Please don’t be shocked by today’s title – I’m not swearing (well, not yet anyway). I’m just So Happy It’s Thursday. It’s been a long week. This week has lasted at least a month, which is only fair since this month has flown by in a day. This morning I realized that we’re almost a quarter of the way through 2023 and that there are only 276 shopping days until Christmas!
The Doctor may think that time is like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, time-wimey stuff, but I think that time is a four-letter word.
They say that time is relative. I still don’t know who “they” are, but if they’re right it must be one of those weird relatives you try to avoid at family functions. No, I’m not talking about your creepy “uncle” – I’m referring to grant-aunt Agnes. Agnes’ shoes rarely match, her hair is 9′ long and her house is filled with a variety of wildlife (mostly because she leaves the front door open). Aunt Agnes never seems to be paying attention, but she always knows when you’ve done something you shouldn’t – which is just one more reason that you should tell Aunt Agnes to go F herself.
Why do I think Time is a weird relative? Because it speeds up, slows down and even stops for some people. Once upon a time (2010 feels like a lifetime ago), Jeff Wise explained that time dilation is a side-effect of intense fear. Scientists have since discovered that the perception of time slows for athletes and, as reported by the National Institutes of Health, really does fly when you’re having fun. Even stranger, last year physicists and philosophers theorized that time may not exist.
The Mad Hatter calmly explains that Time is a “him,” not an “it.” He goes on to recount how Time has been upset ever since the Queen of Hearts said the Mad Hatter was “murdering time” while he performed a song badly. Since then, Time has stayed fixed at six o’clock, which means that they exist in perpetual tea-time.
I think the Hatter is wrong – it’s not tea-time, it’s happy hour
image courtesy of Urby
So tell me, have you ever experienced Time Dilation?
Editor’s note – Today’s post was originally published in 2017. Today marks 6 years since I lost my brother of heart. That’s a lie. I didn’t “lose him “- he’s not a sock, or a set of car keys.
Today marks 6 years since my friend died. It seems like yesterday.
I know what you’re thinking – “Where the hell has Tracey been and what kind of writer doesn’t write?” (or, as my EIC would say, “If a writer isn’t writing, doesn’t that mean they’re not a writer?”)
In Hell. Literally (Ok, maybe not literally). A stuck writer. That’s what kind.
Grief has eaten my brain, and stolen my creativity.
I lost someone a month ago who was incredibly important to me. Well, I didn’t’ “lose” him. It’s not like he was a set of car keys, or a sock that disappeared from the dryer, or my mind.
Sorry for that. I have a habit of trying to compensate for emotional issues with sarcasm and lame attempts at humor. Let me try again.
My friend died a month ago.
Wow. There it is, in black and white. The phrase I’ve avoided. I know it’s hard to read, but trust me, it’s harder to write and practically impossible to believe. Timothy Leary was right when he said “Death is the last taboo.” Nobody dies. They “pass on” or “leave us”, “slip away” or “go to a better place”.
I call bullshit.
My friend died.
Three words. So simple and so misleading. Here’s how dictionary.com breaks down the sentence:
My – belonging to or associated with the speaker.
Friend – a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual of family relations
Died – to cease to live; undergo the complete and permanent cessation of all vital functions
The thing is, Mario wasn’t just “my” friend. He was EVERYONE’S friend. Yeah, he was THAT guy. He was charming and funny, smart and kind. No matter where he went, he always ended up surrounded by a group of people who were jostling for position and vying for his attention. Mario, like my mother, seemed to believe that there is no such thing as a stranger. Strangers are simply friends you haven’t yet met.
He was my friend, but he was more than that. There are friends, and then there are people who are so much more than simply friends – we call these people our “family of heart”. We might not be related by blood, but we are joined by a love that is even stronger than family ties. Mario was my friend, my mentor, my brother of heart.
I met Mario when we were young and foolish, hopeful and fearless. He was dating the woman who ran the booth I worked for – the woman who would become one of my very best friends. In a blink of an eye, they were married, and raising 3 kids.
Mario and Virginia were playing house and being Responsible Adults while I was still trying to decide how to style my hair. It took me longer to grow up, but eventually I got married and had a kid of my own. I am incredibly lucky to have had their help in raising my daughter. Mario was a perfect example of a father for my spouse to emulate, and Virginia was the same for me. Their three kids are amazing people, despite the fact that their parents have a twisted sense of humor (It gave me hope that our daughter wouldn’t be Permanently Damaged). The fact that they were still wildly in love with each other even after 35 years together was inspiring – a testimony to the power of True Love.
