I'm coming out. No, not like that, guys. I still like me a nice side of man m--wait, no, I can't finish that sentence. My grandmother might be reading, and I need to maintain my perfect first-born status within the family. For the record, I NEVER have anything to do with man-ANYTHING. EVER.
No, I'm not coming out of the closet to answer all the chicks that have been hitting on me lately (if that were true, can you imagine the self confidence I'd be floating on right now?). But I bet you're all wondering what spurred my uncharacteristic, sappy and altogether BORING (come on admit it, I know everything you're thinking before you've even thought it) post yesterday. Truth is, I had my first ever verbal (I reiterate: what the hell do you say when it's a written-verbal; as in, via-the-interwebs-but-it's-like-I'm-talking, verbal? Someone educate me. Or make up a word) fistfight on facebook yesterday. And not just any old fisticuffs, no -- it was with a family member. Pause for your stunned silence.
(Can one have enough parenthesized sentences in a single paragraph? David Foster Wallace, come save me.)
This is how it went down: so I'm perusing the interwebs late Tuesday night -- early Thursday morning depending upon your affinity for cocaine -- and I come across something that gets my granny panties all in a twist. Something that I just find personally offensive, internationally prejudiced, and globally trivial. This facebook missile just happened to belong to a family member. And the longer I stared at it, the less I could convince my self of its overall unimportance to my well-being. I knew I should just look away and take my dignity with me, as if "taking the high road" ever helped anybody expel a little sexual frustration-based rage (sorry, Grandma). To wit: it really pissed me the fuck off.
So -- in the most tactful manner I could summon and using my largest big-girl words so as to appear "intelligent" -- I drafted a response. That then turned into two responses. And then three. And then I went to bed feeling a little less frustrated and a whole lot more SUCK IT.
But here's the thing, and the reason for my coming out party: I have never spoken any sort of self-truth to this side of my family. I've always been pretty mum about who I am as a person, aside from the shallow surface that I bring to Thanksgiving dinner. I keep the peace by avoiding controversial topics, my opinions regarding my belief system, or anything that even skims the surface of "who I really am." Maybe that's the reason I haven't been around to watch anybody fry a turkey, lately.
I have always known there was a rift between us -- as soon as I developed enough brain cells to form my own thoughts and ideas, I could feel the strain between "me" and "them" pulling more taught. I don't think it's a malicious thing, it's just that we're different. We all know that I'm different and that we don't really understand each other, though no one cares to say it out loud. And this is why I'm choosing to jump out of the closet. I MADE YOU A PAINTING. IT'S SEXUAL AND VIOLENT (please, someone call the reference so I don't look like a total whackadoo).
The first part of acceptance in any relationship is accepting yourself, first. It has taken me a long time to accept who I am. The second part is sharing it and coming to peace with the fact that even if the receiving party does not reciprocate the love you have for yourself, that's ok. Even if they don't agree or want any part in it, that acceptance you have of yourself is all that matters. You can still be cordial. You can still interact. You can understand that you are different but still spun from the sheep's wool. And you can move on.
Just like it has taken me a long time to come to terms with myself, it has taken me even longer to bring that out into the world. And for some reason, families make this trek even slipperier. That need to be accepted by your family will always be there (there's that tribe thing again). But the more I can learn to love myself, the less it matters in the long run.
I look forward to sharing more of myself to them. At least now when we feel the discomfort, we will know where it comes from. Maybe we can talk about it. And maybe -- just maybe -- someday it'll make things a little bit more interesting. One can only hope, right?
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Posted with Blogsy
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Unexpected Serious-ness
I really didn't feel like writing anything today. I feel very much like staying as far away from the computer as possible and possibly taking a long nap. Because like many others trolling the interwebs today, I'm finding myself disgusted and ashamed of my fellow humans that continue to engage in such hateful, dividing and just plain mean commentary over the results of the election yesterday. And this does not single out any one party. When did we become so divided, so bent on making our differences concretely known instead of embracing them; understanding that the beauty of us as a race is that which makes us all unique but whole at the same time?
