In the meantime, the in-between time…

I have an interview with a temp agency tomorrow. A resume out to a job working with Jewish kids I’d really love. I had a call with a mediator to ask his experience and will be following up some leads before I follow down that path. A call on Thursday with a grad school back east that I probably won’t take up, but, again, good for me to find out more. 

An appointment with a talent agent next week. A “we’re still making decisions” email from the musical I auditioned for last week. And plans to start rehearsing for another musical audition. 

I have an email from my landlord saying the work on the laundry room-cum-art studio should be done by March 1. A weekend wedding retreat for a dear friend coming up. 

Oh, and did I mention I’m ushering at the Billy Idol show later this month?

For someone who spends so much time languishing on her couch and in her head, I sure do a lot! (except, of course, for my dishes.)

Divine restlessness. Creative unrest. Cosmic dissatisfaction. !

But really, I just wanted to touch base to say, Yes, I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up, but I have to remember that doesn’t mean that I’m not doing anything in the present. I tend to flagellate myself for my lack of action — then I actually write down what I’m doing!

It’s hard to acknowledge these points of progress or action in the midst of existential questioning, but I really must if I want to keep any perspective. 

So that’s what I’m giving myself today. I got up at 5am to do a work-trade shift at my gym to keep those free classes that I’m only using once a week at the moment. But, today, I worked out. 

I paid my COBRA bill, so I can go to Kaiser tomorrow on my day off and check out how my blood is doing and get that vague gnawing off my mind. 

Today, I’m taking public transit into work instead of driving, because I have the luxury of time when I wake up at 5am. 

Sometimes I really gotta step back from my navel-gazing and notice that I still am engaging in the life I fought so hard to keep. 

Meet the New Year, (not quite the) Same as the Old Year.

there’s so much and little to tell you: 

i have to decide whether to ditch work and attend my annual women's meditation retreat next weekend. how to tell my boss when I asked for that sunday off — originally for the retreat, but now for an audition — that I really do need that time. and I’m taking monday and tuesday off for my friend who’s visiting from canada. 

that the couple who were the subject of the "day before christmas" poem/blog came to visit me on tuesday, and took me out for sushi, and it feels like i have this sort of surrogate parental couple right now. even though they live in vancouver. we exchanged all our information, i got a happy new year email, and i’m going to talk to him about mediation. like, becoming a mediator, and what that would look like. another career goose chase maybe, but worth looking in to. 

that my mom is having trouble sleeping, and doesn’t want to change her work schedule even though she could. that she’s having health issues that she could address, but procrastinates on. 

that two years ago, right very now, I was waking up in lahaina, maui, hawaii. in the bed of a school boy whose parents graciously invited me to stay and kicked their son to the couch, so a bald and chemo-riddled me could have a vacation from a cancer. 

i have to call the student loan people so they don’t raise my payment from $67/month to over a thousand, but being my mother’s daughter, i haven’t yet. 

I am excitedly waiting for the indiegogo campaign to end and for the funds to be sent to me, so I can write this final check to my landlord for my back rent accrued while i was sick. and to watch that number in my budget line fall to zero. 

i am looking forward to my first real paycheck from the retail store, but as i’ve figured the numbers, amazingly, i’ll have earned the exact amount i would have if i were working at the desk job i quit in october. 

though i wouldn’t have that back-rent money, because that only came about as i was sitting in a cafe with a friend in november, looking for work, him too, and i mentioned the wanting to art again and the potential art studio upstairs, and the back rent. and he said, you should do a kickstarter. 

so, i wouldn’t have that, or at least not now, if not for being unemployed and sharing with a friend who was also spending a mid-day cafe work-search. 

i have a script to read and a song to rehearse for two auditions this month. 

the first is because a friend from mockingbird suggested i try out for this one company in town, and i said i wasn’t good enough, and he said i was and i should and made me promise. and so i did. you know, just a few weeks later!

it’s a classical play. i’m nervous, as i’ve never done one before. 

the second is another musical. and, i’m nervous! but. i’m excited for the role i’m auditioning for. it could be a lot of fun. 

they would run consecutive to each other, one closing, and a few weeks later, rehearsals for the other beginning. so it could work. but not with this sales job. i think. assume. project. worry about. 

but then, too, i have to remember the whole “from thanksgiving to thanksgiving” thing/blog: to not worry, to trust, to at least notice I’m worrying and begin to try to trust. 

i have all these collage cards i still want and need to make, holiday cards and thank you cards. but with the constraints of buses and bart and standing and … (*breathe*) from thanksgiving to thanksgiving. 

i flaked out on my NYE plans. i think i may have disappointed my friend by doing that. but it was a day off for me. i got loads of stuff done early, and by the late afternoon i was home and cozy, i didn’t want to leave. even though it’s a 9:00pm ball-drop! i had to work yesterday, and yadda yadda excuse excuse. i just didn’t feel like getting all dolled up. though i’m sure it would have been fun and my FOMO-meter ran high. 

instead i stayed home, and it was lovely. i know it won’t always be so quiet. but it was nice. 

i have a lot and same old happening right now. i don’t know if any of it is interesting to you, but today is more a state of the union address:

all is well, amorphous, covered and uncertain. 

i have friends and opportunities and procrastination habits and work issues. 

i have a warm home to leave and come back to. 

and two auditions to get ready for. 

