PSG Lopes's Blog

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2016-2023.

My father first showed signs of memory struggles when he was sixty-seven. He would be in the middle of talking to me and my family and stop mid-sentence holding his head. At first, he would laugh it off, “I’m having so much trouble with my words!” The man was always a whirlwind for as long as I can remember. He could never sit still during the day. He worked several jobs. We would see him fleetingly throughout the day for short bursts and then on the weekends. Our family shrugged off his forgetfulness. We saw it as him getting older and spreading himself too thin.

Sixty-nine hit, and we now knew my dad's forgetfulness wasn't simply a quirk of getting older. It was something much more complicated. His personality changed drastically. As I tried desperately to get my own life sorted, I now had to shift from daughter to his keeper. My family ensured he didn’t get into too much trouble. My father retired by then, and I finally got to see my father more and noticed his erratic behavior. I never had a strong relationship with my father, but I always felt a strange connection with him. We were both intellectuals. We enjoyed reading and furthering our education and had that in common. For reasons unknown to me then and now, it was an unspoken agreement that I was Dad’s favorite. I carried the weight of this enormous responsibility years before Dad's illness.

In 2016, my dad became a flight risk and needed full-time help. At the same time, I lost my job. I knew I had drawn the short end of the stick. I knew both of our lives were over—his from his disease, and mine because I knew I’d have to care for him for the rest of his life. We got the diagnosis. As suspected, he had developed early-onset dementia. Differing medical professionals held their own opinions about Dad's exact diagnosis. We never truly learned exactly what he has and what were the exact causes. All we have is speculation.

Becoming a caregiver was complicated for me. I was angry because I couldn’t secure a job no matter how hard I worked. I was dealing with several of my own unhealed traumas. Having to simultaneously care for another human being and myself seemed insurmountable then. I resented my father for not taking better care of his health while he was himself. I resented that he was so bad with money that he never thought to prepare for his future after retirement. He lived every day like it was his last day on Earth and our entire family had to go along for the wild ride. Now here I was paying for his mistakes.

I’m unmarried and child-free. I've never taken care of another human being before. Caregiving was the first time I had any heavy responsibility. I know it’s not exactly the same as being a parent, but the responsibility is still huge. My dad became like this overgrown toddler, but he was growing in reverse. His milestones were being removed one by one. The words were escaping him like evaporating smoke. He became aggressive, hard to handle, and every day weaker than the previous day.

Being in his presence every single day, I learned a lot about the healthcare system. I also learned about their attitudes toward the elderly population. I realized that once people retired, they were deemed insignificant. I learned that there were next to zero resources for the elderly population. You either had to be very rich or very poor to get any sort of help. For a man who worked so hard his entire life it all but broke me seeing him discarded like he was worthless. I shifted my mentality from that of anger and pain to that of advocacy. I’ve become outspoken when it comes to his care. I got to know the man that I once knew as my father, and he has become my very best friend.

I don’t romanticize the role he played during my childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood. I remember well the type of man my father was. I also recognize that everyone is entitled to process pain in their own way, and this is how I choose to process mine. I don’t want to hold onto any anger. I don’t want to hold onto any past resentment. The man who lays in that hospital bed in my family’s living room is not the man we once knew. Even though he didn’t ask for dementia to ravage his brain, I strongly believe that this was his destiny.

Because of this treacherous disease, I got to spend time with my father. I got to know this version of him. I got to hear him praise me when he still had the words left to use. He told me he loved me. He called me his jewel. Even now when all he’s left with is nothing more than baby babble, I know he loves me. I know he loves me when he smiles as he recognizes me entering the room. He holds my hand with a mighty strength I, myself, do not have. I know he appreciates me. I know he’s grateful I’m there for him. I’m grateful too because I got to do something remarkable. I got to repair a very broken relationship between a father and a daughter. I am complete for the first time in my life and have a relationship with both of my parents, not only my mother. My father, gratefully, is stable and thriving at eighty years old. He is comfortable and happy. He loves his cartoons, our beloved cats, his toy dolly, his books, and yummy foods. I’m grateful for every day I still have with him.

During this time, I’ve also started writing and creating art full-time. A lot of what I write about focuses on what my family and I went through during my father’s illness. I also focus my work on my own mental health struggles. I’ve learned a lot about myself as well. I learned that I have "acquired neurodivergence." This is due to my complex post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and anxiety. I’ve become more aware of my various eating disorders. I’ve learned why it was so difficult for me to make and keep friends. I've learned why I could never forge lasting and meaningful relationships. I also learned why I’d always quit or get fired from every job I’ve ever held. Even though I'm in extreme poverty, this time helped me grieve for everything I lost due to my past traumas. I never got to stop and process what happened to me throughout my life. During my time as a full-time caregiver, I chose to work on healing while also repairing the damage—all while being there for my family.

