below the thick smoke to the door. It was locked.”

Her form was burning against mine now. We are a cocooned ember. I pull our cover tighter and we grip our hands together, fabric tied around tangled fingers.

Our wet cheeks set against shoulder and forehead. In united solidarity, we slide down to sit on the grass and lean against the strength of each other instead of the coven of plastic comfort circled all around us.

“They didn’t come.” The girl in her voice is younger now. More familiar. It says these words with a wet, choked, gasp. “We screamed for help, sis. They let that burning orchard erase us and they didn’t come.”

I ache at the words and pull her closer to me, tears flowing in hot waterfalls. I shake my head and shocks of pain stab the grinding bones of my neck.

“No.” I confess. “Not until you were already gone.”

She curls up her knees and is smaller now. Hunched against me in a tight ball, the smell of coconut conditioner fills my senses and I hold on to it. Wield it against the acrid sent of burnt flesh that saturates the dense smoke now filling our dark burrow.

I hug her closer, her limbs are like twigs, her spine a hacked up trunk, her head a frail cage of fading hope. Her skin flickers, green leaves caught on fire that smolder her clothes to ash and sear my cradling arms with stains of cherry and blood red.

“Why?” She asks, her voice a small scream from the center of her burning body.

“I don’t know.” I weep into her.

“But you do.” Her words lash out at me and gouge at my heart as I holder her tighter.

“I don’t want to know it.” I sob openly, clasping her rapidly shrinking soul to my heart and gathering her broken wing of our shelter into mine.

I tug her and the edges of our once shared comfort closer to my heart.

“That isn’t true.” She sobs. “Is it?”

“No!” The word roars out of me in agony but tremors in the air as a whisper, my hands shake as I hold her small shell of memory in the palms of my hands and cradle her against my forehead.

“Tell me,” Her voice pulses against my temples. Fainter now. “Sister, please?”

“They thought you were illegal.” The words are like vomit. I collapse in on myself. I strain my senses to feel her presence between my palms but find her gone. I bury my face into my knees and cling the fading hum of her remaining warmth within the folds of our haven to block out the empty world.

“I see,” her voice vibrates within me and with it I feel her fear, her heart, and her ache to be seen. “And so, our screams were illegal as well.”

“Yes,” I sob into my hands.

“Thank you, for remembering.”

“I don’t want you to be gone.”

“But I am, sis.”

The words hang in my heart, weighing me down and forcing me to raise my head and gulp harsh shards of cold air. The night numbs my senses with each breath. I pull myself to sit tall on the coarse plastic lid once more, and I let the blanket slide to the grass. As a shiver rushes my spine, pulling me back to reality, I reach for my bottle, but grab open air.

Below my grasping hand is a drawing.

Penned on ruled paper and folded to a square: a cross adorned in cherry blossoms and caressed by a ribbon.

I remember my hands as they scrawled out those letters, remember that first empty space that had grown wide between me and my peers. And in my memories, I am back in that moment. I watch as seventh grade me places the drawing down next to the flowers and candles that surround her locker. Weird looks follow me as I leave and whispers race through the hall. Both keep wavering between anger and skittering, hiccupping laughter. There is a clear divide between the people who are laughing and the people who now see me as the other.

The chasm between me and all of them is wider than I am willing to cross. She was the bridge that brought me to their world with soft hands and a smile. The giggle making it safe to keep being me. The voice of belonging that always met my ears when I stared into the chasm I kept having to cross for too long.

The laughter of my roommates' upstairs trickles down the stairwell and across what is now a grand canyon. I can climb across to them, because she taught me. But I don’t want to.

I can never share in that laugh.

They never wrote those exact words in honor of a childhood friend. Never braced their blue pen from shaking as they carefully space each letter across a ribbon of remembrance. It took time to decide what the banner would say after the news of her death, but the drawing for my note came easily. I would draw the cross she wore and the flowers she taught me to draw. The image of her smirk and playful eyes prodded me to write the last words she had ever heard me speak. I just didn’t know at the time how horrible it was for me to write them.

And so, in ignorance, but with love and grief for a girl who had called me sister, I wrote, “Goodbye, Felicia.”

This story was written in remembrance of my childhood friend, Felicia. You will always be with me, sis.

And to everyone in middle school who saw my drawing and those words and thought the worst of me, I honestly didn’t know anything about the movie or the quote until I got to college. I’m sorry for any pain that my ignorant note caused you.

A Haunting of Cherry Pie

Cayse M. Shultz — Sat, 29 Jun 2024 21:49:19 GMT

Hey, Mom. You know that thing when…

you have a cherry tree and it fruits like a mofo for the first time and so your husband and kids are like “ooooh WE should make cherry pie!” And your husband says “I bet if you guys pick enough cherries, you can convince Mom to make one” and you agree because Pssh, the kids have shitty attention-spans just like you.

This is a safe Mom-promise with zero downside.

But then they go and pick a full on gallon bag ziplock of cherries and are all proud of themselves and you are proud of them too, but then they are like “here you go mom! Now you can make cherry pie!”

And you remember you don’t even like cherry pie but you are the dumb one who made the stupid ass promise and I guess we are fucking doing this.

So, you make the pie crust and wash the cherries that same day.

You do this with good intentions but then it is dinner and you also remember how much you hate “pitting” the cherries so you say “fuck it, I’ll do that tomorrow.”

And then you wake up and your kids are like “can we do the pie today?” And your husband is like “by the way I also bought cherries at Safeway last night because they were on sale, so we should really make that pie if we are actually going to make it.”

Even though it has literally not even been one whole fucking day since they were put in the fridge.

But it is a fair comment because he knows you, and he obviously has already seen that you’ve started down your procrastination road, and is letting you know in subtle way “if you don’t do it he will” and he knows you’d be irritated by that so he is warning you. So. Sure. Let’s make the pie today kids.

You reluctantly start pitting the cherries on your own

because your kids quickly decide it is too difficult for them (and to be honest you are fine with that because cherry-stained fingers all over the house seems like more work than pitting the cherries on your own) so you say yes to their suggestion when they ask if they can “entertain you while you pit cherries” by playing a video game.

And then your husband (who btw vetoed buying the cherry picker from Amazon that would have gotten there that morning because he “can just 3D print that” but did he? No.) goes to Home Depot and leaves you with the game-playing-children-who-need-a-snack.

So you do that, too.

Then your kids decide they want to restart their vide game they are playing because “we really want to show you the video game” because look! Look! The mom of the main character dies in this horrific unable to breathe and heart stopping way

“just like Gaga did!”

And so now you are rolling out pie crust, crying, and thinking about your Mom who died a month ago and how she used to make canned cherry pie because she hated making it from scratch after having worked in cherry picking factories as a kid and you wonder if she is literally up in heaven fucking with you and making your kids want pie and then your kids complain about being hungry again ALREADY and you no longer wonder about post-humous mom-meddling because obviously this is her doing.

So you grumble at them to get their own snack, because you are making them a dumbass pie that you don’t even want to eat (but you say it in a nice-mom way) and then they ask why the pie isn’t done yet and you keep your cool but then your husband comes home and he and the boys ask for lunch.

You ignore them under the guise of being in an important pie-phase.

Then you angrily put the pie in the oven, and go to set the time, only to realize it’s already 12:30pm and you spent all morning making pie.

You then become rage and head for your bedroom to pout and feel put-upon but throw out a “you can reheat the leftovers for lunch.”

Then you go into the bathroom to write out this story uninterrupted because you need to figure out why the fuck you just blew half of your Saturday making a goddamn cherry pie before you spend the rest of the afternoon picking the rest of the cherries that you apparently don’t need.

You know, that thing?

Yeah, I’m good without that, thanks. But thanks for stopping in to say hi. I can hear your laugh from here.

I don’t know how to lose her.

Cayse M. Shultz — Fri, 08 Mar 2024 23:00:28 GMT

My mom has been battling cancer for over 15 years.

She beat breast cancer with chemo and two years later started a long fight against slow-growing PTCL-NOS that was forced to continue through a non-conventional approach only because she was given no other choice. They just didn’t know how to fight it.

Things took a turn two weeks ago.

