Muchness and Light

This is a happy new year, ain't gonna worry me to death.

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about all the things I'd done in 2012, about what a momentous time it's been for me.  (I forgot to include both turning 40 and taping a pitch pilot for BRAVO.  Really.  I've done a lot this year.)

But now the year end is approaching, neither rapidly nor unexpectedly—it happens the same way each year.  My therapist asked me to work on a list of things I don't want to carry with me into 2013.  I've been thinking about it for days, writing both in my head and on actual paper that was later burned in the fire.  Now, though, I thought it time to share that here. 

I do not want unavailable men.  Maybe that seems like a no-brainer, but I have this tendency to attract such beings into my life.  Whether logistically or emotionally, I am magnetically attracted to the men who are least likely to be able to share their life or mine.  Maybe it's something about their being inherently broken—a fragile cat.  They're soft and pretty and purr when I pet them, but they can't give what I need or want in return.  I don't want that anymore. 

I do not want stasis.  I don't want to be stuck in the past or in the present.  I'm a creature that likes movement, and I want to continually move forward in my life.  It doesn't always have to be incredibly exciting; there just needs to be momentum.  And I recognize that there are times when I need to sit still, for just a moment, and absorb what's going on around me.  Like a stop on a commuter train, it needs to come and go in its necessity so that I can go on to the next place. 

I do not want addiction.  Mine or anyone else's.  Absolem has always said that I have an addictive personality.  He's right and wrong, of course, like he always is.  His point was that I can easily get wrapped up and a bit obsessive about things—whether life or love or experience.  In my constant quest to understand my life, I do examine the details, over and over, until I have exhausted my understanding.  Sometimes that's just exhausting to the people around me, too.  But this is where I go back to my not wanting unavailability.  I don't want to be caught up in someone else's addiction, whether literal substance or figurative obsession.  I want to healthily carry my own burdens and not enable anyone else's.

I do not want fear.  I've written a lot about finding the impetus to overcome my own fears, usually of myself.  There will always be things that scare me.  I don't want the paralysis that comes with being afraid to make a choice or live my life.  This is probably the root of most of my historical stasis, and I want to be strong enough to swallow it down and move past the apprehension. 

I do not want anger.  There's a lot for me to be angry about, both with myself and with others.  I don't want to hang onto that anger, finding it to be the only fuel to move me forward.  I want to make peace with the past—with the unavailable men and the static and the addictions and the fear—and to let it go.  Not letting go keeps the pain of the past so very present.  I want to be able to look at those things and see them clearly in perspective, from a mild distance where they don't feel so cogent anymore. 

There are also a lot of things I do want.  I want Persona Non Grata to be successful.  (Thank you to everyone who has purchased it and downloaded it so far.  Your reviews and kind comments are incredibly important to me.)  I want to be productive writing the next book, Mantissa, which I started this week.  I want to enjoy my life with my children and to find ways to enjoy this new life on my own.  It's not what I'd planned or expected a year or even six months ago, but it's my life, no matter what.  And I will do everything I can to make my mark on this place in time. 

Thank you to everyone who has supported and encouraged me this year.  You have been often effervescent in your love, and I am deeply appreciative of that.  As big as 2012 was, here's to hoping 2013 is even bigger and better.  I'll let you know how it goes as I live it.

Shut your dirty, dirty mouth.

Like most people, I've had a lot of teachers in my life.  Two, in particular, really stand out in my mind.

The first one I'll discuss, who actually came second into my educational life, was a philosophy professor at UAH.  Craig Hanks.  On the advice of a friend, I took his Ethics class.  I learned a lot—even though I didn't always do the work.  When it came time to do a presentation on an ethical dilemma, somehow I thought it was a good idea to do a paper on the ethics of S&M lifestyle, given that S&M was (is?) still categorized as a mental illness in the DSM-R.  Ultimately I read the paper to the class... but only because he wouldn't let me present the video montage I felt best illustrated my position.  (Innuendo not intentional, though it makes me laugh.)

Honestly, Craig Hanks was just sexy.  There was no getting around it.  He was only a little older than his students, articulate and gently-spoken even when excited.  And he had these piercing eyes that looked straight into your soul the entire time he spoke with you.  It was unnerving but completely riveting.  More impressive, though, was his hair.  Long, dark curls that were always pulled back into a ponytail, until the last day of class when he would unleash them.  I think he had to know that his students—both male and female, alike—would be distracted by that gorgeous hair.  With those eyes and that hair, he looked like Eddie Vedder and Chris Isaak's love child, in the absolute best way possible. 

Before him, though, there was a teacher in high school, Jean Burnett.  I had Mrs. Burnett for 10^th-grade English Literature, then again the next year for AP Lit.  I also had her for two years for Creative Writing.  I was the assistant editor my junior year, and editor my senior, of the school's literary magazine, Counterpane. 

It was a collection of student-produced poems and short stories and drawings and photographs.  At the time, we all thought it was great.  I can remember being so pleased at how many students we'd gotten to contribute that last year, how I'd actually left the next year's editor with money in the account to start the year.  I had a dozen or so poems as a senior—and not just because I was the editor. 

