Recently, I gathered all the mix CD’s and tapes I’d been given since 1999-ish just to see what sort of crazy compilation I could throw together from them. Standing in mesmerized awe, I realized that I own more than 40 customized mixes, not even including the dozen-or-so I’ve collected from significant others. (I’ve tossed most of them but still have a few CD’s I keep meaning to transfer to MP3’s so I can be rid of the tangible reminder.) That’s roughly four every year! For a decade!

A little less recently, I whittled down my Facebook Friends List from 900-ish “friends” to [an ever-increasing] 350-ish friends I find worthwhile enough to keep up with. (Once I achieved my petty quota of validation from learning that the douchenozzles who tormented me in jr. high grew up to be bloated, drunken, bigoted trust-fund kids, there was really no need to keep them anywhere close to my present life.) I took that time to look at the people I’ve been lucky enough to know personally and then back up and look at the whole motley crew objectively. I found myself laughing out loud at the absurd joy of my life as evidenced solely in the company I keep.

One of my friends is a singer/songwriter/siren who dominates rooms, disables jawhinges and makes people feel validated as humans simply by looking in their general direction. I have a friend who is an artist/performer/genius who lives in an old post office that he’s converted into a palace where he throws lavish, bohemian parties and plays his musical suitcase. One of my friends is an international celebrity who’s televised in dozens of countries on a daily basis to the amusement of 3-6 year-olds who cheer wildly as he steps off private planes. Two of my friends are writers who legitimately have the potential to revolutionize modern literature. One of my oldest friends is a gorgeous chemical engineer who listens to punk rock and plays alongside guys in male-dominated sports. A friend I’m sure I’ve known for a couple lives is an empath/healer with a cutting, brash tongue, a vast, uncompromising soul and a giggling mischief that pulls the disguise off his undeniable compassion.

Ooo! And I know an enigma! A real one! She’s beautiful beyond reason and quirky and complicated and when she laughs she opens the soul of the room she’s in and turns it over in her palms and hands it back to us. And she’s wild with passion and love that’s infectious and controversial and makes people love her emphatically [unless they’re scared of that sort of person and then they often choose to hate her for no reason.] I can remember a point in my life when she had three suitors who were all close friends and who lived for her every word and she knew it but she didn’t realize it and she held it all in a way that you couldn’t really envy her as much as share in her giddy, confused, confident laughter. And for God-only-knows what reason, she loves me and when she goes out of her way to let me know it I smile for weeks and feel unique and safe and special, unlike with anyone else.

I have an ever-self-sufficient friend who is a Republican bellydancer with a laugh that’s infectious and a rapid wit that is hilarious to watch [but hell to suffer] when in “Attack Mode.” (Despite her political leanings, we have yet to have a conversation where we don’t agree with 90% of what the other is saying… so she still has a perfectly-intact soul.) I have a wildly-creative, artist friend who is an effortless medium and who was everywhere that was awesome in the 1960’s (except Woodstock; she was in Daytona that weekend) and loves and knows me better than I know myself most of the time. I have three friends who look like tall, curvy, dark, bold-faced goddesses and would be terrifyingly powerful/dangerous to men and women alike should they ever meet. (Two of them live in NYC and I’m positive they should become besties, like, immediately.) I know world-travelers and political aides and a pure-hearted genius/prodigy who cleaned dishes with me with the same intensity that he implemented while working in international think tanks.

I know brilliant musicians and gorgeous models and driven geniuses (with souls! Those are the best kind of geniuses!) and revolutionary comics/playwrights and refreshingly unique entertainers and groundbreaking visionaries and neo-feminist SAHmothers and fucking phenomenal chefs (two are quite successful and both are female! score!) and recovering addicts/alcoholics with the craziest stories I’ve ever heard and bohemian artists who’ll never be understood but don’t seem to mind and incarcerated convicts who send me the condescending Christmas cards their relatives send them every year, marked with hilarious commentary and a stripper who is now teaching home ec in a schwanky jr. high and daring, colorful Burners (oh, how I long to be one of those) and crossdressers of both genders (both non-professional and professional) and founders of incredible non-profit movements and Broadway singer/dancer/actors and farmers/hardcore gardeners who make me want to sell everything and live off the grid starting tomorrow and the male, punk rock version of Mama Cass and feminista bloggers and quite possibly one of the greatest actors on the planet at the moment and two aerialists and a documentarian (who’s putting together a project that’s just going to be epic once released internationally) and the guy who was ranked one of the top trumpet players in the nation and a female bodybuilder and a powerhouse editor who fights for small businesses with a daily news syndication she runs by herself and young, rad, relatable missionaries who are going to revolutionize how the world sees American Christians and DIY crafters who are going to clothe the world, one hand-knit sweater at a time and people with the balls to immigrate to where they dream of living and a sweet Muslim model who very patiently answers all my idiotic questions about Islamic holidays and schoolteachers who are going out of their way to challenge the status quo (and call attention to the rampant apathy that rules our public school system) and freaking triathlon addicts and a designer whose stuff is now sold at Nordstrom and opera singers and a gorgeous, free-spirited woman who has been inadvertently and gradually coaxing me out of my shell by her inspirational lifestyle and mindset and…

And I get to be in the middle of it.