The non-conventional is no longer working and the PTCL-NOS is now aggressive and spreading. She is in the ICU. Her lungs have already had to be drained three times and she has needed 8 transfusions in 13 days. She is now facing the possibility of being too weak for the new chemo treatment she was supposed to start Monday.

They are blaming her rapid decline on the damage the original chemo did to her back when they knew so little about her rare form of the disease and on the fact that she went so long trying to treat it on her own because the medical community had nothing to give her.

She is only in her early 60s and has done everything to fight this but after beating the odds so many times, she is now losing that fight.

She doesn’t deserve this.

She has suffered more than enough in her life, more than most people could even fathom. It is cruel to have her life ended in this way after so many years of brushing herself off, picking herself up, and moving forward with hope.

Against the odds stacked against women like her she always kept going.

She deserves hope. She has earned it. And yet the world hands her only more pain.

This woman, my incredible mother, just 24 hours after receiving this devastating news, woke up today with her lungs still filled with fluid, her heart still struggling to function, her blood drained of life, and her mind facing a reality where she may only have days or weeks to live.

And what did she do?

She recorded herself singing happy birthday with my Dad for my youngest son and sent it to me — so he can watch it after school because she feels horrible that she can’t be here for his birthday this year.

Because that is who she is.

I love her more than I can express, and my heart breaks with the knowledge that this may be the last video I have of her, that my boys will ever see of her, that she may ever make, and that despite this, the world keeps spinning in defiant, cruel indifference.

I don’t know how to face this.

I don’t know how to lose her.

My soul aching rage and despair at the approach of her end is overwhelming but right now I must act as if all is fine.

I need to put on a smile and go pick up my kids from school and hold myself together so I can share her message as if it isn’t the last video I may ever have of my mother — and then somehow tomorrow I must feign that hosting a birthday party for a hoard of first graders tomorrow is exactly what I want to be doing. Somehow exist in a way that can proclaim every second of me not being with her isn’t like a knife being sliced into my gut.

Because that is what we do when life hands us horror, isn’t it? We pretend all is fine. We move forward. We keep going.

Not because we have to, but because fuck no are we going to take the world’s cruelty lying down.

What I face is shallow in comparison to what so many people, so many men, women, and children are suffering everyday around the world.

And yet we all pretend every day that it isn’t. That these wars, these atrocities this reversible, preventable agony is not stealing the souls of so many and crushing our hope. We fight and we keep living. Against the odds. Against the indifference.

If my mother taught me anything, she taught me this: when facing a world that doesn’t flinch at your existence, you grit your teeth, smile in defiance, step forward with gratitude for what you have been given, and make the best of it all while searching for ways to make the world better for those around you.

So I will brush myself off, pick myself up, and move forward with hope that one day I will find a way to live without being overcome by the pain of stepping into a future without her. And that one day we can create a world where our loved ones aren’t taken from us at the hands of ignorance — in all its many forms.

I am tired of yelling at my kids. I also see no other choice.

Cayse M. Shultz — Wed, 15 Nov 2023 18:30:41 GMT

I know what a lot of other parents might be thinking: “Then, maybe don’t yell?” I know this because I tell myself the exact same thing and feel that exact same eye-rolling way about my parenting choices every other day.

“Just don’t yell,” is an easy trap to fall into for me even though I know that it isn’t always an option. It’s appealing because the logic seems solid: if you yell they will learn to only respond to yelling, so …don’t yell. Just to add to the pressure, if you watch parenting video about disciplining ADHD kids they double down on that same recommendation.

The problem with this approach, like most of the standard and adhd-specific parenting tips, is that for my kids the logic the tips are based on dissolves as soon as it comes anywhere close to them.

Our family is a special sort of breed. Gifted, Autistic, and ADHD plus an accompaniment of anxiety, sensory processing difficulties, dyslexia, dyspraxia, panic, and obsessiveness. So, we are 2E, or “twice exceptional.” Except for us it is more like 2E plus an extra dollop of intermittent chaos. We’ll call it insan2E.

We have the insan2E.

So, what does that look like?

Here’s an example of how me trying exceedingly hard to “not yell” plays out in a house with four insan2E having humans:

I’ll call it: Putting on Shoes

“Hey, boys. It’s almost time to go. Please put your shoes on.”

My 9 year old, “Ok, got it!”

My 6 year old doesn’t respond.

I say, “6? It’s time for shoes. Please go put them on honey.”

No response.

I walk over to tap on 6’s shoulder to get his attention but I am stopped by 9.

“Hey, mom?”

“Yeah?”

“So. I had an awesome idea for a Minecraft mod I could code.”

I am now at 6 who is hyperfocusing on sorting their blueberries by size in their bowl .

“Cool bud, you can tell me after you put your shoes on.”

6 finally speaks, “What kind of mod?”

9 says, “Well, so I was thinking that you know how when we took apart — “

I interrupt, “9, bud, shoes, we can talk about this after.”

“Oh, right.”

9 then walks off toward his bedroom. Where his shoes are not.

I call after him, “Dude, they are by the front door.”

“No, I took them off in my room.”

I glance back at the door and immediately see shoes sitting by his backpack at the front door.

“No, bud they — “ but 9 is already in his room and has closed the door. I shift back to 6 who miraculously is now walking to the front door.

6 points, “His shoes are right here.”

“Yup, it’s ok. He’ll figure it out. Can you put your shoes on?”

6 flys into an instant rage. “I AM!”

I blink once, and then literally watch as he picks up his backpack and starts taking things out of it .

“Buddy, they aren’t in your bag, they are right there — “

6 growls at his backpack, “I NEED TO FIND MY PEN FIRST!”

“What? No, you need to get your shoes on dude. We can look for your pen after. Well, actually…”

I pick up a pen that is sitting next to his backpack and hold it up.

“…this pen?”

“Yay!! How did you find it?!”

“Really?”

9 then screams bloody murder from his bedroom.

I hand 6 the pen and his shoes — “Here, and please put them on.”

“Ok!”

9 then yells for me from his room, “MOM!!!!”

I take a few deep breaths as I check the clock and walk back to his room.

“Yeah?”

“I CANT FIND MY SHOES!!”

“ Well, yeah buddy. That’s because they are out by the front door.”

“NO THEY ARENT!!! I LOOKED THERE!”

“What? No you didn’t. And I was just there with 6. They are by the door where you left them last night after we went to your appointment.”

“Oh… right.”

I smile at his embarrassed grimace and give him a side hug: “It’s ok, I forget whenever I move things around all the time.”

“I didn’t forget.” He shrugs me off gently. “I just didn’t remember we went to the appointment.”

“Ah. Ok.”

We walk back to front door and find 6’s shoes in the middle of the entry space. 6, however, is not in them.

“6? Where’d you go?”

6 calls out from his room, “I’m changing my pants!”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE THEY ARE WRONG!”

9 stops putting his shoes on and looks up at me, “Should I change my pants, too?”

“No bud you’re fine.”

I walk back to 6’s room. He is not changing his pants. He is holding his pants in one hand and writing with his pen in the other — while standing in his underwear.

I try to sigh my frustration out, and then walk into the room.

“6, we don’t have time for this. Please, just finish changing your pants and go put your shoes on.”

“I will. I just need to write down my idea.”

I reach to take the pen, “Here, I can write it down while you put on your pants.”

6 grabs it away from my reach, “No! This won’t take long!”

I know better, but I am picking my battles. So I start helping him put on his pants.

6 starts chattering in excitement about his idea, “It’s about what I want to build today in the yard.”

I nod along, struggling to get his non-responsive 6 year old twiggy legs to put themselves in his pants without him falling over. All of his body awareness and coordination has been abandoned. He is in thinking time only mode.

I interrupt him, “All of that is awesome, but.” I take a deep breath . “I need your leg. No not that one. Your other leg. No, this one. The one I am tapping on. Please lift your leg.”

“How do you spell concrete barrier?”

I inhale sharply and sit back from him. “Bud? Can this wait?”

“No, how do you spell concrete barrier?”

“We are not building a concrete barrier in the backyard. We are putting on pants and going to school.”

“But we need to if we are going to make the bouldering wall.”

“We are not making a bouldering wall in the backyard.”

“But I need one to get to the zip-line!”

