Recently, I have been emotionally distraught over the disgusting act of cruelty that happened to Constance McMillan. I cannot understand how, 40 years after the Civil Rights Movement began, we are still teaching each other that it is alright to hate others because they are different or because we don’t agree with them. I cannot understand how Christians really believe they are doing God’s work by lying about His supposed hatred with someone else and how they could think that treating His children like this would be an effective way to encourage them to attend their churches.

Anyway, I could go on and on about how sick this is, how wrong this is, how I hope Constance is listening more to those who are sending her love and support than to those idiots who are trying to get her to hate them back and how I hope she knows that she is perhaps the strongest teenager I’ve ever heard of for going up against an entire town and enduring this with grace. And I could especially go on about how I dread the day that I will have to explain, with shame and embarrassment, that people actually humiliated, beat and killed other people simply because they wanted to love someone that other people didn’t agree with, much like how my parents explained Segregation to me.

However, I think The Bloggess did this topic the most justice with far more poise and eloquence than I could so I’ll send you in that direction and work on trying to forgive these hateful people in my own heart.

My point in posting this particular entry is simply to state this:

In 2000, I attended the Soccastee High School prom with a girl. There were no questions asked. There were no raised eyebrows. There were no death threats. There was no press coverage. There was no picketing, no rallying, no angry parents screaming about how we were evil and wrong. There was only a prom in a small town in South Carolina where everyone did the same things that all teenagers do at proms across the country - got nervous beforehand, ate at a restaurant while way overdressed, danced a little, talked about what everyone else was wearing, got drunk afterward, perhaps lost their virginities, etc.

Whether or not we attended the prom together as friends or as lovers was never asked of us by anyone. Nobody pointed and laughed when we had our picture taken together. Nobody made snide remarks under their breath. Nobody stopped and stared when we went out on the dance floor together. It was peaceful. It was normal.

This was ten years ago in a state that only took the Confederate flag off their capital building a month later.

My point is that there is hope. Just like in any group of people, the loudmouthed, ignorant idiots cannot be expected to define the whole bunch.

Although it is rare in any region, I was raised in a family that believed in unconditional love. My parents and grandparents taught me to be colorblind, to ignore others’ social statuses, to believe in the goodness of people without smothering them with stereotypes before I’ve even met them. In my house, anyone was welcome around our family’s dinner table as long as they used their manners and didn’t smoke or drink in the house. My family taught me to forgive people who wanted to hate me and judge me and make my life difficult because they thought I was different. They taught me not to fight hatred with hatred and how I would be a better, more peaceful person if I learned to forgive and love. My parents told me that this is what Jesus taught and that’s why they were proud to call themselves Christian. I don’t think they ever thought that hatred was an option, even though I’m sure they were tempted on a daily basis.

This is what I was taught to believe. This is what I intend to instill in my child(ren).
I am not unique because of these traits. And I am Southern, too.

In this exhausting, cathartic, havoc-wreaking, daily-self-inventory-and-renovation I’ve been undertaking since I actively started working on recovery a few years ago (I might’ve mentioned it here… a few times…) I’ve had to dig out a lot of personal muck (usually of the self-induced variety), filter it, clean it and then put it back in my foundation where it belongs. It’s been pretty taxing and has lead to what seems to be an unending series of epiphanies about me as a person but, for the most part, I’ve been able to look at it all, deal with it accordingly and then move on when the time is right.

As it should be, I think.

But in the last couple years, it has become more and more obvious that I wasn’t just a terrible person when I was drinking or in my throes of depression or even when I started adolescence, as I’d first suspected when coming out of my drink-driven stupor. In fact, in the last six or so months, I slowly became aware that there might not’ve been a time in my life before a few years ago when I wasn’t completely self-involved, malicious, spiteful, wrathful, jealous, insecure and pathologically dishonest. And that stings way worse than the thought that I had an illness or even an addiction to hide behind.

I’ve discussed this ad nauseum (so if you’ve read anything on this blog before now, feel free to skip this paragraph because you’ve probably heard me talk about this ten times minimum) but, basically, I sobered up and started trying to figure out this whole mental illness-cum-self loathing lifestyle I’d clung to for the better part of a decade because I realized that I sucked to be around to everyone, especially myself. And I kinda went about all the follow-up work (making amends, identifying my flaws, addressing my insecurities, avoiding the catalysts/antagonists) in hopes that, eventually, it would chip away at this character my addiction and illness had created and reveal the bright, polished, pure person I used to be way back in the life I could no longer remember, mentally or emotionally. That was kind of the end goal- I wash away all the muck so I could get back down to basics and start rebuilding from there.