Mario’s kids asked us to write down things that we learned from him, to list our favorite sayings or quotes. I couldn’t think of anything at the time. I’m sure people remember a lot of “Mario-isms”, but I can’t remember anything other than him saying “OUTSTANDING!” when things would go less than perfectly, or when someone would do something that was extraordinarily stupid. But here are things that I learned from him:
Be kind. Mario was nice to everyone – no matter what they believed, what they looked like, how they dressed, how much money they made (or didn’t make). He was one of the popular kids, but he wasn’t one of the mean girls (which is not to say that he didn’t enjoy a little CCC* when warranted). He went out of his way to be kind to people who were often overlooked or ignored. He was even nice to the weird kid in the corner (What? No, that wasn’t me, why would you think that?).
Be polite… We disagreed about many things (politics, religion, and whether the Three Stooges were funny). As strong minded (or, in my case, hard headed) individuals, we agreed to disagree. Having friends with opinions which differ from one’s own makes life more interesting.
but don’t be a pushover. (does this one really need explaining?)
Keep learning. Mario was always reading, always trying to better himself. As Albert Einstein said “Once you stop learning, you start dying.”
Make people smile… Mario would do almost anything to get a laugh (that’s not exactly true. There was no “almost” about it).
by embracing your inner weirdo– In a world where everyone worries about what others think/we struggle to fit in, to be normal (please note, “normal” is just a setting on the washing machine), Mario stood out as someone who just didn’t give a flying f…
Don’t whine. (Aka “Suck it up, Buttercup”) The past few years were incredibly hard physically and psychologically, and yet, Mario was always smiling (or maybe it was a grimace). His outlook could best be described this way:
Be strong… Mario was in a lot of pain, but he never let it stop him from doing the things that he needed or wanted to do. Long days at work which required hours of driving? Every day. Trips to Yosemite, to hockey games, to shows and soccer games and even a longa** Christmas parade? NP. The thing that stands out most is the fact that, whenever I came to visit, no matter how much pain he was in, Mario always stood up to say hello.
but don’t be afraid to ask for helpwhen you need it (TBH I never heard Mario ask for help for himself. He was always asking for help for someone else).
and always offer help to those who need it. In a world where people rise above the masses by putting others down, Mario lifted people up.
Those are the things I’ve learned from Mario’s life. What did I learn from his death?
That “Only the good die young” is not a meaningless phrase. Neither is “Life’s a Bitch, and then you die.” That we need to find make time for those we love. When I was a kid, I thought nothing of knocking on my friend’s door, and asking if they could come out and play. We lose that ability when we grow up – we get busy with life – with school, with work. We worry that our houses are too messy for guests, or that our friends are too busy for us. We SCHEDULE our lives and our visits, instead of just “popping in to say hello”. We text and skype and send messages via snapchat or twitter. We brag about the fact that Facebook has allowed us to “reconnect” with old friends and family members, but we don’t take make the time to see each other “IRL”. WE NEED TO STOP THAT, RIGHT NOW.
What did I learn from my friend’s death? Life is short, and none of us is guaranteed tomorrow. Mario’s younger daughter got married in November. At the reception, he asked me told me to stop by after work for a “beer and bitch” session, but I assumed it was the whisky talking, and that we would have a chance to catch up “soon”. Please believe me when I say that “SOON” DOESN’T COME SOON ENOUGH.
I know this was a long post, so, in the immortal words of Inygo Montoya “let me sum up”. What did I learn from Mario?
Live fearlessly, love fiercely and laugh at all that life throws your way.
What is fear? I mean, I know it’s a four letter word, but what is it?
“The” Google (yes, I am that old) defines it this way:
fear
/ˈfir/
noun
an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.
“he is prey to irrational fears”
New age mavens (told you I was THAT old) and self-help gurus came up with a cute acronym to help us move past our unfounded fears:
False
Expectations
Appearing
Real
But are they? Unfounded, that is. In a world where our newsfeed is filled with headlines and soundbites reminding us of the wickedness of our fellow menwomen humans and warning us of impending doom, shouldn’t we be afraid?
