The Journal Deck: Entry One

"The rise of the Feminine is about all of us rising together to form a new paradigm.  How can you be more active in your community or globally to be a part of this movement."

Luck brought me a new deck, one, that like tarot or blackjack, has you choose your card and then deals your fate.  This deck, rather than being full of fortunes, instead gives a prompt.   A writing prompt.  One that asks you as a goddess, (the rebranded word for someone who's felt powerless and now knows their worth,) to reflect on your life and the society we live in.

This first prompt of mine was embarrassingly difficult.  I fight the patriarchy in my sleep and enjoy complaining about those who want us to teach them to be better, rather than doing their own research, and yet here I am not having done enough myself: I didn't know this phrase "the rise of the Feminine," so I turned to Google.

The first listing was this HuffPo article, explaining that the feminine energy lives in the second chakra, and is the source of emotions.  It details that living in this society, men and women are made to feel ashamed of feelings, resulting in suppression and even acting out.  It cites the #MeToo movement as part of the uproar bringing The Feminine to the forefront.  "Where vulnerability and honesty were once feared," the article says, "these feminine qualities are now seen as raw, honest, relatable, respected, and they give permission for people to be real with themselves about what’s actually there."  The rest of the article encourages the reader to share their truth without fear or shame, and to love themselves as they are.

This to me sounds like a pep-talk based on an uprising, but not the uprising itself.  So I did more digging.

Next, I found this passage on a goddess-y website called Purse for the People.  This article describes the phenomenon in question as "the Divine Feminine," something that I recognized turned me off just a little.  I've chosen to surround myself with skeptics of all kinds, enjoying their intellect, but struggling then to hold onto the spirituality I've discovered for the things that can be felt but not seen.  I have a scientific retort for everything I do, and reading the word "divine" made me uneasy.  How will I explain this? I thought to myself, delighted to find the answer within the article itself.

It bases this feminine movement as being rooted in ecology, utilizing Mother Earth as an archetype to create "a world view based in ecology, deep justice for all and an expanded global identity beyond national boundaries."  It cites technology as bringing society within a click of a button, making it easier than ever for us to choose between two oppositions: to conquer or to collaborate.  The author recalls instances where history conquered, quoting Eckhart Tolle in A New Earth.  He outlines the witch hunt by the Roman Catholic Church as "a dark chapter in human history," where the feminine was declared demonic, reducing women to child bearers and men's property.  He describes the impact as leaving our society imbalanced.

Now this I know.  I've discussed with friends recently that the best way to describe being looked at by strange man is to feel like prey.  We've connected over moments where we didn't know that saying "no" was an option.  Of course looking back, we knew it could result in further aggression, but in that moment it hadn't even occurred to us as a word that we could say.

I do hate being a woman in this society, which all things considered is a freer culture for women than many, many others.  And yet each day, I take into consideration what make up to wear when I am "unescorted," what sweater to bring to cover up my cleavage, which color hair makes me gain more respect or be met with more unwanted attention.  As a woman I am afraid, I am afraid always.  I can't sleep in anything but complete silence, because each nightly sound makes me wake up gasping for shelter.

So going back to the prompt, knowing now that the "the rise of the Feminine" is about bringing back power to women and "feminine" emotions after centuries of being seen as lesser, I ask myself how can I harness this fear into something powerful.  Like fearing an arrow, so crafting a bow to wield it.

Words, I know.  Words I can craft, maneuver, chisel, and slice.  I looked up how to make a sword, hoping to further the metaphor, but stopped when I read "first you have to figure out what you want your sword to look like."

That, I do not know yet.  So to answer the original prompt: I'm working on it.  I want to change this world, I want to make the lives of those I love and those I do not know easier, safer, more appealing.  I protect "the Feminine" by embracing it and sharing how it impacts my life, and soon I'll know how to I know how to make my sword, my stance; first, I just need to figure out what I want it to look like.

Here's the card from The Journal Deck by the wonderful Alyssa Kuzins.

Spring

This is my favorite time of year.

My love for spring started in high school.  It's the feeling of summer coming.  The tease of no more exams, of getting enough sleep, of going to summer camp and pretending to be free...but not being there yet.  It is the need to struggle, but knowing it'll soon end.  Spring is the feeling of almost achieved beckoning freedom.  Of literal and metaphoric growth.

Spring is feeling the air on your skin with the absence of pain.  It is cool breezes kissing your cheeks, but still giving you chills.  It is the time to solidify new habits, or let go of what isn't working.  It is recalibrating, it is blooming. The time shed our old leaves and flower into who we always were.

I love this time of year.
It is both for effort and reward.  Renewal and release.  Trouble and triumph.

It is knowing that the struggle is ending and will be worth it.
 It is inspiration incarnate.

Ode to Success

I have noticed a trend in the people that I admire
In the people who are successful
In the people who are happy

They never stop.
They never stop working
They never give up
They never question what it is that they want to do.

And they succeed because of that tenacity
And that body of work that speaks for itself
Literally in its volumes.