Happy and Healthy New Year, Friends. You rule. 

Round and Round She Goes!

Waking at 5 am to do work-trade at my workout studio doesn't make for a lyrical blog, so I figure I'll just give you a "state of the union" update on a few things I've been writing about here recently.

Yesterday, I had my first vocal rehearsal for The Addams Family. It's sooo low, this range, so I'll do the best I can! Which, I think will be alright! I also took my first voice lesson last week in over a year, and I really like the woman I met with. She's in SF, but I think, for now, at least through the play (Opening Sept 19), I'm not in a position to shop around at the moment.

I also wonder if I should begin auditioning again, too. As I once heard, "You're only as good as your next play"! Which is a great discouraging mantra!! But, perhaps instead, I'll look at audition lessons or acting lessons, too. It's not that I have the finances for that at the moment, since

I've begun acupuncture again, following all the medical upswing of the last few months with my liver, et al. But things have calmed down. Medically and emotionally. I had an ultrasound of my liver about a week or more ago. They found that, indeed, there were fatty or scarred areas on my liver which were likely causing the elevated liver enzymes that incited the doctors to panic in the first place. They can't tell from the ultrasound if it's fat or scarring, but in either case, the dr. said that we don't have to do anything except watch it. That there were just small spots on the image. Nothing seriously damaged at all. Or even moderately damaged. Thank god. The irony of a sober person developing cirrhosis was just too galling.

In the meantime, I've begun again with the acupuncturist I used to see (who's also in SF, so I try to stack my time there), and I think she's been influential in helping my system calm down and regulate. Granted, I see and have been seeing my chiropractor/naturopath, (who, using muscle testing, was able to diagnose liver scarring!) but I wanted some additional support, since things were "showing up" in my ovaries, and I know that the chemo may have knocked those ladies out of alignment. The acupuncturist, I began seeing for fertility/womanly issues about 7 or 8 years ago. She's known me for a good long while, though I haven't seen her in a few years. It's nice to have that long-term relationship, and she remembers things about my life and my progression that I'm surprised she does!

Next in Team Molly accrual, I met with a woman yesterday about a "fulcrum"related topic. I want to find a way to work less and earn more, so that I can actually not live paycheck-to-paycheck and dawn-to-dusk for the rest of my life. I believe it's possible, and have been reaching out to people to ask for their suggestions on this.

She, this friend of a friend, suggested something that I've had suggested twice before: Teach writing to kids.

...

Bu- But, B, B.... but I don't know how. But it'll be hard.

Mainly, I don't know how, and that means that I throw up all kinds of barriers to mask that vulnerability, like "it's hard," it's competitive, I don't have experience, etc etc etc.

These are not very true. That I don't know how to go about it is. But that's why I reach out for HELP! The same woman I met with yesterday said that she just paid... wait for it... $200 for a 4-hour class for her child.

I'm sorry, what?

In a class of 6.

She said that, in this area, you can charge at least $30 per kid per hour, and have a small class. She said that the teachers also offered help with personal organization for the kids, helping them clean out their backpack, organize their homework schedule, organize their life, because, if you haven't figured this out -- not all parents know how to model this for their kids.

Point is. This is the 3rd time in as many years that the suggestion has been made to me about doing supplemental education for kids. And I would love to do that. I have the passion, and the good intention (despite my practicality about the numbers), and the acumen with kids. I just do. And I don't want to be a "classroom teacher;" I just have watched and am continuing to watch too many of my friends work really hard for a diminished ROI.

Fulcrum, man.

Good for me for reaching out and being open to ideas. Now, the work will be to create a curriculum, a program. Eek.

And that's where the help will need to come in. But I know plenty of people who can, and the things that I don't know, I have the wherewithal to find help for that. She sent me the links to several programs in this area that offer similar services/classes that I could model my work after. It's exciting, nerve-inducing... and I hope I do it!!

Lastly, for fun, I'll tell you that my "Great Caffeine Reduction Experiment" is going well! I've moved from 4-5 cups of coffee a day to 1-2! Granted, I went to bed at 8, then 9 pm for about 2 weeks, and am still tired by 10pm! But I think a) that's more normal, and b) might pass. In any case, I think it also helps my body, and my energy, which I'll need. Not to mention my voice, since coffee is dehydrating.

So, things continue to move. ... And the Tarot card I pulled recently is the one about intense rest and reserving of energies. So, I cancelled one of my coffee dates this weekend (with a girlfriend, don't get excited!) to fulfill that need. But I think there's more rest to come.

As someone once said, "On most days, I meditate 30 minutes. On days that I'm very busy, I meditate an hour." (and I say this soooo metaphorically at the moment!!)

Progress is Boring.

(in an effort to release perfectionism, I’m going to admit this blog kinda bored me, but I’m putting it up anyway. achievement unlocked!)

I’ve heard there’s a difference between planning and projecting.

Do the first to create peace; do the second and create angst.

As with most of my plans lately -- job stuff, the Boston trip, even the acting (I’ll be auditioning again on Saturday) -- it’s been a lot easier, though not easy, to take the action and let the results be what they may.

What I’ve gotten to see out of this way of being around the trip and the acting is that indeed, the action was worth it, regardless the results. In fact, that the results are still positive: I get to feel the joy of trying, and the smile associated with remembering. I get to feel proud for showing up, and a sense of peace around having not “gotten my way” or gotten in my way – unlike the outcome of projecting.