And what do we do when our “unfounded fears” prove not to be? Do we blame ourselves for focusing on possible negative outcomes? Do we wonder if we have, in fact, manifested the very thing we were afraid would happen?
More importantly, what do you do when you wake up with sweaty palms and pounding heart and the knowledge of impending doom? Do you shrug it off as a bad dream, or do you spend the rest of the night trying to figure out why your spidey senses are tingling?
This is really hard for a self-proclaimed know-it-all to admit, but
I don’t know the answer.
I know that Google also defines fear as a verb:
be afraid of (someone or something) as likely to be dangerous, painful, or threatening.
“farmers fear that they will lose business”
and that Geena Davis told us we should “Be afraid. Be very afraid” (but only of mutating humans).
I also know that fear is universal. It’s true. Everybody poops, and everybody feels afraid. Even Elmo
A few months years ago, I blogged about the power of ants, and the danger of C-word.
I’m a bad/non-practicing Jew, but I have friends and family members who are Orthodox/Torah-observant who pray to G-d. Although there isn’t anything in Jewish law against writing out the word, they believe his name is holy/has power, and choose to treat the English version with the same level of respect as the Hebrew equivalents.
I feel the same way about the c-word. C*nt isn’t holy, but the word has power – and I refuse to use it any longer.
What? No, not THAT c-word – I mean, that word is (extremely) offensive, but it wasn’t the c-word I was referring to….
Oops. Color my face red.
I missed an apostrophe. I’m talking about c*n’t, not c*nt. Let me be clear – the c-word I’m referring to is cann*t.
Sorry for the confusion – let’s just agree to call it “c” to avoid further embarrassment. Lower case, to avoid having it confused with “the big C” (I don’t want to use THAT c-word either. Nobody does, which is why people always whisper when they say it). What’s so bad about “c” you ask? As I said in my original post, it’s the filthiest four-letter word I know, which is saying a lot (in case you’re new to my blog, I swear all the time). “‘c’ is a dream killer and soul crusher. It’s the EIC (Evil Inner Critic) run rampant – the voice in your head telling you that you’re too old, too busy, too female, too sleep deprived to take a chance and try something new. The voice that makes you question yourself before you even know that you want to try. The voice that sounds like you, whispering the dreaded “what if” in your ear. “What if I fail? What if people laugh? What if I hurt myself?” The EIC is a liar, and he/she will use the n-word and the c-word and anything with not in it to prevent you from achieving your goals.”
I know what you’re thinking – haven’t we talked about this already? Why am I rehashing an old post? Don’t I have anything new to say?
Wait. That’s not you – that’s the EIC. Evidently he didn’t like being called a liar. He’s been quiet for a long time (probably because I haven’t been writing), but he’s back in a big way. I’m letting him have his say, because letting someone speak until they “run out of steam” is just one of the techniques I’ve learned in my mandatory “effective communication” class. He’s the one in red.
I have to admit, he has a point. I have talked about this before.
Repeatedly.
Yes, thank you EIC, I’ve talked about this repeatedly – because it’s important.
To you.
Yes, to me. It’s important to me – but it’s important to other people too (at least I hope it is). I want to know/understand what stops you (not you personally, although I would be interested, if you’d like to share). I want to understand what stops people from pursuing their dreams.
In my pursuit of answers, I started listening to the Hay House You Can Heal Your Life Summit 2022. Full disclosure – I’ve tried listening to their podcasts before. “Tried” being the key word. I am a Full blown Cynic, so I have a hard time believing that the millionaires are offering their programs for free (and many times, they ARE simply plugging their products). I also find it unlikely that any of these one-percenters could relate to the struggles we’re going through.
BUT (yes, it’s a big but)
I was listening to Dr. Wayne Dyer’s episode today. He was talking about his Excuses Begone! paradigm. Some of what he said (ok, a lot most of what he said) is very “new-agey” (as are most of the Hay House episodes). I disagreed with some of this viewpoints, or at least they way he verbalized them. He believed we are all 100% responsible for our trauma – that it’s not the trauma, but our reaction to it and that if “other people didn’t respond to fighting with fear” it’s our fault that we did. I believe that we are not responsible for the traumatic events in our past (blaming the victim is not helpful) but we ARE 100% responsible for our healing. I’m working on mine.
but (smaller but)
He also said that we need to change the way we talk to ourselves (are you listening EIC?). He said that when we talk about something (losing weight, ending addiction, finding/ending a relationship) being “hard” we are MAKING it hard. Not to be too “woo-woo”, but basically G-d/the universe/our higher power always says “yes” – so when you say it will be hard, it becomes so. Dr. Dyer instructs us to change our thinking habits – that when we hear ourselves say “I c*n’t”, we flip it. “I c*n’t afford it” becomes “The money will come” and (in my case) “Finding a traditional publisher is difficult” becomes “The right publisher will love my book”. He reminds us that words have power, and tells of to be mindful of the messages we hold on to. The stories we tell ourselves shape our lives.
