Below is the succinct yet powerful story of Kimya Dawson, a musician and singer with The Moldy Peaches as well as solo efforts who battled substance abuse and mental illness. She told her story after news spread of Amy Winehouse's death, and did so through a series of tweets, which are all the more beautiful in their brevity and simplicity.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Slaying Gods
Last night I had the pleasure of meeting a man I've respected for many years, a man whom I've often thought of as a literary hero, as someone who has become greater than I might ever be. And yet, the moment he walked out on stage to greet the raptured and boisterous audience to discuss his epic work American Gods,* Neil Gaiman set up the downfall of his own godhood.
That sounds rather bizarre, I know, but give me a moment to explain.**
At one point during the evening, Neil told the story of how he'd created a goddess. She'd been lifted from the pages of his work and given life in the real world. While similar to two goddesses from Russian mythology, he'd added a third to American Gods because the story needed another. Since that time, many in the world have come to accept and verify this goddess, as if Neil had just referenced a deity from traditional stories. Wikipedia now cites this goddess as real, without mention of American Gods or Neil, her creator. In essence, he created a god.
We've done the same thing, but with real people, turning them into the gods of our own imagining. We have created our own mythology of fame, and we don't even realize what we've done.
We live in a world filled with movie stars and singers, writers and athletes. It is a world in which the internet facilitates our hero-worship. We are sometimes able to touch these Gods Among Men, even if only for a brief second. And so we've created the cult of celebrity, and we have a gigantic pantheon of gods we worship.
I've often derided this worldly religion of celebrity worship while secretly participating in it like everyone else. But as I experience more in life, as I meet these otherworldly creatures I admire to the point of adoration, I'm realizing they are not gods. They are men who may be great, but they are still very much human.
So last night as I sat in the audience, a man I've practically hero-worshipped for years walked onto the stage. Someone at the top of the literary world, a person who befriends others in the Olympus of celebrity and so doesn't need to fraternize with the unclean masses. Intellectually I knew different, but I still believed it.
Then two years and a half years ago, still very new to Twitter, I stumbled upon @neilhimself's feed. I eagerly followed and sent him an @reply expressing my delight. To my shock, a few minutes later I got an email saying that I was now being followed by none other than Neil Gaiman.
I can't remember exactly how I reacted, though skipping giddily around the room wouldn't be too far from how I felt. I knew that I was near to greatness, yet I feared saying or doing anything to alert Neil to the fact that he was probably following me by accident. Still, that little insignificant thing made me feel validated, like it had given me worth I wouldn't otherwise have. It was unconscious, yes, but it was there, and it influenced my interactions with him and others in this cult of celebrity.
Over the years I only sent him DMs on a few occasions, still fearful that I wasn't part of the celebrity club to which he belonged. Those times I did centered on a little bookstore I'd opened and which was in dire need of help. With 1.5 million followers, a simple RT from him could do more to bring needed attention to my little shop around the corner than anything I could do on my own.
And so the god reached down and helped me, even though it probably didn't mean much to him at the time. He was passing on a message, donating a signed book to an auction to help a bookstore, but the impact of those small actions made it possible for the store to struggle on a bit longer,*** and it gave me the chance to add more godliness to his character, at least in my eyes.
Then came last night, and he unknowingly slew the god in himself. I call it that, because for so long I've thought him more than a simple man. To see a man—albeit a humorous and charismatic one—joke around, discuss a book, talk about mistakes and challenges he's gone through . . . well, I realized that while he is great, he is not better than me. Not in the basic sense that I am human, that we both are.
I write this partly to explain to myself what I've been doing all these years, not just with him, but with so many other celebrities and geniuses who've become gods in my mind. While it may not seem bad to do so—we almost all do it—I never realized the inherent problem with such thoughts. When we turn men into gods, we are in danger of diminishing ourselves.
*Disclaimer: I haven't yet had the pleasure to read American Gods, though it's something I will be fixing quite soon. So these thoughts are based on last night's discussion of the book and my thoughts in general.
**Erm, sorry. That was quite a few moments. I really need to work on brevity.
***The store has been gone for six months now.
****On that note, thanks, Cat, for helping me out last night. I'm glad you believed the Not-A-Pizza was also Not-A-Bomb.
General note: I use the masculine "man" as a gender neutral term. Don't hate me; it's the way our language works.
That sounds rather bizarre, I know, but give me a moment to explain.**
At one point during the evening, Neil told the story of how he'd created a goddess. She'd been lifted from the pages of his work and given life in the real world. While similar to two goddesses from Russian mythology, he'd added a third to American Gods because the story needed another. Since that time, many in the world have come to accept and verify this goddess, as if Neil had just referenced a deity from traditional stories. Wikipedia now cites this goddess as real, without mention of American Gods or Neil, her creator. In essence, he created a god.
We've done the same thing, but with real people, turning them into the gods of our own imagining. We have created our own mythology of fame, and we don't even realize what we've done.
We live in a world filled with movie stars and singers, writers and athletes. It is a world in which the internet facilitates our hero-worship. We are sometimes able to touch these Gods Among Men, even if only for a brief second. And so we've created the cult of celebrity, and we have a gigantic pantheon of gods we worship.
