“What is one man that he should make much of his winters, even when they bend him like a heavy snow? So many others have lived and shall live that story, to be grass upon the hills.” - Black Elk

I’ll be back a little later.
(NOTE: I’m perfectly okay. I’m trying something new.)

It is impossible to have a “happy birthday” if you aren’t interested in celebrating your life.

Yesterday, I was psychotically happy. So much so that I kept remarking to friends, “I feel like someone spiked my morning doughnut with ecstasy.” Everything was THE BEST THING EVER (my fajita at lunch? Best one I’ve ever eaten. My look? Best hair day I’d ever had, my outfit was adorable, my makeup was flawless, my skin looked amazing, and I was having a skinny daylikewhoa. All the songs on the radio? My favorite. My kitties? Best behaved they’d ever been and softest fur ever. Etc.) to an extent in which I legitimately started worrying that I might be mistaking a manic episode with “birthday euphoria”.

And then, in the afternoon, when I was cuddling with my husband, (who took the afternoon off so we could go to lunch JUST THE TWO OF US!! and cuddle IN THE DAYLIGHT HOURS!!), I realized that I was so happy because I was living in a life I am ecstatic to have an excuse to publicly/outwardly celebrate... And, while I’ve had that for a few years, it kind of took me a while to “get” it (as most things tend to, you may have noticed.) Because, admittedly, it’s hard to really be genuinely happy on your birthday when your birthday is the only day of the year you can force yourself to smile or when you accept love from anybody. I was weirdly/bothersomely elated the minute my birthday started, because I’ve been so happy and because I’ve been given so many awesome gifts (not necessarily tangible…duh) and so much love by so [SO! EFFING!!] many awesome people, I was just elated to be celebrating my life. Finally!

As I was pulling into my driveway last night (at a lame 11 p.m. because I was exhausted) after a full day of love and celebration, I felt this overwhelming urge to go running through the streets cackling like a crazy person and screaming, “I MADE IT, EVERYBODY!!!!! WOOOOO!!!! I’M HERE!!! I MADE IT!!!” (NOTE I did not do this a- because, as aforementioned, I was exhausted and b- because I didn’t feel like getting arrested.)

Instead, I sat in my car, in my garage for a minute and cried, praying to God/Spirit/The Universe with soul-shaking gratitude, “Thank you. I made it through that shitstorm back there! All of it! That storm when I tried to kill me and others tried to kill me (inadvertently) and I was full of hate and anger and rage and everything I’m not anymore! I woke up these mornings with a world full of gifts I’m not sure how I procured, that are more wonderful than I ever envisioned for myself. I woke up in a steady, solid state of mental clarity and joy that I, for many years, had decided was impossible. I am surrounded by love. I am healthy. I am sane. I am at peace. All of this is more than I ever thought I deserved. Thank you. THANK YOU. Please, please show me what you want me to do with all of these gifts I’ve been given, because I’m ready… and I’m even grateful for that. THANK YOU.”

It was, without a doubt, the happiest birthday I have ever experienced.

Strangely I do feel like, since I turned 27, my life has been “preparing” itself to go into Phase II, as astrology tends to suggest it will around my 29th birthday [later this week]. When I look back across my writings in the last two years, I’ve found that I’ve finally let go of and [finally effing] grown from the many things that plagued me for most of my life up until now and, through this, I learned a whole new level of love and forgiveness and (holyshit!) self-acceptance and, thus, have come to a plane of contentment and general existence I would’ve found inconceivable ten years ago. It’s nice. I’m a fan.

However, while I am, traditionally, prone to wax sentimental and philosophical and reminiscent (you know; you’ve seen),  I’m mostly just enjoying this moment of stasis; I’ve reflected all I need to and wrung meaning out of every possible event that shaped the life I have right now. I’ve confessed and apologized and made amends and cleansed and detoxed the shit out of what was set in motion years and years ago. A part of me is a bit hesitant to admit pride or even comfort in where my soul presently is, but, dammit, I’ve worked hard and mentally beaten my soul to a pulp to get here, to this place of quiet acceptance, deliberation, anticipation and joy. Finally, I don’t need to spend any more time looking back. I’m at a place right now where I’m ready to spring forward and, truly, this is the first time I’ve ever dared to say that… invite my Higher Power to call me, if you will.