Or, to quote my younger self, “The next time the EIC whispers “you can’t”, tell him that there’s an ant in “can’t”, and ants can do amazing things, including lifting ten times their body weight.”
Then get out there and chase those dreams, because they won’t chase you back.
Tell me – what negative message do you need to let go of?
Before we get started, I want to apologize for being MIA once again. That’s MIA, all caps, not Mia, as in Farrow. Although I have freckles and have been involved with at least one crazy actor, I find Woody Allen annoying, I would never have starred in Rosemary’s Baby (demons freak me out) and she looks much better in a pixie cut.
Mirriam-Webster says that MIA (the acronym, not the movie) is “often used figuratively for someone or something notably or unexpectedly missing, absent or inactive.” If you’ve been following me for any length of time you know that I post on a far from regular basis, and that I’ve been derailed by stress, grief, loss and life on more than one occasion – but it’s a new year, and I am determined to write on a regular basis (I know, I know, I’ve said it before – but this time I mean it!).
Speaking of – HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! I know that last year was (for want of a better word) “challenging” for most of us. For others it was absolutely devastating. My family was very lucky – we managed to survive the year with health and sanity (mostly) intact. I hope you were able to do the same, and that you won at least one game of quarantine or zoom bingo.
But back to me (hey, it’s my blog, so it’s all about me). Again, I want to apologize for being away for so long. I’ve spoken (written?) before about my battles with the black dog and brain weasels – and 2020 brought them back with a vengeance.
That’s not true. I mean, yes, 2020 was a shitty year, but it’s not entirely to blame for my silence. I’ve spent the past 3 months slaying demons. Not literally. I’m a huge fan of Supernatural (with the exception of its final episode – the finale was almost as bad as the last episode of GOT), but I could never be a Hunter (Hello! Weren’t you listening? Demons freak me out).
Shortly after my last post, I had an incident (or an epiphany. Or an incident which led to an epiphany) which explained my perfectionism, my inability to say “no” and all the other things that make me unique.
I’ve been thinking about this post ever since.
That’s not true. If you’ve been following me for a while, you know that I lie and swear (alot). But it’s a new year, and I’m trying to be a better bloggerwoman human. So although I can’t say that I’ve been thinking about this post “ever since the incident” I have been thinking about it for a while now. I realized this morning that I’m still not ready to share details, but that the details don’t matter. What matters is that I am slaying my demons, and that if I can do it, you can too.
I’ve been reading Getting Past Your Past by Francine Shapiro, Ph.D. and The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk, M.D. Although I’ve had several “aha” moments while reading both of them, Dr. Kolk’s book is a little dry/technical IMHO. Dr Shapiro’s book is written for the layperson, as either a self-help tool, or as an additional resource while working with a professional. It’s by no means a “light” read, but it’s proving to be the book I’ve needed for a while now. Solutions for Resilience lists seven basic concepts from the book including:
Living in continual stress is unnecessary and life-threatening
Our personal struggles are influenced by our stored memories of past events
Many of us are running our lives on automatic pilot
One of the things Dr. Shapiro discusses are our negative cognitions. What are negative cognitions, you ask? (I heard you from here). RelifeCounseling defines cognitions as “the way we think about ourselves”and goes on to say that “when we speak of negative cognition, we are referring to a negative belief that we have developed from negative or traumatic life experiences.” In other words, it’s the negative self-talk that runs continuously in the background. Examples include “I’m a failure” “I’m not loveable” and “I’m fat”. You’re not, you know.
Stupid.
I’m not saying that the idea of negative cognitions is stupid, I’m saying that “stupid” is one of my negative cognitions and the foulest four-letter word I know.