I stop wrestling with his unstable noodle legs, close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I try to concentrate on coming up with an answer that will end this train of thought before it spirals into a debate, “We cant make a zip-line unless we can get clearance and a building permit from the city. We can’t do that tonight because you are in school and I have to work. We can absolutely draw out your cool plans later and figure out what parts of it could work. But that has to be after school. But only if you get your pants on and go put your shoes on right. now.”

“Ok!” He then quickly and easily pulls his pants on in less than 10 seconds and then sprints to the front door.

When I arrive, I find 9 staring out at the empty air with one shoe half on. 6 is already grabbing his shoes and starting to undo them.

9 speaks to the air, “Do you think Dad’s computer could handle hosting another server?”

I chuckle to myself a little. “What? No. And dude, come on. SHOES!”

9 looks at me as if I’ve taken away some prized possession, “But I’d need a second server for the mod I want to make! How much would a better processor cost for him?”

6 year old frowns, “No 9. We aren’t buying a new processor for Dad. We are buying a permit for the city.”

9’s interest outweighs his disappointment, “For what?”

6 smiles big, “For the ninja warrior course I’m building you for your birthday.”

9 beams, “You are!?”

I groan under my breath and check the clock again. Not enough time. Have to fast track.

Grumbling to myself, I try to get 6 to put finish putting his shoes that he is still holding in his hands. I take them, undo the straps, and hand them to him. He ignores me while continuing to explain his plan for our backyard remodel .

“Yup. And it’ll have a bouldering wall to a zipline.”

9 is all in on this idea, and enters devil’s advocate mode, “But we don’t have flat enough yard for that.”

6 is ready for this, “That’s ok, because I have a plan.”

I hand 9 his other shoe. “Shoes!”

I then take shoe back from 6 and put it half on for him. “Shoes! Both of you! We can talk about all of this in the car and we can’t make a ninja course in the backyard for 9’s birthday. It’s a nice idea but we aren’t allowed to do that.”

6 demands, “Why not!?”

9 is indignant, “But Dad said we could!!”

Both are thankfully unconsciously putting their final shoe on. So I answer.

“No, dad and I said we could build a ninja play structure. Not a bouldering wall and a zipline. And we aren’t flattening the back yard by putting in a concrete barrier, 6. That DIY video was ridiculously overkill.”

9 stands up and immediately steps on his heels to take shoes off as he stares off into space processing what I’ve said.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Is the first official yell from me.

9 jumps at my yell, looks down at feet and laughs “What? Why did I do that?”

6 starts to laugh, “You took them off!”

“I know! I was like…” 9 then mimes what he did .

“haha! I know you were like…” 6 jumps up and starts to take shoes off.

“NO! 6 stop!” I asked in a raised voice, but at least not another yell.

6 laughs more, “What? It was funny?”

9, ever the class clown, starts pretending he can’t keep his shoes on his feet.

This is my breaking point. I start to raise my voice.

“OH MY GOSH. We are going to be late! Please, just. put. your. shoes on!”

9 panics. “Late? No! I can’t be late! 6 hurry!”

6 laughs and tries to take shoes off again, I stop him. 6 gives me a mischievous grin. Tries to do it again.

9 practically screams, “STOP IT 6! WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I’M NOT!”

“YOU ARE!”

I enter the yelling match:

“OH MY GOD. BOTH OF YOU. JUST STOP. Please put your shoes on and grab your bags.” I am barely audible over their bickering.

9 looks abashed, “You don’t have to yell at me Mom.”

6 is covering his ears dramatically, “Yeah it hurts our ears. You are supposed to take calming breaths.”

End scene.

That my friends, is a MILD version of just ONE morning task.

Yes. We have a routine. We have organization and boundaries and responsibilities and reminders. We have all the things and tricks and lessons and CBT and OT and skills practice and mindfulness practice and supplements and diet adjustments etc etc etc. Even with all that, I still have to act as their frontal lobe. And I expect I will have to be for a long time until theirs comes fully on line or whenever they have supports that will make up the difference — and that don’t rely on me being one for them.

For the time being, I am the frontal lobe of the family. And sometimes, to be heard over the rest of the brain, the frontal lobe has to yell.

But it doesn’t make it any less tiring. Particularly when my own frontal lobe has its own insan2E to contend with.

Luckily for me, there is this handy thing called the internet into which I can scream my endless insan2E across the endless void.

The Biggest Lie of Parenthood That Is Actually True

Cayse M. Shultz — Sun, 10 Sep 2023 05:00:36 GMT

You know all those times when people saw you with your newborn and were like, “ermagherd, baby legs, I miss that phase so much, that phase was the best.”

And you understandably wanted to throat punch them but since you were now a grown-up parenty person you instead were like, “wtf are you even talking about, Karen? This stay-puff-pillsbury-baby is a no-sleep, projectile pooping nightmare. Are they cute as hell? Fuck yes they are. But they also make me want to run off and live in the hot sweaty silence of a desert yurt every few minutes.”

And then other people were all, “Don’t worry, it gets easier.” And your parents were like,

“Awww. It’s okay honey. It gets better. I promise.”

And remember how that made you feel better because you were literally about to pull your hair out? So you slumped onto the floor under the pack-and-play and were like, “oh thank god.”

But then a few sleepless days later you were pacing around the parent group all like, “Ya’ll are liars, that’s what ya’ll are. Why tf did none of you all tell me how hard this is. Sneaky mfers. You just wanted turtle-baby-chest-snuggles and another sleep-deprived commiserator, didn’t you? Well I tell you what. It had best be getting better pretty damn quick, cause I got a blow out onesie in a ziploc and I’m not afraid to use it.”

But then you finally got a night of sleep, and when you woke up you no longer felt the urge to burn humanity to the ground.

And hey, remember when someone had the balls of steel to tell you that the newborn phase is nothing in comparison to the teething phase, and your partner had to grab the diaper bag before you grabbed the forgotten blow out onesie?

But then you hit the teething phase and you were like, “what? how… how were they right? Tell me how this is possible. How? Whoa now. Hold up. Is that a tooth?

Is that a fucking baby fang??

Omg. It is.

HONEY!!!! Come quick before the gums change their mind! BOOPY HAS A TOOTH!!!”

But then it got worse again because apparently babies have to poke out all of their freaking fangs in a rolling non-stop cycle of inconsolable wailing and baby drool and then people started to wish you luck when they saw you in public, all coming up and offering sympathy unprompted, like, “yeah, teething is a rough phase. Don’t worry, it’ll get better. You got this.”

And you believed them.

Because it had to right?

Did that happen?

No.

No. It. Did. Not.

Instead, you had a mini-existential crisis and a month-long meltdown.

Then you went and found that one book we all get from Amazon. But not for real-real.

You got it as an ebook at 2:51am because that is when you buy this book as a parent. It’s like a rule.

And then you read the age-sorted lists in the appendix because that’s all you have time and energy for.

You know, THAT one.

Its that wonder phase one that talks about the “regression” phases and “brain growth spurts” and all the reasons you shouldn’t be mad at your baby for being a little punk sometimes.

And then angels sang when you saw that “wonder-book” tells you the wonder-phases should end around the 20 month mark.

End? Is that the mythical gets-better phase?

False hope successfully imparted, you then dug in your dry, cracked, barefoot heels into the gummed-biscuit-shellacked playmat and you were like, “Right. I can do this. We can do this. Right bubs? Course we can. Come on you adorable sleep-stealing drool monster, let’s go pwn this gauntlet. And oh my sweet jeebus. Look at you. You are too cute in your wonder-gauntlet sweatbands. Who has lost their sanity but loves you and wants to bite your cute wittle cheeks? It’s me! Yes that’s right! I do! I do! Okay you adorable little chonk. Let’s do this.”

And then, do you remember? How you busted your ass in that wonder-phase gauntlet of hell but finally got to the 20-month mark and although it was more like 20-month-plus-9-weeks-of-unlabeled-phasery-petering-out, you looked up at your wee snuggle-booper-bug (yes, up. Because you were cleaning up the full plate of lasagna they just price-is-right-palm-slapped out of your hand when you walked by their highchair, remember?)… and you begged them to not do you wrong after their birthday. Which you totally knew was coming up so fast, and definitely won’t plan last minute this time.

