Greetings my feral, bright, and dark ones,

Today is my Ronnie’s birthday. He turns 56 years old today, a milestone that should be met with sugar, laughter, and a clean break from the noise. But things have not been super happy as they should be. Up until now, it’s been very somber in our house, and every single plan I spent months dreaming up has been sitting at a dead, paralyzed standstill.

Why? Because my mother is dead, and I am the only one left standing in the wreckage trying to sweep up the shrapnel.

I am quickly learning to absolutely fucking hate the month of May. It has turned into this cruel, suffocating loop of a calendar that keeps demanding my emotional energy when my reservoir has been empty for days. You’ve got Mother’s Day—which already felt like a malicious punch to the gut—sandwiched right between May 4th, the exact minute my mom’s life cut to black, and today. And just to twist the knife a little deeper, Ronnie’s dad’s birthday is lurking right in the shadow of his own passing last month. And right around the corner on May 19th? Grandma Todd’s birthday. The dates just keep stacking up like bricks on my chest. We aren’t just missing our people; we are navigating a desolate landscape where the very anchors of our lives are snapping one by one, leaving us to figure out how to be the adults in the room while the world expects us to smile. I am fucking over it. I am done.

With that said, I am going to unleash this one, unapologetic rant today, and I don’t give a solitary shit about who skips it. If anyone out there was actually, truly interested in how I am surviving right now, they would take two minutes out of their own selfish, self-centered nature to read my words. They would take them to heart, sit in the discomfort of them, and try to understand the magnitude of what I am dragging across the finish line alone. They’d read it, and they’d try to be better.

BUT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Instead, I reached out last night. I went into a family-only group chat, looking for a shred of connection, a safe place to land. And what did I get? The whole thing went completely sideways. I had to sit there and watch people telling each other to “shut the fuck up,” screaming that someone was being “too loud” or laughing at the wrong memories. No, motherfuckers!! You fucking dominated the entire group audio chat, turning a space that was supposed to be about ME and my mom into your own performative, toxic playground. You completely erased why we were even there.

That chat was supposed to be about ME AND MY FUCKING FEELINGS. But nobody gave a shit. Out of that entire room of people, exactly one person actually stopped to ask how I was doing. Just one. And do you know who it was? It was the exact person you motherfuckers were telling to shut the fuck up. You tried to silence the only person in the room showing real empathy because my actual, raw grief got in the way of your self-centered noise.

And you want to keep repeating her name? Keep talking about her and parading the “memories” you claim to have with her like props for your own little show? Yeah, that was fucking me up royally, too. But did you care? NO. You just cared about how you felt, how loud you could be, and how much space you could steal from the person who actually lost their mother.

Then, to top off the disrespect, you call me RACHEL!!!

I AM FUCKING RAE!!! RAE!! RACH!! RAE!!! I am Rachel because it is my legal name, and I do not use that name unless I absolutely fucking have to. If you cannot respect me enough to say Rach or Rae, then FUCK OFF.

Then, to hear Gail’s voice on the line and ask, “Ronnie’s Gail?” NO, cunt! My Gail.

And then you have the audacity to say, “Oh, you mean Ronnie’s ex-wife.” Okay, let me say this one final time for those of you sitting in the very fucking back: CUT THE FUCKING SHIT ABOUT GAIL BEING HIS EX-WIFE. Yes, she was. Do you hear me? WAS. Past tense. Today, she is my sister, she is one of my absolute best friends, and she is a lifeline. If you don’t fucking like it, I don’t fucking care. The day you fuck me, feed me, or finance me is the day you might get a tiny fraction of a say in who my family is—and even then, that is a massive goddamn might. Until then? Shut your mouths and back the fuck off.

To top off that entire circus, I was dismissed entirely by the bystanders. I was told to “just let it go. Keep living your life. Move on.” They actually sat there and told me to move on from what my sister—or as Ronnie now perfectly calls her, IT—did to me.

And you? You can sit there in your piece of shit, filthy house with your abusive man, getting drunk, doing drugs, and living a white-trash life, and tell ME how to live my life??? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!!!??? AGAIN, FUCK OFF!!!

Yes, I am saying this out loud right here on my page. I have to do it this way since obviously I am not going to be heard in a video chat, a voice chat, or a phone call because you cannot shut your fucking mouth long enough to hear me or listen to my words!

I am even actively considering cancelling my mom’s online memorial altogether because I already know you people will want to dominate and ruin that, too. This was supposed to be about Mom. I suggested a Taylor Ham, egg, and cheese breakfast, followed by chili cheese dogs, fries with gravy, and sundaes—bringing fun, vibrant things to make it a youthful event that actually reflected life. And what did it turn into? A chorus of whining: “I cannot afford this, I cannot eat that!” Followed by a pathetic bunch of “maybes.” But the best one ever? “I have no memories of anything.”Are you fucking serious?? You lived in our home, she took you in, and you remember absolutely nothing??