In my yoga class, we’re studying Vinyasa technique, which includes giving a great sigh at the end of a chapter or cycle in your life, to mark its end and the beginning of a new venture (I’ve found myself doing these after I’ve found a parking spot in the last busy shopping season.) I feel safe giving a great sigh now.

I feel safe.
I feel loved.
I feel loving.
I feel joyful.
I feel grateful.
I feel like I am part of my world.
I feel ready.

Welcome back, Saturn.

Alright, fine. You were right. I get it now. I know you love to say “I told you so”, but really only do it if you must… I’ll wait…

Last year and the year before I asked you for a ton of stuff and, while I ultimately got most of what I wanted, it wasn’t enough to make me happy.

Wait. Just hear me out.

The problem with my requests was that I already have “enough.” I did last year and the year before that and the year before that and, even though I probably had it all the years before that, I didn’t know what to do with it, so I didn’t think that I had it. Does that make sense?

Anyway, despite my petty fulfillment of material things, I have found myself in tears on my last two birthdays. That is not okay in my book.

Look, maybe the bar of “AWESOMEBIRTHDAYSOMG!!!” was set way too high by the way they’re celebrated during childhood, although I never had anything overly expensive or glamorous. (The first 5 years, my mom just taped balloons to the backs of chairs at my play table and invited half my preschool class over. We ate homemade cake and did whoonlyknowswhat. And it was a big freaking deal to me.) Maybe I’m too old to believe that birthdays should be special and awesome; that’s possible.

But, then, I don’t run around with a boa, tiara and long white gloves on my birthday anymore (I stopped that when I was 16) and I don’t expect my friends to plaster the roadsides with celebratory signs (18th birthday) or cover my lunch-eatorium with overzealous decor (also 18th birthday). In fact, I don’t expect anybody to do anything, really; I’m amazed when someone remembers my birthday without having to be reminded by Facebook. So I’d venture to say I’m pretty leveled-out when it comes to my expectations.

I don’t think wishing for “No tears on my birthday” is too much to ask, especially since this is going to be my last year of being a twentysomething. I mean, knowing me, I’d go for a night of karaoke and drag queens and bowling and graffiti and Mexican food and sushi (I don’t know how those would go together) and art and old movies and stand-up comedy and ice-skating and dancing to a fiddler around a bonfire and reading tarot cards and smoothies and taking a bum out shopping and playing tag completely naked but covered in glow-in-the-dark body paint and pretending one of us is a celebrity while the rest of us act as an entourage/paparazzi and watching the sun rise over the ocean while eating pineapples and roasting marshmallows and dressing like Tammy Faye Bakker to get breakfast at a truck stop and ghost stories and other general mayhem, but I don’t want to get too extreme or wear myself out.

So, this year, I really, really just want to be happy on my birthday, Birthday Fairy. Seriously, that is all I want. Thanks in advance for whatever you can pull off.

L P-S

I recently realized something about this obsession I have about confessions that makes me feel a little better about having it in the first place.

Oh. Let me explain: I freaking love confessions. I know that sounds vague, but, really, it’s a blanket statement for sure. I love making confessions (always rewarding), I love hearing others’ confessions, I love poking and prodding at someone in hopes that they’ll confess something deep and self-denied to me. I adore it.

I don’t know where this started, although I have my hints that it was around the time I started getting to that age when the reality my parents had worked so hard to create for me started so show its cracks; that’s when I really started digging and spelunking through everything in my house, searching for clues as to who these people really were and what life I was actually a part of. Although I found many, many things that were deeply hurtful, I also came upon some truths that were revelatory and profound - secrets I wished we all had the courage to talk about openly. Both the disparaging truths and the joyful ones I uncovered gave me a high I’d never before experienced and I became hooked on “knowing The Truth”. I put this in quotations because, frankly, after 15-ish years of being one of those people who beats down doors and annoys people into giving me whatever “Truth” I’m searching for, I’ve also learned that “Truth” is, as with everything, completely subjective.

But, then, THAT also makes it incredibly addictive as well.

Fine. So I’m nosy. I’m impertinent and stubborn and violating of privacies and pushy and I like to know things that are noneofmydamnedbusiness. In high school, this was a way for me to feel superior to others, by finding the cracks in their facades (and then immediately running to spread the word, despite the actual reality of the situation or whether or not it was relevant…) However, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun keeping the truths I uncover about others to myself, which I only just noticed here recently. Now, when I learn something “scandalous” about someone else (whether from my probing or from a private confession), it doesn’t shock me or send me into a flurry of gossip like it used to; it, instead, gives me pause to stop and consider this other person, their reality, the context in which their “secret” had/has to exist, and what that teaches me about compassion. (No, REALLY. I swear.)

