u/sweetfelix

My whole life I’ve had a huge aversion to anything baby-scented; the wipes, baby powder, baby shampoo, as well as that sticky barfy apple juice cheerios diaper-y smell they tend to have.

I thought it was just a random preference and a dislike for babies but I recently bought baby oil because someone suggested it for dry skin and I had to throw it in the trash; smelling the scent on myself was giving me crazy bad anxiety. The other day I went to someone’s house and had to leave early because it smelled like a full-blown nursery, but they didn’t have kids.

Babies are fine. They’re cute, I like meeting them, I’ll hold them, whatever. I just can’t stand the smell.

Just wondering if it’s an adoptee thing; I was adopted at birth and I’m wondering if those god awful smells are connected with the primal wound.

… is following your gut instinct to decline a market that’s months away, and the market day arrives with record high temps AND thunderstorms.

I am so glad I’m having a lazy cozy day at home and not fighting heat stroke while desperately wrapping all my livelihood in tarps.

I’ve been vending upcycled clothing at markets for a little over a year now and hit burnout at Christmas; I had been doing 1-2 markets a week all spring and summer, then went down to 2-4 a month, then after my last Christmas market I gave myself a break…. That lasted four months.

I did two markets in April, and now I don’t have anything else booked. Even the easy local markets where I can just text the coordinator a few days before and go set up. I just… don’t want to do it anymore.

My biggest struggle with vending is that there’s always something I should be doing. If I’m not making inventory I should be listing inventory online, organizing it, improving my displays, making social media content, engaging on social media, finding markets to apply to, etc etc etc. I just never felt done for the day, or like I’d succeeded. And the worst part is effort does not guarantee results; my instagram posts get 20 views, online listings never get traffic, markets get rained out, stuff I thought would sell just rots. And it seemed like every time I invested in better displays, better products, and more expensive markets, my sales would drop dramatically. I couldn’t find my stride. Every time I thought I’d found the way forward I’d get humbled.

Taking a break showed me just how much time I was losing by procrastinating and guilting myself into not doing anything if I wasn’t going to work on my booth. And it showed me just how bad my anxiety and imposter syndrome was before/during/after markets. I’d spend the days leading up to it shaming myself and feeling like a total failure. And then if sales were bad (both April markets were bad, one had low foot traffic, the other just wasn’t my demographic) I’d completely crash for days.

Also with all the political and economic issues, I feel silly trying to promote my silly little craft business right now. Like I’m just a distraction.

I don’t know how to get back the positive motivated energy that I had last summer. I guess I was still really optimistic and giving myself grace that I’d improve, and then when I plateaued I didn’t keep pushing. I’m embarrassed that I’m barely at 100 Instagram followers, that I still can’t afford the big markets, and that I can’t afford to travel, when peers I’ve vended alongside have gained crazy momentum.

So I don’t know, has anyone else been in this “I should just quit” funk? I feel guilty giving up; I have hundreds of dollars invested in my booth setup and a whole extra bedroom full of supplies and inventory. I hate to just walk away. For a while it was really good for me and I loved doing it. But I’m tired of sinking money into it.

I’m doing this alone without a partner or friends helping me, that’s probably another reason why I burnt out. No one in my life really cares whether I keep going or not. The only dopamine i get is from happy customers and sometimes other vendors.

I was in a very rare positive mood yesterday. I finally had enough time, health, and energy to get some chores done, spend time outside, watch a good movie, cook a complex dinner. I felt openhearted, optimistic, and was craving human connection, which is huge for me because I don’t connect with anybody. I don’t have anybody.

I was scrolling Facebook in my great mood when an ad popped up for those fancy pop up Mother’s Day cards, and one reminded me of my birthmom. She loves me, she would love to build a real relationship with me, and I just haven’t been able to do it. I try but just shut down. But I saw the card and for once I felt like I could do this, I could send her a Mother’s Day card for the first time in 35 years. I could heal this. It’s easy, it’s just a card.

The option popped up to add a photo and custom note and I remembered she gave me a few photos from my birth and there was at least one showing us together. I have a box of letters, photos, paperwork, etc that she gave me that I try not to look at because it leaves me in tears every time. But I thought, “I’m in a great mood, I’m feeling strong, I’m feeling brave, I can do this. Just get in, get the photo, don’t look at anything else, get it done.”

Got into the box. Past the tiny shirt I wore in the hospital, past the cards from my birthfather, past the journals, the propaganda adoption pamphlets that convinced her to surrender me, past the journals, the lock of her hair, all the way to the photos. Six photos, mostly of me naked and covered in afterbirth, and the one candid shot I was looking for… she’s holding me but it’s blurry and from the side so you can’t really see either of our faces.