There are at least two people—and maybe more—doing this specific shit, so let’s lay down the new law right here: Don’t fucking come. It will be just a few chosen people who actually want to be a part of this and allow others to share. If not? Then fuck it. I will have my small, trusted tribe, and we will gather tomorrow as scheduled, or at another time entirely. And guess what? You are not invited.

Am I pissed? Yes the fuck I am, and I have every single right to be. Yes, right now I am making this entirely about ME!!! I AM THE ONE LIVING IT. You sit there and say you are too? No the fuck you are not! What the fuck are you actually doing to go through this other than getting high and living in your own little selfish world???? You aren’t doing a goddamn thing.

When I call you “my feral, bright, and dark ones,” this is exactly what the fuck I mean. Some of you won’t get it, and honestly, I don’t care. It’s an acknowledgment of the whole, raw, unfiltered human experience. It means welcoming the parts of us that are angry, protective, and completely untamed alongside the parts that are trying to heal, create, and hold down a full-time job.

I cannot be all sunshine, rainbows, and lollipops right now. Sunshine is a brutal, constant reality here in Arizona, and frankly, I could use some goddamn rain to wash away the dust. Rainbows? Hell, I haven’t seen a real one since last year. Lollipops? Fuck, I can’t even remember the last time I tasted something that sweet. When you are walking through a graveyard of digital ghosts, waking up flailing from nightmares, and fending off psychological attacks on your own lunch break, you don’t get to be “bright and sunny.” You have to call on that protective, feral energy just to keep your head above water. You cannot “move on” from a house that is still actively burning down around you; you have to put out the fucking flames first.

The Stolen Rituals

And that is the deepest, most agonizing part of this entire gauntlet. The grief doesn’t just stay in the emails, the legal paperwork, or the cold phone calls to Tennessee. It creeps through the front door and sits right here on our couch, actively stealing the joy from the people I love most.

I had this day planned for months. I wanted to do something fun, something beautiful for him. Normally, my kitchen is covered in flour because I’m baking Ronnie a “death by chocolate” brownie made with seven distinct kinds of chocolate. I cook him an incredible meal, and we actually escape the house to do something special. But we haven’t done a single fun thing in almost three years now because the universe just keeps dropping disasters on our doorstep. This gets so incredibly fucking old. And I am sick to my absolute death of hearing the lazy, dismissive cop-out: “Well, it’s just another day.” FUCK THAT TOO.

It is not just another day. It was supposed to be his day. Instead, I am so completely spent, so hollowed out by the technical and emotional weight of closing out a life, that my reservoir is entirely dry. It breaks my soul that the fallout of my mother’s passing has colonized this day and stolen it from him, too. Ronnie is holding space for me while I play detective and executor, and I am trying to hold space for him while his dad’s memory hangs heavy in the air. We are just two exhausted people trying to love each other through a thick, suffocating fog.

The Luxury of “Moving On”

Let’s talk about the absolute luxury it must be to tell someone to just “move on.” To look at a mountain of unfinished estate logistics, a literal box of cigarette smoke-damaged memories, and fifteen years of un-audited digital ghosts, and say, “Hey, just let it go!” Must be nice. Must be fucking great to live in a world where things just magically disappear because you choose not to think about them.

But I don’t live in that world. I live in the real one. Even today—right now, on Ronnie’s actual birthday—I had to go into my mom’s emails and manually delete over 30,000 emails across three different accounts that I have access to. Thirty. Thousand. Then I had to manually wipe her phone completely clean to clear out her data just so I can mail the physical hardware back to Spectrum.

And while I am sitting here doing the heavy, clinical, exhausting data-janitor work of death, you look at me and say, “Well, you did everything so far, so just let it go now and move on.” FUCK YOU, CUNT. You have never had to touch this shit. You have never had to systematically erase a person’s digital fingerprint or count out thirty thousand pieces of ghost-data while your chest is caving in, so FUCK YOU. Banks don’t accept “good vibes” instead of legal paperwork. Tennessee car titles don’t transfer themselves because I decided to “think positive.” One-way housing authorities will threaten an estate with a “14-day eviction notice” and vow to tow her car if someone doesn’t roll up their sleeves and handle the bureaucratic bullshit.

When you tell me to “let it go” or dismiss the damage that IT caused, what you’re really saying is, “Your exhaustion is depressing to watch, so please hide it so I can feel better.” FUCK. THAT.