I've often derided this worldly religion of celebrity worship while secretly participating in it like everyone else. But as I experience more in life, as I meet these otherworldly creatures I admire to the point of adoration, I'm realizing they are not gods. They are men who may be great, but they are still very much human.
So last night as I sat in the audience, a man I've practically hero-worshipped for years walked onto the stage. Someone at the top of the literary world, a person who befriends others in the Olympus of celebrity and so doesn't need to fraternize with the unclean masses. Intellectually I knew different, but I still believed it.
Then two years and a half years ago, still very new to Twitter, I stumbled upon @neilhimself's feed. I eagerly followed and sent him an @reply expressing my delight. To my shock, a few minutes later I got an email saying that I was now being followed by none other than Neil Gaiman.
I can't remember exactly how I reacted, though skipping giddily around the room wouldn't be too far from how I felt. I knew that I was near to greatness, yet I feared saying or doing anything to alert Neil to the fact that he was probably following me by accident. Still, that little insignificant thing made me feel validated, like it had given me worth I wouldn't otherwise have. It was unconscious, yes, but it was there, and it influenced my interactions with him and others in this cult of celebrity.
Over the years I only sent him DMs on a few occasions, still fearful that I wasn't part of the celebrity club to which he belonged. Those times I did centered on a little bookstore I'd opened and which was in dire need of help. With 1.5 million followers, a simple RT from him could do more to bring needed attention to my little shop around the corner than anything I could do on my own.
And so the god reached down and helped me, even though it probably didn't mean much to him at the time. He was passing on a message, donating a signed book to an auction to help a bookstore, but the impact of those small actions made it possible for the store to struggle on a bit longer,*** and it gave me the chance to add more godliness to his character, at least in my eyes.
Then came last night, and he unknowingly slew the god in himself. I call it that, because for so long I've thought him more than a simple man. To see a man—albeit a humorous and charismatic one—joke around, discuss a book, talk about mistakes and challenges he's gone through . . . well, I realized that while he is great, he is not better than me. Not in the basic sense that I am human, that we both are.
I write this partly to explain to myself what I've been doing all these years, not just with him, but with so many other celebrities and geniuses who've become gods in my mind. While it may not seem bad to do so—we almost all do it—I never realized the inherent problem with such thoughts. When we turn men into gods, we are in danger of diminishing ourselves.
You see, humanity is flawed. We can be brilliant at times and downright stupid at others, but none of us possess the perfection required for godhood. To give that power of deity to a man implies that we are less than him, we are not worth as much as he is. And so we make ourselves mere humans, unworthy to touch their snot-riddled tissues. (Gross analogy, I know, but true.)
What I realized in that moment was that, though I am flawed in so many ways, so is he. He has more experience and has achieved a level of success I will most likely never know, but he is an equal in that he is human and I am human, as were the rest of the individuals in the building that night. Instead of being a subordinate, I'd become a peer.
And so I enjoyed the show, laughing at his and Patton Oswalt's rather hilarious jokes, smiling at the stories he shared, and generally having a good time. My hero had become human, and it made the experience all the more fun. You can't have a casual conversation with a god, can't laugh with them or joke about mistakes you've both made. But you can with another man.
One great thing about social networking is the ability we have to slay these gods of our invention. We can see that these celebrities are just like us, with different lives but still very much human. We can interact with them and treat them like they are a friend. I've noticed a good share of comments from people on Twitter who noticed that I got a response from Neil or some other literary celeb. Much of the time, when an average someone gets a response or is retweeted by one of the celeb gods, you can see the flurry of "He actually responded to you! That's so cool!" comments flittering about the Twitterverse. At first it made me laugh, but thinking on it now, I can see just how much we've made these people into more than us. It makes me sad.
While he may no longer be a god, Neil Gaiman is still a man I respect and admire, and someone whose help I deeply appreciate. Last night I was able to give him a token of my thanks, though it had lost the edge of an offering it might have had earlier that day.
It's an advance reader copy of The Graveyard Book, which I've had for three years now and couldn't decide what to do with it. It is fairly worn from numerous readings by myself and others. It is one of my favorite books and as such had a special value to me. (I'm thinking this just added to the hero-worship that later developed.) Because of that I couldn't throw it away, nor was it in good enough condition that it would be valuable as a collectible.
Then I realized I could turn it into a piece of altered book art. I've been long been fascinated with the concept, and so I finally had the impetus to try it out. I really like how it turned out, so I was happy that I could give it to Neil in person and thank him for those bits of help he gave me and my bookstore. I'm happy I was able to do that, because I'm a big believer in thanking men and women who offer me help, even if it seems small to them.****
And so I close this much-too-long post by saying I'm glad I went last night, not only for the entertainment or the chance to see someone I admire, but for the thought that struck me as Neil discussed the gods he'd created in American Gods: I much prefer respecting men to worshipping gods. That way, I retain my value while admiring theirs. I'm finally able to lay to rest the idea that I am inferior to anyone, whether a man or a god of my own creating.
*Disclaimer: I haven't yet had the pleasure to read American Gods, though it's something I will be fixing quite soon. So these thoughts are based on last night's discussion of the book and my thoughts in general.
