Dearest Darling Ones,

I apologize in advance for this one. I’m about to do a bunch of things a writer should never do. I know this and am going to do it anyway. Mostly because I feel super shitty and I have found that typing it out sometimes makes me feel better.

I’m writing while hungry and low key dehydrated. I’m pretty despondent and been crying for roughly four hours, hence the dehydration. I’m being very melodramatic in my head and catastrophizing like a motherfucker. My feelings are hurt. I’m sad, and a little bit angry.

This afternoon Sister #2 texted Sister #4 and I that she and her family would be renting an Airbnb for Christmas instead of staying at Supergenius HQ. She said Thanksgiving was too stressful and uncomfortable. As you may recall, Sister #2 and I had what I called a small tiff on Thanksgiving night.

I knew she was mad after I defended myself from their constant “jokes” about my house and hosting. And even though I didn’t say anything out loud, I was pretty sure she’d do something to mess with Christmas.

From her point of view, I made Ben and her uncomfortable by asking all of them to back off the jokes because I was getting sensitive. She said it came out of nowhere and she felt trapped with nowhere to go. She said she wasn’t ignoring me the rest of the night, even though I was the only person she wasn’t speaking to, but rather disassociating because of the panic I caused. She accused me of being like our Dad.

In the text exchange where Sister #4 and I expressed our dismay at this turn of events, Sister #2 “encouraged” us to think about how she and Ben feel.

Because I know my role in this family, because I know I’m not a person who matters much in the grand scheme, because I know I only receive love when I do what people want, when I am pleasant and giving, I said nothing to defend myself. Instead, I apologized for making her feel that way and tried to explain that my only intention was to make the jokes stop. I did not encourage her to think about how I feel. I did not point out how she was only disassociating from me for the rest of the evening, while she, Sister #4, and Ben talked amiably about Sister #4’s new house.

In fact, I apologized three times throughout the multi-text conversation. I accept my role in making her uncomfortable. Not once did she apologize or recognized that my feelings had been hurt or that she had a role in hurting them.

See what I mean by being a person who doesn’t generally matter?

I lost Sister #3 for a similar reason during Christmas 2018. She accused me of putting conditions on my gifts, and I told her I felt like she used me. We didn’t speak again until my parents deposited her on my couch after she attempted suicide in September 2019. She used me right up until her doctor told said I could give her the pills back. Then I didn’t hear from her until all the Tibble stuff went down February 2020. She hasn’t spoken to me since I had to kick out Cade in April of 2020.

What truly hurts is that I know I am always one slip of the tongue away from being ostracized. I’ve known this for a long, long time and yet, I still pretend in my heart that Sister #2 is the only person who really cares about me. I frequently call her my tether to this Earth. I like to believe if I say it or think it enough, it will be true.

But it’s not, and I know that, and it hurts a lot to reminded of my precarious position in the hearts of my family.

Can we skip to 2022 now?
Jodi

The post Blue Christmas appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

Now that I’m back I need to get this first shitty post out of my system so I can get back to providing you with the slightly unhinged, occasionally thought-provoking, and mildly entertaining content you’ve come to expect from I Will Dare dot com.

For the record, I never consider what I produce on this website “content.” Barf. I think of it as a writing.

I trust you all survived the holiday unscathed. I almost did. I managed to cut the tip of my left index finger which is making typing super annoying. I also had a small tiff with Sister #2 on Thanksgiving night that I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

My family has this long-running joke about how awful it is to stay at Supergenius HQ and how everything is going to affect my Yelp review. I started this joke a long time ago and I’m regretting it.

This is amusing for a day or two. But after three days of hearing about how there’s too many plants, how it’s too dark, how the Internet was kind of wonky, how there’s Diet Coke instead of Diet Pepsi, how they have to make a second pot of coffee, it gets to be a bit much. It doesn’t help that it’s three against one.

When I woke up from a short nap after Thanksgiving dinner, Sister #2 jumped right on me with how loud I snored. I told her I needed her to back off a little. I explained that as my energy waned my sensitivity increased and the “jokes” were getting to me. She responded by saying sorry and then giving me the silent treatment for the rest of the night.

So that was fun and hasn’t at all given me a shit ton of anxiety about Christmas.

Up to that point, however, we had a pretty good week. The highlight was probably when Sister #2 and I serenaded Sister #4 with an a cappella version of Jeremey Messersmith’s “Ghost.” because of her ability to burn bridges even if she’s standing on them.

