September 20

Butting It Out

**Note 1** I actually started writing this several months ago. Then summer happened and came along with it were the tough choices of whether or not I’d rather be frolicking outside or banging my head against my lap top trying to string together words I’m happy with.

If only there was an emoji for my decision making abilities…

Oh wait, there is…

poo

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I’ve turned out okay(ish) depending on the day of the week and the time of the month, so I suppose I’ve done a few things right.

I have, however, made one decision I can finally say I am – without a doubt – proud of and have zero regrets or second thoughts.

And no, it has nothing to do with my dating life.

**Note 2** At the time of initially writing this, my dating life was still on its nine-year hiatus and that has surprisingly changed, which is a story for another time.**

Anyway.

I quit smoking.

People quit smoking all the time… so why is this such a big deal for me?

My choice to begin in the first place isn’t one I’m proud of. Sometimes, you have to travel to the dark side to appreciate the light. Right? (Still waiting for the light to manifest itself into my romantic life).

**Note 3** Sometime last year, I was having a conversation with a friend about my lack luster love life. I brought up the topic of smoking and how I felt that it was something I had to give up before I could totally attract a healthy relationship – as much of what I had been attracting over the last decade has been toxic (not all, though!). I was treating myself with toxic habits and attracting similar relationships to the one I had with my self. Voila! Not long after butting it out, my perpetual single life smoldered out as well… again, a story for another time.

Regardless, it was a large part of who I was… and who I wasn’t.

In fact, I was such a stealthy smoker that most people in my life didn’t even know.

I was a mostly private – and heavy – puffer (of cigarettes, just to clarify) for 20 years.

Two decades.

That’s a long time.

For 20 years, I relied on these magic toxic filled sticks to make me feel at ease.  They were my dirty little companions in times of anxiety, excitement, boredom, and busyness. They were a social crutch. Ever been awkwardly waiting for someone at a bar? Easy, go for a smoke while you pretend to text someone.

They went great with wine, telephone conversations, driving, and they were my way to step back and quiet my mind. And let’s not forget coffee – nothing went better with caffeine than a dose of carbon monoxide.

Don’t even get me started on how great it was after sex… Well, so I’ve been told…

And I actually enjoyed it.

“Life is short… do what you enjoy. I could quit smoking and then I could get hit by a bus. It’s my only bad habit… I eat well and I exercise…. I really do take care of myself. I could have worse habits!”

This was my reasoning each and every time.

For twenty years I told myself that this was something I had full control over. I controlled them, not the other way around. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

The mere thought of going somewhere and not being able to have a cigarette or needing to hide it sent me into anxiety. Despite being careless with my own health, I was always cautious and considerate of those who I shared my bad habits with.

My car was stocked with the necessities. Gum, mouthwash, hand sanitizer, and body spray galore. I was like a Health and Beauty aisle at Walmart on wheels. Minus the Health part.

I had ‘quit’ several times over the years. Nothing stuck for more than a couple weeks, tops. I had tried the gum, patches, cold turkey and medications. The terrible dreams were one thing, but my raging bitch moods were another story. Don’t even get me started on being on Champix when you are PMSing. Guys, if you think we are too emotional then… think again.  You haven’t felt true toxic wrath until you’ve seen a crampy, high strung woman too bloated for her fat pants sans her cigarette. That terrifies even me.

I actually felt it was in the best interest of my own well-being and the safety of others to continue to light up.

Although I had ‘wanted’ to butt out for a long time, the one habit I never bothered to adjust was my thought patterns. I had always ‘worked’ on quitting smoking, but I never worked on my mind. For a while, I had only wanted to quit to have extra cash.

I had started CrossFit in 2012 to challenge my mental and physical strength. By no means do I consider myself highly competitive or even all that athletic, but I wanted something that pushed me just a little bit harder. I had only taken small sips of the proverbial Kool-Aid… which was enough to quench my thirst for a healthier lifestyle.

cfIt wasn’t solely CrossFit – much of it was also the changing social perception. Gone were the days of sandbox ashtrays in shopping malls and street corners. I had been a social outcast for the better part of my childhood and smoking was something I did to fit in to some -any- kind of crowd. Despite the changing laws and stigmas – it was still easy enough to hide. But, trying to mask the fact that I was losing a lung before the CrossFit warm-up was even over was getting to be a real challenge – and not the kind I signed up for. I dreaded things like sprints and thrusters, and wall balls and burpees were the absolute worst. And what was the first thing I did after walking out of the torture chambers? Torture my body even more. And not for positive gains.

The more I went, the more I began to feel like a hypocrite. That’s like claiming to be a nature lover as you nudge the remnants of your nic-stick into a sidewalk nook and cranny.