Now, of course, when I go back and read it, it's mostly bad teen angst and convoluted ramblings.  (I know this surprises you.)  I can remember many mornings in first period with Mrs. Burnett (assuming that I hadn't skipped class), sharing pieces for potential inclusion in that year's edition of Counterpane.  She was always very patient, politely stressing the use of constructive critique.  She was incredibly adept at steering heated discussions about whether or not So-and-so's poem was crap.

Originally I had intended two release two versions of Persona Non Grata simultaneously: one that was sexual but tame, and the other that was fully pornographic. 

"Look," Absolem said to me, "women love sex and women love music.  If you write the book where they get to bang the rock star, you'll sell a million copies."

When it came time to revise again and begin the sexualization of the story, I had to write the porn first, intending to go back and cull the tamer version from the graphic one.  As I sent drafts to the inner circle, even the prudest of my readers said the sex was cogent: 

"All the sex, surprisingly, was good for me!  I feel like that gets across even more clearly the emotional states of the characters, no veil, nothing hidden.  It's just all there, all laid out.  I think you will get your characters' thought process out there better with all the explicit stuff.  Nothing held back.  Yes, the sex was exciting to read, which makes it better for the reader!"

"I blush easily, but that doesn't mean I'm not enjoying it just the same."

"Hot damn!"

Their feedback was good, but I still questioned whether or not it was too much. 

And then, I heard Jean Burnett's voice in my head, twenty-five years later, asking me whether or not it was gratuitous. 

"Does this make sense for these characters?  Does it fit this story?" I heard her ask patiently. 

Yes, it does.

So the sex is there, but this is not a sex book.  This is not erotica.  (I know.  I've written plenty of that and will likely do it again for another Junkture book.)  But this is a story about a grown woman who is in love with two men, married to one and having a torrid affair with the other.  She is awakening in her life and rediscovering her body.  Sex is integral to her process of transformation. 

I went back to erotic works I loved: Anne Rice's Belinda and Exit to Eden.  Both books are full of beautiful passages and descriptions non-traditional sex, but those acts are part of larger love stories.  That was what I wanted to do. 

I looked at what Anais Nin and Pauline Reage had done, though the English translations could never do their works justice.  I looked at Fifty Shades of Grey and knew Tierney would never use a phrase like "his considerable length".  (And I still argue that Anne Rice's Sleeping beauty trilogy is the seminal work of love in the guise of S&M.  Fuck E. L. James.)

So Tierney and I embraced her bawdy potty mouth and went for it.  As one of the readers said, "Tierney would totally say cock and pussy.  It's just who she is." 

"Does this make sense for these characters?  Does it fit this story?" 

Yes, it does.

Persona Non Grata: A Story of Junkture is graphic.  It is steamy and sometimes raunchy in ways that are exploratory for the adults in this story.  They're wiser and more adventurous than any 20-year-old would be, and they are comfortable in their explorations.  And those are exactly the kind of readers I hope will read this book.

For all of those reasons, Jean Burnett is the dedication for my first novel.  I always said the first one would be for her, and there's no doubt in my mind that I made the right choice.  I had the distinct pleasure a couple of weeks ago of speaking with her by phone and thanking her for her guidance and influence, even all these years later.  I sent her a signed copy of the book, giving her fair warning of the content, and I hope to hear from her soon with her own constructive critique. 

I promise not to drop an f-bomb when I talk to her again, even if it does fit my character. 

And if anyone talks to Craig Hanks, let him know I have a signed copy for him, too.

I'll make it to the moon if i have to crawl.

I've talked before about the idea of the Truthiness of Me and of my drive to honor my truths—good and bad—regardless of what the vast majority of people think.  Muchness and Light is, in some ways, a public exploration of that.  I talk very openly about a lot of things—from my fears and failures to my triumphs, my body image and weight loss issues and the subsequent surgeries.  Early in my process of reawakening, I determined that is was viscerally important to me to be as honest with my readers as I could stand.  I am very often this way in my offline, day-to-day life, as well.

Turns out, apparently I'm not so much like other people. 

"You're willing to embrace your scars and show them," Mandypants said.  "You're willing to embrace the scars of other people, of the people you love.  And that is brave and beautiful, but it is not like 98% of people."

My therapist nodded emphatically in agreement when I told her. 

When I saw Tiff for Pretty, Pretty Princess Night a couple of weeks ago, she saw the edges of the brachioplasty scars peeking from the backs of my arms.  "Those scars are kind-of cool," she remarked.  "They're really pretty badass."

Most of my female friends feel the same way.  Interestingly, most men ask if and when the scars will fade, or if they can be hidden.

Tiff and I went on to talk about this idea of baring my scars proudly, like a badge of honor. 

"I get why that's important to you," she said, "but I am a very private person.  I would be mortified to bare everything so openly."

Wharrrrrgarrrbbbble?!?

I don't understand.  Really.  I mean, I get it in my head that not everyone is so tolerant of such self-examination, even when the forum isn't so public.  That is, ultimately, the own to each.  But in my heart, I have some ingrained block against comprehending why it would be bad to point out your own journey via the roadmap of your scars.  It seems ludicrous not to be embracing of the good and the bad, to see and accept the awful as equally powerful and enlightening as the splendid. 

Scars, whether literal or figurative, are simply reference points, like landmarks of a person's journey.  They're invariably the product of wounding.  Usually that wounding is unintentional and painful.  More often than not, it is from injury that was inflicted, whether by someone else or by ourselves. 