I recently learned that my love language is "acts of service." I do feel that defines who I am perfectly. I give a lot of myself to others and sometimes I am resentful that I seldom get that same level of love and care back. It's complicated though because I like the idea of being relied upon. I like being there for others even though I don’t have anyone to be there in the same capacity. There’s a lot of work left needed to help the elderly population age with grace. There’s also a lot of work left to help the mental health community. We need to be there more for each other even during times when we ourselves are spread a little thin. We need to check in on each other more often. We need to decide what we feel comfortable offering to others. Whether it is to call, text, video chat, invite for a cup of coffee, give a hug, or any other form of support, that's your choice. You may think that those are small and insignificant acts. To me, those small acts are the difference between losing or saving a life.

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2016-2023.

This is a version of me reading and singing my three poems, "To My Inner Child," "In Recovery," and "John of Art," that you would've watched for the Trauma Survivors poetry reading event that was postponed. The new date is scheduled for August 13th, 2023. You can register for the event virtually or if you're in the New Hampshire area you can see The Portrait Project Exhibition live and in person while also hearing the performances of several trauma survivors reading their work. The event is free both in person or virtually but donations for Danielle Festa's Aplomb Gallery and The Portrait Project are welcome and greatly appreciated! Use my link tree link below to register for the event: https://linktr.ee/themoonlitgoddess

As always, thank you so much for your continued support!

I spent the summer in rural Portugal when I was seven. I loved how free I was at the time. On my grandparents’ farm, I was able to roam and explore and play with the dirt and get messy and have adventures. I’d never experienced such freedom before in my life! I became Huckleberry Finn. I could go barefoot. I could get dirty and ruin my clothes and I just adored that independence and craved more!

My grandmother would try to teach my siblings and me small phrases in Portuguese. She tried teaching us easy words and phrases like “please” and “thank you.” My grandmother would save cookies for us for dessert as a treat every night. She would have us ask for one in Portuguese and say please and thank you. I couldn’t understand the words she was saying. The inflection and the sounds were unfamiliar to me. I also couldn’t hear her. Being excessively shy, I couldn’t ask her to repeat herself and I was afraid of her. I just forewent the cookies because I felt it was easier than just asking for them in a language I didn’t understand or hear. I would just sit on the couch crying quietly as my brother and sister enjoyed the cookies that I was supposed to be enjoying.

One night, my siblings and I were playing outside. My baby brother was swinging on the farm gate shouting playfully as he swung back and forth. Not realizing what I was doing, I thought it would be fun for him if I swung him around. His small hand was on the edge of the bar where the gate closed. His thumbnail flew right off causing my brother to bleed profusely and shriek one of the most blood-curdling screams I ever heard.

My grandmother and mother rushed outside to see what had happened. I was a nervous wreck. It was a total accident, but I knew what was coming would be very bad for me. My grandmother locked the gate and then dragged me into the house by the ear. She then threw me across the linoleum scraping my knees very badly. I began bleeding. I started crying and rushed to my bedroom to avoid further assaults.

Guilt did not begin to describe how I felt. How stupid of me! I kept to myself for the next few days, not eating much. I kept hoping that eventually, everyone would somehow forgive me. My mother came to me one day smiling. She asked how I was and gave me a chocolate chip cookie. Grateful, my shoulders stopped tensing. I felt a little less carefree, a little less free-spirited. I felt guarded and fought to stay under the radar. I asked my mom to teach me basic Portuguese so that I could finally be rewarded with a cookie after dinner and fit in with my brother and sister. I hated feeling alone. I hated feeling like an outcast. But these feelings perpetuated throughout my life.

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2016-2023.

I think of this artistic journey I’ve been on since the fall of 2016 and I think about how much I’ve matured and grown not only on a personal level but on a spiritual one as well. I’ve been tinkering with new media and I’ve truly become a Jill of all trades in the art field and am willing to dive in and try anything at least once. I enjoy all of them equally. I love writing everything from blogs, poetry, fiction, non-fiction, children’s books, etc. I love singing and songwriting, I love screenwriting. I love photography. I love creating art, but traditional methods of art creation are just not in my budget.

I’ve found a home with digital art and I’m engrossed in learning different techniques, finding what is most challenging for me, finding what I’m most comfortable and naturally better at, and finding my artistic fingerprint in my digital art pieces. Digital art has provided a place to store all of my anger, my grief, my pain, my suffering, and my struggles. This journey truly has become art therapy for me. I marvel at how I was when I first began, looking at my previous children’s books illustrations to where I’m at now with digital art and I can see how far I’ve come and how much I’ve learned since I started.

I always felt a gaping hole in my heart, and I always felt a longing for something missing in my life. In my twenties I chased men thinking that they were the answer to my grief, to that longing for something missing, I thought through their company I’d somehow feel complete. I thought all of the dead-end jobs I endured before becoming a full-time caregiver would somehow fill the gaping wounds that only grew larger as I got older. Neither of those things was the answer and that sense of yearning for something more always remained.