So I will attempt to follow, not wallow, in their footsteps.
To continue even when I feel down
To work even when I am demotivated.

To fight to bring the light I want to share with this world.

Feeling Fabulous

I made a few goals at the start of the year.  Thanks to my job where I work with neuroscientists (can I get a “what what”), I am both fortunately and unfortunately aware of why New Year’s Resolutions tend not to work.  It mostly falls upon failure to reinforce the goal as a habit.  Thus a routine is necessary to build and follow.  For some, it’s throwing away one thing a day so as to gradually create a home that actually feels like an escape. 
For that journey check out my amazing best friend’s blog!

My goal, no surprise here, is a bit complicated (convoluted) and hard to express simply (totally a good foundation for a habit…), and miraculously I have found a routine that works that I think is worth sharing.

It somehow manages to tick off feeling healthier, actually attempting some exercise, saving money, writing more, starting the mornings in a quieter space, feeling more organized in my room, and like I have an equal share to the common areas in my apartment.  It does all of that…and it started with an app.

Fabulous, a beautifully designed app and support system, guides you on a journey to be "your best fabulous self."  It starts simply, just drinking water each morning, and gives tips on setting up the night before so as to ensure your success.  Fast forward a few weeks, and my morning routine now consists of drinking water, eating a healthy breakfast, and doing some light exercise.  The app does an amazing job of working each of these in gradually, and celebrating each of your little victories.  So that ticks off feeling healthier, attempting exercise, and saving money (as I am preparing more food rather than buying it).  It's amazing how looking at these goals as smaller actions accomplished one day at a time really does make the longterm habit much more attainable.

The last piece, is my own ingenuity: I've been eating more meals in the common area.  I tend to disappear into my room and eat most of my meals in bed.  As a millennial, my natural habitat is an "internest," but it makes me feel a little like a slob.  Plus I tend to hoard my dishes, and then feel awful about having them, which debilitates me against, you know, actually taking them to a sink and cleaning them...thus creating anxiety around each meal I eat in my room.  Thus by eating more meals in the kitchen, I clean my plate as soon as I finish, and I feel a bit more put together than I would eating in my room.  Which, in turn, is more organized without dirty dishes everywhere, and, oh right that other goal: I feel more comfortable taking space in the common areas.  Being in them is now quite literally built into my morning routine.

Then there is writing.  Hello.  I am writing this currently.  I am sitting at the kitchen table, eating my breakfast of toast, apples, peanut butter, and carrot juice, eager to start my day by going for a walk in the snow.  THE SNOW.  (Side note: realizing walks count as exercise, that I don't have to try to run five miles, was game changing.)  I simply bring my computer or a notebook with me when I eat breakfast, which replaces watching Netflix immediately and accomplishes that last goal, of beginning the day in a quieter space.

It's amazing that in just a few weeks I am already building habits that bring me closer to how I want to feel.  And that simply eating breakfast downstairs accomplishes so much.

The last trick to goals is accountability, so I promise to keep you posted!

[my eagerness to go for a walk could also be due to the fact that I now have a unicorn umbrella]

Hong Kong Dreaming

I'm currently on a double decker bus making its way through Hong Kong.  I am in awe of a city nestled in the mountains and sad to only be spending 48 hours in it. There is so much to do, both epic and quotidian. Only a few speak English, and the mutual dance for comprehension is one of my favorites.  Last night a woman at a restaurant informed me that the teapot on the table was actually sauce to be poured upon my dim sum. She did so by miming it. I loved her. 

Today I used google translate to ask for a bathroom and the woman totally panicked. She thought I was asking if they had a bath I could use. I love the battle to adapt. I'm fighting to urge to hide my differences, which is ridiculous because I stick out like a sore thumb. Living in New York City has calloused me to the idea of tourists, and here I am unable to hide being one.  So I breathe and enjoy the experience. 

And its beautiful. I am fascinated by the minute differences; what they sell at their Starbucks here compared to the U.S.  All the snacks in their 7/11 that have characters (both linguistic and animated) that I do not know. The flavors that like trees or types of doves seem to only grow from this region. It's like meeting your best friend's twin. 

This city is much more comfortable to me than Vietnam; its history dictates it being so. I'm still struggling to find the words to capture how this journey has changed me and what it has meant. In the meantime, I sit at the top of this bus , gazing out onto the galaxy of new, praying that I only get a little lost. 

 

(My "desk" and my "office") 

Tiny Turmoil

I’ve been quiet.  These past two weeks, I have spent my nights will a little fur-ball of purrs and cuddles.  I found a cat, at a very inconvenient time.  I found her and decided to save her and she has since been the only thing on my mind.  That and needing to make more art.  And my spark has been dampened.  I haven’t been  making as much as I would like to, perhaps because I am doing it one day of the week, and thus the others pale in comparison.  I need a vacation from this life, but there are also forces in it that ground me to where I am.

