SHARE: How I broke the link between bad days and alcohol —
This is an amazing post about habits, triggers, and the power to change your life through changing your thoughts. If you’re not reading Big Happy Life, why the heck not?
7.26pm. A packed commuter train. I left home almost 14 hours ago. I’m sweating. My trousers have ripped. It’s been a hard day. I’m shattered and I’m going to miss my kids’ bedtimes. This was the scene as I travelled home from work earlier this week. I felt broken. That was until it hit me […]
Thank You, Helen Reddy! Love, Crazy-Brave-ChildMe
Wore this album to shreds as a kid!
Ten thousand years ago, I read a book called “Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls” by Mary Pipher. At the risk of being flippant, the basic premise of the book is this: It takes Western society to about the age of 13 years to crush the average girl’s spirit. Before that magic age, girls and boys are equally reckless, daring, curious, and audaciously creative.
However, with the onset of puberty (i.e., boobs, menarche, and acne), all of creation seems to come down hard on the poor girls. From unrealistic beauty ideals to misogynistic “rules of conduct” to the suppression of their true voices, that passionate, creative, daring little girl doesn’t stand much of a chance to survive into adulthood. In Pipher’s own words, “girls become ‘female impersonators’ who fit their whole selves into small, crowded spaces.”
Hello, Ophelia
If you’ve been following my tarot blog, you may know that Kat and I did an annual reading for our business. Each of us took one card per alternating month, and my card for March was the 4 of Hearts – Reflection.
It’s hard to reflect on your life as an American woman without reliving that shift from confident child to angsty teen to adult. As I spent the last month digging through my deeply-held (though suspicious in origin) beliefs about money, success, and personal autonomy, it became more than apparent that at some point on my journey I strayed off the path. I crowded myself into a tiny space, afraid to be heard and even more afraid to be seen.
Hello, Ophelia.
Looking at the current state of feminism, politics, and the barely unsheathed blade of hatred against women, it’s really hard to reconcile our current reality with the promise of my youth in the early 70s. Everything from TV to movies to (of course) popular music told me that I could have it all. As a woman, I was all that and the proverbial bag of chips.
Backlash
It’s funny that the backlash against feminism occurred in the early 80s, almost simultaneously with my transition into adolescence. Whereas Child Me heard “Girl Power” and conjured up images of ERA marches, Adolescent Me heard “Girls Gone Wild” and was force fed images of drunken college girls doing things they’d surely regret when sober.
While I never fully shed the identification as a feminist, smart women, good women, strong women all around me just scuttled away from that word like it was a plague-infested rodent. Even the barest association was poisonous to them. “I’m not a feminist. I don’t hate men.” Or, “Women are just as good as men. I don’t need feminism to show me that.” (As they earned less, paid more for goods and services, and saw their hard-earned reproductive and health rights eroding before their nearly-blind eyes.)
Resurgence
Even before the nightmare that was the 2016 Presidential election, feminism started resurging around me. Young women, armed with the extended vision of the Internet, started looking around at the situation and decided that it was not acceptable. Fierce new voices showed up in the webisphere, diverse voices of women who had never really been represented in “First Wave” and “Second Wave” feminism, but whose stories were all so familiar to this middle aged white woman. While I’m technically a “Second Wave” feminist by virtue of age, I certainly identify with and applaud the intersectional feminism of my younger sisters. The work of feminism is far from over, and it’s no longer the sole domain of middle-class white women like me. There is so much work to be done, both on a personal and global level.
Thank You, Helen Reddy
You knew I was going to get there eventually. As I tread through the broken pieces of my childhood self, I still feel a sense of gratitude to those Second Wave feminists who inspired me. When I think of feminism, it’s those women, shaking their fists, carrying their banners, living their truth, that I see. Though some of them do not live up to my modern expectations of feminism, for their time, they were amazing.
A few days ago, I asked Kat to buy me a digital copy of Helen Reddy’s iconic anthem, “I am Woman.” I know, I know, it’s corny. It’s dated.
But I’m going to tell you, as many feminist fight songs come down the line from younger artists, nothing will ever touch my brave, curious, outrageously optimistic ChildSelf in the way Helen Reddy’s song will.
I saved the MP3 file on my car’s jukebox, and I’ve started to listen to it on my commute every morning. (Sometimes on repeat. Don’t judge.)
When I hear that song, I am strong.
I am invincible.
I am woman.
Hear me freaking roar, babies!
