All my fault(s)

Enough time has passed since the downfall of my former life and dreams that reality is beginning to set in. Some may see that as a blessing, to look clearly upon the events of the past year and analyze in a logical manner. Those people don't realize that though I see these mistakes in 3-D surround sound, there is no logic to the interpretations. Not yet.

I can't remember if someone has already said this or if I'm being unseasonably insightful, but man is his own worst enemy. Actually, thinking on it, I'm sure someone very famous and smart said it. If someone like that said something this clever, then it must be true.

Anyway, I go through periods in my life where I am more than my worst enemy—I am my absolute destruction. Yes, yes, that is a bit overdramatic, but if you've never felt the soul-crippling effects of absolute failure coupled with perfectionism and an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything, even that not within your power, then you won't understand. That's a good thing. I promise.

As I see it, the fog of panic is fading, plus the inner-survivalist is getting a brief respite. That means recrimination is rearing its repugnant head, its red-hot gaze already beginning to pierce the armor of self-esteem. That is my downfall: my own sense of guilt.

It hasn't progressed much yet, but it will soon enough. I can already feel the bile churning in my gut, ready for the first major wave of self-recrimination to begin.

Though I made mistakes throughout the process of opening the bookstore, they were all committed in earnest and with a determination that it was all for the best. Only hindsight knows the truth, and in this matter, I was wrong on many occasions. I see now what I could not then, and while there are many lessons that I need to learn and many more that others might benefit from, I can't deal with it right now.

That is the simple truth, but it's also the thing I fear most. I will need to face all of my decisions, and soon is the obvious choice, but I don't know if that's possible. Not for me. Not right now.

Why not now? Because I'm not ready to damn myself with my own words. If I say or write the things that trouble me, it would be as though I confessed a sin that was no sin; only mistakes. But still. It has much the feel of a sinner condemned.

Yes, I know. Overdramatic again. But there it is. I made mistakes and plenty of them, but until I have enough emotional strength built up after such a crushing defeat, I can't bear thinking of them without feeling the guilt beginning to take over. It doesn't matter if the guilt is valid; it's there and will wound me all the same.

And so my demons will be shoved back into the closet for a forced hibernation. I'm not ready to deal with the emotions of the past year. When will I be? I haven't a clue.

When the past becomes bearable

I like who I am.

Years ago, most of my life, really, I never thought I'd be able to say that and have it be true. But it is.

It didn't happen in a flash, a brilliant moment of enlightenment: I LIKE ME! Like nearly everything important, it came when I didn't realize.

It's an odd thing to mention, I know, but this evening a group of authors who write young adult novels filled their little niche of the internet with tweets and blogs and Facebook statuses with notes to their high school selves saying what they wish they had known. Each started with "Dear teen me . . . "

A lot of wonderful advice shot back and forth across the web, coming from writers across the globe. Much of the advice they gave sounded eerily familiar: boys, friends, parents, school, weight.

Thinking about it, though, I realized that I wouldn't want to have gotten little hints or cheats from my future self. I like who I am now, so that means if something in the past changed to make my life easier, I wouldn't be the woman I am today.

The purpose of the exercise wasn't to bridge the gap of space and time between past and present selves. I realize that. But most of the advice I saw was tailored to the woman sharing it, specific situations or people they had dealt with.

Instead of giving a specific piece of advice to my young self, I would say the thing I had wished most to hear. This is what I'd say:

I love you, no matter what you do or what happens to you. Please don't ever be afraid that something you've done will push me away or make me hate you; it won't. I will always be here. Nothing can change that. 

My mom died when I was sixteen, so I lost that person, the one who could have said this to me. Hearing this may well have changed my life. It seems like a small thing, knowing there isn't anything I could ever do or say that would make me reprehensible to her. No matter what.

Life would have been a lot easier had I known that, but as I said, I like who I've become because of this journey. That doesn't mean I won't tell this to every young woman I get to know. You'd better believe I will, most importantly because it's true. Nothing they could do would ever make me hate them.