The beauty of social media really is in its connectivity -- but at times like this I wonder if we're using it to our own destruction. Because to be heard means the responsibility also lies within us to hear others. And we are not trying to hear each other right now. The end of an election should mean the end of strife, of turmoil, of fighting and bickering. The end of an election should mean that whoever wins, it is still our job and hope as a country to move forward in the most positive manner possible. Not to thwart the one we place blame on for winning.
No matter what happened yesterday, I truly believe this phenomena would still be happening. Because we have become addicted to the drama of it. We are obsessed with the distraction of saying "I'm right and you're wrong;" instead of seeing that at all times, in all places, we are both right and wrong.
Because what is right for me may not be right for you. The point is to learn how to embrace that in one another and become stronger for it. We are not on this planet to fixate on petty dramas. We are not here to get wound up in our own heads over that which we have little to no control. We are here to be who we are, unabashadly, and accept it in our neighbors. Because life is too short to get caught up in this web. So all of you, I urge you: quit fighting and fixating on "the end." Instead, remember who you are and realize that despite all else, you are wonderful.
Goodnight!
The beauty of social media really is in its connectivity -- but at times like this I wonder if we're using it to our own destruction. Because to be heard means the responsibility also lies within us to hear others. And we are not trying to hear each other right now. The end of an election should mean the end of strife, of turmoil, of fighting and bickering. The end of an election should mean that whoever wins, it is still our job and hope as a country to move forward in the most positive manner possible. Not to thwart the one we place blame on for winning.
No matter what happened yesterday, I truly believe this phenomena would still be happening. Because we have become addicted to the drama of it. We are obsessed with the distraction of saying "I'm right and you're wrong;" instead of seeing that at all times, in all places, we are both right and wrong.
Because what is right for me may not be right for you. The point is to learn how to embrace that in one another and become stronger for it. We are not on this planet to fixate on petty dramas. We are not here to get wound up in our own heads over that which we have little to no control. We are here to be who we are, unabashadly, and accept it in our neighbors. Because life is too short to get caught up in this web. So all of you, I urge you: quit fighting and fixating on "the end." Instead, remember who you are and realize that despite all else, you are wonderful.
Goodnight!
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
(Un)politics
Today is that risky, emotional and politically tense day known in our country as "election day." Like I've said before, I am not here to delve into politics -- mainly because I have little patience in educating myself about their minutiae, and rich white men talking about my vagina makes me a little nauseous (oops). But I will let you know that I have a sticker to prove I braved the smell of my local VFW to blacken some ovals behind a big white screen. Oh no, did I just make a euphemism for the entire [political] race, there? I must be cleverer than I thought. I am America, and so can you!
Four years ago I voted for the first time. I also spent the evening of my first participating election in Grant Park with thousands of other voters, watching the giant screens set up outside the real rally -- seriously like, Oprah was so close to us -- awaiting the country's decision. It was one of the most emotionally charged things I've ever been a part of, because there were so many of us in such a large area. And when Ohio went blue? My god, I thought a hole had been torn in the sky. The feeling was just so big and so great and so hopeful. I will never forget that moment -- of thousands of people crying and holding each other; of cheering in unison over something we couldn't even grasp the magnitude yet.
The successive four years in our country's history is -- and will continue to be -- debatable. Everyone has something different to say about how Obama has affected our country, be it is positive or negative. I'm not really interested in that. What I'm interested in is the monumental shift that occurred that day and is still cascading through today. On November 4th, 2008, America chose to leave the past behind and elect its first black president. Ever. After centuries of persecution and a cultural mindset that has still not even fully healed, we chose to think differently. We chose to elect someone because of who they are as a person, and not the color of their skin.
Four years ago I was also going through my own internal shift. Remember how I told you about the time I was hibernating in my parent's home, afraid to leave for fear of sunlight, and miserably depressed? Yeah, that was then. On the day of the 2008 election, all my screws were still loose and I was staring at my insides as if they were a million-piece jigsaw puzzle that would never get put back together. I was in the middle of personal crisis and I had no idea which way was up or where left met right. I was still broken.