Every year for the past four, I have moved to a new city.  I enjoy starting over.  Adventures, meeting new people and getting to collect new pieces of me as I adorn myself with the gems I’ve already found — but I think I am staying.  And we’ll see what the job will be, where I will live, and who’s at my side (cat, human, or friend).  Time will tell.

The Most Important Post I'll Write for Awhile

I feel alone in this city, which is ironic as this is the most received I’ve ever felt.  People here don’t compare my passions to their own, feeling as if me loving something unusual to them somehow threatens their own passions.  Instead they very easily accept that what matters to me….matters to me, and more than that, they’re happy someone’s loving it. 

For instance, although hermit crabs are more common as pets on the east coast, fewer people here question how I could love Spencer as much as I do.  

In turn, this also makes change less terrifying.   Last week, for example, I started drawing with our store's iPad Pro, and suddenly coworkers and strangers asked if I was a visual artist; quickly I realized I was the only one laughing at the idea of that being true.

I had changed myself overnight and it was accepted effortlessly.  Back in college, you couldn't change your hair color without worrying about how it would be seen.  So it's odd to me, how in an environment so willing to see you as anything you so choose, that I still feel unhappy.

Perhaps it signals the end of me discovering myself: I found what I wanted and that’s who I am. And if having those choices validated doesn’t satisfy my craving for more, then I’m already onto the next item on the agenda.

When I was a kid I knew the type of person I wanted to be, and it seems I’ve finally grown into the shoes.

So that just leaves walking somewhere.

When  I visited Philly in April, almost a year after being away, I started crying when one of my friends/mentors noted how much I had grown; as much as I wanted that to be true, it was hard to believe. 

Life is monotonous here.  Every day looks the same, feels the same, so it’s only logical to feel like you’re the same, too.

But consider a rock at the edge of the sea, longing to be pulled into the magnificent chaos.  Every waves makes a promise as they come towards it, and every wave breaks its heart when they leave it behind.  It’s tortured in the monotony, with each little splash teasing it with the salty taste of adventure. 

And yet.

Each wave that brushes against it helps it glisten in the sun, tugging away at its imperfections, subtly chiseling it towards is truest form, where it’ll only bear the weight of what defines it the most.  And eventually the day will come when the final wave convinces the rock to let go of the final burden rooting it, and the rock will be carried back with the wave, towards adventure it longs for no longer.

So that’s my final business here.  I have to let go of the final piece keeping me here, so that I can move on to greater things.

And I know what it is, too.

I met a dog in our store the other day, and when I kneeled to pet him, he climbed onto my knees, lifted his front legs and hugged  me.  His owner commented that he likes me and that he’s such a loving dog; and how shocking it is that when she found him, he had been stabbed.

The pup had been recently groomed and when he walked away I could see the scars from his wounds.  And yet if his owner hadn’t told me, I never would’ve known.  That dog was more loving and more forgiving than most people.

A few days ago I tried to find a book I hadn’t finished.  My room is still in the pandemonium of moving five times in a year and no longer owning a bookcase, and so I couldn’t find the book.  But I found another I hadn’t finished and I tossed it into my bag instead.  I take so long to read that I continued where I had left off rather than restarting the book.  The book as a whole takes common children’s stories and breaks down what the symbolism means in adult psycology.  This particular chapter was about “the mistaken zygote,” a.k.a. The Ugly Duckling a.k.a. the trauma we face when we are abused as children and have to grow up too fast in the face of not receiving the unconditional love and care that we need in our developmental years.

I also have been watching The West Wing, and there was an episode where a character works with a psychologist who diagnoses him with PTSD.  The worst the doctor says to him are such: “What we need to get you to do is be able to remember the [traumatic event] without reliving it, and you have been reliving it.”

The book, Women Who Run with the Wolves, phrases it incredibly as well: 

“There is another issue to be dealt with.  Mistaken Zygotes learn to be survivors.  It is touch to spend years among those who cannot help you flourish.  Being able to say one is a survivor is an accomplishment…And yet there comes a time in the individuation process where the threat or trauma has significantly past.  Then is the time to go onto the next stage of survivorship, to healing and thriving.”

Now I’d be too nervous to say the threat has past, but I met a customer who understood quite a lot of this and confidently told me  I didn’t need a restraining order.      I’ve been here for a year and was only stalked once.  It triggers me, I’m still coping with the trauma, but I am safe.  Definitely safer than I was then.

The book continues: “One can take so much pride in being a survivor that it becomes a hazard to further creative development.”  For me, I think it’s that I went so many years on my own, people not knowing how hard my life was, before and after the abuse, that saying I survived validated the struggle I still felt I needed to prove.  

But,  “at some point, allying with it exclusively begins to inhibit new development…Liken it to a tough little plant that managed — without water, sunlight, nutrients — to sen out a brave and ornery leave anyway.  In spite of it all.  But thriving means, now that the bad times are behind, to put ourselves into occasions of the lush, the nutritive, the light, and there to flourish.”

That’s greater than “making survivorship the centerpiece of one’s life.”