But what really happened was that I started making amends and looking at my flaws objectively and doing the really embarrassing/humbling work of raking myself over the coals to find out what the hell I was doing and try to fix it all, only to realize that my original foundation was made of crap to begin with.

I know that sounds really harsh because, for Christ’s sake, I was just a kid when the depression really started setting in. (I can remember my first episodes at 11, which is still “childhood” for me, I guess.) But even before that, I was never a nurturing, compassionate child. I was bossy and domineering and totally self-centered and brutal and meeeaaaan. Good Lord, I was mean.

Don’t think this is me just feeling sorry for myself or blowing typical childhood cruelty out of proportion; when I had this epiphany, I spent a good while going “No, that can’t be right. You’ve had friends since you were a kid; surely you didn’t suck that much. You’re just in a funk. Go walk it off and come back and look at this more objectively.” And, after a ton of deliberation it seems that this isn’t just a fluke.

I was manipulative and dishonest for as far back as I can remember. I can remember bullying other kids and enjoying taunting people who made me feel weak and imperfect as early as preschool. I can remember saying horrible things to and about other people at every age. I can’t remember doing selfless or unprompted kind things for those around me at all… not even once. And what’s worse is that I can’t remember doing anything really kind or selfless for my siblings at any time during my childhood, which is something that really tears me up to think about, to be honest. I could go on but, truthfully it hurts a bit too much. The point is that the evidence is present and clear. These are the things that were only magnified once the hormones and disease kicked in later on.

And, yes, okay, I’ve realized and explained where all my chronic meanness came from before now. I totally get it. I was so insecure and was so certain that someone was going to jump out and mentally assault me (which, incidentally, happened a number of times) that I preemptively did it to as many people as I could in hopes that… ::sigh:: it would make me feel better? I could beat everyone to the punch? Who even fucking knows? It’s all very textbook. It’s all very pathetic. I know. I get it.  And, as aforementioned, the worst part was that I honestly thought I was so insignificant that the awful things I said and did to people couldn’t possibly have any sort of repercussions because who the hell cared what I had to say? I didn’t. And, as blathered about for a few years now via this blog, this is what I’ve had the privilege of wading through and sorting out in my search for sanity and a better, cleaner, lighter soul. So far, it’s been working.

But now, at the bottom of all of it, when I make deliberate actions and I’m fully accountable and responsible for everysinglething that I do or say or think and I don’t do anything or say anything I don’t mean, I find that there’s not anything else that’s left for me to work with. There’s no real memory of anything likeable about me from before I was some sort of monster and I feel like I’m sort of grappling at straws while having to deal with this awful realization that the reason I was so eager to escape my reality to begin with was that I’d always just sucked to be around since I was like, 3.

Ouch. Didn’t see that coming.

Now my personal recovery is not just about knocking down all the rubble and shaking it off my limbs but it’s also trying to figure out likable aspects of myself as a base skeleton.

Shit. I don’t have the energy for all this. Wouldn’t it be easier just to do an Etch-A-Sketch restart where we shake it clear, pretend it never happened and start over?

And, of course, more than half of my problem with this realization is the utter grief and remorse I have for being that person and not realizing it up until now. Naturally, this is the part that I’m honestly trying not to assault myself with the hardest but it’s proving to be nearly impossible - seriously, who wants to think that they were never a genuinely nice person at any point in their youth? I just have to keep reminding myself that rolling around in the muck isn’t going to help me get clean. (I love cliches. Thanks, Aldous Huxley!)

But still, there’s a level of defeat and frustration to this huge realization that I’ve been working to fend off in order to keep moving forward. I guess I had always figured that, if nothing else, I had a real pure Self under there that I was hoping to recover and reconnect with once I got my Demon Era properly handled and filed away. Problem is, it looks like this going to be more of a discovery/construction mission than a reconnaissance one and I’m not sure I packed the right tools.

Liz Pardue-Schultz

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!

The thing about being one of those people who doesn’t believe in mere coincidence is that it makes it impossible to ever ignore my current circumstances. This Thanksgiving, to my terror, I took a second or seven to zoom out and get a screengrab of The Big Picture to find that it was painfully obvious that I’m exactly where I am because I’m destined for something effing massive.

Whoa, hang on. Don’t think I’m getting all egomaniacal here because this actually applies to you, too. However, being that I can’t speak on anyone’s [mental] behalf other than myself, I’m limited to a self-reflective angle from which to pontificate. Surprise surprise.

