Deep Clean … Keeping it Real (Clean)

LOTS of cleaning happening around these parts lately. And not like the tidying up kind. It’s the get on your hands and knees and scrub the baseboards and the floors kind of cleaning.

LOTS of cleaning happening around these parts lately. And not like the tidying up kind. It’s the get on your hands and knees and scrub the baseboards and the floors kind of cleaning. The kind where you have to take a shower afterward because GOOD GOD who knew a house could require this kind of scrubbing?!?

What are my people doing that they track in so much dirt? It’s like they recruited tiny Tonka dump trucks to haul dirt in and scatter it randomly throughout the house. But, bit by bit, I’m seeing progress. Sparkling white baseboards (before the dog slings slobber all over them). No dirt lurking in corners. Turns out, I really like clean. And, somehow over the past few days, I’ve begun to appreciate the process of cleaning.

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It just feels like plain, old-fashioned hard work.

And at this moment in my life, that feels good. Rewarding. Stabilizing.

It’s a bit like the psychic work I have to do to stay sober. My brain can get a little cobwebby, too. Resentments, doubts, fears start accumulating. For a while, I might try to overlook them. Because who really has the time to excavate them when I’m trying to manage the dog, the kid, the Simon. But dark corners eventually begin to crowd out my happiness. All the psychic dirt makes my perspective . . . gray.

Eventually, when I get uncomfortable enough, I do a psychic sweep. Yes, it’s much easier if I do it every day & don’t let the dust bunnies colonize. But sometimes, you don’t see the dust bunnies multiplying until they’re ready to revolt and take over the whole damn place.

It’s just as hard to get my brain/heart/soul clean as it is to clean this house. But it’s worth it to live in a place where I can let ALL the light in without fear of what it might uncover.

 

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All this scrubbing has unearthed a desire to live in a clean space ALL THE TIME. Not just once a year or so. Which means a lot of work. Emotional work and physical work. I’m still in the middle of the physical work–I swear, two or three tiny dump trucks of dirt made it in overnight. But I’m examining what the emotional work will look like… it shifts, you know. I’ve felt called at different points of my journey toward different spiritual practices.

And against everything I want to do–and I mean everything–I think I might be called to haul my ass back into A.A. Let’s just be super clear: I am so grateful for everything A.A. gave me. I know, without question, that the 12 Steps & the 2 years I spent going to meetings are why I am sober now (almost 10 years later). But I’ve never been in love with A.A. I didn’t like going to meetings. I’m not good at towing the party line. I’m just not an A.A.er.

Yet…

I feel called. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt called, but you can’t just ignore it. It’s nagging, the calling. It resurfaces. Constantly.

People brand new in sobriety–or folks that need sobriety–keep popping up in my world. And then, the other day at church, there I was minding my own business, dropping off some clothes for the Clothing Closet, and I almost literally ran into a sign for an A.A. Women’s Meeting. I’m afraid if I don’t heed the call soon, the Universe is actually gonna drop something on my head. Like an anvil. Or something.

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Let’s be clear: I’m as stubborn as the day is long. So, I’ll probably hold off a little while on the A.A. thing (see: stubborn). But, if you see me walking around like Flat Stanley, you can assume that anvil found it’s way to me.

My Brain Picks Battles for Me

My brain picks battles and wages them solo. And it’s a real crap judge of character. So, I’m taking back the reins.

When something goes wrong (as things tend to do. This is life, after all), I instinctually view the situation as conflict. For instance, if a perfectly lovely handyman didn’t get all the way to the edges in a few spots when he painted the ceiling…well, he must be trying to get away with something. He must be taking advantage of me. He didn’t paint the ceiling properly at me.

I immediately make it a Big Thing in my head. I have imaginary conversations in which I make valiant attempts to stand up for myself. Or I jump to the final dire consequences: small claims court, Judge Judy style.

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All the while I feel victimized. And that sucks. Because victimization = powerlessness.

But, amid the chaos of my thoughts–and it’s hella chaotic up in here–somehow I managed to remember something about vengeance and attack thoughts from A Course in Miracles:

What I see is a form of vengeance.

[This] idea accurately describes the way anyone who holds attack thoughts in his mind must see the world. Having projected his anger onto the world, he sees vengeance about to strike him. His own attack is thus perceived as self defense. This becomes an increasingly vicious circle until he is willing to change how he sees. Otherwise, thoughts of attack and counter-attack will preoccupy him and people his entire world. What peace of mind is possible to him then? 

(Lesson 22, Workbook for Students, ACIM)

The basic theme here: cut that shit out. Because who wants to live their life in constant battle? Not this girl.

