I’ve been a total slackass for the last decade or so.

It’s pathetically true, actually. I took every single allowed absence in every single class I took throughout the 15 semesters I attended various universities (including summer school.) The week of my high school graduation I had a 38 average in my math class and somehow convinced the teacher to let me retake every test from the semester. I finished with an 85 average.

I could keep going, but I think I’ve made my point. I am notorious for falling through on really important responsibilities because “I just don’t feel like it.” and then coming up with a million lies and excuses in sad attempts to save face. Gross.

Excitedly, that horrible habit of mine has been sllooooowly subsiding since Chloe arrived so much so that people actually take for granted that I’ll do what I say I’ll do 98% of the time. It’s nice! Since this last bout of depression cleared up, however, this unslackiness has been abruptly dumped by the wayside and I’ve been driven in a way that I have not seen in myself in a long long time.

And it’s not a manic spell like I had when I first started the New Meds, either. I’m not unable to sit still or having crazy feelings of grandeur or anything. I’m still able to sit down and relax with my family and meditate with a clear mind. But I’ve been busy all day, every day for the last few weeks, working fervently on three specific Big Projects [and two notable but Minor Projects] that are going to help hurdle my family far far forward and upward. (I’ll explain more in detail on the Private Blog. Sorry…) They will, of course, require some outside influences in order to completely implement, but I’m really impressed with my determination and drive to actively go after these things. Finally.

And, also! Even though I’m dealing with these unbelievable stomach pains still (and couldn’t get in to see a specialist because the incompetent receptionist botched my appointments after two days of nagging her to… :: sigh ::) and numerous sleepless nights, I’m still pushing forward. And THAT would neeeever have happened a couple years ago. Never ever. Not. Ever. (Seriously, I’m the girl who, while living with her parents, would drive to school and sleep in her car because she didn’t want to hear flak about sleeping in and missing class. Bad.)

The OTHER other big thing accompanying all this is that for the first time in Idon’tevenknow, I’m so occupied with this wave of proactivity that I haven’t spent a fraction of the time that I usually would pondering the elusive or delving into my innermost feelings or becoming emotionally absorbed in anything that isn’t directly related to me. I know that sounds pretty self-centered, but I’m still writing letters to friends and the little girl in Peru that I sponsor and that lady in prison I mentioned earlier, so I’m not totally walled into myself. It’s just nice to have a little relief from the incessant banter in my head. I can’t remember the last time that happened.

Again, I’ll quit being so damned vague when I have some definite destinations for this momentum we’re creating around my little household, but I feel really good about things recently. And I feel like I have purpose and the motivation to get there. And the peace to work efficiently.

Holy crap. Maybe I shoulda gotten knocked up before now.

(Note: This entry is explicitly graphic and disturbing. The names and identities of those involved have been obscured but the events described are unfortunately very real. If you want to avoid unbelievably heartbreaking emotion that has potential to ruin your mood and outlook on humanity, I’d advise against reading any further.)

I shouldn’t have looked for answers. I know better than to ask questions I don’t want the answers to.

I’ve written to a woman in prison for a while. This troubles my husband because he feels it puts our lives in danger somehow, even though I’m writing to her under a penname. I’ve assured him that the woman isn’t looking for monetary donations (one of the only reasons I chose to correspond with her versus other inmate applicants), she is in custody miles and miles from here, and, besides, she is sentenced to life in prison without a chance for parole.

I enjoy speaking with her for a number of reasons. She is engaging and optimistic and brilliant. She loves to talk about literature and philosophy and I always enjoy hearing her perspectives on hope and optimism, given the circumstances of her life. She is by no means a hero to me but, for someone who has a tendency toward contemplating giving up in her darkest moments, it is helpful for me to hear what inspires people to keep going when, to an outside observer, it would seem that she would have nothing left to live for. She loves to talk about her children and has illustrated to me the various hardships in her life that contributed to her enormous pile of mental anguish and regrets. As I promised in my first letter, I have never discussed with her the conditions of her incarceration or the cause for such an extreme sentencing.

I sensed that this was a horrible idea when the Google bar filled in the rest of her name before I’d even finished typing. Clearly what this woman had committed had not gone unnoticed by the media. In shock, I read dozens of the stories printed years ago regarding her crime and sentencing, hoping they weren’t true but realizing that everything lined up her descriptions and the facts described by the press. I had hoped that this woman had committed something that I could at least understand, something I could possibly sympathize with if only from a very far distance. I knew that a woman who was sentenced to life in prison indicated that she had done something very very bad, I just did not see this one coming.

