WHO THE HELL IS BMC?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (OR WHATEVER THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE)
Here’s the truth, clawed straight from the underbelly: Mitch isn’t real. He’s a stitched-together swagger ghost, wearing my face and all the truths I used to flinch from. He’s not a person—he’s a pressure release valve. A backtalking, metaphor-slinging embodiment of everything I never said when I was too busy making other people comfortable.
Mitch was born the day I stopped apologizing for taking up space in my own damn life. I needed a voice that could say the unsanitized version—so I built one. Gallows humor? Check. Grief-stained grit? Check. Zero emotional filter, a backwards cap, and enough nerve to unearth the things I kept buried? Absolutely.
This blog isn’t curated. It’s composted. It’s where trauma doesn’t get tidied—it gets turned. It’s rage-weeding with your bare hands and daring to sit in the filth long enough to grow something that wasn’t there before. Not shiny. Not aesthetic. Just real.
I’m 43. Married to my husband, and before all this? I was a CNA for 18 years. I’ve held the hands of the dying and heard the last jokes of people who were almost too tired to laugh. I’ve seen what breaks us and what threads us back together, duct tape and all.
This space is for the broken-hearted smartasses. The ones who process pain through punchlines and still believe there’s something worth planting, even in scorched earth. Mitch just helps carry the shovel.
So yeah—welcome to the freak flag garden! Planted in grief. Watered with side-eye. Wild as hell.
Well, hell. You clicked on the About Me page, so now you’re trapped. Welcome to the weird little rabbit hole where trauma meets tomatoes. Name’s Big Mulch Command—BMC if you’re nasty (and if you’re still reading, I’m already picturing you making eye contact while holding a potted fern like it owes you money). Mitch, if your vanilla!
I'm the profanity-laced, dirt loving, emotionally unhinged gardener of this messy ass blog, and no, I’m not here to sell you herbal tea and gentle affirmations while wearing a wide brimmed hat and pretending I’ve got my life together. I’m here to dig. I’m here to scream. I’m here to compost the bullshit and grow something worth living for.
I didn’t build this space to be cute. I built it because I damn near lost my mind trying to be palatable. Spent years shapeshifting into whatever the hell people needed me to be. Smiling while suffocating. Saying “I’m fine” while bleeding under my polite skin suit. That version of me? Mulched. Dead. Rotting beautifully beneath the beans. What grew in its place? Me. Real. Ripped open. Reclaimed.
Part country grit—raised on cornbread, weathered hands, and emotional stoicism. Part city sass—fluent in sarcasm, rage therapy, and passive-aggressive post-it notes. Full-time soul—because under all the blunt truths and rants, I give a damn. A big one.
Gardening started as a hobby. A little scratch in the dirt side quest. Now? It’s my sanity. It’s my therapist. It’s the only place I know who the hell I am without trying to impress anybody.
And here's the raw part: I’m not just a character, I’m a person. A human, like you. On my own journey through this messy-ass life, I’ve wrestled with agoraphobia, PTSD, anxiety, and body dysmorphia. I’ve been cracked open by pain, lost in the fog, and still found myself planting hope with trembling hands. Just like you, I’m figuring it out. And yeah, I still struggle to own my authenticity. But that’s the point of all this—we don’t need to be perfect to be worth something. We make mistakes. We lay down and die a little sometimes. But eventually, we rise. We learn how to fight for ourselves, to stand up, to be heard, to be seen.
WHY THE BLOGGERY?
Because life didn’t just knock politely. It kicked in my door, pissed on the rug, stole my emotional support snacks, and left me holding a box of broken dreams and zucchini seeds. I burned out hard. Like, full-on existential gas leak. Left my job. Lost my sense of self. Was out here Googling “Am I dying or just dissociating?” on a cracked iPhone with 2% battery and no hope.
So, I came home. Not on a wave of triumph. On a raft made of trauma and Target receipts. Landed back in my dusty ass hometown population: goats, ghosts, gossip, and one emotionally devastated ex-nurse aide with a bad attitude and a support chihuahua who thinks he’s Taylor Swift. I came back broke. Spiritually bankrupt. Emotionally bankrupt. Financially well, let’s just say a bag of soil cost more than my dignity at this point. But I also came back with dirt under my nails and a need to scream into the cosmos. And that’s how this blog started.Not as a business. Not as a brand. But as a breakdown.
This was the only place I could throw my thoughts without someone telling me to “journal it out” or “have you tried yoga?” (Look, my flexibility starts and ends at opening a bag of mulch.)
WHERE IS THIS GOING?
Honestly? I don’t f*cking know. But here’s what I do know: This isn’t just a garden blog. It’s a spiritual greenhouse for the overgrown, the overlooked, and the emotionally composted. You're gonna find:
Plant Tips – Rookie wins, tragic fails, and why I once gave a cucumber a name and now can’t eat it.
Mental Health Realness – Trauma, anxiety, rage-pruning, and healing so nonlinear it looks like spaghetti.
