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.

NOTE: As previously mentioned earlier this year, I promise not to turn this into one of “those blogs” where I constantly talk about my eating habits or weight loss. Not only is it pathetic, but it’s also boring.

In the spirit of my New Life and New Changes campaign, I decided it was high time to get myself back on Weight Watchers. I’m not gonna lie here; this summer I went cah-razygoNUTS. It all started in early July when I said, “I think I’m going to celebrate summer by having a week of ice cream!” It sounded like one of those things you dream about doing as a kid and put on that List of Things to Do When I Grow Up and Can Do Whatever I Want to execute when there’s not a parent around to monitor your every move. (Although that usually changes to stuff like beer for breakfast by the time one finds his/her first freedoms.) And I figured it wouldn’t really do any harm as long as I kept it in moderation…

… Unfortunately, I completely forgot about my inability to do anything with moderation, which is weird because I base all my daily habits around that idea and how it’s previously ruined my life… I guess I thought that because ice cream never landed anyone in rehab, I’d be okay with a little overindulgence. Anyway, two scoops of ice cream a day turned into a giant cup, which then turned into a daily Reese’s Sonicblast. So, when I realized I needed to curb that a little, I decided to, instead, treat myself to a large Cherry Sprite every Friday (it’s like Happy Hour for sober people! And between 2 and 4 p.m. it’s only a dollar! Whee!) And again, this slowly morphed into a cherry Sprite every Monday (on my way to meditation) AND Friday and then an ice cream on Wednesday and sometimes Saturday and even a fully-loaded Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger a quarter of the time. (Although I never once ordered fries. That has to count for something, right?) And before I knew it, I had a straight up sugar-and-gross-fats addiction for a solid 6 weeks.

Now, admittedly, I did this with the full knowledge and acceptance of what I was doing and how it was going to negatively affect me. One of the things I loathe is how people (especially Americans) put on weight because they eat like sumo wrestlers and then start acting like victims of some imaginary system that’s shoving crap down their throats. So I decided not to be like that and own up to any weight gain or breakouts that would inevitably occur because of my deliberate decisions. Somehow that made the whole thing seem a little bit more sane and self-controlled… Although it might just be more mindgames I’m playing on myself. Ah well.

Anyway, somehow, despite 6 WEEKS of pretty-much-daily overindulgence, I only managed to put on about 6 lbs. Don’t ask me how it happened; I’m just grateful. In the stress of the move, we just went overboard on the eating-crap-constantly because we didn’t have time to make anything and we didn’t want to shop for anything perishable if we were just going to lose it in boxes for a week. (When my friend came over to help us pack the house, I repaid her by giving her 85% of the contents in her fridge/freezer. She left with two boxes of stuff.)

Now that we’re settled in, however, it seems like a perfect time to start some habits like making a real, balanced, dinner every night (something I’ve postponed long enough and want Chloe to grow up with and count on every day like I did. I think my parents may have ordered a pizza once annually until I was 13, but I don’t remember any of those times. We went to Taco Bell or Wendy’s a couple times a month, but usually for lunch or after dance practice when we’d had time to work it off.) and keeping fresh fruit in the house (which means making weekly trips to the grocery store. Something else I’ve been avoiding… usually I can go 10-14 days before the bananas, bread, and milk run out.) And Weight Watchers is just one of those ways that I can keep myself in check without wanting to abandon within days. This is due not only to the leniency and mentality of “trying to change your lifestyle vs. dieting” aspect of the WW plan but also because I’m not apt to bail on something I’ve paid good money for. And frankly, I’m amazed with how much I can eat when I’m making good decisions, which sounds so cheesy and cliche but is totally true. If I wanted to, I could eat something like 35 large peaches a day (no, literally) on the specific plan I’m on… not that that sounds balanced or interesting but it could be done! Same with strawberries, blueberries, carrots, apples… Suffice to say that grazing all day on fresh fruit and veggies hardly seems like a miserable “Celery and Cabbage Soup ONLY!” diet most people seem to resort to, although I guess this has a lot to do with my considering fresh produce one of the luxury of being Southern in the summertime. (If nothing else, it certainly makes putting up with the heat and humidity seem worthwhile.) This time on WW, I’m totally milking it and have printed out every recipe that looks remotely interesting and even started separate WW recipe binders marked “Easy” “Moderate” and “Hard” that I’ve individually divided by course and meal contents… Because I’m a dork. I recognize this. But basically, I’m getting their overpriced cookbooks for the price of ink and that works for me. Aside from getting ideas for healthy eating (I’m clueless to anything past salads), I’m also learning how to cook in general, which is sad considering that I have a mother who cooks extensively daily, I’m 26 fer Chrissakes, and I do love to eat. But still. I’m happy about it and it seems like a perfect time to start new habits. I’ve reset my goal weight and hope to achieve it by Thanksgiving-ish but it’s not my top priority, believe it or not.

