The Hardest Part

Hello, blank page. My old nemesis.

I'm waiting to discover the outcome of potential developments in my life. I am averse to change but it seems my life has changed continuously since my divorce in September of last year. So I guess I'd best put my head down and not draw any attention to myself. Or put my nose to the grindstone and embrace change in all of its glorious uncertainty.

The problem is, I suck at waiting.

Call me Instant Gratification Girl. I have to be doing something to catalyze change. I want what I want, and I want it now. I have no patience.

I  would like to establish a routine. But I want it to start, like, yesterday.

The bonkers part of me wants to freelance and transcribe and piece my income together, whoop-a-dee-doo! Part of me wants to establish a profession with a set schedule and guaranteed hours, and this pragmatic, OCD side of me is usually the one that prevails.

And then there's the whole Jack-of-all-trades aspect of my personality. Can I do just about anything well? Sure. But am I an expert in one field? Neeeoope. Many people take one look at the stay-at-home mom part of my resume and they are dismissive, despite the fact that I earned a bachelor's degree back in the day.

Have I thought of remedial training? Sure, but each path is fraught with obstacles. Mainly the time and the expense. I cannot even afford physical therapy though it is needed for me to walk without pain. So most programs are financially out of reach. Trying to parent around a retail schedule has already proved difficult. How would I juggle schooling, parenting, and a job?

So here's what I'm planning to do. Spoiler alert: it's nuts. I'm going to start auditioning for community theatre and schedule my jobs and freelancing around THAT. Because I need creativity and performance for my spiritual salvation. Think I'm being melodramatic?

You ain't seen nothing yet.

Paging Dr. Melfi

My anxiety issues are prevalent as of late. Pretty severe ones, forcing me to resign from my new job. I finally had the opportunity to see a therapist.

After nearly an hour of discussing my past hospitalization, struggles with OCD, daily anxieties and experiences with agoraphobia, he suggested something revolutionary: BREATHING EXERCISES. Like I’ve never done THAT before. Oh, silly me, of course! I’ve been holding my breath for the last two years. It’s only the most basic thing you could possibly suggest for someone suffering from anxiety.

So, I did the breathing exercises, frustration growing steadily with each breath. “Don’t you feel better?” He said. “I could tell the difference between before and after you did the breathing exercises.”

Uh-huh. Before I was anxious, now I’m fucking angry.

“Describe your anxiety for me.” Anxiety is a monster, I offered for a basis of comparison. He told me anxiety needs to be my friend.

Friends don’t wake you up in the middle of the night to prod you with your darkest fears. Friends don’t drive you to the brink of losing your mind. Friends don’t let friends write drunk. Friends don’t prevent you from doing things that you would otherwise enjoy. Friends don’t betray you by planting paranoia and delusions in your world-weary brain.

Why can’t I have a decent therapist? I know life isn’t as well scripted as, say, The Sopranos. But I yearn for someone who actually helps me talk through my problems, rather than just watching me cry and saying, “Hmmmmm. You seem upset.”

NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.

Most of the session I felt like he was going to stop and just say, “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” It’s like he thought that just because I was articulate about my anxiety that I somehow wasn’t really suffering from it. He even added, as an extra zinger, that I shouldn’t obsess so much.

IT’S CALLED OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER. LOOK IT UP IN THE DSM SITTING, APPARENTLY UNOPENED, BY THE WINDOW.

I think you’ll be a lot better in two weeks, he said.

I think I’ll be doing a lot better if I see a better therapist.

Deluge: Defining Disability

"I'm getting tired of starting again, somewhere new."

                                                    ~~~ Foo Fighters, "Best of You," In Your Honor, 2005

Anxiety, you have won this time.

I haven't been writing on here because I thought the best way to survive in society was to hide. I deeply regret that decision. I should have learned by now that I can no more hide who and what I am than I can stop breathing.

I washed out of a great gig this morning. The hours were good and it involved customer service. I worked very hard in training, getting up at 3:30 every morning just to get to class. But that old phobia of phones, and the people who could be on the other end of them, won out. I feel grateful for the opportunity and it seemed like a great company to work for. I also feel that I was a waste of this company's time and resources because I just couldn't hack it. 

So I pretty much feel like crawling under a rock and never coming out.

Signing releases will be my primary business this week. Releases to prove what I always feared was giving up: that I am disabled by my illnesses. But I recognize that I need to take care of myself before I can take care of anyone else. And I know when to ask for help. Going back to counseling as well, hopefully, sooner rather than later. It seems as though since my divorce I haven't stopped to process my emotions or breathe. It also turns out that psychologically, such repression isn't healthy.

