I will not apologize for the words I wrote before, and the words I write today.
There’s nothing to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of here.
I never developed a “normal” relationship with my mother, because schizophrenia doesn’t deal such fair cards.
Now, I am 28-years-old, and our relationship is more like what is found between acquaintances. The figurative rocks we threw and threatening words we spewed at one another are a thing of the past.
But, boy what a past it was.
There were so many questions she left unanswered. So much guilt I had to internalize. Chronic days of pain I had to endure…
I am not responsible for the aftermath of my upbringing. I never asked to be born into this world. It was her responsibility to make sure I grew up to be the “good desi girl” society expects…
But instead, we fought battles. We shouted until our lungs collapsed. Played mind games until my head hurt.
I couldn’t keep up when I was drowning in a lake of my own tears…
To this day, she doesn’t know what I do for work. Who my friends in LA were. What caused me pain or joy or fear or hate in the past five years. What medications I’m taking. Why I decided to do a PhD.
And eventually, I learned to be okay with that. I was lucky and fortunate to have an amazing father—who pretty much took on the role of “mom” and “dad”. Honestly, as I got out of the house at 22 and began a new life away from “home”, I didn’t want to fight anymore. If it meant not putting in the energy to fight with her demons, that’s what I needed to do.
To preserve every ounce of sanity that I could.
But every young girl—from her pre-teen years through college especially—would no doubt thrive with mom at her side.
————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-
Unlike those around me—who believe ignoring the issue will make it disappear—I choose to showcase the words that came pouring from my heart 7 years ago. During a life-changing weekend connecting with other South Asians, I built up the courage to share so much about a rocky home life that I kept in for too long.
I felt a strong urge to pen down the words I used to describe to the group about how she made me feel. I wrote a literal letter to my mother, but never gave it to her.
I knew that her paranoia, obsessive-compulsive, and erratic, nocturnal behavior would not disappear on the command of a few words on paper.
But for me, it was a release.
And I do not apologize for verbalizing what was in my heart, because these words were the truth of my experience…
Most people are familiar with America, but if you drop California, there really is no need to worry about being too specific.
Hollywood. Santa Monica. The Golden Gate Bridge. Yosemite. Lake Tahoe. UC Berkeley. Stanford. UCLA. Disneyland. Malibu...
Some people dream that one day, they would be lucky enough just to set foot in one of these over-hyped locales. But me? Not so much…
Despite spending 15 years growing up right in the middle of Sacramento and the Bay Area, going to school at a UC, and pursuing a PhD in the City of Angels—living smack dab in downtown LA even, for 2 out of the 5 years I called La-La Land home—I was Cali’d-out!
Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have wished for any other kind of location for my childhood and adolescent upbringing. Every single situation, obstacle, and opportunity I was in, faced, or received was because of my life in Cali.
But having lived in the Golden State since I was 7—all the way through 27—I was itching for a change.
No, dying for one.
Circa 2000. Sis and I having fun in the Cali sun. We moved into a new development, supposedly near a really good school district 😂
While Cali did give me quality friendships that have lasted many moons (yes, the number of solid friendships I have I can count on one hand) and access to a top-notch education (if you were to ask my Dad, haha), there were plenty of things it didn’t provide me with, like:
✶ a sense of community – despite the sunshine, most people in Cali I’ve come across are cold compared to other places…
✶ memorable adolescent experiences – I never had those nights in high school where I snuck out, or those “I-got-wasted” college outings…
✶ a strong connection to my cultural roots – we lived nowhere near extended family. Our life at home was rocky with my Mom’s mental health, so we rarely had guests over…
✶ a sense of home – I lived in Nor Cal. I lived in Los Angeles. It was comfortable, and it was what I knew, but never did it ever feel like home…
One could argue that this isn’t California’s fault—just the luck of my circumstances and the people I ended up interacting with, but being in California certainly didn’t help 😅.
I naively thought I would be leaving California on my terms, but the coronavirus pandemic had other plans. After leaving SoCal in late March 2020 with a bitter heart, and spending almost 3 months recovering from the vitriol of the world in the comforts of Tulsa, I did end up coming back to ‘home that never felt like home‘ for a little less than a week.
SoI was able to say good-bye, but in a way that I never imagined.
The real reason I came back to SoCal before leaving for Milan was bureaucratic. I had to go in person to pick up my work visa, because despite being 2020, some things still haven’t caught up with the times—especially if it concerns governments 🙄.