So, I tried a different tact (in my own head, of course. All of this is going on in my own head. Apparently, I don’t need other folks to create conflict. My own brain does it for me. Rad.). I assumed best intent. I assumed that, instead of not painting the ceiling well at me the dude just needed to do a little touch-up. And that, instead of trying to get away with something, maybe he just hadn’t noticed because his head had been craned back like an open Pez Dispenser all day long paining my ceiling.

And just like that, all the fight left the situation. Because I wasn’t bringing any fight to the situation. I was just observing a lack of ceiling white paint on the edges of the–ahem–ceiling. But, let me tell you, an observation and a battle are two totally different things.

He knew, by the way. He knew he’d have to touch up the ceiling. And he did. With no complaints. No battle. And no Judge Judy involved.

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Whose Script Is This?

When I walked up into Alcoholics Anonymous in my cowboy boots, feeling mighty superior, I had my script firmly in hand. I was a smart, sensitive, tragic victim. The world simply couldn’t understand someone as deeply empathic and intuitive as I was. So, I drank to shield myself from the tragedy of the every day as it unfolded around me.

We become the story that we tell ourselves. 

From the time we’re born, people that we love–and even complete strangers–feed us a script about who we are. We see foremost what they call forward. We become what they nurture–and we learn to hide (or feel shame) about what they dismiss. We keep this script close, reverting back to it when we feel off-base.

But, sometimes, the script is a lie.

When I walked up into Alcoholics Anonymous in my cowboy boots, feeling mighty superior, I had my script firmly in hand. I was a smart, sensitive, tragic victim. The world simply couldn’t understand someone as deeply empathic and intuitive as I was. So, I drank to shield myself from the tragedy of the every day as it unfolded around me.

You can imagine how quickly the A.A.ers called bullshit on that.

They immediately started asking me to find my part in my own pain. I resisted mightily. For real. I thought I was exempt from the basic truths that, in every situation, we have choices. Often we don’t choose what happens to us. But we do get to choose how we deal with it. We get to write our own story.

But writing your own story is hard.

It means excavating psychic pain, long buried, to figure out what really happened… and to examine how your beliefs, attitudes, and/or resentments (mix & match any of these!) play into how you experience that pain now. Shiiiiiiiit. And then there’s the whole “making a list of people you’ve harmed”…. which really could be its own level of hell.

BUT.

In doing all that–in laying out my own pain & the pain I’d caused others–I could see patterns in my behaviors and beliefs. I found triggers that I could then defuse. And I could speak it all… and begin to let it go.

None of us get to re-write our past. In fact, I’ve long stopped wishing that I could. What’s way more important to me is writing my future. In order to do that, I have to create my own script about who I am. And that is the work of every day.

For a long time, my script read that I was a tragic fuck-up with lots of potential.

I mean, if you’ve got dramatic flair, you can be good at playing that part. But, ultimately, it’s not very fulfilling.

As I re-frame my story, I don’t see wasted years. I see an illness that drove my life to a standstill. I see the ravages of unchecked mental health issues. I see darkness—that, ultimately, I emerged from. I don’t see a fuck-up. I see a warrior.

I have to check my script every day, to make sure I have the right one. There are moments when I remember vividly–too vividly–the pain I caused people I loved and the agony I put myself through. And the old script plays. I have to check it. Stop it in it’s tracks. I do not have to be that person any more. Full stop.

I get to write my story. And it’s compassion, and love, and rising up from the wreckage… It’s being worthy and loved simply because. It’s being real and loving hard and not letting fear shut me down. It’s being fully alive and watching my real story unfold. 

#SummerRunning

I’ve been exploring Kirkwood, Edgewood, Cabbagetown, Reynoldstown, and a little bit of Decatur. It’s Georgia hot out there, which means that by the time I start running at 9 a.m., it’s already 80 some-odd degrees. That frees me up to not worry about my time and just enjoy the run. And I have! Like, for real. 

I’m really FEELING running right now. This isn’t always the case. Sometimes I trudge through a run because I know I’ll feel better later (running is a central part of my mental health maintenance routine). But, for the past few weeks, I’ve woken up excited about each new running adventure.

I blame this guy:

I mean, come on! Adventure! Fun! And he always seems so genuinely thrilled to be running. So, I got kinda thrilled, too.

I’ve been exploring Kirkwood, Edgewood, Cabbagetown, Reynoldstown, and a little bit of Decatur. It’s Georgia hot out there, which means that by the time I start running at 9 a.m., it’s already 80 some-odd degrees. That frees me up to not worry about my time and just enjoy the run. And I have! Like, for real.