Also, recently stopped dating someone who I (gasp) liked. Apparently, I wasn't allowed to have feelings. Of course, there is a lot more to the story than that. But some songs are better left unsung. 

Started a new blog as well, on the entertainment front. Thought that I could get into the habit of reviewing films, television, and books again. My jobs have left me little time or energy for creativity. 

How I wish one didn't require a day job. ***Sighs wistfully before screaming into a pillow***

Square one in so many ways. And so very tired.

The Heart and Sole of It

I don't react well to failure.

I've been facing a lot of rejection lately, and everything is changing. I'm so stressed that I forgot my way around town yesterday (and it's difficult to get lost here since everything is a GRID).

Parameters, measured. Surveys, taken. Assessments, completed. Hopes dashed.

I knew this wouldn't be easy. But with a degree under my belt, you wouldn't think it would be so damned hard.

So here's the crux, alluded to: I need to find another part-time position to supplement my income. Or a good, old-fashioned, full-time job. I don't want to do this: I need to do this. I need to be able to support my child, as she is growing at an alarming rate.

She has big shoes to fill. No, literally. Shoes bigger than mine: a size 6. We went bowling the other day and the size 5 shoes, my size, were too tight for her.

But I wonder who will fill my shoes at my current position if I should need to leave. I love my co-workers and certain aspects of my job, of course. This is difficult for me. I work at my favorite store, for Pete's sake. But my gut is telling me that I need to make better use of my skills. And my wallet is telling me that I can't afford my bills and groceries, even with child and temporary spousal support. Life is wonderful and yet expensive.

Also expensive beyond measure: the cost of not seeing my daughter consistently. I need a job where I can support her emotionally as well as financially. Currently, that is difficult since I work until late at night, every night that I work. She told me that she feels isolated and abandoned. I can't really blame her. She rarely sees her dad and now rarely sees her mom. Again, I feel like a failure.

And of choices? Yes, I made the choice to leave my marriage for highly personal reasons. And I don't regret it. I still believe that though I am struggling (which I was warned by a lawyer that I would do), this is a better environment for my daughter. She needs her mom, and her mom needs her. She defines me in so many ways.

I wish so much that I could live my dreams, but frankly, dreams don't pay the bills. I dream about so many things, every night. I dreamt that my father was alive and we lived in a fantastic house. Yet there were so many leaks that the foundation was cracking. I woke up crying because, in the dream, I realized that my father was gone.

Her mother cannot be gone all the time. She needs some predictability: she needs to know that I have her back AND that I have the means to buy her new shoes.

And that's it, and that's all.

A Standing Ovation Is Also an Uprising

I first heard about “Hamilton: An American Musical” through friends on Facebook. Then there was the controversy surrounding Mike Pence’s attendance at a particular performance of the popular Broadway musical. And I thought to myself, here’s something worth listening to. I promptly bought the soundtrack, and immediately fell in love with the epic and captivating tale.

I did not realize that by playing the musical for my daughter, I would create a monster. A musical-loving little eleven-year-old. Just like her mother, a musical and history nerd. But I suppose there are worse things in the world.

She replaces the naughty words with silence. She researches covers of the songs on YouTube. She has researched deleted scenes. She tells everyone she knows about it, especially her teachers. She wants desperately to play Eliza Schuyler someday. She raps the lyrics to “Aaron Burr” with perfection, though she is clueless as to any adult references.

Because she is not into the whole infidelity and death thing, she refuses to listen to the second act. The first act, I will admit, has many of the catchier tunes. It is all glory and inspiration: the second act invokes Shakespearian tragedy. Though she doesn’t like the more adult themes, eventually I suspect she will have the musical memorized in its entirety.

Her respect for Lin-Manuel Miranda is profound, as it should be. He authored the entire musical himself and played the lead: quite the accomplishment for anyone. I was a music major and have only composed one song and a ton of bad poetry. In contrast, Miranda’s lyrics are terse, witty, and full of historical and theatrical references. I’m glad my daughter has found someone worthy of hero-worship.

And the voices? Violet loves them, and rightfully so. Performed by a multi-cultural cast, the sonorous complexity of the vocal performances is swoon-worthy. George Washington and Aaron Burr are my new imaginary romantic interests. The show stopping scene stealer, though, is Angelica Schuyler’s toast at Hamilton’s wedding: voiced by Renée Elise Goldsberry, who totally rocks it. I haven’t convinced my daughter that this role is the one she should be going for. But there’s time yet.

Sigh. As much as I love listening to and singing along with Hamilton’s first act, I’ve bought Violet some musicals that are new to us. I’ve always heard good things about “Into the Woods” and “Wicked.” So that is next on the musical agenda. Perhaps I’ll even pen some reviews of them.

