For the last 8 years I’ve struggled with an impulse that’s so embarrassing-on-a-personal-level that I’ve never told anyone. Due to the nature of it and the fact that I’ve done everything in my power to “cure” myself of something so ludicrous and shameful, I find that its persistence only makes me more ashamed of myself when it crops up… which is, incidentally, when I feel at my lowest. Not a healthy cycle. I know. I get that, too.

So yesterday, I waltzed into New Therapist #Whatever’s office (I haven’t been in therapy in a few years, although I’ve been maintaining my mental practices of reflection, self-inventory, etc.) and, when she asked Typical Initial Evaluation Question #1 (“Why are you here?”), I unleashed a 20-minute diatribe about how I’ve been dealing with this shit for what seems like forever and I’ve been through more “recovery” and therapy and group therapy and self-help and general “healing” than I could possibly begin to describe in the last 10-ish years and I’m just fucking EXHAUSTED with it because I find myself still stuck in the same stupid habits and mentalities as I was at the beginning and dammit, why aren’t I fucking fixed yet?! I’ve forgiven everysingleperson who’s ever so much at looked at me the wrong way; I’ve forgiven myself for everysinglemistake I ever thought about making; I’ve “let go” and “12-stepped” and “retuned my mental radio” and visualized and meditated and undergone hypnosis and dug up everysinglesecond of my childhood and “accepted” and “gotten the tools of serenity” and genuinely flung myself headfirst into every possible brain-sick antidote on the market (and, apparently, picking up aaaallllll the cliched recovery jargon along the way – seriously, try me) and I am ready for my subconscious to hop on board with me because I’ve been ready to move on and be done with all this noise now. For real. Seriously.
And I’m starting to become self-defeating in my frustration when my subconscious won’t cooperate.
And that’s become a battle in and of itself.
Dammit.

So, when asked to give an example of how my subconscious “isn’t jumping on board”, I described this aforementioned, embarrassing impulse of mine and how, when I try to fight it off (I am successful 98% of the time it appears), it haunts my dreams night-after-night and I hate it.

And she’s all, “Well, I’m not a dream expert or anything…”
Me: No, I know; I definitely am not looking for a dream analyst or something lame along those lines. Sorry…
Her: … but what does [the source of this impulse] represent to you?
Me: …Fwaahh?
Her: Or, rather, what part of you does [the source of impulse] represent? You mentioned that having dreams about a childhood antagonist you no longer know or communicate with is simply your mind creating a mascot for self-doubt, fear, and self-stifling, so what does this other impulse represent?
Me: Aaahhhmm…
(Beat. I’m embarrassed I’ve never stopped to think about this. I have the feeling it’s going to be painfully obvious.)
Her: Well, every time you give in to this impulse, you feel like shit, right? And you feel like shit even by having the compulsion to [do this weird thing] in the first place and after all these years and all your efforts, right? Because you recognize how destructive it is and has always been to yourself and how you’ve worked to get away from it for years now…? even though you didn’t for the first few years it was a habit because – as you said – your “self-esteem was in the crapper.”
Me: …yyyeeeaahh…?
Her: So could this impulse represent the side of you that believes you deserve to be punished?
(Another beat.)
Me: Holy. Crap… You’re exactly right. And it seems so blatantly obvious now.
Her: Well, not if you’ve never considered it that way. (smiles) So there; now you’re getting your money’s worth.

At that point, I felt like she should’ve spread her arms out like she’d just done a magic trick. Conjuring a major breakthrough in the first half-hour of our first session that has already started to change the way I’m reacting to my brain and, thus, started a chain-reaction of revelations (i.e. “So, if I feel self-destructive when I’m at my lowest, and that’s not really curing anything, that means I need to work on loving and forgiving myself immediately and constantly, even when I can’t find any reason to love and forgive myself… because THAT’S ultimately what’s going to make me feel better ever again and get out of these destructive habits/impulse-patterns for good… Whhhooooaaaa…”)?! She’s a wizard!
…and/or I’m actually on the right track…
…either way, I’m totally going back next Monday.

And, no, I’m still not telling anybody else what the embarrassing impulse is.

“I feel like there’s something wrong with you.” One of my dearest of friends started one of our quarterly conversations with this sentiment.

I was quick to assure her that I was fine, if not wonderful. Really. “No! We’re great! I just spent a month vacationing with friends and family and we’re getting ready for Burning Man and the Bear is at a really fun age and we’re good. Seriously, everything’s fine.”

“Okay, well, I hope you don’t get mad at me but I really think you need to hear this and I feel like you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed and I think being a good friend is telling someone the truth and I want to be a ‘good friend’ instead of just an acquaintance…”

Crap.

“Every time I see a picture of you or visit you, you’re wearing the same outfit and it’s starting to make me sad.”

It was true. I’ve always been one of those people who finds something she likes and just clings to it. Usually said article is extremely comfortable and somewhat flattering (although this wasn’t necessarily the case for the wood-and-leather clogs I wore every day in high school, but was certainly at least halfway true for the cargo pants I wore during that era…) This has gotten much worse in the last three years, however, as my life has become completely based on sitting around the house with a small child.