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My 4 big takeaways over the last few weeks:

  1. Things are rarely what they seem. The hill that looms so large… once I start climbing it, doesn’t seem so bad. The air that feels cooler because of the cloud cover is going to produce inescapable sticky-hot humidity that will ultimately slow me down. I’ve stopped trying to anticipate the future–even the next few minutes–and just go with what is.
  2. There’s an adventure waiting–but you have to look for it. I found a forest in Kirkwood! And a completely shaded, lovely trail… that’d I’d been by a million times but simply never turned the corner to explore it.
  3. It’s easier to enjoy the moment with no agenda. There’s a time & a place for plans (and training). But just being… taking things as they are, walking when I need to, stopping to take pictures makes running so much more exciting and enjoyable. No expectations. It’s really lovely.
  4. Make time for what matters. I rarely feel so enamored with running. So I don’t often devote this much time to it. But, lately, it helps me feel grounded, connected to myself. Making the time to do this for myself makes me a better mother, partner, writer.

Running… it’s how I’ve spent my summer so far. What’s your summer been about?

I KNOW It’s Okay Not to be Okay… but

When I stared freaking out earlier this week, I got scared. Scared because something that looked perfect wound up not being perfect at all. Scared because I started getting all in my head about what I lacked–instead of celebrating what I have. Scared because I felt down. 

In my 20s, I suffered from a serious bout of situational depression. I write frequently about the drinking I did to muddle through my depression, but not a lot about depression itself.

That’s because it scares me.

Although I’d struggled with depression before (from about 8 onward into college), I’d never been completely knocked on my ass by it. But, at 26, I found myself in such a dark, hopeless place that I couldn’t find a reason to put one foot in front of the other. So, often I didn’t. I drank until I blacked out. I missed work incessantly. I would come to in a complete panic–which immediately shifted into despair over the shitshow that was my life. I had people that loved me. I knew I did. But I couldn’t feel that love. I couldn’t feel anything.

Somehow, I managed to take baby steps toward getting better. I started doing yoga, alone in my bedroom. Sometimes, I managed to take my Boxer, Jezebel, for a walk. I took antidepressants prescribed by my doctor–but they didn’t work so well coupled with 12 Bud Lites a night. I could see a glimmer of hope that things wouldn’t always be so dark. But many, many days were still consumed by a sorrow I can only liken to grief. It was all-consuming. And so very, very painful. 94596518_97728a25d5_o

It took one of the worst, most painful events of my life to make me realize that I wanted to live. I’m not sure how or why, but that trauma jolted me. It brought me from darkness back toward the light. It gave me the will to fight. Day by day, I rediscovered joy. And purpose. It was like I’d been rebooted or something. Miraculous, really.

BUT…

Every time I wake up feeling blue, every time I feel listless and uninterested, every time I feel deeply sad–I’m afraid it’s back. Intellectually, I know it’s okay not to be okay. But I struggle–not with letting people know how I feel. I mean, I’m kind of an open book here. But with actually sitting with my feelings. I fight against feeling the entire spectrum of human emotion–which sometimes includes intense sadness or–gasp!–ennui.

When I stared freaking out earlier this week, I got scared. Scared because something that looked perfect wound up not being perfect at all. Scared because I started getting all in my head about what I lacked–instead of celebrating what I have. Scared because I felt down.

But, for real, it’s okay to be down because a big client fell through. It’s okay to be bummed that I haven’t published that book (that’s sitting in my computer, just waiting for an agent). It’s okay to be frustrated at the messy house, the sassy kid, the barking dog.

It’s okay.

I am okay.

 

 

There Is Nothing to Apologize For

I’ve been pondering a bit more how my anxiety manifests itself on the daily. It’s been a companion of mine since I was 8 years old. And, truth is, we’ve settled into our own kind of peace, my anxiety & I. I’ve developed workarounds and strategies. Sometimes I just tell it to STFU. But it’s rarely just not there. 

So, when I read this piece by Discovering Your Happiness, I got smacked with overwhelming gratitude for the way Simon has helped me move through my anxiety. He’s really the reason I was able to adopt the whole “my-anxiety-doesn’t-define-me” mantra.

What does that look like in our every day world?

It looks like him finally corralling everyone for an excursion (after shoes have to be put on and phones have to be found and lights have to be turned off) only to have me make it all the way to the door, then turn back around to check that the toaster oven & the coffee pot are unplugged, that the gas burners are in the off position, that the dog’s crate is snapped shut–and then watch me do it again… and again.

Or his always knowing where the closest bathroom is. (It’s a huge anxiety trigger for me to have to pee & not know where a bathroom is)

Last Saturday, it looked like driving me by Jane’s friend’s house on the way home (where Jane was sleeping over), to make sure they’d made it home okay from the pool. They didn’t answer when I texted or called, and I just needed to know their car was there. That everyone was safe.

Sometimes, I don’t experience anxiety for weeks on end. Then BAM! And Simon never says a word about it. He doesn’t try to dig down to why I’m feeling anxious. (Often there’s no real reason) He doesn’t even flinch when I start checking and double checking things. Or when I flip out about money (another big anxiety trigger for me). He just carries on like there’s nothing going on. And I love him for it.