I have a small scar in my eyebrow from running into a television stand twice when I was very young.  I have faded silvery lines that came from exploded fireworks and bicycle accidents and stretch marks from growth.  There's a small indentation of missing bone in my right ankle, where it was chipped away by the angry, pointed toe of an abusive ex-boyfriend's cowboy boot.

Scars may also be the unintentional consequences of good things.  Nearly every mother I know has either an abdominal C-section scar, or a scar from where her natural vaginal tear (or perhaps her episiotomy) healed after birthing her precious baby.  I have the new, lengthy scars from my own series of surgeries, trading in the old emotional baggage for something more (and less) physical. 

And, as Mo roundaboutedly reminded me last night, tattoos are a great example of almost-always chosen scars.  "The truth is like a tattoo.  It accurately represents who you are at the exact moment it is revealed."

Maybe all scars are like that.  Maybe they pinpoint not only where you were when you got them, but also how and why you were—all of which make up the Who of You. 

So what should be so wrong in talking about that?  What is the problem in discussing and showing how and when and why you came into being Who?

The problem, as I understand it, is two-fold:

1)      Talking about your trauma and damage and all of your little anecdotes of agony can make other people uncomfortable.  Apparently men are especially likely to feel off-put by such honesty, based on anecdotal evidence.  According to my therapist, the greatest or most common fear of men, generally, is shame.  There's something there are about self-respect and identity, of reputation and persona.  (For women, the prevalent fear is being killed.  It has to do with safety and feeling unprotected and vulnerable.)

2)      Injury is so often inflicted by another person.  To tell your own story is fine.  To discuss the parts of your story that intersect with others may open their wounds, or cause them inadvertent discomfort. 

It doesn't seem that talking about the damage that's already been done should be inflicting.  There's not necessarily onus to your action; discussion isn't malicious, by default.  It's bleeding edge versus cutting edge.  At most, it's a matter of pointing out the wound and addressing it in an effort to help it heal.  Debriding might hurt like hell, but it's ultimately a much better alternative than leaving the wound to fester, never to have the opportunity to scar in healing—or worse.

So what to do, when your life is words, and you're all about this Verisimilitude of Self?

It's a fine line, really.  There's a right to publicity and right to privacy that overlap.  Am I talking about someone else's immoral or illegal behavior?  Is what I'm saying true?  Is it potentially embarrassing but cogently honest? 

And it's hard sometimes, to know when to share and when to hold back.  I have to tap into that place inside me, the Wellspring of Verity, where I find what is unequivocally right, regardless of whether or not is right for me or anyone else, specifically.  At the very least, it is what is right right now.  If I find that Point Me shifts to another place and time, what is right today might very well turn out to be wrong tomorrow.  But tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and all I can be sure of is this moment and the ones from which I came. 

Just because something hurts, that doesn't mean it's bad.  Growth can be painful.  Sadness and anger can hurt like fucking hell, but they usually bring us closer to some new understanding of ourselves.  That is what is so sublime about the raw power of self-cultivation and transcendence.

So here are my scars.  Here is the proof from whence I came.  Some of you came from there with me, though some of you can't admit that.  Somehow, in your own arrogance or sadness or anger, you have valued me as worth less than your own shame.  That is on you. 

I do have worth and value, for who I am and the things I have endured.  The web of scars, both apparent and unseeable, is the Substrate of Stephanie.  It is the topography of my life, at least to this point.

For all that I have done and seen and felt and lived, in ways that may have been profound only to me, I am defensible.  And I will defend my self and my worth at all costs, because it is always more precious than shame. 

I'm on the road of least resistance. I'd rather give up than give into this.

DH and I were recently discussing promises.  He stands firmly behind the premise that promises are made to be broken.  Not that it's a relative juxtaposition or anything, just that there's an implication of potential breakage when any promise is made; the swearee knows the swearor will, in fact, not follow through if given enough time.  Just as staunchly, I believe that you don't make a promise unless you intend to defend it, to do whatever it takes to make the promise of the promise come to fruition—fully recognizing that shit happens and sometimes you just can't help it when things go awry. 

 I try really hard not to offer things I can't deliver, whether an actual thing or an act or a non-act, as in, "I promise not to do such-and-such."  It's kind of surprising, really, because I'm a very selfish, very determined girl, who will generally do whatever it takes to get what she wants.  I can be dogged when it comes to fulfilling my own heart's desire.  Sometimes it borders on being a bit obsessive.  (Bite it, Absolem.)  But I just can't get behind making an empty promise only to make someone else happy.

There's something about intentionally promising to do something that I know damn well I have no intention of ever doing... it's innately deceptive.  Believe me, I've been known to lie, cheat, and steal to get the things I want, but there's always some weird sense of moral truth to those desires, like I deserve to have those things, like they're destined, so it's okay to do whatever it takes to get them.  Promising something to someone else, for no other reason than to make them momentarily appeased, seems wrong to me.  It's a blatant lie with no greater purpose, and I have a hard time wrapping my heart around that. 

So if DH is right and there's an underlying fracture in a promise, is there a reason to keep it?  Is there something sacred in the vow, even if it's inherently imperfect?

Yeah, I think there is.  A real promise, as a compact between two people, is made in confidence, both in the sense of trust and in the sense of secrecy.  Only the hearts of the avowed know the depth of the oath.  The circumstances of that connection are worth defending, are worth trying to protect, even in the face of extreme internal and external adversities.  The selfless intimacy that gave birth to such a promise is what makes it sacrosanct and that's what gives the promise its own inherent value. 