It’s nice to be able to recognize that the effort was worth the effort. It could be easy to dismiss, and say, That wasn’t worth my time since I didn’t get what I want – but, we know, I did. I got to spend time with someone I enjoy; I got to experience auditioning (and even acting). I got to see who and how I am in relationship, in perseverance, in something new – and I like who I was, and who I saw.

I’ve been hemming around signing up for my work’s retirement plan. I’ve been eligible for almost half a year, and it’s been on my list of “action items” to talk to the accountant at work, find out how much would be taken out of my paycheck to hit the minimum, which would be matched by my employer.

Some people dream of this kind of benefit… and I’ve been scared to look. What if there isn’t enough for me now? What if there won’t be enough for me later? What if it’s too late? What if …

“Clarity leads to freedom,” is a phrase I hear around now. And the truth, like my student loans, could be a lot more palatable than I imagined/feared/projected.

So, this week I did ask for those numbers. I sat, listened, saw the highlighted figures on the page, and then stuffed the paper into my purse! Carrying around this step toward clarity without actually looking is still being in vagueness.

I’m still scared. As if looking at a page will harm me!

Clarity leads to freedom. It’s better to know than not know. It’s better to try than not try. It’s better to live in reality than in fantasy, mostly because my fantasies are pretty nihilistic.

If I’ve gotten anything out of the last few months, or even year, it’s that trying can actually be fun. No matter the outcome.

I think about my band. I think about playing bass in that band. And how freaking fun that was. It was some work, and not always serene, but it was fun. It was enlivening.

And I quit.

It was time to move on, but that doesn’t discount the value and the importance of that experience in my life.

From the vague listening to the accountant, I don’t think my salary can support those retirement contributions, modest though they are. But, also, I’ve learned that my estimation of things can skew toward scarcity and fear, so I’ll be taking those numbers to friends who can help me get more perspective on them, since there may be a truth that I can’t see through that fog.

The other thing that comes up lately, is that I think I wanna band again. Active verb. To band. I want to band.

So, I'll plan, not project. 

Once More unto the Breach, Sorta Kinda.

Despite having gotten the “message” or “more information” about where I think my career path is supposed to, or rather, for the first time, where I want it to go… the hard(er) part is taking action to actually go there.

Although I’ve submitted my own promotion to my job, and would love to do this work there, it is unclear whether they’re in a place to support that work. And so, it’s up to me to put more eggs in more baskets.

I spent some time on Saturday updating my resume and cover letter. I had to go visit a baby(!!) so I still have some final work to do before I submit this particular one. And that’s where the stall-out happens. Any of you know this one? Heard this one before?

I’ve got this pretty particular set of things to do, in an order, in order to go where I think I want to go, in order to get what I think I want to get. … buuuuut. Well, there’s only 3 more episodes of this show I’m watching on Netflix (on my phone, I should add), so I’ll do it… later.

Gift and curse of cancer or any other mortality insisting event, or simply the past experience of soul-crushing procrastination, is you know that "later" may not be there when you are.

I’m reminded of a meditation I did once. It was probably around another time when I was demanding from fate and god and the universe that I get answers about what the f' I’m supposed to do with my life. But, I thought about this turtle that I sometimes meet in my meditations. And I thought about him walking to get toward this grass to get a bite to eat.

He is a turtle. He walks as a turtle walks, slowly, thoughtfully, without haste. When the f' was he gonna get there?? And I realized my fear was that the grass wouldn’t be there when he/I got there. If I move at a pace that is consistent, thoughtful, persistent, what if the grass simply isn’t there by the time I get there??

What the turtle had that I didn’t is faith. A true belief in knowing that the grass will be there when he gets there. That as long as he keeps on in the direction he thinks is best, care-fully and consistently, whatever he needs will be provided along the way.

Wise turtle.

I don’t know that I have, or had, the same faith.

I can’t tell you, truthfully, that watching more t.v. is a way of simply agreeing that abundance in the universe exists and I can lolligag all I want because of it. I can tell you that I have fear of where my efforts take me; that I have a streak of entitlement; that I want the outcome known before I walk anywhere at any pace.

But, I do want an outcome. As I’ve been writing, I’m tired of standing at the crossroad of my life, waiting for a lift that will never come.

There’s a phrase I hear around now: There is no ship.

If we’re all waiting for our ship to come in… sorry, bub, no ship.

That could be horrifyingly depressing. WHAT AM I DOING THIS FOR, THEN? If there’s no ship?? But, as I’m beginning to understand it, this phrase simply means that there is no skipping over the work, there is no lottery that dumps in your lap; that, like the turtle, you have to keep moving forward, and then maybe you build your own ship.

The idea is that there’s no white knight. That fantasy time is over. That we are our own white knight, if we are so brave and also disillusioned to be one.

So, unto the breach I go. Haltingly, uncertain of what I’ll find when I get there. But, if I have been given (finally, gladly, luckily, FINALLY, again) more intel on where it is I think I want to arrive, then I must get up and walk in that direction.

I must submit resumes, continue to clear the gunk from my soul, and write to you of how uncomfortable it feels to endeavor on my own behalf. 

Forte. Più Forte. (Loud. More Loud.)

