Our Job is to be Ourselves

I won’t lie, the last months have been a real shocker for me. I’m not afraid to admit for at least the last month or two I would probably have been diagnosed as “clinically depressed”. Of course, I am completely qualified to diagnose myself so why would I waste the money or the time?

Guess what? This happens, and I think this happens to everyone. And I think we should talk about it a little more.

Irma was traumatic enough, fleeing and finding a whole new life, buying a house, meeting all new people, changing every single behavior on the dime has left me exhausted beyond measure. Different everything. Change ain’t ALWAYS good, ya know? I’m sick of hearing it. Bull shit “Change is Good”. Change is inevitable.

The only time you really love when a chapter of your life ends is when you get to write it, the ones that the universe abruptly ends for you, well, those aren’t so whimsical.  

There are so many silver linings in these black clouds. Our daughter is thriving. J is thriving. We’ve met a handful of people that we love. Hell, if I would back up from my overflowing pity pot, I am thriving too, with my new company ready to launch when I hit the “go button”.  

I’m a natural silver lining person, but sometimes it is hard to find the lining in the middle of the storm, distracted by the thunder and lightning called reality, and when we finally got settled into our actual new home, the wave rushed over me of what all has happened, and with a wave that big, I started to fight it and felt like I was drowning. You ever feel like that? Like no matter what you cannot find the air to breath?

Everyone says “go with the flow”, but what it the flow goes where you wish it wasn’t? Fuck the flow, I miss my life. I really miss “island people”.

Last week I got to hang out with a few of my island writer friends, we met in Miami for a boost of creativity. To say the least, for some of us, this last year has been a muthafucka. I used this weekend as a lighthouse in the mental storm I was fighting through, waves crashing, my hull shaking, but if I could just get to them, I think I will be okay.

I needed a little sliver of the life I chose, just a little something to get me through, everything I picked had washed away in Irma and I wanted to feel something, something other than lost. When I got there I knew I was right, it was like finding someone else on the deserted island, and no matter if the reality is that you are both lost, at least you are not alone.

Being lonely in America sucks, being lonely anywhere sucks. There are so many people here, living their own lives, disconnected and very happy doing so. But for me, disconnection to the world feels sad and empty. There is so much talk about weather, fears, and other shallow or unreal subjects, but so rarely someone serves up what drives them, what brings them joy, and why they are here. They don’t have the time or the energy for true connection, and they don’t want it even if they did.  

Vulnerability is a commodity traded so infrequently that is almost feels like you are being scandalous, like you are bootlegging yourself, and asking someone to commit a crime with you.

It is the crime that you commit when you’re sick of being in your own prison.

But once you start being connected to your world, you always crave such connection, and only identify living as connection, there is no going back. Oh, how I miss the safety of my wave of bullshit, but I walk all alone these days, no facade, no fake smile.

We talked a lot about finding our places in this new world, and even more about feeling like we didn’t fit in, and even WORSE, our actual enjoyment of this new world. I mean, produce and convenience is a dirty little pleasure to islanders about the mainland. The strawberries!

We talked about how much we needed each other and others like us. We talked about how important it is to surround yourself with people who think you are lovely. It felt right because we were real together, uninhibited, supportive, without judgement. Only LOVE.

I left the weekend knowing that I had a lot of work to do. A lot. I had to build the vulnerable life that I wanted with more intensity. My job is not to fit into this land, my job is to be myself wherever I am, and allow, cultivate, and protect people who long for the same life. MY job was to talk about my sadness, talk about disconnection, and talk about loneliness. My job is to make the connection that I need, and tell the people who are drowning that I am down here too.

My job is to be who I want the world to be.

Open and imperfect. My job is to be myself.

We Never Die . . . Love Never Dies

It’s my brother’s birthday today. He’s dead, so it makes it a lot harder to celebrate his life for some reason, nothing ruins a birthday party like the person being dead. After over a decade I still pick up the phone, even though the phones look a lot different now.

My brother hung himself.

Even now it is hard to accept those last few moments of his life, but I do. It is even harder to accept the pain that he must have been in to make that choice, but I do.

Even in my deepest darkest hours I never really seriously contemplated suicide. Sure, the tear stained pillows and the drifting off to what I hoped to be alcohol poisoning were often welcomed, but never did I look up and see what I could hang on from my neck. Never was I that desperate to leave this party.

Adult life did not come easily for me at first. I slid into my 18th year on the floor of a hospital after a doctor told me I was among the statistically small group of  mothers who had a baby die of SIDS. Life didn’t really get easier for a really long time, mostly due to my poor decisions, but hey, pain is pain, even if you are the one creating it.

Needless to say, I sure as fuck didn’t believe in god. Or life after death. Or even Santa Claus.