My mental health struggles became like an unwanted supernatural gift I acquired quite young like something out of the movie Teen Witch only I would never be “the most popular girl” or watch my friends have cool rap battles in the middle of the street telling each other to “top that.” It has been way more traumatic and devastating than that and I’ve deteriorated dramatically over the years growing angrier, more bitter, more lost, and more resentful. When I began therapy, I found a place to put all those feelings and started filling up that proverbial hole that I thought was missing. It was like I was symbolically filling in the crevices with cotton balls until I slowly became somewhat whole enough to begin focusing on my life for once and evaluate what I truly wanted.

I don’t think I ever was at a place before in my life where I felt free enough to honestly give a thought to where I wanted to be and the path that I wanted for myself. That sensation, that thing I thought I lacked, I realized, was freedom. Freedom to be who I truly am. Freedom to be the person I’ve always wanted to become without worrying about what others thought of me. Freedom to live in this body without guilt or shame. It’s been one hell of a journey but I’m in love with who I am becoming. For the first time in my whole life I love who I am and am so damn proud of every ounce of strength I’ve accumulated like power-ups in a video game!

Today’s art piece was a victory! I can’t believe I created that!! Some animals are easier to draw than others. I wanted to create a Valentine’s day themed piece but add a level of absurdity to it hence the use of the shark. I’m so in love with how this turned out! Some pieces are hits and some are misses, but I really love this piece. This one took about four hours in total to complete. I meticulously hand drew, colored in, and shaded that shark and I’m most proud of how its mouth and teeth turned out. I jokingly call this piece, “Love Shark, baby,” as a nod to the classic song, “Love Shack.” I figured it was a fun title given the theme and given Valentine’s Day is vastly approaching.

#digitalart #art #valentinesday #february #artist #artwork #digitalpainting #digitalillustration #digitalartist #procreate #instaart #artoftheday #illustrator #digitalartwork #myart #conceptart #artofinstagram #sharks #sharks #lovesharkbaby #loveshack #artistsofinstagram #cptsd #cptsdrecovery #posttraumaticgrowth #depressioninart #depression #anxiety #neurodivergent #arttherapy

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2023.

Trigger Warning: The following contains discussions regarding trauma and mental illness struggles. Reader discretion is advised.

I was long overdue for my first mammogram. Two things prevented me from going right when I turned 40. Turning 40 right at the start of the pandemic kind of put a hold on maintaining my health in general. The main reason; however, was due to past traumas I've experienced. Being someone with CPTSD, depression, and anxiety, it takes an awful lot to convince myself to go to the doctor.

I'm very much like Jay Novello's character on I Love Lucy when he portrayed that timid man who needed a quiet place to stay and decided to sublet the Ricardo's apartment when they were planning to go away for a few months while Ricky's band played out of state. The whole plan turned to shit and they ended up not needing to sublet the apartment. When their rational efforts to try and get their tenant to leave didn't work, they resorted to extraordinary measures essentially terrifying the poor, broken man until he eventually left of his own accord.

That's exactly the level of nervousness I felt making the appointment, arriving at the appointment, waiting almost an hour to go in, disrobing and exposing myself, and trusting someone enough to touch my body (which is one of the most difficult things for me given my traumas). I felt so out of control and riddled with anxiety as it was.

The individual performing my mammogram was friendly enough but I felt uneasy around her. She had gotten the first scan done of my right breast and I thought to myself, "Okay, maybe this isn't so bad." I informed the person that I was anxious and she assured me that I was doing fine. She said, "I have a secret to tell you after you're done with your scan." I know they are not supposed to say anything to you about your scans whatsoever because they are not the doctor but I was wondering in my head if the secret she was planning to tell me was that I was alright.

She then proceeded to scan my left breast and had to repeat the imaging once more claiming she had to make sure the skin appeared smooth in the image and to make sure there were no folds. She was finally done with the scan and I was able to take a huge breath of relief but then she started acting peculiar, at least in my own perception.

She now had no secret to tell me and started grilling me asking me all these questions after the scan of my left breast. After the test was done she was asking me if I had gotten my Covid vaccine and if so, when was the last time I received the latest dose and which arm I received it, etc. She also said to not be surprised to get a letter in the mail asking me to repeat the scan and claimed it was routine because I had never gotten a mammogram done before and had no previous baselines to compare my results with. She further explained that that was normal procedure and not to worry. But now I am worried.

From the look on her face and from her repeated line of questioning and her telling me that I may get a letter in the mail to repeat the scan, what else does one do but jump to conclusions? She made me believe there was something wrong with my left breast. How was I honestly expected to just go home and sit around and wait a whole week to receive my letter to inform me of my impending doom? I was simply crestfallen. I went home and I told my mom and sister and they told me that first of all, the woman had no right to scare me and shouldn't have said anything. Second of all, my sister did preliminary research, we are not doctors mind you, but sometimes Google can ease your mind enough to just let things go until you do hear from your doctor. She read how sometimes the Covid vaccine can muck up the results of a scan.