Once someone lets me into her life, she's not getting rid of me. I'm like a parasite that way.

Over it . . . or not

With the insanity that has been my life for the past two years, I'd gotten over the notion that I'd ever get married. I'm only months away from entering my third decade of life, and I have to say, not worrying about dating is a blessing—especially at this age. But damnitall if I didn't just have a twinge of longing when I saw pics of old friends/unrequited-love interests online, some of whom may still be single and most of whom are still very attractive.

NO! This is not what I want. I want to be the happy spinster who travels the world and dotes on her nieces and nephews. I'm wretchedly tired of pining for something that will never happen.

I have to phrase it like that—"never happen"—because if I don't, then my feeble little heart gets to hoping again, and it's all down the crapper from there.

So I say to you, Aphrodite, that you must not seduce me with your talk of marriage and kids because if I am disappointed by love one. more. time. you will have one hell of a woman scorned to deal with. It won't be pretty.

Brains of a hare

So I've been a little scattered lately. Erm, a lot scattered, but it's not like I want to be. It's really difficult for me to sit down and commit to something when I have no idea what the hell I actually want to do with myself, other than run off to the French countryside, which I can't do for a few months, and so I'm stuck here trying to figure things out and make money so I can actually afford to run off to France . . .

Yep, my brain whirls about me faster than the vomit comet at the local amusement park. It all makes me so dizzy, and I puke when I get dizzy. You know how much I hate puking.

In other words:

me = chicken
universe conspiring against me = axeman

Well, not quite that dramatic, but I figure the visual of blood, guts, and feathers being flung through the air conveys my state of mind a bit more, um, graphically.

But here's the breakthrough: I'm actually picking a project to focus on—and then seeing it through till it's finished! Loud cheers!

Okay, not a huge deal to most people, but when you consider how I've been jumping from one project to the next to the twelfth,* it's a bit overwhelming to work on all of them at once.

Basically, my mind is working its way through "freakout" mode and into "let's get something done" mode. It's a much better place to be.

*I'm not kidding when I say twelfth.** In the past month I've been working on 2 editing projects, 4 nonfiction writing projects, 5 fiction writing projects, 2 websites, 2 blogs, and helping my 6-year-old niece write a book for her parents. Okay, that's more than twelve, but I think you get the picture.

**I should probably mention that of the 16 projects mentioned above, I've completed 1 editing and 2 nonfiction writing, with 2 projects postponed and 1 perhaps indefinitely. Um, yeah. It's probably time I focus.

Broken

I've had my heart broken before, but never like this. I had cried out my eyes until only dust remained so many times in the previous months, but still I fought to keep it alive. Then the day came that I knew I couldn't do it any longer. It was over.

Had it been a romance, I doubt the sorrow would be so acute. Instead, it was the death of a dream come to life. I'd fought—hard—every waking moment, and more than enough sleeping, to keep it going, to make it last another day. No matter what I did, it just wasn't enough.

When I got sick, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. For months. Then a flash of brilliance: open a bookstore. A pipe dream from over the years become a nearly feasible reality.

The thing about getting sick—this time, at least—was that I finally learned that only I could control when happened in my life. I stopped letting fear stop me from pursuing something crazy and absolutely insane.

And so I quit my job and opened a bookstore for kids and teens. It's much more complicated than that, but for now I'll say that passion can lead a person through so many incredible hardships so long as possibility remains. It stayed a good time, but eventually possibility became harsh reality. No matter what I had or hadn't done, it wouldn't last.

Tears didn't fall the day I made the soul-splitting decision to close the store. We just hadn't gotten enough people in who would buy books. Another time, another town . . . but it didn't matter. What-ifs bring pain, not resolution, and I already hurt more than I could realize. I didn't question but moved forward with what-must-be-done.

But eventually the must-be-dones were done, and time to think returned. With thinking came remorse, sorrow, loss, and anguish. I've loved men before, and subsequently had my heart stomped on, but not like this. Never like this.