Eric and I had a really close relationship, from the time we were tiny and he torchered me, to our twenties when we had a specific call “HEYYYYOOOOO, YETH NOW” when someone we thought was stupid was talking to us at the bar. We had a million inside jokes, secret monies passed between us, and only had to look at each other when one of our parents or sisters were doing something that we would rip on later. We’d bookmark it with a glance.

He had called me “Lizardbreath” for “Elizabeth” from the time I was born until I was 27, to which I begged him to change it, he, now far less of a bully than our younger days, agreed to name me “Dragonfly”, because I flit around and never stay too long to talk to anyone. I loved it and asked him to tattoo it on my back, and he promised he would if I still wanted it in a year. He had never agreed to put a tattoo on me unless I wanted it for a year. I never got any of his art on me.

I was the last person he ever called. I asked him not to do anything that day. He waited a week.

To say that his death hit me hard would be the understatement of the century. I lost one of my favorite people and I carried an immense amount of guilt because I could have saved him. Now I realize he is out of pain, and although I fight my selfish heart everyday, I am glad he isn’t hurting anymore.

It’s hard when you lose someone who gets all your jokes.

In the months after he died I became thinner and thinner.  I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t breath. It became unbearable. I was tired. I remember,in my desperation,getting to the point where I knew I needed help. I barged into my best friend’s house and said “I think you need to check me in somewhere, I’m drowning”. And I know I have spoken about this many times, but it takes a lot of MOXIE to ask for 24 hours, like my friend Stef did. I think I was so shocked that she didn’t grab her purse and take me to the nearest nut-ward, I mean, suicide obviously runs in my family, that I gave her the 24 hours. Why not? Right?

For those of you who read my blog, it’s well known that I have no room for religion in my life. I do not pretend to have the answers of tomorrow, or yesterday, and I even question my own past due to my perspective and emotional filters. I think heaven and hell are right here on earth, only because I have walked through the both of them already, and honestly I do not give one fuck about whether or not Jesus was the son of God or just a nice guy that hung out with degenerates and sick people. These details are all a big waste of time to me.

But this is the time in this story that Eric gave me the gift of all gifts. He proved to me that there is life after death. You have to understand, I never would have believed any of it without cold hard facts, no way, I had zero faith, zero belief, and every rejection to anything of the sort.

Stef text me an address and told me to be there at 4:00. She had called a crystal therapist that she had used once. I was desperate and would’ve gone to warzone for some god damned relief, I agreed.

Stef had told her that I had had a death in my family, and that I needed help. Nothing more. Moreover, Stef never knew he called me “Dragonfly”.

When I met Laurie Buchanan she was exactly as she self describes herself, she is a cross between Dr Dolittle, Nanny McPhee, and a Type-A Buddhist. Of course, I thought she was a positive and calm Wizard of OZ, but I had zero options at this point, it was her or the nut-ward. I filled out my intake, peed, and hopped up on the table.

I had never experienced any kind of crystal therapy, or reiki, or any “newage shenanigans”. But because I was too tired to fight against it, it just happened. She read all my chakras and determined that I was almost completely closed off except for a barely open and shaky chakra in my communication chakra, she assured me that this is why I was even able to ask for help. She placed crystals over all my chakras and started to “read my feet”, I assure you that as weird as this sounds it was even weirder to experience it, especially since “cynical” is not even the word for what I was.  

This is when she said

“I assure you that I am no medium, but the man with the tattoos keeps screaming at me to say to you “LET ME GO DRAGONFLY, LET ME GO DRAGONFLY”, do you know what that means?”

I laid there with tears filling up my ears. Knowing that he had not left me at all.

So today, of course, I know that Laurie was not a crazy voodoo bamboozler, but the bridge to my knowing that our souls live on. I also know that there is life after death and there is no endings when it comes to love. Love never dies, it morphs and shifts and dances around us even when we do not know it, and we are love.

My brother, from the grave, gave me the gift of everlasting life. Every special occasion he sends me dragonflies of unusual size, or even 5 or 6 of them to dance around me, just for a reminder.

So today, I pass on this story to you, in celebration of his life. Happy Birthday, Brother, one day we will dance around as dragonflies together, but for now, thank you for never leaving me.  

Love,

Dragonfly

Reinvention, the Tale of Every Woman

I’m no stranger to reinvention. Reinvention is the difference between a woman caving into nothingness and a woman soaring with all the power of the world under her wings. We are forced into reinvention, we go from a child to a woman, a woman to a mother, and a mother back to a woman, and so on. Those transitions are hard enough, but those are not what I’m talking about, it is the small reinventions that I speak of. The divorces, the relocations, rehab, our bodies, the proverbial punches that we roll with.