See, I have this great wrap skirt that I bought a few years ago at a hippie store called Loose Lucy’s. It’s lime green, flowy and doesn’t constrict when I’ve had a little too much to eat on vacation. I wore it through my pregnancy because of its expandability and will wear it around the house year-round because of its incredible comfort and versatility. Usually, I pair it with a light lavender t-shirt that’s fitted and comes down below my waist, giving me a fantastic hourglass shape while obscuring my little bit of loosened-by-pregnancy skin with a great big stencil-type graphic. This outfit is comfortable without being trashy, versatile and casual and cute and bright and easy. I love it. And, so, in my typical fashion, I wear it a lot.

But, unlike before, I can now get away with wearing clothes more than one day, so, I usually take advantage of that, safe in the knowledge that the only people who will see me are my husband, my daughter, and strangers in the grocery store. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous, so who cares if I throw it on two days in a row; as long as it doesn’t smell, it’s fine, right?

At this point, the ensemble is loaded with holes. The skirt’s ties have had to be reattached at least twice. There are bleach stains from when I spilled cleaning solution one day while scrubbing the tub. I know, it looks rough but, again, I figure nobody’s going to see me in it so who cares? It’s really become more of a functional uniform than what one would call an “outfit”. And, really, I’m fine with that.

But my friend – the dear, wonderful one – recognized this as a cry for help. A mother of three, she told me about how, when her children were born, she would throw on a pair of black overalls over clean underwear and a fresh shirt every day, believing – like me – that it didn’t matter what she looked like. She told me about how, slowly, this subconscious idea that she wasn’t important [or doing anything important] enough to care for on a daily basis started to become a belief and how it moved her into a rut that affected her whole life, causing her to stop caring about things that really mattered and falling short of her personal standards. And she told me she was worried about me because she saw me slipping into that based on my self-maintenance and didn’t want me to have the same mental experience she did.

I was floored. First of all, I see this friend about once every two years and talk to her about 4-5 times a year, usually after months of “I swear we’ll catch up soon!” We’re the types of friends who can go for ages without talking but can pick right back up where we left off and know that, if something awful is happening, the other one is there. (Pretty good for a friend I made while exchanging sarcastic commentary from the back row of a Shakespeare class. We were like Statler and Waldorf with boobs.) So the fact that she was perceptive enough to observe this habit of mine over photos I posted on Facebook and stop to consider that this may be a sign of something deeper says a lot about how much she cares. My heart hurt with gratitude.

Still, she couldn’t stop apologizing and justifying this sartorial intervention. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch, Liz. I just hope to god that if I started dressing in the same thing every day like a crazy person, you’d tell me. You’re too pretty to do this to yourself. I’m sorry.”

About a month ago, I had another one of my best friends call me and tell me we “needed to talk.” She was busy with other things all day so she couldn’t talk until 9 a.m. and I spent all day going nuts, trying to think of what it could possibly be that I’d done wrong. Later, on the phone, she gently explained to me that, for some reason, when we get out in public, I tend to get really judgmental and I cross the line with my jokes a lot. I also really hurt her feelings during these times.

I felt like shit. Not only did I have absolutely no idea that I was doing it at all but I had no idea where these sorts of things would even come from. This is one of those friends that I’m so nuts about that I constantly joke about how I sound like I have a fangirl crush on her and how I feel like she’s way out of my league as a friend. In my whole life, I’ve never had a friend who stuck with me and was so good to me as this one and I was sickened and heartbroken by the idea that some stupid, completely unconscious side comments would make her doubt her inherent awesomeness for even a second. (I know, I sound totally worship-y but she’s really, genuinely a great person. Ask anybody.) I was disgusted with myself on a really deep level.

The thing was, though, that this had apparently been going on for a really long time and, because she knew that I really do love her, she’d never said anything until now, figuring that I didn’t mean it (which is true, although that doesn’t make it acceptable.) And, instead of just saying, “You know what? You turn into a real bitch when we’re out in public and really suck as a friend. I’m done here.” she came to me and told me about it in a rational, straightforward tone and said, “I know you don’t mean it and I have faith that you’ll work to change it.”

I don’t mean to sound completely conceited or self-servicing but, frankly, that’s perhaps one of the greatest compliments a friend could give to another, I think. Valuing someone’s companionship enough to want to keep them around despite their shortcomings is one thing but believing in your friend’s ability to become a better person enough to point out a major character flaw? That shows an incredible amount of respect and faith in my rose-colored book. And, naturally, it makes me want to meet that set of standards for a friend who obviously cares a great deal about me. Those types are rare; I can’t afford to mess that up just from being a stubborn idiot.

I know looking at criticism as one of the greatest blessings in my life is a little weird and may make me sound like a glutton for punishment but I’m sure I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to keep friends around who are hypercritical and constantly tearing down my character or holding me hostage over my flaws, but having friends who believe that I deserve to be a better person than I am and gently demand that I try harder? I don’t think many people have that sort of luck.

So, yes, I’m throwing away the skirt and the shirt. Because someone loves me enough to tell me not to dress like a crazy hobo.

And that fills my heart with happiness.

I mentioned in my last post that I was doing a full-body-and-mind rehab of sorts to hit the reset button on pretty much everything that has to do with my life, my mentality, my habits, my productivity, etc. (I have a real problem doing things Day by Day, apparently.) And I made the declaration that I was going to do a Master Cleanse. And I realized I was just setting myself up for failure.

