Rachel Bulkley

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My Hero Girl

In August of 2012 I left my husband and the father of my children. I rented a bedroom above a garage a few blocks away from our apartment. The kids were one and two years old. I thought I was sparing our family unnecessary upheaval.

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On a Particular Superpower

I was thinking about what I wrote yesterday and how many times I referenced crying. I don’t always cry that much. I wondered if I was unknowingly announcing to the world wide web that I’m just PMSing hard. Am I? I wondered and checked my calendar. (Definitely maybe).


But that was too simple and dismissive. I’m not blind to the fact that, as a woman, I live in a constant biological adventure. But that wasn’t the only reason why my heart leaked out my face on and off all day yesterday.


Here's where the deep emotions come from: the different years and situations where I had to confront an uncomfortable (or worse) truth, when no one else involved wanted to.


I know what it's like to wrestle between a desire to belong and a desire for truth.
A desire for peace and a desperate need to eviscerate cancerous masses in my soul.


It was never people I was against, always dark dynamics I wanted freedom from. It feels impossible to explain when someone else's comfortable existence is threatened by your own need for truth. It is devastating when your path out of darkness seems to throw shade on others.

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Thoughts on life, the IRS, and Prince Harry

I’ve just finished lunch (leftovers from last night which deserve a post of their own, followed by diced mango and cool whip). My temples, sinuses and throat feel mildly pressured, the vague warning of tears shed or soon-to-be. In this case, I shed some already, but feel reservoirs at the ready.

 

The earlier ones came from relief. I had an in-person meeting with an IRS field agent at the Federal Building downtown earlier today. Months of mild anxiety about my mysteriously unprocessed tax filing culminated in a letter last week. I’d made a silly mistake which threw everything off and caused my numbers to be re-calculated. Not in my favor. I’d already been unsure if I’d done them correctly, and the foolishness of my mistake, and then another discovered, showed how well-placed my anxiety was. Never again will I do it myself, I just don’t have the confidence for what seems like it should be a simple filing.

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