(Again, I promise not to talk about it much since I don’t want to be one of “those bloggers” who chronicles her weight loss like she’s making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. It doesn’t take courage to lose weight. I’m sorry; it just doesn’t. Sure, changing your habits and your life is something to be proud of for sure, but it’s not a huge accomplishment to treat your body the way it’s supposed to be treated. Running a marathon or being able to run 5 miles in 30 minutes deserves praise, sure. But doing stuff that normal people do every day like getting basic activity or not eating Cheetos and soda constantly doesn’t garner any respect from me. At all.)

And I’m feeling pretty good about everything until yesterday when I decided to try making Chicken Breast with Honey-Balsamic Glaze. I swear I can’t go a week without some sort of ridiculous, intolerable ache or pain. As I was pouring this still-boiling glaze over the chicken with a filtered ladle and moving it over to the sink, a tiny drip hit the pad of my index finger and gave me the single worst burn I’ve ever had in my life. I hate to whine because it’s only the size of a dime but Jesus Christ it effing hurt. I have a whole new level of respect for burn victims now. I felt a few layers of skin peel away immediately and bubble into a yummy oozing blister and for the next three hours, my hand hurt to the bone. I’m not exaggerating. The generalized ache spread over to my middle finger and thumb and I was in that constant state of “OH GOD!” for at least the first hour. (I was proud of myself for limiting my coarse language to “OH GOD!”s and “OOWWWW!”s. I’m working hard on cleaning up my language around Chloe as I’m flippantly foul-mouthed even by adult standards - which is increasingly trashier the older I get - so I think this was a notable occasion.) After I figured out that a handful of ibuprofen, reapplying aloe cream frequently and changing the physical position of my arm every few minutes was helpful, it got better but again, OWwwwww-ah!

I really don’t mean to whine about it like it’s something major. Again, I’m now in awe of those people who survived house or car fires, explosions, chemical burns or even motorcycle muffler burns. I had a tiny second degree burn on a relatively tough part of my skin and was in agony for hours, so I don’t even want to try to wrap my mind around the idea something bigger than that. Makes me want to start donating skin for grafting or something.

And honestly, I’m fine. It’s a little achy today and I have a massive bandage on it that’s caused me to spend at least twice the time typing this than it usually would’ve taken. But I’m perfectly okay. No ER visit, no fear of going into shock, nothing more than an hour of elevated heart-rate, sweating, and pain. Just like labor, but smaller and more concentrated.

Um, despite my ever-present search for a lesson or sign in this I just don’t think there is one. Except for the obvious “Be careful”… unless this is a sign that I should stick to pasta and canned chicken, which I’m not willing to settle for.

But I am a little leery to jump back on board, especially considering I got this recipe from my “Easy” folder. Maybe I’m better off with tomato sandwiches and yogurt smoothies for a while.

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.)

Don’t worry; I’m not going to turn this into one of those obnoxious weight-loss chronicling blogs where I whine about my progress every entry and try to convince myself and my readers that raspberry-flavored water is just as delicious as Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. I’m not even going to take a lot of time to discuss my past and my extensive struggles with my weight and body and self-image all that yackety-schmack that might as well be a scripted daily refrain for American under the age of 60. Gross.

HOWEVER, after 12-ish years of being self conscious and loathing the way I look and gaining and losing the same 30 lbs redundantly (literally about 9-10 times in the last ten years), I’ve surrendered to the notion that I have no discipline to make an actual lifestyle change [versus just "going on a diet"] and I’ve signed up for Weight Watchers.

Le sigh

Even though I’m overweight (this is not news, by the way), the stigma of going to such a stereotypically ridiculous length within the weight-loss industry is more of a punishment than having to shop for 10’s and 12’s. As weird as it sounds, I’m kinda excited about having someone hold me accountable for my actions each week and trying something new that I’m less likely to screw up.