She has told me about her first marriage to an older, wealthier man and how this ex-husband was abusive toward her and her two children. What she did not tell me was that, when he was awarded sole custody of their third child, a 3-year-old boy, she took a .12 guage rifle and shot the toddler in the head while he was watching television.

I couldn’t stop sobbing. Immediately I ran to where my daughter was playing on the living room floor and cradled her in my arms, whispering, “I love you. I will never let anyone hurt you.” while she struggled to return to her toys. I tried to explain to my husband why I was so heartbroken, I found I was unable to say the words out loud to tell him what this woman I was in correspondence with had done to her own child.

According to police accounts, she had called the paramedics immediately after it had happened and, after sobbing in hysterics for hours, had gone into complete shock after the incident. A modern day Medea, she was unable to talk about what she had done but nodded her head as a formal confession in the interrogation room. She sat through trial and went to prison without speaking a single word other than to answer the questions of her prosecutor. She never resisted her arrest, her sentencing, her fate.

Now comes the part where I am torn and at an obvious moral empass. My immediate reaction is to cease communications with this woman altogether, horrified and heartbroken at the actions she was capable of in her past. My first instinct is always to recoil from those whose actions I find unforgivable and disgusting, to judge them as a person unfit for any hope or compassion from anyone, whose life is not worth living.

However, all the great leaders that I claim to admire so adamantly advocated and practiced a lifestyle that was completely different. Jesus proudly walked with prostitutes, thieves, drunks and other sinners that society shunned and had no value for. The Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King, and Gandhi spoke about forgiveness and compassion toward every living thing, no matter their evil intentions or actions. In one of my favorite quotes, Mother Teresa proclaimed, “”People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered. Love them anyway.” These are all people whose lives and actions I admire and hope to emulate. I recognize that they acted from Love and not Fear, something I constantly talk about practicing every day. What sort of giant hypocrite would I be if I blatantly, consciously made the decision to act in opposition of this mentality? I realize that I am not Jesus or the Dalai Lama or any of these other earth-moving humanitarians; I may never have the inner peace, strength and faith that they stand for and I probably will never change and influence the world as much as any of them. But I cannot feel anger and despair toward the Fear-based habits of society and people as a whole if I am only perpetuating these actions. This is the one aspect of humanity that I do have control over, that I can change and push things forward with. I would be betraying my beliefs entirely and working against the progress I wholeheartedly desire if I was to deny the responsibility and privilege I have of contributing to forward motion and progression.

This, of course, comes as the Universe’s immediate retaliation for the smug judgment I admitted to in my previous blog entry. Although I consciously knew it at the time and had even admitted to my flinging humility by the wayside to feel superior to women whose Crazy was ruining their lives, I knew, also, that I am not ever the ultimate Judge of any one person’s life or worth. Today’s new information was the grounding smack in the face I needed. No matter the level of Crazy that someone else is capable of, no matter how horrible and unfathomable their actions may be, no person is any less deserving of Love and compassion than I. If I believe that every human has the potential to be a tool and messenger for God, then I have to allow myself to share that with people, too. I don’t believe that I as a person have the ability to save anyone’s soul or change anyone at all, nor do I have the capacity to ultimately forgive someone for their actions or lifestyle. But, because I recognize Spirit as a Higher Power who works through everything he’s created, I have a responsibility to practice Love as a representative of His power and creation. This, I believe, is our role as people in accordance with the world and its inhabitants.

So, fighting this horrified Fear that consumes me, I will continue to write this woman who is a brutal murderer of her own child. Her actions terrify and repulse me and fill my heart with grief and fear, but I am not the Judge of her worth and I owe it to myself and everyone around me to suck up some humility and realize that. I will continue to treat her like a person who deserves hope and optimism, whose life is worthwhile and capable of rehabilitation, who is loved and valued by a Higher Power. I will work to speak with her as I’ve always done and find positive, redeemable potential characteristics in her and I will work every day not to recoil and misrepresent my core beliefs because of my own selfish Fear and desire for judgment.

But Jesus… When the Universe has a hard lesson for me/my growth, it pulls out every fucking stop to knock me on my ass. I don’t know if I can deal with much worse just yet. It’ll make me think twice about opening my big mouth so brazenly.