Finally, my mind began to change. Slowly but surely, I began to hate it. I had a hard enough time explaining to narrow minded people why I am was still single and child-less at 33, never mind trying to justify why I was dating the slick devilish darts.

smokeIt had occurred to me that my mind had been conditioned to think cigarettes were ‘cool’ and simply a part of ‘who I was’. The only way I could quit was to rewire my brain and adopt new ways of thinking. Rather than being accustomed to telling myself it was something I needed, I began to tell myself the opposite. (Now if I could only translate this into every other area of my life, I’d be set!) I also did what I have been seemingly good at in other areas of my life – I focused on the negatives. That’s right – but this time for good reason. I filled my brain with the very worst things I could think of. Rather than thinking about how much I enjoyed it with a cold beer on a hot summer night – I consciously thought about all the toxins I was polluting my body with and spent time asking Siri to show me blackened lungs.

One morning, I got into my car and left for work. I had one cigarette left. This is where panic mode would usually set in and I would need to b-line to the Mac’s store. I opened my glove box to dig out some change – only to have the content of primarily empty cigarette packages fall out. I stared at the pile of money I had turned into a toxic wasteland.

And that was it. This is stupid. I kept on driving – which might have been the best decision I have ever made.

Deep breath.

(Because I can do that now.)

 

May 31

Excuses, excuses

glasseswtf

I’ve been avoiding writing the same way I avoid questions like, “Do you have a boyfriend yet.” The difference is that one I’ve avoided by making plenty of excuses… the other… well, I don’t have an answer.

The last year or more since I’ve even bothered to write anything has been a juggling act and I’ve dropped the ball a few dozen hundred times.

I know I need to write and yet I avoid it. Why? Well, I will tell myself things like I have no time, work is in the way, I have nothing to say, and on and on.

The back and forth dialogue in my mind goes something like:

“I feel so inspired, this is going to be easy!”
“I can’t wait to get started!”

*Sits down to write*

“Nothing’s coming out…”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, just get out of your own way!”
“This is stupid! Everything I try to write sounds like crap!”

*Texts friend to vent*

*Tries again*

glasseswtf“This sounds even worse! Nothing makes sense!”
“I don’t even know what my point is!”
“Who is going to care, anyway!”
“Blah!”
“I quit!”

“I can’t wait to get started!”

(And in case you’re wondering, yeah, I made that stellar graphic in Paint because it’s one of the few things that’s actually still working on my computer. Sweet, eh?)

I’ve been meaning to write a book for… oh I dunno, the last few years or more. It’s a vicious cycle. Creativity hits, words fill the page, PMS (a.k.a. nuclear emotional warfare) hits harder, self doubt blows up and before I know it I’m starting over. Again, and again. Approximately every 28 days. Not only that, the creativity process is an emotional one that stirs up a lot of energy (sometimes unwanted), PMS or not. They say writing is ‘therapeutic’, but I’m pretty sure that sometimes, after writing, I could use a good therapy session. Why? Because the process of creation is the thing that triggers the most emotion in me. Emotion = energy in motion.

Sometimes, I tell myself I have no business writing if I’m not in the right mind frame. It’s like I’m perpetually waiting for things to be just perfect. But, that would do little for authenticity.

I easily walk into the quicksand of negative self talk – in heels no less. I can barely walk in flats, never mind stilettos. I have a remarkable ability to focus on all the things that I don’t perceive as ‘right’ in my life and why they are preventing me from doing what I want. Which is nothing more than excuses, in other words complete bull shit.

However!

Yes, there is a however!

I put it this way… I think about living out my existence and what would haunt me forever if I didn’t do it. What would pick away at my soul eternally? That’s usually the thing you are meant to do. It’s not meant to be easy.

Hang on, I lost my train of thought again. Damn it. I’ve probably written about this very same thing before. Damn it, again.

Anyway, point is… you just have to keep going. What would have ever been created if no one ever got out of their own way and maximized their time? Get out of your head and just do it. Maybe it will be easy, maybe not. Probably not. Or, continually hang on to excuses, fear, and self doubt. What fun is that?! Where is it getting you?

That goes for me, too! I always need to eat my own words! It’s likely why I put them out there sometimes, to keep myself accountable.

My phone just beeped and someone just sent me this video… how synchronistic…

What are your excuses keeping you from?

If you’re tired of kicking your own ass and would like to keep me company on kicking mine, please join me HERE.

April 18

… And Breathe.

brain

brainPrepare for brutal honestly.

I tend to write only positive and uplifting moments… moments that can inspire magic and hope into others – even if it is only my average readership of one person (thanks, Mom). But if I always did that, I would not be including the remaining fibers of my soul. I would only be showing one fragment of my being, and given that I wear my heart on my sleeve, I find it damn near impossible to hide the rest of me.

That’s not to say I don’t have anything uplifting to say, but today I’m just not in the mood. Maybe it’s the weather.

F#ck it. Today I write my feelings, as they are, in the present moment.

It’s my therapy.

Lately, the amount of days I have felt empty and alone and lost and anxious have outnumbered the days of feeling intrinsically happy and calm. It’s a piss off really, because I WAS there, and I have always been the purveyor of self fulfillment and wholeness – the importance of going on your own epic self journey – and yet here I am, trying to chew on my own words.