I also had to reunite with my household items, clothes, and car I left with a dear friend, J, who lives in West Covina. So along with settling documents for my trans-Atlantic move, I also needed to figure out what exactly I was bringing with me on this move.
Definitely no the car, so selling it was an urgent matter on my to-do list.
My first “day” back was actually a Monday evening after a harrowing American Airlines experience where social distancing protocol was thrown out the window 🙄. Despite having to spend $60 on a Lyft to get from LAX to West Covina, and dealing with a bitchy case of hanger, I was able to check-in to a cozy Airbnb guest suite (very cozy, I mean, literally fit for just ONE person) after fetching my car from J’s house and chatting with him and his wife for a bit. I was extremely exhausted when I arrived, as I had to unload three large suitcases and multiple loose boxes packed with things I had no time to properly organize when I was fleeing Cruella’s place at the end of March…needless to say, I fell asleep very quickly that night, even if I was staying in a guest suite meant for a barn mouse 😂.
Tuesday brought with it a packed morning. I had my visa appointment allllll the way in Century City, and so I left bright and early to make sure I could avoid any issues.
I arrived at 8am in desperate need of coffee, and I was not too enthusiastic about paying for parking before paying for a cuppa. The visa process was not bad, but definitely a time sucker. Only two women were working at the time, and I was the only “guest” there. Using the guise of “COVID”, I found the policy to enter the tiny visa office to be more ridiculous to me than usual. I mean, walking through an archway metal detector just to pick up a piece of paper? 🙄
After shelling out $30 bucks for parking and leaving 1.5hrs later, I managed to get back on the road towards DTLA and came face-to-face with traffic, of course. I got in touch with my friends J and P (one of my closest colleagues even though she was technically a Business Admin), since I had plans to meet with them both for lunch, like the good old days.
Back when I was a PhD student running around in a fervor, my lunches with P and J would be a somewhat constant in my busy days. P often craved for fast food on Figueroa, while I’d pick up something from Trader Joe’s nearby. We’d then either eat inside the fast food place of P’s choice, or “out at the tables”. The latter was my favorite, since it was at a sheltered corner of campus not too far from my lab building, with wooden picnic tables underneath shade from plenty of trees.
Our lunch meetup was a long one, but I tried to savor every minute. It was definitely the last time I’d be seeing P, since I had plans to have dinner with J and his wife later in the week. The three of us were able to enjoy a nice lunch at our ol’ spot, even though the environment around us was chillingly quiet—sure, the campus was usually quiet during the summer, but adding COVID into the mix made things feel a little more eerie…
After lunch, it took me about an hour to return to West Covina. I had an itch to go for an evening run, and wanted to see if my foot—recently recovered from an Achilles’ problem—could handle running up some East LA hills while it was possible. I also wanted to see if I could hit my highest mileage in months (40 miles) before getting aboard a plane a week later!
So, I ended up going for the run. I decided to run up some steep hills, and was met with some fantastic views. Little did I know that my decision to run in a large circle around the neighborhood versus my usual “out-and-back” routine would lead to something else.
A guy in a car at a stoplight to be exact.
In the past, I would have completely ignored any man calling me over from a car, and I would have been annoyed out of my mind by their advances, but with everything about to change in my life, I decided to play into my vulnerability.
After taking out my earbuds, I realized that the guy was wondering if I was running track at the local college.
He was “inspired”. He wanted a running buddy.
If that was what he really wanted, then I didn’t see an issue with exchanging numbers and meeting at a local, public park the next day for a run together. I’ve always preferred running with company, so I had no problems.
I had no fear either, but I stayed cautious.
After my run, I drove to Sprouts to buy a few groceries and dinner for the night. My phone was bombarded with texts I wasn’t so sure to be flattered or insulted by:
You’re so pretty. You’re Indian? I love Indian women. You’re 27? I knew it. You have such a great body…
But since I was trying something new—giving people the benefit of the doubt—I didn’t want to think too much of the situation. Instead, that evening I had a nice, warm vegan mean with a side of kombucha, a hot shower, and fell asleep in a great slumber.
The next day was Wednesday, meaning running around to attend to more errands and doubting my plans to meet up with the “Running Guy” multiple times during the day. J recommended we run near Cortez Park, after I asked where would be a “safe”, public place to run.
And being the person that I am, I went out for a mid-day run in the scorching heat to get used to the neighborhood near and around Cortez Park.
Stop to smell the gorgeous Californian flowers.
