Cover Reveal: In Search of a Salve: Memoir of a Sex Addict

~ kegarland ~ 50 Comments

The time has come for me to reveal the cover for my debut full-length book, In Search of a Salve: Memoir of a Sex Addict.

I imagine several people looking at their screens and saying, “Memoir of a Wha?” I am here to assure you that you are reading the correct words.

Hi, my name is Katherin. I am a recovering sex addict, and as only a creative nonfiction writer would do…I’ve written a memoir about it.

I’ve been writing and revising this book since 2014. Subsequently, there have been several title changes. Initially, the book was going to be called Petulia, the name that my birth mother assigned to me, but the story morphed into being a narrative about more than adoption. The next title was Codependent; that was after I did a deep dive into Melody Beattie’s book. Still, something wasn’t quite right. The something was that I was trying to save my public reputation and avoid revealing the real issue—the integral (and awful) part that sex has played in my life.

So, I took a deep breath, made a decision, and revised the memoir once again. This time, the title would be Diary of a Sex Addict and written as an epistolary. But that didn’t work either. I hadn’t really kept a diary of my life, and trying to re-create one came off as inauthentic, something I don’t want to be.

My next title was Addicted. Years ago, Zane, a famous, Black erotica author had written a fictional novel called Addicted, and I thought it would be clever to play off the title as a sort of nonfiction response, like hey…this is what real sex addiction is like. It is not pretty or sexy. It is dangerous and scary.

But my publisher told me I couldn’t name it that for two reasons: Zane had already written a book with this title, and more importantly, the book is about much more than sex addiction.

She was right.

After careful thought, I renamed it In Search of a Salve, because it encompasses what I did much of my childhood, adolescence, and adult life—searched for something to heal the pain of unresolved trauma and the feelings of being thrice abandoned by each of my parents. Sex is how I did that; thus, Memoir of a Sex Addict is the subtitle.

The Cover

So, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I can tell you about the cover.

As an indie author, I typically work with people I know for each phase of book production; however, this time, I went with a boutique/independent publisher (more about that decision later). Working with a publisher meant trusting that person’s contacts and process, including their graphic designer. That was hard.

Before sending materials to the creative, I envisioned and made a mockup of the cover. I kept this rendition to myself, and then sent three photos and sample covers of bestselling books that I liked. What I created is on the left. The actual book cover is on the right.

Pretty amazing, huh?

I’m happy the graphic designer chose this photo. The picture accurately depicts how I felt during much of my life: deserted, sad, and bewildered. Overall, I was living life in a despondent kind of way. Even if I was donning the big, bright smile that many people know me for, I still felt like the little girl in this photo on the inside for much of my life.

I’ve spent the last nine years writing and revising this book, and now, with the help of my editor and NEW Reads Publications, it is nearly ready for public consumption.

I do hope you’ll consider buying a copy once pre-orders go on sale, which is June 27, 2023. I also hope you’ll endure hearing about it, every now and then, because, well, that’s how books are sold in the 21st century.

Monday Notes: Practicing What I Preach: Time Boundaries

~ kegarland ~ 66 Comments

My cousin called me a total of six times the day before my birthday and on the actual day, even though I texted that I would call him back later.

The same cousin typically speaks to his mother, once a day. But for five days, she was with me. This time, he was not only calling to see how she was faring on vacation, but also to inquire about me and why I wasn’t answering the phone, during dinner…in Aruba…every day. As a result, she tried to coax me to speak with him. One time, she said she would call and pass me the phone.

So, I told her, “I know how to use the cellphone, Auntie. I’ll call him later, like I already said.”

Another time, she tried to cajole me into answering by saying that “Someone very special, who you used to cut up with, wants to talk to you very badly,” while we were in process of hailing a cab to ride to downtown Aruba.

The same cousin asked his brother, who was with us on the island, if I was angry with him. I assured his brother I was not, that I was having an amazing time doing all of the things. Then, I dipped my blue tortilla chip into a ramekin of guacamole, enjoyed my appetizer, and cackled with my daughters and good friend.

My cousin called me again, and I ignored it.