Not literally (I CAN count). It’s just a nasty word that needs to be relegated to the trash heap, with the rest of the four-letter words.
I’ve had a problem with stupidity for as long as I can remember. Learning that negative cognitions drive our responses to life explained all the things. Well, not all of them (I still don’t understand string theory) but at least it explained why stupidity makes me crazy. Treating me like I’m stupid pushes all my buttons, and don’t get me started on my frustration with stupid coworkers. The EIC is a sneaky bastard, and although he’s very vocal about a lot of things, evidently he’s had “I’m stupid” running on a continuous subliminal loop for decades.
I see (hear?) it now. Seeing the problem means that I can fix it.
Well, not fix it. Fixing something implies that I’m broken, and that’s yet another negative cognition.
Seeing the problem means that I can change it.
I’m not stupid, and I may be battered and bruised, but I’m nowhere near broken, and neither are you.
So that’s it. My quest took me a while from writing for a while, but I’m back with a belated New Year’s wish:
May the best of your yesterdays be the worst of your tomorrows.
TBH, Jason Miraz says it better
As always, if you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out for help.
If you’ve been with me for a while (or even if you joined just recently) you know that I swear – a lot. If this is your very first visit to my blog – thank you for stopping by, and, FYI – I swear a lot.
How much? Let’s just say that The Girl’s first sentence was “Bite me, ‘ackass” (such a proudmommy moment). Before all y’all flame me about teaching a toddler to swear, I was exhausted, hormonal and unaware that my kid was paying attention when I swore at the TV.
I’ve talked about four letter words before – but most of my posts involve words that won’t get you kicked out of church (or school, or work…). Words like “Life” and “Hope” and even the less-than-four letters N-word (no, not that one, didn’t you see the “less than four letters”?).
Today’s P-word has more than four letters, but it’s one of the foulest four letter words I know.
I’m probably dating myself, but when I was young(er) I wanted to be Mary Poppins. She could sing and dance, fly through the air and rescue the fox from a hunt with ne’er a hair out of place. She was always calm, no matter how dire the situation (see the above fox rescue) and managed to look pretty with soot on her nose!
In short, she was practically perfect in every way.
Although perfectionism is classified as a personality trait and not a mental disorder, it is associated with serious mental health problems, including various anxiety disorders. Tanya J. Peterson, MS, NCC says that the “two types of anxiety disorders commonly associated with the belief that nothing is ever good enough are generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) and social anxiety disorder.”
I know what you’re thinking (because I’ve asked myself the same question) – “Where’s the harm in wanting to do my best?” I hear ya. We should always strive to do our best (unless, of course, you are feeling overwhelmed by all the bad and sad that 2020 has had to offer. In that case, getting up and getting dressed is more than enough. So is staying in your blanket fort). There’s a huge difference in “trying your best” and wantingneeding to do everything perfectly Elizabeth Scott, MS explains the difference this way:
Perfectionists are much less happy and easygoing than high achievers. While high achievers are able to bounce back fairly easily from disappointment, perfectionists tend to beat themselves up much more and wallow in negative feelings when their high expectations go unmet. They are also much more afraid to fail than high achievers. Because they place to much stock in results and become so disappointed by anything less than perfection, falure becomes a very scary prospect. And, since anything less than perfection is seen as failure, perfectionists sometimes (or in my case, usually always) put things off until the last minute.
How do you know if you’re a perfectionist? I, for one, didn’t realize it until my friends and family members pointed it out. I just assumed that everyone worked the same way – that everyone was extremely hard on themselves and that refusing to accept a compliment was perfectly normal (FYI – “Thank you – I rushed through it and made mistakes/could have done better” does not qualify as “accepting a compliment”).
For those of you whose friends and family members aren’t as brutally honest helpful as mine, Celes has provided a list of signs/symptoms. Here are a few:
There is no room for mistakes.
You have an all-or-nothing approach. You either do something well, or you don’t do it.
You are extremely hard on yourself. You’re always quick to beat yourself up and feel extremely bad about a mistake for a long, long while.
You constantly spot mistakes when others don’t see any. Sometimes these mistakes are real, sometimes they seem self-imagined.