I finished five miles during that session, and later in the day, messaged Running Guy to confirm our meeting point. He suggested that we meet at Shadow Oak Park after I brought up Cortez, and I didn’t feel so sure until after confirming with J that it was indeed “safe” as well.
I soon learned that Shadow Oak Park was made for plenty of people to enjoy in broad daylight—especially the views of the great beyond from lil ol’ East LA:
Views from Shadow Oak Park, West Covina
When Running Guy finally arrived, I told him I was planning to finish up the day with 4 miles during this session, bringing my total for the day to 9 miles. The descent was no problem, but 2 miles back up hills was troublesome for me. I kept pushing myself by repeating over and over that this hill work would pay off…eventually.
Running Guy however, was pooped. He said so at the beginning that he was not a runner at all, but wanted to “get in shape”, despite playing other sports like basketball.
When we finished the run, we chatted for a bit and all seemed normal. He seemed disappointed by the fact that my time in Cali was temporary, even though I told him the day before that I was only here for a week. Despite telling me to “drive safe” as we walked over to our individual cars, I’m not so sure his following actions were supportive of that…
As I started driving away from the park, my phone began to buzz. I had a weird feeling in my stomach, and I wasn’t so sure about glancing over to see who it was, even though I fully knew.
When I had a chance to park, things got creepy…
No, I think it’s just you that’s “curious” 🙄
As soon as he had the nerve to invite himself over to my Airbnb, I knew this situation was ridiculous. Even though I had done nothing wrong however, I still felt a tinge of guilt. But why?
Perhaps it was because the first time I met a guy under a slightly flirtatious context. I felt embarrassed, but there was no reason for me to be. I called up one of my more “experienced” friends, and she gave her two cents plus some.
I felt better after confiding with her over the phone, but I still felt violated in a way. Maybe it was the onslaught of text messages coming in all at once, or the idea that perhaps he was a guy who wasn’t forthright with his intentions from the start.
I’ve told the story to a few more of my friends, all with different reactions. Some laughed at the fact that I would agree to meet a stranger within 24 hours to go running, others reprimanded me (as if they were my mother 🙄), saying I shouldn’t trust guys at all.
I listened to their words and let them flow in one ear and out the other, because their opinions really had no influence over me at this point in my life. This was an experience that I went through involving social interaction, personality dynamics, and body language, and to be honest, it felt like a warm-up lesson for what could await me in Italy 😜.
Thursday morning definitely felt weird after the situation that took place the night before. Fortunately, I had a cleaning scheduled for the car in Azusa, so it would get me out of the WeCo area. I shouldn’t have allowed the situation with Mr. Creep influence my choice about not running that morning in the neighborhood, but I didn’t want to take my chances. I convinced myself that running in Azusa while the car was getting taken care of was a good use of time (they had the car for an hour and a half) and I would be able to run in a new-to-me area.
A purely Californian view 🌴
The gray, cloudy skies seemed a little depressing for mid-June, but I loved it. The humidity was still atrocious, but I’m a sucker for a dark, foggy sky.
The car was ready after two hours, so I immediately picked up lunch and fell asleep in a nice nap once I got back (to my temporary) home. When I woke up, I had a hankering for vegan diner food, and knew that I should seize the moment now, because who knew what Milan had to offer in that category?
I was able to take the car out to the local Covina Tasty, where I “treated” myself to a veggie burger and a vanilla soft serve with butterscotch topping—the kind that hardens into a shell 😝.
A treat from a local eatery 🙂
Not sure if my nostalgia for childhood summer days in NorCal or more-recent memories of hopping around to a new restaurant every weekend in LA for the past five years made me push to get such a simple meal, but it was just what I needed that evening.
On Friday, I wanted to venture out of WeCo again, this time going to Alhambra. Back in my first year of my PhD training, a number of my classmates lived in Alhambra due to it’s affordability, safety factor, and vicinity to campus. I was more enthralled by the bright lights of the deep city, so I never gave cities like Alhambra a chance.
Alhambra on a hot June day…
But running here on Friday made me feel nostalgic for those times six years ago…despite the battles I was internally struggling with at the time, I remember the people I met and the activities I participated in fondly.
My run through Alhambra was a quiet one, but seemed oddly empty on the streets because of the extended, semi-stay-at-home order situation. After my run, I walked around the park where I started and watched some of the wildlife (ducks, haha) before driving off for a refreshing treat.
My destination of choice was a corgi-themed cafe called Cafe Der. I would have calculated my steps regarding pictures, what to order, and how to describe the food for an Instagram caption if I was still running a food blog, but those days were coming to an end.