Let’s look at the bare facts:
Literal millions of people have worked for thousands of years to give me the life I have right now. Suffragettes were beaten and imprisoned so I can vote. Architects spent years smoothing out designs to give me affordable housing. Agriculturalists of every type have spent decades providing me with access to fresh, top-quality food of every variety from around the globe that is delivered within moments of my house. Thousands of hands have worked to create pretty things for me to hang in my closet. A bunch of crazy radicals who’d just had enough of their oppressive theocratic home country climbed aboard a tiny boat and moved to North America and begat a whole other group of crazy radicals who waged a grassroots war and started a whole new country so I can have the right to choose my own religion and say whatever the hell it is I want to say. Scientists and their research assistants spent decades perfecting treatments for potentially deadly diseases so I could be treated for various ailments and make it to the age of 26 without any major scares. Some dude sent his intern out in a thunderstorm with a key tied to a kite so he could learn about electricity so I can have refrigerated food and pay my bills online and can stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Hell, another guy tried 3000 times to make a light bulb so I can see what I’m doing at night. Someone else built a bed for me, someone else (the guy with the key and the kite) decided to give everyone in my country a free education, someone else invented an automobile that would take me across 2,000 miles in just a couple days, someone else researched the inner workings of the human mind and developed a way to talk it into functionality, someone else invented a system of symbols that would allow me to communicate with other people on a sheet of paper, someone else figured out how to boil wood and turn it into paper… The list goes way way on. And it’s pretty damned staggering, actually.

If I stop and look at all these incredible luxuries that have been provided for me to exist from day to day, it’s kind of overwhelming to think about how many people spent thousands of years slowly molding the world around me to be exactly right for my life at this exact moment, all wrought with comfort and access and privilege.

And then there are the more specific, “luck”-based facts of my life. I live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world where even the homeless can find a meal and even panhandlers can make $50,000 a year in small cities. I live in a time where communication with the globe is second nature and a wealth of information literally sits in the palm of our hands every day. I live in an era where women are taken seriously in the workplace and as intelligent beings (except to idiots, but who gives a shit?) and people of all races live among each other. How convenient.

When I step back and think about the odds of my having arrived right here, right now, as this person, with this particular life, I can’t help but note how incredibly small my chances would be of rolling the same die again.

But I really started realizing something was definitely up when I zoomed in a little closer and looked at my Specifics. I was born into a middle-class, Southern family with two college-educated parents who are not bigoted in any regard and were - for the most part - able to teach me morals, manners and compassion. I have three siblings whose intelligence has been tested in the “Above Average” zone since kindergarten and who have always remained healthy. I have survived numerous insanely dangerous situations, including a botched suicide attempt and a handful of evenings where I drove or attended shady parties/events by myself while in a days-long drunken blackout. I accidentally became pregnant while in the only healthy, sane, happy relationship I’d ever been in. I was approached and “adopted” by my AA sponsor when I was 20 years old, thus giving me the tools to combat my penchant for constant overembibing at an early enough age so that I didn’t ruin my entire existence. And frankly, I never had a traumatic childhood. I mean, yeah, there’s dysfunction I’ve seen that I can speak candidly about but there was no dark familial abuse, no alcoholism or addiction in my immediate family… in fact, I never once rode the school bus to or from school and my mom was still packing me a lunch in the 12th grade. Suffice to say, things were alright for me on a fundamental level. (We’re leaving out all the mental fuckery and how I used to habitually screw up all sorts of good things because of my self-sabotaging needs for now, enkay?)

I seem to have a good deal of luck on my side.

With all of this genuinely incredible evidence sitting in front of me it slowly started to sink in that maybe the Universe had “conspired to shower me with all these blessings” (as repeated repeatedly in Rob Breszny’s Pronoia) for more than just show. I mean, seriously, what are the odds?

And no matter how I might sit around and doubt myself and get all whiny about my abilities (which I still believe may be severely lacking outside my knowledge) and my pathetic floundering with self-worth, the evidence that the Universe isn’t paying attention to my petty excuses and has already clearly decided I’m worthy of Importance and a Big Purpose is unavoidable. And for someone like me who focuses so much on the “Attitude of Gratitude” (ugh… AA cliches) it would seem incredibly hypocritical not to recognize these gifts for what they are and maybe not squander them.