In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve been struggling with #3 lately. The girl had a minor car accident the other day. Both drivers are fine, and the damage to their cars was minor, BUT (it’s a big but) I missed a box when setting up her insurance policy, and our out of pocket will be higher than expected. My friends and family members (including The Girl) have tried to help by saying “everyone makes mistakes”“you’ve been on survival mode for the past 5 years” and “OMG let it go already” but…I can’t stop kicking myself. It’s as if I’m extremely hard on myself or something.
So you’re a perfectionist, now what?
First and foremost, welcome to the club! I don’t know if it will help, but you are not alone – perfectionism is increasing increasing year after year. Second, stop it. I mean it. Stop it right now.
Easier said than done, isn’t it? Trust me, I know – I’ve been a perfectionist for over half a century now (there I go again, dating myself – my husband won’t let me date anyone else). I’ve searched the web for tips and tricks and have come across posts, a step-by-step lifehack and even a few Youtube videos that look promising, but the most important thing to remember is this:
There is no such thing as perfect.
So go out, do your best, and treat yourself as kindly as you would treat the people who are important to you – and Fuck the P-word.
What tools do you use to deal with perfectionistic tendencies (full disclosure – I re-wrote this question threefour seven times).
For those of you who are too young to remember, Password was one of my favorite game shows. Allen Ludden was wonderful, but Bert Convy always made me laugh.
I swear. A lot. If you’re offended by four letter words, this is definitely not the place you want to be. I swear so frequently that I was surprised that my daughter wasn’t sent home from school for using foul language.
So yes, I swear like a sailor. A drunk one. A drunk sailor who has just smashed his balls on a dare. But that’s not what this post is about.
I mean, it’s about four-letter words, but not the ones you shouldn’t use in church (even if you smash your balls).
I told you that I got waylaid by Life last week. It happened again yesterday. The funny thing about yesterday is that I thought I’d scheduled this piece to post at 8AM, and was really sad heartbroken when nobody commented on it. To be honest I was heartbroken by things that happened yesterday, but I was also sad because “nobody likes me liked my post.”
Yesterday was a reminder that Life’s a bitch, but so am I. It’s not necessarily a bad thing:
Beautiful
Intelligent
Talented
Caring
Honest
When I was young(er) my friends and I loved playing The Game of Life. I would spend HOURS spinning the roulette wheel and stuffing little squarish pegs into round holes. (sidebar – it just occurred to me that most of my childhood games involved cards, roulette wheels and other forms of gambling, which makes me wonder – is Las Vegas sponsored by Milton Bradley? Time to get out the tinfoil hat)
FYI Life is not a game, and she is not playing. We may get second chances, but we don’t get “do-overs” and can’t just sweep the board and start again when the game doesn’t go the way we wanted it to (not that I ever did that).
She’s a sneaky B who waits until you’ve set up all your dominoes before “accidentally” bumping the table. She’s the gust of wind that sweeps your house of cards to the floor. She’s the snake in the garden, the worm in your apple, the phone call in the middle of the night. She’s…well, you get the picture.
She also brings joy, and love, and puppies and kittens and laughing babies and spring showers – and the smell of freshly mown grass and laundry sheets.
In other words she’s a schizophrenic manic depressive suffering from multiple personality disorder who gives you priceless presents and then finds joy in pulling the rug out from under you when your arms are full of glassware.
She’s also the designer and operator of the world’s craziest roller-coaster. The ride is scary and exhilarating. It twists and turns, rises and drops unexpectedly, making you scream with laughter and then shriek in fear (sometimes at the same time). And occasionally it makes you pee your pants or puke.
And just when you’re getting used to the twists, turns, lifts and drops, the ride is over. As you stand up you realize that it wasn’t as scary as you thought it would be, and you’re saddened by the fact that it was over far too soon. You grieve for the ones who didn’t make it to the end of the ride or choose not to ride at all. You wish that you could ride it again, but then you see the long line of riders who are waiting to board so you grab the things you brought with you, and you move on to the next big adventure – but not before passing along these words of wisdom:
Sit down, buckle up and throw your hands in the air. It’s more fun that way.
P.S. I wanted to take a moment to give a special shout-out to my sisters of heart. They listened to me vent, fed me food and wine, boosted me with love and laughter, and reminded me that the EIC is a lying asshat, and that we should always be as kind to ourselves as we are to those we love.
Writing is hard – finding the right word is work, and (as a post-menopausal female with hormonally triggered brainfog) it’s only getting harder.
I know what you’re thinking – if writing is work and work is a four letter word, why do I do it? I don’t have a choice.