It’s come into my awareness again this week the fallacy of perfection, and its venomous tendrils. The three “p”s: Perfection, Procrastination, Paralyzation.

I’ve also read that procrastination is simply another way for us to prolong feeling crappy about ourselves, and to delay feeing proud of ourselves.

This week, after a conversation with some people of authority at work last week about my position, my ambition, my vision of “Where I’d like to be;” after I was given the feedback that, great, sure, put it in writing and we can talk more... I stalled and dragged my feet.

It wasn't acres of time, this time; it was only from Friday until Tuesday evening, when I finally wrote what I needed to write. But I could see those tendrils curling up around me, waiting to choke my ambition and self-esteem from me. The tendrils of hopelessness (What the use anyway), uncertainty (What about acting, my art, moving), and simple perfectionism (If it’s not perfect, they'll reject it, and then I’ll be stuck answering phones the rest of my life, anyway, so f* it, I’ll just watch some more Once Upon a Time).

It was so helpful to hear other people talk about how this weed of perfectionism crops up in their lives, marring their attempts at a full life—it reminds me that I’m not alone, and mostly, as I heard people talk about their struggle with perfectionism, I sat there in that chair and decided (for the hundredth time) to go home afterward and do the write-up I needed to hand in to my superiors.

I heard them battling the beast, I heard them being flayed by it, and I decided I wasn’t going to let that be me, if only for an evening.

I cannot tell you how many times I make this declaration to myself. And then, simply do come home and watch Netflix, or surf Facebook. I wonder if the advent of television and internet has created in us a generation of procrastinators, but I certainly know that I am none too helped by it! (in binges, especially)

But for whatever reason (and I won’t call it exasperation, because I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been exasperated, and still done nothing), I came home on Tuesday night, wrote what I needed to write, emailed it to a few friends for feedback, and handed it in yesterday.

And here’s the/a reward for overcoming perfectionism: It may not go the way you wanted anyway. I may hear, “Thanks, Molly, but we’re not in a position to… We’ll think about it for some undetermined date… This just isn’t in our vision or budget… We just need someone (you) to stay doing what you are doing indefinitely, or at least through the next year or more.” I may hear things I don’t want to hear in response to my action on behalf of myself and my ambition, BUT, the reward is that I get to hear something at all, instead of sitting, spinning, resenting, foaming, fuming, and … watching Netflix.

The reward for overcoming perfectionism (and it’s paralyzation) in just this one moment is that, no matter the results, no matter the response, I am actually moving forward, internally, for sure. What this does is tell me that, See Molly, once you did something. One time you took action on your own behalf, and instead of delaying your good, instead of languishing in a sea of self-pity, you get to feel proud, pro-active, like a leader. You get to feel like yourself, instead of like the skin of mutating fear that creeps up yours and mimics you out in the world.

I don’t know the result of the action I took, externally, at least. However, having put things in writing and gotten clarity around my vision and desire, if I don’t get the result I “want” here, in this environs, then I get to take that information and that knowledge and shop it around elsewhere. Because I took the action that I did, suddenly, I have a beginning instead of what my brain and that malevolent skin tells me is an end, a sorry, pathetic end.

Finally, I’ll repeat something I heard a long time ago, which I’ve agreed with and disagreed with over the years: We ask “god” for what we want; “he” gives us what we need; and in the end, it’s what we wanted anyway.

I know that what I wanted anyway was clarity and self-esteem, so, Team: Mission Accomplished. 

Hi. My name is Molly, and…

My thighs don’t touch.

(The following will be the notes and musings of a hopefully complete article I’d like to submit to some magazine or website or another.)

There was some article flying around social media recently about “real women” and their thighs touching. Somewhere along the way, the idea of women’s thighs not touching became the measuring stick for skinny, and has since become a meme for ire, derision, and rejection.

I want to fully and emphatically state that I believe in the “real women” movement that seeks to show all body types as valuable, beautiful, and audaciously sexy. I love that there is a movement whose purpose is to extol the virtues of all people and to help dismantle the idea that there is only one ideal for beauty, fitness, and femininity.

However, there is a seething undercurrent to some of this new “inclusiveness” that feels like burning those of us whose thighs don’t touch at the stake. That somehow in simply being and looking how we are, those of us with this kind of body shape are pulling down the wave of feminism. That if your thighs don’t touch, you are a tool for the patriarchy, and what's wrong with this country.

Like many women, I poke at my body, prod the sagginess that is and is below my tush. Lament the flatness of what god gave me to sit upon. I pinch my belly flesh when sitting, and feel a little chagrined that my boobs are small, but not pert, and like so many others', simply collapse flatly when I lie down.

But, I read a quote from a cancer survivor when I was fighting Leukemia that helped put some of this in perspective, and I have it taped to the full-length mirror in my closet:

When I wake up and my jeans don’t fit right: There are times when I still have those annoying body-image moments we all have. You can’t skip through a field of flowers every day. You just can’t. But I’ve come to realize that if you can stop the spinning in your brain of My jeans are tight, I can’t believe I ate that—if you can change your clothes, put some mascara on, get out of the house, and move on, life will be much more fun.

