I didn’t want to start a blog.

Blogs these days are too topical, often monetized and lacking in authenticity. (Let me tell you how grossed out, heartbroken, confused, frustrated, etc. I am by the lack of authenticity in the world these days. God forbid I ever fall into that racket.) But I desperately needed somewhere to exercise my tiny writing muscle and a small audience to share with, and I wasn’t sure where else to turn.

As with many modes of writing there’s a kind of formula or expectation with a blog, such as length of posts, a theme or a topic, including photos in posts and updating regularly, at least if you want it to be a good blog. I worried a blog would make me feel too constricted in my writing, interfering with my flow. And it did for a minute. But I am not here to become a famous internet blogger. Fuck that. I just want to write and keep it authentic, so I will. My posts may be long, short, sporadic, whatever, I don’t care, doesn’t matter as long as I’m enjoying myself and my needs are being met.

This for me is more of a baby portfolio than a blog.

I haven’t posted anything in awhile because I started to write about my trip to Utah and it’s turning into this very long, convoluted something or other about the last year with lots of time-hopping. I have no idea what it’s going to turn into, when it will be complete, if I’ll ever share it here or what. But I am enjoying the hell out of writing it. For the first time for as long as I can remember, I’m in a flow state with my writing. It just feels really good, like Ah, yes, memories, details, all coming together, yum. I don’t care about an outcome. I’m just doing it.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to.

And I can stop feeling embarrassed now about having this damn thing. “Oh, Candra, you have a blog?” Ugh. Stop. Yes, it’s true. I have a blog, but I don’t wish to be part of that world or to participate in the internet all too much. (Social media traumatized me.) Maybe that sounds stubbornly immature and stuck-up. Or maybe in true hypocrite fashion I’ll sell out before you know it. As soon as I finish writing my NYT’s best-selling memoir ripping off both “Eat, Pray, Love” and “Wild.”

Welcome, I think?

It’s almost midnight.

I got home from work around 9:30, took a long bath with some shit on my face made out of some shit (oatmeal, yogurt, honey, moringa powder, tumeric) I found in my kitchen, washed my dishes, made some chamomile tea, ate a dill pickle.

And now here I am.


I just started the most self-conscious sounding ever first blog post about not knowing what my voice is supposed to be on here and blandly told a story about the time I took acid and discovered that most of my thoughts occurred in the form of social media status updates.

I just had to mention LSD because I need you to know that I’m edgy. I’m cool. I used to drink men twice my size under the table and party and get really introspective on psychedelics and really disgusting on other things. I know that’s the kind of stuff cool people are into reading about, at least I always was, so I just had to find a way to integrate it into my first post. (And look, I found a way!)

Clearly, I’m still a bit attached to my former carefree, no-fucks-to-give identity. She was cool. People liked her. I think. It didn’t a matter. I was drunk a lot and that was enough. (People did like me. Until I did something like sleep with one of their friend’s boyfriends or laughed at someone else’s expense while in a black out.)

Man, I really don’t want this to be a recovery blog.

I mean, recovery is so goddang inspiring, troublesome, unpredictable, beautiful, touching, frightening, etc. It has all the elements of some shit you might want to read about when you’re bored in your cubicle or trying to ignore your partner. And while I will forever be in recovery because that’s just how it works and I’m totally okay with it, I long to have an identity that extends beyond overcoming my beloved neuroses and addictive disorder. I mean, I already do have an identity that extends beyond all that.

I just don’t want to pigeonhole myself, the way I pigeonholed the rock climber guy I recently went for coffee with against my better judgement. To be fair, he totally belonged in the pigeonhole I holed him in. I’ve sort of dated four rock climbers in my life (This wasn’t by any means on purpose.) and they always find a way to relate everything back to climbing. Oh god, just like I will probably always find ways to relate everything back to sobriety, “my therapist” and spirituality!

Oh my god. I am so not totally comfortable with this new person I am.  I like her and all, kind of love her even, but she’s not someone I imagined myself ever being best friends with, you know? She’s got her shit together. Sort of. She hasn’t made any real messes in a long time, at least since the end of her last menstrual cycle in a hormonal fit of anxiety, and it wound up being a very manageable, deeply reflective, learning experience. I think I’m slowly becoming my aspirational self. Maybe I’ve actually surpassed my aspirational self.  Or no, it’s more like I took some detours then came back for her, so like, she’s here but it’s so much more. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I ever aspired to be much more than just relatively stable, so definitely surpassing her.

Anyway! I didn’t come here to start some easy-bake recovery blog.

I came here at the suggestion of my grandma (So edgy.) who I still and will forever call ManaMana, I don’t care if it makes you uncomfortable, who in sweet grandmotherly fashion thinks I’m brilliant and have some good things to say.  And because I wish to take my writing outside of the notebooks I’ve been filling over the last four months and get over my fear that someone may read what I have to say and actually like it.

Disclaimer: I don’t consider myself particularly gifted. I just have a lot to share.

Baby CansI’m a 30 year old Millennial who grew up typing away late at night about the minutia and pain of adolescence on Xanga, who secretly thought she might actually have talent because she made B’s in A.P. English without even trying. Because she had no idea that trying was how people actually made it in the world. In that case, have I really changed at all?

Change will definitely be a running theme in this blog. We can’t escape it, and just as we witnessed in the unfolding of this first post there are plenty of constants threaded throughout our stories as well. There are parts of us that will not die, for better or worse. We can relish the admirable parts and learn (with a whole lot of self-compassion) to work with the others.

All that being said, I wanna tell you my stories!