So, under the advisement of a couple friends I am, instead, doing a 30-day raw foods/vegan cleanse. Not only do I think this has a far better chance of success on my part (I do love veggies. And fruit! Whee!) but, ultimately, it’ll give me a good foundation for healthy eating habits in general, which is something I’ve let drop by the wayside as of late.

And I realize that those crazy hippies out there will insist that I go organic but it costs an arm and a leg to do so and, frankly, we’re cutting pennies where we can so I’m just going with raw fruits and veggies where I can and not tacking on another thing to stress about like money.

So yes! 30 days of yummy instead of 7-10 days of psychotic misery. Yes, please!

I realize how weird it sounds to be freaking out about turning 27. And, although a lot of my favorite musicians have joined The 27 Club, a fear of keeling over in the next year isn’t what’s driving my hyper-anxiety.

The reason for my general thematic weirdness is two-fold (and don’t worry; this isn’t going to be one of those “Wahhh, me.” posts. It has a positive spin. I’m getting to be pretty talented at those, actually. So here’s Exhibit Seventyleven.) although they’re directly correlated, so I’m not going to break them up, bullet-point-style.

The thing is that a LOT of the people I admire were doing great things by this point in their lives. Yes, okay, I know I’m not supposed to live my life based on what everyone else is doing, Mom. And I’m definitely using this as fuel to propel myself forward. (My friend said something to me that I’ve plastered to my mental bathroom mirror: “Don’t get jealous; get better.” That’s now one of the twelve mantras I repeat to myself every morning.) But there’s a big part of me that’s wondering what it is that’s causing me to take so effing long to get started already. And then I start to worry that I am “started”, which really bothers me because I simply don’t want to settle on a life that’s just mediocre.

Please don’t take that last statement to mean that I somehow loathe my present lifestyle or that I’m ungrateful for all the things that’ve been given to me – I’m certainly not. On a personal level I’ve been given such an incredibly rich life full of awesome people and experiences that I still have trouble believing that I deserve it. However, on a much larger scale I’ve started awakening to the knowledge that I just may not be One of Those People who revolutionizes anything or changes anything or makes any sort of permanent mark on humanity. I know not everyone can be Gandhi or Jim Henson or MLK or Mukhtaran Bibi but there’s always been a part of me that really believed I was going to be some sort of incredibly world-altering human when really, I’m far more likely to blend in with the status quo. I do my best to be great in that role (I help people, I work on bettering myself, I give outwardly, etc.) but something about being nondescript in The Grand Scheme and eventually forgettable really has started to bother me. And I could clamor around and make a bunch of noise and try to make myself important or outstanding but that’s ultimately hollow and demoralizing. The truth is, I feel like I’ve never had an original or revolutionary thought or action in my life and it makes me wonder what the hell my life’s effort is going to matter at all.

However, I’m not going to use my complete lack of unoriginality as a means to hide out and not make any use of my life; if anything it gives me more freedom from Fear of being misunderstood or flat-out rejected [which - again, I know - shouldn't dictate my actions to begin with but onethingatatimepeople.]

The other thing that I’ve gotten so caught up in during this pre-27 era is the realization that I’ve wasted so much tiiiime. 26 was an incredibly revolutionary year in terms of liberating myself from the mental lurch I’ve been lodged in since I was 13 but now, just after resurrecting myself and finally rinsing off all the slop I’ve been carrying around for ages, I’m aghast at how much tiiiime I wasted. I wasted time hating myself and hesitating because unimportant people told me I should. I wasted time sitting around being depressed because I didn’t have the balls or the knowledge to get treated (something I’m hoping to help combat publicly in the next few years… more on that later). I wasted 6-ish years being completely monopolized by an on-again-off-again abusive relationship with a genuine idiot who was never worth a second look (all realized in retrospect, of course.) I wasted years and thousands of dollars on substances to cloud my mind enough to suspend me in that miserably comfortable mental state and prevent me from moving forward. And that’s just the big stuff I wasted that pretty much manifested in a mind of mush and a rearview muddied with carnage that I’d have to waste even more time in therapy and sobriety trying to salvage and repair. All of that instead of actually getting out there and having a damned life.

I’m trying not to waste time being embarrassed by all that wasted time. Or kicking myself for what I “coulda” been doing instead. (Writing, getting better at guitar, getting into shape, traveling, getting my Master’s degree, avoiding mental hospitals, etc.)

So the way I’m [choosing to] see(ing) it is that my life is being played out in [rough] 13-year cycles. The first 13 years were pretty amazing with the ideal childhood in the blissfully adorable small town. Then the next 13 years were spent with soul-draining bullshit (some external, most internal) that I got to wade through and destroy myself within and then dig myself out of and rebuild my Whole Self in the wake of. And, at the end of 26, everything is miraculously in place to start the next real Chapter. All the loose ends are tied up, all the years of psychotherapy have produced permanent functional tools to combat my chronic chemical mental problems, while my self-inflicted mental problems have been sufficiently quashed, and, finally, all the inner turmoil and self-denial that has just been an inherent part of my identity since I was 13-ish has finally (FINALLY) dissipated.

I’m in a really really good place. Finally. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, mentally… I am well. And I am happy. And I think that’s the first time I’ve been able to say that for a very very long time.

So I’m taking this renewal and this bag of tools I’ve picked up in the last decade-and-change and using it to fund Chapter Three. Oh sure, I’m still going to have a handful of neuroses and Fears (who doesn’t?) but I’m using those to drive me forward instead of sitting around dwelling on a past that I’ve already cured. (I did say “FINALLY”, right?) Those Fears and neuroses are the ones I’m choosing to keep in my pocket instead of ones that involuntarily anchor me in place. I think that’s healthy. Natural, even.