But as if our country were some strung-out crack addict that ODed mere days before the election, on that day it chose to be and do something different than it was used to. In the parting clouds of my own rock bottom, I also had a choice to make. Keep doing what I had been and stay miserable, or do something different. Thankfully, I chose the upward path. I chose to be and do something different.
I won't lie, it's a long road back to the top. But when faced with yourself, where would you say you are failing? Where would you admit your unhappiness? When it comes to your life, what would you say you wish were different? And how many times have you done the same thing over and over again, waiting for the magical day when it changes?
Folks, I'll let you in on a little secret: it was Einstein who told us a long time ago that the definition of insanity is exactly the formerly described. We all have choices to make in life, from the trivial to the serious. From the color of our hair to the personality of our spouse. But what we have to start realizing is that we are not the victims of our lives. Just as our country chose to do something different four years ago you, too, can choose the very same. You are in control of your life. You have the power because it is happening to no one but you. So when the road gets rocky and you begin to see where you're lacking, learn from those around you. And make your choice.
Four years ago I voted for the first time. I also spent the evening of my first participating election in Grant Park with thousands of other voters, watching the giant screens set up outside the real rally -- seriously like, Oprah was so close to us -- awaiting the country's decision. It was one of the most emotionally charged things I've ever been a part of, because there were so many of us in such a large area. And when Ohio went blue? My god, I thought a hole had been torn in the sky. The feeling was just so big and so great and so hopeful. I will never forget that moment -- of thousands of people crying and holding each other; of cheering in unison over something we couldn't even grasp the magnitude yet.
The successive four years in our country's history is -- and will continue to be -- debatable. Everyone has something different to say about how Obama has affected our country, be it is positive or negative. I'm not really interested in that. What I'm interested in is the monumental shift that occurred that day and is still cascading through today. On November 4th, 2008, America chose to leave the past behind and elect its first black president. Ever. After centuries of persecution and a cultural mindset that has still not even fully healed, we chose to think differently. We chose to elect someone because of who they are as a person, and not the color of their skin.
Four years ago I was also going through my own internal shift. Remember how I told you about the time I was hibernating in my parent's home, afraid to leave for fear of sunlight, and miserably depressed? Yeah, that was then. On the day of the 2008 election, all my screws were still loose and I was staring at my insides as if they were a million-piece jigsaw puzzle that would never get put back together. I was in the middle of personal crisis and I had no idea which way was up or where left met right. I was still broken.
But as if our country were some strung-out crack addict that ODed mere days before the election, on that day it chose to be and do something different than it was used to. In the parting clouds of my own rock bottom, I also had a choice to make. Keep doing what I had been and stay miserable, or do something different. Thankfully, I chose the upward path. I chose to be and do something different.
I won't lie, it's a long road back to the top. But when faced with yourself, where would you say you are failing? Where would you admit your unhappiness? When it comes to your life, what would you say you wish were different? And how many times have you done the same thing over and over again, waiting for the magical day when it changes?
Folks, I'll let you in on a little secret: it was Einstein who told us a long time ago that the definition of insanity is exactly the formerly described. We all have choices to make in life, from the trivial to the serious. From the color of our hair to the personality of our spouse. But what we have to start realizing is that we are not the victims of our lives. Just as our country chose to do something different four years ago you, too, can choose the very same. You are in control of your life. You have the power because it is happening to no one but you. So when the road gets rocky and you begin to see where you're lacking, learn from those around you. And make your choice.
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| Yeah, this kind of says it all. |
Monday, November 5, 2012
Detachment Is Not Just For Retinas
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| A random find-but worth checking out at this guy's snarky blog. |
Look, Here's The Thing:
I've never been very good at the idea of "detachment." I am part of the world, and the world has problems. So that means the world's problems are my problems, right? When Lindsay Lohan gets sent to rehab for the gagillionth time, shouldn't I feel her angst? When my best friend can't figure out how to deal with her mother's crazy, I should be there for every step of her own madness and forget about sleeping for a month, don't you agree?
NO. I SHOULDN'T.