The truth is we women are just way too hard on ourselves. We need to remember there’s total beauty in who we are, and it’s not about what we look like. Cancer made me realize: You can cut off all your hair, and people will still think you’re great; you can look your worst after chemo, and people will still love you. So what the f--k have I been worrying about all my life? We spend all this time looking in on our lives from the outside, but we gotta get in it, and live it. Because it’s a day-by-day gig.

And if this is true, if what this “real women” movement is supposed to be saying is that we are more than what we look like on the outside, and that the outside no matter what is beautiful, too… then why are we burning women whose thighs don't touch at the stake?

There is a contradiction and hypocrisy in some of what that movement is purporting: All women are beautiful, except those whose thighs don't touch. They are part of the problem, and all must be dismissed and eliminated.

I get that there is a pendulum swing that must happen in order for us to come to the center of this issue, to the place where there is equality and equanimity, and I am still proud that this trend toward inclusiveness is happening in my lifetime. But as a member of the generation of women who are supposed to be supported and elevated and freed by this wave of feminism, I would like to be able to feel like I can march along as a "real woman" too, atop thighs that simply don’t touch, without being accused of treason. 

Cancer.

About a month ago, I was diagnosed with Leukemia. And my whole life changed.

I don’t know what this change is, was, will be, but I know that I am in several ways entirely different than I was. The way, at least right now, that I see things are entirely new. And profoundly grateful. I almost died. And yet, I didn’t.

We each get this each day – I got this each day, prior to this happening. I got the chance to understand that life was precious, but I didn’t, really. I understood it, but to really feel it? Well, it’s different now,

and it brings up a host of other questions. Am I allowed to still watch Ben Stiller movies? Am I allowed to spend a day on the couch? Will I now stop stopping myself short on all my varied art projects, and allow myself to follow through on anything that I’ve started? I have no idea.

I’d like to think that part of this “change” – for lack of a better term for “life altering sudden tragic happening” – will indeed move me toward being more in my art, more in my life. I’d like to believe that part of this whole thing is a very nasty kick-upside-the-head lesson in not living for tomorrow. That I’m being given the chance to very acutely see that life is short and tenuous, and so I ought to embrace the talents that I have, and finally let myself explore them fully so that I might share them with you.

I’d like to believe that there are lessons here. Otherwise, what the fuck.

I’d like to believe that the Universe or my Higher Power couldn’t -- for some reason completely unknown to me – send me a postcard, or a dream, or a message on Facebook. That for some reason this lesson had to be learned hard, and fast, and therefore more gentle methods of smoothing a rock down to its shiny parts were not available to this massive Power.

I’ve been out of the hospital for a week now, and I will go back in next Monday for another round of chemo. This will be the 2^nd in a series of, likely, 5 treatments. The words that I’ve had to learn over this month scare the crap out of me. I don’t want to use words like chemo, nausea, pain meds, pneumonia. I don’t want to hear “How bad is the pain on a scale of 1 to 10,” or, “It’s time for your shot,” or “Well, we expect this.”

I’ve oscillated since I’ve been out of the hospital between those few stages of grief – anger, grief, acceptance. Often within the same minute. When I was in the hospital, there wasn’t time for anything except acceptance. This is happening. Period. Go with it. And, despite what you may think, it’s really f’ing busy in the hospital with people coming in and out at all hours of the day and night, throwing information or medication at you. There’s not really time to process, space to absorb and consolidate what has been happening to me.

And so, being home now, I’m getting the chance to experience what I couldn’t while basically holding my breath for 3 weeks. I’m getting to realize the enormity of what happened. The slow, marinating, seeping reality – I almost died. The nurse told me that I had 49% leukemic cells in my blood when I came into the hospital – WITH STREP THROAT – and that if I hadn’t come in, I would have died within two weeks. I would have gotten a bleed, likely in my brain, and I would have just died. No one would have known – no one would have known why. Relapse? Suicide? Understanding this fact has begun to lead me to know that I need help in holding the space for all this – and yesterday I contacted a cancer support group.

AND, I have to tell you, I don’t want to be someone who needs a cancer support group – I shouldn’t have motherfucking cancer in order to need such a group. A month ago, this was unfathomable.

This morning, I read my last Morning Pages entry from the week before I went into the hospital. I haven’t written morning pages since then, I was too sick, and then too hospitalized. And so I read them, and I see myself talking about how my throat really is starting to hurt. About how I went to the art store Flax and got new pens and a notebook and talked to the woman in the back about different types of pressed paper – hot press versus cold, what would be good for the art I want to do. About the café I’d emailed with the month before about putting up a show in their space, and how he wanted to do November, but I simply wasn’t ready, as it was the end of September at the time.

I’d written about the clothing I’d bought for cheap at good thrift shops, and the flying lesson I was scheduled for, which ended up being the day I went into the ER. I wrote about being excited, about art that I would make. About missing my family, and wanting to go home for Thanksgiving to see them.

In some ways, it feels like reading a journal from junior high, it feels so long ago. And yet, it’s all still me. And that’s something that I want to take away from this too. This process is going to be HARD, challenging, painful, difficult, and yet, I’m still me. As I was writing my first Morning Pages this morning since that last entry, I was inwardly elated to see my handwriting hadn’t changed. That major facts of who I am have not changed. That things that were important to me then, “before cancer,” are still things that are important to me now. – art, family, adventure.

I’ve been blasted with some of the nastiest chemicals, shorn down to the barest slices of my body ... but my handwriting is still the same.