After we sat down for my birthday dinner, at a beachside restaurant, where the sun lowered into oblivion, my aunt asked if I was going to call my cousin. That’s when I gave this speech:

“I am not angry. I am fine. I have chosen to pay attention to the 11 people who are in front of me today, to the people who spent lots of money to be with me. I think it’s important to do that. It took a lot of time and energy for everyone to be sitting here. I don’t think I should spend it talking on the cellphone to people who are not here. This is called a boundary, and I want to explain this to you before I have another drink when it won’t sound this nice.”

She laughed and said she understood.

The following day, I called my cousin. He was alive and well; his life did not implode because he couldn’t speak with me when he wanted to; neither did mine.

The example I’ve provided is called a time boundary. This year, I decided how I was going to spend my time on my birthday. Although I always appreciate the outpouring of well-wishes, I wasn’t going to be responding to texts and talking on the phone all day. I replied to most people late that night. Others, the next day. But here’s what this interaction reinforced:

  • Experts suggest you explain a boundary before enacting it. Maybe. A lot of examples I’ve seen require some lengthy speech with consequences. I don’t have the bandwidth for that right now. My cousin didn’t have to know what or why. His job was simple. Wait for me to call. However, my aunt was going to continue ignoring what I said, so I had to explain.
  • People don’t have to agree with your boundaries for you to create and enforce them. Obviously, my cousin had another agenda he thought I should follow. That’s fine. Other people’s agendas don’t negate what you choose for yourself.
  • People will try and manipulate you to do what they want. That’s their issue, not yours.
  • It is your responsibility to stick to the boundary. Had I answered the phone, I would have been sending a message to my cousin, his brother, and his mother that I was not serious about what I decided. Furthermore, it would have set the stage for future interactions.
  • You are obliged to enforce the boundary. That can look like re-stating what you already said or explaining (see bullet one).

Good luck boundary setting, good people! Please feel free to add more helpful suggestions about boundaries in the comments.

Turning 50: Do What You Want

~ kegarland ~ 117 Comments

Today is my birthday, and I am in Aruba.

I have awakened to the sounds of the Caribbean and the smell of the sea for two days. I will rinse and repeat for two more. I don’t think I have to describe it, but just in case: the Caribbean is different than the Atlantic Ocean. It is quiet, unassuming, yet powerful. Every now and then, waves remind you that you are not in control. Sea salt has wafted past my nostrils ever so softly, calming my parasympathetic nervous system and relaxing my body. The sand is fine and white. Nothing compares to the serenity of the sea, and the Caribbean on the Aruba side has not disappointed. I am here because I want to be.

Invitations were carefully crafted. In the past, I wasn’t deliberate about who surrounded me. Haphazard invites led to being in the company of people who didn’t always have my best interest at heart. Sometimes, they arrived because it was a good business opportunity; other times, family were there simply because they were…family. But no more. This year, I focused on my body’s response to hearing folks’ names. Only warm and fuzzies were desired, not people bound by obligation. I invited who I wanted. Those who had the time, money, and energy arrived because they wanted to. They are here because I wanted them to be and because they could be.

Activities were tailored to my wants. Multiple years out of the country with my husband have taught me what I can and cannot tolerate. This is not the trip for countless guided tours, where someone drones on about how their country chose to colonize indigenous people. Nope. I will have none of that. Yesterday, we enjoyed meals and champagne on a catamaran. We donned lifejackets and flippers and waded in water clear enough to see striped zebrafish. Tonight, we will dine on the beach, and I hope there will be a resounding Happy Birthday song. Tomorrow, we will parasail. I have been doing what I want to do, and those who wanted to join me have as well.

Some people may read this and think that I’m being selfish. You will hear no arguments from me. Perhaps, I am. But so, what? “Selfish” has gotten a bad rep, lately. I’m here to announce that it is okay to do what you want to do, as much as you possibly can.

We were not born to toil for employers; we were not born to be in committed relationships, where we constantly acquiesce to someone else’s needs; we were not put here to procreate and then be at our children’s beck and call. Well, I wasn’t. I know this is a common theme of mine, but I wholeheartedly, in my bones, feel this. It is okay to do what you want to do, as much as you possibly can.