This is not to say I know exactly what this Great Purpose actually is at the moment but I really should trust that if the Universe helped me out so much up to this point, it obviously will let me know what The Plan is when I need to. And I’d be a real shithead if I said, “Yeah, thanks for all the awesomeness you’ve worked for thousands of years to surround me with, but I’m really just not up for whatever it is you have in mind as a way for me to return the favor. Thanks, though.”

So this year at Thanksgiving, the list of Things I’m Thankful For really became more of a “List of Reasons Why I Should Push Myself Toward Excellence with the Reckless Abandon of Someone About to Die.” I even sat down and wrote a massive list of things I’m genuinely grateful for that are even more reason why I shouldn’t settle for mediocrity and why my life is honest-to-God Important in a big way (heaps of these reasons coincide with others’ but, again, I can’t talk for err’body.)

Sickeningly, like a crazy postmodern gag-gift from God, the rush of warmth, comfort and incredible motivation I found from this List of Gifts was the thing I’m most grateful for this year.

Oh, the aftertaste of saccharin and sentiment.

I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year and THIS YEAR I plan on actually going all the way with it. (I’ve started about 3 times before but never made it past week 2.) The only problem is that, unlike other years, I don’t even have a premise and am pretty sure I’m going to sit down and ramble for 50,000 words, which won’t really make me feel like I’ve actually accomplished the goal. I mean, I ramble for 50,000 words every month as is; shouldn’t I at least try to make it into some sort of story arc? But then, there’s a reason I’ve never made plans to write a novel and that’s because I don’t really want to write a novel because I don’t think I’m the Novel-Writer-type so much as the Essay-and-Short-Story-Writer-type. Could be interesting. Maybe I’ll take a couple spoonfuls of NyQuil and let a premise come to me…

Anyway, yes. That’s happening. (The NaNoWriMo thing. Not the NyQuil thing.) And I’m trying to drum up business. And I’m halfway through my first book from my 15 Months of Canon Project. And I’m jumping back on the Weight Watchers Wagon, ’cause that’s been shot all to hell this month.

And that’s what’s up.

I hate Adam Levine. Not because I loathe his music (although I do) or I think his band is overrated (again, I do), but because that sonofabitch has looked dead into the eye of an interviewer and, without so much as a hint of irony, stated, “I believe Maroon 5 is the greatest band in the world.” And instead of being laughed out of the industry, he turned around and had even more millions of fans support such a ridiculous statement that completely validated this delusion that he happily resides within and effing profits from. What a jackass.

But honestly, I kind of want that. I want to be so full of myself and so fully subscribed to this delusional myth of myself that I just hurl myself forward, so convinced of my own greatness that I just arrogantly laugh at those who would dare to question me. And I want to be able to do all this and actually be successful solely because of it.

That’s the thing. We all know those completely delusional people who believe themselves to be brilliantly talented musicians or actors or whatever who are simply audacious in their grandeur self-proclamations of greatness who, really, aren’t that good. They may be “talented” in that they can play an instrument or recite lines, but they aren’t actually creating anything new and different that would render them an “artist”. Nevertheless, they plow forward with their juvenile, inflated sense of their own self importance, brushing off those of us who think they’re insane and pompous and holding themselves with what can never be confused with simple humble confidence. It’s gross.

But the woooorst part is when those idiots go on and somehow become wildly successful and have all these legions of people who stand behind them and go “Yes! Yes you ARE the greatest artist/architect/singer/model this world has ever seen!” and, thus, they find vindication for their mentality and success. And, because art is totally subjective, who am I to argue with the bazillions of fans who are busy convincing Adam Levine or Avril Lavigne (heh, they rhyme) or Nickelback or Creed or Limp Biskit or Amy Poehler or Slipknot or Flo Rida or Scarlett Johansson or Kid Rock or Jimmy Fallon that all their arrogance wasn’t for naught? These people, in all their egomaniacal bliss, have been given exactly what they wanted, all from being delusional.

And, even though it’s really annoying to be around one of those types of pretentious douchenozzles, there’s a part of me that really really wants their ability. I want the ability to convince myself that I’m undeniably awesome and that everyone who thinks otherwise is just socially, intellectually stunted and “One day they’ll see! One day they’ll appreciate me for the great forward-thinking genius I really am!” and just plow forward in my convictions. And even if I never find success with my apparent genius, then I will live happily in the assumption that I’m a real bohemian who is before my time and will only be revered in my postmortem career.