That dog did it.  He is a creature made entirely of love, and still he was betrayed and almost killed by those he had chosen.  Miraculously he survived, but he didn’t remain in his abused state, bowing his head to those he feared would hurt him again.  He forgave and trusted and let go of the burdens rooting him to the shore — and now is as happy as he could be.

That’s my next step.  I didn’t just accidentally bump into all of these themes in the span of a week.  They’re the waves that have chosen to come towards me, highlighting that which I’m gripping to tightly, which in turn is gripping tightly onto me.  They splash me with the importance and safety of letting it go.  Ultimately, I’d rather say I’m happy than say I’m a survivor.  So if I can change myself overnight, tomorrow I will wake up in the direction of health, moving  a step closer towards being a thriving individual.

A Writer's Alias

What sad people writers must be.

We have the gift of being able to create life without having to spread our legs.

With our finger tips we create a world of our choosing

Where we can make anyone say anything;

Anything we ever wanted we can conceive,

Every possibility is ours.

And yet

Why are there so many tales of sorrow

Of heartbreak and pain?

We can create soulmates that live for eternity in each others’ loving arms

And instead we give them evil twins and earthquakes and epidemics

That pull and twist on the strength of their love 

Until the smooth suggestion of their stories

Become knotted in the chaos of their own demise.

Just because we can create doesn’t mean that we should destroy.

So why is a tale of sorrow part of the popular pathos, replacing the one of happiness?

Why must we demolish the sanctuaries we envisioned?

My guess, as a writer, the dutiful scribe of the wantings of society,

Is that as a collective, we are so masochistic,

So unwilling to believe in our own happy endings

That we can only relate to stories where sacrifice, sabotage and solitude succeed.

We have so wholly given up on our own potential for happiness,

That writers are forced to kill the utopias we created to save this world. 

Visionaries violating their visions in order to be seen at all.

But then again, we don’t birth the whole: just the skeleton.

It’s health subject to society’s.

Grief, Guilt and Gratitude

            Few things feel as futile as having friends get mad at you over text message.

And before I continue, I just want to say that this isn’t a passive aggressive post about anyone in particular; it’s just me discussing something I’ve experienced with many people over the last year.

            I don’t know why I’ve lost so many friendships in the last 365 days. 

            It could be that five years on the east gave me a different energy from the west, making us incompatible.  And then it could be that this year on west coast soiled my east coast aura. 

            Perhaps it’s that I’ve made serious judgements about where I am and where I need to be, and perhaps some friends falsely assume that they are the source of the negative realizations.  

            Maybe I’ve changed into someone meaner than I used to be, unintentionally pushing away those that are trying to help.  Or maybe being sick required more of my friends than they wanted to take on.

            Potentially I’m not clear enough in what I need; or potentially I’m too clear in what I expect.

            It may be that I didn’t give back enough to those that I love; or it may be that I love my friends more than they can handle.

            It’s possible that people expected me to be stronger than I’ve been, or it’s possible that my determination could be seen as stubbornness rather than strength.  

            All I know is that I’m an outsider, who’s ready to move again, trying to be low maintenance, certain of what I need from my friends, prepared to love them unconditionally, and trying to regain my strength after a really rough year.

            And somehow something in that has caused me to lose a lot of those that I love.

            And these texting fights are like trying to have a conversation in the middle of a musical number.  The orchestra is set to play on no matter what happens, the rhymes have been decided, the key has already determined the mood, and I have a strict time constraint in which I must blurt out my responses.  I am not in control, the outcome has already been decided; there is a musical theme introduced at the beginning of the conversation that continues until the finale and the final curtain of our friendship.  I wish instead to take my time, like a chess game consider every possible response, with the lowered stakes of trying to figure out which door on the right is a friend’s bathroom.  But that is not the setting.

            And when the music starts, I don’t know how to win.  Arias of sadness and mistreatment are being belted at me; and at that point, how can I interject?  It’s already their number, their objective is decided, and no attempt at harmony can change what they hear as discordant.

            And so I lose another member of my cast, and have to sing on a little bit louder now.

            I don’t blame people for leaving.  I’ve lost enough in my life, and gained enough too, to know that the resentment only drains me in the end.  I know that my life is more complex than most, that my stories can seem to overshadow others’ hardship, and that anyone in my life, no matter how much I love them, can leave indefinitely.  I don’t have a blood family, but I’ve borrowed people’s parents, always knowing that they weren’t fully mine yet loving them fully; and then I’ve gone years without speaking to them.  And to be upset would somehow imply that they did more harm than good.  But I am grateful for the love that has been shown to me, I have never for a moment taken that for granted.  

            Even when I feel alone, that doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped caring for the moments that other’s were there.  It’s like a social appetite.  Even if I had a big breakfast, I can still be hungry for dinner.  And that doesn’t mean that I didn’t appreciate breakfast, nor would’ve been better off without it.  It just means that I need little more.  And since my appetite can be bigger than those that have a consistent family to lean upon, sometimes I might go hungry.

            It’s a solitude that I have embraced.  It was the price of my freedom when I emancipated myself from an abusive relationship six years ago; a decision I haven’t regretted for a single second.