So, on my 50th birthday, the fifth thing I’d like to share is that you are always allowed to do what you want to do, even if others disagree. I’m also leaving you with a song that my favorite DJ plays, aptly called “Free.” You can read about the history of the making of the song here, or listen below. Either way, I hope I have affirmed your deep desires. I hope you take heed.

I’ve turned 50, and I’ve processed and documented it here. Being on the earth for half a century, interacting with people, has taught me a few things, and I’ve shared them, but I have one more lesson. Be sure to come back and read what it is in June.

Turning 50 Series:

Monday Notes: A Post-Mother’s Day Message for the Motherless

~ kegarland ~ 70 Comments

Dear Motherless Child, 

I see you.

If you’ve just lost your mother, then a holiday, like Mother’s Day may seem strange. You’ll want to acknowledge that you, too, had a mother, good, bad, or otherwise. A woman birthed or adopted you and provided you with unconditional love. But now you’re in a different club. You may walk by aisles of Mother’s Day cards, their pinks and reds taunting you. You may feel inclined to buy one, forgetting you have no one for whom this would be appropriate. Or you may feel as if someone should buy you a card as recognition for your loss. Wouldn’t it be nice if Hallmark made a greeting card that began—I know it’s Mother’s Day, and you just lost yours…? But they don’t. The most you may have is Mother’s Day at church where you’re encouraged to partake in a new tradition, wearing a white carnation, symbolizing your mother’s death. 

Women who possess a nurturing gene may try to mother you. Their gestures will stem from kindness. Their heartstrings will lengthen and tug and wrap tightly around you, until you can’t breathe. But they will fail, because they are not your mother. As Mouse, a seven-year-old fictional character from the book Looking for Hope says, “there’s nothing like your own mother.” She’s right. Only the woman assigned to you knew the lilt in your voice when you were angry or excited. Only your mother knew when you needed a hug or extra encouragement. It is normal to have mixed feelings about others’ good intentions. Feeling grateful for other women who’ve served as proxy is understandable; wishing you had your own mother is also valid. The latter doesn’t make you ungrateful; it makes you sad and grieving. And that’s okay.

If it’s been a few years since your mother died, then the compassion some showed may have worn off. Friends and family may even suggest that you should “get over it,” as if losing one’s mother is akin to a bad breakup. However, even bad breakups can be hard to “get over.” Sometimes, bad breakups last years in the cells of your body and crevices of your brain. Shouldn’t losing one’s mother take a bit of time? Still, you’ll learn to have compassion for these people. They don’t get it. They don’t understand. Though we may suspect, not one of us knows how we will feel when our mother dies. Even if it’s an expected event, prompted by a terminal illness, or even if you hated her for trivial or grandiose reasons, no one understands the bundle of emotions that may bubble to the surface, threatening to erupt, until it happens. So, offer a smidge of grace for those who think you should “get over” your mother’s death. They simply don’t know.

Losing one’s mother, no matter your age, is not easy. But here’s what I hope for you. I hope these words are comforting. I hope you’ve found a space where other motherless children convene. I hope peace fills the void. 

Love,

a motherless child

RESOURCES

Motherless Daughters Online Source

Motherless Daughters

Blog Post about Motherless Daughters Retreat

Monday Notes: 4 Lessons Learned from Rotator Cuff/Bicep Tendon Surgery*

~ kegarland ~ 67 Comments

Guess who was released from physical therapy? That’s right. Me!

I convalesced for six weeks in a sling. I maintained physical therapy for nine weeks. Now, two months ahead of schedule, I’m back in the business of being me. And so, I have a few lessons learned or reinforced from this experience:

It’s okay to have a range of emotions.

I was angry when I tore my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. I was anxious at the idea of having surgery. I was sad that I wouldn’t be able to use my dominant arm to do everyday activities; things like blogging, revising my memoir, or grading online work. I was bothered by the idea that I had to sit around and…heal. But I didn’t allow others to force me into a space of gratitude, joy, or happiness. I didn’t allow others to invalidate my feelings.

I knew any emotion that surfaced would be fleeting, that I wouldn’t feel angry, anxious, sad, or bored forever, and I was right. Eventually, my emotions shifted. I was joyful on some days, and once I was able to exercise, less moody. Just to reiterate…it is totally fine to have a range of emotions, even if others are uncomfortable with you having them.