Maybe I’ve been looking at too many ‘throw back thursday’ photos and wondering how I went from hob-knobbing with the semi rich and famous, doing really cool shit (as defined by my ego), travelling, donning some low cut, sexified tank top – to sitting alone on a Friday night, in my Walmart-special hoodie donning a salsa stain on it, and on the brink of joining a nunnery. If I ever do end up on a hot date in this life time, I may need an instruction manual.

Anyway, that’s not the point. I get that my interests have shifted as I get older more mature. Actually, I don’t even know what my point is.  Blah.

After all the searching and inner workings – I find myself not knowing where the hell I am. But then again, where did I expect to go? I have no clue. I suppose I figured after going on sabbatical from being stuck inside some little box the majority of society views as ‘normal life’, I’d at least have somewhat of an idea as to what the heck I am doing or what path to take. Perhaps I even went as far as to think I might also have a morsel of romance after I learned to find it within my self, first.

I don’t.

None. Nada. Zero. Zilch. F#ck all.

It’s like every time I think I have found myself, I get lost again. And again. Or maybe I’m just beginning. Maybe I have not yet learned to love myself in the first place. I don’t know.

Untitled

I also have a problem. It’s called self sabotage. It gets me every time. I am an expert on self destruction. Very rarely can I hold on to a good though long enough to let it play out. Instead, I kill it with impatience and a lot of ‘this-is-never-going-to-work-i’m-a-failure-my-life-is-OVER’ kind of thing. I have a solid habit of thinking of the worst possible scenarios in just about, well… everything. Some – if not most – days, it puts me into a total head spin. 

I’m starting to feel bogged down by those thoughts.

But I feel like lately that’s all I know.

My brain needs a bath.

I want to wash myself clean, scrub my negative patterns away until I bleed. Find a way to stop fearing the unforeseen and inch closer to my dreams.

But I feel like I’ve done that – over and over and over again.  It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey – I get that.

Good grief, I really need to stop saying the word ‘but’.

I guess I’m just frustrated, and I needed it to let it out.

Maybe I’m closer than I think.  

Exhale… here we go again..

yourself

 

 

 

March 2

Let’s Jump Into Bed

messybed3

I’ve started to make my bed each morning. This has never happened. Perhaps, psychologically I feel that if I make my bed it will help to tidy up my entire life which some days feels like a disaster. That, and it’s a small task that leaves a feeling of pride to start the day off.

My inner child is stoked.

“Yeah Mom, Dad! Take that!! I totally just made my bed!”

Life = winning.

Amessy bed1nd at the end of the day, it looks even more appealing to climb into.

But, in actuality, it’s the same level of comfort.

So, maybe this small step can be carried over into the rest of the mess. Truth is, we are all a little bit messy. Some of us aren’t exactly where we want or thought we would be in life. Relationship woes. Marriage woes. Financial woes. Emotional woes. Woe is me.

Some of us have really messy beds.

But, look closer. Is it really, ‘woe is me’?

Fuck that. Not today.

WHOA is me.

It’s all perception.

We are taught from a young age that you ‘should’ make your bed. And if you want to, go ahead. Really. I am.

Because I want to.

It can be as messy as you want it to be. (Unless you share it with someone, it might need a little compromise. I don’t have this problem… yet.) Still though, it might need a little fixing up before you crawl in – and if you make it too tightly, you might kick your feet so that it’s a bit more loose. A little breathing room, you might say. The trick is to find the right balance.

Regardless, it’s your bed. It doesn’t matter how perfect it is. It doesn’t matter how messy it is. It might change on a daily basis. Maybe you’ll go for month with nicely tucked in sheets. Maybe you’ll go for twenty years with pillows strewn across the floor.

What matters, is that it’s where magic happens. (Okay, as of lately, I don’t know what this is like, but whatever, you get the point.) It’s where magic CAN happen. It’s waiting. Calling your name. Dying for you to jump in, roll around and make love to it. How you decide to play – to explore in it is all up to you.

It’s where dreams are made.

All you have to do is show up.

(Maybe relax a little.)

Whoa…

This is a metaphor for life.

Sweet dreams.

messybed3

January 31

What Every Man Needs to Know, Period.

joy

I really am a firm believer in that what you place your intentions on, is what you manifest into your life. I know this because that is how many of my life experiences have came to be. I try to keep mine centered in positivity and gratitude in any given moment.

There is, however, one minor glitch.

They are called ovaries.

This might be an uncomfortable subject for some (mostly men), but the operating system I am currently working on is ‘Don’t Care 0.0′.

Included in this PMS inspired rant, are things important to note – pretty much ALL THE TIME. Grab your pens, men.  And a pad (of paper).

(Yes, I said ‘pens’.. there is no extra letter in there, I triple checked.)