God, wouldn’t that be nice? Just to eliminate all that doubt and fear with a genuine sense of insane arrogance? It would get rid of all that time I waste on hesitation and kicking myself when I get rejected and really just pave new paths for me. I mean, even if people effing hate being around me and my Kanye-esque mentality (not behavior) there are bound to be sheeplike people who will totally buy whatever I’m saying and believing because that’s just what people do when there’s someone out there who’s completely convinced of their own awesomeness, even if that idol has no effing idea what they’re doing. (Oprah, anyone?) And with that diva-like (HAAATE that word) egomania, I’ll become this great self-fulfilling prophesy, able to convince others that they SHOULD think I’m awesome or else they’re just a bunch of morons with no taste. What an incredible trait/ability/feat.

The problem with that is that it’d be a lie for me and I’d feel like I was playing a part. I know I’d constantly be going “Why are these people listening to me? Do they have no minds from which to draw their own conclusions?” and then I’d start resenting my fans for being sheep… but not as much as I’d hate myself for feeling like my entire professional persona is just a big lie that doesn’t represent who I really am, and what kind of life is that?

So, I’ll keep trudging along in this hyper-self-conscious/aware creative process I’ve set out for myself and I’ll continue to spend weeks talking myself into submitting work that my friends have told me is really pretty good. Because at least that’s who I am and how I feel most comfortable functioning. At least from that point I can write from some sense of genuine self-actualization without having to create some self-inflated alter ego to speak for me.

I dunno, maybe I’ll at least make an effort to not immediately assume those who give me positive feedback are just being nice or have no idea what they’re talking about…
Baby steps.

(I actually loathe that song but I’m short on time and creativity for a witty, related entry title.)

TASKS COMPLETED SO FAR THIS WEEK
* Tried this public theology thing again
* Spent [the boring] half of worship service trying to get the Bear to stop screaming in terror at being left in the nursery.
* Sent letter to minister Re: his need to perpetuate the myth that women are frigid, manipulative nuns and are the exclusive reason husbands deal with sexual frustration.
* Plan to return to community church again next week.
* Wrote press release and press kit for SC CARES. as an ad hoc PR guy.
* Called and updated owner/manager of SC-CARES to let her know I hadn’t forgotten about her.
* Set up official “Consultant” status with Passion Parties, Inc.
* Set up personal, company-based Passion Parties webstore
(User-friendly URL to be purchased and released after this weekend.)
* Set up business email.
* Set up presence on business message board.
* Read a million different materials about starting up my personal business chapter.
* “Attended” business-related conference call.
* Shopped extensively for tantalizing-yet-tasteful marketing materials (business cards, etc.) to no avail.
* Sent a sample of my favorite marketing image to about 10 friends, asking if it would look like I was running an escort service instead of a sex-toy distribution service.
* Received emails pretty much saying, “It’s a hot image but yeah, in Smalltown USA, you’re going to be known as ‘The Lady Pimp’ if you hand those out.”
* Assembled press kits and addressed them to some 20-ish media sources.
* Purchased Tinkerbell costume for the Bear’s Halloween.
* Sent a friend a kind, unsolicited package because I’m a nice effing person, dammit.
* Wrote and sent sponsored Peruvian child a “hello!” letter.
* Deposited a check wearing only men’s boxers and a wifebeater.
* Implemented Phase 2 of my Great Snail-Mail-Based Prank on one unsuspecting friend.
* Relayed messages between my old volleyball coach and my former teammates about the time and date of the Homecoming Alumnae Volleyball Game this Friday.
* Then relayed more messages about everyone’s t-shirt sizes.
* Then laughed with other alums who were frustrated because we never actually hear about any of this stuff unless one of our parents runs into one of our former faculty.
* Then realized that there’s a reason I haven’t voluntarily made it back to any high school functions, nor have I sought out any info about them.
* Updated and added editorials to various ongoing freelance gig websites.
* Sent invoice to said gigs.
* Realized the Bear has outgrown this diaper size after cleaning up 3 overflows in 3 days.
* Acquired “training potty” for the Bear and got into a tussle when she wouldn’t stop sitting on it - bare-assed - after 30 minutes.
* Three loads of laundry
* Two piles of dishes
* A partridge in a pear tree.