And, ultimately, what I really, genuinely realized about myself is that I love collecting secrets and hearing confessions for no other reason than because those moments are where real humanity lies. Not in these characters we create to present to the world, but in those deeply-seeded truths about ourselves. I don’t, by any means, believe that people should be defined by these confessions/secrets/truths, nor do I think we should all run around wearing them on our sleeves (although I have a tendency to do that, which, frankly, is pretty damned juvenile of me). I do, however, believe in sharing our secrets with those we trust and, when receiving the secret truths of others, holding them in reverence and without judgment.

So, say what you will about all this being a well-developed justification for snooping/voyeurism, but I’m not really ashamed to say that I’m addicted to knowing what’s under the veil of humanity, regardless of the damage or joy it contains.

1) Thinking of aliases to assign my life’s antagonists is FUN.
(as in: “Chet was the kind of douchenozzle who boasted to everybody he met about being a ‘good guy’ despite his rampant self-loathing.”) (Uh, I don’t know anybody named “Chet”.)

2) Thinking of evil super-villain names to assign my nemeses is SUPER FUN.
(as in: “I still effing hate Medurncqes and Dr. Fuqen de Fartle, despite their unnatural lust for each other.”)

3) Thinking of childish, physical-flaw-based nicknames to assign aforementioned antagonists is straight-up addictive.
(as in: “For all I cared, Trollface O’Badgumratio could suck it… and probably did.“

Long-ago abandoned synaptic avenues have revitalized themselves behind my back, now coursing neurons through them with ease as though I’d never spent a day in therapy and, worse, causing me to gradually resort to emotion-based impulses I’d considered long extinct.

This has been going on for a number of months, in retrospect.

The benefit, however, of having wildly vibrant subconscious activity is that my conscious mind is at last enjoying the relaxing reprieve of silence.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

So, after years of hearing people tell me I should write a memoir about my life’s experience and realizing that my particular story could act as a vehicle to break down those nasty, outdated stereotypes about folks with mental illness and the intended treatment of such. And, yesterday, I officially decided to map out a game plan and spend the next few months of unemployment writing this great memoir of mine that discusses my bouts with the disease, the causes, the effects, the trips to the hospital, the results of healthy therapy, etc. I was psyched and ready to go and went out and made a proclamation, asking friends and relatives to help me fund this venture (http://www.indiegogo.com/IAmNotUnique) as I plan to spend a lot of time on the road doing interviews and researching to my heart’s content. Feedback came gushing in from my friends was overwhelming, with people cheering me on and saying they believed in me and all that junk that friends are supposed to say.

And then, today, I woke up with the greatest fear I’ve ever known. Even greater than the fear of dying, to be honest.

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WRITE A FRIGGIN’ BOOK! Where do I start? How do I make it poignant and effective without sounding melodramatic? How do I make it honest without stepping on people’s toes? How do I put words together so they don’t sound like me rambling about something most people don’t care to understand in the first place (i.e. this blog.) What do I exclude that’s totally cliched and overwrought? What do I include that’s scary and may hurt people’s feelings? How do I make it heavy enough to drive a point home but light enough that people will recommend it to their friends and maybe laugh a little? How do I pick out a title? WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?

I want to set the storyline up to illustrate a painfully-typical middle-class, white girl who was raised in the suburbs within a nuclear family and never wanted for anything (hi. That’s me.) but somehow found herself battling complete and utter insanity within her psyche that nearly ripped her in half a couple times and sent her to a few mental hospitals. I want to tell my story in a way that has minimal shock value, but drives home the point that this is the stuff that happens to millions of people exactly like me, but because of social stigmas or psychiatric overmedication, the issue isn’t dealt with in a solvable, maintainable way. THAT’S the bottom line of what I want to convey… and I have no fucking clue how I’m supposed to word an entire novel about myself into that.

So, cut to me on this second day, curled up in the fetal position and saying, out loud, “There’s no way I’m going to be able to write this shit. I can write blog entries and essays that get published but a book? A FUCKING BOOK?! That’s re-goddamned-diculous.” while my beloved spouse kept the house in running order and soothed my flailing self-doubt.