**Erm, sorry. That was quite a few moments. I really need to work on brevity.
***The store has been gone for six months now.
****On that note, thanks, Cat, for helping me out last night. I'm glad you believed the Not-A-Pizza was also Not-A-Bomb.
General note: I use the masculine "man" as a gender neutral term. Don't hate me; it's the way our language works.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The festering wounds of childhood
I grew up in a place where kids made huts out of holes in the ground, old cardboard, and scrap wood cobbled together with (most likely) rusty nails. It was a world where we played on hollow cement tubes, swung on monkey bars, and clambered over playgrounds rife with splinters.
I also lived in a world where evil wasn't pondered, heaven forbid discussed. Sexuality didn't exist, or at least wasn't recognized, except to serve as a warning for the dire things that could happen when it was even contemplated, let alone acted upon. Abuse didn't happen, because friends and family members would never do such things.
Within both those worlds there lived danger. In the land of tree houses and scraped knees, the possibility for death was there, yet so small that I laugh at the overprotection forced upon children now. Parents then understood that childhood meant bumps and breaks and bruises.
But in the 20 years since I was a kid, the world has become so child-proofed. Children are now legally required to sit in a car seat until they are 8 years old. Heck, I doubt I stayed in a car seat past the age of 2, and yet here I am, alive and kicking despite such reckless parental behavior.**
What parents didn't—and often still don't—understand is that the harm from emotional wounds are more devastating that the risk of a fatal injury from childhood play. Death is an ending, while spiritual* trauma is re-suffered every day over the course of a lifetime. But, of course, kids weren't given an outlet for their spiritual grief; instead they were told to tough it out and deal with it, though no instructions for how to do so were ever given.
The reality of emotional and spiritual injury is so much worse than a car accident or broken arm. This is real damage, the kind that festers deep down where not even X-rays or CAT scans can penetrate. It languishes entire lifetimes without anyone knowing it's there. Or maybe they know but refuse to admit that something could possibly be wrong.
And so, tragically, discussion of horrible, terrible, wicked things are avoided, because if we don't acknowledge them, they can't be real.
Sexual abuse doesn't happen in good families.
He isn't verbally abusing anyone; he just has a temper.
Addiction is only for those who use illicit drugs. Good people don't get addicted.
Families can sort of problems for themselves. Just ignore those niggling little things you see. It's none of our business.
Women who behave in any way but a chaste manner shouldn't have an expectation of respect or safety.
Children don't understand adult things.
It's all in your head, so just get over it.
While I am grateful for my (relatively) wholesome upbringing, life was never the Rockwell portrait people forced it to be. I know men and women who've suffered tremendous anguish yet refuse to seek help. If no one speaks about it, it can't possibly be true. Strangers—even friends and family—will never know their lives weren't perfect. Then the world will go on in sunshine and rainbows, and no one will ever have to deal with something so terrible, because things like that don't happen to good people.
*"Spiritual" is used in the sense of a person's spirit, without religious overtones.
**Yes, that is sarcasm.
I also lived in a world where evil wasn't pondered, heaven forbid discussed. Sexuality didn't exist, or at least wasn't recognized, except to serve as a warning for the dire things that could happen when it was even contemplated, let alone acted upon. Abuse didn't happen, because friends and family members would never do such things.
Within both those worlds there lived danger. In the land of tree houses and scraped knees, the possibility for death was there, yet so small that I laugh at the overprotection forced upon children now. Parents then understood that childhood meant bumps and breaks and bruises.
But in the 20 years since I was a kid, the world has become so child-proofed. Children are now legally required to sit in a car seat until they are 8 years old. Heck, I doubt I stayed in a car seat past the age of 2, and yet here I am, alive and kicking despite such reckless parental behavior.**
What parents didn't—and often still don't—understand is that the harm from emotional wounds are more devastating that the risk of a fatal injury from childhood play. Death is an ending, while spiritual* trauma is re-suffered every day over the course of a lifetime. But, of course, kids weren't given an outlet for their spiritual grief; instead they were told to tough it out and deal with it, though no instructions for how to do so were ever given.
The reality of emotional and spiritual injury is so much worse than a car accident or broken arm. This is real damage, the kind that festers deep down where not even X-rays or CAT scans can penetrate. It languishes entire lifetimes without anyone knowing it's there. Or maybe they know but refuse to admit that something could possibly be wrong.
And so, tragically, discussion of horrible, terrible, wicked things are avoided, because if we don't acknowledge them, they can't be real.
Sexual abuse doesn't happen in good families.
He isn't verbally abusing anyone; he just has a temper.
Addiction is only for those who use illicit drugs. Good people don't get addicted.
Families can sort of problems for themselves. Just ignore those niggling little things you see. It's none of our business.
Women who behave in any way but a chaste manner shouldn't have an expectation of respect or safety.
Children don't understand adult things.
It's all in your head, so just get over it.
While I am grateful for my (relatively) wholesome upbringing, life was never the Rockwell portrait people forced it to be. I know men and women who've suffered tremendous anguish yet refuse to seek help. If no one speaks about it, it can't possibly be true. Strangers—even friends and family—will never know their lives weren't perfect. Then the world will go on in sunshine and rainbows, and no one will ever have to deal with something so terrible, because things like that don't happen to good people.
Why mention any of this? What good is there in dredging up the past or discussing dark and painful things?
Because people are hurting.
Because the only way to heal a spiritual wound is to bring it into the light.
Because happiness is possible, even when it hurts so much right now to even think of living another day, let alone another 50 years.