            I’ve made peace with who I am; with my different personality, different outlook on life, different obstacles and different circumstances.

            It’s only when I lose someone that I question who I’ve become.  In the realm of social appetite, it’s like turning allergic to a favorite food.  “What happened?  Was it something I did?  Could it have been avoided?” I ask, and yet once that allergy has been detected, it’s too late and that friend almost never comes back.

            I’m very susceptible to what my friends say about me.  The opinions of people that I don’t like me float away, but when a loved one sees me in such a negatively light?  I no longer believe in who I thought I was.

            I never deliberately try to lose anyone.  So it can feel unfair, that they don’t  understand, like I don’t deserve the words they are firing at me.  But I grew up without being allowed to have opinions.  So I turn to my friends and ask if it really is my fault.  Only then do I trust that there isn’t a fatal flaw within me that poisons every one of my relationships.  And yes, there is a part of me that is terrified at what I would do when that last friend leaves; to whom I would ask “was this really my fault?”

            But this is not my reality.  This when I remind myself of those that still love me.  That though I’ve cried at yet another end-ship aria, my stomach pained with guilt and social starvation, that still there are those that love me.  And yes, maybe their song will one day come, but they love and know me now, and there’s no need to mourn what is still alive.

            So though it hurts to lose those that I’ve loved and I’ll never not miss them being in my life, that doesn’t mean that I have to starve myself from upbeat friendships that I have left. 

Post-Mortem on West Coast Me

          I have had a pretty rough year.  I moved out here under the pretext that I was paving the way for my love and I to live together in a city we had dreamed of for two years.  I want to work in TV/Film and he could do anything out here, acting, programming, urban farming, literally anything, but he just wasn’t ready to leave yet.  So I moved out first and stayed with one of my best friends.  I knew her and her family for over a decade and was so thrilled for the opportunity to save some money as I lived with people that I loved.  

Within the span of a month, however, my once-love said that there was a possibility that he would never move (something that absolutely would have kept me from leaving had I known this before I was already here) and my friend’s family said that they needed my room back and that I had a month to find a new place.

          So I found a place quickly.  It was far from work, however; one day I left three hours before my shift and was still late.  So obviously I needed a different space.  I applied for a room somewhere, almost lived in that landlord’s guest house, and then there was another space that was available in the original building.  It was her old office and I loved it.  It had a loft for the bed, a little patio, and more space than I’ve ever had.  It had a shared bathroom down the hall, but honestly I’d rather share a bathroom than a kitchen, so I was happy.  I also knew that my love would like it, if he moved out here.  He always loves little balconies and there was definitely enough space for both of us.  It was terrifyingly more than I had paid for rent in my entire life, though, even though it was considered cheap for this city.  So I knew that every financial woe I’d associate with him, for making me believe that he was going to come here as my partner, and instead he abandoned me to figure it out on my own.  I realized he wasn’t a part of my life out here, and wasn’t try to be, so I called something that was already done.  Plus without the pressure of him coming here to be with me and to help me, perhaps I wouldn’t resent him for how much I was going to struggle.

          And things were okay for a little while.  It was hard being on my own after a few years of living with a love and before that being surrounded in school by people who knew you and could see you change.  That’s one of the best things about friends; they remind you of when you grow.  And yes, I made a few friends out here.  I pushed myself to go out more than I usually would and with the safe umbrella of my coworkers, I felt confident in my West Coast body.

Things were getting harder, though, and I was losing weight from not eating enough as I couldn’t afford much food after paying rent.  I don’t know how much that ended up attributing to my health, but about two or three months later I was in the hospital.  You know that story though; I was in for 8 days, out for 6, back in for 10, and when I got home I saw that my landlord wanted the space back as her office.  I had signed a year lease, but she never gave me an original copy and when I requested it at this point, the contract now said that it was a month-to-month lease.  She also had a commercial license for the building, not a housing one, so I didn’t have any renter’s rights, and so I had to move.

          Also, at this point, I had lost about half the friends that I made out here and half of the ones that were leftover from high school.  And it makes sense; my life is anything but easy.  Some did it tastefully, some in a way that hurt so much it’ll be hard to ever forgive.  Basically I was in this space of feeling alone and like a burden to everyone I loved, fearing constantly losing those that were still by my side.  It made me afraid to reach out to anyone but I still so desperately needed help.  There were many nights that I wept alone, simply wishing for someone to hold my hand.

It was moments like this that made me really miss my love and my makeshift home out there.  I had more people in Philly telling me that they wished I were closer so they could help, than I had friends left in this city.  And I became nostalgic.  It could be a “grass is always greener” mentality, but I longed for the happiness that I had there.  I tried to get back together with my once-love, too, offering anything: to leave the West Coast, to move wherever he goes, to start over somewhere new, to wait for him until he was ready, even to pay for a plane ticket for him to see if he could be happy out here; because I realized that more than a career in TV/Film, I want to have a life with people that I love.  And in the last two years I have lived in four cities, and was happier in the three that I was together with him, than I have been here without him.  He declined.  It’s so hard to know exactly what I want and not be able to work for it.  Everything I’ve ever wanted I could achieve with hard work; it may not have been easy, but it was always worth the happiness that I made for myself.  And I’ve discovered a key to escape my unhappiness here and was told not to open that door.