Hometown Chronicles – Where Dollar General is church and therapy is $1.99 wine and watching your neighbors fight in the yard.
Blunt Truth Bombs – Because I’m not here to make you feel cozy. I’m here to help you grow.
We spiral here.
We swear here.
But more than anything—we grow here. Together. Uneven. Unfiltered. Unapologetically messy.
THE CAST OF THIS DOMESTIC DRAMA:
Me - Current emotional support goblin, deep thinker with calluses.
Deveraux St. James (my husband) – Editor at Prohonos, official Sponsor of BMC’s Garden Meltdowns™.
My Mom – Thinks “trauma” is a fancy kind of jam. Also thinks everything’s “a good deal.”
The Chihuahua Overlord – Barks at walls. Believes he’s Taylor Swift, but when hes howling, he sounds more like the goat from her music video!
The Possessed Dog – Deep eye contact. Human soul? Unclear.The Grumpy Cat – Couldn’t give less of a shit and some how still my hero.“This is less of a blog, and more of a backyard exorcism with snacks.”
WHAT’S THE DAMN POINT?
To remind you (and me) that life doesn’t have to be aesthetic to be f*cking sacred. Healing isn’t tidy. Growth isn’t linear. And you’re allowed to throw a tantrum in the garden while planting tomatoes with a hangover and a broken heart. This isn’t a feel-good space. This is a feel-everything space.You don’t have to be fixed. You don’t have to bloom on time. You just have to plant something real. So if you’ve ever felt:
Too loud
Too weird
Too broken
Too late
WELCOME!! You’re right on time here.
WHERE IT MIGHT BE GOING
(SPOILER ALERT: A BOOK, PROBABLY) Yeah, I’m working on a book. Tentative title?“ALL THE SHIT MY THERAPIST TOLD ME TO DO BUT DID I? FUCK NO & BLA BLA BLA.” It’s equal parts garden manual, trauma memoir, and emotional stand-up special. It’ll smell like dirt and disappointment and sound like healing through gritted teeth. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll still be here—cussin’ at squash and trying to figure out my inner child while shoveling mulch.
READY TO DIG DEEPER?
Click around. Read something. Check back weekly and see if the drunk raccoon delivering mail dropped off the Shed Edition. Or drop a comment. Let me know you exist. Let me know you’re growing too.“Weeds are just plants with better PR. Let’s rewrite the damn story.”—BMC
💬 SOUND OFF BELOW:
What’s the last limiting belief you ripped out by the roots?Ever scream-cried into a compost pile? Got a garden ghost story?Tell me your dirt—I’m listening.Welcome to Plants, Panic & and Paranoia—Where the soil’s rich, the honesty’s raw, and the vibe is… let’s say spiritually feral.Let’s grow.
Audio Player Snippet
Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon
WHO THE HELL IS BMC?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (OR WHATEVER THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE)
Here’s the truth, clawed straight from the underbelly: Mitch isn’t real. He’s a stitched-together swagger ghost, wearing my face and all the truths I used to flinch from. He’s not a person—he’s a pressure release valve. A backtalking, metaphor-slinging embodiment of everything I never said when I was too busy making other people comfortable.
Mitch was born the day I stopped apologizing for taking up space in my own damn life. I needed a voice that could say the unsanitized version—so I built one. Gallows humor? Check. Grief-stained grit? Check. Zero emotional filter, a backwards cap, and enough nerve to unearth the things I kept buried? Absolutely.
This blog isn’t curated. It’s composted. It’s where trauma doesn’t get tidied—it gets turned. It’s rage-weeding with your bare hands and daring to sit in the filth long enough to grow something that wasn’t there before. Not shiny. Not aesthetic. Just real.
I’m 43. Married to my husband, and before all this? I was a CNA for 18 years. I’ve held the hands of the dying and heard the last jokes of people who were almost too tired to laugh. I’ve seen what breaks us and what threads us back together, duct tape and all.
This space is for the broken-hearted smartasses. The ones who process pain through punchlines and still believe there’s something worth planting, even in scorched earth. Mitch just helps carry the shovel.
So yeah—welcome to the freak flag garden! Planted in grief. Watered with side-eye. Wild as hell.
I'm the profanity-laced, dirt loving, emotionally unhinged gardener of this messy ass blog, and no, I’m not here to sell you herbal tea and gentle affirmations while wearing a wide brimmed hat and pretending I’ve got my life together. I’m here to dig. I’m here to scream. I’m here to compost the bullshit and grow something worth living for.
I didn’t build this space to be cute. I built it because I damn near lost my mind trying to be palatable. Spent years shapeshifting into whatever the hell people needed me to be. Smiling while suffocating. Saying “I’m fine” while bleeding under my polite skin suit. That version of me? Mulched. Dead. Rotting beautifully beneath the beans. What grew in its place? Me. Real. Ripped open. Reclaimed.