He never treats me like I need to be fixed.

He never acts put out.

He never blows off my concerns.

He just rolls with it.

I used to apologize profusely when these things would happen. I mean, I KNOW it’s my anxiety causing me to worry & kicking me into fear-mode. But the knowing doesn’t always mean I can turn it off.

For almost 15 years, he’s said the same thing: “There is nothing to apologize for.”

He said it so much that I started to believe it.

And now I do. Believe it, that is.

 

 

Photo by Eric BARBEAU on Unsplash

42 Things About Me

42 things about me… about life, infertility, parenthood, LGBTQ stuff, sobriety, and coffee (of course!)

In no particular order:

  1. I am a Virgo/Libra cusp. The cusp is crucially important. I bring it up every time someone asks about my zodiac sign.
  2. Chocolate covered marshmallows go down as my favorite food of all time.
  3. I’m the oldest of 2 kids. I’ve got a little sister.133657_497803774632_4055268_o
  4. When we were kids, my sister & I looked nothing alike. As we’ve gotten older, no one can seem to agree on whether we look nothing alike or just alike. 

  5. An inebriated young gentleman once wandered up to me in a bar and carried on a full conversation that I understood none of. He thought he was talking to my sister.
  6. I run. Running balances me out. It’s meditative for me. I both love it and hate it. But I do it often.375123_10151486290019633_714277389_n
  7. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was 8 years old.
  8. A trusted adult told me I couldn’t be a writer–that I’d never make enough money to live on. I believed them. I regret that.
  9. When I was a teenager, I was a hellfire & brimstone Christian.
  10. I am still a Christian, although not that kind.
  11. It is easier for me to tell people I am queer than to tell people I am a Christian. Christians in American exhibit all kinds of hateful behavior that I’d prefer not to be associated with.
  12. At various points in my life, I’ve struggled with anxiety and/or depression. It is part of my story. It in no way defines who I am.
  13. I came out when I was 19 years old.94571603_020d5ef0ed_o
  14. My family was displeased.
  15. I had the same girlfriend all the way through college. She is still part of my everyday life. We are not together (and haven’t been since 1998).
  16. Being queer is a core part of my identity. It has made me who I am.
  17. Until about 3 years ago, I identified as a lesbian.
  18. Then my partner transitioned from female to male. That complicated things in every sense of the word.
  19. I now identify as queer. It makes the cute guy I am with all the time less confusing to other people.29683110_10156215924602889_6613959919811764476_n
  20. I’ve come to believe in the fluidity of sexuality. It no longer frightens me. Identity can be fluid & still be important.
  21. It’s been fascinating to watch my husband, Simon, navigate creating his own version of masculinity. I’m proud of the path he’s forging.
  22. Simon and I have one child, Jane.IMG_6017
  23. It took 2 years to conceive her.
  24. I’ve been pregnant 4 times. I only have one child. She is a miracle.
  25. Jane calls Simon “Bobby.”5897461755_cdfc42fae7_z
  26. She used to call him “Baba” and me “Mama.” When she was just over a year, Jane heard me say I wished she’d call me “Mommy.” She started calling me Mommy right away. She also started saying “Bobby” all the time. “What’s a bobby?” I’d ask. She’d giggle and yell, “What a bobby!” We finally figured out that she assumed if Mama=Mommy then Baba must equal Bobby. She’s going to be AMAZING at the SATs.
  27. Simon transitioned when Jane was 4.
  28. We immediately put her in therapy.
  29. About 3 months in, the therapist looked at us and said, “You know she doesn’t need to be here, right?”
  30. We read Jane the picture book Red: A Crayon’s Story to explain her Bobby’s transition. She understood right away.
  31. I’ve been sober for almost a decade.26546_366357324632_4758338_n
  32. Getting sober was the best decision I ever made. It’s the reason I have all the beautiful things in my life.
  33. I got sober in AAI no longer go to meetings. I still think AA is a stellar way to get sober.
  34. I’ve had the same best friend since I was 18 years old. 

  35. She’s loved me through a hell of a lot. I am really grateful.
  36. If you ask me what I want to eat, I’m going to pick Mexican food.
  37. I look almost exactly like my mother.10250053_10152195642889633_5883091160908392911_n
  38. Sometimes I laugh so hard I have to sit down–no matter where I am.
  39. I’ve written a middle grades novel. It’s not been published. Yet.
  40. The older I get, the more I settle in to who I am. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.IMG_6228
  41. We moved to Atlanta 2 years ago this July. I adore Atlanta. It is home for me.
  42. I hate small talk but love people. I want to talk about things like religion, politics, books, life philosophies. And I prefer to do so over coffee.

Bonus Disney Picture Collage! (Disney is kinda our thing)

 

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