A Gay Dad’s Open Letter to Donald Trump: Stop Dancing on the Graves of our Slain LGBTQ Brethren
I woke Sunday morning to my phone chirping that a new text message had arrived. It was from my radio show co-host, Steph Taylor inviting me to a vigil to be held in our local town… a vigil f…
Source: A Gay Dad’s Open Letter to Donald Trump: Stop Dancing on the Graves of our Slain LGBTQ Brethren
Why I Hate New Orleans: a transplant essay
Great post on the City of My Birth. You will be quizzed.
I hated New Orleans from the first moment I set foot in it. I hate Tulane for giving me a scholarship. I hate the Newcomb girls for being so ugly and overdressed all the time. I hate the all-night bar in the basement of the school’s university center. I hate that friends who stayed active in Greek life remained friends with ones who never joined it. I hate not attending a party school, and, more importantly, not living in a party city. I hate that my mom convinced me to visit and that my dad also fell in love with the city once he visited. I hate that my baby brother went to school next door after he visited during spring break.
I hate that I moved here over ten years ago, tried to leave, and came crawling back. I hate that it took me this long to write a…
View original post 867 more words
Shutting Down for Now
I’m about to shut down the laptop for the last time as a resident of Elizabethtown, KY. We will be spending a couple of days in Louisville before heading down to New Orleans, but I will be ridiculously busy getting the apartment closed up tomorrow.
It’s funny, moving out of a place you’ve lived in for so many years. Everything is familiar, but it also has this alien feeling. It’s like your soul has already moved on, but your body has to catch up. Kathryn and I drove around a bit tonight, just reminding our senses what this town looks and feels like, firming the memories in our brains.
The conversation turned to places we’ve lived and good memories we had there. No matter where we live, or who we know, we make our own lives. We make our own joy. We take out of it what we put in to it.
So, E-town, here’s what I’m taking out of my life here–
- You’re never really alone if you have friends.
- Nobody can take your integrity away from you.
- Just because people don’t agree with you doesn’t mean they don’t like you.
- There is no shame in asking for help.
- Always make friends with the servers…..
The next time I post will probably be from Arizona. Until then, I think I’ll just say what Kathryn’s been saying all night:
So long, and thanks for all the fish.
Love to you all–
Deb
P. S. Road trip begins very soon, and I’m itching to get to a Stuckey’s!
Checking In: 10/29/14
I haven’t been posting much lately. That is because I have been packing boxes, making Goodwill runs, binge-watching The Good Wife and Mike & Molly during downtime moments, and trying to transform myself spiritually. Deadline is October 31, and I’m getting a little stressed.
Needless to say, I’ve been remiss in my blogging, and for that I am truly sorry. In lieu of deep metaphysical insight, I will take a quick moment to share a few bits and bobs with you:
- If you live in the U.S.A., voting is on November 4. If you don’t know for sure whether you’re registered, you can go here and find out. Many states have early voting or, if needed, absentee voting. Don’t miss this opportunity. The Mid-terms are actually more important than the Presidential elections when it comes to policy-making. Please, do your part and vote.
- If you are looking for a deep read, try The Untrue Story of You: How to Let Go of the Past that Creates You, and Become Fully Alive in the Present by Bryan Hubbard. It is a fascinating look at time, self, depression, and life.
- Think you’re a Doctor Who fan? Take the bad-a## Radiotimes Doctor Who quiz. I got 21 out of 30, which is respectable but not noteworthy. What did you get?
- Pope Francis is getting all open-minded and stuff on subjects like The Big Bang and Evolution. This Recovering Catholic is cautiously optimistic.
- Not to make you nervous or anything, but there’s a giant spot on the sun and (according to PBS) it’s acting weird.
- Orson Welles: New movie from beyond the grave?
- Finally, Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick return to Broadway in It’s Only a Play, because….well, Broadway.
Sorry I had no major insights or wisdom to share with you–I blame dust and Flonase. I promise to return with something more substantial when we finally land in Phoenix, Arizona.
Until then–stay safe, choose kindness, and VOTE.
Deb
Background Music: All About the (Upright) Bass by Postmodern Jukebox.
Permission to Suck
I painted this cat several years ago. It sucks. It’s really, really bad. But I had fun painting it, and it served its purpose.
I love to doodle. I draw all the time–faces, little cartoon animals, aliens, even my happy little elephant butt (see below).
I come from a family of artists, some of them professional, most of them wicked talented. For years, I never “did” art because, frankly, I didn’t want to put it against the work of family members who were much better than I was. So I just scribble little cartoons in the margins of my notebooks and have a good time with it.
This week I donated a six-string guitar my father gave me to the local LGBT Community Center. The official reason was that we didn’t have space to bring it with us in the car to Arizona. The underlying reason was that in the two years I’ve had the thing, I never learned to play. I would start, suck, stop, start again, suck some more, and stop. (Sorry, Dad.)