I could go into the ways in which gratitude has become this sort of well of tears behind my eyes at all times. I could talk about how just waking up this morning feels like a gift. But I don’t want to today, really. I could list the thanks and the inundation of love and support and care, but that’s not what this blog is about this morning, at least. It’s not a love fest, it’s just a truth fest. About where I am this very day, at this very time, arguing and stamping and shaking a fist at the sky with WHY in the m’f’in hell couldn’t you have made this a little bit of a gentler lesson? About how I feel like I’m some sort of icon now, with people telling me all the time what an inspiration you are, when I’ve had diarrhea for 3 out of the last 4 weeks. I’ve asked people what on earth that even means, an inspiration to what? What have I inspired in you? What am I inspiring you to do? I haven't done anything except lived.

I get to be bitter about it. And I get to be amazingly thankful to get to be bitter about it – to be alive enough to have emotions enough to get to scorn about it.

It is surely true, the love and support I’ve gotten. And yet, there’s a part of me that feels angry that I even have a situation in which to receive such love and support. I know people love me. Couldn’t I have had my 31^st birthday at a restaurant with them, instead of in a hospital bed? Couldn’t I have learned to get out of the way of my own creativity and drive and lust for life in a different, gentler way? Couldn’t I have gotten to see my family by flying East for Thanksgiving, instead of them flying West to hold my hand while my hair falls out?

I’m grateful for this blog – this tempestuous blog that gives me the chance to be honest in every way. Which I want to use to springboard to something else, to write in another venue, maybe one that’s paid. I’m glad that I get to write here, as someone told me, as I speak – that if I write the way I talk, they said, I’m surely a great writer. I don’t know how much that is true, but somehow the cancer lets me see it a little more clearly. And perhaps begin to accept it. I want to explore my talent more – because there simply is more there. I want to push into it, and I want to share it.

I swear I would have gotten there without this whole cancer thing, but I guess I really didn’t have a choice in this one. 

Normal Functioning Levels

In an effort to “put my needs first,” I’ve decided to change this to a weekly, instead of a daily, blog. So, Sunday will be our day together, folks. Two buses and an 8:30am clock-in time will make weekday blogging a little bit like killing a wildebeest before breakfast – highly unnecessary.

So, I have a job. ! This past week, starting on Wednesday, I began working in the front office of a synagogue in Berkeley. This, will be an adjustment. Honestly, my commute was easier when I was crossing the bridge! But, I have a job. I needed one, and now, finally, I have one. I’m still not clear on wtf it took so long to find one. It certainly does fall into the "underearning" category of a job “below my education and skill level,” but, then again, the first bit of advice in the How to get out of debt… book is **Get A Job, ANY Job** So, I have a job.

It’s not going to be that bad either. There are a lot of systems in place that are way wonky, i.e. ten-step processes, when they could be 3, but that’s sort of why I’m there. In the rest of life, usually when I want to help others streamline things in their lives or make them better, it’s usually none of my damn business and I get to practice holding my tongue and trusting they're on their own path. But, luckily, here, it very literally is my business, and so, I’m going to get to organize and streamline, and “correct” what’s really silly.

That’s part of the advantage of coming in to a new place, you see things that other people haven’t noticed, really, in years. Why do you click these three things instead of this one? Oh, I don’t know, it’s just how I was trained, so that’s how I do it. Why is there an old, dusty dead Foreman grill in the kitchen – does anyone use it? I don’t know, it’s just always been there. WHY do you print off paper calendars of the entire year for the weekly staff meeting that barely get glanced at, and then thrown away?… So, I do get to come in, with fresh eyes, and be like, whoa, uh, this is stupid.

That said, there are going to be a lot of advantages to this job that are not monetary. There’s a pre-school, and this week, the little kids were getting their intro week, so I got to see all these two and three year olds come in the front door, all nervous or excited. I got to encourage them. There’s a very sweet, wise-ass kid studying for his Bar Mitzvah who comes to hang out almost daily with the youth group advisor, so we get to wise-ass at each other. There’s a piano in the chapel off the main sanctuary that once I get keys, I was told absolutely, I could come in there and play during lunch.

It’s not a bank. That’s an advantage. It’s a synagogue. This means people coming in looking to volunteer; retirees looking at the gift shop for cards or mezuzahs. Kids coming for Hebrew school; adults coming for Torah study. It’s a community that I’m getting to become a part of. And that’s not something every job has at all.

Even though, I’ll tell you, I was highly disappointed that I didn’t get the Marketing job I wanted, (and I got a letter from the IRS this week saying that I owe them money from 2010, likely because I didn’t report my student loan money properly), this isn’t going to be that bad. Am I still going to be living a bit meagerly? Likely. It’s not a high paying position in the slightest. Is it more than minimum wage? Yes. Am I waiting tables? No. Am I making sales calls all day, like one of the jobs I interviewed for? No.

It could be worse. And, it can only get better, I suppose.

Mostly, I am glad that my stress hormones are in retreat. Returning to normal, without the barely contained underground river of how am I going to pay my bills??? I slept almost the whole day yesterday. It’s like, with the stress in retreat, the whole system floods with a great big PAUSE, system shutting down now, crisis averted. Yesterday I woke up, ate breakfast, thought about going to the farmer’s market, and climbed back into bed, waking up 4 hours later. Took another mini nap after trips to the library and grocery store, cooked dinner, watched a dvd, and went to bed at a decent time.