Ok. We’re back on the horse now,
Jodi

The post Fading Into View appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

Even though I haven’t even started reading the John Cougar Mellencamp biography my brain is chock full of JCM song title puns. I will not apologize for this. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.

So, I fell last week. In my living room. I didn’t fall so much as I tripped. I’m not entirely sure what the difference is. I tripped because I was wearing much too big for me pants. Theses pants hang off my hips and the crotch lands between my knees and my actual crotch, making them much too long so the cuffs drag on the floor. They’re nightmare pants and I’ve nearly tripped while wearing them before. What happens is I step on one of the cuffs without noticing and then I go to move the foot with the stepped on cuff and usually I get a little wobbly. Usually some windmill arms and dramatic “woah, woah, woahs” do the trick.

On Wednesday that did not happen. Instead my right foot folded in some kind of way and I ended up landing hard on my right knee. The adage about how the bigger they are the harder they fall is no joke. I fell hard and I have the purple toes and yellow shin/knee to show it. It’s gross and painful.

If I were the kind of person who took gross pictures of bruised, swollen feet I’d show you. I’m not. Also there’s a Canadian dude who likes to email every once in awhile who asks me a million questions about my feet and then ends the email begging for pictures of them. This is grosser than my foot looks right now.

I’m sensitive when it comes to my feet. I’ve been told my entire life that I have giant monster feet. My family used to call my shoes “ski boats.” At any gathering where I had to leave my shoes at the door, without fail some friend/cousin/random girl would start clomping around in my shoes and exclaim about how petite her own feet are. Same can be said about any jacket/sweater/hoodie I remove. Women love to wear my giant ass clothes to make themselves feel smaller and more womanly. This was a favorite bit of Sister #3’s when she was a teenager.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid-to-late thirties when I was dating a 6’2″ guy with size fourteen feet that I realized my feet are kinda small for my height. I wear a size 12 men’s shoe (a woman’s 14, I think, but I probably haven’t worn women’s shoes since I was ten) and I’m 6’5″.

Petiteness = femininity is the bane of my existence. I’m glad the youths are fucking with gender norms and that feminist thinking is all “take up space!” and “don’t shrink yourself!” Because being a 6’5″ woman and trying to adhere to strict gender roles was hard, and I was never confident enough or sure of myself enough to be unapologetically my size. Mostly I spent forty-plus years apologizing for my existence and hoping to be ignored.

Hurting myself sure brought up some feelings. I planned on making jokes about little piggies and delicious little smokies. I was gonna talk about sleeping twelve hours the other night and trying to keep the pain at bay. Instead, I’m all fuck you I’m a woman no matter my size and I will shove my giant monster foot up your ass if you try to make me feel bad about it.

Painfully, clumsily yours,
Jodi

The post When the Spinster Comes Tumbling Down appeared first on I Will Dare.

Because a stranger didn’t grab me off the street, beat me, tear off my clothes, and then penetrated me, and as far as I knew that was the only thing considered rape.
Because nobody ever told me there’s a million ways a man could hurt me and take away my sexual agency that wasn’t random stranger rape and all those things were wrong and not my fault.
Because I was drunk and maybe it wasn’t that bad?
Because I went into the room with him and his friend.
Because I got into his car.
Because he lived next door and I didn’t even know his name. Brian? Maybe?
Because once I started crying and shouting they stopped trying to shove their dicks into my mouth.
Because I was embarrassed.
Because I was afraid.
Because I’m fat I didn’t think anyone would believe me.
Because I’m fat I was afraid someone would think I should be thankful a man would want to touch me at all.
Because I didn’t think anyone would care.
Because I wasn’t entirely sure there was anything to tell.
Because it took me 20 years to learn that maybe these were things I should have told someone about.

The post Day 59 of 200: Reasons I Never Told appeared first on I Will Dare.

I’m having a breakdown and crying every ten minutes whenever I think about virtually anything. Sister #3 hates it here. The boys hate it here. We’re all miserable and there’s nothing I can do to make it any better. It’s a no-win situation, which makes me cry even harder. Voicing any displeasure means I’m “not being supportive.”

Today I lost it and cried about how I could use a little support. It seems everyone here has forgotten that I’m going through a bit of trauma all on my own aside from the whole invasion.

I’m so frustrated and I don’t know what to do. I can’t imagine what could make this shitty situation better. It hurts my feelings that she’s so miserable here. I’ve tried to be as open and as accommodating as I can be, and it’s not good enough.

I’m just so lost and hurt and afraid that I don’t even know what to do anymore.

The post Losing it appeared first on I Will Dare.