So, I felt somewhat comforted but being someone with immense anxiety, my mind was already in another realm. In my head, I was already writing my goodbye letter to my family. Being poor, there's no need for a will unless you want me to bequeath my dust. I even told my sister my final wishes upon my death. She looked at me like I was nuts and said incredulously, "Why are you telling me this? You're going to be fine!" How was I supposed to know that? That woman scared me shitless!

I spent the whole week keeping myself incredibly busy. I spent hours working on my several projects each day just trying to do everything and anything to prevent my mind to start wandering deep, dark places. I started thinking about what would happen to my parents if I died, and who would take proper care of them. I started really looking around and wondering what my immediate world would look like without me there.

To an individual without anxiety, reading this is probably very foreign. Reading this I can see how one might think I was absolutely out of my gourd. But to someone like myself, who I learned is neurodivergent, I don't think like the average person. My mind takes me to incredible places when I am scared and sometimes can not rationally talk myself down that proverbial ledge.

Yesterday came and the mail arrived. The letter was sitting on the dining room table. I made my way there to have some lunch and sat down. My brother hands me the letter. He tells me simply, "It's here." My legs nearly give way. Blood is rushing through my ears and everything around me is silent. This is it. This is the moment. The letter may not say definitively that something is wrong but like the woman said maybe I will have to come in to repeat the scan to make a baseline to see if this is my version of normal.

Fighting tears, I finally gather the courage to open the letter. The envelope was flat. It consisted of a single page. I was kind of thinking about how college acceptance letters are. If you get in you know that the package is going to be huge and if you're rejected the university reluctantly wastes a stamp on you just to write two words, "You suck," in either Times New Roman, Calibri, Courier New, or whichever fucking font is the standard these days.

Does a thin letter mean cancer? Or does it mean I'm going to be okay?

I take the letter out of the envelope not being able to read it at first. I was so anxious all the letters from each of the words looked blurred and jumbled. I took a deep, staggering breath and tried reading the letter once more.

"We are pleased to tell you that the results of your mammogram came back normal."

I let out a huge breath of relief. I felt dizzy and lightheaded.

My first thoughts were obviously, "Yay!"

My second thoughts were, "Damn that woman for scaring the crap out of me!" I was all set to write a letter to the "Make A Wish" Foundation to have my favorite singer perform for me before I die! (Just joking, of course!) I was telling people where to scatter my ashes when I finally bought the farm. Holy crap. I couldn't believe the huge ordeal I was put through just because I decided to be responsible and take control of my own health.

I wish I had some empowering words for other anxious individuals who need to get their first mammograms. I just dove in, nose first, scared out of my britches, or out of my bra, in my case. There are no magic words, no soothing sage advice. I just wish that woman saved me a whole week of grief and kept her opinions to herself and not instilled sheer and utter terror in me.

I wish you fellow anxious ladies much prosperity and luck. I hope you all get adequate healthcare and try and take as good care of yourselves as you're able to.

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2022.

I typically enjoy good writing challenges and was asked to create a potential "how we met" story but alas I received no reply back offering any feedback.

Hating to waste a good story, I decided to post my flash fiction piece here. I thought it was a cute little feel-good story about how a potential couple could meet.

I hope you enjoy it, everyone!

Have a happy, safe, and prosperous new year!

"Untitled New Year's Eve Flash Fiction Romance"

It was New Year's Eve close to midnight in New York City. Not exactly the greatest place to be when you're a shy introvert wanting to be as invisible as possible. I'm in an expensive party dress which was given as a gift since I don't normally have money for such extravagances. My hair is done, and my makeup is pristine. I am curvier than I would like but the dress flatters my figure just in the right ways. I find a safe haven in a bar but am surprised by how few people are there. Relieved, I find a remote corner and I order myself a gin and tonic. The television is blasting Ryan Seacrest's NYE coverage which is ironic since it literally is happening mere blocks from the bar. I meet your eyes by accident and I groan at the mistake.

"Great, he is going to come over and talk to me," I grumble to myself.

You walk over wearing an impeccably tailored black pea coat that perfectly complements your piercing greyish-blue ocean-water eyes. Drink in hand, you simply smile at me. I roll my eyes thinking all you want is to get in my pants.

"Mind if I keep you company?" You ask me confidently.

"It's still a free country. Be my guest," I reply with my typical biting tone.

You pleasantly surprise me. You're absolutely charming and warm and funny and kind and we not only missed the countdown to midnight but ended up chatting until sunrise. You settle both our tabs in this easy gentlemanly way I find so old-fashioned but endearing.

You walk me outside and ask where I live. "New Jersey," I reply.

"You're a ways from home. Will you manage getting home?"