I needed it. Obviously. I’ve been stressed, man.

In that/this period, though, I’ve also started to do some other things. I’ve begun to soak my own chickpeas to make hummus from scratch. I’ve begun to marinate tofu so that I can bake it. I bought quinoa from the bulk section at a way cheaper price than anything packaged. All of these organic, all of them cheaper than buying ready packed or ready made.

I’ve really enjoyed doing this. Experimenting with different flavors in the hummus, roasted red pepper (jarred, but one day, maybe my own), garlic, pine nuts, lemon. Using the tofu marinade to pour onto veggies I’ve steamed to go with them. I’m getting healthier in my eating habits. More interested, and more creative. Part of that creativity was borne of necessity, the need to buy things cheaper as money has run out during these months of unemployment.

Coffee is no longer in my cabinets. This makes me awfully sad. But, it’s not good for me, so I’ve been reading, so it’s going the way of the dodo. That, I will miss. But it’s not like coffee’s moved to England, and I’ll never see it again. I did, indeed, get some decaf with some caf this week. There’s just nothing quite like the texture of coffee.

One place I had coffee was at the poetry reading on Thursday, at which I read my rather explicit new poems. I didn’t preface them by saying the experiences described were mostly not current, which I sort of wish I’d said, as what will people THINK of me??, but it all went well. I got good feedback on my work. The words “bold,” “brave,” and “funny” were thrown around. I’m glad I read the work, even though I was nervous about it. Every time I perform, it makes me want to do it more, and again.

I wasn’t able to “get it together” to make broadsides of the poem I wanted to, but there will be time for that. I had a few other things on my mind this week!

All in all, it was a highly emotional week. The anticipation of whether I was going to get the job I wanted. Interviewing for it at 9:30pm Sunday night via Skype and finding out at 11pm that I hadn’t gotten it (the other girl had more “proven experience”). Waking up Monday morning, knowing I was about to accept a job that has the same title and pay rate as a job I accepted 5 years ago. Calling a friend to ask if I could ask them for more money. Crying, mourning the loss of where I think I ought to be, and what I ought to be doing. The loss of my ability to save on any significant level so that I might move back East some time this century.

And then calling to ask for more money, not getting what I asked, but a token amount more than what they offered. The new chaos of commuting to a new job. The first few days of a job when everyone is still evaluating you. The knowledge dump into my brain from the girl whose job I’m taking and training with. The highly anticipated poetry reading where I was bold and brave and scared as fuck. And the crash, like air let out of a balloon, a deflating of all the energy, worry, and stress as I crashed out yesterday.

There are still going to be challenges, of course. This is a new job. There’s a lot to continue to learn, and the girl I’m replacing leaves on Thursday. I still do have some financial issues to contend with like the IRS letter, and the fact that I don’t get paid till the 15^th. But, by the way, I did sell my electric guitar and the amp for the price I never thought I would get (thank g-d for asking for help). So, it will be ok. But, I still feel deflated. I’m going to need time to bulk back up and refuel to normal functioning levels.

Til then, and in order to get there, I will TRY to be kind to myself. Get out of my head, and my own problems. And be grateful, if even for a moment, that I am finally employed at a job that is far from atrocious. 

For those of you playing along at home. . .

For those of you playing along at home, below are a few updates on things I have here written about:

• The caffeine-reduction experiment has been a near-fail since beginning the temp job, but continues to remind me to feel guilty.

• I realized this morning that the free bus I sometimes catch to BART can take me all the way to the city, instead of transferring to BART (thank you to my school’s student bus pass, making bus transit in the East Bay free).

• I put back up the series of my paintings that I’d taken down during Calling in the One, at which time I’d realized that women not looking at their lovers was something I wanted to move away from. I put them back up when the okJew was potentially going to come over, and I didn’t want a blank expanse of wall over my bed. I'm not sure if I'll take it back down. 

• I have not yet finished, but I have begun, the art project for my friend’s wedding. It sits on my desk, accusing me.

• I bought cat food.

• I graduated with a Master’s degree a month ago. And I was offered a weekend job at said pet food store. Generously offered (not the compensation), but no thank you. Not yet, at least.

• I have art that I need to make for the September art show my friend invited me to join. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it’s been backstroking through my psyche for a month or so.

• I must follow-up with the boss at where I'm temping to ask her precisely what she meant when she said she would be happy to give me "a recommendation" for auction houses here and in the city (um, I meant NY city – I guess that habit still dies hard).

• My dad will be closing on the sale of my childhood NJ home in the next month or so, and is planning to move with his fiancé to their new Florida home toward the fall.

• I am eagerly awaiting June 20^th, when the results of the daily sweepstakes I’ve been entering for a trip for two to Italy will be announced. You may be the lucky winner.

• My writing style is influenced by who I’m reading currently.

• At the moment, I just finished Nora Ephron’s new book, and began a collection of essays by David Foster Wallace, whom I’ve never read, but seen the author’s name so many times on my BART rides that I thought to give him a whirl. I’m not sure I will continue.

• I will be art modeling this Sunday for the artist who I first worked for, and two of her friends. I’m not sure I will continue.

• I have 9 new voicemails I haven’t checked.