“So, booper-bug, can we keep it chill with the Terrible twos? Can we agree on that? Yes? Cool, calm, collected twos? Terrific twos! Am I right?! Yeah. Awesome. Okay. Now, stop giving your plastic bib to the dog.”

And then off you went to conquer age two.

Remember how you arrived on tip-toe, got a good extra long false sense of security going, and then BAM, terrible twos, threenager-ing, the f*cking-fours, five-year-old sleep regression, and SLAM you have hit the insufferable sixes.

That gauntlet had turned into the longest ninja warrior course there ever was, remember?

But you shot up that warp wall anyway didn’t you? Expertly dragging your sixer by his tablet-handle because #screentime waits for no one. Then you danced over in your stained sweatpants to do your own Bob-barker-button slam. Because guess what?

You just dropped wee boople off at kindergarten.

Wait, you did what!?

Haaahhh!!!!

HAAAHHH!!

The crowd goes wild!

HAAAHHH!!!

You did it!

You made it to the “it gets better” phase!!!

But then …

The sound of your child’s screams reached your ears all the way from the elementary school.

Remember?

The imaginary crowd then rubbed their necks and didn’t make eye contact with you did they. Some guffawing voice then asked,

“How do you like having so much time off now that the kids are in school?”

Everyone in the fake crowd glared at them and then rolled their eyes when they realized it was that old lady who haunts your dreams. That war grandma. The one who raised 15 kids in the 1940s. She is yet again laughing her ass off at everyone, but mostly you. Then, after she stopped, she wiped her tears away with a classic “ahhahh haaa, ahaha. *ahem* whew. That was a doozie. Come on everybody. It’s time to fess up.”

And then your heart stopped because all of your imaginary-crowd-friends looked away.

“But. You guys said it gets better. It’s supposed to get better right?”

Everyone, even that c-word of a war granny looked at you with bit lips and a grimace.

“Come on. There’s still a not-feeling-like-I-want-to tear-my-hair-out-24/7 break for a while. Right?

RIGHT?!”

The crowd then dispersed in solemn solidarity and while they drifted into their respective drop-off-line-from-hades-van-parade someone turned to you, patted you on the back and handed you a warehouse sized box of generic cold medicine labeled “elementary school starter kit.”

You sobbed for a while.

Feeling like you got played. It’s ok. We all felt that way when we went through it.

It’s normal to feel played, because, we were.

But like us, you consoled yourself with all those construction paper masterpieces that for some evil reason can’t be folded or stored but are so goddamn amazing that we find a place for them and will never throw them away.

Oh, and then you get school photos. Holy cuteness. You cry a lot when you get the school photos. Because damn, you have an Angel. You saw your grown little nugget all combed and smiling and being the best goddamned photo-taker in the whole goddamned photo-freaking world.

Then you glanced up and they were somehow 8.

It’s ok.

We don’t remember those two years either. No one does.

We can call it the Bermuda Triangle of parenting. It’s just a hamster wheel of bowling alley birthday parties, ignored fundraiser flyers, bungled school breaks, and cough medicine anyway.

So. Much. Cough Medicine.

But don’t worry.

I know you will remember what comes next. ‘Cause guess what buttercup?

You know how they didn’t tell us about all those things they didn’t tell us about when planning to have a kid?

Well, there is more of that.

And it starts to get reaaaal rocky right smack dab where I’m at.

ADRENARCHE!

From 6–9 years old, there is a phase called adrenarche. Did you know this?

“What,” you ask me hesitantly, “what is this hair-ball hack of a far-to-close-to-puberty-sounding word?”

Well.

It’s puberty.

Your kid hit puberty.

What?

Don’t look at me like that.

Pssh. You thought that didn’t happen until like 10 or 11? Well…

SO DID I.

Apparently, while we were wading through all those aww-I-miss-that-phases of public patronization, some scientist did some science and their science spat out some new sciency facts that show kids go through a big hormone surge before the puberty hormone surge.

Double hormones all the way.

WHELP. Ok.

Fine.

No one knew, right?

NO.

NOT right.

It’s the biggest fucking parenting lie ever to tell a new parent “it gets better,” but then fail to mention the teen years start at fucking age 8!

Yeah. They knew.

Theeeeey kneeewwww.

All those parents and family members. All those so-called-friends. And everyone that raised all those generations of children that came before yours.

They fecking knew. The liars.

“BUT IF THEY KNEW WHY DIDN’T THEY TELL ME!?”

Hey, hey. Shhh, it’s ok. No, no, you don’t have to apologize for yelling.

Your anger is perfectly understandable and completely justified, my fellow woeful parental pariah.

Here’s my take.

They didn’t tell us for the same reason no-one told them:

Sometimes, it isn’t a big deal. Sometimes it is.

Every kid is different and they truly don’t write books for this shit.

No, no, those books are crap and you know it.

No one wrote a book for YOUR little drama-tween.

Remember when all of those people were saying, “aww, you poor thing. It’ll get better.”

Yeah, they said that because that is what we say.

Is it true? Fuck no.

Do they know it’s not true?

Yup, every fucking one of them.

WHY?!

Well… What are you going to do, tell a stressed out parent that it never gets better?

That every single second of your child’s life will be equally hard in a myriad of different unlistable and unpredictable ways?

That even after they are out of the house things aren’t ever “better” because you inevitably end up just pacing through their empty room, trying to reassemble your broken brain and — if you are lucky — fit back into that pre-kid-personality that has been lying crumpled under the changing table for almost two decades.

And you’ll do that on repeat until the split second that you get a text from them.

Then you’ll chuck all that shit in the air and run to snuggle their old pillow while you sit on their old bed like a classic gossiping teen who is wearing leg warmers, braces, and bedazzled acid-wash.

You’ll put yourself back together after you’re done teaching them how to find a good dentist.

Oh, and after giving them all their medical records, and school records.

And clean out their stuff from the house, and the closets, and the basement, and the attic, and the living room, and the cars.

And actually, screw it, maybe you’ll just wait to fix your brain and go find that “it gets better” part after they get their car fixed.

Nah, after that new date.

No, the wedding. Definitely after the wedding.

Or …well fuck, when the hell did time start going so damn fast?

How about you just wait until they have kids of their own. That makes sense. Right?

Then, as you watch them go through those first few months of pregnancy hormones and pre-baby stress, emotionally hold their hand as they get scary tests done that never used to be a thing when we had them, and go give them a hug after the baby inevitably breaks their brain for the first time ever (and your heart subsequently swells so large you think it’s going to pop a gold frame like the grinch), and before you know what the hell you are doing you say,

“Awww. It’s okay honey. It gets better. I promise.”

Because it does.

It’s a lie, yes. But only half a lie.

It DOES get better. Just not in the way we sapiens ever talk about things getting “better.”

And not in the way you can see it BEING better until you have a few of those high highs under your belt to carry you through the valleys.

I think. No, I hope.

But I’ll be honest. Even if my particular take is correct, this shit won’t be easy. Not for me, nor anyone like me.

For many of us, especially those of us with 2E AuDHD brains and the resulting far more challenging 2E breed of stay-puff-dough-babies, those high-highs are few and far between.

For many of us they will take forever to get going.

Like, A LOT longer than it was supposed to take. Longer than seems ethical for someone so sleep deprived and parentally burnt out.

But the highs do come.

And for those brief moments, it doesn’t only get “better.”

It gets indescribably, close to holy, expansive, timeless, endless, and barreling rush of joy.

And then it’s gone. And you drift back down into the valley.

The thing is, the highs just get higher and higher as your boople-baby grows. Doubles as they complicate every aspect of life. Triples until the highs are so high that somehow, inexplicably they make up for every single one of even the deepest of lows.

While we are in those moments it IS better.

And then it won’t be until it is again.

Because better is a phase.

A wonderful, no-book-to-teach-you-how-to-find-it phase that regresses and progresses just like every phase in your life.

Sure.

We could just not lie to parents and say, “Enjoy the ride, it’s going to be really fucking shitty for like an unhealthy amount of the time, but there are some bad ass loops that will make you want to puke happiness rainbows all over the world.”

But we can’t just go off and tell that to someone who has literally crashed into an existential abyss and is now getting metaphorically coated by puked up rainbows of parental happiness spewing from all those temporarily soaring above them.