Things have always come pretty easily for me. I did well enough in school. I can carry a tune to the point where singing isn’t painful for those around me. I can write stories and blog posts. Yes, I worked at these things, and yes that effort improved my abilities over time. And yes, I have failed tests and bombed songs and written excruciatingly crappy stories.
In essence, I sucked.
So why do I persevere through the suck on some things while letting it defeat me on other things, like art and playing the guitar? What is it that causes us to continue in some situations while we give up on the others?
I am not sure why it doesn’t bother me that sometimes I suck as a writer. Everybody sucks, now and then. But I keep writing. I know that, to a certain extent, it’s a numbers game. For every sucky story I write, I’ll probably write a good one to balance it out. I think my sucky song ratio is about five to one on the good side, and dude–try to stop me from learning. No, I will never be an archaeologist or an astrophysicist, but that’s not going to stop me from learning about both subjects.
I think what really matters is how much you want to do the things that you suck at. While I enjoy doodling, it’s not important enough for me to work through the sucking part. And it was cool strumming the guitar and actually getting a chord to sound right, but not enough to get calloused fingers and put in the effort.
To truly excel at something, you have to be willing to suck at it–possibly for a good, long time. You have to be willing to get bad grades, reviews, feedback. Hell, you have to accept that you might even be made fun of from time to time.
This sucking is the price you pay for becoming really good at something. Every C-minus, every rejection letter, every painful wince as you struggle to reach that high note is a due you pay to get where you want to go. Every crappy drawing you crumble up (or stick under a fridge magnet as a reminder of your suckitude) will spur you on, if that is where you really want to go.
If you are not willing to fuck it up, and royally, you will never get through to where you truly become a master.
So, let’s fuck it up, ya’ll. Let’s make bad art, and bad music, and tell really really crappy stories. Let’s share them with the world, so everybody understands it’s okay to suck. And when we’ve done that, let’s do it again–only a little better this time. And do it again, a little better, the next time. Until we really have something worth sharing.
I’m going to keep posting, and I’m going to keep drawing, and I’m going to keep singing. I hope you will, too.
Good night, Dear Souls.
For the Love of….
I had a near panic attack today. I was driving along, happy as you please, and it occurred to me that…I was not earning money!!!!! Yes, it was a weekday. Yes, it was between the hours of 8 am and 5 pm. Yes, I was healthy and able to leave my bed.
But I was not in an office, at a computer, doing work proscribed to me by a so-called Higher Up in order to secure an agreed-upon amount of compensation (less taxes, insurance, etc.) in return.
This hit me like a slap in the face, and I actually felt myself begin to hyperventilate, right there behind the wheel.
Mind you, our money situation is okay. Our bills are paid. We have food, shelter, transportation, clothing, and extra for little niceties. We are in no danger of SUDDENLY RUNNING OUT OF MONEY AND BEING FORCED OUT OF OUR HOME AND OMERGERD WHAT ARE WE GONNA DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO????
But I felt that way. Because I was not earning a paltry salary at a job that was killing me with stress, like I’ve been brainwashed to do my entire life. For a brief moment, I felt like the entire universe was going to collapse in on me, and it was all my fault.
Then I took another breath, and it went away. I took another breath and asked myself, why are you so freaked out about earning money? Yes, within reason, having money is a good thing–a very good thing. It allows you the freedom to do what you like without being a financial burden on your loved ones. It comes in very handy at the grocers and the laundromat and when it’s time to pay for the utilities.
But beyond that, why are we so freaked out over the accumulation of money?
Because we’re afraid. Because we’re taught to be afraid from very early childhood. Because money is set up as the ultimate Wooby, that go-to paper superhero that solves all our problems, makes everything possible, and keeps the streets safe for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.
And because we’re afraid of just about everything, we reach out for anything that will comfort. We reach out for our Paper Wooby, because it’s easier than just being in that fear for the moment. Being in that fear takes effort and trust, something that isn’t all that easy to do when you’re exhausted from the constant grind of accumulating the MoneyWubby.
But give yourself a few days, maybe a couple of weeks to rest up, and it gets easier.
It gets easier being rational. It gets easier seeing the wholeness of things, how life fits together, and how we can relax even when we don’t have the answers. And that is pretty damned cool.
Good night, my friends. I hope you get a chance to relax and enjoy the uncertainty of it all.
Background Music: Moonlight Sonata, Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor Ludwig van Beethoven (Eric Balajadia)
Absorbing the Words of Alan Watts
The past few days have been pretty rough for me–I’ve caught whatever creeping crud has been going around. It’s amazing how low your expectations for life become when you’re cramping and running to the bathroom at all hours. I spent much of yesterday curled on the couch, listening to lectures by Alan Watts on YouTube.