In Chapter Three I want to be strong and healthy. I want to have clear goals and actually achieve them. I want to stay true to the principles I know in my heart to be Right and motivated by Love. I want to live a life I’m proud of. I want to continue to keep myself motivated by Love and I want to continue to recognize the things that have made and continue to make me genuinely Happy. I want to remain grateful and gracious. I want to continue to pursue a lifestyle of serenity.

For my 27th birthday, I am giving myself the daily pledge and reminder to “Be Better Today.” I can’t wait to see where that puts me for Chapter 4.

Happy Birthday to me!

It probably wasn’t noticeable from the exterior, but 2009 was perhaps the most monumental year I’ve had in a little more than a decade as far as my mentality and resulting general life course goes. I know that sounds terrible considering I had a child in 2007 and got married in 2008 but honestly, 2009 is when everything about who I was and what my life was about during the last 10-14-ish years drew to a close.

See, around the time my mind started messing with me in a clinical sense, some people that I deemed “Important” began to make me believe these negative things about myself that weren’t true. As the story goes, these beliefs lead to more profound false beliefs which fueled actions to back up the initial beliefs and then allowed me to believe more lies about my identity handed to me by predatory self-loathing idiots and it all just spiraled out of hand and turned into this huge mess in which I had successfully morphed myself into this godawful person I never actually should’ve believed I was in the first place. Since 2003-ish when I first started realizing what a mess I’d gotten myself into, I’ve been steadily trying to pick up the pieces, refigure everything out and clean up the catastrophic messes I made. (I’m not saying I’ve been successful the whole time since then, by the way. In fact, I spent the first couple years after that continuing to inadvertently botch things out of sheer habit and blurred vision.) And, in the last couple years or so, I’ve finally gotten to a place where I’m consistently happy and [relatively] stable enough that I can really look back on all of it and go “Okay, since this is the most sane I’ve ever been, let’s see if we can figure out exactly what the hell actually happened with a [relatively] clear perspective…”

Okay, looking back on things and overanalyzing them is nothing new for me. In fact, it’s been pretty damned exhausting hauling that neurosis around with me for over half my life. However, this time when I took a second (or a week) for retrospection, I actually felt this incredible sense of closure and profound relief.

No, it’s true! In the last year I’ve finally gotten over some people and events that not only don’t exist and/or don’t matter anymore but really never did matter to begin with. (Yes, I’m still a bit embarrassed that I built such a huge framework for my life out of complete bullshit, but I’m certainly not about to waste any more time feeling sorry about it or worrying about what I could’ve done differently.) A few months ago I even performed a little one-person ritual in which I identified all the lies and false authorities on which I’d built my self-worth and discarded them formally. (There was a lot of candle-lighting, stone-charging, body-cleansing and meditation involved.) And then I sat down and identified all the truths about myself and my life that I’ve always known and that people who love me have always been willing to support. And honestly, it felt like a complete mental molting of sorts.

But wait! That’s not all that happened this year! This year I finally (FINALLY) was able to make all the amends to people I’d hurt that I’d been needing to for many many years. I honestly never really wanted any sort of response or forgiveness from these few leftover people (although forgiveness is always welcome) but I just needed to know that I did all I could to at least deliver the genuine apology that was deserved, no matter how past-due. Somehow, not only did I get this knowledge of successfully delivered messages, but I was honestly listened to and respected by the recipients, my apologies heard and taken seriously. I was even granted forgiveness, which was the icing on the cake and the ice cream on the side. The feeling that I don’t owe anyone else an apology for anything is an incredible novelty to me and makes me value and choose my actions with impeccable care. (This is not to say I’m not going to offend people or step on toes ever again – I do it at least monthly. I just don’t make offending others an objective anymore.)

And, in addition to being liberated from this completely invisible fear-based “prison” of false beliefs I’d crafted around myself based on the opinions and actions of people who are worthless AND finding closure from my unbelievable cruelty in the past, I also was able to finally get away from Myrtle Beach/South Carolina, (which really turned out to be more of a symbolic liberation than a physical one as I’d finally gotten to a place where I adore(d) the people I’d chosen to surround myself with there.)

With all of these genuinely life-and-mind-altering events combined I was finally able to look at my life objectively and see – without guilt or denial or refusal – all the truths and blessings that are lying in my lap, this great existence that kind of just happened upon me and the realization that, if I don’t go and screw it all up (again) I have the potential to do whatever it is that I may want to do. (Figuring that out is another issue altogether.) And I have more loving friends than any human deserves cheering me on, so I kind of owe it to everyone who bothers to have faith in me as a human (including myself) to point myself in a direction and quit making whiny, self-loathing, fear-based excuses as to why “I can’t”. And now that I’m not wasting all my time hurting over the past and the idiots I let dominate it/me or trying to therapanize (new word alert!) my brain into normal, everyday functionality, I don’t really have any excuse not to.

So it seems like my reevaluation and life-participation in 2010 is a bit more important than usual. This being said, none of these completely-invisible-but-totally-important changes I’ve made in 2009 were on my Resolutions list, so I’m not going to base the rest of my existence on some list I scribble down in the next few weeks. However, with all the shit I’ve been able to throw out of my daily life in the last year and where that’s put me right now, I know I’ve got a lot more momentum going forward than I have in a really really long time. It excites me to dream about what that will allow me to do between now and 2012 when the world/existence comes to a screeching halt.* I’d better get started.