Because silence is deadly.
Much has been said in the literary community about the recent argument that young adult books are too dark and corrosive for teens. I won't rehash or even address it here. I will say that life can be incredibly dark and difficult, but it can also be inexplicably good. Even after bad things happen, people can find happiness.
The world must acknowledge darkness and evil, then force it into the light where it can be banished and destroyed as best possible. The resulting wound can then be tended and healed, eventually scarring over to the point where the damage is a reminder but never an impediment. Not anymore. Not again.
Then one day long down the road, those scars can be shown to those still suffering in silent and unacknowledged pain, proving that injuries do happen, but they can also heal. Of that, I am proof.
Because people are hurting.
Because the only way to heal a spiritual wound is to bring it into the light.
Because happiness is possible, even when it hurts so much right now to even think of living another day, let alone another 50 years.
Because silence is deadly.
Much has been said in the literary community about the recent argument that young adult books are too dark and corrosive for teens. I won't rehash or even address it here. I will say that life can be incredibly dark and difficult, but it can also be inexplicably good. Even after bad things happen, people can find happiness.
The world must acknowledge darkness and evil, then force it into the light where it can be banished and destroyed as best possible. The resulting wound can then be tended and healed, eventually scarring over to the point where the damage is a reminder but never an impediment. Not anymore. Not again.
Then one day long down the road, those scars can be shown to those still suffering in silent and unacknowledged pain, proving that injuries do happen, but they can also heal. Of that, I am proof.
*"Spiritual" is used in the sense of a person's spirit, without religious overtones.
**Yes, that is sarcasm.
My Twitter (and online) policy
I posted this on Twitter, but I think it's worth repeating here.
I generally avoid religion/politics online for good reason: people get passionate while discussing them, which can lead to cruel things being said.
Something you should know: I, my family, and many of my friends are Mormon. I don’t care if you disagree with my religion, but attacking me and my loved ones is not okay. I will unfollow and block anyone who does. It doesn’t mean I hate you; I just choose to not surround myself with negative, unkind people. Anyone who can’t treat me and mine with respect—or thinks we don't deserve basic courtesy—feel free to unfollow me.
I generally avoid religion/politics online for good reason: people get passionate while discussing them, which can lead to cruel things being said.
Something you should know: I, my family, and many of my friends are Mormon. I don’t care if you disagree with my religion, but attacking me and my loved ones is not okay. I will unfollow and block anyone who does. It doesn’t mean I hate you; I just choose to not surround myself with negative, unkind people. Anyone who can’t treat me and mine with respect—or thinks we don't deserve basic courtesy—feel free to unfollow me.
You don’t have to agree with someone to be courteous and respectful.
And now I return you back to your regularly scheduled programming.
And now I return you back to your regularly scheduled programming.
Monday, June 13, 2011
If it's not about me, it's certainly not about you
It took me a few minutes to realize why an article in The New York Times struck me so wrong. The more I read, the greater grew my sense of uneasiness. Even from the title—It's Not About You—it began to strike a very raw and angry nerve. Go read it first. Then, if it sits ill with you and you aren't completely sure why, come back and I'll explain what's wrong with the inherent implications.
If you live your life with the primary goal of finding personal happiness, you are selfish and self-centered.
I've heard it for so many years that the thought of rebelling against this idea still strikes me as wrong, that I'm wrong to want to be happy. That, as the writers states, I should "be called by a problem, and the self is constructed gradually by [that] calling" and "court unhappiness."
That kind of thinking is so hurtful because it masquerades as the one and only truth. What exactly is this lie?
If you live your life with the primary goal of finding personal happiness, you are selfish and self-centered.
I've heard it for so many years that the thought of rebelling against this idea still strikes me as wrong, that I'm wrong to want to be happy. That, as the writers states, I should "be called by a problem, and the self is constructed gradually by [that] calling" and "court unhappiness."
That kind of thinking is so hurtful because it masquerades as the one and only truth. What exactly is this lie?
Everyone is the same and should want the same things and lead the same type of life.
For years I did what a good girl was supposed to do. I graduated from college, got a decent and ridiculously low-paying job. But it was a stable job, with sick time and benefits, and even a 401(k). The problem? I was stifled. I didn't realize it at the time, but no matter what I did in any of my post-college jobs, it was never enough to make me happy. That standard of life confined me in a way I didn't understand for years. My life wasn't bad or terrible, but when I tried to limit myself to others' ideals, I wasn't complete, and I certainly wasn't happy.
If the columnist is to be believed, "fulfillment is a byproduct of how people engage their tasks, and can’t be pursued directly. Most of us are egotistical and most are self-concerned most of the time, but it’s nonetheless true that life comes to a point only in those moments when the self dissolves into some task."
If it's wrong to want happiness, then why am I alive?It's taken me much too long to recognize the insidious nature of this force-fed philosophy, but now that I'm shaking off it's hold, I'm so much more at peace with myself and my place in the world.
For years I did what a good girl was supposed to do. I graduated from college, got a decent and ridiculously low-paying job. But it was a stable job, with sick time and benefits, and even a 401(k). The problem? I was stifled. I didn't realize it at the time, but no matter what I did in any of my post-college jobs, it was never enough to make me happy. That standard of life confined me in a way I didn't understand for years. My life wasn't bad or terrible, but when I tried to limit myself to others' ideals, I wasn't complete, and I certainly wasn't happy.