Kudos to the women that handle PMS with grace and elegance. I certainly do not. It’s pretty hard to do so, when the walls of your insides are being torn down, forced out and you are still expected to put on a smile. During this time, it is also hard to believe that you were created from any kind of unconditionally loving energy when your guts are transformed into a grisly murder scene once a month. Whoever was responsible for creating women obviously had a vendetta to fulfill.

During this period (no pun intended) of time , every ounce of positive programming I’ve instilled into my psyche goes to shit.

Let me give you the lowdown. This may not be accurate in terms of all women (some are lucky to experience little effects), but for the most part, I think it speaks for many.

It’s a regular day. I feel happy and alive and even though I am not even remotely close to where I want to be in life, I am grateful for my many blessings. It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. Happy happy, joy joy. La la la la la life is good. 

(Repeat the above every day for about two weeks. As you get about ten days in, start shaving off roughly 10% of the positivity every day.

Still, not too bad.

pmsEnter PMS. Roughly day 16 or so. No, this is not the real thing. It’s only PMS. Pre shark week. More like week of the killer whale – because that is what you feel like. A whale. With killer instincts. Swimming though a sea of Hormone Hell.

I’m getting moodier by the minute. Don’t worry, it only lasts for just under a week. Small potatoes.

Mmmm. Potatoes. Finely chopped into salty golden French fries, covered in gravy and cheese and more cheese and bacon anything else that’s horrible for me. I’d also like a side of an ENTIRE pizza to myself, Cheetos, Taco Time Mexi Fries (so good) and a tub of chocolate.

Oh, right. Back to the moods. They like to jump around a bit.

Not only have I been bloated for the last week from all the water retention PMS creates, but now all the exercise I’ve done in the past month has effectively gone out the window along with my good intentions. My elastic waistline pants don’t even fit because I’ve just gained seven pounds in one miserable sitting. It’s one thing to put on your skinny pants – it’s another to peel off your fat pants.

Hello, depression!

But wait, it’s not just a mild sadness – it’s a full on blah fest. I am now a 30 year old baby throwing tantrums at the drop of a hat. Give me a bottle to suck on. Filled with white wine.

The wine only causes a numbing effect – it doesn’t, however, erase the fact that every single problem in your life is magnified by a BILLION during this time.

What problems you may ask? Anything. During PMS, NOTHING goes right and EVERYTHING becomes a problem. Even the things that are actually good in life are now seen as epic disasters. Ie:

My once happy thoughts of being single and not settling are now turning into sheer misery because I’m in my prime, and I haven’t had a date in seven years – and after deciding to put myself out there again after too many horrific online dating experience, the first person I connect with turns out to be a total creep and sends me a picture of his junk after having my number for one day. I just made the best meal and I’m eating alone again. Damn that happy couple that just walked by! The universe wants me to be alone forever and no one will ever love me! Ever! Wahhhh!

The cost of living is through the roof, my only decent pair of winter boots are falling apart and I can’t afford new ones and wah! Life is a total failure! Forever! Why do I even bother anymore! I want to disappear!!! Wahh!!!

Screw all the accomplishments I’ve ever made – I’m not where I want to be in life, I don’t know where I am supposed to be, winter is too long, nothing is going right, someone cut me off on the way home from work and.. and.. and… I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe. Wahhhh!!

Everything is a sob fest. EVERYTHING.

Oh, but all is not lost!

There is a light in the dark! With the flick of a light switch, the tears have dried and I have now transformed into a hybrid between a preying mantis and a black widow spider and have all the powers of CARRIE. The Grim Reaper hath risen. Katie Kaboom is in the house.

katiekaboom

Did you just look at me the wrong way?

That’s just the emotional part.

While your body is preparing for a full on volcanic eruption – you get pre cramps. They aren’t quite like the regular cramps – they have a different sensation, but are equally as uncomfortable. Your ovaries are throbbing. Wearing a bra is like walking around in chain link armor. Migraines, nausea, fever, fatigue. Maybe even a cold, too. The water retention makes everything feel swollen. You can no longer make sound decisions because your emotions have just been through the ringer.

And the real fun hasn’t even started yet.

It is now day 20 or so and the calm before the storm sets in.

Enter, stage left. A random glimpse of happiness.

glimpse

Now it’s over.

BAM!!!!!!!!

And usually at the most inconvenient time – like in the middle of your sleep on a Sunday night, right before you have a Monday full of meetings.

meanwhile2You jolt yourself out of bed – awakened by the feeling of a rusty dagger that’s been sitting on a mound of hot charcoal – now being driven through your guts, twisting, turning and burning.

SHARK WEEK HAS ARRIVED.

The moods have subsided because the only thing you can think of is possibly performing a hysterectomy on yourself at this very moment. However, that would be dangerous and slightly irrational – so you fill up a hot bath instead – which you never really make it to, because you can’t move from the fetal position you are lying in. You are sweating through the pain, cursing your creator and praying for mercy at the same time.