* No, I don’t believe that crap.

“Everybody come together/Free!” ~ Cat Power

I was riding through the rolling North Carolina countryside after a blissful weekend at my Gran’s when I noticed how much easier I’d been breathing since the move. I’d just assumed that this had a lot to do with my physical location but what I realized is not that I chose to move away from my demons or pull myself out of being submerged in them so much as I’d just made them leave. They don’t live with me anymore.

This is not to say they won’t visit – exes and demons are alike in that peskiness – but for now, I roam around without them on my shoulder, under my bed, tucked in my closet or crawling under my sleeves for the first time in many many years.

So this is that freedom I’ve been hearing so much about.

Freshly heartbroken (and, incidentally, spiraling into a belligerent insanity in response) and struggling with typical early-20′s wanderlust, I went to Australia with the mentality that this would be a semester of reckless abandon. Flinging my inherent self-consciousness by the wayside, I plunged into the wild, adventurous [often foolish and some potentially dangerous] indulgences of hedonism I’d only previously fantasized about, free from the confines of social accountability. Don’t get me wrong, I spent a few days nerding out and visiting historic sites by my own volition but mostly I was interested in freeing some part of me that I thought – at the time – might have been the “real” me who’d been hidden under general insecurity. (Oh, to be in late-adolescence and to so believe in the pretentious myth of oneself…)

This whole mentality put a strange damper on the relationships I encountered, as I sort of convinced myself that all these temporary acquaintances were somehow not legitimate. I had no trouble making a general ass of myself in front of these people as they were only surface-level, stand-in friends with whom I would enjoy my time but never really forge any sort of bond with. This even included the small group of people I was working with as part of a sketch comedy troupe; while they were all amazing, colorful people, I was assured that there was nothing “real” going on, that we were all just working together for a common cause and any interest in each other was superficial for the sake of a productive work environment. While I felt a real fondness for many of them, I had already designated myself as an outsider who was easily replaceable and meant to portray only a caricature of a certain widely-mocked nationality. I assumed everyone else was doing the same. Perhaps my subconscious knew better because, after a while, I found myself becoming crippled with panic attacks before attending rehearsals, sitting on the staircase around the corner from our rehearsal theatre and trying desperately to convince myself that I was worthwhile, bright, humorous, and deserving of their company. Often I would wildly overcompensate by putting on a brash, arrogant, faux-wordliness air in which I would conduct my every maneuver, hoping this would throw everyone off the scent of my complete insecurity.

The weird thing about all of this is that, while this was most definitely the most mentally unstable, tragically misguided and destructive part of my many attempts at recovery since 2003, somehow some of these amazing people saw right through all of it and proudly called themselves my friend. While I was out making the greatest ass of myself imaginable, there were genuinely wonderful people who not only weren’t totally disgusted by my flagrant hypocrisy, my wild grandeur and my general self-centeredness, but actually invited me to be in their company. By the time I left the country that summer (or late-autumn, depending on which continent you’re on) I had acquired a handful of some of the best friends I have ever had (even now!) and was aching with the amount of time I’d wasted trying to keep their lifestyles and reality some sort of parallel universe or mere colorful backdrop to be used at my disposal.

It has been four years since I have seen most of them. I was scheduled to go back to Melbourne in late 2006 but, due to the general disorganization of the Australian Immigrations gang, I was stopped at LAX and sent back home. (Although I did have a lovely impromptu visit to Berkeley where I crashed with a never-before-met-in-person friend for a couple days and fell in love with the Bay area.) Shortly afterward, I became pregnant and was unable to use my plane ticket, much to my utter heartbreak.

Still, these people have continued to stay a part of my life and have shown more devotion and love to me than most of the friends I’ve had in my short life. One came to stay with me and my family over the holidays, a few keep in touch via email, Facebook and the occasional phone call, and a couple of my dearest girlfriends sent a fantastic care package when they found out I was expecting my daughter. One came to Canada with her band last summer but, gas prices being what they were, I simply could not afford to go up and see her. I still hear from many of them at least once monthly and they have become one of the aspects of my recovery that I am most grateful for. I’m not sure where I did something so right as to acquire these sorts of people into my life but I’m more than ecstatic that I did.

My heart hurts this time of year as it was during late June that I left Melbourne and saw this handful of dear friends last. (This pain only intensified after my failed attempt to return.) At least once every month I have a dream in which I am riding around Melbourne, on my way to visit friends, seeing places and the sorts of creative, artistic people I fell in love with while I was there. There’s still the wild dream that we’ll somehow be able to move there and build a life in a culture so much more laid-back than our own and even though my husband has expressed an interest in pursuing this dream, there simply hasn’t been an opportunity for us to make it a reality. (I have a feeling this dream won’t dissipate anytime soon.) My heart is always elated with the blessing of this present friendship but aching with the knowledge that it can’t be revisited on a personal basis any time soon. I hate that I can’t show these people the selfless love from me that they deserved when I was abroad and I loathe that there may never be a time in the next decade that I can afford to travel back and enjoy a leisurely, festive visit of “just hanging out.” The harsh reality of this set in a while ago, but it hasn’t started to weaken just yet.