My first major reinvention was when I moved from my hometown to a suburb of Chicago. I was fresh out of a pretty gnarly divorce and I was exhausted from the fight of my twenties. I had been fighting the good fight, lost a child, had a few nasty relationships, worked too much, and wrapped myself in some pretty unhealthy relationships. I’ll say it, I was fucked up.

I don’t think we come out of the womb defined, we define ourselves, and sometimes we let ourselves be defined by what has happened to us. I was not in the driver’s seat of who I was. Frankly, I don’t believe we are trained to be in the driver’s seat of our lives, it is a right of passage that we often never take.

We can easily be the one that was never good enough for our parents, never pretty enough for our dads, never good enough for our moms, and we can get stuck in being the ugly duckling of our peers. We meet these poor women often, they are jealous and hateful to themselves and everyone else. They are never happy and they rarely spread joy. They compare themselves to everyone and never are enough. These are the exhausting women. I was once her.  

It’s easy to get locked into a definition of ourselves that was never written by us.

When I moved away from my family into a little second-story apartment near downtown I had nothing. I had given all my money as a sweet deal for my ex to let me go. I was starting a new job, and a new life, I was scared to death. There is something about not having anything that makes us realize that we are powerful. For the first eight months I went to work and came home, I had very little contact with the outside world, I had absolutely zero to give.

Each night I would find myself back in the apartment wandering around aimlessly, looking out the windows into a new world, my world. I had no TV, hardly any books, and nothing to do. I started to write. I started to write MY STORY.

I started from scratch, how I came to be, what stood out to me in my life, my parents, and why I had been the way I was. This was like telling a story that I had never heard. It was riveting and while it was sometimes pretty fucking insane, I realized that not only was I a badass, I was worth so much more than I had ever seen before. It was the beginning of a time when I saw myself as someone that was worthy of a beautiful life.

It was a time for reviewing, reinvention, and redefinition. I was able to look back through the eyes of someone else and see myself through forgiving and loving eyes. I was able to see my parents and everyone who had given so much to me. I was able to forgive the ones that made mistakes with me, and I was able to forgive myself.

I remember crying and crying because I realized that I had been the key holder of the chains that bound me, I was my assailant, my abuser, my slow killer. I was the one that was making me miserable, the one that made all the wrong choices for myself, the one who didn’t love me. I was the one that hated everything about me, my worst enemy was me. As I wrote those words and my story I fell in love with myself, I fell in love with the heroine of my book.  

Forgiveness is the foundation of reinvention.

After 8 months or so I ventured out. This is when I met women that will be my friends/ chosen family for life. I met people that were worthy of love, worthy of my time, and worthy of my friendship. They held themselves in a higher light and taught me that women wrap themselves around the people that they love. This is when the actual fun started for me. This is when I connected to the world for the first time, not as a victim, but as me, worthy and real.

Since then I would be redefined many times, but never since that time have I ever forgotten how painful it was to let it all go. There is a pain in blossoming, the women that live life are the ones that learn to love that pain. Lean into it with everything they have.

“Somewhere in rolling with the punches of life, I realized I kind of liked being choked”

I’m writing this today because I am in the middle of a reinvention, the bittersweet pain is no stranger to me, she has become one of my best friends. The Pain of Reinvention will pay off with a new woman, stronger and bigger in ways I can only imagine.

But, that is what we do, right ladies? We rise.  

So this is for you, my strong women, the ones that lock arms with me, the ones that roll with the punches with me, the ones that never shy away from the pain of reinvention, and the ones that take no prisoners, especially themselves. Lets soar.

Living "Island Life" on the mainland.

I’ve had more than a few heartless people say “Well, I guess you don’t have anything to write about now” or “You’re not “Island Lizzy” now, you’re just Lizzy”

To them I say “fuck you”, not really, but a there is a millisecond that I daydream saying this and also roundhouse kicking them to the head, instead, I say:

“once you let the island into your heart, it rests there forever, it changes you irreversibly and renders you unacceptable for the mainland life ever again, so I will always be living the “island life”, no matter where I am.”

We got settled into our beautiful beach bungalow here in Florida. I literally had almost no furniture because we sold everything when we moved to the island, I bought an entire household of furniture in two weeks.

At the furniture store, I looked like Pretty Woman after Richard Gere showed up and made the store be nice to her. Within one day we had it set up and livable. You can get anything and everything you want within days here, which is scary.  

There is so much more here. More of everything. More People, more assholes, more to do, more to look at, more, more, more.

I reject more.

I’ve since the day I was born been a “too much” kinda girl.   If one is good, I’ll take 5. Something on the island changed that. By subtracting I realized that there is so much beauty in simplicity. More is not always better, there are exceptions. More friends, yes, more shit, no.

People are very nice here. There is a “how’s the weather vibe”. Very civil. Very guarded. Very interested in etiquette. I feel that it is a win that I’ve only been asked to not say “bad words” in front of one kid so far. I prefer to call them “adult words”.  