This is Fear. And I was not expecting it so freaking soon.

FUN FACT: I’ve accepted government handouts before, am not ashamed of that, and did my best to get off of them and back onto my feet as soon as possible! I’d like to discuss!

I don’t really bother with politics a lot on this blog because, frankly, I don’t have the energy or time to and, honestly, I don’t care enough to get online and become yet another pundit. Besides, I believe that our most powerful ballots are our dollars (as beautifully elucidated by some old friends at a recent reunion) and there’s no amount of screamin’-and’-yellin’ that’s going to keep people from paying whomever they want to do whatever they want.

HOWEVER, all this Occupation stuff has had me thinking and, while I’m not going to spout off a diatribe regarding the protests and my opinion of them, I have had a few friends say something about “the 99%” that has really rubbed me the wrong way on a personal level: “These are just people who want something for nothing.”

Enkay. As aforementioned, I’ve been on a government program before when our finances were tight, so I have the advantage of seeing that that argument is bullshit. In mid-2007, I’d just graduated college, my then-boyfriend (now-husband) was working 50+ hr weeks for nil, I was slowly becoming increasingly pregnant (read: unhireable) and, after all the bills were paid, there wasn’t much left over for anything to eat, so we went on the Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) program. (We’d considered getting government help for prenatal care, but our parents covered that as a gift to us. I am aware of how blessed that makes us.) After the Bear was born, we stayed on WIC for another 6-to-9-ish months, as they helped us afford formula, fresh produce, and milk products for her.

NOW. Allow me to go ahead and dispel some misconceptions and inevitable rebuttals regarding “those people” receiving food stamps/government aid:

~ No, I wasn’t using it as an excuse to “get something for nothing”; I used it as a means to keep myself and my child healthy while we were in a tight spot. I figured I’d been paying taxes for almost ten years; this is the reason these programs were put in place for those who needed it.

~ Yes, I was livid when I’d see another WIC recipient roll up to the Health Department in a brand new Escalade with designer handbag/shoes/nails/phone. Those people were making a mockery of a program that my family needed in order to survive and were actively arguing against the cause altogether.

~ HOWEVER, no, I didn’t see the people who took advantage of the system as the majority. Not for the entire time I was a part of it, which was right at the beginning of this last recession.

~ Yes, I received information about this and other government programs from other women who were in my same situation. These women are still my friends and are also not prone to sitting around and receiving handouts in exchange for no efforts on their parts.

~ No, I wasn’t proud of or happy with being on a government-funded program, but, ego aside, I was damned glad we live in a country where receiving a little help is an option.

I actually had a friend hear me talk about that and reply, “I think I’d rather starve than take anything from the government.” Okay, first of all: ouch. Secondly, I never for a second thought that I was “taking” anything from anybody; I’d paid taxes and I intended to continue once we got through the slump. If anything, I was only taking advantage of one of the many government programs I’d helped to fund, the same way I don’t have to pay tolls when I drive on roads in my state; they’re there for me to use because I helped pay for them. That’s how it’s supposed to work. And, believe it or not, there ARE many, many people who adhere to this moral standard. Like me. And the people I know. And probably some people I don’t know, judging by the odds.

So, yeah, when I hear people sitting atop their horses and making declarations like “I’d rather we starve than take food stamps” I kind of just shake my head at such ignorant audacity.

Because the truth is, No. No you wouldn’t.

If you found yourself (or your children) starving, you’d realize that you, too, had put taxes into this program to help people like you and you’d take advantage of it because you’re lucky enough to live in America, where that’s been taken care of for you. I mean, you probably wouldn’t boast about it, nor would you be happy sustaining the rest of your life on someone else’s dollar (because you understand the importance and pride inherent in working for and earning your own lifestyle…right?), but you’d suck up your pride and take it for the good of yourself and your family for as long as it was necessary. And then you’d thank God or Allah or Halle Selassie or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whatever Higher Power you subscribe to for putting you in a country where receiving help from a taxpayer-funded program could keep you healthy and on your feet.

And THEN you’d think twice about screaming about the “evils of socialism” and the awful people who believe that a little bit of socialism isn’t bad.

That’s all I wanted to say. Well, that and “Thank you for helping me and the Bear out for a while there; we’ll return the favor when needed.”