Whatever the case, that place and these people are still with me and this is more than I’d hoped for when I first landed in Australia. Just little artifacts and this tiny bit of memory and joy are what I have for now, but that’s enough to make me more grateful than I am about almost everything I’ve ever experienced. And, of course, the hope of returning to all of it again.

There’s this Girl, see. Ever since high school, I’ve had this weird love/hate relationship with her, mostly based out of my own insecurities and jealousies over the fact that it looked like she always had everything I wanted. My envy started during my freshman year, when she was cast as the lead in the school play, won the school’s annual beauty pageant (it’s a Southern thing, I think) and started dating my first ex-boyfriend (while I was still unabashedly madly in love with him, of course.) She was the smartest girl in the class, blonde and perky and freaking adorable, and seemed to have the world on a silver platter. She was one of those annoyingly perfect types, the kind that teachers love and men crawl over themselves for and was president or vice president of every possible school organization and pretty much made dowdy, overweight, insecure brunettes like myself completely sick. During my sophomore year, she continued to make me seethe with envy as she got the lead in yet another school play and giggled her way into more popularity, more general perkiness, more gaping windows of promise and possibility. God, I hated her.

(Yes, I realize this is all evidence of me being a selfish, insecure, horrible person in my younger years. I’ve got that, thanks. No need to rehash.)

When I left my public school during my junior year to go to a local arts school, I heard through the Great Southern Smalltown Grapevine that she had wandered astray, dyed her hair black and run off with a college boy to the other side of the country. But, when I went to see my then-boyfriend graduate high school, there she was, leading the class, giving her valedictorian speech with confidence and pride like nothing had ever happened. Her successes seemed effortless and again, I was filled with bitter jealousy.

Long story short, I went off to college, went more than a little nuts, found myself stuck back at home, attending a university in town because of my appalling grades elsewhere. My first semester as an English major, I sat myself in a classroom to study the movements in Contemporary Literature. Moments before class was due to start, the door swung open and there She was. Awkwardly, we gave each other a “Hi?” before settling in to our seats, all the while cutting sideways glances at each other as if to say, “What the hell are YOU doing here?” During a shared cigarette after class, I finally just blurted this obvious question out, only to learn that she’d hit a bit of a rough patch in her collegiate career too and, like me, was back at home recovering and trying to finish her education. I was stunned that someone so confidently assured and successful was literally in the same exact spot as I and, in the next year we bonded over this and many other mishaps. 

A few years later, things have changed between us pretty drastically. In our transition from youth, we still managed to beat a little drama out of each other from fear and our own insecurities and, in my staggered attempts at sanity and sobriety, she was witness to a few of my very worst moments. Over time we managed somehow to exchange romantic partners, exchange Christmas gifts, give each other generous favors, call each other in desperation, love each other, loathe each other, and still come back, interested in the middle ground. How one defines such a relationship is anyone’s guess, but these days we’ve resolved ourselves to the fact that there may always be some strange bond and caring between us, wherever we happen to be in our personal lives. 

After a few years of keeping our distance from the other, we’ve recently spoken of getting together like adults, going out for karaoke and maybe trying to see what the other is actually like with a few more years under her belt. I sent a text yesterday to ask if this proposed evening was something she’d like to do in the near future and received a reply that she’d had it with her job, she’d quit and was moving out of state to chase her dream of going to a decent university for post-grad work. While she’d thought about it for a while, she had just decided to do it yesterday, had suddenly called her job to tell them to get bent, was packing her bags and leaving today to stay with some friends that she knows far from here. At first I was sure she’d lost her mind, possibly fleeing something she wasn’t ready to deal with here or running because she was confused or having a meltdown. 

And then I realized I was, again, aching with envy at her courage and freedom. Since my last year at university, I’ve longed to throw my belongings in my car and get away to chase my dreams in a better town than this. I had a new life all planned out for my life in post-graduation, planning to move to Asheville or Portland, working in a coffee house by night and going to classes at a small, liberal arts university to earn my Masters and start teaching English around the globe. If Greg had wanted to join me in this quest, I wouldn’t stop him, but I loved the idea of being young and not tied down to any one spot for any reason. Naturally, the news of my daughter’s imminent arrival put a small damper on these plans and Greg and I hurriedly made a comfortable life in which to welcome her without a moment’s hesitation. The Universe graciously handed us a number of opportunities to help us get on our feet and we were so busy being scared and nervous about this new life that we never stopped to think about anything else. As the excitement from the wedding and the new baby has gradually slowed down, change is something we think about constantly. We think about applying for new work, moving to a new city with better education and better demographics and more culture and art and life, both of us embracing our talents and being active parts of a growing society. I, personally, daydream of the days when Chloe is old enough for us to get out of the house more, when I can delve further into my education and pursue one of my dream jobs instead of sitting at home, stagnant and unimportant to this big world swirling around us. Selfishly, I long for the freedom to see the world, to chase after my dreams, to precariously pursue a dream lifestyle with nobody to worry about but myself. Never have I wished that Chloe and Greg were no longer a part of my life, but I often wish I’d spent my youthful freedom taking more chances. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy encouraging my responsibility-free friends to do this and, even though I loudly applaud her efforts, I am selfishly aching with jealousy and desire to do the same. 