People are far more likely to look down on you for saying “god damn it” than to look down on you for not including someone because they are weird. I say “fuck that”.

That’s one thing I learned from my island, we are all in this world together, trying to make it, and you never know when you will need someone, and you never know what someone is dealing with, so make connections, not dis-connections, and maybe, just maybe, your mind and consequently, your heart will be split open like a coconut and you will drink the juice called life.

Also, it taught me, that weird people are so fucking cool.   

Let’s be really honest, we are all weird, or we are walking around dead, you pick. Anyone who doesn’t stand out is not being their truest self.

There are things I miss about the island. Real conversations about what drives someone’s life, what’s in their hearts, what scares them to death. I miss funny stories about cockroaches or centipedes. God, I never thought I’d ever say that in a million years. I miss naked babies on beaches. I miss Daniel the homeless flower maker.  I miss my friends. I miss the mindset that being busy makes you appear lame instead of being busy makes you appear to be worthy.

Thank you to my friend Kathryn, who said she needed the writings of “Island Lizzy”. I love you, friend.

Acclimating to the Mainland

I should know by now that I don’t know shit.

4 years ago we decided to move to a Little Rock in the middle of the sea, The Virgin Islands. This had been my dream from the time I was 22 and found out that I was not for The American Dream.

I needed the sea, I needed simplicity, I needed less in so many ways. My dreams of being a CEO of a Fortune 500 company were gone. I was never qualified to kiss that much ass, nor was I willing to put in the work to become qualified, my mouth always stood between me and the corporate ladder.

We took our then two year old and sold everything we owned, and got rid of the rest. With four duffle bags, we left everything and set off for a new life, void of the nuances of suburbia. We were happy, free, and empowered. This was the best life we could give her, a childhood free of advertising, fast food, and keeping up with the Jones’.

The life that we found there was magical. Sure, there were definite downsides, but even the downsides felt like upsides, gifts given to us by opening our minds to a different way. Naked babies on the beach more than made up for the inconveniences of living in the middle of the ocean. We could not drive 10 minutes and buy anything we wanted, food of any ethnic type could no longer be delivered in 30 minutes or less, but we had quiet and peace like we’d never known, we were simply living.

Our people came, we had visitors constantly and basically were on vacation for four years straight, showing the wonders of island living off like we had something to do with them, and there was a pride in knowing that some of the people we loved from back home would have never seen such beauty if it weren’t for our bravery.

We had a preschool co-op with mothers that were real, loving, and kind. We made friends that were more like family and we never looked back. A childhood full of frolicking bare butted on the beach, climbing boulders by the ocean, and drifting off to sleep with the lullaby of crashing waves singing her softly to sleep.

It wasn’t perfect, island life is precisely the opposite, it’s so imperfect that it circled back into bliss, and even power outages reminded us to slow down and be grateful. That’s why it’s paradise, not because of the weather and the beautiful beaches, but because you are reminded to be present in all that you do.

When hurricanes Irma and Maria hit that life was over.

We evacuated and have been displaced for 5 months. We were the lucky ones. We were actually the luckiest people I know. My in-laws had an extra home for us to take shelter in Naples Florida, arguably one of the most beautiful places in the US.

Poor us. Right?

5 months ago we were going to stay on our island for the unforeseeable future. 5 months ago I didn’t think I’d ever have been able to make it on the mainland again, I wasn’t suitable for it, much like I’m no longer suitable for a corporate workplace. My mouth stands between me and the American Dream

I’m not gonna lie, I’ll never miss the 10 dollar rotten strawberries, and I do love being able to get udon noodles on the fly. But, I leave a big part of my heart in the middle of the sea, with the velvet air, and the bright blue patchwork water, but mostly it’s wrapped all around those people that I love.

Outrunning Irma was traumatic, so we put our girl in a school to get some routine and I searched to find her a distraction.  She started English horseback riding, she found her home there, on the back of a big animal, and now we live here. She loves her school, loves her teacher, loves her new friends. She thrives here with experiences that we could not give her on our beautiful rock.

I won’t pretend that this is the first time my life has changed on a dime.

Living my dream of living on an island has morphed into my living my dream of providing the best childhood for her, and when push comes to shove, that is really what I want, more than want, this is why I am.

Had you asked me where I wouldn’t be living 5 months ago, Naples would have been on the top 5 “not on your life list”. Hell, there is not a blade of grass misgrown, but we have found an odd happiness here, a comfort in the kindness of the people, a closeness with my in-laws that I never thought possible, and a community to raise our little mountain lion of a girl in. But that’s what the universe does, it bitch slaps you when you think you know anything.