Also around this time was when I moved in with the roommate that after one day together decided she wanted to break our lease.  That actually was to my benefit, ironically, because I didn’t want a roommate anyway (especially one that was that unaccepting) and our building manager showed me a studio in a different building that he manages and it’s exactly what I can afford and it’s all mine (and no shared bathroom this time).

          So aside from feeling like I am in a city where I’ve only felt pain and loss, I have the perfect apartment.  It’s also about the price that a studio in any city would be, so it helps me feel less like this city is taking my money and my freedom with it.  That said, I don’t know how to find my happiness now.  It’s not that I need someone else to be happy; I’m happy by myself and like myself quite a bit.  Instead, it’s that I feel a greater joy at making those that I love happy.  I’d sooner get my once-love a toy from his favorite anime, than spend that money on something for myself.  I’m not selfless, I still take care of me….there just isn’t that much that I need.  A roof over my head, food that doesn’t make my belly hurt, a blanket because I’m always cold…and that’s about it.  For instance, my little hermit crab has a mansion with three water dishes (salt, fresh and gatorade), two kinds of food, coconut substrate AND sand, mineral cubes, a climbing branch, a giant “tree” to climb on/in, a hermit hut, two sponges and three extra shells.  I also have a humidity gage and thermometer, as well as a nighttime heating lamp to make sure that my baby one has the perfect conditions for the happiest of homes; because seeing him happy makes me happier than anything else.

This is the capacity of love that I want to give.  And without my once-love, I don’t know where to begin in rekindling that extra happiness.  I think the first step is getting out of this isolation of no work and no socializing.  I need to be around people again.  That’s why I decided to go back to the East Coast for my birthday.  So many people I love are there, and it’ll give me a chance to see my former city without it being tied to my ex.  Perhaps it’s the layout of the city that I love.  Maybe I identify more with the hard working East Coast over than the lax spirit of the West.  I could miss traveling and hopping on a bus for two hours and being in a different state.  Perhaps I miss walking around for everything I need and feeling independent of rides from friends.  Maybe it’s that I felt safer there than I do here.

          One of my doctors thinks not feeling safe is a key to why I’ve been in pain.  She thinks that my brain has been mimicking the symptoms of my Crohn’s disease to warn me that I’m in danger.  Perhaps it could be that I no longer have 3,000 miles between me and the woman that abused me.  Maybe it’s that my ex always made me feel safe, and now I’m on my own.  I don’t know how to feel safe by myself.  And I don’t need anyone to help me with the battle, I just want someone to hold my hand after the fight.  (And the hardest part is I know whose hand I want to hold, and don’t really want anyone else’s.)

          So I’m really excited to see what this trip brings.  I’m hoping for clarity, less pain, lots of fun, and to get to see the people that I love so much.  I really felt like myself last year, that I was growing into the person that I want to become.  Hopefully this trip will help bring that forward motion back to a city that’s felt pretty stagnant.  Maybe even, through the eyes of my all-knowing friends, they’ll help me see that in this year, which has felt a like a waste of my time, actually helped me grow into something I can be proud of.  That’s what I hope for the most.  This city has never been very good to me, and I’ve lost so much this year; I don’t want to regret moving here.

My Life is Changing

I’ve lost a lot since being sick, and have had a lot of time to think about what matters to me and why I’m still fighting.  It’s not art.  I thought it would be.  I thought that being in this city to pursue what I’ve been working towards my whole life would be the reward.  But it’s not.  I’m not finding student films to audition for, nor writing screenplays as I am on bedrest: Instead I’m dying to jump into someone’s arms.  To spend time with people that love me.  To make scarves and crafts for the people I love.  Anything to show them how much they matter to me.  People are everything, I’m realizing, and I’m willing to give up anything to be with them.  More than any career, I want people to love, and it’s terrifying to release myself from a goal that I’ve had for over a decade, but it’s also a relief to know what I really want.  And that’s a family.

So I’m not saying I’m going to go out and get pregnant and raise a bunch of spawn to feel loved, but rather I’m willing to make changes to my life to be with those that I still have left.  Because this has been some of the hardest months of my life (and I haven’t had the easiest of lives) and those that are still here, willing to hold my hand and listen to me as I cry, they are more important to me than any possible career.

I don’t exactly know what this means: I still only know how to express myself in writing and feel more connected to acting than anything I’ve ever found.  But I would rather have a life without artistic success but people that I love, than achieve success alone.

So we’ll see what the future brings.

Tomorrow I move to a new home, one that I never planned on having, without the people I thought I would live with.  So I’ll see how it fits into my future. In the meantime, I know  I am willing to do whatever it takes to keep in my life those that I love, though I don’t know yet what that means….or if that’s enough not to lose them.  But I have to hope it is.