A man is a human. A person. Fallible and real. A dream, though . . . A dream is the purest desire of the heart, mind, soul.

When people pass through breakups that seem more excruciating than is possible, I imagine it's the death of a dream more than the death of the relationship that makes the heart shudder, slow, and stop beating altogether. The dream of the little house with its white picket fence. The idea of a lifelong companion and lover.

I'd given up dreams of the adorable little family a few years before I lost this dream in the form of a beautiful little bookstore. Each in its own way has changed and shaped me to what I am now.

Instead of turning away from the hope of a successful love or career, these disappointment have proved to me that even more is possible. I got so close. Next time it'll be closer.

I'm the only one who can truly stop myself from dreaming and succeeding. I've never liked disappointment; even more, I hate not knowing what could have been, if I'd only been strong enough to try.

And that's why I'm packing my bags and preparing to move across the world in search of my next crazy adventure. What I find in that small cottage in the French countryside doesn't matter. What's important is that I'll find something there and know for sure, without regret.

Vomit

Nausea and vomiting have been my constant companions. I loathe their excessive diligence. Years ago I would never have imagined getting to the point where vomiting became second nature. More, a relief.

I'm not anorexic or bulimic, nor have I ever been. Instead, I got sick with something no doctor could give a name, let alone a definition or explanation. Treatment wasn't even a consideration. How can you treat what you don't know? Symptoms were alleviated as well as possible but nothing brought answers.

If you've never experienced intense, prolonged nausea and vomiting, there's no way to help you understand that horror. In pregnancy, many women have to deal with something similar, but in the end they are rewarded with a joyful child. I got more vomiting.

Day in, night out there was nausea so severe I couldn’t even sleep, let alone eat or read or work—even after taking anti-nausea medication. I drank water or Gatorade whenever I could, just to stay hydrated, but that didn’t stop the vomiting. Often, I wouldn’t have anything in my stomach other than water, and so that was all that would come up. When the water was gone, it would be dry heaves. Days and weeks and months of it.

We ruled out everything imaginable in every way possible. I was pricked and poked and prodded and pinched till I was ready to scream for the lack of answers.

After three months of vomiting everyday, several times a day, and being prostrate with spirit-crushing nausea, the vomiting ceased. For two months it seemed as though this anomaly had been just that—something bizarre and unexplainable, but soon gone. Hah.

We didn’t have an answer for those past months, but I felt fine, so I didn't complain. I went back to work after months of on-again-off-again medical leave.

Two months went by. The vomiting started again.

I knew how it felt then, and how horrible it was to be hunched over a bowl or bucket or toilet for hours a day. I feared it would be just as awful as the first time, so I started back to the doctor’s office, draining my health, my strength, my will, and my bank account.

Then one night, in tears of frustration and anger, I scoured the internet to find something, anything, to explain what was wrong with me. A random Google search of “weird vomiting disease” linked to a page discussing Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. I'd found it.

Some people go through cycles of vomiting. Most frequently it affects children, who are more prone to frequent bouts of short duration (2–3 days, about a dozen or more times a year). For a time doctors didn’t think adults could have it, but now they’re realizing that some go through episodes of longer duration but less frequency (up to three weeks, three or four times a year).

No one knows why. There is no cure. There isn’t even a common therapy or medication or treatment. Some doctors don’t even know it exists.

Even more strange, it is sometimes linked to abdominal migraines, which is how my doctor began treating it. Prevent the migraines, prevent the vomiting. After another month, the vomiting stopped. The intense nausea stopped shortly after, and even minor nausea lost its potency.

After six months with sometimes mild nausea but without any vomiting, I decided to quit taking the migraine medication. If I could live without the interminable need for medication, I'd gladly take it. And so commenced a week from heck. Not hell, not this time. Migraines and nausea, but not nearly anything severe enough to equate to the purgatory I'd already passed through.