I honestly always thought that I’d have to be wildly famous or insanely wealthy to know as many uniquely radiant people as I do. And if I were ever to be surrounded by so many unnaturally dazzling characters I would never have assumed that they’d be the types to call themselves my friends.

And I’m not saying all the above-mentioned are in the “Nearest and Dearest Pile”. In fact, only about 3/4 of those could be considered “friends closer than acquaintances”, but I’m glad to be important enough to these busy people to have garnered at least one greeting in the last year from each of them.

However, I’m still unbelievably humbled when I review the list and realize how many I can call honest-to-God “close friends”. (You know. The ones who don’t ever judge and will take a phonecall from me at 2 a.m. and will blatantly tell me when I’m being an a-hole but don’t use that as a means of flat-out rejection and who’re happy for me and my little accomplishments.) So, it looks like my mom was wrong about that whole “You’ll only be able to count your close friends on one hand.” by at least a couple hands.

Anyway, To Whom It Concerns: Thank you so so very much. I hope I’ve let you know how much I appreciate you being in my life.

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.

*Don’t get scared; it’s just the title to a Smiths song.

My best friend gets sick a lot. And not just little, insignificant sick. And not sick in a series of relapses of one Great Sick that will stick with her forever. Just a lot of various shit comes and wreaks havoc on her body. About once a year, actually. To an outsider, you’d think she was some sort of hypochondriac but the truth is that each health problem she has is actually real. And relatively major.

(I hope she doesn’t mind me talking about this but I think I’m safe considering I’m keeping her name anonymous. This entry may disappear in the future, though, if it causes problems.)

When I first met her some 7 years ago, she had some sort of growth (it has an actual medical name but I can’t remember it right now) on her vocal cord that had to be removed and then the vacant spot had to be filled with a littleteenytiny bit of fat from her tummy. A year later she had a lump in one of her breasts that had to be removed and was tested as just a benign cyst. And then after that she was given an antidepressant that reacted really really badly with her system (trembling, borderline seizures, etc.) so she was hospitalized briefly so they could keep an eye on her while they tweaked medications. Two Christmases ago some drunken bodybuilder gave her a hug at a party and fucked her back up so bad she was confined to bed for a week and had to go to physical therapy. And then some masseuse gave her some sort of new, crazy hippie massage that literally made her knees unusable for a while and she had to go back to physical therapy. She’s also had a handful of other serious problems, but those are of a more private nature, so I won’t go into detail. Suffice to say she’s had a time of things.

It’d be different if she lived a crappy, unhealthy lifestyle, but that’s just not the case. She’s health conscious with what she eats (she was vegetarian for a couple years but had to start supplementing protein because of migraines or something… I can’t remember. Anyway, now she basically just eats fish and veggies and fruit.), she’s into supplements and homeopathic remedies, she sees a therapist and an acupuncturist, she exercises, she doesn’t smoke, she drinks sparingly… these things just kind of come out of nowhere and attack her and it really blows, to be honest.

And every time one of these things happens I’m always at the ready. I’ve called her in the hospital and sent her things to entertain her and I even moved everything out of her apartment at college and transferred it to her parents’ house a couple hours away when a hospital trip ensured that she’d be staying at home for a semester. I don’t immediately retreat into Holy Freakout Mode, but I do tend to worry a great deal and have spent more than one night worried about the outcome of her various illnesses and mishaps.

I got a call from her today as I was coming home from a playdate and was told that she was back in the hospital. After a few days of deafening migraines, she’d gone to the ER to find that she has spinal/viral meningitis. Unfortunately, at the moment she doesn’t know much about her treatment or her prognosis as they’re running a bunch of tests. In the meantime, however, I’m trying not to freak out about the long list of bullshit that meningitis is capable of causing to the 50,000 cases of it treated every year in the US. (Yeah, the girl’s got great odds.) Of course, I’m not freaking out to her and fueling any anxiety she may already be having and I’ve agreed to stay in town and not immediately drive up there until we learn a little bit more about her specific condition. And I’m sending out good, loving vibes and trying to stay positive but, goddamn it. When is she going to get a fucking break?

I don’t know; maybe God’s trying to toughen her up for something major in the future. Or maybe she’s just getting it all out of her system now. Or maybe her [un-freaking-believable] gifts with metaphysics are causing her to be somewhat of an amplified empath.