"Well, I got here in one piece, I am sure I can manage to get home in the same condition."

"Will I ever see you again," you ask as I begin walking away.

"You know you just might. You just very well might."

I say my last words to you as I wink and blow you a kiss walking away until my figure silhouettes and blurs from your view. You make to grab your keys from your pocket and you find a napkin with some ink scribbled on it.

"Maybe sooner than you think," was written on it with a lipstick print and a cell phone number.

You smirk a devilish grin as you walk in the opposite direction I left.

The End.

#flashfiction #author #independentauthor #indieauthor #selfpublished #romance #newyearseve #newyears #newyearnewyou #easyreads #freestory #happynewyear #prosperity #happiness

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2022.

The day has finally arrived! I've released my fourth poetry anthology, Brick by Brick!

It is available through Amazon, as usual, and is available as an eBook, paperback, or hardcover. This is the first book I am offering in hardcover format. The image on the right is the author "proof" of my book.

I remember doing some volunteer work a few years ago. I worked alongside a woman who worked for a traditional publishing company and I had asked her what it took to get a book accepted at her publishing company. And she scoffed at me and gave me a look up and down and simply told me that they only accepted books that were deemed "precious," basically insinuating that I was incapable of "precious" writing myself. After this long sojourn, and finally releasing Brick by Brick, I can honestly say that this amalgamation of art and writing is quite sufficiently "precious."

This was the darkest bit of work I've written. This is the first book I've written with a proper trigger warning included. My work dives deep into the abyss of the most atramentous sorrows of my soul. But just as my writing is dark, there always lingers hope: because through every dark path, eventually, you'll find the light. It's not all sadness, though. I do get mushy and have a poem for my mom, who is also very precious to me. I've also included a horror short story, George, to go along with the darkened theme.

I'm so proud of this work. I'm happy to be able to share this bit of success with you all! Thanks for all of your continued interest and support in my writing and art and life in general. I appreciate you being here and giving me a sense of purpose.

If interested, you can order my book or order stickers featuring my artwork through my Red Bubble. Both links are available through this link here: Thank you!

Below, you'll find the official release video of my book! Thank you all once again!

Happy Holidays, everyone!

#amwriting #darkmusings #brickbybrick #psglopes #themoonlitgoddess #indieauthors #selfpublished #amazon #kdp #writers #indieauthor #paperback #hardcover #ebook #art #illustrations #digitalillustrations #redbubble #artwork #poems #poetry #poem #happyholidays #christmas #blessed #thankyou #depression #anxiety #cptsd #neurodivergent #mentalhealthawareness #endthestigma #mentalhealth #selfcare #loveyourself #loveoneanother #triggerwarning #trauma

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2022.

The Summer of 2022 unexpectedly became the summer of me. I started doing a lot of things for myself. I finally began seeing a therapist to help me unbox the numerous traumas I've endured. It was a relief to have a solidified diagnosis of Complex PTSD accompanied by chronic depression and anxiety. Mental health awareness has always been important to me, not just because of my own struggles, but because of what my father has gone through for the past ten years with dementia.

Another feather in my cap happened this past July as I signed up for a certificate program for female entrepreneurs. The class I most recently completed discussed biases women face as entrepreneurs and I realized after reading all the supplemental materials how biases exist for women, particularly myself, in every aspect of our lives.

When I first began writing in 2016, I hadn’t realized how very important this journey was going to be for me. I learned so much about writing, art, and self-publishing, but primarily, I learned the most about myself. I learned that despite all the varied obstacles I’ve faced since I began this harrowing journey, I am made of the truest grit that makes up the strong, passionate, driven, ambitious woman that I am today.

I have so many odds against me. I’ve been chastised about my weight my entire life. I was perpetually blamed for my appearance. I always blamed myself for not looking like the thinner members of my family and I somehow linked my genetic predisposition to look this way as it somehow being all my fault. I did the whole dieting and exercise bit since time immemorial, but I always resorted back to this figure. So, guess what? This is me. I need to get over it, but above all else, everyone else must get over it too.

Aside from my inescapable figure, time eludes me as well and I’m getting older by the millisecond. So, being considered fat and old and female, I might as well just lay down and die, right? Fuck, no! I work a million times harder. I’m more determined to fight and to prove that I am capable of so much more than people have given me credit for over the years. Looking the way I do, being soft-spoken and shy, I’ve been discounted in every way imaginable. I’ve been labeled fat, dumb, lazy, unambitious, stupid, uneducated, weak, undisciplined, etc. What is the extremely ironic and humorous part of that is that I am the most educated woman in my family. I have the most traditional education and have accomplished the most.

I never agreed with the term “self-made” because no one is self-made. Someone out there made someone who they are no matter how much money or influence you feel you may have. Even myself, with absolutely zero dollars in the bank, I am fully aware that I would not be where I am if it hadn’t been for my family whether through their financial help or their motivational help. But the biases persist.