And what if a promise is broken?  What happens when one party digs their fingers into the minutest cracks of the covenant and rips open the facade? 

It doesn't make the occasion of the promising any less inviolable.  If the hearts and souls of the swearee and the swearor were truly as one when the pact was made, the circumstance of the emotional communion is in-and-of itself a thing of undeniable beauty, worthy of exaltation even if the fruits of that labor have spoiled. 

Maybe I agree with DH more than I realize.  Maybe, deep down, I assume all promises will indeed be broken, ushering in an inexorable amount of drama and possible trauma.  I certainly have historical reason to assume I will be disappointed.  Perhaps, as I'm prone to do, I weigh the potential consequence of my actions, of breaking a promise (intentionally or not), and choose to avoid the difficult burden of yet again examining my own motives and culpability when I fail. 

Often my refusal to make promises I think I can't keep is perhaps for selfish reasons, a way to protect myself from my own disappointment.  I'd like to think my lofty (if seemingly random) ideals push me toward making the honorable choice, but I think it's really more a matter of lowered expectations: if I don't climb very high, the fall will hurt a hell of a lot less. 

But I'm still enamored of the experience, of the extant intimacy that led to the communion.  I'm enthralled by those dark, quiet moments that happen between two people, two of billions, and the intensity of the emotion surrounding that connection.  That is the kind of stepping stone I'm looking for, laying my path and edging ever closer to the ultimate destination of Me. 

Even if the promise will eventually be broken—even if there will inevitably be shards of trust lying about, ready to slice my fallen knees—there's still something virtuous about the bare hearts bursting with their own affiance.  It's tender and fragile and budding, and that is worthwhile, simply because it ever existed at all.

 

On the way back home, we sang a song, but our throats were getting dry.

I'm having one of those days when I'm a little on edge.  It's been a bit of a stressful week, and I have a lot of nervous energy.  I'm not really compelled to do much but write right now, though I kind of have writer's blah.  Not writer's block—I can think of plenty to write about.  I just kind of don't feel like doing it.  I know what energy I'll have to tap into to really work, and I'm a little apprehensive of going there right now.  I'm not sure I trust myself to do it right.

Not writing, not working, not playing... what to do?  I could eat, but that would make me feel worse.  This 90+ pound (so far) journey has taught me not to eat when I feel anything but hungry.  I still have days when I want to stuff my belly with emotions.  I try really, really hard not to give into that. 

Walking, and later a good, hard free-weight workout, became a great alternative to food.  It wasn't until last fall that I really figured this out.  As usual, it took a good long while of my kicking and screaming before I learned my lesson, before I realized how much better and different I could feel if I didn't feed my anxieties.  I have no idea how many miles I've walked now, and I really don't care.  What I care about is the time it's given me to plug into my iPod, to plug into my own head, and work out my issues, even if I was not thinking and then thinking and then overthinking every damn step of the way.

So today I was feeling all antsy, and I kept thinking about food.  "Screw that!" I thought.  "I'm going for a walk."  I headed to the small, quiet park near home and plugged in. 

What I choose to listen to while I'm working out is often a reflection of where my psyche is at that given time.  I have certain playlists and artists that I prefer, usually because of their energy level.  Today I couldn't decide, so I hit SHUFFLE ALL SONGS.

It started okay.  Murray Head, "One Night in Bangkok".  Followed by Liz Phair's "Flower", which is not high energy but which I love inappropriately.  Afghan Whigs followed by the Twilight Singers—double teamed by Greg Dulli, SWEET!  Then some Led Zeppelin, then the Beatles, neither of which I would've chosen, but I agreed with myself that I wouldn't change the song, no matter what.

Then it happened.  This one, particular song came on.  It's one of the songs that helped propel me, day after day, when I started walking.  I can remember exactly where I was the first ten times I heard it.  A perfect fall breeze picked up and reminded me of exactly where I was standing at the other park the first day I did five miles, the day a very specific phone call and text (in the middle of that walk) sent me down a very different path that would eventually lead to Muchness and Light.    

It's a song I love, obviously.  But today there was a strange poignancy that snuck up on me and almost dropped me to my knees.  I wanted to stop in my tracks and cry.  I didn't.  I kept walking, one purple-Nike-clad foot in front of the other, until the song was over and the iPod shuffled on to Van Morrison. 

There will always be those songs, the ones that drop me back into some memory, unexpected and bittersweet.  There will always be the memorable places and conversations and whatever, but for me the strongest memories are distinctly tied to music.  I can't stop, though, just because something reminds me of a moment that used to be mine.  Those moments, those memories, are the path that brought me to Here, but they're from a place where I can never go back.  They're from a lifetime that doesn't even seem like mine anymore. 

Van Morrison was okay.  "And It Stoned Me".  The irony was palpable, but I pushed through it and waited for the next song, focusing on the rhythm of my stride.  I felt the strength of me, of my body and my mind, propelling me forward, one step at a time along my path.

 

Only we will understand that the silence is broken by our language of love.