Half a bottle of Tylenol 3’s and four hours later, you have finally fallen back to sleep – only for the alarm clock to go off five minutes later.

But it’s something men have never experienced, and women have always just ‘dealt’ with since the beginning of time, so skipping out on life for a day on account of your ovaries exploding doesn’t cut it. Get dressed, and prepare to be chronically tired for the next three days. (Day two is the worst). You will also need to budget time for a trip to the Ladies Room approximately every half hour. Don’t forget to put on a smile!

By day three or four you are now physically and emotionally wiped out. And it gets worse as you get older. Not to mention that, the amount of money you’ve spent on feminine products, wine, cravings, and medication up until now is almost enough to eradicate world hunger.

So, what can men do to reduce the effects of PMS?

Nothing. In fact, every time a man says they also experience PMS, a small puppy dies. It’s probably the worst thing you can say.  If you really want to experience the wrath, downing rat poison has similar side effects, although I would not recommend it.

Yes, our moods can put men through the ringer. We feel bad about it. Walking on eggshells and having everything be your fault probably isn’t easy. We don’t mean it. But, on a bright note – you can escape the emotional roller coaster to a degree.  (Only at the precise right time, of course. Don’t forget, we have PMS and likely a GPS – meaning, we WILL find you.) But, we can not escape the marathon of emotions. For those that come along for the ride – thank you.

joyAnd then, just like that – it’s over. Hallelujah! Rejoice! The sun has risen and the sea has settled. All is calm. I feel like a brand new woman! Life is wonderful!

Cash in on this wondrous, miraculous moment of time – because it will come to a crashing halt in approximately two weeks.

At the end of the day, embracing the flow is the best option. I hear menopause is a thousand times worse. Awesome! But I am sure I will still be dining for one by then (wahhh!!!) and no man will have to deal with it.

If you are not in the ‘flow’ – something is probably wrong. This is also a metaphor for life. Understanding and being aware and in tune with it all tells you that you are healthy – emotionally and physically. Period.

Who took my chocolate?!?!?

November 4

Why You Should Hug a Writer and Then Run Like Hell

to-hell

I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching and pondering life lately, and my moods have been… well let’s just say a little bit over the top extreme. Only the people really, really close to me would know this – it’s not something I would ever publicly broadcast, or anything silly like that…

Usually, I am able to associate my over driven emotional tendencies to being a being a female – which should be explanation enough.

MoodsLately, however, it’s been a bit hard to handle.  I’ve always been a chick – as far as I know – some of the early 20’s years are a bit blurry. Either way, I should be used to it by now. (But trust me, men, you really never do get used to having a dagger driven through your guts every few weeks and the hormonal aftermath it leaves in its wake – and don’t tell me that you have to deal with it, too – because you have NO IDEA).

Regardless, because I am a woman – I need to know everything. EVERY FREAKIN’ THING.  My ups and downs lately have been a little bit more than hormones … they’ve also been in part to my spiritual wandering to find out why the hell I am here. These ‘character glitches’ I am noticing have been rearing their ugly head a bit more clearly as I find myself on another personal quest that caught me off guard and hit me harder than that chick in high school with a jealousy problem.

For that reason, I am trying to come to terms – and embrace – some of my… ummm, let’s just call them ‘eccentricities’. .

In the midst of my self exploration, I  forgot to look at my self as being a ‘creative type’… which comes with a laundry list of interesting ‘traits’. Although this may not be reason enough – at least it can be partially attributed.

Yeah… totally… that’s totally it. Riiiight.

I think.

Combine that with being a lost soul trying to break free of the shackles of society, ovaries, a rather dry love life, and full moons – and what you have is complete and utter inner chaos.

It was right around the time I started tapping into my spiritual essence that I began writing more frequently. You see, writing is one of those ‘things’ that has been with me since early childhood – when my Mother taught me to read and write before I started kindergarten. I didn’t like to speak a whole lot and I often found solace using words – in written form.

What a treat it was to skip out on learning the alphabet and read Nancy Drew novels instead. How about them Hardy Boys?! I wonder if they are single. Also, I did not mind hanging out in the teachers’ lounge washing dishes during spelling class. What kid didn’t want to chum with the grownups in a cigarette smoke infested staff room? Way. Too. Cool.

This immediately separated me from the other kids. Who the hell is this 5 year old reading novels and trying to impress us with her short stories at show and tell? She gets to skip class, again?! Wtf.

What a nerd.

Therefore, I suppressed my ability to write for most of my life. It was apparently a talent I had – according to other people – never myself. Most writers never actually think they are any good at their own skill. So, I would deny it. Over and over again. In fact, I still do.

It doesn’t help that I just read Ernest Hemingway’s Top 5 tips for great writers and I fail at all of them. Every goddamn one.

I can’t really call myself a legit ‘polished’ writer –  I don’t exactly make a living off of it, I don’t follow the ‘rules’ and I am not formally trained. I only know that my word hobby has been around since I was an awkward child.