We just can’t do that. We tell them, it gets better. Because anything else is giving too much angry granny.

And then, once they have had a few rides worth of highs…

… we as a collective apologize for humanity as a whole for not having our shit together enough to come up with words that properly convey the complex phenomenon of feels that will be raising your own little pillsbury-chest-turtle. Can’t verbally illustrate how that little boop will end up making you so goddamned giddy about life that someday you will look back and laugh at that time they spilled apple juice on the family cat while it was on your lap and landed you in the ER with diapers strapped to your profusely shredded and bleeding arm while you wait to go get stitches.**

Because it’s all just a phase. And it will always get better.

We promise.

**This specific scenario didn’t happen to me. It is a fictional combination of a few moments that I put into one funny image. It sounded better than the situation I had written down in my first draft which told the true story of how my two son’s had head slammed me in the throat so many times that it eventually fractured my larynx which resulted in me losing my voice for two weeks and getting pneumonia three times over the course of four months. 0/10 would not recommend. That story was apparently not very funny according to my friends. So, I wrote up apple juice cat. But its existence has bugged me. I’m not good with misleading people (see my blog for candid confessions) so after a couple of months of this being online you now also get the truth. 🙃

My Snorkel Tried to Kill Me in Hawaii

Cayse M. Shultz — Wed, 23 Aug 2023 06:26:24 GMT

So, my two sons have glasses, right? One needs them in a “good for his eyes” sort of way and the other needs them in a “can’t see further than a foot from his face sort of way.” Now, this is normally not an issue when it comes to family activities. But this Hawaii trip provided a unique challenge. We couldn’t find an affordable way for “foot-from-face” son to snorkel.

We went online shopping (as one is apt to do in times of mild inconvenience) and the first thing that popped up was “use a full-face mask.”

The mask looks essentially like a gas mask with a snorkel. It’s weird but promising. Husband then found one on sale (red flag number one) and we ordered it after briefly scanning through the thousands of reviews. All of which were generally positive. (red flag number two)

Cut to us in Hawaii.

Despite the mask fitting him at home, the mask was now, “too uncomfortable” to fit our oldest once we arrived at the beach. It wouldn’t work for him.

Pssh, silly me, of course it wouldn’t.

In a rare stroke of luck it turns out he was perfectly happy snorkeling without his glasses. I guess the water helps with his vision enough that he can see better than above the surface.

After some shuffling of our available masks, our youngest ended up with the full mask. He and I went out and did a test run in the shallows of Kahalu’u, and after a while he started saying he was tired and had a headache, so we swam back in to shore.

A few snacks and water, some sitting, and getting good and fomo-ed while watching husband and older brother, wee-one was rearing to get back out there.

Masks were shuffled again.

Luckily, the small face mask that I was using worked really well for him and the full-face mask fit me shockingly well.

Woot woot for having a family of large headed children.

Husband and oldest son had been circling in the same spot within the shallows, so we head toward them. A distraction of yellow tangs stalls us for a bit and when we looked back up, I realized that our targets had sprint-snorkeled themselves off to a new location.

Given how long they had been at the first spot, I didn’t both stopping to check how far we were from them and just aimed us their direction and started guiding wee-one along.

Halfway to them I started getting a headache. I stopped to try and adjust my straps and found that I was already breathing really heavily.

After a moment of self-cursing for letting myself get so out of shape I stopped in a shallow area for a bit so I could “fix” my mask and to check and make sure wee-one was still happy and good to keep going (ie, he didn’t have a splitting headache like me).

He was irritated we stopped and, in what would be a horrible oversight on my part, my brain gave me a small flicker of foreshadowing:

Huh…I wonder if it is this particular mask that is causing headaches…

This was of course immediately followed up by a momentary musing over the validity of giving up on snorkeling due to mask comfort level.

….Pssh. Suck it up buttercup.

That would be red flag numbers three and four for those counting.

Husband and oldest are now past where I can still stand up but are circling and bobbing up to chat for a bit, so I start swimming us in their direction again.

Almost immediately, things start to go weird. (Red flag numero five). The mask gets foggy, and my head starts pounding.

Gaaaah. This is what I get from buying on Amazon.

I stop me and the wee wiggle worm of a son to rinse out my mask, reasoning that I must have screwed up when I adjusted it with one hand earlier. This time I take the extra step of using two hands to put it back on.

Unfortunately, whilst I am absorbed in my two-handed mask futzery, my companion gets impulsive.

Wee one —now free from my anchoring grip — wriggles off toward his dad and brother who are now solidly in an area where I won’t be able to stand up.

Groaning, I slam my mask back on, ignore the still foggy view and the now drill-like headache, and race to catch up to my son. While on my trek to scolding my adventurous danger-boy, I vaguely ponder if something might be wrong with me because something is feeling a bit “off.” (Red flag number 6)

After an oh so generous four breaths wearing the mask, I went to pull in air on a fifth and nothing happened.

No air, no movement of valves, no anything. It was like I was inhaling against Saran Wrap.

Shocked and about to gag I yanked the mask off and swam with it in my hand over to where I could finally grab wee one’s ankle. He was already off course and was now giggling and flippering toward a jagged rock getting pummeled by the increasingly tough surf.

Apparently, he DOES need those glasses.

I pulled him over and growled at him to stay next to me while I fixed my mask. I couldn’t stand up where we were anymore and the distance it would be for us to go back to where I could stand was the same as it would be to get to husband. So I deal with it.

I still was having trouble getting my mask on with one hand — because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let little distract-a-boy go off to try and hug a lava rock — but after a frantic moment of awkward jerking around and hair pulling while I treaded water, I got my mask to work again. No longer foggy and no longer malfunctioning I swam us toward husband one last time.

I was embarrassingly proud that I had solved my problem without husband’s help. Delirious really.

In fact. I was overjoyed with my accomplishment.

Overjoyed by life.

The waves are so pretty.
I feel so happy, and the water is so soft and warm, I feel like a nap…

(Fucking gigantic red flag number seven)

A shift in the current snagged us and dragged us out in husband’s direction. Unfortunately, it also dragged them even farther from us.

A tiny glimmer of panic sliced through my joy and it jolted me back to reality. On instinct, I squashed that shit into the back of my brain. But it had given me the slap across the face I needed to focus on a new plan.

I aimed myself toward a choppier place in the water where I was sure I’ll be able to stand up. I yelled at husband to come in and take wee one so I can fix my mask.

As I would later find out, my presumed shallow spot was non-existent. I still have no idea what I thought I was swimming toward.

On the way to the “shallows,” my mask failed again. This time however, when I pulled it off I didn’t bother to put it back on because the eighth and final flag straight up skewered me in the lung.

I was starting to have an asthma attack.

Giving up on my “shallows” I used all my remaining energy to torpedo my son toward my husband. Wee one and our oldest happily greeted each other while I spluttered at my confused husband about my mask not working, me needing to fix it so I could go to shore, and how he needed to take the kids.

Husband nodded with a raised eyebrow as he looked me over carefully and guided wee one closer to him.

I used both hands to check the valves and snorkel on the mask and adjusted the straps, focused on fulfilling the plan I had just planned out loud to my husband. And apparently unaware of the fact that I had just two seconds ago realized the mask triggered an asthma attack.

CO2 poisoning is no joke ya’ll.

I try one last time to get the mask back to a proper snug fit on my face and I turn to go back to shore. As you probably expected, a half of a breath later, after sucking on Saran Wrap again, I felt my vision narrow significantly and I started to get dizzy.

I ripped off the mask and got a mouthful of ocean water as I gasped for air. I blindsided the panic rushing into my mind before it could take over (probably not a smart idea) and demanded that my mind ignore the fact that my legs and arms felt like dead weight and my heart was squeezing my throat in fear.

No. You pull your shit together body. We aren’t doing this.

Body had zero fucks left to give so it continued to feel dangerously weak. Husband yelled at me through my delirium, “Cayse, Float! Float honey, float on your back!”

“Oh. Right.”

My brain lazily acknowledges this with some extremely overdue reasoning.

I can float because son is safe now. Yay for me. I should have done that sooner. Why did I not think of that fucking SOONER?!?

This was the point that I realized that it wasn’t just an asthma attack.