STILL TO DO THIS WEEK
* Send press kits. FINALLY.
* Restock the fridge.
* Sign contract at local theatre for December employment.
* Purchase URL for Passion Parties webstore.
* Return eight or nine phone calls.
* Upload personalized design to VistaPrint and order marketing materials.
* Make dinner for old college buddy’s Stone Soup dinner on Thursday
* Drive to Greensboro for old college buddy’s Stone Soup dinner on Thursday.
* Drive to Myrtle Beach Friday morning.
* Play in high school Alumnae Volleyball Game Friday evening. (Try not to look incompetent.)
* Attend first Homecoming football game ever. (Try to avoid people who made me contemplate homicide some 8 years ago.)
* Return on Saturday and send invitations for first Party on 18th.
* Call Blair and figure out when she’s moving to town.
* Write final “exam” piece for Second City writing class.
* Apply for credit card machine.
* Get something for the couple whose wedding we’re attending next week.
* Write my penpal (it’s long long overdue.)
* Compile package contents for my Great October Gift Exchange recipient.
* Start memorizing/learning merch, pricing and policies.
* Stave off the desire to resume my long-dormant smoking and/or drinking addictions.
* Write a blog post honestly happily discussing these newest happenings in my life and how I hope they’ll help me start working toward some of my bigger goals (going back to school, starting a small sugar scrub business, etc.)
* Bathe

To be fair, I did say that I was tired of being bored while stuck in the house with the Bear all day every day.

Honestly?

I don’t even know anymore.*

*Not that I really did, although I was convinced that I did up until about six or seven years ago. But now I’m certain that I don’t. And I don’t know where to start or if it’s even worth starting and it’s not bad and it’s not good and what it all boils down to is that I’m a giant wuss and no amount of begging the Universe for a pair of white-gold-dipped balls is actually changing that at the moment and that’s frustrating on top of everything else slowly stacking itself on each other. So, even though there’s a lot going on, there’s really nothing happening.
Because of me.
Being chickenshit.
And then hating it.
And then hating myself for hating it.

… And I’m tired. I think tired is coming in at a close second. Like, really long-term, weary, worn-out tired. It’s like I’ve spent since I was 13 overanalyzing and oversentimentalizing everything and then I ramped that up in the last few years with the mental workout of recovery and now something in my brain just finally powered down and now I don’t want to do any of it which doesn’t really help me because I’m pretty lazy when it comes right down to it but I kinda felt productive in my inactivity before now because at least I was dissecting and understanding everything but now that I’m not even doing that I’m really just not doing anything at all.

I really miss being able to blame my ineptitude on being completely out of my mind.

Today, I prayed.
Wait. That’s a lie.

Today, I begged.

It’s been an emotionally rigorous last-couple-weeks during which I’ve found myself pulling an Etch-A-Sketch redo on my mind and my thoughts and my definitions of everything and my agreements and my life and my particular existence and all that. And in the middle of all that upheaval I’m still dealing with my completeandutter feeling of hopeless lack of direction (an obligation for my immediate age, I think) that I’ve been tussling with for months now.

There’s just so many things I feel genuinely driven to do. I want to write a book, I want to sell sugar scrub, I want to make a documentary, I want to go back to school, I want to be a sex therapist, I want to have an op-ed column… All of these things I want to do in the next 10 years and I feel like I have no idea how to go about doing any of them, no particular confidence in my ability to be successful at any of them, (except the sex therapy. I’ve been giving frank, factual advice without blushing since the 6th grade. Ask anyone.) and really no idea which one God/Spirit/Universe is really calling me toward. (Although to be fair, I can always sell the sugar scrub on the side. I hope to open a stand at the local farmers market next season.) Most of the time I feel like one of those delusional “American Idol” contestants who is sitting around dreaming big with no shot of ever becoming anything anywhere close to what they envision. (No, Virginia, not all dreams come true.)

And it’s not for lack of trying to figure it out, either. I’ve meditated and prayed and read Tarot cards as a means for Spirit/God to speak with more clarity (which is usually pretty effective in dealing with everything else) and all sorts of weird rituals and centering practices to get a definite “YES!” on anything.

So today, exhausted from months of frustration on this and many other topics that have only just culminated in a bit of a meltdown and following emotional shutting-down for me, I found myself pleading with God.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve been doing really good here. And I’ve been grateful out the ass for a long time now and I rarely ask for anything for myself anymore. Sure, I ask for my daughter’s health and my husband’s inner peace and sense of self, but I can’t remember the last time I bothered you for anything personal. Not even strength or serenity or any of that. I’ve just kind of had faith that you’d give it to me and when you inevitably have, I’ve thanked you profusely. So right now I’m begging. Please. Please just give me some irrefutable message as to which direction I should go and where I should focus my energies and what sort of plans you have for me and what sort of gifts you’re willing to give me a leg up on because that’s what you made me for. Please tell me how I can best spend my life and my time and the gift of being here. Clearly. Without any room for argument. I’ll do whatever you want for me and whatever you intend and I’ll have confidence that you’ve got a plan here but I just need to know. I want to stop wasting my time running around from interest to compulsion and I want to start doing whatever the hell it is that I’m supposed to be doing right now. And, really, I think that’s what would work best for you and your plans, too. Just. Please.”