So now, I will roll with her punches and try to maintain the simplicity of island life on the mainland, Island Lizzy without an island. So I will live “island style” on the mainland, without the cocktails in the car, and maybe I won’t fit in, and maybe that is okay with me.
 

Homesick & Drowning - How Making Friends Can Save Your Life

You ever have that kind of pain that stops your breathing?

Like you can’t get the oxygen in? And even when you do it feels like it’s not working?

I have.

I do. It’s called heartbreak drowning.

It’s been over three months since I flew off my home island. The weeks go by like minutes. I am still waiting to celebrate Halloween and now it is Christmas everywhere. I’m in some sort of time warp, where the days fly off the calendar and I sit still, unable to move. Missing a life that I don’t even know exists anymore.

I may never be able to write about those days, lost outside of a hurricane, searching and begging the universe for a chime, a sign that they are alive. Maybe I’ll never be able to explain being paralyzed with the fear that they were all gone, and I’ll certainly never be able to express how it felt to come back to life with each name and each ding of my phone. No, I can’t see having those words.

Counting the babies and friends that I love has changed me forever.

I’m going home for 5 days at the end of December. I can’t wait to see my neighbors and the friends I have left on the island, which are few. I can’t wait to love on Bella, the cat I can’t believe I love so goddamn much. And I can’t wait to feel that velvet air and look into that patchwork quilt of blue waters that I have been lucky enough to call my backyard.

I won’t lie, I am scared. I am scared of what I will find. I’m scared of what I will feel. I am scared that the life that I loved has washed away with the two category-5 hurricanes, and once again I will need to peel my dick outta the dirt and reinvent this beautiful shit show.

But that is why I get to be the badass in my story because I will do what I need to do even if I am scared shitless.

But I don’t walk alone. I come with an army of badasses. Oh, these bitches are CRAZY, they are powerful, and they are everywhere.

Today I got a box in the mail. Addressed to Lizzy Yana, signed Jen Papsmear.

Of course, I thought, is it true? Someone stole my next baby name?

In the inside it has a beautiful painting by one of the silverist linings of these two stupid bitch-ass hurricanes, an artist and friend, and soul sister if ever there was one, Jen Papartos, given by, and I can’t even write this without crying so hard, one of the most powerful, wise, and loving people I know, my dearest friend, Jess.

Titled: Homesick & Drowning

I’ve had people in my life that have known me all my forty years, but then sometimes there comes along a person that I feel has known me longer, and you can do with that what you want, but what I will do with that is be so grateful.

It’s something for someone to know you’re hurting, but it is a true friend that can see before even you can that you’re drowning, and they know how to save you, they are willing to get between a rock and a hard place with you.

That’s the part about friendship that we don’t talk about, you sign up, sure, first it’s coffee and a few inside jokes, and before you know it, this person that you chose to share your story with picks your ass up from the floor and dusts you off, and saves you, not out of any obligation, but out of love.

And that’s why I believe friendships are the reason we are here. To connect to people and form a web of safety, so we have the freedom to just be ourselves.

As long as I have my friends, I will always be home.

The Unknown: Displaced

It feels like this has all been a dream, a nightmare with waves of beauty weaved through it, just the opposite of real life.

I sit down to write several times a week. No words come. But the questions come daily. “Hey, I read your blog, how are you? What is your plan? How is the island?” and so on. These are all questions that I either have no answers to or little answers to. But I am going to write what I know, which I warn you, is almost nothing.

I have NO plan. None.

I’ve basically been rendered still.

I don’t want to go home, and I don’t want to be here. I feel like I am in a holding pattern of uncertainness. I’m afraid to breathe. I think so many people feel like I do. The displaced are without a cause, without a home, without old or new normal, we are just in the waiting room of our lives, ones we don’t have any picture of what might be.

My Grandma always said, “When you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything at all”. So I sit here with a ball in my stomach, the unknown eating at me. No answers.
 

It doesn’t matter anyway, we can’t run our business there even if we wanted to go camp out. We can’t earn a living to pay for the home we are lucky enough to have there. We have been able to let someone who lost their home live there, and he is caring for our cat or was supposed to be, but somehow he has some other cat there, and our cat is somewhere else. Whatever, everything is fucked up. Oddly, that probably bothers me more than anything, that there is another cat in my home, not my own. Having Bella taken care of in our home was one of the only things that made me feel okay.

Stupid and weird, I know, but it was something I was holding onto.

It’s the little things that drive you mad or make you sad, or maybe they are the things that finally crush you.

I’m scared because I don’t know what home is like. People who were once kind and gentle are snarky and angry, everything has changed, and I miss the way things were. When tragedy strikes it has a tendency to shake your world up enough to see who your truest friends are, you even find some new ones, but some also fall short, and you realize that you love some people better than they love you.