Cafe Der in Alhambra
Over the past few months, my looming next chapter began to influence how much passion I really had for my “passions”, especially food and running—I still love those things, but my heart didn’t have the desire to keep things as they were.
Just like with everything else 🤷🏽♀️
Sunday was calm, but things already started to feel bittersweet. By the time I woke up around 9am (after multiple instances of waking up and forcing myself back to sleep), it was blistering hot. I still wanted to go for a run though…my 40 mile goal for the week was so close I could taste it!
Knowing I’d be leaving California, and the US, indefinitely the next morning, I felt like I *had* to venture out nearby. One last hurrah of going out to a restaurant, taking pics for the ‘gram, and bringing home dessert like old times? Why not?
After dropping off a few more items for donation, I picked up a smoothie from Jamba Juice to cool down my body before setting out to run. I picked a “park” in Arcadia thinking I’d be in the mood to check off one more cafe visit in the area after my run.
Running in Peck Park was a horrible decision on my part, due to the unbearable heat, but I somehow managed to crank out a decent amount of miles.
Peck Park in Arcadia…so hot and dry…how did I run here?
I couldn’t fit all my miles for the day in this blistering session, so I vowed to finish up in the evening when things felt cooler. I also had to coordinate with J about dropping off the car at his house (again), since I was selling it to a third-party vendor for convenience.
Before going by J’s house, I made one final stop at Sprout’s to pick up some food for dinner and snacks for the morning—-one last time in the car, driving out to get ready-made vegan hot bar food and kombucha. I was secretly going to miss that little piece of freedom.
After settling that and saying a final good-bye to my dear friend, I tied up my running shoes again and finished up the week with a 4 mile out-and-back. I felt so much lighter and faster as I finished up these miles…running against the backdrop of a Californian sunset is one thing I’ll miss about the Sunshine State. I’ll admit that.
West Covina, on a Sunday evening
I left the AirBNB around 11am the next morning. I took a pricey Lyft back to LAX, with my three large suitcases, a rollerboard, and a handbag in tow. On the other hand, I held nothing in my heart for the place I was about to leave.
You know it’s time to move on when your childhood home no longer belongs to you. When your parents have uprooted their lives to live somewhere else. As much as my Dad says he wishes I could stay with him forever, I can see he has nestled into the lifestyle of an “empty nester” quite comfortably.
You know it’s time to move on when you have no friends left in the city. When they’ve moved as far north as Sacramento, as well as across state borders to places like Vegas and Austin. Now I was the one leaving them all miles behind, by choosing to start a new life in Milan, but they had all left me earlier. It was another sign that California and I were ready to split from each other.
And, you know it’s time to move on when your heart has already found a new place to fly to. When spending hours walking along Wilshire, running down Figueroa, and strolling down Pico no longer sparks joy. When visiting new restaurants on weekends, potentially running into celebrities, and getting lost in famous neighborhoods is more of an inconvenience than a priority.
Yup, my final week in La-La Land and the Sunshine State had served its purpose. I can’t predict where I’ll end up in the future, after Italy…if there is an after Italy. Will I call Cali home again? Who knows, but I knew that the time to say good-bye was now.
Uh-huh, life’s like this Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is ‘Cause life’s like this Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is
-Canadian Kween, Avril Lavigne
Back in the early 2000s, I thrived as an outgoing, bubbly third-grader, known to her peers as a funny, friendly girl with tan skin and long, straight black hair. My laugh was infectious, and I remember picking up mild sarcasm from my Dad, as well as a fascination with puns.
Needless to say, Spongebob was the man.
One of my favorite things about going to elementary school in northern California those days was the fact that seasons had their appropriate weather. On a cold, rainy day in winter 2002, we were blessed with rainy day recess. I was so excited to play “Heads Up, 7UP” or some other fun game that required the sequestering of 8-9 year olds in the same room, with no outdoor activities to distract the more “rambunctious” kiddos.
“I HAVE ARRRRIIIIVVVEEEDD!!” I remember screeching as I entered the room giddy with excitement.
I wasn’t expecting the cold look from my teacher, however, and what followed.
“Priya! That is no way to enter a room! Walk back out RIGHT now and enter appropriately!” she yelled.
I was absolutely shocked. Here I thought my vivacious demeanor would be received with laughter and warmth from my “favorite” teacher at the time. Instead, I was left feeling like a fool and ashamed for my actions.