If the columnist is to be believed, "fulfillment is a byproduct of how people engage their tasks, and can’t be pursued directly. Most of us are egotistical and most are self-concerned most of the time, but it’s nonetheless true that life comes to a point only in those moments when the self dissolves into some task."
So I mean nothing in this universe, and the only meaning I will come by is through menial tasks?
To that I say BS. Life is not an assembly line, nor was it ever meant to be. I'm done letting people tell me it is and making me feel inferior because my life doesn't fit with their scripted plans. So here is my answer to all the leaders and official-sounding people who, like this columnist, espouse the all-encompassing view that "the purpose in life is not to find yourself. It’s to lose yourself."
Edited to soften some of the rantiness. Must remember to calm down, re-read before posting an impassioned argument.
Leave me alone, and take your one-size-fits-all ideology with you.You don't know me, and you never will if you think I have the same thoughts and wants and needs as every other human on this planet. I'm not nearly so simple, and I'd appreciate it if you kept your insidious guilt away from me.
Edited to soften some of the rantiness. Must remember to calm down, re-read before posting an impassioned argument.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Every woman should . . .
While looking through some old emails, I stumbled upon this little gem of a forwarded message. I generally hate getting them, but I loved the sentiment in this one, even years later. As with any chain message, I have no idea who the original author is or where it originated.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE one old love she can imagine going back to, and one who reminds her how far she has come.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a youth she's content to leave behind.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE one friend who always makes her laugh and one who lets her cry.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE eight matching plates, goblets with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a feeling of control over her destiny.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to fall in love without losing herself.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to quit a job, break up with a lover, confront a friend without ruining the friendship—and how to change a tire.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW when to try harder and when to walk away.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW that her childhood may not have been perfect, but it's over.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW what she would and wouldn't do for love or more.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to live alone even if she doesn't like it.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW where to go, be it to her best friend's kitchen table or a charming inn in the woods, when her soul needs soothing.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW what she can and can't accomplish in a day, a month, and a year.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE one old love she can imagine going back to, and one who reminds her how far she has come.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a youth she's content to leave behind.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE one friend who always makes her laugh and one who lets her cry.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE eight matching plates, goblets with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a feeling of control over her destiny.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to fall in love without losing herself.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to quit a job, break up with a lover, confront a friend without ruining the friendship—and how to change a tire.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW when to try harder and when to walk away.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW that her childhood may not have been perfect, but it's over.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW what she would and wouldn't do for love or more.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to live alone even if she doesn't like it.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW where to go, be it to her best friend's kitchen table or a charming inn in the woods, when her soul needs soothing.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW what she can and can't accomplish in a day, a month, and a year.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Rules
As I write this, I sit at the window of a high-speed train blazing past the French countryside. My time here is nearly done. Two months gone and I'm not sure what they mean yet. Some things aren't known for a long time. Others we ignore for far too long.
I used to think that to be successful, you have to live according to The Rules. These Rules can be anything as long as, according to your culture, this is How You Should Live. I tried so hard to have a happy, fulfilled life, but for some reason, I couldn't, at least not completely.
Then came a time when I realized I could actually abandon The Rules and be an even happier person. I'm not saying I abandoned my desire to succeed. Instead, I realized that what my society tells me is a good life is not what makes my life good.
Let me explain.
In the States, we are drilled with the importance of the College Education, Stable Career, Retirement Plan, Good Credit Score, Home Ownership, and the Nice Car. These are all hard and fast Rules for Good Middle Class Citizens. At least that's what we're trained to believe.
I used to think that to be successful, you have to live according to The Rules. These Rules can be anything as long as, according to your culture, this is How You Should Live. I tried so hard to have a happy, fulfilled life, but for some reason, I couldn't, at least not completely.
Then came a time when I realized I could actually abandon The Rules and be an even happier person. I'm not saying I abandoned my desire to succeed. Instead, I realized that what my society tells me is a good life is not what makes my life good.
Let me explain.
In the States, we are drilled with the importance of the College Education, Stable Career, Retirement Plan, Good Credit Score, Home Ownership, and the Nice Car. These are all hard and fast Rules for Good Middle Class Citizens. At least that's what we're trained to believe.
So I did that. I graduated from college, had a good (albeit low-paying) job, bought a dependable car, started my 401(k), and kept perfect credit. I should have been on the path to Success and Fulfillment. I wasn't. For whatever reason, my life felt missing.
People who Preach the Rules often mean well, trying to show a proven path to success and happiness. Meaning well is not the same as knowing better. For a long time, I thought it did. It's been so ingrained in me, this cultural Path to Happiness, that I feared deviating from it, that it would bring ruin if I did. Fortunately, though it felt very unfortunate at the time, something forced me off that path. I'm very glad it did.
As a child I dreamed of faraway places, of living as a world-traveler who doesn't need the stability of a Career with accompanying Retirement Plan to know that life is good. I dreamed of working hard at whatever I wanted and what suited me best in that moment. Those kinds of dreams are scary for most people. They imply Risk and The Unknown. People who believe in The Rules can be afraid of Failure, and thus, afraid to do anything to upset the balance that is central of The Rules. It's how it's done, after all. At least that how we're to believe it's supposed to be done.