I wanted to be ANYTHING but a writer. Next to musicians, writing is one of the least lucrative career choices there is. Race car driver, trapeze artist, lion tamer, lawyer, sewer inspector, private investigator, that chick that’s the bait to catch cheating husbands, exterminator  – please god give me any other talent BUT writing.

Clearly none of these things worked out.

“Well, why don’t you write more?” some people would ask.

“How about you just f*** off and stop asking me that. I don’t want to write.”

And so brings me to this juncture – personal journey #437 and facing some tough questions about who I am.

(For the record I still don’t know.)

trainwreckBut, I can’t be a writer. In this day and age, everyone is a writer just like everyone is a musician and everyone is a photographer. The Internet can make you a pro star anything. Secondly, why on Earth would I even want to take part in this carpal tunnel syndrome inducing activity that makes me want to pull Greek on my dishes and then saw off my sore arm/fingers with a dull butter knife? Seems crazy.

BUT…

I started to explain some of my mild excessive neurotic behavior to fellow writers and even strangers – and they would tell me, “You must be writer”.

Well that’s just f’ing great. Now other people were pointing it out, too.

Then I started to consider that I should maybe acknowledge the fact that perhaps I was a writer – or at the very least a decent wannabe writer – even though it wasn’t bringing home the bacon.

Maybe I just need to accept it. Honor it, in whatever way possible – even if it means I’ll never be an actual ‘writer writer’ per say. EVEN if it means writing a story about how much I despise writing. Regardless, it was a gift that was given to me and I’ve done my best to suppress it.

As I began to meet other writer types, I started to notice certain ‘quirks’ – some not the most flattering – but it did seem to give me a morsel of clarity into the kind of person I am.

Things are really as clear as mud now.

These ‘traits’ could really just be my own made up things to help me feel better about my own erratic behavior on this weird journey. But whatever. In case you know a few in your own life – they are also things that you should know to make your life – and theirs – a little bit easier.

You see, there’s a kind of personal hell most writers go through on a daily basis. By “most” I really “some – and by “some” I actually mean “female” and by “female” I really mean… well, me.

I am sure I am not the only one, but I’d hate to make an error in judgment and speak on behalf of any writers that are actually SANE. I don’t want to pigeon hole anyone. Although, I don’t believe that ‘sane’ and ‘writer’ belong in the same sentence – but hey, I’ve been wrong before.

(I’m using the word ‘we’ because I would like to think that I’m not the only excessive person out there. If you’re a writer and don’t carry these traits, I’m sorry. And also – please tell me your secret).

The thing about some writers is that we loathe writing. We will generally do anything – ANYTHING – to avoid writing.

Write?! Write now?? Right now?!?

to-hellNoooo….. I can’t write right now. There’s a Coronation Street marathon on TV and after that I need to go outside and shovel dog shit, cut the grass with scissors one blade at a time, organize my sock drawer, clean the furnace ducts, knit my best friend’s brother’s cousin’s dog a sweater, rearrange my closet, rearrange my ENTIRE god damn life and call (insert annoying family member here) that I never talk to.

Once that is done, then… THEN I will get to writing, FOR SURE.

Only after I have a bottle of wine.

Furthermore,

  • We always have words and ideas rolling through our head. We tell ourselves stories and sometimes we actually start believing them. Which leads me to my next point…
  • 99.999% of the time we have a story or an idea in our head and when we sit down to write it, nothing comes out. When that happens, our life is over and we become purposeless human beings… and so begins the suicide mission. When we fail at writing, we fail at every other part of life – which may not be the case in reality – but it is a story we will tell ourselves (at least this is true for me)… and quite frankly, NOTHING is going to change the fact that I feel as pointless as a broken pencil.
  • If we are able to get our ideas out – LIFE IS GREAT and the sex is better!!!… Again, this is something I don’t know (seven years single, remember) but I can only imagine.
  • The above is always remedied by wine (or whatever else your poison may be). However, it’s made worse if you fall asleep before writing your ideas down. There’s a limited time on this and if you don’t capitalize on it – you wake up feeling remorseful and so begins the cycle, again. And then you have a new problem. It’s called alcoholism.
  • Don’t correct a writer on their spelling mistakes immediately. That’s what an editor is for. Most of us wannabes are too broke and not legit enough to have an actual editor. If you do feel the need to get all nit picky, do it gently. I didn’t come here to win a Spelling Bee – I’m here to get ideas out of my head before someone cries bloody murder. I don’t care if they are in any logical order – I just want them gone asap –  because I’m not sure they monsterwritereven allow you to have a pen in the asylum. Whether or not I used the proper form of their or there – or misspelled something – is the least of my worries. I don’t even care how many tenses I’m using in the same paragraph. I’ll deal with that after.
  • Knowing you ‘should’ write but avoid it is a lot like being possessed. You know Danny Torrence in The Shining? Yeah, well, rather than ‘Red Rum’… my finger is twitching and that little demon voice is saying “Write me. Wrriiiiiitte Mee. WRITE ME.”