I’m not stupid enough to expect anything immediate. These sorts of things take time and I know better than to try to pressure God into anything or strike a deal with him or - as Will Truman put it - try to “punk the Almighty.”

This evening after dinner I found myself sitting on the couch watching the Emmys. I have a million things on my “To Do” list that I’ve been tackling all day and I literally have not watched the Emmys in the last decade or so. Nor have I had any desire to do so, actually. Even still, when Greg decided to go on up to bed, I told him I was interested in watching and couldn’t really provide a reason why (although at the time I was pretty sure it had a lot to do with my deep infatuation with Neil Patrick Harris combined with my desperate admiration and envy for Tina Fey.)

I particularly do not care about any of the shows in the Drama category because when I take refuge from the dramas of real life I don’t want to be bothered with those of fictitious characters. However, I was sitting in rapt attention through all of it, including when they announced the Outstanding Writer Award for a Drama Series. And for some reason I couldn’t stop watching two people I’d never heard of accept an award for a show I’ve never seen in a category I do not give a shit about. (Yes, I considered how mind-numbingly boring and technologically codependent this has made me look.)

And then Matthew Weiner looked dead into the camera and said, “This award makes writing look fun and it isn’t. But I want to say something to all the writers out there for a second.” And then he proceeded to say that it’s backbreaking work that seems impossible but that it’s absolutely worth it to never give up and to keep going for it because writers are all in good company.

You know, your basic “Dreams come true!” speech.

But this time it was from a writer who was actually proud to be a writer instead of some vapid actor who’s totally proud that they won an award for playing pretend. And he addressed those of us who are not only dreaming of it but are busy convincing ourselves that it can’t be done. And it was on a day that I begged for a sign. And nobody in Hollywood EVER talks to or about writers. Especially not low-life, unsuccessful ones.

Sure, it’s naive. Sure it’s a “People will believe what they want to” scenario I’m creating for myself here.

But I’m taking it as the sign I asked for.

And I’m so freaking scared and insecure and uncertain that I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t asked.

Crap.

I’ve often heard and have grown to believe that the best way to make God laugh is to make plans. Apparently, I needed a refresher course.

Since the Bear is adamant about spending as much time as possible outdoors, I thought I’d change up the scenery and take her out to a local park while my hubs did some stuff around the house. It was mostly cloudy with a generous amount of breaks which was great because it meant we could spend the middle of the day outside without burning alive.

So we get down to the Kiwanis Family Park, one of our city’s beautiful playgrounds with big fields and running trails and grills and the whole bit.

Chloe is ecstatic and tears off at a dead run (which only translated as an effortless trot for me) and flailing her arms while screaming “WHEEEE!” I decided to take her on one of the trails as she’s not spent much time in wooded areas. She couldn’t have been more excited and, in the first few minutes she’d already picked up the words “creek” and “bridge”.

We’re hiking along and Chloe is loving every minute of it, pointing at birds, scampering down the trail, waving to every person that passes. I try to get her to turn off onto the paths that would lead us back to the starting point, but every time she screamed and cried, pulling my arm to let her take the long route.

Although I knew it was a .75 mile trail, I kind of shrugged and laughed about it thinking, “Well, I guess the worst that could happen is that she gets exhausted and I have to carry her back.” Plus, we were still around people in that I could see houses and major roads through the trees, so if we were bitten by a snake or something awful, we wouldn’t be far from rescue.

We get to the end of the trail and I have to pick Chloe up, screaming and kicking, to get her to turn around and go back the way we came. After a few minutes she gave up the fight and we were off. About five minutes in at Chloe-walking-speed, we started to feel a little bit of light rain but were under a thick canopy of trees, so Chloe really enjoyed it. As we walked, the rain gradually got a tiny bit heavier and I was still chucking to myself, thinking, “Ah man, we’re going to get so wet.” But still, Chloe was enjoying herself and even though I’d picked up the pace and was keeping us toward the edge of the path for more cover, we were having a good time.

AND THEN THE EFFING BOTTOM FELL OUT.