I’ve talked about incorporating the familiarities of pop culture references into my spiritual practices before but, recently, I’ve started using another offbeat [completely fabricated] method for my daily meditation practices. See, because meditation is such a foreign thing for me I have trouble really feeling like I’m committing myself to it when I’m doing it alone. Somehow, something so relatively new to me and my Western upbringing feels completely false when I’m practicing it by myself. So I thought that perhaps if I create a little bridge of familiarity between the new practice and things I feel comfortable around and emotionally related to, then I could ease myself into a routine over time that I really felt I was being genuine with.

So what the hell am I talking about?

My specific example involves the fact that no matter what traditional Hindu mantra I choose (and there are tons of them… who knew?!) I simply cannot take myself seriously when I’m repeating something over and over in a language I don’t even speak. It feels too pretentious. So, instead, I’ve been using small phrases (which – in case you aren’t aware – are all mantras really are. Even “om”.) that originated as song lyrics.

Man, just saying that out loud makes me feel kinda lame, to be honest. Ah well; I’ve done worse in a public setting.

Recently I’ve been spending my meditations cleaning house. In the last two months there was the relapse of depression that really knocked me over and then, just as the fog from that began to lift, I made the mistake of opening myself up emotionally and reanimating some old demons and battles that I’d figured out and left behind years ago. (My bad.) So in the last week or so, my meditations have focused on imagery of letting go of these “demons”, which take the form of recurring harmful thoughts (kind of anti-mantras) and erupting emotions that have no benefits or relevance to my mentality or life at all. I like to address these terrible mental habits like annoying ex-boyfriends who are unwelcome in my house (mind) and mess up my day and waste my time and simply refuse to go away. And, luckily there are a lot of songs that address such scenarios. Shawn Colvin’s “Get Out of this House” has been a great one to start with. Usually, I just repeat the title line during visualization practices, but sometimes I’ll feel my concentration waning and I’ll switch up to a couple lyrics here and there.

But no song has been as great of a mantra for this specific practice than… oh man, it’s kind of embarrassing… Tom Petty’s “Don’t Come Around Here No More”. I’m positive I’d be less embarrassed admitting this if it weren’t for the well-known psychedelic ‘Alice in Wonderland’-themed video. (I saw his giant hat at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!) However, feeling the slow-moving melody and just repeating “Don’t come around here no more…” when my mind heads back over to its habitual dark thoughts has been fantastically empowering. All the lyrics fit perfectly, too, which is beneficial to my adopting the whole song.
I particularly like to repeat this verse:
I don’t feel you anymore
You darken my door.
Whatever you’re looking for,
(HEY!) Don’t come around here no more

A few days ago I was inspired to do one of my semi-annual sage-burning, salt-spreading, crystal-cleaning cleansings around the house and that’s the song I put on during the ritual. The benefits of the song were multiplied by the immediate access to the musical composition, meaning that when the Heartbreakers rock out there at the end [with Tom making all those weird-ass ad libbed noises] it helps to usher in a great sense of relief and resolve to maintaining the healed, strong mentality achieved through the meditative practice.

It sounds kinda lame when mentioned out loud, but I found/find it to be quite effective as a meditation technique, in addition to being engaging and stimulating. And isn’t that what practicing spirituality should be anyway?

————————————

Progression in Hindsight

If you’ve been reading for any length of time you may recognize that one of my biggest (and most embarrassing) faults is my routine inability to just let shit go. For some reason, after a situation has emotionally drained me and ultimately imploded, I just looove to revisit it to figure out what can be repaired and/or salvaged. No matter where the shattered pieces have landed, I just have to go back to ground zero and try to make sense of it so I can, eventually, put all the pieces back together and place it in a perfect little frame to display in my “Closed Cases” exhibit (I assume.) I like to venture all the way back into these past dramas to poke and prod and try to make sense of situations that obviously made no sense ever (otherwise they’d still be functioning) instead of just accepting that sometimes disarray is an acceptable finale to a situation. (Thank you, Samuel Beckett!)

Returning to a senseless, broken, crazy-making situation to try to make sense of it or resolve it is exactly comparable to me drinking a bottle of wine in hopes of figuring out or curing my alcoholism. I know this. I’ve known this. I realized this many many years ago in fact. And, still, I catch myself making that same mistake even to this day, even after years of evidence that it never ever works.

And I kick myself for this fault of mine on a daily basis. Hard.