I have this friend who recommended a book to me the other day, Gary Chapman's The 5 Love Languages.  (Believe me, if I told you who it was, you'd be like, "WTF?  Really?")  So I went to Barnes & Noble, looking scurriedly around to make sure no one saw me purchasing a book from the Christian Inspiration section, got my copy, and went home to start a little light reading.  It's not a long book, and I'm a voracious reader, so I was done pretty quickly.

I must admit, I was really surprised by what the book had to offer.  In a totally non-judgmental, non-religious way, Gary Chapman talks about the five languages of love: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch.  His premise is that people give and receive love, filling "love tanks", in usually one of these basic languages.  (Some people are bi-lingual, but I'll talk more about that later.)  The idea is that partners need to receive love in the way that's wired into them, and that they don't get it when it's spoken in the wrong languages. 

For example, if you innately receive love through Acts of Service, you get it when your partner does things for you, like mowing the grass or cleaning the house or washing your car (an example Chapman uses quite frequently).  If your beloved is always bringing you gifts but never hangs that beautiful family portrait, it may not mean very much to you and doesn't fill your love tank. 

I read through his descriptions and examples of each love language, plus ways to go about expressing love in the respective manner.  There's a profile at the end of the book, kind of like a Cosmo Quiz.  Turns out I'm bilingual in Words of Affirmation and Quality Time, though even the latter seems to be specific to Quality Conversation and feeling like I'm being understood.  The two languages are of virtually equal importance to me, though Phsyical Touch is also, to a lesser degree.  Gifts and Acts of Service don't mean a whole hell of a lot in my world. 

I passed the book to DH, who read it in an afternoon and completed his own profile.  I was a little surprised by his results, which I won't disclose because that's not my confidence to share.  What I can say is that it gave us both a lot to think about, as far as how to approach each other.  It was interesting, to say the least.

So I started thinking about how I receive love from other people, how what they do or don't do applies to these ideas of Words of Affirmation and Quality Conversation.  I examined friendships and past loves and familial interactions.  I also started to look at how I approach myself, of how and what I do fills or empties my love tank.  (Yes, it's a somewhat silly expression, and it's easy to go with innuendo, but we're all adults here.  Kind of.)

Absolem yelled at me recently, asking if I was really as insecure as I was acting.  The answer is a resounding YES!  I am horribly insecure in who I am and have a very difficult time seeing my own worth, seeing the value of my central role in my broader life.  I need to hear from other people— and somewhat regularly depending on the relationship—that I matter, that I am important to them, and sometimes that has to include the why of that importance.  I need private conversations with the people closest to me, the intimacy of giving and receiving deep truths and shared confidences that connect us infinitely.  Those dark and quiet moments, when there's nothing else in the world but those words passing between us and the emotion they contain, that's what drives me and makes me feel complete.  That's what shows me I am loved and helps me explore the depths of my own heart and head and to so tentatively share those expanses with someone else. 

I think, in part, it's why I write, especially why I blog the way I do.  Muchness and Light was born from my own need to discover myself again, but there's certainly something telling about the public way in which I do it.  My love tank is filled when I get a response, when people tell me how I've touched a nerve in them.  It's not that I'm opposed to criticism, though it's honestly only happened a couple of times.  But it does my psyche good to explain myself as thoroughly as possible and to receive in turn the affirmation that I'm understood and that it was good or beneficial to someone else. 

I think this also goes a long way toward explaining my desire for experience and understanding of it.  Yes, I am reactionary at times, then overthink a situation sometimes the point of exhaustion, but that process gives me time to really grasp what's happening.  It often provides me with profound insights into my own actions, as well as the actions of others. 

My love ("Addiction," said Absolem) of words and understanding may well be one of the things that explains my deep love of music.  Lots of studies have shown that thrilling music causes a release of dopamine into the brain, the same neurotransmitter released as a response to pleasure from food or sex or any number of other things.  For me, music isn't about the instrumentation, though that's certainly a requirement of being, you know, music.  That coupled with poignant lyrics that make me think someone else gets it, tacked onto a pleasing voice that I can sing along with, is undeniably, overwhelmingly pleasurable for me—it fills my love tank in a way nothing else can.

No one was more surprised than I that The 5 Love Languages struck a chord.  It's given me a whole new way to look at my relationships, most especially with my Self.  I'm pretty adept at finding my own quality time (again, ignore the innuendo), but I'm not so good at affirming Stephanie.  In some ways, I still need that from the other people in my life, especially those I hold so close to my heart.  But now, maybe, I won't be so reticent to tell myself that I'm okay, or even that I'm good.  Whereas before it just seemed egocentric, it now seems psychecentric; it's something that I need to be able to do, for your sake and for mine.

 

Gee, my life's a funny thing. Am I still too young?

I'm having a little bit of an existential crisis.  It's not because of my birthday, per se, though I know the timing is a bit coincidental.  There's just been a lot of shit going on over the last few months that's come to a head and made me look a little closer at myself, my motives, and my own nature.

I suppose everyone goes through it from time to time, and it's certainly not the first time I've had to reevaluate.  There's been so much of that self-examination during the last year, driven by internal and external forces.  What's bugging me is the extent to which I let those outside things drive the inside things, and I'm not really sure I'm equipped to deal with it.