It's the thing about personality types like me and those that would be labeled "nurturers" (someday, my children will pay someone to help them get away from my invasive parenting). We feel so much for those around us it's hard not to get sucked in like a tampon illegally flushed down a public toilet (not that I'd ever do that, of course. I clog my own sewer ways). For anyone that's ever been in a relationship that reaches below the surface, it can get very difficult to distinguish between your dysfunction and theirs.
Enter the handy practice of detachment.
Detachment says that I am me, and here is my shit. Detachment says that I have these problems: trouble saying "no," difficulty articulating my feelings, chronic diarrhea. Detachment also says that your relationship woes, failure to pass chemistry and chronic yeast infections are NOT MY PROBLEM. I am dealing with my own dysfunction, and I hear your pain and I feel bad about it. But I can't take it for you.
Please understand me when I say that this doesn't mean a loss of empathy. To be empathetic means you are human -- that you feel for someone whose struggles could be your own at a different place and time. Of course you will lend advice. Of course you will comfort. Of course -- if you were me -- you would suggest a healthy round of probiotics and some cranberry juice for your troubles down under. We will always want to be there for those we care about when they are at a loss, because connection = tribe = survival.
But there's a different kind of survival that plays its part here. Detachment is all about recognizing what is yours and what is another's; because if we attempt to take it all on at once it's likely we won't be able to see out of the sea of problems crashing around us. The only person you can ever fully take care of is yourself. The only person you can act for is yourself. The only person you can see one hundred percent of the time is -- you guessed it -- yourself.
I have a tendency of getting lost in other people's toilet bowls. I want so badly for everyone around me to be happy and healthy that I lose sight of when that desire is affecting my own happiness and health. I love people unendingly so that they might love me back.
The problem is that when you take on someone's responsibility for taking care of themselves you take their power, too. Spiderman's uncle was totally not kidding: with great strength comes great responsibility. They work hand in hand, and when you take on anyone else's problems by talking about them over and over again -- by feeling for them at any given time -- you also take on their power to do something about it. When you obsess over how your partner feels inadequate at tennis, you are forgetting your own lopsided serve. And just like you can never coach anyone's atheltic prowess before you've gotten your own handle on the game, you will never help anyone with their emotional shortcomings before you've established your own.
So detachment is not about being jaded, cynical or unfeeling. It's about allowing others to feel and being a shoulder to lean on when it becomes too much to bear. And then it's about parting in order to deal with your own stuff on your own time, so that when you come together it is with the strength needed to create something even better.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Let Me Change Into Something A Little More Uncomfortable
Look, Here's The Thing:
I know I said I'd continue my story today but I'm having a hard time focusing on it (though I will share the photos soon -- those do not deserve to be kept in the closet). The reason I'm choosing to be so lame about the details is because I can't seem to get past a more overwhelming feeling; one that's making it hard to talk about anything more specific than its general unspecific-ness.
I think I'm starting to hit a wall. Like the day after Christmas, and the disappointment that all the waiting and hoping you did for months is gone; after everything new has become old again and you begin waiting for next year. The second I resigned myself to writing every day for an entire month, I knew I was in for some hard slaps in the face. Because I know myself -- that newness keeps me excited about what is constant, but every new thing will become that constant given enough time.
I know this cycle all too well. I've had both moments of other-worldly joy and complete and utter boredom in my painting. I've had days where I thought every mark was pure gold, and others where I was sure that I completely ruined something great. But you know what's interesting? Almost every time I thought I'd mined the prized nugget I found it dull upon revisitation. And whenever I left the studio in total despair I came back to see a brilliance I had missed.
It's as if the expectation creates the dysfunction. That whatever you assume will be is the exact opposite of what you get. So when do we stop expecting so much? When do we understand that it's all gravy, in the end?
I'm not really even sure where I'm going with this, today. All I know is what I felt I was getting myself into at the beginning of this process, rearing its ugly head: I'm making myself uncomfortable. I absolutely hate being held to guidelines in any creative process, and the guideline here that I do it every day without fail makes me want to punch that wall straight in the teeth. It's like, "don't tell me what to do, Mom! I make my own rules and I WILL WEAR NEON EYESHADOW IF I WANT TOO!"