And, whatever the case, it won’t help anything for me to sit around churning out anger and frustration toward her rotten health-related luck, but I needed a second to just sit around and be pissy and whiny about it. Mostly because I’m worried and I hate this powerless feeling that I feel like I’m getting used to because of the frequency of her health problems. And then I’m pissed because I’m getting used to the powerless feeling and that that means that this is happening way more frequently than even reasonable. I’m not saying it would be better if she had something like cancer that kept coming back over and over, but it would at least be something she could watch out for and have consistent expectations of. It just seems like the Universe is flinging her a bunch of physical wild cards that she has to struggle to even make sense of before she can begin treatments. It seems a little cruel, to be honest. And that, too, pisses me off.

So yes. I’m pissy. And that’s what this entry is all about. And I’m sorry if reading this was a total waste of time.

But mostly I’m just really really worried. I’m worried about this particular diagnosis, sure. But I’m also worried about whatever’s inevitably coming for her next and how long she’s going to be able to jump all these annual hurdles. I don’t want to see her get worn down and start losing momentum when she has to duke it out with her health complications. That - aside from the unmentionably-bad worst outcome to health problems, of course - is what I’m worried about the most.

I just want my friend to be okay. And stay that way for a while. I don’t think that’s too tremendous of a wish.

I’m not trying to brag when I say repeatedly that I have some amazing friends. Just today, in fact, I received in the mail two beautiful handmade Kermit The Frog pillowcases from the dear N.Lempart (who is busy chasing around an INFANT for Chrissakes!) and then this evening I arrived at my metaphysical meditation group meeting for the first time in a month to find that one of the healers who was part of my personal cleansing a while ago went home and painted me a picture based on messages she received from Spirit about me. (It sounds kind of dorky, but it’s really staggeringly beautiful.) Photos of both of these unbelievably touching handmade gifts are forthcoming, of course, but I felt the immediate need to share my astonishment and gratitude at such amazing unsolicited generosity toward me.

It feels nice to be randomly shown love from people who have to go out of their way to think about me. Makes me happy.

Aaanyway, a while ago I was working on developing a personal goddess/warrior who would act as an alter-ego when my Demons decide to rear their ugly heads. The Goddess Warrior Castallare would thunder in on her trusty elephant guardian (Sheba) who would roar with preemptive victory against the slimy persistent demons who call themselves Fear, Shame, Regret, Depression, and Hate. Muahahahahahaha!

Problem is, I’m not much of an artist and I work best with meditative visualization and imagery when I can, you know, see what I’m trying to mentally summon. So I called upon the creative genius of my friend Rowena Zane (not her real name) to help me make sense of my mental notes and render an image or two and loooook at what she maaade for meeee!!!

Castallare and Sheba

Goddess Warrior Castallare and her bewitching smirk

I just think they’re spectacularly beautiful and perfect in their simplicity and feminine power and emotion. Now I really have one hell of an standard to live up to if I’m going to put this personal warrior’s powers to use. (I’d be kind of afraid of the repercussions should I let her down…)

Also, I kind of hope to work on more variations of this character and see how much more I can develop her both aesthetically and literally. Could be interesting, if from a merely self-serving standpoint. I’d like to see her evolve as I grow older.

I hope to incorporate these images into the new blogface we come up with… should that ever get around to happening…

And then…

:::: ssiiiiiiiggghhh:::::

…because a few readers who may or may not have access to my Facebook profile have been bothering and pestering me to post these next few photos I’ll oblige… I just will, okay? Gah…

Greg’s been diligently learning about this awesome new camera we got for Christmas and has moved on to acquiring and learning about professional studio lighting. This, of course, results in him taking countless photos of countless things around the house, including myself. Glamorous though it may sound to be someone’s personal model there’s a lot more “Hang on a second while I set this up” and “Can you hold that pose for another 5 minutes or so? I wanna try different angles!” than the clicky-flashy “Work it! Work it!” photographer/model dynamic that usually comes to mind. And then I have to do my own makeup, of course.

Alright, fine, I’ll admit it: I freaking love it. I love when he comes in from a long hard day of work and can’t wait for the baby to go to bed so we can spend quality time together in a photo shoot. I love when he has an idea or new concept that he’s been mulling over all day and when he directs me around his “set”. I like the idea that someone sees art in me and deems me worthy of acting as a medium for his artistic visions. It’s a pretty cool compliment, especially from someone who loves me.

All my gushy blathering aside, these were my top few favorites from the shoot the other week. Greg wanted me in a wife beater, corduroys and dark eye makeup. (He started me out in an open green flannel button-down, but it just weighed the images down too much so we went without.) I was happy to comply and mostly just proud that my grunge-era obsession was finally wearing off on him.

Craned neck? Check

Now channeling Kim Deal...

One B'dass Mother

Oh, look at me. I'm a musician. I'm all brooding and complex. I must hate my parents. Waaaahh...