Why do I tell this story? Because I gained strength and courage from vomit. I lost so many things in the months I couldn't work or eat or sleep. (Except weight. A cruel twist of fate put my body into starvation mode so I couldn't lose some of the excess pounds I carried.) Those losses showed that I could live with so little in the way of money and expensive food and clothes, and objects in general. I didn't need them.

Nor did I need the things Americans generally consider indispensable: big house, fancy car, high-paying 9–5 job, 401(k). Not having those things didn't make my life miserable. Illness did that. If I could survive and be relatively happy in a situation like that . . . well, I could survive anything. Taking risks and the possibility of failure didn't seem nearly as daunting as they had before.

Nausea spared me a lifetime of unexpressed longing. If the illness weren't quite so horrible, I might say I was grateful for it. But let's not get carried away.

Reckless

There are times when anything is better than sanity. Times like now.

For years I did as conventional wisdom said:

1. Be a good girl.
2. Be coy but inviting to the opposite sex.
3. Don't get married too young.
4. Go to college.
5. Get a respectable degree.
6. Get a good job with a steady paycheck and benefits.
7. Buy a reliable car.
8. Save for the future.

That has gotten me:

1. A rather boring life.
2. No idea how to flirt or date.
3. Lifelong spinsterhood.
4. Educated without much partying.
5. A paper touting my now-obsolete journalism degree.
6. A traditional, boring job that fell apart the moment I got sick.
7. A decent car that I'd much rather sell.
8. In debt.

No, my life isn't bad, horrible, or utterly devastating. But neither am I complete. A whole, fulfilled individual without residual questions or what-ifs floating through the air taunting me as I try to sleep.

And so, my friends, I propose this: I will embezzle imprudence from all of the lively, fun, adventurous, and slightly crazy people I've always wanted to become. I'll take a bit of reckless courage from the rock climber. Some bravada from the loungers on nude beaches. Small helpings of willful disregard for rules from schemers. More than a touch of zen from pot-smoking liberals. All of these little pieces, I'll add to my burgeoning courage to be the person I've always longed to be.

You may worry that with such examples, I'll be dancing too close to danger. Don't worry. I'm old enough to not be stupid and completely reckless. I'm also old enough to know that a life half lived is no life at all.

Many things have aggregated my growing discontent with the status quo, the way it's "supposed to be." I'll share some of those, as well as document my irresponsible actions as I throw a comfortable, convenient, and safe life away. Safety is another way of saying you've given into fear. I'm tired of being safe.

Down with boring stuff!

I'm reorganizing my life. Literally. That includes my blogging. So be prepared for all kinds of who knows what. I don't know what, either.

Also, I probably shouldn't redo a website or post to the blog when I'm sleep deprived. Me = slaphappy

I belong to Fire Petal Books

For any of the following to make sense, you must read this post on belonging by Molly O'Neill. Go now. I'll wait until you get back.

Thinking about my belonging to something, I realize there are two that immediately strike me. The first is my home state of Utah. Most people don't realize how incredibly beautiful it is here. Often I don't either, at least until
I move away for a few months or years. Then I start to ache for my mountains. Actually, I get lost without them. How else am I supposed to know which way is east?

And in almost striking contrast, farther south along the highway are the glorious red deserts of central and southern Utah. The first morning of waking up, bundling up in sweatshirts and blankets as the sun just begins to rise, and peeking my head outside the tent to a vista of absolute perfection is something I can only describe as spiritual.

Those places have been my home for longer than my memories trace back. They are my birthplace and most likely my final resting place. Though I always long to see new places, I cannot leave my home for long.

In the past few weeks, though, I've begun building a home within that home. This home is largely empty now, though the walls shine with brilliant colors of various hues, still damp from the recent application of paint. Piece by piece, that space will be filled with chairs and shelves, followed soon after by books. Lots and lots of books. The best kinds of books, too. Those especially for kids and teens.