The people that I love have been shattered like glass on terracotta around the world. We are everywhere. These people are the people I see and love daily, but they’re gone, no goodbyes, nothing, just gone.

You might make a plan to see someone from the island, and maybe you can swing it, but for the most part, it’s an instant message about how someone is, or a like on Facebook when their kid does a milestone that you’d otherwise have been there to bear witness. I mean, these kids are like our babies, and they are just gone. The magnitude of it is really just too much.

I’m in Naples, there are much worse places to be, this is paradise for so many who worked all their lives to retire here. I’m so grateful to be able to be so “beautifully displaced”. We’ve been able to spend time with Jason’s parents and I will consider that the most beautiful silver lining of all of this. I have met the most real and wonderful people, and am reminded that you attract who you are, and I am real and hilarious.

Our little one is thriving here, she is riding horses a few times a week and is loving school. Just enjoying her enjoyment feels like I am cheating on The Virgin Islands so badly, but I kick myself in the ass and remind myself that I am supposed to be giving her the best life I know how. I’m supposed to keep her safe. I am supposed to make sure she lives happily, that is the whole reason we even moved to the islands, so I push that feeling away hard.

Please, don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret leaving, nothing about me regrets leaving, but I miss home, and I miss the people I love.  But enjoying this life feels like I am abandoning that life, and I can’t seem to stop crying, and I can’t seem to get my shit together because I don’t even know what that might look like.

I’ve been lucky enough to have my heart shattered before, so I know that it sparkles and shines when it lays all over the floor, and I know that the beauty and strength that comes out of this time will be incredible, but I also know that growing pains leave marks, and those look like change and loss. Something has to die to be reborn, and letting go hurts.

That’s what I know.    

How to help the Virgin Islands recover and rebuild

There are many great ways to help the relief efforts to the Us Virgin Islands.  It can be a bit overwhelming, so we put together this quick list of reputable ways to help.   

We’ve tried to organize this in 3 groups depending on the amount you are comfortable giving at this time.

$1 - $10 Donations

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Donate much-needed supplies using this Amazon wish list organized by vistrong.org  

Just add the items to your cart and send to this address ( it’s a warehouse in Miami that will ship everything to the v.i.)   

Vi Strong c/o Viking Freight   

11600 NW 91 ST

Suite 15

Miami, Fl 33178

===== >  Amazon list from VI Strong
 

Donate $10 to have a tarp sent to secure a roof to a VI resident in need via YouCaring

===== >  Link to the YouCaring donation site

Donate to a relief fund - here are three of them we know are trustworthy.

https://www.gofundme.com/help-virgin-islands-after-irma

https://www.gofundme.com/us-virgin-islands-irma-relief-fund

https://www.classy.org/checkout/donation?eid=135110

 

$10 - $50 Donations

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Donate much-needed supplies using this Amazon wish list organized by vistrong.org  

Just add the items to your cart and send to this address ( it’s a warehouse in Miami that will ship everything to the v.i.)   

Vi Strong c/o Viking Freight   

11600 NW 91 ST

Suite 15

Miami, Fl 33178

===== > Amazon list from VI Strong

Donate $50 to have a tarp sent to secure 5  roofs to VI residents in need via YouCaring

===== >  Link to the YouCaring donation site

Donate to a relief fund - here are three of them we know are trustworthy.

https://www.gofundme.com/help-virgin-islands-after-irma

https://www.gofundme.com/us-virgin-islands-irma-relief-fund

https://www.classy.org/checkout/donation?eid=135110

$50 and up Donations

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Donate much-needed supplies using this Amazon wish list organized by vistrong.org  

Just add the items to your cart and send to this address ( it’s a warehouse in Miami that will ship everything to the v.i.)   

Vi Strong c/o Viking Freight   

11600 NW 91 ST

Suite 15

Miami, Fl 33178

===== > Amazon list from VI Strong

Adopt a family

=====>fill out google this google form

 

Donate to a relief fund - here are three of them we know are trustworthy.

https://www.gofundme.com/help-virgin-islands-after-irma

https://www.gofundme.com/us-virgin-islands-irma-relief-fund

https://www.classy.org/checkout/donation?eid=135110

"Irma's Eye Wall" as told by Lucy Keatts

I haven't posted about Irma, because I have spent day and night doing everything I can to help my island. You guys, this is bad, really bad.

Lucy Keatts and I have know each other for over three years, we have gone to our kids birthday parties, shared a laugh at Hull bay over beers and tacos, and dropped our babies off to their first days at school together.

I can and will eventually tell the stories of all the generosity and heroism. But for now, in hopes that you can, for a moment, imagine what our island has been through and will be going through, I tell Lucy's story, her words, her pain.

Please help our island in any way you can.