Seriously, Mrs. K?
How dare ya, bitch.
I did exactly what I was told. I didn’t dare question why Mrs. K reacted that way. Perhaps she was having a stressful day that day, and wanted to be anywhere but in a classroom filled with loud, sugar-hyped kids. Still, no reason to take it out on a kid…don’t they teach you that when you get your teaching degree?
I wouldn’t say that it was a life-changing moment, but it made me more cautious in my interactions with others as I grew older. This was also around the time that my mom began to show signs for schizophrenia—remarking about voices telling her to do things, distancing herself from people, finding ways to blame others for occurrences that impacted her world—and even as her close family, we were not immune to the effects of her disease.
I had to quickly learn her triggers. Not bring up things to her that involved birthday party invitations or look like I sided with my Dad during arguments they had. Anything to prevent her from yelling at me for hours or sending me to “time-out”.
I wanted peace and happiness more than anything, but I quickly had to master the art of walking on eggshells.
This feeling has permeated into my social life, for sure. As I approached middle school, I hid away the “extrovert” side of my personality—wrapped thickly in a blanket and tucked away somewhere in my heart—until I could fully trust the person enough to share that side of me with them. Instead, I quickly adopted the adjectives of “quiet”, “shy”, and “introverted”, from classmates and teachers alike.
These girls were the only ones in my life who were able to see all sides of me. I could truly be myself around them. No worries about eggshells 🙂
I realized that I hated being asked questions that involved “favorites”, unless it had to do with food or color. Why did it matter what my favorite music or actor or movie or TV show was? Whatever my answer was, it was quickly responded with depreciating laughter from my peers. I didn’t want to explain, and I had no energy for it…
The easiest thing to do was say, “I don’t know”, “It always changes…”, or the classic “Hehe, pretty much everything except country! Eww, country…”
Little did they know that Shania Twain was my lady, and that country music was a part of our family’s roadtrip playlists along with Fleetwood Mac and Celine Dion 🤷🏽♀️.
As I got past high school and my college years fighting with the same issues, I naively thought things could change as I planned my leave for graduate school. Given the opportunity to live independently and have full control of my life matters, I thought that I could easily transition into being myself again and feeling comfortable in front of a more general audience. Little did I know that out in the real world, especially Los Angeles, decency towards one another was just a minor recommendation.
After living in LA for the past 5.5 years with roommates and crazy-ass landlords, as well as having to navigate how to handle the crazy personalities of the people I often came across, I learned that a) I have a very high tolerance for dealing with irascible people and b) life is too short to not surround yourself with genuine and caring people.
In my first two years living apart from family, I was graced 🙄 with the presence of quirky roommates. Oil-splayed-stove-top-messy, passive-aggressive young ladies who I’d have frequent air-conditioning wars with.
I’m sorry, but who is able to sleep comfortably in a room 80 degrees Fahrenheit?!
At the time, I wasn’t one who was quick to jump aboard the confrontation train. I tried to compromise at times, and even though we agreed to keep the room at a balmy 75, no more or no less, my roommates were not quick to adjust the thermostat when the number steadily creeped up during the unbearably hot LA summers.
So I thought I hit the jackpot when it came time for my lease renewal, and I found an “out” through a room rental in Santa Monica. Just my luck that it was in a house owned by an older couple my Dad and I nicknamed the “The Onions”, due to their wrinkly, purple-tinged skin 😬.
My close friends are bewildered by the fact that I lived there for two years…surviving on crockpot dinners that were a source of drama when I first moved in (apparently, cooked broccoli made the older man recoil in disgust, yet I didn’t say a word when they cooked smelly fish…). I was used to weird house rules like squeegee-ing the shower door immediately after use, specifically stacking my 3 cups of yogurt on the left side of the fridge, and not using the kitchen for “heavy cooking”…my mom trained me well not to be so shocked by odd-ball orders 😛.
I was given a year of reprieve when my sister and I had a chance to share an apartment in Anaheim soon after, and boy did I cry when she left for Austin. Thinking I would soon be out of SoCal anyways due to post-doc plans elsewhere and graduation, I opted for another room rental to save money.
As luck would have it, I ended up with Cruella (name obviously changed, but well-deserved…), who seemed normal—but was she? Even she seemed like an odd-ball in her texts—writing in caps, misspelling my name even though my signature and rent payments gave her a blatant clue—but I didn’t let it bother me since my rent would be lower than ever before, and I wouldn’t have to leave Orange County.