I was an actress once upon a time (in the days before I became an Accidental Mother), and the first question my coach asked us was “Why do you want to be an actor?” Some of my classmates laughed when I said “I don’t”, but our teacher loved my answer. As he put it “The greatest artists don’t WANT to create – they have to create or die.” He didn’t mean it literally (at least, I hope he didn’t). He meant that creating is like breathing – you can’t live without it. Trust me. I’m an asthmatic – breathing is NOT optional.
I write because I must, but it’s not always easy to come up with a topic, which means that I’m always looking for prompts, which is how I came across Stine Writing’s “Simply 6-Minutes” writing challenge.*
The rules of the challenge are deceptively simple:
Set up a timer or sit near a clock so you can keep track of the six minutes you will be writing
You can either use one of the prompts (photo or written) or you can free-write.
Get ready and write for 6 minutes, that is it!
The most recent prompt (dated 8/11/2020) was this photo:
Six minutes may be 360 seconds, but it flew by in about 5 1/2. Time is an asshole that way. He speeds up and slows down, stretches and compresses depending on the task at hand (or, to quote The Doctor “It’s a wibbly-wobbly timey wimey thing”).
But here’s what I came up with: Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink – my blood is mostly water, but what if it were ink? I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but the picture in the latest 6 minute prompt triggered the silly rhyme from my childhood (with a twist, because..well, I’m twisted). When I was young, and my friends were playing house and pretending to be princesses and wishing for a prince who would come to their rescue, I was wishing that I was a mermaid who could rescue a prince (preferably without being turned into seafoam). I think my wish came true – I am a landlocked two-legged merbeing. The ocean calls to me. If I spend too much time away, I get restless, irritable and depressed. I love the sound of the waves and the gulls, and just the smell of the sea lifts my spirits and makes my heart race. The feel of the sand between my toes is irritating (feet are weird) but the waves on my waist leave me shouting for joy.
I failed the 6 minute challenge, because I’ve been writing for far longer than six minutes, but I’m writing – and that’s something to celebrate.
*Yes, I’m well aware that was a run-on sentence. I’m not writing WELL, but at least I’m writing 😉
Which is hard, for a writer. It would be presumptuous to say it’s like an artist going blind, but that’s how it feels. Less presumptuous (maybe) to qualify the feeling as “an artist blinded temporarily“, because I know (hope) the words will return.
Grief has made me mute. Not because a famous athlete is gone too soon. The world is grieving the loss of Kobe Bryant – I don’t need to be one of the many.
I grieve for the other eight victims of the crash, for their friends and family members. Too many lives lost, too many hearts breaking, too little attention paid to those who were not as famous but just as loved, just as important to their friends and family members.
My heart, my prayers, my thoughts are with those who have lost so much.
It’s not enough, but it’s all I have.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I also have some lessons that loss has taught me. They may help you as well.
I have a friend whose life has fallen apart (no my friend is not me, although I am trying to be a better friend to myself).
Like many of those who have suffered a loss, she’s struggling to find a way to move forward, to find an answer to the Why/why me/why now question we throw to the universe when life doesn’t go smoothly the way we want it to.
Fran Simone wrote an article for Psychology Today on Coming to Terms with “Why Me?” and why it’s such a waste of time: “However it’s asked, the question is self-defeating. This way of thinking fuels resentment, envy, and self-pity. Toxic emotions demean and diminish us. How do we defeat them? When I find myself heading toward a pity-party, I recall the first line of the Serenity Prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
I am not a therapist, nor do I play one on tv, but (thanks to my rollercoaster life) I have some suggestions that may (or may not) prove helpful. As with everything else, take what works/resonates and ignore the rest.
In her Bustle article Carolyn Steber reminds us that “dealing with loss is painful, and that it takes forever to heal. But, with a little effort, it is possible to move forward with your life” and offers 7 Tips for Moving On. Her tips include my favorite:
Take Care of Yourself, No Matter What – “Make sure you eat, get plenty of rest, and do things that are soothing and comforting.” Self care is vital, even when you’re not dealing with loss. I’m not sure that eating pints of Ben and Jerry’s and Sizzler’s cheese toast count as “food”, but they ARE soothing and comforting. For me, at least.