The walls are still bare and I've yet to have boxes of books cross the threshold, but that place is mine. It has already claimed me. Every morning I unlock the door, flick on the lights and open the blinds. Then I see it, and it welcomes me. I could spend hours lying on that floor, looking up at the gorgeous walls, noticing each piece as it finds a place.

Soon enough, this store will claim children as well, and teens and mothers and fathers and anyone who wants a place to read and laugh and live.

A friend commented the other day on how this store is me, that it is taking on my personality and becoming part of myself. I daresay she's right. I hope she's right, because that way I can give the best part of myself to others, to give them love and belonging when they may not know how to find it anywhere else.

I belong there because it is part of me, and I am part of it. I can't imagine a greater gift in life.

Michelle who belongs to Fire Petal Books

Quote of the Day

"In a world where it is increasingly possible to seclude yourself in a hive with fellow creatures who buzz the way you do, bookstores, like libraries and newspapers, are among the few places where a variety of ideas and opinions can jostle together for your attention. That tolerance of perspectives, including contradictory ones, isn't a marketing strategy for those institutions. It's part of their DNA. It's why they exist."

—Jim Higgins in a Milwaukee Journal Sentinel editorial defending Next Chapter bookstore owner Lanora Hurley, who has been criticized for scheduling a book signing by Karl Rove.

Brilliance

I had an epiphany today while painting the walls of Fire Petal Books. I've always considered myself a book person, though I enjoy a huge variety of hobbies and interests. Whenever anyone asks what I can't do, I always say I can't draw. While that's true, I've always longed to create art—visual art—on paper or canvas. Since I couldn't draw well, if at all, I never attempted to do anything more than put crayon to paper while playing with kids.

Then today as I sat on the floor, moving the paintbrush across the wall to fill in gaps and tidy up the edges, I realized the movement was very relaxing and even fun. As I was painting the wall all one color, I let myself paint freely without worrying that I wasn't painting it right.

That's when it struck, the thought that changed how I viewed art and my interaction with it. What does it matter if I'm any good at painting, so long as I enjoy it? It doesn't matter at all. If it's something that brings me peace, I'm going to do it whether people gasp in horror at the sight or gush over its magnificence. That's not what matters.

And then a related thought came: there are a lot of people who enjoy writing because it calms them and makes them happy. They don't have to be perfect at it to enjoy doing it. But I think what most of us (and I include myself here) don't realize is that we don't have to do it perfectly or make money from it or get it published to make the writing worthwhile. Sometimes just the doing of it is what matters most.

So tonight after I finished up at the store, I went to the craft shop and bought myself some canvases, paintbrushes, and paints. Tomorrow after I paint walls with a single color, I'm going to let myself go wild and paint whatever colors I like—and maybe even mixing them to create my own—in whatever nonsensical pattern feels natural. Right now it's not important to take classes or learn the theories behind each stroke. What I need is a moment alone with canvas, paint, and brush. It  will be more valuable to me than owning an expensive painting by someone else, because I will create it.

And that, my friends, is the stroke of brilliance I had today.

Why

This, all of this, is for children. These are their books, their stories. Sometimes we adults forget how vital stories are to the life of a child. We start thinking about sentence structure and royalties and the politics of book banning. But then, in a quiet moment in the corner of a bookstore we see the intent face of a boy as he reads of adventure, and the delighted expression on an angelic face as she gazes at pictures of the beautiful fairy princess. And we remember what it was like to believe, to need stories much more than we needed air to breathe.

———

I have a confession.

While most people I know would be mortified to be caught doing something so silly, I walk into the store, turn on the lights, look around, and then flop down on the floor. Arms and legs sprawled whichever way, I let my mind go and just breathe. Minutes, hours later, my mind insists on returning, and I let it back in only because I know I'll be there again tomorrow, filling my lungs with the life of a place dedicated to the happiness of children.

Someday soon, I want to see you walk into my store, flop down in an empty space, and just breathe for a moment or two. I might have to join you.