It’s okay to ask for help.

For various reasons, I have hyper-independent tendencies. I can do it myself, I often say, even if doing it myself is more challenging. However, there is no room for hyper-independence when you are one-handed. Showering and dressing require assistance.

And I didn’t like it.

Days after surgery, my voice shrank smaller and smaller each time I had to ask Dwight for another glass of water. But these circumstances left me with no choice. Over time, I grew more used to asking for help and not seeing it as a weakness. I’m not saying this has totally resolved itself, but I have accepted that receiving help is not bad. Sometimes, it’s necessary.

Listen to your body.

Part of what got me into this situation was not listening to my body. And what’s gotten me back to 100% is…listening to my body. Once I was out of the sling, I noticed that my shoulder ached when I slept. I didn’t reach out to the doctor or physical therapist to ask for advice. Instead, I put a pillow under it for support. Later, Dawn confirmed this was the right thing to do for all kinds of medical reasons. First, I listened to my body, then I did what I thought was best…in a lot of situations, this is the way toward strengthening your intuition.

Ultimately, I didn’t need Dawn to confirm if I was doing better. I learned to monitor my own progress. If I could move my arm higher, then I was doing well.

Healing is not just physical.

My husband has been amazing. I could write 1200 more words about how he has embodied the phrase in sickness and in health. He has done everything you’d think he is supposed to do because I couldn’t fend for myself.

But others’ love and care has also been integral. For example, my oldest daughter put some braids in my hair; my youngest daughter cooked dinner a few times, took my braids out, and detangled my hair; my sister talked to me daily for two weeks and sent money for lunch. My father-in-law texted me every day, until my two-week appointment.

A friend bought me the cutest and most comfy house shoes ever because she intentionally wanted me to be comfortable, while I “rested or wrote!” One friend talked to me once a week on my walk. Another friend sent me chocolates that spelled out a recovery message. A different friend picked me up and took me to the movies and lunch to relieve my boredom.

And of course, the blogging community has been instrumental in allowing me to share a range of emotions and offering well wishes publicly and privately.

Relationships are important to me, and I’m sure my healing process would’ve gone differently had friends and family not actively shown love and compassion.

* I promise this is my last post about my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. I’m about to go prep for my birthday trip 🥳

Turning 50: Don’t Be so Binary

~ kegarland ~ 36 Comments

One of the best lessons to come from the non-binary gender conversation is simply this: don’t be so binary.

The self-love movement is a great example of what I’m saying. Initially, self-love was a women’s issue that was based on taking time for oneself, which may have included pedicures, salon visits, and spa days. Then, another school of thought came along, which basically said, self-love isn’t about pedicures and spa days. It’s about going to the doctor, seeking therapy, and getting in touch with yourself. There was a huge pendulum shift that didn’t seem to allow for two things to co-exist. Why can’t self-love be both? I mean, it’s about love of self, which could be as varied as we are. What I think loving myself looks like may not be what you think.

Nothing is black and white, but we’ve made everything black and white.

I once read an example where someone used the bible to explain non-binary gender and its terms. What follows is a loose interpretation, with no citation, because I can’t find it, so here goes: This person had described how even though the bible says that God created the sun and the moon, we know that’s not all that exists when we talk about the sun and the moon. We’ve experienced sunrises and sunsets, both of which illustrate the “sun.” We’ve seen half-moons, full moons, and as I’ve shown on this blog, waxing gibbous, which are different moon phases, yet each of these is the moon. They are just variations of perception.

Two things can exist at the same time, but conversations steer us to only choose one.

My friend, Dr DB sent this IG meme to me: If EVERYONE needs therapy, then the problems EVERYONE is dealing with are systemic, cultural…too big to be confronted alone between two people. It’s actually a grave injustice to make individuals responsible for this.

My first thought was maybe. While it’s true that we are a part of a few overwhelming systems that require us to live against our nature, I fear that messages like the above will make people stop working on themselves because it seems pointless. Systems are phkd up, but so is running around with unresolved trauma and unhealthy behaviors, which impact your inner self, inner circle, and society as a whole. In Rest is Resistance, Tricia Hersey suggested that “we can craft a life outside of toxic systems,” and I agree. Hersey’s manifesto requires everyone to heal on an individual level, in order to effect life on a societal level. Therein lies the nuance between binary schools of thought, right?