Absolem told me this week that I'm the dumbest smart person he knows.  He went on to say that I don't think, then do think, then overthink about any given situation, and that I invariably make the wrong choice.  I suppose the idea that a choice is right or wrong is completely relative, depending upon the side of the choice that happens to be affecting you.  I'm always mindful of the fact that my choices impact other people.  I often choose not to let that unduly influence my decision to move forward or backward or to just stay in one place, spinning myself dizzy until it's time to move on. 

But there is always the issue of how I react to others' opinions, of how I struggle to maintain a sense of self within the bounds of other people's viewpoints.  Without question, I want to be seen, to be acknowledged and regarded, and I'd prefer to be bathed in a positive-if-enigmatic light.  The problem arises when I work too hard for that attention and the regarding turns to disregard, if only because I'm sometimes just too damn much.

Ultimately, I'm horribly insecure.  It seems I've spent my entire life begging for reassurance and reinforcement after a multitude of trauma.  Historically, it's been things inflicted upon me, though I try my best not to be a victim.  Shit's been done to me that could've killed me, literally and figuratively, but that I survived.  I've done my best to come to terms with my history and find a way to learn some lesson from it when I could. 

What I'm having a hard time reconciling is the shit I do to myself.  And, believe me: I can fuck myself up more than the average bear.  I'm sure a lot of it has to do with how I learned to cope and heal, how I learned to handle my scars—as something hideous to be hidden from the light or as a badge of honor, as a war wound to be paraded proudly as a kind of fucked up memento of the battles I've endured. 

Either way, it's hard to find a point to it right now.  It's difficult to reconcile what amounts to unraveling the last year of my life, the last year of a thousand lessons learned, and to make it fit with my own deeply personal views of the journey, of my journey—of how it should be and what it should mean.

Sometimes I feel like there is no point, that we're all just fucked and passing time until we die.  Certainly I feel like I have very little to show for the last thirty-nine years, though I know I can counter that logically if I take the time to think about it.  What worries me is that there's potentially another thirty-nine years, give or take, to pass.  And is that what I'll do, just pass that time until it's up?  Is my journey from Point A to Point Me just some farcical bullshit I worked up in my all-too-spare time?  That's certainly been the allegation as of late, and it's hard for me not to let my own deep-seeded insecurities let that be true. 

For the first time in a very long time, someone made me feel worthless this week, made their opinion very clear as to how little value they find in me.  I know I shouldn't let that determine how I see myself, but they put their finger in every little crack in my facade and ripped them wide open.  In some ways, I feel eviscerated. 

When I look back on what led me to this point, I can't help but see my own culpability, my own responsibility in my own drama and trauma, and it makes me question again how much I was to blame for everything else that happened to me in my life.  Was there something inherently bad and inconsequential about me that made it okay to hurt me, that made it acceptable to disregard me in the most violent and violating ways?  Is there something inside me that's so dysfunctional that it makes it okay to be careless, whether it's me or someone else who's being so thoughtless?

I suppose Absolem is right, that I am overthinking the whole thing, but it's really hard not to be full of self-recrimination right now.  It's hard to find the meaning and the lesson when I absolutely can't see around the approaching bend.  What I hope is that Alice can slow down just enough to peer around the corner and see what's coming next, and that she can really see the things lining the walls of the rabbit hole and judge them pragmatically, that she can really see if it's jam or poison in the pretty little jar. 

What I do know is that I won't cocoon myself up like Absolem.  I'd rather take my chances at being me, fully, and at feeling everything, no matter how deeply or overwhelming it may seem at times.  In the end, I'd rather be overwhelming than overwhelmed, and I'd rather carry on with this journey, however jagged or steep the rocks may be, than to struggle my way out of my cramped comfort and look for the first breeze to carry me away.

 

Take a look at my body, look at my hands. There's so much here that I don't understand.

I had a really wretched day on Saturday, shopping for a swim suit and shorts.  I'd been putting it off, hoping to lose as much weight as possible before I had to make that trip to the mall.  I was out of town, then I was sick, but finally I had no choice.  I had to bite the bullet and go to Hell in search of proper summer attire.

Let's be honest: any excuse to go shopping is a good thing.  And I left home early in the afternoon in a good mood.  I knew it would likely be difficult to find something that would make me happy, but I was up for the challenge.  I'm a resourceful and savvy shopper under normal circumstances, and I was confident my luck would hold out.

I was so fucking wrong.

I made it through a couple of stores with very little luck.  I did score a pair of shorts and some tank tops at the Lands End outlet.  Nothing at the second store.  By the time I got to the third store--which I won't name here but will say that it's a store I normally loathe--I was getting really anxious.  I swear I was bloating from stress as I stood under those fluorescent lights, jammed in the narrow aisle between overstuffed racks, growing ever larger second by second. 

By the time I hit the dressing room, I was in a full-blown panic.  I texted my BFF and posted a Facebook status update, completely in an attempt to get someone to reach out and help calm my nerves.  The response was overwhelming.

Shorts and bathing suits are evil. You are beautiful!!!!!

With that kind of success, you can go naked!

ugh.. me neither! I have what I call "big thigh syndrome" my thighs are seriously out of whack with the rest of my body so shorts are ALWAYS tight in the thighs! YUK!! I'm about to start making my own

I think stores that sell clothes like those should have an in-house life coach that subtly makes us feel better about the process.

Listen I am a size 2 or 4 and I can't find shorts either! I am literally wearing shorts from 5 years ago because I hate every pair I try one so don't feel bad. Just go with light weight dresses. :-)

Bathing suits are a bitch at any size. Good luck!