I’ve had two instances most recently of being diminished, condescended to, and disrespected due to my being female. First, I was asked to assist with the design of a book cover for a fellow self-published author. It was a pro bono piece. I found it to be good practice for the freelancing service that I provide and felt it was good to pad my resume with the experience. The issues began almost immediately, and I take equal blame for the experience, and I learned a lot throughout. I found him to be a very poor communicator, never uttered the word thank you, and it was clear he wasn’t happy with my work. Instead of saying that he wasn’t interested and wanted to go a different direction, he all but ghosted me until the book was finally finished. Even though the fonts were different it was still more or less the design I had come up with based on his specifications. I waited patiently, like Edmond Dantes from The Count of Monte Cristo to see what this man was going to do. Was he going to give me credit for at least the early collaboration of the design or was he going to just chalk it up to a figment of both our imaginations?

So, yesterday I finally got to see the book in person. I looked through the entire book not giving a damn about the contents. You all know exactly what I was looking for! The acknowledgments. And BOOM! There it was. The word “design” and a name beside it. Okay, the last name was right. The right bloodline. As my heart stopped beating, I realized tragically what had just transpired. He wrote someone else’s first name! Not only did he not respect the person he was speaking to on the other line during our collaboration, but he also didn’t even know who he was speaking to the whole time and never asked how I would like my name printed or even to ask who he was speaking with at the very least! To say I was disappointed isn’t even accurate. Dumbfounded, enraged, furious, disgusted, and finally…prepared. I knew something was going to go wrong, but I wasn’t planning on this.

When I texted him to point out the error, the best I got was “I don’t know how this happened. I’m sorry.” No taking accountability for the mistake. No offer to amend the error in future publications. I deserve to be recognized for the sixteen hours of free labor I put into the design even though the final piece he chose to outsource. Ultimately, I was magnanimous and let it go. I wasn’t going to be rude and start a confrontation even though my deranged “id” self wanted to pee on him while screaming “BOOMER” in his face incredulously! This was the worst example of the type of biases I’ve endured since I’ve begun writing and producing art full-time.

Another recent example, though minor in comparison, still angered me to no end! I went in for a job interview and I was proud that I met the gentleman quip for quip. People are always saying to create separate resumes for each job, but I felt that in this instance highlighting that I was a Jill of all Trades could be seen as a benefit.

Right from the gate, I got mocked for my writing. I find that this is a way for threatened people to put me in my place. To mock me, to diminish my abilities, to minimize my accomplishments, and so on. He even thought he would be cute and tell me about some obscure author thing. I still to this moment don’t know what he was talking about whether it was an app or a website, etc. I’m almost 100% sure he made it up on the spot to make himself sound smarter that he got one on me and that he knew something that I did not.

Clear that this interview was going nowhere, I politely finished the interview and followed up a week later as he asked. Which was another thing. I had to chase him down. I thought to myself, “Why am I fighting for something I don’t even want anymore?” There are moments when I am so poor and watching other people thriving and getting ahead when I know of the fire and passion that grows deep inside me, infuriates me. My greatest Achilles heel is worrying too much about other people’s opinions of me. I have a clear and set goal, but I derail myself and think, “Maybe I will sign up for this for some quick money,” knowing full well that it is self-sabotaging my life’s goals.

Through these experiences, I’ve learned a lot as I’ve mentioned. I need to stop caring so much about what other people do. I need to worry about my own goals, and I have to realize that not everyone has been where I am. Not everyone has the background and education I have. Not everyone has the same vision, drive, ambition, and passion that I have. And that’s fine. But what’s not fine is allowing myself to continually be punished and poisoned by those who are hell-bent on misunderstanding me, putting me in my place, condescending to me, and diminishing my abilities and my talent. To those people, I politely say, “Good day, sir!” And I continue pursuing my goals and marching forward in hopes of someday finally making my dreams a reality.

NaNoWriMo is just about at the halfway mark. I’m halfway done with my fourth poetry anthology, “Brick by Brick.” I’m very excited to present this work to you. It’s my most mature piece to date. The illustrations are so fun. I’m so proud of myself for everything I’ve done so far. I had an interesting conversation with a family friend last night and he asked a good question.

He asked, “What purpose do illustrations serve for poetry?”

Thoughtfully, I explained to him that I’ve always included some sort of art whether it was photography, digital art, illustrations, etc. The purpose is two-fold. The whole book is meant to be an experience hence the art accompanying the writing. Also, some people are visual learners and thinkers and appreciate the blend of artwork with writing. I give the audience variety while experiencing my work. If you don’t get or appreciate the poetry aspect, maybe you’ll be able to connect with the art attached to it.