There’s nuance in everything, even people.

I’ve experienced people seeing me as one thing, based on who I’ve shown myself to be: I’ve been characterized as rude, mean, intelligent, and brave. Those who see me as rude and mean have stuck with that; it doesn’t matter what I do outside of those markers, that’s who I am to them. Those who believe me to be intelligent listen to what I say, sans critical thought. For them, I don’t have to qualify anything because their minds are made up. See how binary thinking can also cause you to miss out on someone’s whole self? Separately, neither of things define me; however, I’ve been all of them…at some point or another.

When we choose to make something black or white, we are literally denying nuances. We are saying to one another that an experience can only be this or that, that a person can only be one thing. And that’s not reality.

So, that’s the fourth major thing I want to share. Nothing is binary. Everything is shaded, even ourselves as human beings. I get it. Believing things are cut and dry makes life easier, right? Life seemed simple when there were just “men” and “women.” There was nothing to figure out. But ignoring subtleties is not reality. Reality will always be found in that gray area, and depending on what we’re talking about, it can be as beautiful as a sunrise, or as messy as healing in a toxic world.

Postscript: I am not entertaining vile conversations about the LGBTIQ community, transgender surgeries, or anything in between in the comments. I’ve only used the term non-binary as an example for this write-up.

I’m turning 50 on May 23rd, and I’m processing and documenting it here. Being on the earth for half a century, interacting with people, has taught me a few things, and I’ll be sharing them with you through June. Here are the first three:

Monday Notes: 4 Similarities Between Physical Therapy and Mental Therapy

~ kegarland ~ 54 Comments

These days, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about all of the things, and one thing I’ve noticed is how similar physical and mental therapy are.

#1: Physical and emotional wounds require some type of healing.

This may seem like a ‘no, duh’ statement, but it really dawned on me during the last three months. If I told ya’ll I had no intention on going through physical therapy, you’d think I’d lost my mind. You’d google all of the information and comment or email me reasons why this was a bad decision. However, what do we do when folks are walking around in emotional pain? We offer toxic positivity, or we ignore their emotions. What we rarely do is say, hey, maybe you should try to heal that, so you can be whole again, so you can stop ruminating about the time that person did that thing. Like a physical wound, emotional wounds also require healing.

#2: Just because you feel better, doesn’t mean you’re healed; it just means you’re on your way.

Two weeks after surgery, I was doing so well, the doctor gave me some at-home exercises usually suggested for later. I felt a lot better and resumed my regular typing schedule. But my shoulder was fatigued and started to throb. I was able to swing my arm in a circle and do table slides, but typing all day was too much. I was still wounded. Emotional wounds are similar. We start doing self or professional therapy after a divorce (for example), and we think we’re ready to swipe left or right. The reality is there’s probably more healing to do, especially if for some reason, everyone you date reminds you of your ex.

#3: Just because you’re healed, doesn’t mean you should return to business as usual. In fact, you may need to develop some new habits altogether.

There is nothing I want more than to walk into a hot, steamy room, with a strong bass line playing in the background, while I perform beautiful āsanas. I miss Bhakti yoga. But I know it is not time. This is a little different than #2. Although I can return to yoga, I do not need to return the yoga I was doing before…not yet anyway. I have to do something different, something I used to think was boooring—restorative. Mental therapy is similar. For example, maybe your healing requires you to stop drinking alcohol. If that’s the case, it’s probably not a great idea to go back to that group you used to do shots with. This seems like common sense, but it’s not always. A lot of times, we want to return to the scene, but we’ve changed, and the scene has not. The scene is the scene.

#4: If you’re not careful, physical and emotional wounds risk re-injury.