Telling a person who is drowning in actual, physical, legal, and emotional labor to “keep living” isn’t advice—it’s a dismissal. It gives a free pass to everyone who walked away. It frames my survival mode, my righteous anger, and myboundary-setting as the problem, rather than the toxic behavior from IT and the rest of the spectators that forced me to build those walls in the first place. If I soften up, if I “let it go,” who handles the $3,200 cremation bills? Who blocks the goddamn trackers on my digital life? Who ensures Mom’s final wishes are handled “to the letter” instead of turned into a performative circus?

Nobody. So yeah, I am allowed to hate it. I am allowed to rage. And I am sure as hell allowed to tell anyone who tries to minimize this weight to back the fuck up.

The Crash and the Silence

Because of that fog, last night, I finally crashed and burned. My nights have been a total mind-fuck, haunted by recurring nightmares that scream at me how trapped I really am. I’m driving down desolate, abandoned roads with not a soul in sight, until a tall, lanky man wearing overalls crawls out of a rundown building. He charges at me, trying to bite and attack me, and I wake up flailing in my sleep, my body literally physically fighting off the ghosts of this week.

I’m wandering through empty warehouses with trucks at the bay doors, but the goddamn doors are permanently closed. I’m trapped in a vacant, hollowed-out mall, frantically trying to find an exit through a window so small I’m terrified I won’t fit. It’s not just a nightmare; it’s a literal blueprint of the claustrophobia I’ve been living while people tell me to “move on.”

• The Attack: That man in the overalls is the “dirty work” of death personified. The smoke-stained boxes, the toxic texts from IT, the cold legal calls, the 30,000 ghost emails—it’s all turned into a monster trying to take a bite out of my sanity.
• The Desolate Roads: That’s the isolation of being the only person doing the actual work. While others performed their grief for an audience on social media, I was the one navigating medical and legal turns with no streetlights and no roadmap because there was no fucking will.
• The Closed Truck Doors: That’s the frustration of hunting for resources that aren’t there. I’ve been knocking on doors—utilities, banks, housing authorities—only to find “empty warehouses.” No life insurance, no help, just closed doors I’ve had to kick down myself.
• The Tiny Window: That’s the suffocation of being squeezed between high-intensity tech support training and a 14-day estate deadline. The fear of not “fitting” isn’t about my body; it’s about the massive volume of stress I’m carrying, trying to force six months of administrative labor through a tiny window of time.

The Myth of “No Rush”

People like to say “take your time.” IT even messaged me, “I’m not trying to rush you into doing anything.” But the receipts tell a different story. While I was the one on the phone with the coroner, IT sent a message that cut straight to the bone:

“Most people try to get this stuff done quickly and don’t let their mother lay around dead until they have time to figure it out.”

Think about the sheer, unadulterated psychological cruelty of that sentence. I was the one identifying “natural causes” and managing the lack of an autopsy because there was no money. I was moving at a superhuman, breakneck pace to fulfill Mom’s wishes “to the letter,” all while being accused of letting her “lay around” by a creature who hasn’t been part of this family in six years. IT sure as fuck was rushing me, and used the most painful, ghoulish leverage available to do it.

The “Normal” Timeline vs. My 11-Day Reality

In a normal world, grief has a rhythm. Most families take six months to a fucking year to settle an estate, track down assets, and handle the paperwork. What you spectators don’t get is that what I completed entirely on my own in 11 days is what a normal person does in a year.

So don’t you dare tell me to move on or get over it! I would love to see you try to go through a single fraction of what I just did. But wait, that’s right—you couldn’t. You are too fucking weak.

Reclaiming the Quiet

For now, the logistics have stopped. They will begin again when there is more to take care of, but today? Today is for the living. It is Ronnie’s day, and it is still early enough at 10:00 AM. I am going to turn around, look at the man who has held space for me through this entire war, and I am going to salvage this day for us the best goddamn way I can.

Just remember: it is ME. I’ve done the work, I’ve honored her, and I am going to scream, cry, and breathe exactly when and how I need to. Until you actually have to handle this kind of devastating weight on your own two feet, you need to shut the fuck up and go live your pathetic, drunken, white-trash, abusive, drug-filled life.

We are not sitting in the dark today. Right now, I have the house completely opened up with a fresh desert breeze blowing clean through the rooms. The sun is blazing, the birds are singing outside, and the wind chimes are going. Today, I am standing in Tucson with Ronnie, the dogs, the ferrets, and Peppermint the cat, and we are actively pulling the somber right out of this house because we need to. We are removing the heavy air, we are surviving the calendar, and we are fiercely protecting our peace.

Stay vivid,

Rae