"I like to play" - Garth Algar

There might be more but these are the only ones he’s color-corrected and “finished”, so I told him I wouldn’t unveil any more of his work until he’s ready. Because I’m an obedient student.

My parents always told me that in life, I’d only be able to count my real friends on one hand. They lied.

Somehow, I’ve been blessed with two handfuls of friends who have stuck with me through all the utter insanities of my recovery and still arrive on my doorstep, undefeated and unflinchingly optimistic about me, my potential, and my life. A few of these friends have called me “friend” since I was an early adolescent, a few have known me for the better part of a decade, and a few have only been on board for a few years, but many have seen me at my lowest and most destructive points and still have the audacity to argue that I’m worth sticking around for.

Being that I don’t enjoy the company of idiots or apathetic losers, I have always had friends for whom I keep a slight envy in their beauty, talent, wit, character, charm, intellect, or style. I have many friends that I often consider to be too rad to be hanging out with the likes of me and I’ve found myself questioning their judgment in keeping me in their social circle. This being said, I’m always amazed and floored when these people continually rush to my side, offer me forgiveness, cheer for my successes, and send me expressions of their love. For some reason, these two-handfuls of friends seek to sap none of my energy, ask for none of my possessions, fuel none of my drama, and honestly want nothing from me except my happiness and company. When I’m not sitting around feeling unworthy and scared of ruining everything, I realize that I am tremendously, unbelievably blessed.

It’s not as if I’ve sat around collecting friends during my life, either. From the time I could speak, I’ve slapped the “best friend” label on a series of close female figures in hopes of finding that one, ideal companion. I can name at least two people I called my “BFF” for every year I was in grade school, in fact. (Sadly, because these relationships were based in my inherent fear of loneliness, they crumbled and were swept away, and to this day, I only correspond with two of the many that I hoped would fill this role. I’ve had countless friends that I’ve broken ties with in the notion that their appeal wasn’t so much real as it was fabricated by my own insecurities and I spent a lot of time in my early stages of recovery sure that I wasn’t going to resonate with anyone ever… I know, waahh…) I’m not one of those people who has pictures of her best friends throughout our various growth stages scattered throughout the house, and most of my very dearest friends don’t even know the others (although the ones that do get along smashingly.)

But when I look back on my life, there are always those faces that stick out in the crowd. Even if our relationship has been based on annual visits and/or emails and phone calls, these are the people that have rushed to my side when I was sickest or sent their love and support when I announced my pregnancy. These are the people I’m not afraid to call at 2 a.m. when my mind is threatening me again and the ones I expect 2 a.m. phone calls from when they’re standing 10 feet away from David Bowie at the Tower Records in Dublin. These are the ones I would have taken out a loan for to fly them from Australia to be bridesmaids in my wedding (had we taken that route in our nuptial celebrations) and the ones who bring me tabloids and Milanos when I’m still at the hospital, agonizing over an abrupt C-section and dying to show off my new daughter. (Or text me while I’m getting an epidural with messages of hope and “I TOLD you that shit hurts!”)

Although I have family and my dear husband and my daughter around me daily, bolstering my confidence and guiding me through the nitty-gritty steps of this perpetual daily recovery, I cannot help but feel overwhelming joy at the notion that I have at least two handfuls of friends who, out of no obligation whatsoever, are choosing to continue standing right behind me.*

*You know if I’m talking about you. Thank you.

Dear Kathleen, Haylee, Vee, Grim, Shannon, Hayley, Caroline, Brody, Debra, Abby, Becky B., CV/Mary, Blair, Martha, Rob, Daisy and, of course, Allison and Greg,

I know this may seem a bit random, but sometime in my life you, in some form, sent me a piece of encouragement and love that not only resonated with me, but stuck with me until now. Perhaps it was something specific that you said or wrote to me, or maybe it was a small gift or something else tangible, but whatever the case, this tiny token of love was saved in a small box that I keep in my home.

Recently, I’ve been having more than a little trouble with my head and the medications I’ve been prescribed to try to fix whatever’s been going on up there. Late at night, when I’m feeling hollow and scared and lonely, I’ve been retreating to this box to reread your words of encouragement, listen to your mix tapes, laugh over our shared jokes, look at pictures of your art, and experience your ever-present support and kindness. This has become a once-or-twice-weekly ritual and it has settled my racing heart and been an ideal remedy to help me get to sleep on these seemingly chaotic nights. Additionally, it has, actually, been the most effective method I’ve ever found at calming myself down, streamlining my scattered focus, and getting back to my normal self. No matter what despairing, hopeless hole my subconscious tries to bury my consciousness in, I am always able to pull myself out with the love and encouraging sentiments I’ve collected over the years.

Thank you sincerely. I do so hope to have the opportunity to repay this tremendous gift to each of you sometime in my life.

Castallare