The sling I was in served as a physical reminder that I was injured. The sling prevented me from using my hand or reaching too far. Once the sling was off, there was nothing stopping me. The first thing the physical therapist told me was to be careful of thinking I was fully healed. I still shouldn’t have reached for anything; otherwise, I could risk re-injury, and if that happened, I’d begin back at week seven. Mental therapy is a part of a healing journey, but there is no big black sling reminding you of your emotional wound. Oftentimes, the reminder comes in the form of people or experiences, like that family member who hasn’t grown or that place where the trauma occurred. If you’re not prepared, re-injury comes in the form of triggers. Suddenly, there’s a familiar smell that takes you back to being hurt. Just like a physical wound, you must be careful; you’re the only one who can protect yourself from being re-injured. Whatever those measures may be, you’re the one responsible for avoiding emotional pain.

I could only think of four of these, but if you have more, please share. I strongly believe we can help one another do better.

Monday Notes: Friday in Phoenix

~ kegarland ~ 82 Comments

My husband decided that he wanted to plan a surprise pre-birthday trip for me. The “surprise” part ended up being revealed for various reasons, but ultimately, he had planned to take me to see my favorite DJ, Roger Sanchez, who would be in Phoenix on March 24th.

I have been listening to and following DJ Roger Sanchez’s music for at least five years. On any given day, his house music beats blare from my Jeep. Our previous neighbors used to bang on the wall when a mix reverberated too loudly. Sanchez has produced Grammy-award winning songs, to which I know all the lyrics, even the Spanish ones. I. love. Roger. Sanchez.

So, when Dwight said he was taking me to see this DJ in flipping person, I just about lost my mind.

Next, my husband said he was also buying me an outfit to attend this event. Dwight is the most well-dressed man you will ever meet. His clothing choices are carefully choreographed ensembles, with levels of detail most people ignore. He has bought me outfits before, but it’s been without me. This time, I was going to choose whatever I wanted, with no spending limit.

Dude.

For almost a decade, I’ve been explicitly fleshing out what it means to be authentic. I’ve learned that how one dresses is a part of self-expression, and self-expression is directly linked to being oneself. I scoured Sanchez’s social media to see how people dressed. T-shirt and jeans or shorts would’ve been fine. But not this time and not for me. I wanted to wear sequins, sequins shorts to be exact.

“I don’t think the whole outfit should be sequins,” my fashion-savvy husband said.

I value his advice, but this time, I had to ignore it. Every day, we have the choice to be our authentic selves, and this was my opportunity. Not only were the blouse and shorts sequins, but also the shoes and fanny pack!

A couple weeks prior to our flight, I contacted my cousin, who I haven’t seen in a few years to let him know we’d be in Phoenix. Then, I remembered that Krystle, a blogger I’ve been talking to via social media lives in the city, too, so we arranged to see one another.

Ya’ll. I was so excited that I started packing four days before our flight.

Have you ever had a day where everything was perfect—where the birds chirped a little louder, where the sun shone a little brighter? Well, that’s how last Friday was.

That morning, Krystle, my cousin, Dwight, and I ate at Breakfast Bitch, a place where rap and R&B play in surround sound, a place where waitstaff sing the “Happy Birthday” song with a microphone and a boombox. This place was as extra as my sequins outfit.

Meeting Krystle for the first time wasn’t weird. Our conversation flowed, just like it had over the years in the DM. I was immediately reminded of why we need to flow with life, instead of resisting reality. What I mean is this: I needed to focus on the people who were in front of me, not overanalyze why a few friends I’ve known for decades had neglected to ask how I was faring after surgery.

Later, I treated Dwight and my cousin to dinner at a tapas restaurant called Pa’La. My husband enjoys fine dining and I had scheduled this part of the trip as a show of gratitude for taking care of me while I had been convalescing. The food was amazing, fresh, and ethically sourced. We enjoyed ourselves.

Then, it was time to see DJ Roger Sanchez.

Man.

I am not easily impressed when it comes to experiences. I am not the one to fanout because I’m in the presence of a celebrity DJ. However, as soon as Sanchez showed up, I thought I was going to faint. But I didn’t. I composed myself and danced and sweated for nearly three hours. I sang along with hits typically heard in the confines of my car and home. That night, I was satisfied with life and love.

Typically, I have a well-thought-out inspirational lesson. Usually, I wait a couple weeks after an event, so I can consider what I want to convey.

But not this time.

I hope what I’m saying is clear and that you glean what you may from this latest slice of my life. I hope this story inspires you in ways that matter to you.