What I do know but don't like to admit, though, is that making yourself uncomfortable sometimes brings out the best and most unexpected truths. It says, "I will face this fear, and I will rip its face off with my spiky heels. I will win." And the more you push the discomfort, the faster you get to the other side of it -- knowing a hell of a lot more than you did when you started. It's the reason my artistic process has evolved so much in the time I've been involved with it: because no matter how many times I never wanted to pick up a brush again, I always came back. There's a saying that when it comes to working in the studio: all you have to do is show up. So this is me showing up.
I was telling my therapist the other day how afraid I was of getting invested in this experiment only to fail. She reminded me that the only way I could fail was to stop being honest. Here's my honest moment of the day. I'm hoping that I come back to it tomorrow and find it a little brighter than how I left it.
I know I said I'd continue my story today but I'm having a hard time focusing on it (though I will share the photos soon -- those do not deserve to be kept in the closet). The reason I'm choosing to be so lame about the details is because I can't seem to get past a more overwhelming feeling; one that's making it hard to talk about anything more specific than its general unspecific-ness.
I think I'm starting to hit a wall. Like the day after Christmas, and the disappointment that all the waiting and hoping you did for months is gone; after everything new has become old again and you begin waiting for next year. The second I resigned myself to writing every day for an entire month, I knew I was in for some hard slaps in the face. Because I know myself -- that newness keeps me excited about what is constant, but every new thing will become that constant given enough time.
I know this cycle all too well. I've had both moments of other-worldly joy and complete and utter boredom in my painting. I've had days where I thought every mark was pure gold, and others where I was sure that I completely ruined something great. But you know what's interesting? Almost every time I thought I'd mined the prized nugget I found it dull upon revisitation. And whenever I left the studio in total despair I came back to see a brilliance I had missed.
It's as if the expectation creates the dysfunction. That whatever you assume will be is the exact opposite of what you get. So when do we stop expecting so much? When do we understand that it's all gravy, in the end?
I'm not really even sure where I'm going with this, today. All I know is what I felt I was getting myself into at the beginning of this process, rearing its ugly head: I'm making myself uncomfortable. I absolutely hate being held to guidelines in any creative process, and the guideline here that I do it every day without fail makes me want to punch that wall straight in the teeth. It's like, "don't tell me what to do, Mom! I make my own rules and I WILL WEAR NEON EYESHADOW IF I WANT TOO!"
What I do know but don't like to admit, though, is that making yourself uncomfortable sometimes brings out the best and most unexpected truths. It says, "I will face this fear, and I will rip its face off with my spiky heels. I will win." And the more you push the discomfort, the faster you get to the other side of it -- knowing a hell of a lot more than you did when you started. It's the reason my artistic process has evolved so much in the time I've been involved with it: because no matter how many times I never wanted to pick up a brush again, I always came back. There's a saying that when it comes to working in the studio: all you have to do is show up. So this is me showing up.
I was telling my therapist the other day how afraid I was of getting invested in this experiment only to fail. She reminded me that the only way I could fail was to stop being honest. Here's my honest moment of the day. I'm hoping that I come back to it tomorrow and find it a little brighter than how I left it.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Ugh.
Tonight, in honor of Saturday, all I can give you is this picture from last night and let you imagine the story it contains that has led me to the only title necessary: "ugh." Two girls. One movie. And too much wine. The aftermath follows tomorrow.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Single White Female Seeking Practical Robot
This is me enjoying my time at Firestone this afternoon, as I await the return of Karen O. from her torturous ordeal of getting a tire replaced. In truth, this is me blankly staring at the TV in the lobby, attempting to understand the Harper's Bazaar in my lap and hating every second of being a "responsible adult." I didn't take a picture of my brief cry break in the bathroom, just to save you all the embarrassment.
Shall I fill you in on why my trusty blue Beetle needed to be treated with such brutality, mere days after her return from the exile of the repair shop? (Remember that time I drove to Dekalb in search of epic beards, and almost died like ten times because she was stalling at nearly every intersection? Yeah well it took me a few more weeks, but she finally got fixed. I don't want to talk about how much it cost.)