Looking back at the situation, I’m assuming that this is what my panic was probably rushing in to tell me. But being so used to having to squash my panic attacks, I didn’t even bother to think that my limbic system could be using them for a good reason.

I flipped over to try and float, and was successful for all of a minute. The waves were gaining strength as quickly as was I losing mine, and sleep was truly starting to sound like bliss.

Lucky for me, this lack of strength allowed my PTSD trained survival mode to snap to the forefront.

As ever, it comes with a personality and mental commentary all its own. Its name is “she.” As in “she is fucking done with my shit.”

She: WHAT IN THE EVER-LIVING FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO US?!

She grabs control and my breathing starts evening out instantly. But even while trying to calmly breathe and float, I still somehow was not getting enough air.

Me: I can’t breathe. Should I breathe quicker not deeper? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She: CALM DOWN MORON!

Now here’s the thing. My brain splitting? She providing snarky commentary, and tossing my prior piss-poor plan? Not remembering my asthma? Yeah, all that should NOT have been the first point at which I started to consider hailing the lifeguard. But it was. Because hindsight is a bitch like that.

No longer trying to put my mask back on —which had just been dosing me with CO2 — my lungs were finally getting actual oxygen into our blood.

Time slowed and as my concentration increased, “She” and “Me” were joined by a third mental counterpart. I call them Bombard.

Bombard: Awww, leave her alone you big bully. Me is trying her best.

She: Are you even WATCHING what is happening?!

Bombard: Of course, I am. What? Can’t you see her flailing about? Lifeguard is sure to see us. Why don’t you go mull over our shame of purchasing our own demise through a two-day Amazon prime order?

She: Oh. My. God. STOP BEING DISTRACTING AND HELP SAVE US YOU WORTHLESS DIPSHIT!

Me: Wait, I have something…

I slam my brain back into one piece and the following plan comes to mind:

Ok, first, keep that slow breath. Box breathe. Good. Now call out to husband. Tell him to swim the boys to me. I can gently hang on to the edge of their life jackets while I float on my back. My floating weight distributed between the two jackets shouldn’t pull the kids down, and since they have functioning masks on anyway, there is no danger of them getting pulled lower into the water by half an inch. And this will then give us time to hail the lifeguard while my strong-swimmer husband swims our linked chain of floating bodies back to where I could stand up on my own.

Brain still in one piece and all parts satisfied with my competence, I enact my brilliant plan.

Unfortunately, “body” has not given my talking mouth parts any of our newfound oxygen yet.

“I need to float on the kids!”

Bombard: [bursts out laughing]

She: We are going to die.

I wince and wait for husband’s reaction while trying to keep my head above the water.

Naturally, husband looked at me like I was a crazy person. Thinking he must think I was wanting to do it just for fun, I ignored the continued bickering in my brain and me, and my body swam to the closest kid. I flipped on my back and tried to show him my plan by floating and hanging on to the smallest corner of my youngest son’s jacket.

This, to my deep relief is perfectly effective.

She: Holy shit it works.

Bombard: See? Never doubted her. Let me know if we start drowning again. Imma go take care of that nap.

I should note that wee one was perfectly happy looking at the fish. Entirely unaware that mommy was quite close to being down there with them.

Husband then tells me to let go of him and to just swim over to where I can stand up.

I look up, confused.

Me: Hold up. Have I genie-blinked my way closer to the shore?

Bombard: Sweet, I’m in. I shall swim us over to participate in husband’s much better plan. Come on body, you’re with me now.

She: You impossible idiot. You are still having an asthma attack. You can’t make it there. Just. Float.

“Stand up and get your mask on.” I hear husband say.

“But I can’t breathe in it!”

Bombard: Hey! Kids don’t need their mouthpieces.

She: That’s true. Kids are fine and with Husband. 6-year-old isn’t even using his anymore.

“Sweetie, can mommy have your breathing tube? Mine doesn’t work anymore.”

“Okay!”

Husband looks concerned as I grab ONLY the tube.

“Cays, what are you doing?! I was talking to Oldest-son! What are you—You need goggles!”

“No, I don’t need to see. I just need to breathe.”

Without waiting, I start trying to swim with my legs only. One arm holding the tube, the other still holding that damn mask.

Keeping my eyes open in saltwater wasn’t enjoyable, but it wasn’t horrible.

Me: What the fuck body, why are you not breathing through the tube?

She: Nose isn’t plugged you moron. And your focus is fucking shit right now if you haven’t noticed. We need the whole mask.

Me: Shit.

She: Yeah, bitch. Way to go because now we are going to blackout.

Bombard: could be fun.

Me: This isn’t helping. [slams our brain back into one piece]

I pop back up out of the water. Now fully in delirium, and I manage to shout a: “nope,” to my husband.

A second wave of panic and adrenaline hits me as I flip over to float again, I reach back out to hold the jacket of younger son and close my eyes.

Me: Box-breathe. Come on. Box-breathe.

She: Goddamnit heart. Why are YOU freaking out? Calm the fuck down. You aren’t helping.

Me: What if we drown in front of our kids?

She: Fuck that shit. Not an option.

Bombard: Yeah. We are not drowning, chill out.

I start focusing on breathing slower and deeper and I hand 6-year-old his tube back. I grab for the corner of kiddo’s life jacket again, vaguely aware that my dysfunctional mask is still in my other hand but is now drifting in a single direction… as if we are being pulled.

Bombard: You know, come to think of it, that thing is probably why we couldn’t swim right with just the tube… man. We should have thought of that. We need help.

She: Oh fuck. You’re worried? We need help. We need help now.

“Get help.” I call out to husband.

“You can float.” I hear him respond.

“Get. Help.” I demand.

“It’s okay, stop, just float, you’re okay.” I hear him say in a gentler tone.

“Get. Me. Help.” I growl.

“We don’t need help.” He says in an infuriatingly calm and almost grateful voice.

“I need help!!! I need to at least float with the kids!” I scream.

“Cayse, he’s here! Look up! Grab on to that.” he yells back.

I looked up to see a guy on a surfboard staring at me, my husband is behind him, swimming backward with our sons and talking much louder to me:

“Let go of the jacket and grab his board.”

Apparently, lifeguard man had started to swim out to help as soon as he saw me struggle to float.

What I thought had been a back and forth about whether I needed help was actually my husband trying to calm the kids down, telling them to just float, and him telling the lifeguard that he and the boys “didn’t need help.”

I hauled myself onto the board.

She: Why the fuck is surfer man scooting back on his board.

Bombard: Shark?

My husband, “Lay down on the board.”

Surfer man, “it’s ok. She’s fine. You guys good?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. I can stand.”

Me: oh yay! I’m glad he can stand.

Bombard: Pssh, we could if we wanted to.

I shift my mask to sit on the board under my head, bringing more of my torso above the water as I wrap my arms around it. I close my eyes again and focus on breathing.

Me: It’s a little better. Maybe I’ll swim after them in a minute.

She: Explain yourself you idiot. He just saved our ass.

“I was floating. And the mask wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah. I saw.”

Me: Guys! He saw! Oh good. I am happy he saw. I am also happy to rest my head and arms around the mask on the board. I don’t want it anymore, but…

Bombard: It does make a shockingly comfy pillow.

Me: Right?

She: Stop being comfortable. We need to pay for this. Apologize.

“I’m really sorry. My mask stopped working and I couldn’t breathe.”

“Yeah, that happens.”

“I’m sorry you had to use your board.”

“It’s okay. It got pretty rough out here huh?”

Bombard: excuse me? Is this mother fucker judging us?

She: Yeah, he can fuck right off with that shit. It was the fucking mask that screwed us over.

Me: I know, right? This has nothing to do with me swimming in rough water or going too far out.

Bombard: little punk. We knew what we were doing.

She: Me? Shut it. I’ll address all that with you later. Bombard? Lower your hackles. We just need to clarify.

“The mask just stopped giving me air.”

“Ah, I see. Yeah, ones like that are notorious for it. We call them death masks.”

“Oh, well that’s good to know. They should tell people that.”

“Yeah. They really should.”

Me: The board is warm. I want to stop talking.

Bombard: Do it. We don’t need Lifeguard Ken to feel better about himself at our expense. He’s dead to me.

She: Bombard. We need him.

Me: Hold on. What is that?