But the point of my rambling this morning is this: listen to Hamilton. It is a uniquely told lesson about love, war, history, and intimacy. Here’s to hoping they tour close enough that I can take my daughter to see it someday, (someday)…

Tripping up the Staircase

Fear. Fear does many things for us. It keeps us alive, for starters.

My fear of turning left in traffic? I’ve had friends who have gotten into accidents that way. So it’s not a totally irrational fear. And the caution I exercise in turning left, in turn, keeps me alive.

Fear does many things to us. It causes me to lose focus. It causes me so much unrealized potential that it’s ridiculous. Why don’t you excel in one of your chosen fields? It asks me. The answer? I have an overwhelming fear of failure coupled with a fear of the unknown. The simple question, “What if?” Is always greeted with negativity. The “Na-na-na-na-na-na, you’re going to lose” kid in A League of Their Own? That little shit is a constant presence in my brain.

The result? I never move forward. Stagnant and unreliable. Unwilling to work at things unless there is a guarantee of success.

In short, it’s no way to live.

I have a million ideas. Tinder: The Musical could be a total possibility. I may not be able to set a song to save my life but do I have talented friends with whom I can collaborate? Eff yes! So why not??? Because, what if it’s, like, stupid? Says the Valley Girl in my brain. And she is convincing, if vapid.

And then the other side of me, the optimist, ever the idealist, says: quit being such a pussy. Live a little. It would be fun for your daughter to read someday if nothing else. And it’s educational. It would be a comprehensive “What Not to Do” list for online dating.

So nothing you do is ever completely useless, especially not if it helps you grow as a person. I must work at it and not see any failure to publish as an exercise in futility.

Beeeeliiiiieeeevveee in yourself, says the unicorn. Beeeeliiiiieeeevveee.

And then there are all the inspirational quotes out there to back me up. You don’t have to see the whole staircase to take the first step. Broken crayons still color and damn, I’m magenta.

This theory applies to the rest of my writing. I need to replace “What if?” with “Why not?”

I also need to learn how this whole “pitch” thing works. Because holy jeez, it seems to be important. You gotta get a gimmick if you wanna get ahead: a little Sondheim for ya. I need to learn how to sell myself and unbelievably, I am no good at tooting my own horn.

So there.

As a good friend told me, I need to replace my apologies with this phrase. It does make me seem more confident, if a bit callous at times. It’s a start.

And now I must truly apologize, because I have Elmo stuck in my head. Thanks a lot, you furry little bastard.

Miles to Go

I've slept a total of nine hours in three nights. I am exhausted.

I must journey to Burley, ID this morning to drop my daughter off with her dad for Spring Break. Thank God I'm not driving. Coffee is my friend.

I'm ready to jump in with both feet into the dark water. Do I think a shark or a scary clown is lurking somewhere in the depths? Most definitely.

That's the hard part of writing about my past with mental illness: though I am pretty open, I do have a great deal of shame and embarrassment regarding certain topics. I have saved them for "The Book." The Book has been in process since 2009. I have started it and restarted it. It has no primary sense of focus, as much of it was written directly post-hospital. When I was still highly paranoid but wanted to preserve some of the lovely memories I made.

I am fond of having mid-life crises, it has become quite the hobby of mine. I search for purpose daily. I wanted to go back to school to be a teacher, but hearing about the stresses faced by some of my teacher friends made me doubt that decision. So now I am left knowing one thing: I was not meant to clean up after other people for the rest of my life. It's certainly not beneath me but it makes me weary. 

I am still determined to write for a living, though working a day job has taken a lot of the living out of me for the time being. I am still terrified of failure, a hallmark of my OCD. But if I don't write and I don't continually submit I'll never get anywhere. Part of me is determined to find a full time job so I don't have to worry about paying the bills: another part of me is screaming, live your dream. Take risks. 

Quit being such a pussy.

And focus. And practice, practice, practice. This I'll-write-when-I'm-inspired nonsense has got to stop, I must follow the example of my successful writer friends and WORK ON IT. Not only that, but figure out how to reach a broader audience. Follow the examples of your idols: David Sedaris writes five hours a day. I'm lucky if I write for five minutes without distraction. Or incredible self-doubt.

And the reading has got to commence as well, damn the depression. Pretend you're in college and it's required reading. Make yourself read for an hour a day. Quit wasting time. Navigate the everyday stress without falling apart or into a coma. You've got this, as your sister would say. Beeeeelieeeeve in yourself and stop with the self-destructive self-deprecation. 

As for the pitches and the websites? Figure it out, you're not a complete moron most of the time. Set goals. Don't be afraid of rejection. View it as learning, not inadequacy. 

I could go on and on, but I'm going to mercy-kill this line of thought. 

I've got places to go.