It’s a strange thing, being sick while you’re in transition. I mean, if I were employed (like a responsible person ,says the evil inner critic), I’d still have insurance and wouldn’t be worried about if I have to go to the doctor and if she’ll want to run tests and how much that will cost. But if I were employed (like a good little do-bee, the wise inner counsel responds), I would be at work right now, adding stress to my already depleted body, because I have run out of paid time off and couldn’t risk missing the work. Instead of taking care of myself through quiet, rest, and self-care, I’d be making myself sicker with worry and stress and resentment.
So much of what we do as modern Western adults is done in the name of seeking security. If you study the concept of emotional branding, fear is the Number One motivator used to get people to everything from buy toothpaste to work a soul-killing job. Fear is a big money-maker for a lot of people, people who aren’t afraid of exploiting human nature for their own gains.
Kathryn and I recently had a conversation about the similarities between many jobs and abusive partnerships. Both use the same triggers, the same tired old threats and emotional manipulations to keep you in a situation that is ultimately bad for you.
- “You’ll never find another job/lover if you leave here/me.”
- “This job is/I am the best you’re ever going to get.”
- “You won’t survive outside this job/relationship.”
- “You owe the company/me; you were nothing before this job/me.”
- “Look at all the training you’ve received from this job/Look at everything I’ve done for you.”
There are other correlations between the two, like the enforced secrecy, the isolationist tactics, the periodic moments of generosity to distract from the more consistent abuses.
And we do this. We choose this. We dress up and fight for these jobs, these relationships, that treat us so badly and damage us so deeply.
We find ways to survive. We make friends. We form relationships with our coworkers and customers, because that’s who we are as humans. And we make the best of it. We tell ourselves we’re doing it for our future, for our security, in preparation for the Deep Dark What-If’s that lurk around every corner in this terrifying world of ours.
But why? What security is so strong, what safety so guaranteed, that we would trade our health, our dignity, our freedom and self-esteem for just a whiff of it?
Security is an illusion. Security assumes that something is wrong with us, that something is wrong with the world. Security also assumes, conversely, that there is something we can do to fix it.
Watts talks about cycles, and about the different viewpoints we have. He talks about perspective.
What I’m giving myself right now is perspective.
I’m pulling away from the fear and conflict and daily craziness to see the cycles, in hopes that I will gain a greater understanding of who I am and what my place in this cosmos really is. I’m physically uncomfortable right now. That is the immediate perspective. But in the greater perspective, I am free. I am whole. And I am joyful.
Peace to you, my friends.
Adjusting to Sunshine
I’m slowly adjusting to the newness of this life. I’ve been 9-to-5-ing it for so many years, this freedom to set my own hours for a while has been…almost unnerving. I keep waiting for the time off to end, for the dread to start growing in my stomach, for the clock-watching to remind me I have to go to bed in order to drag myself off to work for 8 am.
For the most part, it’s only been a relatively small thought in the back of my mind. I don’t talk about it much. I don’t think, “OMG, I’m not working!” at random points in the day. I don’t even feel ridiculously happy not to have to deal with the stress and BS that were a regular part of my day on the job.
Today, though, as I was driving around doing errands, there was a moment. It is a beautiful fall day here in Kentucky–the sky is blue and clear, and the temperature is just cool enough to be perfect. For a moment, just a moment, I was back in my desk at The Day Job™. It hit me, hard like a punch in the stomach. I could actually feel myself in the desk chair, a computer in front of me, white noise choking me, that trapped feeling all lab rats get when they become momentarily aware of their real situation.
From my desk, I could see out a window onto the parking lot in front of the Chinese buffet next door. Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine, I would look out of that window countless times a day. My eyes would drift away from the screen and the work and the reality and fixated on that Outside place. Outside, where people were running errands and meeting friends and working in their yards. Outside, where time was just time, and not a weapon used against you.
And I remembered, like it was happening, the ache I would get sometimes, on days just like today, when I would look out and see the clear blue sky filled with sunlight and cool breezes. I called those days my Alpaca Days, because I would have rather been doing anything – even herding alpacas – than stay inside that cold, stale office. In my mind, I would just grab my purse and leave, without even telling anyone, without even turning off the computer. I’d get in the car and pick up my sweetie and we’d drive without stopping until we hit an ocean.
Today, I realized that I didn’t have to raise alpacas. I didn’t have to run away from home.
I was out there, in that sunshine, on that perfect day, doing what I wanted to do.
And I realized, “Wow, I don’t have to go to work for a while.”
Love to you all,
Deb
Ten Thousand Soapboxes 