More importantly:
Don’t Let Anyone Tell You How to Feel – “Everyone deals with loss differently, so there’s no “right” way to feel when faced with a heaping pile of grief.” Believe me when I saw that EVERYONE (including strangers in line at the grocery store) will have an opinion on how/how long you should grieve.
Full disclosure – I came home from school one day, to find my mother sitting in the living room, glass of Pink Chablis in one hand, cigarette in the other, Rod McKuen’s Listen to the Warm playing on the stereo. She was staring morosely out the window, crying and looking at…nothing.
Teen Me: “What are you looking at?”
Mom: “Nothing.”
Teen Me: “What’s wrong?”
Mom: (sighing heavily) “Nothing.”
Teen Me: “OMG are you crying about your father? He’s been dead for EIGHT YEARS – you should be done (grieving) by now.” (stomps out of room in disgust)
Teenagers are assholes. Also, Rod McKuen can make anyone cry, even if you have a heart of stone. Have you heard “A Cat Named Sloopy”?
It seems trite, but I’ve found that counting my blessings helps me when I can feel the pity party starting.Some days they are easy to find, some days they’re not, but I never stop looking. Forcing myself to look for the good in my life keeps me from obsessing about my problems.
Asking for help is hard, but help is not a four letter word. I mean, obviously it’s a four letter word (I can count), but it’s not a swear word. If you don’t ask, the answer will always be “No.” If you can’t/don’t want to ask a friend or family for member, reach out to a support group/church member/stranger in line at the grocery store. More importantly, if things are horribly bleak reach out to a professional.
Some days are harder than others, but I keep trying to move forward. TBH, I just keep trying to move (which is getting difficult, now that I’m not 18 any more). Some days it’s two steps forward and three steps back. That’s ok – it reminds me that life’s a dance.
But I think my most important lesson on how to move forward (or at least the most recent) came from Frozen 2. I just try to do the next right thing.
So what do I do when my life falls apart? I pick up the pieces and put them back together again. The pieces may not fit together the way they originally did – pieces tear, pieces disappear (into a ring around Saturn with all my missing socks), and sometimes I have pieces from a completely different puzzle. That doesn’t mean the new image is less beautiful, than the original – it’s just…different.
And for those of you who haven’t heard/read it, I’m posting A Cat Named Sloopy. Don’t forget the tissues.
A Cat Named Sloopy
Rod McKuen
For a while
the only earth that Sloopy knew
was in her sandbox.
Two rooms on Fifty-fifth Street
were her domain.
Every night she’d sit in the window
among the avocado plants
waiting for me to come home
(my arms full of canned liver and love).
We’d talk into the night then
contented
but missing something,
She the earth she never knew
me the hills I ran
while growing bent.
Sloopy should have been a cowboy’s cat
with prairies to run
not linoleum
and real-live catnip mice.
No one to depend on but herself.
I never told her
but in my mind
I was a midnight cowboy even then.
Riding my imaginary horse
down Forty-second Street,
going off with strangers
to live an hour-long cowboy’s life,
but always coming home to Sloopy,
who loved me best.
A dozen summers
we lived against the world.
An island on an island.
She’d comfort me with purring
I’d fatten her with smiles.
We grew rich on trust
needing not the beach or butterflies
I had a friend named Ben
Who painted buildings like Roualt men.
He went away.
My laughter tired Lillian
after a time
she found a man who only smiled.
Only Sloopy stay and stayed.
Winter.
Nineteen fifty-nine.
Old men walk their dogs.
Some are walked so often
that their feet leave
little pink tracks
in the soft gray snow.
Women fur on fur
elegant and easy
only slightly pure
hailing cabs to take them
round the block and back.
Who is not a love seeker
when December comes?
even children pray to Santa Claus.
I had my own love safe at home
and yet I stayed out all one night
the next day too.
They must have thought me crazy
screaming
Sloopy
Sloopy
as the snow came falling
down around me.
I was a madman
to have stayed away
one minute more
than the appointed hour.
I’d like to think a golden cowboy
snatched her from the window sill,
and safely saddlebagged
she rode to Arizona.
She’s stalking lizards
in the cactus now perhaps
bitter but free.
I’m bitter too
and not a free man any more.
Once was a time,
in New York’s jungle in a tree,
before I went into the world
in search of other kinds of love
nobody owned me but a cat named Sloopy.
Looking back
perhaps she’s been
the only human thing
that ever gave back love to me.
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