People who Preach the Rules often mean well, trying to show a proven path to success and happiness. Meaning well is not the same as knowing better. For a long time, I thought it did. It's been so ingrained in me, this cultural Path to Happiness, that I feared deviating from it, that it would bring ruin if I did. Fortunately, though it felt very unfortunate at the time, something forced me off that path. I'm very glad it did.
As a child I dreamed of faraway places, of living as a world-traveler who doesn't need the stability of a Career with accompanying Retirement Plan to know that life is good. I dreamed of working hard at whatever I wanted and what suited me best in that moment. Those kinds of dreams are scary for most people. They imply Risk and The Unknown. People who believe in The Rules can be afraid of Failure, and thus, afraid to do anything to upset the balance that is central of The Rules. It's how it's done, after all. At least that how we're to believe it's supposed to be done.
Please don't infer anything about my thoughts on people who live according to the Rules. For those who find happiness within the structure, I cheer for them. Truly. I have many family members and friends who prescribe to these Rules and lead wonderful lives that bring them just what they need. I'm not speaking to them today. They have found what brings them fulfillment.
Instead, I address those who have tried to live as society says but still can't seem to find what it is that completes them. If they're ready—and in a position to take some very big risks, because the life of the dreamer can be incredibly risky—then I invite them to listen some more.
My life was forced off the path of Stability due to severe illness. To this day, many family members and friends think it was "all in my head," that illness involving stress and its sometimes severe consequences is due to some deficiency. People live the Rules and find Happiness from them every day. Why couldn't I?
I tried to explain then what I didn't even know yet, but even now they still don't understand. For them, the path was easy: Follow The Rules and contentment will undoubtedly follow. But it didn't.
I broke with The Rules at that moment, though I didn't know or realize it at the time. I chose a difficult path that held a lot of uncertainty. Still plenty of stress, but a much different kind. This was pressure placed on me because of my own desires to succeed, not my attempts to live up to someone else's expectations. That's what I always did when I had a Stable Job. I don't function well with a boss because I never feel like I'm at liberty to do what I think best; I'm always shackled by their expectations. While many people thrive in that kind of culture, I languished.
After I started breaking the Rules, something in me changed. I found a renewed passion in my life, something that had been quietly imprisoned while I whittled away at outside expectations. The moment my will touched freedom, I couldn't go back.
Instead, I address those who have tried to live as society says but still can't seem to find what it is that completes them. If they're ready—and in a position to take some very big risks, because the life of the dreamer can be incredibly risky—then I invite them to listen some more.
My life was forced off the path of Stability due to severe illness. To this day, many family members and friends think it was "all in my head," that illness involving stress and its sometimes severe consequences is due to some deficiency. People live the Rules and find Happiness from them every day. Why couldn't I?
I tried to explain then what I didn't even know yet, but even now they still don't understand. For them, the path was easy: Follow The Rules and contentment will undoubtedly follow. But it didn't.
I broke with The Rules at that moment, though I didn't know or realize it at the time. I chose a difficult path that held a lot of uncertainty. Still plenty of stress, but a much different kind. This was pressure placed on me because of my own desires to succeed, not my attempts to live up to someone else's expectations. That's what I always did when I had a Stable Job. I don't function well with a boss because I never feel like I'm at liberty to do what I think best; I'm always shackled by their expectations. While many people thrive in that kind of culture, I languished.
After I started breaking the Rules, something in me changed. I found a renewed passion in my life, something that had been quietly imprisoned while I whittled away at outside expectations. The moment my will touched freedom, I couldn't go back.
An unscripted life can be scary, but it can also be wild, exhilarating, and captivating. I'm ready to be captivated.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Forget
A friend asked the other day why I've been so sorrowful lately. After I stopped smiling over her use of "sorrow"—love that word—I started to think about it. I'm normally not, not at all, but the past two years have been my own hell and I'm finally creeping out of it.
Thing is, even in the midst of illness and financial woes and failure, I still pushed on and found happiness in every day. What I realized is that the hardest time for me is the moment right before the perpetual fighting ceases and things start to work in my favor again. It's that sight of an end, close but not yet here, that breaks me. I know it will work out, sometime soon, but it's still not here and I'm still fighting and I'm just so tired.
I don't know that I explained it well, but I tried. She let me go on my way without saying more, just the knowledge that someone cared enough to notice and ask. And I thought about it some more.
I've explained in recent posts about some of the hardships and heartaches that have come over the past few years, or at least shared the feeling of what happened if not specific details or circumstances. Now, though, the feelings I have are of a burgeoning hope still too new to give voice to its life. I am in darkness but dawn is bringing itself gracefully to my world. As with all good things, that grace is slow. So I must wait a bit longer and allow this brand-new hope to grow a bit while it is yet dark out. That way it is ready to burst forth with brilliance when the morning arrives.
So you see, it's not that I'm filled with sorrow, but that I am weary of keeping it at bay. Life is good and getting better, but my cautious heart still fears a return of blindness. Please, don't worry for me. Instead, fill me with laughter so I forget to wait. Then, when the light of happiness blazes around me I won't notice it hadn't been there all along.
Thing is, even in the midst of illness and financial woes and failure, I still pushed on and found happiness in every day. What I realized is that the hardest time for me is the moment right before the perpetual fighting ceases and things start to work in my favor again. It's that sight of an end, close but not yet here, that breaks me. I know it will work out, sometime soon, but it's still not here and I'm still fighting and I'm just so tired.