So change is happening and change will continue to come.  But if it brings me closer to those that I love, then I have to love change, too.

image by Tobias Tovera

An Aside: What's On My Plate

In the spirit of sharing my story and what I’m facing each day, I figure I’ll write a bit more about some of the obscure things that are on my plate.  We know the meat and potatoes that are on there (housing and health) but I also have some weird side dishes.  Let’s discuss three of them today. I think this will be my new series, so prepare yourself for an onslaught of sides. 

(Also I'm listing each “side” in all caps, so please say each of them aloud to yourself in a triumphant voice.  It adds importance)

~~~~~

NAPS.

I keep falling asleep.  The meds I’m on knock me out so hard and so suddenly that as I write this I’ve been falling asleep while sitting up.  But I don’t want to take naps all the time (because thenI feel like I’m in preschool), so I end up pushing myself to stay awake….which then makes me even sleepier….and is clearly not the perfect solution.  It’s a sleepy work in progress (which will get easier when my meds change soon).

I’ve also so far shied away from caffeine….but maybe by then I will be able to have the glorious elixir of life (coffee) once again.

Until then, I’ll try to embrace my existence as the dormouse from Alice in Wonderland.

EDIT: since writing this, I had a “taste” of decaf coffee!  Still not my “usual” of coffees larger than my face, but I’ll get there.  I believe in myself.

~~~~

Next.

STAIRS.

They are the bane of my existence.

Every step feels like rock-climbing.  I’m constantly uncertain of my footing, always preparing for how to catch myself should I begin to fall.  I have stairs going up to my apartment currently, and they are the worst part of my day.  I have tried railings, stepping one foot at a time, using a friend’s arm….and honestly there is only one thing that works: there is a glorious friend in my life that gives me piggy-back-rides.

This is the perfect solution to stairs and I owe this friend my sanity.  Being angered by angled pieces of concrete is not a sign of emotional balance, and thus the tranquility that the piggy-back-rides provide me is one to be admired by monks.  Om.

~~~~

THE WAY SOCIETY VIEWS THE SICK

Now this is less of a side dish and more the weird and strong smelling main course, which someone brings to a potluck that everyone is a little too afraid to taste.

So I’ll touch on it gently.

We live in a world where healing is considered weakness.  A friend injured herself and asked on facebook if anyone had extra crutches for “this pathetic gimp.”  Now I’m not going to speak at length about how offensive the word “gimp" is, nor dive into the fact that she was insulting more people than herself by using the derogative term…. Instead, I’ll simply comment on her use of the word “pathetic.”  By calling herself a “gimp” it’s clear that she didn’t respect herself, or anyone who needs the aid of crutches to get around; but, as if that wasn’t enough, she further qualified the offensive noun with the word “pathetic.”  Pathetic is someone that is sad and evokes pity, but in a way that you feel gross about it.  Pathetic isn’t the homeless person pass you wish you could give a dollar to; pathetic is the person that spits on the homeless instead of feeling sympathy.  Pathetic is someone that should know better, try harder, be more than they are failing to accomplish.

And she thought her injury made her pathetic.  That she should have known better, tried harder, been more than she was failing to accomplish….all because of an injury that I assume was out of her control.

I think she should have praised herself.  Rewarded herself for the bravery that it takes to ask for help when you need it.  I think she deserved kindness from everyone but mostly herself, for knowing not to push herself beyond her injury, thus allowing her body to heal at its own pace with the aid of crutches.

I know healing to be something that deserves that much love, but unfortunately society tends to agree with this friend of mine.  The world arounds us prefers the word “sickness” over “healing,” like its some disfiguration you are responsible for.  I have been forced to feel the wrath of “being sick” for almost my entire life; but again, I prefer the word healing.  It implies a process that lasts forever; of finding balance physically and emotionally.  I am proud to be healing.  I am not ashamed of a sickness.  Though some days I wish society could be a little more sympathetic; I don’t want to have to worry about my friends seeing me as “pathetic” for something that is out of my control, which I am doing my best to overcome.

~~~~

So those are today's side dishes: naps, stairs and a rant on society.  As far as what's on my plate, it's  definitely a feast, so I'll leave you here to digest.

How Hope Wins: Life is Like Hopscotch

So unsurprisingly, these last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about the importance of hope.

It’s interesting, hope works a lot like my pain management does.  To explain, I’ll clarify a little about my meds: Right now I’m on a narcotic that I can take every 4 hours.  One way to do this, would be to wait until I am in pain, and then to take the pill.  But then so much of the drug is then committed towards getting me out of the bad pain and back towards neutral…..this is sounding unnecessarily complex.

Hmm…Pretend it’s hopscotch.  Where I’m trying to hop towards being pain-free, and I have the pain monster behind me.  So the drug can help me move 4 hops forward, but the pain has already made me move backwards three.  So when I take the medicine, I really am only moving forward one square towards being pain-free!  Thus, the other way to try to manage pain is to take the medicine every 4 hours, not waiting for the pain to join the hopscotch game.  That way I can move forward 4 hops every time I take it, and be closer to feeling better.