That all being said, writers are really a bunch colourful, caring, attentive souls with a high awareness. You should know one. Also, give them a hug. They probably need one, even though they’ll deny it. They will keep your lives interesting and full of drama all derived from their head. How creative and enticing!!!

And if you do know a writer trying to find their way in the world – keep in mind Danny’s Father, Jack Torrence in The Shining, and prepare accordingly.

Also, this might be the worst thing I’ve ever written… but who cares, my raging emotions are now justified. Sort of.

Where’s the wine?

October 30

Excuse Me While I Pull Out My Hair Extentions

the funk

AAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some days I despise being a writer. I despise it because the times that I think I have an idea that might have even a morsel of value, of sense, are the most inconvenient of times. Like the times I’m on a super hot date and about to be wrapped up in the throws of love making (yeah, right… I’m not that lucky). But the times I sit down and actually make a concerted effort to dismantle a few thoughts and spit out a few words – I come up empty handed. Until I totally force myself.

Just like right now. I am staring at this paragraph and loathing it. Loathing!  A few hours ago I could have sworn I had some wordly wisdom waiting to escape my fingertips and now… now… nowwwwww…

F%&$ it. I can’t finish that paragraph.

the funkI haven’t been writing much for a number of reasons. One part is the lack of time, a dash of procrastination, and the biggest ingredient is that – well, I have been in a funk.

For a long, long time.

It’s pretty hard to write about anything with real conviction when you are in a funk.

I used to chronicle my (mis)adventures in the dating world – satirical, sarcastic, humour that was based on five (now seven) years of being single. And then one day I stopped. I stopped because I was getting attention for all the wrong reasons and I didn’t like it. Being a far less famous and not nearly as stylish version of Carrie Bradshaw in my modest sized city was kind of fun – for a while – but in reality, people were paying attention to me for all the wrong reasons. Nobody was actually interested in what I had to say – only what recent dating disaster I had been on. I like to think that I have far more substance that that.  And then it really started pissing me off the kind of garbage we humans actually pay attention to.

To be honest, I probably could have made a career out of being single. Maybe I should have. The years I’ve been single have now outlasted the amount of years I’ve been at any job. If only I had a helmet cam for the last ten years, I might even have my own reality show.  But it might’ve looked awkward wearing a GoPro on my head, so I would have tried to be all James Bond stealthy-like with a hidden camera in my necklace or some kind of fancy undercover jazz.

And then this weird thing happened that I can’t explain. Well, I can explain it but it would take me eons to sit here and try and find the words without pulling my hair extensions out. I was graced with shitty hair genes, so I pay good money for those. Brazilians really do have great hair. Anyway, to simplify my life and yours, let’s just call it a ‘spiritual phenomenon’ of sorts. Maybe it’s more like a breakthrough. Whatever. It’s a thing, that’s all I can say.  Some might call it a mid-life crisis, but I definitely do not have the shiny new car to accompany that – and well, I’m not that old yet. Knowing how I feel these days, menopause should be a real joy.

I’ve been planning to use some of it as book material – although considering how painful writing this has been, that may not happen until my next life… or the next. And if I have to come back for another one after that, god help me.

I hit a point in my life where I saw things differently. I looked at the world and saw it’s complete and utter chaos – along with its Oneness and interconnectedness. I thought for sure I was on the brink of understanding my purpose here. As I became entwined in all the spiritual, new agey, pop culture fluff floating around the internet, I was certain I was surrounding myself with copious amounts of love and light and bliss and everything else good.

OH NOOO. No, it’s not that easy.

You see, there’s this thing that happens when you learn about your self as a spiritual being – it’s great at first – but then it opens the flood gates of past emotional bull shit that you thought was a non-issue – and it comes to a boil that seeps out of every orifice of your consciousness. It’s part of the whole ‘healing’ process, but man does it suck.

And it seems to last FOREVER.

Here I am, manifesting all this crazy cool stuff – skipping along, humming, la dee da dee da – life is AWESOME. I’m having tons of signs and synchronicities pop into my life and I think I have it all figured out.

And then suddenly, the lights go off and your stubbing your spiritual toes fumbling around in the dark. Wait a second here. I just spent the last five plus years on this epic, personal odyssey figuring out my role here and all of a sudden I have even less of a clue than when I started?

What in the EFFF.

walking in darkThen you find yourself in this messed up, twisted rabbit hole – not quite the colourful Alice in Wonderland kind, either. More like a dark, black pit – a vortex of disparity that you can’t quite climb out of. Now, you’re on a new kind of journey and it’s really not all that blissful. A dark night of the soul so to speak – you have no idea when the day is going to break and all you really know is that hunky Batman character is nowhere to be found. Sooo typical.