I hear the loudspeaker echoing off of the wave break.

“All snorkelers should come closer to the shore. No beginners or adults with children should go past the buoys.”

Me: Are they saying that because of me?

She: Yes, and you deserve it. You should be embarrassed.

Bombard: Well, I’M not embarrassed, the morons that made the death mask should be the ones embarrassed.

Lifeguard interrupts my thoughts and the loudspeaker, “Can you feel the sand yet?”

I shift my mind to combine into a more solid single awareness without having to slam us into a single entity. This is my natural state. I have enough oxygen to keep myself here. A spine-tingling sense of joy runs through me, and I choke off a whimper of relief as I tentatively return to what my body is feeling.

I can feel the warm water against me, the sharp corners of the mask jabbing into my throat, and the waxy pull of the surfboard chaffing my inner arms. My lungs are burning, still stuck in a mild asthmatic flair, but no longer worsening.

I hadn’t been aware of how much I had retreated into my head until that moment and quickly shut off all of my emotions before my mind started processing everything.

I focus on feeling the grit of the sand below my feet. I start to stand.

“Yes, I can make it from here.”

“It’s a little slippery.”

“It’s ok. I’m ok now. Thank you.”

“I’d stay on shore.”

“Yup. And throw away the mask.”

Surfer laughs, “good idea. I hope you have a better day.”

“I will thanks to you.”

Surfer laughs again. I still can’t look at him. But I’m not embarrassed. I watch as multiple pairs of adults and children are swimming back to shore. I watch my husband help our sons onto the beach and my mind doesn’t debate with me that I should be anything but thankful.

She: Oh no. You aren’t getting out of this with zen sentiments.

Bombard: Yeah, I am a bit embarrassed actually. We do not look cool right now.

Me: Shut up. I’ll deal with you all later.

I stand up, brush some sand off myself and adjust my tangled swim shirt. Roughly, I grab the mask off of the sand where I had chucked it at some point, I start walking to the boys with a forced smile while my inner mind starts arguing about whether or not I have my inhaler with me and whether I can drive.

I don’t care. All that matters is that I don’t have to wear this dumb mask anymore.

My first mosaic crochet miracle: Rainbow in the Fjords

Cayse M. Shultz — Fri, 30 Dec 2022 09:40:24 GMT

This is what happens when a rainbow stash of yarn, mosaic crochet, and my tendency to overcommit collides.

Behold, my mosaic crochet monstronsity!

In brief, this project was a doozy folks. As you can see, I tried to give you a detailed run down of the experience. The amount of yarn was extremely difficult to estimate, let alone the number of hours I spent battling it — largely due to how many times I frogged it, on both counts. Still, I can safely say that this hug/heritage blanket is the largest project I have ever completed.

Was the froggy pain worth it? Absolutely.

Would I ever do it again? Hell no.

To be completely frank, this was both an ADHD crocheters dream (what with all the fun colors and funky patterns) and an ADHD crocheters nightmare (what with all the excessive color switches and bullshit patterns). The only saving grace for this pattern was the freeform crochet I decided to add. However, with that exception included the entire pattern required an extensive amount of focused counting and stitch markers. And those are two things I am very good at losing track of.

Even so, despite all the starts and stops with this one, I am proud of how it turned out. When push comes to shove, I finished it, right? So maybe, if you are lucky and I’ve taken enough time to lick my wounds, I will come back here and fess up to how I escaped frogging half of the blanket and still managed to get a “straight” border.

Let’s just say there were a lot of tears and curses — plus scissors and sewing machine techniques I never knew existed.

Okay fine.

So I cut it off. Yes, that’s right. You read that correctly. Me and my impulsive stubborn-ass brain refused to frog the damn thing. Instead, I grabbed my sewing machine and a framing square, marked my borders and started sewing. To top it all off, I then cut off the non-squared bits, whipped up a double border to hide the mess, and convinced myself that I always intended to have a thick border.

Helpful Bits

Yarnspirations Pattern

Project Gallery

Ravelry Link

The post My first mosaic crochet miracle: Rainbow in the Fjords first appeared on Crochet It Ain't Sew!.

How to cause a pumpkin pie tsunami – Part 1

Cayse M. Shultz — Thu, 08 Dec 2022 19:24:52 GMT

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What is a pumpkin pie tsunami you ask?

It’s what you get when you combine family holiday overwhelm, a hastily slung verbal recipe adjustment, and me. That’s right, this post is about cooking as a 2E my friends! Get pumped.

As you’ll likely notice is the case with many of the posts sprinkled throughout this blog, this thought-baby was born from the spark of a reddit post and a positive reaction to my comment.

Because let’s face it, there is nothing quite like postitive-reinforcement to get me babbling. So here’s the lead up:

Random redditor posts a picture of her failed pumpkin pie filling, to the r/baking sub with the title “accidentally added twice as much evaporated milk as required to a pumpkin pie base. Anything I can do with this, or just toss out?”

Advice starts pouring in (ha!) and of course yours truly can’t help but overshare.

I jump in with this:

Having done this in the past, this also works for the times you accidentally triple the evaporated milk, you just need to make three pies and get super creative and obsessive with mixing all of your ingredients evenly. Took me some trial and error and three enormous bowls, but the pies turned out ok.

The story:

So my mom used to make two pumpkin pies for thanksgiving, and her filling recipe was written to make enough filling for those two pies.

I only every made it a handful of times, but this particular year it was my turn to do the pumpkin filling. In the pile of ingredients, mom had stacked two cans of evaporated milk — one large and one small — and included a printed off version of her recipe. The recipe said “pour the cans of evaporated milk into the bowl” I dumped both in without checking the ounces of the two cans on the ingredient list.

After all, mom had said she would be adding a little more condensed milk to the pies this year and who was I to question her recipe adjustments.

I didn’t realize something wasn’t quite right until the bowl started to get very full as I went to add the last of the puréed pumpkin.

So I yelled out to mom who was in the dining room, “you wanted to use all of the big can of pumpkin?”

She yelled back “yup! I just got one big can this year, I figured we’d use all of it since we were going to add a little more of the condensed milk.”

I fill the bowl the rest of the way and have less than an inch of room from the top rim by the time all the ingredients are in. Stirring seems to have become a flood risk.

“Is this the bowl we always use?” I ask, as I hesitate to turn the submerged hand mixer on.

“No, I gave you a different one because I used the big one for the apples, but it should be fine, they are basically the same size and your sister used that one last year. Just be careful when you go to mix it at the end.”

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I stare at the bowl, mixer in hand as my little sister comes to assess my confusion.

“That doesn’t look right.”

“Well, I haven’t mixed it all the way yet.”

We both stare at the bowl.

“Did you add more condensed milk?”

“Yeah, I used the stuff she put out.”

“Huh. Well, I was able to use the mixer.”

I stare at the bowl a second more, embarrassed, and flip the switch to the first mark.

SFLOOSH!!

“No!” My sister yells as I immediately flip the switch back off and try to dodge the wave of milky cinnamon squash pulp.

My sister starts laughing hysterically, but with pity in her voice manages to say “haha! Oh noo! what have you DONE? Haha! I meant that I was able to mix it because the bowl wasn’t that full when I did it.”

I clean up the mess as I hand the mixer to her.

She mixes it the rest of the way, “This still doesn’t look right. Did you use all the pumpkin?”

“I tried, that’s why the bowl was so full. There is a little left in the can.”

She looks, “no, this is wrong. Moooom?! Pounceswithwolves messed up the piiiie.”

Mom comes in exasperated, because she wasn’t done setting up the decorations.

“I doubt she messed up the pie…”

“The color is wrong”

“Yeah, I see that. Did you use all the pumpkin?”

Me, “yes! I used all the pumpkin! I used all the cans you gave me just like the recipe said, but it didn’t fit in the bowl very well so I left out like less than a quarter of a cup of pumpkin!”

“Oh, pounces… no.” Mom walks over to look at the rinsed out cans in the sink.

“You used all of the milk?!”

Little sister is popcorn-eating-gif incarnate as she stifles laughter.

“Well yes, the recipe said two cans.”

Sister, “and you didn’t think it was weird that one of those cans was monstrous in comparison to the other one?”

“Well yeah, I did, but mom said she was going to add a little more to it this year so I added both.”