Gardening started as a hobby. A little scratch in the dirt side quest. Now? It’s my sanity. It’s my therapist. It’s the only place I know who the hell I am without trying to impress anybody.
And here's the raw part: I’m not just a character, I’m a person. A human, like you. On my own journey through this messy-ass life, I’ve wrestled with agoraphobia, PTSD, anxiety, and body dysmorphia. I’ve been cracked open by pain, lost in the fog, and still found myself planting hope with trembling hands. Just like you, I’m figuring it out. And yeah, I still struggle to own my authenticity. But that’s the point of all this—we don’t need to be perfect to be worth something. We make mistakes. We lay down and die a little sometimes. But eventually, we rise. We learn how to fight for ourselves, to stand up, to be heard, to be seen.
Because life didn’t just knock politely. It kicked in my door, pissed on the rug, stole my emotional support snacks, and left me holding a box of broken dreams and zucchini seeds. I burned out hard. Like, full-on existential gas leak. Left my job. Lost my sense of self. Was out here Googling “Am I dying or just dissociating?” on a cracked iPhone with 2% battery and no hope.
So, I came home. Not on a wave of triumph. On a raft made of trauma and Target receipts. Landed back in my dusty ass hometown population: goats, ghosts, gossip, and one emotionally devastated ex-nurse aide with a bad attitude and a support chihuahua who thinks he’s Taylor Swift. I came back broke. Spiritually bankrupt. Emotionally bankrupt. Financially well, let’s just say a bag of soil cost more than my dignity at this point. But I also came back with dirt under my nails and a need to scream into the cosmos. And that’s how this blog started.
Not as a business. Not as a brand. But as a breakdown.
This was the only place I could throw my thoughts without someone telling me to “journal it out” or “have you tried yoga?” (Look, my flexibility starts and ends at opening a bag of mulch.)
WHERE IS THIS GOING?
Honestly? I don’t f*cking know. But here’s what I do know: This isn’t just a garden blog. It’s a spiritual greenhouse for the overgrown, the overlooked, and the emotionally composted. You're gonna find:
Plant Tips – Rookie wins, tragic fails, and why I once gave a cucumber a name and now can’t eat it.
Mental Health Realness – Trauma, anxiety, rage-pruning, and healing so nonlinear it looks like spaghetti.
Hometown Chronicles – Where Dollar General is church and therapy is $1.99 wine and watching your neighbors fight in the yard.
Blunt Truth Bombs – Because I’m not here to make you feel cozy. I’m here to help you grow.
We spiral here.
We swear here.
But more than anything—we grow here. Together. Uneven. Unfiltered. Unapologetically messy.
THE CAST OF THIS DOMESTIC DRAMA:
Me - Current emotional support goblin, deep thinker with calluses.
Deveraux St. James (my husband) – Editor at Prohonos, official Sponsor of BMC’s Garden Meltdowns™.
My Mom – Thinks “trauma” is a fancy kind of jam. Also thinks everything’s “a good deal.”
The Chihuahua Overlord – Barks at walls. Believes he’s Taylor Swift, but when hes howling, he sounds more like the goat from her music video!
The Possessed Dog – Deep eye contact. Human soul? Unclear.
The Grumpy Cat – Couldn’t give less of a shit and some how still my hero.
“This is less of a blog, and more of a backyard exorcism with snacks.”
WHAT’S THE DAMN POINT?
To remind you (and me) that life doesn’t have to be aesthetic to be f*cking sacred. Healing isn’t tidy. Growth isn’t linear. And you’re allowed to throw a tantrum in the garden while planting tomatoes with a hangover and a broken heart. This isn’t a feel-good space. This is a feel-everything space.
You don’t have to be fixed. You don’t have to bloom on time. You just have to plant something real. So if you’ve ever felt:
Too loud
Too weird
Too broken
Too late
WELCOME!! You’re right on time here.
(SPOILER ALERT: A BOOK, PROBABLY) Yeah, I’m working on a book. Tentative title?“ALL THE SHIT MY THERAPIST TOLD ME TO DO BUT DID I? FUCK NO & BLA BLA BLA.” It’s equal parts garden manual, trauma memoir, and emotional stand-up special. It’ll smell like dirt and disappointment and sound like healing through gritted teeth. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll still be here—cussin’ at squash and trying to figure out my inner child while shoveling mulch.
READY TO DIG DEEPER?
Click around. Read something. Check back weekly and see if the drunk raccoon delivering mail dropped off the Shed Edition. Or drop a comment. Let me know you exist. Let me know you’re growing too.
“Weeds are just plants with better PR. Let’s rewrite the damn story.”
—BMC
💬 SOUND OFF BELOW:
What’s the last limiting belief you ripped out by the roots?
Ever scream-cried into a compost pile? Got a garden ghost story?
Tell me your dirt—I’m listening.
Welcome to Plants, Panic & and Paranoia—
Where the soil’s rich, the honesty’s raw, and the vibe is… let’s say spiritually feral.
Let’s grow.
Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon
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