I cry almost every time I'm forced to enter a dressing room, so I completely feel your pain. I've decided that the only way to combat it is to keep repeating "That's not what I really look like" the entire time I'm in there. That, or stores could introduce a policy of handing out Valium to every woman trying on summer clothing. (*Limit one per customer.)

I understand completely. I think there is an unwritten code that clothing designers follow which ensures that people who wear sizes above Large must have only choices in fabrics and cuts that accentuate their size. Plaids, horizontal stripes and gansta FUBU cut pants.
I hate shopping for this reason.

After working for years in a shop that sold bathing suits and after seeing hundreds of women of all shapes and sizes try on suits, the one thing that I believe to be true in bathing suit shopping is this: figure out what you like about you...r body (everybody has at least ONE thing that doesn't make them cry about their body) and accentuate that. If it is your boobs, well, then find a suit that best outlines your bust and ignore the rest. If it is your hips, well, then find something that makes your eyes go for that shape and again, ignore the rest. Find something that YOU are comfortable in that makes your eyes directed to the spot that you want and be happy with that.
I could go on and on about various stories of all sorts of women that I have dealt with this issue - you are not alone, and I have come to believe after women who are size 2 still feel the need to "hide their hips" that it has NOTHING to do with the body but how you feel in it. Be confident in that you have much beauty to give - as you do.

There were also lots of suggestions for suits and places to try.  Ultimately, I found bottoms (swim shorts) at one store and a top (tank) at another.  I still need a second suit, though, and I'm not looking forward to starting this whole process again. 

The truth is, I stood in the dressing room, treading those emotional waters and waiting for someone, anyone, to throw me a lifeline, and I cried.  I looked at my body, 73 pounds lighter than it was just a few months ago, and I couldn't stand it.  I know I have more to go before I'll feel comfortably healthy with my weight.  I also know the amazing progress I've made.  But I still see the ghastly thighs and the flabby arms and I'm disgusted and embarrassed.

Honestly, that self-disgust is nothing new.  It had been there for a long time.  When I saw a picture of myself from last summer, I knew things had to change; it was part of the trigger for the changes in October that led to the weight loss thus far.  But I'm at a stage where I look and feel better in clothes than out of them.  There's extra skin and extra movement that a great pair of jeans can contain, or that a cute skirt can outright hide.  I don't get the luxury of concealment in a swim suit. 

I know I should be proud of how far I've come, of the progress I've made, and of all the work I've done.  But standing in that dressing room made me want to give up, to accept the futility of the my battle, and to eat my way out of the fucking mall.  I didn't.  I got the hell out of that mall, though, where the temptation to allow myself to fail was so overwhelming.  I left and went elsewhere, and I didn't eventually find the acceptable suit and some shorts. 

In the midst of my panic, I texted Absolem, who reminded me to breathe.  I asked him if I can ever overcome these body image issues, if I'm strong enough to do it. 

Yes u can

I know he's right, but this is one of those moments when I can't do it just because he, or anyone else, believes in me.  Unless I believe in me, unless I can find a way to make peace with my personal, glaring imperfections and how I perceive them, I will never, ever come to terms with my body.  DH suggested recently that I want to be young and thin.  I told him no, that I want to be 38 and healthy.  Part of being healthy has to include the acceptance of a pragmatic vision of my body.  I want to be able to see what I think of as good or bad and recognize that it is only natural.

I hope the day comes when I'm content and confident in my own skin.  What I won't do is give up now, when I've come this far, and let the fat little girl inside win this one.  I've told her before, and I'll keep telling her, to stuff a cookie in her face and shut the fuck up.  I've got better things to do than sit around on my ass, waiting for her to get happy.

   

 

Pick me up and put me on the ground. Set me up and spin me all around.

I wrote a few days ago about being stuck in my writing.  I was having a hard time finding a way to move my characters forward in their space and time.  They were frozen, mid-story, and waiting for me to carry them to the next phase in their imaginary lives.

Writing that post made me think back to the last time this happened, when I was fearful and unsure about what I was writing.  At that time, I was apprehensive about what I would have to tackle personally to address what needed to happen in the story.  I was afraid of the emotional difficulty and debated whether or not to take the easier path, to change course, to paint the white roses red and make everything look pretty enough to pass. 

Ultimately, it was an unexpected call from Absolem that kicked my ass into gear.  I was all but paralyzed with the fear of choosing the hard way.  But he asked me, almost harshly, what the hell the problem was.  As I talked through it with him, he and I both realized I knew the answer, had known it all along. 

I remember that I decided, for whatever reason, to write in my bed at that time.  Usually I write at my desk, while the children are in school.  Although I have a laptop, it's usually hooked up to a 21" monitor and a wireless keyboard and mouse.  It's easier when I spend hours at a time in front of the screen. 

But I went to the place I love the most in the world, the place that's always the perfect temperature and brightness and softness, the place that has borne witness to the most intense love and hate and sorrow and joy imaginable, in every conceivable form.  It's a comfortable, comforting place, and I was working from that safety.  I had huge breakthroughs and found myself suddenly able to harness and handle the emotions needed to propel my story forward.  In fact, there are two scenes in particular that are draining and harsh to read, and I cried while I wrote each of them.  Because I step so intimately into the heads of my characters as I'm writing them, I felt what my protagonist felt--all the sorrow and heartache and wracking pain poured down my own face while I wrote those scenes.  One in particular resulted in a forty-five minute crying jag, and I remember laughing through those tears when it was over, because I knew I had accomplished exactly what I needed to do.   