(Now, this is a hopscotch game to play with doctors, of course, because narcotics are a little more complex and potentially addictive than childhood games, but as long as that is known, the metaphor holds.)  (….we can pretend it’s a game of hopscotch over a lava pit and my doctors are my hopping-coaches.)

So.  I have realized that hope works like this too.  It’s a hopscotch game headed towards happiness, with the dark feelings behind me.  If I try to think of something positive, I will move forward three squares towards happiness.  But if I wait for the sadness to take over and pull me back 6 hops….then I’m barely moving forward.  I’m still hopping three steps towards happiness, but I’ve been pulled so far back that it may not even feel like progress.

Thus I have learned that happiness is something that must be managed like pain: with a daily effort towards moving forward; otherwise it’ll feel like the darkness has taken over in my game of hopscotch.  And it’s important to feel like I’m always moving forward; that I have that control over my own happiness.

In my last post, circumstances had allowed the sadness to pull me so far back that I felt like I was losing my hopscotch game towards happiness.  Generally, I would hide in moments like this, not publish them….but I am committed towards the honesty of where I am in my healing process.  So I wrote about it.

But.  Just because I was losing the game then, doesn’t mean I’m not doing everything I can now to hop towards happiness.

It’s just going to take a little more daily effort, I think…..which to me sounds like a lovely project.   And I have a few ideas a-brewin’ :)

In the meantime…why is all of this relevant?  I have another nerve block scheduled for today.

This is the treatment that was the *first thing* to help me in months, which then failed after three days.  So as you can imagine, it was a ton of excited hops forward, only to be pulled even farther back by the fear that the pain monster is always going to win.

And yet I am nevertheless trying again today.  It’s a gamble and I’m wagering my physical and emotional states….but again, I need to feel like I am in control over my own hope and happiness.

So even if the treatment fails again, three days of relief where I feel released from the clutches of pain and disease…..perhaps this is such a victory that the elation of it can bring me residual hope, even when the treatment begins to fade.

Because even though I’ve spoken of two hopscotch games, the physical one of hopping from pain towards healing, and the emotional one of moving from sadness to happiness…they’re really both the same game, with  the bad behind me and the good in front of me.

And I’m still learning all the rules…..but I am thinking that I can choose the number of hops I take.  I think I can limit how far back pain pulls me, and I think I can allow my own victories to boost me even further forward.

So in addition to the nerve block, today I’m also trying a bad-block.  And I need hope to win.

This is my new goal.

Wish me luck today ;)

(above are four moments where hope won during hopscotch.  The first time I got to wear my clothes after 10 days in hospital gowns; a puppy that decided she loves me; a security guard that made me feel confident in a wheelchair; and a sparkly reminder that everything is going to be great.)

I am healing :)

Hello my sweets.

So I’ll update you a bit on my healing.  I feel confident enough to say the word “healing” this time, too.  When they discharged me from my first hospital trip, it felt like all they did was give me a handful of narcotics and wish me luck through the Thanksgiving holiday.  Fast-forward a few days into that week, and with every bite of food, I was curled up in a ball of pain, sweating and shaking and making sounds like a animal trapped in a cage.  Later into on that week, it digressed further, towards me feeling like that constantly, not just with bites of food.  So that was not “healing.”  Thus me heading back to the hospital and staying for another ten days.

But, here we are this time, five days past my second discharge, and I have yet to decline into that pained state.  I am on new medications for my Crohn’s and for my fibromyalgia, the latter of which some doctors attributed to my extreme pain.  So that’s better.  There are more answers.

I did, however, come home to an eviction, though.  Which is just “wonderful.”   I live in a building without the proper housing permits, so without lots of monies for lawyers, it’s not worth fighting the landlord that simply decided she wants the room back, despite my lease.  She also evicted me while knowing I was in the hospital.  It’s strange to see people that had been kind, show their true colors.  Like a wolf turning from a pup into a snarling beast.  It is horrible to know people like that.

So I need to get out of here…. plus losing the feeling of control over my space has been triggering both my PTSD and my fibromyalgia, so it will be healthier for me to move….now it’s just finding where…and how…when I can’t even get up a flight of stairs without help.

Basically there is a LOT on my plate; but I am getting better.  And I can only take things one day at a time.  And the other morning, when I woke up into the sunshine of a new day, and put on a cozy shirt and I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw no IVs, and had fewer bruises; there were no hospital sounds or doctors in sight.  It was just me.  Healthy and smiling.

And my friends, I saw myself as the person I want to be; who I want to grow into.  So as scary as all of this is, I saw a glimpse of the future; and this whole transition is guiding me towards exactly the person I want to become.  And that to me sounds like healing :)

A Glance Through the Window into My World

A New Day...And I'm Feelin' Good

An Insight Into the Realm of PTSD

A 700 Word Essay on the State of My Life. And some food.

Spring is Change and Change is Good

Some images (with their sources linked):

The 11th CC