I don't know that I explained it well, but I tried. She let me go on my way without saying more, just the knowledge that someone cared enough to notice and ask. And I thought about it some more.
I've explained in recent posts about some of the hardships and heartaches that have come over the past few years, or at least shared the feeling of what happened if not specific details or circumstances. Now, though, the feelings I have are of a burgeoning hope still too new to give voice to its life. I am in darkness but dawn is bringing itself gracefully to my world. As with all good things, that grace is slow. So I must wait a bit longer and allow this brand-new hope to grow a bit while it is yet dark out. That way it is ready to burst forth with brilliance when the morning arrives.
So you see, it's not that I'm filled with sorrow, but that I am weary of keeping it at bay. Life is good and getting better, but my cautious heart still fears a return of blindness. Please, don't worry for me. Instead, fill me with laughter so I forget to wait. Then, when the light of happiness blazes around me I won't notice it hadn't been there all along.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Villains in the real world
As a writer, I've had to learn a lot about creating villains in my stories. I used to think that purely evil villains without a hint of remorse were the worst ones to come up against, and thus the most interesting in literature. Like I said, I've learned a lot since then, and now I know that villains are almost never evil incarnate—at least if the villain is believable in a non-comic book world.
This relates to something I've seen a lot in the real world lately. (As a note: this is not a perfect analogy so don't take it literally.) In recent months the struggle to make gay marriage legal in the US, both sides have done a pretty good job with villainizing* the other as bad, and even evil. The people on each side are just that—people. They choose with which side they stand, and it is generally after thinking through the issue on a number of levels. While it is true that some are hateful, perhaps even a bit vile, that in no way says anything about the individuals of either group.
I'm not saying anything for or against any viewpoint here; what I want to point out is that by villainizing the opposition, we close off any opportunity for open and honest discourse, which may well in the end shift opinions and lead to some definitive progress.
Likewise, there are several companies and organizations that are under attack because one or more of their leaders or prominent members is strongly in favor of one party. Boycotts are proposed and enacted. People refuse to associate with even the mere mention of the group to show their disdain for the other's message. That is their choice, both of the group leaders and the boycotters.
I would, however, like to offer an alternative. Instead of closing ourselves against others and labeling those with a different system of values or beliefs as inherently wrong, why don't we loosen the barriers we've placed between us and treat each other as people who are doing the best they can with their lives? Someone may well be wrong in what they believe, but if the people who are right turn their backs and refuse to acknowledge the other, how will truth or right or goodness ever be shared with those who don't agree?
Again, I say nothing as to who or what is right, only that we can't create a better world if no one is willing to discuss things in a caring, gentle way. People believe what they do because of a multitude of experiences, thoughts, and people in their lives. Wouldn't it follow that for someone to change an opinion, they must have new experiences and thoughts introduced in a way that uplifts them? Tearing someone down will only lead to further entrenchment in their ideas; it does absolutely nothing to foster understanding.
So I say this: it's easy to paint someone who does not agree with us as a villain, as someone black-and-white evil like Cruella de Ville who enjoys killing puppies for fun. It's much harder to look at them as an individual who is trying to make tough decisions, just like we are, to see that there is a whole lot of gray mixed in with the black parts we don't like. Wouldn't it behoove us, then, to welcome discussion with them? To foster friendship and understanding so that humanity can grow together instead of apart?
I'm not a hero, nor am I a villain; I'm something inextricably more complicated than that, just as you are. As we all are.
*Yes, I am making up my own word, because I can't find one that describes exactly what I mean. Villainize: to make someone with a differing viewpoint into a villain.
This relates to something I've seen a lot in the real world lately. (As a note: this is not a perfect analogy so don't take it literally.) In recent months the struggle to make gay marriage legal in the US, both sides have done a pretty good job with villainizing* the other as bad, and even evil. The people on each side are just that—people. They choose with which side they stand, and it is generally after thinking through the issue on a number of levels. While it is true that some are hateful, perhaps even a bit vile, that in no way says anything about the individuals of either group.
I'm not saying anything for or against any viewpoint here; what I want to point out is that by villainizing the opposition, we close off any opportunity for open and honest discourse, which may well in the end shift opinions and lead to some definitive progress.
Likewise, there are several companies and organizations that are under attack because one or more of their leaders or prominent members is strongly in favor of one party. Boycotts are proposed and enacted. People refuse to associate with even the mere mention of the group to show their disdain for the other's message. That is their choice, both of the group leaders and the boycotters.
I would, however, like to offer an alternative. Instead of closing ourselves against others and labeling those with a different system of values or beliefs as inherently wrong, why don't we loosen the barriers we've placed between us and treat each other as people who are doing the best they can with their lives? Someone may well be wrong in what they believe, but if the people who are right turn their backs and refuse to acknowledge the other, how will truth or right or goodness ever be shared with those who don't agree?
Again, I say nothing as to who or what is right, only that we can't create a better world if no one is willing to discuss things in a caring, gentle way. People believe what they do because of a multitude of experiences, thoughts, and people in their lives. Wouldn't it follow that for someone to change an opinion, they must have new experiences and thoughts introduced in a way that uplifts them? Tearing someone down will only lead to further entrenchment in their ideas; it does absolutely nothing to foster understanding.