But recently I ran into a person with whom I shared many years of drama and general insanity. After letting her suckiness monopolize entirely too much of my time, emotions and energy (without receiving any of these in return, of course) I’d finally cut her off. Cold turkey. This is something I’ve never been able to do successfully. In fact, after I sat her down, explained why I would no longer be taking her calls and said “bye!” she continued to try to get in touch with me, claiming she had no idea why I suddenly didn’t want to associate with her at all anymore. (So yeah, my hour-long presentation highlighting my standpoints on the matter clearly had no effect on her whatsoever.) Even still, I stuck to my guns and never wasted any more time arguing with her or trying to get her to be more respectful or engaging in any part of her dysfunctional insanity. As a matter of fact, after about a month or so I never even wasted any more time thinking about her or being mad at her or feeling anything at all for her. This all happened a little over 5 years ago and even recently when she wanted to hang out and/or catch up, I was still completely emotionally disconnected from the situation and shrugged off her request without a second thought.

Whoa. That doesn’t sound like the obsessive, clingy, chronically emotionally invested, can’t-get-the-fuck-over-it image of me that I kick myself for routinely. In fact, that healthy choice seems pretty progressive and emotionally stable of me.

When I realized that I’d been capable of actually following through with something I’d honestly believed I’d always been incapable of, I sat down and thought about all the other times in the last few years that I might’ve been able to do the same in similar situations. I was kind of convinced that this instance of me genuinely discarding something broken/dysfunctional/insane and completely emotionally getting over it in the aftermath was just a fluke. Just a one-time occurrence that wasn’t likely to happen again. But, the more I really thought about it, it seemed like I’d actually been capable of a good deal of emotional weeding. From where I sit right now, there are at least a dozen instances I can name where I found myself thoroughly immersed in and ravaged by a toxic relationship of some description and finally cut off the pointless interactions and walked away from this emotional tarbaby* AND was able to completely emotionally disengage from this scenario without having to go back and try to make sense of it all. These situations all vary in their previous intensity and power over my emotions and thoughts but in every case I’ve been able to just be done with it. Completely.

Now I’m not saying I’m cured just because I’ve been able to successfully remove myself from harmful relationships a few times because even doing it once is still damaging. (That’d be like saying, “Well I must be getting better because I don’t shoot heroin as often as I used to.”) But it really does give me a lot of faith in myself by having proof that I’ve been able to do this one thing (for years now!) I’ve always assumed I was incapable of. Makes me feel like doing it a couple more times isn’t that big or insurmountable of a deal.

So. Um. Yay me!

::: Smiling tilt of head. Gentle pat on back :::

*The use of “tarbaby” in this instance is a reference to the Br’er Rabbit folklore of the Old South… NOT a racial slur.

(NOTE: This is NOT a plea for reassuring compliments. Any such commentary will be immediately deleted.)

I’ve never thought I was attractive. I mean that. I don’t mean “I’ve never thought I was beautiful.” or “I hate the way I look.” I just mean that I don’t consider myself to be an aesthetically attractive person. And I’ve sort of come to peace with that. 

Don’t get me wrong; I have days where I think I look better than usual. I felt that way on my wedding day, once during a Spring Festival Court I was nominated to in high school, once during a photo shoot north of Cairns in Australia. But these days are few and far between and seem to feel like breaks from my usual visual self.

It hasn’t always been that way, of course. In my early teens I was at the tail-end of early-adolescent-awkward-glasses-and-braces-hideousness and chose to ignore my appearance altogether, often dressing for utilitarian purposes and avoiding interactions with my mirror at all. Later in my high school experience, I was encouraged to explore my appearance as I was attending an arts school for theatre and an actor’s main tool is his/her body, so it was imperative that I looked at myself objectively.

When I looked, I saw the same thing I see now; a slightly overweight, average-looking girl next door. She wasn’t particularly unattractive, but she certainly wasn’t one of those women who would turn heads in hallways and on city streets. She was an under-the-radar mediocre and, as an actor, that should have been enough to work with. 