Lucy’s story:

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One week since Cat 5+ Hurricane Irma hit our beautiful island of St Thomas. We watched, nauseated, as we felt the storm build up through that Wednesday morning but it still felt like the eye wall came upon us so suddenly. And so immensely.  And so terrifyingly. Irmas' eye wall was many things to me.

Irmas' eye wall was a ferocious roar I could never have imagined possible

Irmas' eye wall was watching the French doors on the side of our "safe" basement start to shake and buckle as we rushed the kids into the small bathroom and barricaded the door. 1.15pm

Irmas' eye wall was listening to that lashing fury and feeling a fear for our children we never wanted to experience again. 1.45pm. We didn't realize way worse was still to come.

Irma's eye wall was hearing our dogs' whine turn into a high pitched panicked almost scream as they too were filled with fear, tucked in their crates where we had barricaded them in as best we could

Irma's eye wall was listening to the propane tanks being slammed against the 'sheltered'  wall behind our bathroom bunker and crashing sounds upstairs (we didn't know it was the our upstairs disappearing)

Irma's eye wall was watching the sweet innocence of my 17mnth old doing the motions to incywincy spider on a tablet, as she couldn't comprehend the beast right outside. 1.55pm

Irma's eye wall was a sudden, powerful whoosh and the feeling that the inside of mh ears were being sucked out. That was the French doors being ripped off. 2pm

Irma's eye wall was now in our shelter and she wanted everything in it

Irma's eye wall was throwing my babies in the bathtub and laying with my arms and legs wrapped around them for 5 hours

Irma's eye wall was peeking out to see my husband bracing, desperately trying to hold in the bathroom door and wall. First he watched the metal windows buckling and then snatched away and then the inside walls being peeled away and the metal frames of the walls being twisted and folded by this fury

Irma's eye-wall was lying in the bath as wind pulled at the camping mat I clung to to cover my babies from endless debris flying around. The camping mat had been thrown at me as the storm demolished the closet behind my head. And it protected us

Irma's eye wall was repeating "it'll be over soon" over and over for two and a half hours to calm my kids but also, I realize, myself and at moments hearing the higher pitched terror in my voice as it felt like it would never be over. How was it not over? How could we possibly cling on much longer? I could feel the bathtub shaking

Irma's eye wall was cold rain water starting to fill the bathtub. I couldn't sit up or my children would be ripped from my arms, so I desperately tried to keep my baby's head above the rising water. I shivered uncontrollably until my littles couldn't help but pee themselves. It broke my heart as it warmed that water.

Irma's eye wall was utter panic when the remaining wall started to fall in on top of us, but return to a stoic, anxious calm after husband's reassurance it was the closet and not the cistern wall that was collapsing

"It'll be over soon" "It'll be over soon" "It has to be over soon".....

Irma's eye wall was finally moving on. around 5pm. But she was tricky, whirling back with a sudden vicious roar we could hear building and running at us and slamming debris around outside and still desperately trying to rip out the half wall that remained above our bathtub. Was she coming back around again? There's no way we would make it

Irma's eye wall was unbelievably huge relief as we could talk to each other again and believe that she really was dying down and we were going to survive. Finally. 7.30pm. The longest and most terror filled 5hours of my life that I would wish on no one

Irma's eye wall was being pulled out of the rubble by incredible neighbors who welcomed us into their home and have become like family in just a few days

Irma's eye wall was being so stunned and grateful to all be alive that when you look up after climbing out of the rubble you don't care that the top floor of your house is gone. Roof, walls, everything. Your home- gone. But you are alive together

Irma's eye wall was an incredible community coming together to help each other survive, move on and rebuild

We are good. We are lucky to have had friends take us off island until we find a new home and things settle down. But STT is home. We are conflicted and filled with guilt for leaving but it's the right thing to do for our children right now.

Irma's eye wall was absolutely devastating to my beautiful home St Thomas, bringing huge turmoil and hardship for so many. It will be many months before power is restored to most of the island. Forget about the piddly 10days people are worried about in Florida. Water, fuel, basic food supplies are all out or running low.

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STT needs help and support beyond what it's very special people can give each other.
Please consider donating to the VI Community Foundation http://www.cfvi.net or the St Thomas Family Resource Center -great organizations who will ensure funds go directly to help the people of this wonderful island.
#Stthomasstrong

What type of Hurricane Preparer are you?

I hate waiting for a hurricane. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that we have warning.  Unlike a tornado which can just drop randomly out of the sky.

And listen, there is not much funny about hurricanes either. Especially when Harvey just ripped up Texas, and everyone is on edge. People are bound to die if this rowdy bitch named Irma hits land.

That’s fucking scary.

And I worry about Daniel, my rose maker, and Michael, my favorite dumpster helper, the one that doesn’t punch you if you don’t have any money, and several other people I’ve grown to know who don’t have solid roofs over their heads every night.