So I talked to Absolem again a few days ago, told him about all of this, about being stuck again.  He listened carefully, like he always does, and let me talk through what was bothering me.  As so often happens, he reminds me who I'm supposed to be just by letting me question myself.  He will call me out when he needs to, but more-often-than-not he'll let me flop and flounder until I find the right twist or turn to upright myself again.  It's a carefully supervised spin, and I know he'll always stop my top if I need it. 

I realized after talking to him, after spinning my worries into that blog post, that I should go back to my own basics, back to my own place of safety, and start from there.  So I did.  I took to my bed.  And I spun thousands upon thousands of words.  I'm still spinning, honestly, and I know Absolem will watch for signs that I'm out of control.  But right now I'm able to find my groove and have moved my characters again, to unexpected places, and it's working. 

I've moved on to the couch from the bed.  I'm still not ready to go back to my desk.  I don't really know why, but I'll do what works right now.  I've written almost ten thousand words since I started again.  I'm getting ever closer to bridging the gap between the two sections of the story that need to be brought together.  Then there are more stories to be written, more tweaks to bring them all together. 

And I know, if I falter again, Absolem will be there to spin me up and watch me go, trusting me to eventually find my own way, even when I find it impossible to trust in that myself.

 

I said it very loud and clear, I went and shouted in his ear.

I'm going to tell you something that may come as a surprise: I'm a bit boisterous. 

I can be loud, certainly, but that's not even the whole of it.  I'm vocal and vociferous and verbose.  And, okay, loud.  Sometimes.

Here's the thing, though: I'm pretty good, usually, at letting people know what I think or what I want.  This isn't something that came easily to me.  Really, it took me quite a long time to be able to vocalize when I was upset or unhappy or hurt.  Or even if there was something I really, deeply wanted but was afraid, for whatever reason, that I would be denied. 

It's easy to be open and honest when I'm happy.  My flirty, jovial muchness can be contagious and endearing (and, yes, overwhelming at times).  Truthfully, I may be too open when I'm in the best frame of mind, because I see very little reason to inhibit my honesty.  I'm capable of self-repression, but I think I spent such a long period of my life shoving down the things others didn't like, that in some ways I'm rebelling against it all now. 

For years I was crippled by the idea of telling someone how they had hurt me, or that I was truly unhappy about a situation.  I had real difficulty expressing that interpersonally.  I wonder how much I contributed to global warming by spilling my guts on paper and then burning the letters.  (Though that's still much safer than email.  Oh, how there needs to be an unsend button!)

At times, I was afraid of the possible rejection.  Other times, I was so committed to wallowing in the Sorrow of the Moment that it would've killed my downer buzz to actually confront a difficulty. 

Absolem reminded me recently that I have to be willing to go after the things I want, to be forward and make those desires known if I ever want them to come to fruition.  He's completely right, of course--He's wise.  He's absolute.--but it's still sometimes hard as hell to overcome those nagging fears that I'm undeserving of what I want, or that it's vainglorious or selfish to want things that aren't automatically offered to me in my somewhat-privileged and sometimes-spoiled life.  And to expect things seems the height of hubris. 

So I spend a lot of time practicing being straightforward about what I do and don't want.  There are times when I will absolutely rub other people the wrong way, and I usually don't care.  But sometimes, I'll do something that irritates someone whose opinions or feelings do matter to me.  Often times I know when I do something that may be off-putting to those people, but that doesn't necessarily stop me from speaking my mind.  As I've said many, many times, "If you don't like it, don't look."

It's when I say something, publicly or privately, that's unintentionally hurtful or especially thorny that I want to revert back to the shy, sullen girl in all black who would never, ever have told you how you broke her heart with your harsh tone or unexpected distance.  Who would never, under any circumstances, let you see her cry, and maybe not see her laugh, either, because that would involve actually letting someone inside, someone who might be able to break their way out and take part of her with them.

Now, as a semi-adult, I'm actually pretty controlled about what I reveal, though that's counterbalanced by an honesty that can be boggling with its energetic whims.  I have things I only share with my Secret Keepers.  In return, I'm the Keeper of Secrets for a select few.  I will never, ever reveal those things, because they were given to me in the most sacrosanct moments of friendship and intimacy and love.

But if it's something about me--about what I think or feel or dream--and I've decided it's something that I'm willing to share, there's almost always a reason for it. When I have the courage to find my voice, whether written or physical, I will share that with whomever wants to listen.  It's probably taken a huge Act of Will for me to be so candid, and I'm probably scared to death, deep beneath the bravado and the booming laugh and the big, heart-shaped smile. 

If you've ever been caught in my backlash, I apologize.  It likely wasn't intentional; I promise you would know if I were gunning for you.  All I ask is that you remember that I'm still battling that scared, sullen girl who would rather run from the sunlight than risk being burned. 

I can step out into the sunshine now, but I will almost always be hiding behind a big pair of sunglasses, just to make sure you can't actually see my eyes.

Elvis Costello - Sulky Girl (Official Music Video). Watch more top selected videos about: Elvis Costello