I've had a slow leak in this one tire for probably over a year. This is just how I operate, -- like the car-dying-near-crash-shear-terror episodes of the past few months -- it usually takes me until the last possible moment to get important adult-like things done. And for the past year or so, I've been waiting until the tires gets low enough for me to feel it wiggle upon driving to fill it up again at the free air-pump gas station down the street. Oh, and I never knew what PSI to fill to so...that's what guessing is for! And yes, I can hear you cringing from here.
So this morning as I leave for work with exactly the correct amount of time to arrive punctually -- with little to no traffic -- I see the tire has reached Critical Attention Time. And since I bought some Fix-A-Flat months ago for the exact moment that I could put it off no longer (prevention is for sissies) I forewent the notion of being on time and began the process of DIY tire repair.
Too bad I left the Fix-A-Flat in my car last night.
Because HELL-O, it's November. And we had frost last night. And in the cold, my magical $10 elixir turned into a $120 problem when it clogged the valve, preventing me from then getting any free air in my steadfast tire's sweet hollow chambers.
This is why I waited so long. I know what I'm capable of destroying.
So now I have a brand new tire and, according to the lovely receptionist, three more that will need replacing soon. Sigh. I have little to no tolerance for things that seem very easy and simple, but are really just outside my realm of comprehension because they are SO BORING. This is why it takes me so long to buy shampoo and conditioner after I've run out and resorted to baking soda; make a chiropractic appointment even though I've been walking hunched for weeks and persist in wearing the same ridiculous heels; or buy new running shoes though I've spent hours in their vicinity over the past three years, buying dresses instead. I can't stand practicality.
I think this is why humans "mate for life." They need someone else to pick up their slack. I could train myself to do it, but...I don't see the fun in that. I'd rather have someone else that actually likes doing those kinds of things do them for me. Right. When do I get my robot?
Shall I fill you in on why my trusty blue Beetle needed to be treated with such brutality, mere days after her return from the exile of the repair shop? (Remember that time I drove to Dekalb in search of epic beards, and almost died like ten times because she was stalling at nearly every intersection? Yeah well it took me a few more weeks, but she finally got fixed. I don't want to talk about how much it cost.)
I've had a slow leak in this one tire for probably over a year. This is just how I operate, -- like the car-dying-near-crash-shear-terror episodes of the past few months -- it usually takes me until the last possible moment to get important adult-like things done. And for the past year or so, I've been waiting until the tires gets low enough for me to feel it wiggle upon driving to fill it up again at the free air-pump gas station down the street. Oh, and I never knew what PSI to fill to so...that's what guessing is for! And yes, I can hear you cringing from here.
So this morning as I leave for work with exactly the correct amount of time to arrive punctually -- with little to no traffic -- I see the tire has reached Critical Attention Time. And since I bought some Fix-A-Flat months ago for the exact moment that I could put it off no longer (prevention is for sissies) I forewent the notion of being on time and began the process of DIY tire repair.
Too bad I left the Fix-A-Flat in my car last night.
Because HELL-O, it's November. And we had frost last night. And in the cold, my magical $10 elixir turned into a $120 problem when it clogged the valve, preventing me from then getting any free air in my steadfast tire's sweet hollow chambers.
This is why I waited so long. I know what I'm capable of destroying.
So now I have a brand new tire and, according to the lovely receptionist, three more that will need replacing soon. Sigh. I have little to no tolerance for things that seem very easy and simple, but are really just outside my realm of comprehension because they are SO BORING. This is why it takes me so long to buy shampoo and conditioner after I've run out and resorted to baking soda; make a chiropractic appointment even though I've been walking hunched for weeks and persist in wearing the same ridiculous heels; or buy new running shoes though I've spent hours in their vicinity over the past three years, buying dresses instead. I can't stand practicality.
I think this is why humans "mate for life." They need someone else to pick up their slack. I could train myself to do it, but...I don't see the fun in that. I'd rather have someone else that actually likes doing those kinds of things do them for me. Right. When do I get my robot?
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