But prior to that, in the beginning of your new found spirituality you start stumbling upon every single step-by-step guide, every manual for living an abundant life, every sure fire plan that’ll magically make you realize your life’s highest purpose. Let me buy more of it! I need more books and positive quotes to paste on my Facebook page!!!

It’s all good and great and you’re trying your damnedest to enlighten and encourage others – then bam! You are in the darkness. Let me tell you, there is no plan. There is no defined set of answers. There are guides for sure, but take your book of answers and throw it out the window. Better yet, have a nice little bon fire, toss it in, invite your friends over, strip down until your butt naked, do a little dance and chant a little chant. I swear to whatever higher power, if I read anymore spiritual pop culture rose coloured crap that only tells you about how joyous everything is, I am going to freak out. There is no one size fits all answer book when it comes to ‘finding yourself’.

Because to truly ‘find yourself’ you have to actually work through every single emotional trauma you’ve ever been through. Apparently that’s a good chunk of the whole journey that I failed to get the memo on.

Did you know that while you think you let stuff go, there’s shit stored in your emotional center that you don’t even know about? For example.. not long ago I had some energy work done… I would be in a meditative, relaxed state and the therapist would ask if I had ever had anything happen to my throat because it would turn bright red and get real hot. Well, yeah I did – I always had tonsillitis as a kid and I would freak out every time I had to open my mouth at the doctor’s office. When I finally got them taken out in my early adulthood, I screamed and cried as they put the mask on me. Ten years later I would have never, ever thought that bothered me until my energy worker did some work on my throat area and I had a flash back to being on the hospital bed. I started to shake and cry like a little kid, and I felt the same pain I had all those years ago. And then suddenly, it was gone. Little tiny things like that, your body stores and you’re not even aware of it. Call it your inner child.

clownAnyway, that’s not the point. I can deal with that. My real point is that I’ve been in this purposeless feeling funk that seems never ending. Anyone on the outside looking in would never know that. I’m always having a great time, laughing, and doing things I enjoy. On the inside though, there’s this weird, underlying nagging feeling of hopelessness, or something. A numbness. I think a lot of people are like that, we just never really see anything beyond the surface.

It’s not that I’m not grateful for what I have. It’s not that I’m not a happy person. I practice gratitude and mindfulness in every thing that I do. But there are times I look around and I ask, “What is the point”?

Yes, I know I’m thinking too hard here. But it’s a good thing there’s a brain under these luscious locks.

You mean to say that out of the infinite places in the cosmic realms, we ended up here? What for? I suppose I would probably ask that same question if I was anywhere else, too. To learn lessons and grow and learn unconditional love for our selves and others, etc etc… I get that. I am not a dummy.

But. Why? WHY?

It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. I get that, too. But I have this thing about patience – being that I don’t have any. This world is so messed up, I don’t know who in their right mind would come here. Somewhere out there, there’s another life form looking at us like we’re on glue. “Yeah, keep killing each other and raping the Earth, humans! Let’s see how far you get.”

I look around and see people mindlessly driving to their jobs. Struggling to pay the rent. Religion, war, politics, power struggles and pettiness… blah blah blah. This can’t be what LIFE is. It can’t be. I don’t know how this is motivating. And if you think that’s the way it is supposed to be – well you need to reevaluate the magical miracle of life. Take a moment to look up at the cosmos and bask in awe and wonder.

I know my magic. I can feel it. I’m capable of awesome things. But here I am feeling trapped and unfulfilled despite that. Lost and confused. Swimming around in this sea of emptiness. Am I swimming? Am I drowning? I don’t know. God dammit I would like to find a nice beach. Koh Phi Phi come to me.

Don’t get me wrong… there is never a time I don’t truly appreciate the things I am blessed with. I appreciate the beauty in life wherever I am. There is the same amount of magic in a sunset whether you are in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan or a beach in the Bahamas. I have a roof over my head, I have a job that helps me build my creativity, doesn’t mind my outspokenness, and let’s me be myself. I have good health, great friends and family – and I get to be around solid folks every day. In theory, I’m doing better than 75% of the world’s population. I’ve been pretty darn lucky in a lot of respects.

It’s not that I haven’t tried new things. I’ve been open to all opportunities that have come to me, and I’ve had some really great ones.

I just haven’t found that thing that makes my soul sing.

systemfailureI like to live in the moment – whatever that moment is. I never know when I’m going to run out of moments – so they may as well be enjoyed. But, the way we live is starting to URK me. Life is so much more magical than a routine, material possessions and a pile of debt. Yeah, it’s about having fun – which I do. But, my soul wants to frolic through fields of dreams – exploring, connecting, LIVING. I want to dance, prance, a little romance would be great, too. And then I’d like to run through the rain forest with a Peruvian Shaman and ride away on my unicorn (that’s pushing it, I know). Being stuck in the Matrix is giving me a serious case of the blahs.

There’s gotta be a purpose to the madness.

I guess in order to be found, you first have to get lost. Really, really lost.

And I’m directionally challenged.

osho