Naturally, like all my personal conflicts these days, this lead to a little introspection. (I know, what a shocking change of pace for me.) Why was I jealous? Because I don’t have the freedom to go and chase my dreams or because I haven’t actually mustered the courage and initiative to put some change into motion? And then, once again, here I was looking myself dead in the face and realizing that I’ve fallen short of my abilities and need to start making some changes, dammit. (At this point, it seems like personal change is RELENTLESS.) Sure I have a baby and a husband in tow, but there’s nothing really holding us to one place except my fear of putting myself out there. I’m afraid I won’t be good enough. I’m afraid I can’t hold down a job. I’m afraid nobody will hire me because of my lack of work experience in the last couple years. I’m afraid to build a resume because my life won’t look all that impressive. Wah wah wah, so on and so forth. 

I could sit around, battling this depression and living up inside my head for the rest of my life, wondering what I possibly could do to make myself happier and promising to make big changes once I reach that Elusive Bliss for the rest of my life OR I could start aggressively working to give myself my dream lifestyle rightthisminute and never regret that I didn’t try. What an amazing notion. 

So, I’m laying out plans and starting real work toward change. No more wasting my time on side projects or sitting around waiting for the depression to dissipate before I live a respectable lifestyle. I’m filling out resumes and applying for jobs and seeking out part-time childcare. I’m building a portfolio and looking at post-grad night classes and setting some realistic goals and timelines.

And, the whole while, I know I’m doing this because I’ll kick myself if, when I get to be 50, I hear from Her again and feel a great envy for her even still. I’m ready to live a life I’m proud of, instead of making excuses for living in fear and stagnation. 

Okay, yeah, it’s admittedly a little sad/pathetic that a weird, one-sided, high school-reminiscient rivalry is what lit a fire under my ass to start making changes in my life, but, from where I stand, I’m just chalking the whole thing up to inspiration. This is a pathetic high school jealousy that I’m actually grateful for. (Oh, the irony.)

… ambitious though my cause for worldly understanding may be, I didn’t take into consideration that I’ve been Americanized my entire life and may have a hard time immediately adjusting to just a drastic diet change.

Imagine that.

Forgetting the obvious fact that jumping from a 1,500-calorie diet to a 400-calorie diet overnight could take serious tolls on my overall health, I eagerly jumped on board with my Poverty Diet and found that vitamin and herbal supplements weren’t doing much to combat the EFFING CRAZIES that came around at about 8 p.m. By the second day the lightheadedness and drifting consciousness got to be too much, and, as Evil Slutopia mentioned I had to take my well-being as a parent into consideration.

I’m still trying the diet changes for meditational purposes, but I’m pacing myself a little better this time as, after all, the people I’m focusing on have lived with these conditions for a very long time and their bodies have become acclimated to taking in this amount of food. Even though many people are slowly starving to death, their bodies function differently than an American who is mostly sedentary and takes in 3-5 times as many calories each day. I have to keep that in mind if I’m going to keep myself functioning.

Right now I’m doing one rice-or-beans-or-oats meal a day and skipping snacks during the day, so I feel the hunger that was my intended purpose for meditation, anyway. I may move this to two and then three meals a day, but keeping my health in mind is my responsibility, second to Chloe’s.

It’s weird; this is another one of those things that I could’ve easily suffered through just a couple years ago. Greg and I have discussed that we’d definitely be willing to live a poor, bohemian, starving-artist lifestyle without question if we didn’t have Chloe to worry about, but I kinda thought that only pertained to life on a larger scheme. We’d think about that when choosing houses and neighborhoods and what she eats and cars, but I didn’t think it would affect even the little things like what I was putting into my body on a daily basis.

Hunh.

“Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.”                                    ~ Richard Wright

I’ve often been accused of being a bit of a “bleeding heart” in that I cannot say “no” to cookie-bearing Girl Scouts or overpriced independent merchants just as much as I can’t bypass a beggar without sharing what I have or walk away from a charity without giving at least something. But really, I’m a pretty Americanized version of a bleeding heart when it comes right down to it. Before I was pregnant, I dreamed of joining the Peace Corps to play pretend in another country and observe their lives from the perspective of an overprivileged Westerner. I imagined myself working side-by-side with natives to learn a language and build schools and hospitals to return home and tell everyone I knew about this beautiful, vast world that exists beyond the commercial bubble we pride ourselves on maintaining. I even imagined the smug new attitude I’d gain as I became more worldly, more “experienced” in things like poverty and despair that obviously would make me a better, richer, more self-fulfilled human being who could educate these ignorant Americans to the great struggles of the world around me. I thought, foolishly, that traveling out and seeing these things for myself were the only ways I could actualize myself as a generous, caring person who was helping the world instead of sitting inside my little wealthy bubble and wondering what I could do to look better, make more money, gain more fame.

Naturally, when I made the decision to raise a daughter and marry, I assumed the responsibilities of giving Chloe the best life she can possibly have. We have plans to travel and live abroad, but admittedly, we will plan to live in areas that are “safe” and socially sound, instead of risking ourselves and our cleanliness as we might’ve done if we didn’t have a little one in tow. Now when we peruse emigration possibilities, our interests settle on places like Australia (duh), Italy, Spain, Ireland, and Greece instead of India, South Korea, Peru, or South Africa as they were a few years ago. I feel myself pulling back into my eliticism and I’ve been struggling very hard not to hate myself for subscribing to such a spoiled, self-centered/serving mentality in this new domestic life I’ve obtained.