Regardless of how long this summer storm was going to last, I knew Chloe would only find heavy raindrops pounding her body for a few minutes, so I scooped her up and began to run while yelling, “Whee!!” Now, I think it’s important to note that, because I was prepared for a leisurely day at the park, I was wearing a skimpy camisole, a flowing hippie skirt, and cheap leather sandals that I’ve had for a few years and have completely worn the tread off of. Also, I’d left the diaper bag back in the car but was hauling around my big leather purse with my wallet, keys, camera, juice boxes, etc. Still, though, we were giggling and I was kind of enrapt with how funny this all was and what a ridiculous story we’d have when we got home.

But about five minutes up the road, the rain somehow increased to the point where we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us and Chloe became hysterical. The fact that I haven’t been exercising recently was already a factor, but add to that the fact that I’m carrying an extra 25 lbs on one arm and trying to run in sandals in such a way that I don’t fall and hurt both of us, and I was working harder than I believe I have in the last ten years.

I was torn between trying to run fast and trying to keep my balance while soothing Chloe’s terrified screams so the .65 mile I was running took literally 10 minutes to cover (I could easily walk a mile in that on a normal day.) And then, just as I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude upon seeing the clearing up ahead, a bolt of lightning hit a tree less than a mile away (we saw it as we were leaving the park later on) and elevated our level of panic to outright terror. There hadn’t been any signs of lightning before that moment so, even though we were soaking and Chloe was really upset, I was safe in the knowledge that we weren’t in real danger. When that was snatched away, my adrenaline kicked in and I somehow sprinted out of the woods, into the clearing, and another 200 yards to the nearest shelter.

Just as I hit the slick floor of the shelter, my treadless shoes became worthless and I hit my knee harder than I think it’s ever been. However, because of my wildly flying hormones and emotions, I didn’t even notice it until a few hours later. As a few dry families watched, I sat on the floor right at the edge, rocking and soothing Chloe as best as I could while she wailed and shivered.

Even though the shelter was lying elevated on a hill, it began to flood and I realized I was sitting in a slowly spreading puddle. I moved us to one of the picnic tables and kept rocking and clutching the Bear. I was terrified she’d get hypothermia or pneumonia or something and it’s honestly the first time that she’s screamed in public and I did not give a shit what anyone else was thinking, although I hardly think that’s praiseworthy or unnatural given the circumstances.

After about ten minutes, I noticed one of the men in another family come running back from their car, soaking and clutching a bag. He handed it off and his wife and her daughter walked over and handed me a clean, dry set of little boy’s clothes and a new diaper. As I tried to tell her how much I appreciated it, it became obvious that she spoke no English at all and I was reduced to pitiful, broken Spanish and an idiotic redundancy of “Gracias”es. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and, to be honest, as I’m writing this, my eyes are welling up with tears, (although that could be the residual effects of the day messing with my emotions.) While I changed an increasingly chilled and frightened Bear, the woman calmly stabilized Chloe as her daughter spoke softly to her and tried to get her to smile. Realizing that I couldn’t hold the Bear up to my chest to warm her as my clothes were soaking, the woman made a gesture to ask permission and, after I nodded, she picked Chloe up and held her for a few minutes. When Chloe finally settled a bit, we sat her down and I became pathetic with gratitude, probably driving the woman insane with my relentless thanks. She held up a hand to tell me it was no problem but ran back over to her purse and handed me a small bottle of Bio Salud!, a revolutionary Mexican dairy beverage that is loaded with live cultures and nutrients. Suffice to say, I was floored.

After Chloe calmed down, she went back to her normal self, sitting beside me while I wrung out my skirt a few dozen times and babbling and pointing to the rain and smiling at me with wonder. I even took the opportunity to get a few pics, because I’m pathetic and thought I should have evidence of the story when I tell her one day.

The rain died down and the woman and her family stood up to leave. Even though I hated the idea of stripping Chloe of warm clothes, I knew we had some clean ones in the car about 200-ish yards away and could make it work if we had to. I made feeble gestures to tell the woman that she could have her son’s clothes back but she adamantly shook her head and patted me on the back with one of those “knowing mother” smiles.

It took me about an hour after we left the park to settle down and realize how exhausted I was. I just felt deflated after the intensity of the emotions plus the unrehearsed running.

I’m sure, though, that this is one of those days I’ll remember. Not to oversentimentalize things but the culmination of the fear that was so easily diffused by one family’s simple generosity made the whole experience remarkable. I know, it’s not like I was a refugee taken in by strangers, but still the lessons here are twofold:

1) ALWAYS prepare for the worst when out with children. Al. Ways.
2) Don’t be so cowardly or cynical as to doubt the existence of real, good people, no matter how much you see evidence to prove otherwise.