(This idea, by the way, was the basis of my relentless Low Self Esteem [LSE] and resulted in years upon years of allowing emotional abuse in exchange for the male attention I desperately craved. This, of course, is something I’m sick of talking/thinking about and is way way too cliche for my demographic, so we’re going to tactfully gloss over that entire aspect of my struggle with LSE so as not to make this another one of “those blogs”. You’re welcome. [insert smile here])

But naturally, as with most things in my late teenage years, I rebelled against this notion of mediocrity, grappling for a visual identity in a plethora of sartorial identities and never feeling a resonance with any of them. Eventually, I began hiding out in androgynous looks, wearing cargo pants and shapeless sweaters everywhere. This escapist look carried me into my college years and, although I took a few risks here-and-there, I always treated these bold new looks as crazy experiments, not suitable of someone like myself. I would love to resort to outlandish outfits with melodramatic zeal,  in hopes that everyone else would get the evident joke that I was desperately trying to make: I get that I’m not hot enough to pull this look off; it’s irony, people! 

The looks became increasingly bolder and, in my early twenties I found myself hiding out in them every single time I felt uncomfortable in my own skin on a public level. (Which, when added to my social anxiety was A LOT.) When I wasn’t hiding out in baggy, nondescript clothing, I was hurdling myself to the other extreme, going over the top with “looks”, coating on dramatic makeup and putting on airs like it was all just an act that everyone was in on. 

Not only this, I started obsessing about my appearance, taking photos of myself on a daily basis and plastering Photoshopped/retouched images all over internet forums and networking sites, practically begging for the confirmation and adulation I desperately wanted. I was never comfortable completely exploiting myself (unless I was annihilated/inebriated/drunkbeyondreason, of course. Then all bets were off.) but I was prone to narcissism to an embarrassing degree, all in hopes that I could quiet the resounding knowledge that I was average-looking. Somehow, seeking attention and compliments translated to happiness and comfort in my appearance in my messed-up thinking and I was a junkie for it, no matter the source. And all the while I knew that it was all entirely driven out of the fear that I wasn’t any sort of notable beauty, that I wasn’t one of those people who would ever command attention from her looks, and, mostly, that this aesthetic mediocrity was what made me worthless as a human being.   

When I met my husband, I was at my heaviest weight ever and had made a lifestyle of sobriety, which included a new modesty in my appearance. I’d dealt with my social anxieties enough to feel comfortable being seen in public, but I didn’t do much to call attention to myself and I had finally begun to settle into accepting what I really looked like. After years of obsessing about my appearance and my supposedly obvious flaws, I was taking the time to focus on my strengths and accepting my body as the vehicle it was designed to be. I started shirking away from cameras, not calling attention to myself through outlandish attire anymore but focusing on the things that were unique and attractive about myself. I started bellydancing and kayaking and going out to do karaoke with friends and finally not worrying about how I looked doing any of it. 

Now, I’m about the same. I’ve dropped a significant amount of weight since before I was pregnant, which lends itself to easier shopping and general movement, but I’ve finally resolved myself to the fact that I may never be a striking beauty that people whisper about and envy and that’s alright with me. My whole life I prayed for a significant other who would tell me I’m beautiful every day (I even argued constantly with one of my exes because he would rarely dole out compliments… sigh...), and today I have a husband who does just that, even when I was at my most pregnant or my heaviest in post-pregnancy or when I’m at my most disgusting in the early morning or when I’m a sniffling, coughing, snotty mess. Although it’s a completely new concept for me, not caring about how I look but knowing that I do visually please my partner is a welcome relief from my old habits. I still dodge his camera lens when I can, but I take a lot of comfort knowing that the weight of my old low self-esteem is being helped along by someone who loves me. 

But my focus isn’t entirely off aesthetics altogether. I’ve now become obsessed with the beauty in my daughter, often gazing at her for hours and admiring her perfect skin and puffy cheeks and wispy blonde hair and devastating blue eyes.  I love her pudgy thighs and tiny toes and pointy ears and crooked teeth with more enthusiasm than I ever loved any teenage crush.

And yes, I’m fully aware that she’s not what most people would classify as the epitome of beauty. I’ve honestly never cared less about those sort of societal standards in my life. I’m perfectly happy moving the spotlight to her, turning the attention from myself to her on every possible occasion I get, plastering images of her to show off to friends and family. For the first time ever, I show off these sort of images without a care in the world as to the responses they garner. I beam at the compliments she receives but they don’t affect me in any way after my smile ends. I am certain that if she never received another compliment about her appearance for the rest of her life, I would never find her any less beautiful.

I’ll admit it’s a strange way to find confidence despite the opinions of others, but I genuinely can’t think of a better way to learn such an important lesson.

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.)