I was used to weird by now anyways. Heck, I should have gotten my PhD in “handling weird-ass people” because that became my side-job once I moved to LA, unbeknownst to me. As months went on at Cruella’s, I realized that the weirdest aspect of it all was the fact she would only communicate through text. Even if she was in the house.
Uh…come again?
Again, I didn’t think too much of it. I’d say “hi” to her if I did see her, chat with her in the kitchen if we were there at the same time, and as usual, I kept to myself to avoid any drama. Most importantly, I paid my rent on time without fail.
Damn, I’m the most perfect tenant. Landlords be lucky to have me 🙄.
But then, the most bizarre thing happened. After coming home from work one day, I came across Cruella and her small dog, said hello, and made my way into the kitchen to prep a quick salad to eat in my room, per usual. Her dog came over to sniff me, which I have no issue with because hello, #DogLover right here.
Without thinking of what was to come, I took my dinner up to my room and began to mentally unwind from my exhausting work day when my phone buzzed several times. I didn’t think much of it, until I swiped to find scathing, accusing texts from Cruella saying I had kicked her dog.
Where. was. this. craziness. coming. from.
Where was she getting this from?! My heart began to race, even though I had nothing to be guilty for. My attempts to rationalize with her and figure out why she would make such accusations were futile. To drive a blade even further into my flesh, she left a threatening audio message driven by vitriol and anger, absolutely convinced that I would do something so uncharacteristic of me.
I tried to get her to come out to talk to me, but she wouldn’t budge. What can you do when you try to rationalize with irrational?
The only other way I could think of communicating with her was via a third-party, my hugest advocate in life, my dad.
My poor dad was the recipient of verbal vitriol as well. My heart sunk when I came back into the house after calling him outside in almost tears. I could hear Cruella yelling into her phone—calling me everything from evil to a brat to conniving to mean—these were words that were not describing me, but the bitch that was her. And yet, I felt defeated.
Miraculously, things did cool down. My dad having dealt with his share of bipolar, schizophrenic, mentally-ill people in his life, was able to get her to calm down and “reconsider” kicking me out. She didn’t apologize, but she was willing to “tolerate” me until I was able to move out…
Seriously, what just happened.
For the next six weeks, I did not come across her in physical form at all. Needless to say, the whole situation was freaky, and the definition of walking on eggshells.
Oddly enough, but not surprisingly, she made her appearance again slowly weeks after the debacle had passed, acting as if nothing had happened of course. I still thought she was a psychotic bitch, but with the impending crisis of corona and my new post-doc plans still delayed, I didn’t want unnecessary drama to spark too early…
I didn’t have to worry about that though, because Cruella’s mind was churning. The coronavirus hysteria was definitely freaking out the bipolar bitch…
She began to worry, and her voices probably started talking to her again. The incessant text messages bothering me about one thing or another would not stop.
Also, what is a BATHROOM waste basket if not for things like, um, sanitary pads and I dunno, things you would use in the bathroom 🤔
The reason this message ticked me off? Because I was doing everything in my power to be a good tenant, to NOT cause drama, and most of all, to not have to deal with her psychosis. The way she assumed I don’t like to clean when ha, I’m a stickler when it comes to cleanliness and organization? I was sick and tired of her berating me and having to “put up with it”.
I had had enough, and I tried to respond to her in a professional manner which also expressed my annoyance with her:
The clap back 👏
Despite the professionalism, you can’t expect that from someone who has already exhibited signs of CRAZY. She responded with an audio message calling me all sorts of names (not worth typing out…) and a “30 day notice” to leave.
I gladly accepted. I was absolutely done with her. Couldn’t have happened at a better time.
I didn’t respond to her last comment. The immaturity threshold was beyond off the charts at this point. As much as my blood was boiling, tears were streaming, and emotional trauma stirring. I tried to let it go…I’d be with family soon enough.
It’s true when they say that trying, challenging times bring out the best and the worst in people. Unfortunately, I was a victim of the latter. These situations have made me quite wary of people in general, but at least I have mastered the art of walking on eggshells 🤔? In a way, I’m motivated now more than ever to, going forward, secure long-term financial stability to ensure I can live alone and not have to worry about clashing personalities.
Through all of this, the most important lessons I’ve learned are to be unapologetic for who I am, and that if anyone questions my integrity, you better believe my fighting side will come out.
And yours should to, because no one has the right to judge—or even worse— make false accusations about you.
I don’t have time for impatient, mean, judgemental, crazy bishes ✌🏽