I love poetry because it’s a secret code between myself and the paper I write on. I am thinking one way when I’m writing but if I gave my poetry to five different people, they may interpret my work in five different ways. Everyone will read into it what they need to get out of my work and there is no wrong answer. My work has always been and will forever be very dark and may not be for everyone. I am a lifelong struggler with depression and anxiety so the way I process what is going on around me is through my art whether it is written or via another form. But either way, all of my work is my entire heart and soul, and I am so excited to present my latest piece to you hopefully by December 7th depending on how the publishing aspect, but I am definitely still poised to finish by November 30th and begin the self-publishing aspect December 1st.

I thank you all for taking the time to read this latest piece of mine. I get angry about a lot of things that happen to me and I forget that I have this blog to talk through things that are going on in my life and have these important discussions that will hopefully resonate with people much like myself.

#mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness #neurodivergent #author #artist #amwriting #femaleentrepreneur #nanowrimo #darkmusings #poetryanthology #brickbybrick #psglopes #themoonlitgoddess #art #writing #selfpublishing #indieauthor #kdp #ebook #paperback #genderbiases #biases #freelance #realtalk #fat #bodypositivity #ageism

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK IS THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2022.

In 2014, I decided to sign up for a pen pal site while I was convalescing from my gall bladder surgery. Since then I've met quite a few interesting characters. Some were really kind, some were really rude, and some just didn't mesh well with my personality so we amicably parted ways or have even ghosted one another. I learned to not take it personally and just move on. I've even met my ex-fiance there and even with what happened between us not working out, I don't regret the experience. I recognize the mistakes I made in our relationship and how I handled things and wish I had done things differently but I don't regret the overall experience. It taught me a lot about myself and I am grateful to have met him.

Yesterday and today were very different and I just encountered the most terrifying individual yet. I think it is worth writing about in order for me to mentally process what exactly happened but also to serve as a fair warning to others before pursuing any sort of friendship or acquaintances online. Yesterday morning I received a random email from a former pen pal. Apparently, over a year ago we had talked, I didn't really remember him much but he seemed pleasant enough so we spent the entire day chatting. It was very pleasant and I had one of the best days chatting with this guy. I then went to go grab dinner for my family and then he completely changed. His tone changed completely and was talking about online dating. He was talking about how attracted he was to me. I even felt comfortable enough showing him my author profile and discussing my art and writing with him. Then it went from the normal casual conversation to a bit more romantic. I'm no stranger to flirtatious encounters online. I'm not really one to date one on one anymore. I prefer my romantic encounters online just because I have a lot going on personally and after what went on between my ex-fiance and me, even four years later I just am not ready mentally for anything deeper.

So, we had our little fun flirtations and what not and he's talking about how he made a mistake messaging me and dismisses me and wants to stop talking and I'm a fairly rational pretty grounded down to earth woman so I tried rationalizing with him. I really should've just let him go at the first sign that he didn't seem very well-adjusted but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. So we squared things away and continued to talk and as far I was concerned we were alright. But the next red flag was he was talking about having kids. He already had one kid he had abandoned in another country and was estranged from him and began talking about having more kids. I addressed that this morning to him saying I wasn't interested and that maybe he was missing out on his relationship with his own son and should consider maybe fixing that relationship. Then he went on a rant about how I was a vile horrible human being. He continued telling me how offended he was by what I said and that I didn't have any right to comment on the situation. He then went on a multiple email rant calling me every name in the book, using things I had told him against me in one of the most deranged and vicious attacks I'd ever encountered as his way of diminishing me, gaslighting me, wounding me, and putting me down.

I often take for granted my level of education and I realize when others are hurt they attack in a way that's familiar to them and his childish way to get at me was so sad and I obviously wasn't offended at all because what I was witnessing was someone who was clearly very, very deeply troubled. I foolishly trusted him way too fast and let a complete stranger get too intimate too quickly and I now recognize my mistake. I also should've blocked him right when it became toxic but my primal instinct took over and I resorted to the silly Kindergarten name-calling right back and I decided to stop and officially blocked him. I feel so bad for this person and regardless of how it ended, I honestly wish him some inner peace and I hope he gets what he needs to make himself whole as a person.

His attempt to use terror, intimidation, name-calling and other means to discredit me or diminish me as a human being is indicative of his abusive tendencies and it was a blessing that this was revealed right away. I don't normally regret my encounters. As I've said, I've made so many cool friends via pen pals. I hate that this happened the way it did. And despite how ugly it ended, I genuinely wish him the help he needs. People are always so ashamed to admit they need help. Seeking therapy and asking for help is one of the bravest things a human being can do. It's the greatest form of self-care. I reached out for help and I'm proud of myself for doing so. You get to a point in your life where you get tired of running around in circles and not being able to achieve the things you so desperately want for yourself and everyone deserves. We all deserve to carve out a nice slice of heaven for ourselves. We all deserve to be cherished and heard. We all deserve to heal from our past traumas. We all deserve to feel safe and loved. I wish that for this gentleman even with the horrific things he said to me. I'm not a vile person, I'm beautiful inside and out. I'm talented, loving, loyal, honest, beautiful, giving, caring, and an amazing friend, sister, and daughter.