This may be the nerdiest thing I’ve ever confessed to, but I so very badly miss being in an active university environment. I miss having my work read and criticized by egotistical professors, I miss getting into screaming arguments with other strongly-opinionated students (and sometimes professors) about things that absolutely didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, I miss the engaging conversations about ideas and revolutions all these other inconsequential luxuries that a well-rounded wealth of knowledge provides.

I know, coming from someone who failed out of university for three solid years and took 7 whole years to acquire an undergraduate degree, it sounds really ridiculous.

But the truth is, at my core I’ve always loved learning and the idea of school. When I was just starting kindergarten, my mom got me my very own desk and I loved sitting at it for hours doing “homework”, sometimes until the sun went down and she called us in to dinner.  (This usually consisted of me coloring in a coloring book or “practicing my penmanship” by scribbling my first name matched with the surname of my favorite New Kid on the Block.) I loved the feeling of accomplishment that I felt when I made decent grades and my parents eagerly encouraged my advancement in school.

Soon, I was that annoying kid in my class who was always making straight A’s and always acheiving a little more than what was required. In kindergarten, I read more books than anyone else and my teacher took me and my bestie to dinner and a movie. (Funny story: She was supposed to take us to see ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids’ but forgot to check the local listings at our town’s tiny Cinema 4. So, instead, she took two 6-year-olds to see ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’. True story.) In first grade, I scored 100% on every single spelling test I took all year. In third grade, I did more voluntary book reports than anyone in Mrs. Moore’s class and I won her annual Multiplication Bee. What’s even more nerdy and embarrassing is that I didn’t enjoy the adulation as much as I genuinely loved learning. I consumed piles of books and delved intensely into researching any little thing that fascinated me and I was quick to try to engage my peers in discussing what cool things I was uncovering in my extracurricular explorations… And, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I got picked on so much.

Then, around middle school, I started dealing with my first devastating depressions and my grades plummeted. My poor parents thought I was just being teenager-y but the truth was that I’d lost all interest in anything that had excited me. I dragged myself through school, hid away in dark colors and layers of self-loathing until college when it all collapsed into a drunken, insane mess. Gross.

During that time, there were glimmers of my real curiosity that would peek through my own shroud of doubt and fear. One semester, I even traveled abroad and performed in an award-winning comedy troupe, but I wasted many nights of my adventure shaking and sobbing in overwhelming attacks of panic and depression. This sudden relapse ultimately caused me to fail out of every class I’d been succeeding in until the last two weeks of my stay and managed to set me back tremendously in my general recovery.

Only during my last year of college, after I started receiving adequate treatment for my depression did I start to recapture that sense of excitement with trying new things and learning everything I could about anything that piqued my interest. My senior year, I threw myself headfirst into bellydance and kayaking and student organizations and my classes. I stopped missing classes, and started talking and engaging in friendships with other BA’s that roamed the halls with me daily. Although my habitual inner-critic was working overtime to scare me back into my hole, I pushed forward and was able to really enjoy myself for a change. I really felt I’d recaptured this part of myself that I hadn’t seen since I was very young and had honestly believed had perished with age. And, even though my new friends picked on me about it, (Ahem…Hayley.) was glad to see my inner nerd return.

You know the rest of the story. (Through working with various student publications, I fell for the student magazine’s sexy art director who whisked me off my feet and had me pregnant and engaged within months. Two years later, we’re married with a one-year-old and living happily while working in our respective fields of expertise. M’aawww…)

I think I was too excited to really notice how much I missed school when I first graduated, because I was so busy being excited about my pregnancy and hurriedly preparing for my daughter’s grand entrance. I read every bit of material about the stages of pregnancy and parenting and What to Expect and thoroughly exhausted myself with diving right into this new, uncharted territory that I didn’t have time to notice that I missed deep, theoretical conversations about linguistic history or Victorian-era scandal.

Now, after sitting at home with a baby every day for a year, I find that I am suddenly ravenous, not only for human interaction, but for mental enrichment. I’ve finally started making time for pleasure-reading again, which has found me reading contemporary classics and popular spiritual new releases, but this just doesn’t seem like enough for some reason. I’ve even gone so far as to create an online writer’s workshop among some friends within a popular social networking site in hopes to recreate a sense of growing through critique that I so enjoyed about being a literary English major. (I know, totally nerdy). More than once, I’ve discussed starting or joining a book club with friends, but my time is so limited I can’t actually make that sort of commitment just yet. So, right now, my enthusiasm for learning is being quelled by a couple hours of The History Channel after dinner during the one night of the week with Greg and the few hours of reading I get after Chloe goes to bed on the nights that Greg has freelance work to get to. I’ve ordered a few books from Amazon to learn about various topics of interest, like the Women’s Movement or the Sexual Revolution or, most recently, The Gnostic Gospels.