Course, when a CAT 4 is coming toward ya, you worry about everyone you love. Shit, you even worry about the ones you don’t even like.  You realize you don’t dislike them that much. “I mean, she’s a bitch, but I don’t want her wiped off the face of the earth”.

I’m super Zen like that.

The waiting. The GODDAMN WAITING, it can really get to you.

Everyone watching, worrying, waiting, wondering, wishing, what the fuck?

And the whole island holds their breath.

We all prepare.

The Lieutenant Dan

Sure, you have some people that laugh in the face of danger. These are the eye rollers, the ones who let out mouth farts like “I can take Irma” and “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger”, to which I say “Sometimes you get killed, dipshit”, that is the part nobody ever focuses on, the many people who may not get stronger.  

The Maybe-caner

The ones who couldn’t be bothered by the likes of a possible hurricane, unless it’s 100% for sure coming it does not exists at all. They sputter “too early to tell” and “whatever”, and “I’ll cross that bridge when we know if their is a bridge to cross”.   

The Hurri-shamer

These are the ones that make you feel like you are a complete pussy for being concerned at all. I mean, what kind of islander are you if you are worried about a CAT 4 Hurricane? These guys are kings and Queens of the asshole questions like “Oh, is this your first?” cue side turned head and cute patronizing voice.

The Hurri-holic

These are my favorite of the unprepared and who I’d be if I didn’t have Scarlett.  These are the ROCKSTARS who have 7 bottles of tequila, a dozen limes, 12 bottles of Rum, some beer, 6 cans of Tuna, and one flashlight in their cart. They also may have a bunch of lighters, and have no candles. They will have the the Hurricane Party and will likely be passed out for the BIG SHOW.

The Hurri-bully

They tell you what you have to do and are not open to any suggestions. They are not even open to questions. If you do not follow everything they say, without question or clarification, you are a total fucking idiot and deserve to die. They are basically your “blow hard uncle” talking about hurricanes.  

The Hurri-bragger

These guys are proud as hell of staying and enduring the past hurricanes, they wear it like a badge of honor. They get a gleam in their eye and make you think that they are really BADASS for living through what they have. You will also be 100% certain that you will not be able to make it like they did, because you are a pussy. They have a rare genetic gift that makes them much stronger and no one could possibly understand what it takes.

The Hurri-hoarder

This is the reason that there are no flashlights on day one of the announcement of the hurricane. The Hurricane Squirrel will gather every single flashlight in home depot “just in case”, this is the same asshole that gets 10 boxes of candy canes at Christmas for their one grandchild. They really have a hoarding problem and this is just the excuse they need.

The Meteorologist

Often sets the tone with a statement like “I’m no meteorologist, but”, and “From what I can see”. They’ve also picked up words like “down swoop”, “up swing”, and “millibar”. They will  be “tracking” instead of “watching” the storm. They mean business. This is science folks. They are fact talking. They don’t have time for emotions as they are very busy calculating.

The Hurri-prayer

These people have not mentioned God in ever, however they are calling up warriors, posting memes about Jesus, asking for prayers, talking to God directly, and quoting the Bible all on preparation of the hurricane. They have chosen to go all the way with God. These are the same ding dongs that will say “he has a plan” when everything falls apart. I’m not really sure that if there was never the concept of god that they wouldn’t be in the “Hurrifuckit Group”

The Hurri-fuckit

These people give no fucks about anything until it is too late. They are very likely closely attached to a Hurri-hoarder. These pinballs are “going with the flow” and often use “Duuuuude” to start a story.

The Hurri-dodgers

These are the jerks that run at the thought of being uncomfortable. These are the Donald Trumps in the military type islanders. The fair weather islanders. The least respected by the other groups. These are quitters. Most likely to get a divorce type people. When the going gets tough, they get going, the opposite way.

The Hurri-prepper

These are the the most diligent of the prepares. It’s almost a hobby. When they make reservations they make them for three, him, her, and the impending doom. They close their shutters on June 1st and don’t open them again until Thanksgiving. They have been preparing for the big day and can’t wait secretly. You kinda wanna live by one of these freaks.

No matter how we all do it, it’s coming. A whole rock of people wishing, hoping, praying, manifesting, fingers crossing that this thing turns north and misses us all.

Please Irma, FUCK OFF.

A lot of you have been asking what my plan is. I have a ticket out of here Tuesday afternoon. I always had a deal with myself that anything over a CAT 2 I would get Scarlett somewhere safe. But I can tell you that it is not as easy as I thought it would be.

These people are like family to me, it is so hard to leave. I am so scared that I will be facing loss again in my life. I can’t bear the thought. I’m crying as I type, and I have been taking addresses and locations just in case I need to come back with the military to find my fucking squad.

For all my islanders reading, please be safe, my heart is with you.