For those seeking pen pals, please do so with caution. I live in a relatively sheltered area so I tend to be very welcoming and trusting but I've learned my lesson to be more cautious and more choosy who I share my life story with from now on. I think this was a hard lesson for me and scared me a lot because I am not accustomed to encountering many disturbed individuals. But this is a lesson I only had to learn once. I'm telling you all this so that you guys can learn from my experience and hopefully you'll encounter some really great pen pals as I've had in the past.

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2021. (Today's blog photo derived from Golden Girls Magnets I bought that I photographed).

2008, 2009, and 2010 were pivotal years in my life. After I had lost my job as a teacher in 2006, I had lost myself and was shattered both mentally and physically. It took me two years to pick myself up and dust myself off before moving on with my life and there was only one thing that served as my emotional salve. Sitcoms.

I was always a huge fan of sitcoms. They were always a sanctuary—my place of comfort. A family and home away from home. Golden Girls and I Love Lucy have always been my top two all-time favorite sitcoms. I grew up watching these classics and all four Golden Girls and Lucille Ball have been like fictional surrogate mothers to me. In 2008, 2009, and 2010, we lost Estelle Getty, Bea Arthur, and Rue McClanahan, respectively. I remember in 2010, I had boldly and bravely driven myself on my first solo trip all the way down to Washington, D.C. as part of my residency hours in graduate school. I remember in my introduction speech in my class I had mentioned Rue McClanahan’s passing and feeling “magenta” when I got to my destination. In Golden Girls, Blanche explained, “Magenta… that’s what I call it when I get that way. All kinds of feelings tumbling over themselves. Well, you know, you’re not quite blue, cause you’re not really sad. And although you’re a bit jealous you wouldn’t say you’re green with envy. And every now and then you realize you’re kinda scared but you’d hardly call yourself yellow. I hate that feeling. Just hate it. And I hate the color Magenta. No way to really explain it but fortunately between friends you don’t have to.” I felt a lot of things during my journey. I felt scared, lonely, uncertain, but yet I was exhilarated, proud, and looking toward the future.

In 2018, I suffered another devastating loss when I decided to end my engagement with my fiancé after discovering his double life. Here I was feeling Magenta again. And again it took me two years to get over the devastation. It didn’t take my two years to get over him, necessarily. It was the betrayal and loss of that special connection with someone, anyone, which destroyed me the most. I went from spending countless hours talking to someone. Like the Golden Girls theme song, I had thought of my ex, “your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant.” But he was none of those things.

It took me two whole years to rid myself of that deafening silence where it once held the uncontrollable giggles I’d get from talking to my ex. It took two whole years to come to terms with the fact that not all people were good and that I couldn’t just blindly give myself 100% to someone like I had with him. He was my first, real true love. I had so many hopes and dreams and he made me believe I had a bright and shining future. That all came crashing down New Year's Eve at midnight his time in 2018 edging into 2019. I remember the first thing I said to my sister post-breakup was, “Where do I go from here? Who is going to fill those lonely hours? How do I go on from here?”

From that point on were some of the hardest months of my life. I had this huge attic bedroom and office that haunted me in the beginning because he had helped build that space and the memories I had of him and me there tortured me. I needed an escape. I needed a way to heal. Guess what I turned to? The Golden Girls. I’d spend hours at night watching episode upon episode because I was riddled with insomnia. Golden Girls was the only anti-venom I could find to siphon the poison from my blood to remove and permanently erase this horrific unfortunate tragedy. I watched every night faithfully, dutifully, nobly, brokenhearted, and empty. At first, the show just served as background noise. I wasn’t fully grasping the dialogue or following the story. Then eventually I started paying attention. Being hard of hearing, I watch television with subtitles, so I read along with the story.

I laughed, giggled, followed along and these four ladies got me through some horribly lonely, hollow nights. It played in the background through my loud mournful sobs, it played in the background when I contemplated suicide and thought of ways to do it before finally coming to my senses and realizing that would hurt my family more than myself. It played in the background when the first time I realized I stayed up until the sun shone against my face and I actually took the time to truly notice for the first time in a long time that a new day was upon me. It played in the background when it no longer served as my sanity but became a companion. Golden Girls was the only thing that helped heal my once inconsolable heart. I don’t watch it every night anymore but I do still adore this show. Today I heard that our Betty White passed away and now I am back to feeling Magenta again. But this time, instead of mourning, I will honor her memory and become inspired by the incredibly amazing legacy she left behind. To these four miraculous forces of nature, I have nothing else to say but “Thank you for being a friend!” Have a big slice of cheesecake for me up in Heaven! A most sincere and heartfelt thank you from every fiber of my being for helping me through several low moments in my life and some of my greatest victories from the past, present, and are yet to come!