Additionally, I’ve banded together with one of my friends on the West Coast and started a blog community between the two of us to compare notes, send inspiration, track our progress, etc.

The biggest thing for me is going to be maintaining a healthy diet and making healthy choices a part of my daily life. I’ve always been really really great at cutting calories and working out for the purpose of weight-loss, but the second I reach my goal weight, I topple off the wagon and immediately blow back up all over again. And thus the cycle of self-deprecation perpetuates. Ick.

Anyway, I’m not going to delve into how much weight I want to lose or how much I already have or any of the boring details surrounding such. I’ve been working out daily in the hopes of signing myself up for a[n actual] 5k [Stop laughing!] by the end of the year, which keeps me moving forward. After the first week, the daily cardio started feeling rejuvenating and energizing instead of exhausting, which was a definite welcome change. I’m not putting myself on a regimen or a deadline; I’m just trying to push myself a little each day and see how I feel in about 6 months. I think this is healthier than pressuring myself to look a certain way or run a certain speed while I’m first starting off. Maybe after 6 months I’ll restructure my goals, but I’m just focusing on daily progress, which is what’s worked for my sobriety… okay, I’m rambling.

Anyway. Yes. Getting healthier. Signed up for Weight Watchers. Kinda embarrassed about this. Still optimistic.

Dear Universe,

In Sera Beak’s The Red Book she talks about building’s one spirituality not so much like a buffet, where you pick and choose only the things you like and leave the stuff you don’t, but more like crafting a charm bracelet that supports your character, challenges you and gives you strength against life’s inevitable obstacles. I quite like this idea.

So I’m copying it. Both literally and figuratively (and completely shamelessly.)

Trouble is, it’s harder to come across charms of things than I’d planned just perusing Etsy and Ebay. So I’m releasing a small list of the totems/images I want to put on this charm bracelet in hopes that in giving these to You, I’ll come across these icons with greater ease, either at reduced prices at a bead or craft store, simply by finding them, or as a gift. Any or all are welcome and appreciated.

For example, I’d been thinking about my Spirit Guide for a while and realized that I hadn’t called my bear (the one I discovered when I was lead through meditation at 12 years old) into my company in a while. I went to my weekly meditation and the minister brought a bag of charms to the group that she had acquired in Cherokee, NC while on retreat. She told us to select one and we’d research the symbolic meanings of this animal and naturally, I pulled the bear. Time to reset and get back to my roots, it seems.

So here’s the list. On my tangible charm bracelet I’d like to add the following in any form other than gold, please:

The Number 4
This number always makes strong appearances in my life when I need to redirect my focus toward my foundations and habits. It represents stability and tradition, which I like to abandon but find structure and success within, ultimately. (Four Agreements, Four Seasons, and Four Directions being most important in this icon to me.)

A Sun
My cards tell me repeatedly that this is the role I play in my life. It’s intimidating and I spent many years denying it or spitting in God’s eye at such a notion. It’s time to be grateful for it. Plus, it’s the part of “Demon Days” that I like to repeat to myself in tough times:

Turn yourself ’round;
don’t burn yourself!
Turn yourself around to the Sun!
To the Sun!
To the Sun!

A Sacred/Burning Heart
Preferably not as shown connected to Jesus, in the style of milagro. The image for me means something different entirely and is my pledge to “let my light shine” instead of grappling with it or trying to change it or forcing myself to shine when I’m not supposed to.

A Cross
Not that I agree with symbolizing the place where Jesus bit it, necessarily (I think we should symbolize him in the tomb where he supposedly rose again. Isn’t that what makes him significant in the first place?), but being that this is the most common image of such a great teacher, I do want to include it.

The Goddess
Also a habit of cycles in 4’s, the Moon Goddess appeals to my feminine side and calls my hormones around monthly, bringing new perspectives and new beginnings.

An Elephant
My favorite animal and a global sign for luck.

A Bear
I know I said I have one of this significant totem animal, but I worry about the clarity and durability of the one I received from my minister. It’ll hold a special place on my altar, but one with more resilience would be appreciated.

A Water-Bearer
I’m an Aquarius/Capricorn cusp, but I tend to resonate better and more frequently with the water sign. I like the image of Poseidon bearing water, but I’m partial to mermaids to begin with. I’m happy with whatever I receive.

I promise not to get too overwhelmed with this, but enjoy the idea of a gentle reminder of my guides and icons once in a while. Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter.

Sincerely,
Castallare

… 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.