In my depression, my mind first begins to convince me that I am worthless, usually by pointing out that I give nothing to society. Recently, this has been really pulling at my conscience as I find myself staying at home and watching my daughter day in and out, only emerging to replenish our household needs or attempt to sell someone something for the purpose of making a little money. Most days, I am embarassed to be so “kept” and comfortable when there are people starving and struggling to stay alive in regions of the world I have never visited. Even moreso, I am ashamed that my mind is convincing me to consider suicide when I have so very much to be grateful for and live a life of luxury that many cannot fathom. It’s enough inner-turmoil to drive a person insane.

In my search for purpose and peace, I’ve decided to take a new route with my service and understanding of the world. Instead of whining that I can’t contribute to the world at large, I’m taking action larger than I have before. Usually, I’m pretty charitable in general; I give blood every 6 weeks, I donate money regularly to CASA, I rescue kittens and find homes for them, I buy $1 umbrellas to keep in my car and hand to those trapped out in the rain as I’m driving around, at Christmas I choose a child from one of the McDonald’s Angel Trees and go on a shopping spree for everything on their wish lists (this usually maxes out my credit card because I LOVE shopping for kids.) These things make me feel useful and helpful within my community and yet, I still feel completely disconnected from the sort of aching and despair that I’ve read and heard about for the entirety of my life. I still feel like a social fat cat, sitting in my palace, sprinkling my spare change on those who are begging to stay alive. Gross.

So, I’m making some changes. I’m starting small and starting with myself. For a few weeks, I’m assuming a diet of 1 cup of beans, rice, OR oatmeal for every meal, to better understand hunger and what it means to not have the option of more. (I won’t be weighing myself, by the way, so this isn’t some gimmick for weight-loss.) I’m not naive enough to believe that I will have a complete understanding of hunger and loss during or after this experiment, being that I will be enjoying these meals with my family in a heated house with the option to eat more if I decide to, but I hope the monotony and time away from culinary indulgences will lend me even a little bit of perspective. Additionally, I’ll be limiting my indulgences on a number of levels. I’m the queen of indulging myself to make myself feel better, always making time for a nap if I feel I “just can’t handle things”, or having a once-monthly cigarette “to treat myself”, or snacking on something calorie-laden after a rough day “because I deserve it” and, naturally, none of these things actually make me feel any better about myself. (I know, this is painfully obvious to most people.) Sure, momentarily a nap makes me feel luxurious and pampered, a cigarette makes me relax, and eating icing from the can makes me shudder with chocogasm, but in the long run, they haven’t strengthened me and have turned me into this self-indulgent wuss. I’ve gotta change that if I’m going to grow. It’s seriously overdue by at least a half-decade. So I’m also cutting out my leisure time spent on the Internet, flipping through vapid magzines, and watching mindless television. I’m stripping my life down to simple pleasures and finding purpose and contentment in tasks and routine. It’s a life I’ve always admired and it offers me no chance of escaping into hours of mindless facebook/celebrity-site-stalking or “Desperate Housewives” reruns on Lifetime or reading about Heidi and Spencer eloping in US Weekly (ugh.) I want to be happy and content with being organically, soberly alive and I feel certain I’ve got to strip myself of all my typical, habitual diversions for a while in order to do that. Finally.

I know, it seems like a rather selfish mission with a few ulterior motives, but isn’t everyone’s humble quest to better themselves a little selfish inherently? Even Mother Teresa worked to serve others, but she still took time to focus on herself and better herself as a person, if only to be a better servant. Meher Baba declared “Mastery in Servitude” to be his movement’s motto in 1938 and many flocked to his beliefs in hopes of finding salvation through giving. I don’t think these leaders were wrong in their methods for self-actualization. To me, it’s all about learning to love yourself and learning to give to/love others all at the same time. I think it’s all cyclical and, mostly,  I know that I can’t be of any service if I’m not a functioning, capable tool.  [Insert "tool" joke here.] 

Also, I’ve finally stopped making excuses and have adopted a child through Compassion which I’ve always heard is very reputable and a great overall organization. Although I’m not necessarily fond of the whole missionary/Christian/bible-thumping-agenda tie-in, I like that they have a longstanding healthy relationship with each country involved and a dependable history in general. I’m sponsoring a 15-year old girl in Peru who enjoys listening to rock music, playing volleyball and reading… So maybe I’m playing favorites a little. However, I wanted to choose a girl who was right in the throes of adolescence as those are the years girls in Peru (and other povertous countries) tend to drop out of school and turn to alternative employment. I like the idea of giving her the creative outlets and an opportunity for a voice that I was awarded when I needed it in my teens and, while I’m sure I won’t be able to save her or anything, I feel like I’m doing something important for someone outside my little American bubble. That’s brought me a little peace already.

Those are among the new steps I’m making to get out of my head, find some sanity/purpose and work on a global scale. Like Ed Norton’s character Sheldon Mopes says in Death to Smoochy, “You can’t change the world, but you can make a dent.” I’d like to start working on my dent, which seems like a better new direction than the ones I’ve been trying to find something tangible and alive to focus on.

I don’t expect this to revolutionize my soul or create some newfound energy in me where I want to conquer the world a la Winfrey, but I hope that this small meditation and change in my habits will give me a place to stand firmly and rebuild some sense of self. I feel optimistic.