So I say this: it's easy to paint someone who does not agree with us as a villain, as someone black-and-white evil like Cruella de Ville who enjoys killing puppies for fun. It's much harder to look at them as an individual who is trying to make tough decisions, just like we are, to see that there is a whole lot of gray mixed in with the black parts we don't like. Wouldn't it behoove us, then, to welcome discussion with them? To foster friendship and understanding so that humanity can grow together instead of apart?
I'm not a hero, nor am I a villain; I'm something inextricably more complicated than that, just as you are. As we all are.
*Yes, I am making up my own word, because I can't find one that describes exactly what I mean. Villainize: to make someone with a differing viewpoint into a villain.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The things I do . . .
I’m insane. Really, it’s true. I’m surprised my family hasn’t tried to have me committed yet with all of the crazy schemes I bellyflop into.
The latest? Moving to France for two months with everything only coming together at the very last minute. Read: I planned far enough ahead to get the most important, basic things in place, but stuff like, oh, calling my bank to let them know I’ll be traveling internationally? Hmm. That would have been a good idea before I ended up nearly stranded in Spain because none of my credit cards would work and the cash I had left was 40 cents shy of my needed fare.
Ay ay ay. Ricky really would be yelling at me for this Lucy of a move.
Good news? The amazing man at the emergency international after-hours collect call center for USAA saved my life. Well, more like what little sanity I have left. And to think that after how wonderful he was in helping a stupid stranded American, I didn’t get his name so I can tell his boss how great he is.
So after my near-disastrous already-stranded-in-Spain-and-I-just-landed, I decided to get one of the little sample cups of what everyone else was drinking. In America our beverages come in “Your bladder will explode in 5, 10 or 15 minutes” sizes. While Europeans have a far more refined sense of portions. Small—or even minuscule—is perfect because what’s in that cup packs a punch.
Because caffeine and I are bitter enemies (hello migraines every time I drink anything stronger than Sprite), I opted for the perfectly petite but exquisitely proportioned Chocolate: thick and dark with exactly the amount of chocolatiness my frazzled soul required.
Since I was still at the airport, the Chocolate came from Spain’s Starbucks doppelganger, but oh it was good. I’m planning to spend some time in Barcelona at the end of my trip since I’m flying out from here as well. That means I’ll be hunting down some authentic Chocolate to drink before I leave.
Although it’s been nearly seven years since I spoke Spanish with frequency, I’m keeping to my own. Only twice so far did I break down and go with English.
On a related note, I’m barricading myself inside the cottage once I actually get to France and figure out where the hell I’m supposed to be.
The latest? Moving to France for two months with everything only coming together at the very last minute. Read: I planned far enough ahead to get the most important, basic things in place, but stuff like, oh, calling my bank to let them know I’ll be traveling internationally? Hmm. That would have been a good idea before I ended up nearly stranded in Spain because none of my credit cards would work and the cash I had left was 40 cents shy of my needed fare.
Ay ay ay. Ricky really would be yelling at me for this Lucy of a move.
Good news? The amazing man at the emergency international after-hours collect call center for USAA saved my life. Well, more like what little sanity I have left. And to think that after how wonderful he was in helping a stupid stranded American, I didn’t get his name so I can tell his boss how great he is.
So after my near-disastrous already-stranded-in-Spain-and-I-just-landed, I decided to get one of the little sample cups of what everyone else was drinking. In America our beverages come in “Your bladder will explode in 5, 10 or 15 minutes” sizes. While Europeans have a far more refined sense of portions. Small—or even minuscule—is perfect because what’s in that cup packs a punch.
Because caffeine and I are bitter enemies (hello migraines every time I drink anything stronger than Sprite), I opted for the perfectly petite but exquisitely proportioned Chocolate: thick and dark with exactly the amount of chocolatiness my frazzled soul required.
Since I was still at the airport, the Chocolate came from Spain’s Starbucks doppelganger, but oh it was good. I’m planning to spend some time in Barcelona at the end of my trip since I’m flying out from here as well. That means I’ll be hunting down some authentic Chocolate to drink before I leave.
Although it’s been nearly seven years since I spoke Spanish with frequency, I’m keeping to my own. Only twice so far did I break down and go with English.
On a related note, I’m barricading myself inside the cottage once I actually get to France and figure out where the hell I’m supposed to be.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
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:
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.
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.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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.
Friday, November 19, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Reckless
There are times when anything is better than sanity. Times like now.
For years I did as conventional wisdom said:
- Be a good girl.
- Be coy but inviting to the opposite sex.
- Don't get married too young.
- Go to college.
- Get a respectable degree.
- Get a good job with a steady paycheck and benefits.
- Buy a reliable car.
- Save for the future.
That has gotten me:
- A rather boring life.
- No idea how to flirt or date.
- Lifelong spinsterhood.
- Educated without much partying.
- A paper touting my now-obsolete journalism degree.
- A traditional, boring job that fell apart the moment I got sick.
- A decent car that I'd much rather sell.
- 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.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
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
Also, I probably shouldn't redo a website or post to the blog when I'm sleep deprived. Me = slaphappy
Friday, May 14, 2010
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
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
Monday, May 10, 2010
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.
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