And then it hit me. I don’t have a good photo of us together because she didn’t want me. As many times as she’s told me she regrets giving me up, that she’s missed me every day, on that day, in the 48 hours we spent together before she signed me away, with multiple family members in the room, I didn’t even matter enough for anyone to take pictures with me. They didn’t want me. I was a hiccup, a disruption, an embarrassment, a brief novelty, something to be discreetly dealt with so everyone could get back to their lives. I didn’t deserve newborn photos, what was the point? I was about to be dead to my family anyway.

I knew the pain was deep but watching myself rapidly go from happy to a crumpled heap of tears and snot finally showed me how much this hurts. That I’ve been self soothing with a little bit of a fairytale that she was young and under a lot of pressure and loved me so much but the fact is, she got rid of me. She can wish and reminisce all she wants but it was her choice, she had people who would’ve supported her and helped her, but she chose to leave me there. I had 48 normal hours before I received the wound that defined my life. Trying to ignore it, to insist it’s not a big deal, to pretend everything’s fine, just hasn’t worked and never will. I wanted my mom.

She went on to get married, have children she kept, and now she has grandchildren. A big family network that’s loving and connected with zero illegitimate children disrupting it. I’ve tried to join but I just can’t. And I have nothing in my own life. I’m too old to have my own kids, too emotionally unstable for partnership, too self isolating for friends.

I dunno, I’m sorry to everyone here struggling with Mother’s Day, and struggling with having love they can’t give to anyone. This life is hard.

It’s so frustrating that the only offered solution for most bad landlord situations is to move. Like why do I have to uproot my entire life, give up my neighborhood, my routine, lose hundreds on moving costs, cleaning, missed work, and spend thousands on first/last/deposit, because some entitled old landleech won’t be a slightly decent human.

I’m on a month to month where the landlord refuses to sign a new lease. If he’d sign a lease I could actually take him to court for how often he comes by unannounced just to “check things out”, repairs he ignores, the creepy convicted felon “handyman” he sends over when repairs finally happen. It’s a nightmare. I think about moving EVERY DAY but right now I simply can’t. My credit is wrecked from a two bad life events in a row, my job isn’t giving me enough hours to qualify for most places, I have a fledgling small business that takes up all my spare time, and even if I miraculously found a new place, the destabilization would put me months behind on my goals, if it doesn’t completely derail them.

Like it’s just not fair. I’m paying most of my income to this person, paying for him to own more housing than he needs, and yet he owes me almost nothing. Every time I ask him to adjust his behavior he says if I don’t like it I should just move. As long as he doesn’t change the locks or turn off my utilities everything just has to be tolerated. And even then, if he did that, because of the month to month, it’s “just move out”. Uproot my life because my comfort and stability isn’t a good enough reason to hold a rich old man accountable. The energy and money I’ve invested into trying to make this place my home doesn’t matter. I should just move out already and find my next bad landlord.

People in power treat renting like it’s a hotel stay. That you can always just pack up in a day and find the next spot, no big deal. Landlords, judges, politicians, etc are ignoring renters basic, humble right to stable long-term housing while living in houses they’ve owned for 20+ years. When was the last time they had to move anywhere against their will? When was the last time they had to deal with a stranger entering their home whenever they felt like it to pass judgement on whether they should be able to keep that home? When was the last time they were told they’re lucky they don’t have to pay for repairs while they live with broken appliances, moldy bathrooms, rotten flooring, and peeling paint because the landlord says it’s fine?

I work in peoples homes a lot and the other day one of my clients complained that their fancy new condo’s renovation was delayed and they’ve already sold their huge house and are worried they’ll “have to live under a bridge”. I bit my tongue because she wouldn’t appreciate my attempt to empathize by telling her how many times I’ve had to sleep in my car and on friend’s couches between leases.

The longest I’ve ever lived in one place was 4.5 years. And then suddenly I got notice because the landlord decided to renovate and sell. I had made incredible life progress in that time and had really gotten used to having what felt like a real home. I had a garden, I knew and loved my neighbors, my furniture and decor was perfect. My savings and credit were better than ever. I’d finally felt stability. I’ve never recovered from how much that move ripped my heart out. It drained my savings. I can’t convince myself to settle in and decorate. I’m just waiting for the hammer to fall again.

The homeowner class is so out of touch with how hard it is to constantly be in transition or anticipating transition. But they’re the ones making all the laws about housing and renter protection. Meanwhile I should just move out.