“Man Pounce, you really can’t be trusted with pies.”

“Hey now, that pecan pie last year was not my fault. The recipe never said anything about covering the top with a piece of foil.”

“That’s fair. But then you went and tried to fix it by removing the burnt pecans. It was a disaster.”

“I didn’t want to waste food!”

“Ha! That was not food…”

Mom, who is already using my pumpkin covered measuring cup to scoop out some of the mix and putting it into the pumpkin can, interrupts my sister “well, we can fix THIS one. I have that second half of the pie crust recipe already, I will need you to go get another can of pumpkin purée though, Pounce.”

Little sis jumps in, “I’ll go too. I don’t think we can trust her to know the right size can.”

They both giggle as I dejectedly mope my way upstairs to change my splattered shirt while the seeds of this memory firmly root into my psyche where they will wait for the day, 15 years later, when I finally process all of my shame and embarrassment in a subreddit comment for the benefit of a fellow pie ruiner.

And that’s the story.

Now, naturally I left out a couple of explanatory details here which created gargantuan plot holes.

I know you are all dying to know more. For instance, why had I only made this pie a handful of times? What was the pecan pie incident? Why is your little sister so adorably evil?

“OH THE BAKING HORROR! Part 2: The life and times of an impulsive woman in her kitchen.”

Wait, that isn’t what I titled this.

Anyhow, you get it. Look for my inevitable part 2 in what is likely to be the very near future. In the meantime, have a glorious day my pouncy wolf pack.

The post How to cause a pumpkin pie tsunami – Part 1 first appeared on pounceswithwolves.

How One Impulsive Reddit Post Proved I Was Useful

Cayse M. Shultz — Thu, 08 Dec 2022 01:29:08 GMT

Reddit was supposed to be a distraction.

I hadn’t seen a reddit post since leaving the facebook phase of my life. Facebook and twitter had both done a number on me. So, I had zero desire to enter into a new social media relationship.

The stalkers and co-workers were reason enough to stay away, but honestly my biggest aversion was the possibility of subjecting myself to one more “hey girl!” MSM invite from some random friend of some pseudo-acquaintance. No, thank you.

Life was good being social media free—until I landed myself on bedrest with internal bleeding. That little leading click bait is a story for another time, but the TL;DR version can be summed up as: when endometriosis goes undiagnosed for too long it causes major medical problems. Shocking, I know.

So, what is a Mom of two with two 2E kids who has just moved states into a three story townhouse with no yard and a dog to do? Particularly when she is stuck in bed trying to not freak out every time something crashes downstairs while she is on the top floor, her husband tries to work from home on the bottom floor, and the kids and dog are floating somewhere in between?

Well, seeing as how there were no Poké stops within range of my bed to exploit and satisfy my boys’ newly formed PokémonGo! obsession, I decided I’d try and be social for my own sanity. I searched the interwebs for fellow endo-peeps with whom I could vent my bedrest frustrations and glean some survival tips.

Enter the glorious reddit post.

It was a new world for me. Reddit looked nothing like “normal” social media and it was saturated with people who loved sarcasm, openly obsessed about their passions, and gave snarky heartfelt advice (for the most part). It was beautiful for those first few days. All until January 6.

Yes, that January 6.

Maybe it was the screenshots from all the Trumpers on facebook. Or maybe it was the fact that Trump was a massive trigger for my cPTSD. Perhaps it was the internal hemorrhaging. Who knows.

Whatever it was (It was the cPTSD. But we can discuss that later), it kicked a visceral hornets’ nest in me that night. I rage-researched and wrote like the world depended on me.

It didn’t. But nothing can convince you of ridiculous things quicker than a trauma response and a low blood count can.

Everything I learned from therapy over the last decade surrounding the mechanisms at play between me and every narcissist and borderline personality scattered through my history came barreling into my consciousness. How in gawd’s name had we so ignorantly allowed an orange megalomaniac to love-bomb an entire demographic of our country into following along with his gaslit fever dream.

The news reports were infuriating. Everywhere you turned there was someone calling the rioters sheep — too stupid to think for themselves and too willing to believe his lies. As a survivor of narcissistic abuse I knew better. This wasn’t a result of stupidity or ignorance. (Well, it wasn’t only that.) This was a result of pervasive, long-term, and sociopathic level manipulation being afflicted upon people who, for various reasons, were completely oblivious to their own vulnerability. Specifically oblivious to the ease with which a con artist could sneak into their world and exploit the ingrained messages they received throughout their life about legendary American bootstraps.

I was angry, but more than anything I wanted to help them.

I couldn’t shake the instinct to feel pity for the storming people. So many had bought into the blowhards system of outrage, and done so with incredible conviction. The impulse to save them from themselves was intense. My rising panic drove me into a deeper hyperfocus.

I collected as many varied and approachable sources as I could and started placing links methodically. Used a calculated name drop of one of the ideologs often quoted by the mob in an effort to get more views. I selected a subreddit with formatting and rules gave the post a leg up. I double-checked that (most of) my snark and bias were apparent but not blatant. And last but not least, I crafted as clickbaity a title as I could stomach.

At 12:45am, January 7th, I clicked post. I tossed my phone to the floor, fully aware that if I didn’t it would be too easy to second guess myself. If I wanted to chicken out, I’d have to wake my husband or suffer the painful consequences of trying to sit up on my own. Between that and my pain meds I managed to sleep through the majority of the internet doing what it does best – extrapolate.

My LPT reddit post is still the most read piece I’ve ever posted.

To be honest, that is a fairly embarrassing fact to admit, considering that 90% of the post is a just list of links to other writer’s work. But I’ll take a win where I can get one.

I gained a significant number of followers that first week, but the throng didn’t stick around. They culled themselves down to the low double digits after a few weeks, but some have still stuck around. This was passively intentional on my part. I knew they would lose interest if I continued to only pounce around in the parenting, writing, and crochet subreddits. But their brief interest in what I might post next gave me confidence and an ego boost big enough to start me back down a path I had all but abandoned in 2018. It gave me the push I needed to dust off my blogs, and start coming up with a game plan for my writing dream.

I intended for Reddit to be a distraction from my inner and outer world.

No one will ever be as surprised as I am that what Reddit actually became for me was a catalyst. The popularity of my post provided tangible evidence to counter the judgemental voices in my head. I could finally shut up all the ways in which I was a burden on everyone from echoing in my head. The continued conversation happening in the posts comments proved that I could still produce something of value despite the mess behind the scenes. My diagnoses had me waking up every day feeling useless and defeated. But I had created something engaging, something of value. That experience gave me the distraction I truly needed.

See the Reddit Post

LPT - Learn about manipulative tactics and logical fallacies so that you can identify when someone is attempting to use them on you.

To get you started:

Ethics of Manipulation

Tactics of Manipulation

Logical Fallacies in Argumentative Writing

15 Logical Fallacies

20 Diversion Tactics of the Highly Manipulative

Narcissistic Arguing

3 Manipulation Tactics You Should Know About

How to Debate Like a Manipulative Bully — It is worth pointing out that once you understand these tactics those who use them start to sound like whiny, illogical, and unjustifiably confident asshats.

EthicalRealism’s Take on Manipulative Tactics

Any time you feel yourself start to get regularly dumbstruck during any and every argument with a particular person, remind yourself of these unethical and pathetically desperate tactics to avoid manipulation via asshat.

Also, as someone commented, a related concept you should know about to have the above knowledge be even more effective is Cognitive Bias and the associated concept of Cognitive Dissonance:

Cognitive Bias Masterclass

Cognitive Dissonance

Cognitive Dissonance in Marketing

Cognitive Dissonance in Real Life

10 Cognitive Distortions

EDIT: Forgot a link.

EDIT: Added Cognitive Bias, Cognitive Dissonance, and Cognitive Distortion.

EDIT: Due to the number of comments that posed questions that relate to perception bias, I am adding these basic links to help everyone understand fundamental attribution error and other social perception biases. I will make a new post with studies listed in this area another time, but this one that relates to narcissism is highly relevant to my original train of thought when writing this post.

Bonus:

There were only a handful of comments I actually engaged with. These are some of my favorites.

The post How one impulsive reddit post proved I was useful first appeared on pounceswithwolves.