I hate the idea that I’m wishing my daughter’s life away but, sometimes – especially when things are particularly unglamorously stressful on the homefront – I really look forward to the day when I can go back to school and really throw myself into graduate work. I feel like with the enthusiasm I have for continuing my education, it won’t be hard to recreate the momentum I had at the end of my undergrad career. And I know in a few years when she goes off to school I’ll have more time for selfish things like a career and more education, but being that patience has never been my strong suit, I’m having trouble accepting that I might just have to wait that long.

In 2009, I’ve decided to quit holding myself back. This habit is extremely long-seeded and is an every-single-moment-type meditational process. I’m so used to second-guessing and thwarting every single action that I take that I’m having to slowly coax myself through each day, internally encouraging every decision I make and constantly repeating the mantra “Push things forward.” From getting on the treadmill to spritzing a new perfume that seems too flirtatious for how I view myself, I’m pushing myself to step outside my comfort zone. On day 4, it’s already starting to seem easier.

Aaaaanyhoo, it seems I’m enthusiastically plunging forward with creating my Yum in the Tub Scrub business and I’m getting excited about making this my side project for this year. I don’t hope my line becomes the next Blue Q or anything, but I’d like to make a couple thousand every year selling my product online and in boutiques in the area. (And if Oprah wants to feature me on her Favorite Things episode, then so be it.)

I’ve loved preparing this project alongside Greg, who’s an expert in marketing, designing packaging and other aspects of commercial graphic design I couldn’t begin to understand. Every night for the last couple weeks, we’ve worked on banging out web advertisements (like those seen at MBRN.com), print advertisements (like those I’m hoping to get into Bust Magazine by the end of 2009), labels for regular jars, labels for sample jars, packaging for shipments, business cards, promo stickers, new webstore layouts, etc.

The thing is, when we’re collaborating, it hardly seems like work and we find ourselves sitting up for hours working on photo editing and designing other things for around the house and in our personal lives. In fact, at the moment, we have a few side-projects going that we eagerly get to every other evening or so. Who knew I’d actually think it was nice being able to work with one’s spouse creatively? Hunh…

However, as my list of Things To Do for the Business piles up, I’m starting to get overwhelmed. What do I know about pitching a product and creating retail price packages? I don’t know anything about taxes! I don’t know how much I should charge for a sugar scrub in a market where people are literally selling homemade bubble bath in schwanky boutiques for $36!! (In South Carolina! Can you believe it!?) Suddenly, my small side project has taken on new life. I’ll need printed labels and shipping materials and should I apply for a business loan or a business credit card and where should I get my wholesale products from and should I go ahead and stock up on supply or wait until I have an actual buyer and should I be taking small-business classes over at the local tech school or just kind of wing it and should I jack up my online prices if retailers choose to sell my product for double my online price!??!? I’m up until 2 a.m. these days making lists of materials and expenses and things to get done and then, of course, the lists of the lists so I’m staying on top of everything.

The hope is that once all my overhead planning is out of the way, that my business will be able to run like a well-oiled machine where I can provide retailers with product monthly and introduce new products gradually, perhaps once every six months when I’ve had some time for R&D. But right now? It’s turning into a lot of work having to do with numbers and contacts and graphs and learning about business and paperwork.

And somehow, despite all this discomfort and uncertainty, I’m getting more excited about my tiny business every day. This is a good feeling.

Attn: MSNBC, CNN, NBC, Reuters, BBC, CBS, and… FOXNews (if we must)

I’ll advise you to go ahead and cancel all other news stories today to make room to discuss my infant daughter recently STANDING UP ALL BY HERSELF without ANY exterior support from ANYONE for almost a WHOLE MINUTE!!!!!!

I will be issuing a press release shortly to cover details of this momentous occasion and field questions pertaining to Chloe (11 months old), who has been publicly recognized and critically lauded as The Most Beautiful, Brilliant, and Talented Person Ever to Inhabit the Globe. Please no shouting or flash photography around Ms. Pardue-Schultz and DO NOT bring up the Poopocalypse Incident of last September or all cameras and notes from the event will be confiscated and a press package will not be issued.

Thank you,
Castallare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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