• I went on the walk I’d planned to take on Tuesday evening yesterday evening, and it was glorious. I ate what must have been a small, cherry-sized peach, unless it was of course, a cherry, from a nearby tree which I jumped to pluck from the low hanging branch. I’m not dead, so it was not poisonous.

• As soon as I get paid this cycle, I’m going to register for the summer acting classes at A.C.T., and I can’t f’ing wait. I looked up all manner of electronics yesterday that I could hypothetically use my more regular income of the next 6 weeks to purchase, and yet, I realized that what I really want are those lessons. And new shoes.

• I’m now working one-on-one with a woman who’s found recovery around negative patterns of behavior with sex and men, and I’m infinitely looking forward to freedom around some of this.

• I’m continuing to work with a woman one-on-one around financial recovery stuff, and am looking forward to being “placed in a position of neutrality” around money.

• I love Patsy.

• I haven’t yet played my bass with my friend with the drums up in Berkeley, and it too stares at me, not gently weeping, but with silent mewling.

• I realized that most of the writers I’m reading right now have written as freelance writers, and it occurs to me, that I might be able to do that, if I look into it.

• I haven’t applied to any jobs since last week.

• I used my 3 lb weights yesterday after my walk for about 3 minutes. And began to dread the 3 hour posing/drawing session on Sunday.

• Dr. Palm Reader’s office wrote to ask after me, and so I looked up my soon-to-end chiropractic benefits “in network,” so that I can get back to that kind of thing, without breaking my bank, or participating in a somewhat murky flirtatiousness.

• This is the end of my list. 

Breathing Room.

Sort of makes me wonder if there’s a room somewhere where all people do is breathe? Maybe that’s called a meditation center. Or a hospital.

In any case… yesterday, the interior design company I’ve been temping with these last few weeks (and on and off during the last year) asked me if I’d like to come on with them for a temp gig for a full, firm 6 weeks (possibly 2 months, but 6 weeks firm)?

Of course, I said yes. !

This gives me 6 weeks to really have the mental space to look for permanent work, while not freaking out about bills being paid or not. I know, now, that I not only will have July rent paid (HUZZAH!), but I will have August rent paid. I haven’t known if I’d have two months’ rent in a row in a long time. I can’t tell you what a relief this is.

I noticed how much more I was breathing after I was asked and after I accepted. I have a tendency to hold my breath, or breathe shallowly, when I’m stressed out. Most people do, I think. I realize it’s not only then though. Sometimes the muscles of my stomach are in contraction even when I’m sitting by myself at this computer writing this – or at my breakfast nook, writing my morning pages. Why on earth would I hold my breath, or be all tied up when there’s nothing to stress about? I dunno.

But, I recall what was said at a meditation I went to a few weeks ago, where the facilitator suggested we allow ourselves to have “abs of jello.” People snickered, because really, we all probably are holding (well, not maybe ALL) some sort of tension around with us.

The way that I walked into work yesterday, and the way I walked out of it were two vastly different ways of being. I was angry – as you might have learned from yesterday’s blog – and all bolted up in worry and fear. I did also leave the building at noon to head downtown to meet up with a group of folks for an hour, which was unbelievably helpful – and I began to notice, then, the whole tightness of my belly thing – the not properly breathing thing. I hadn’t been asked to stay on yet, but I began to notice that I didn’t have to hold my body in freak-out mode.

When I was asked to stay on, if you could visualize that metal bib they put on you at the dentist as a cape, and watch it fall to the floor with a thud, then you’d know how I felt. I felt acres lighter. It’s huge. It’s a big thing.

And… it means even more that I have to show up for this position for what I’m being paid to do. It means getting to work on time, basically, and not hanging out online that much. That’s cool. I mean, I set my alarm for 6am yesterday in an attempt to get to work earlier (aka “on time”), but didn’t make that. I snoozed til 6:30. So, this morning, I tried again. And up at 6am as I was this morning, I might have to wake up earlier still to ensure that I have the…breathing room… to do everything that I do in the morning with more ease and less stress – a constant look at the clock – even in my meditation feeling crushed by my awareness that it’s ten minutes I “don’t have.”

Although I cringe at the thought of anything earlier than 6am, it’s really not that big a deal. I’ll gripe about it some – but the benefits will be way worth it. I won’t hold my gut in as I write this in the morning, or as I’m cooking my ubiquitous eggs.

It’s hard to not imagine that some of the work that I’m doing around money isn’t related to this sudden “windfall.” I’ve been in a limbo of not knowing whether I have work from week to week and day to day for the last few months. And now, “suddenly,” I’m asked to stay on for 6 weeks – 6 STABLE weeks? I sent out those letters last week to former employers (see: Bollocks) letting them know that I was a lousy employee and that I was trying to do better. And in the intervening week, I have been trying to do better – and think I’m progressing along those lines.

Also, it’s hard to imagine that my work of freeing myself from “wrong” sources of power and validation (see: yesterday, and the entire history of my life…) aren’t in some way influencing the curvature of this road.

Sure, it could all be “coincidence.” Nothing to do with anything, but I don’t believe that, personally. But. Nor do I believe that I am “rewarded” for “good” behavior (and thusly, punished for bad). I rather believe that as I let go of behaviors which aren’t serving me, I’m more available for the good things the world has to offer. Usually those things were available all along, but I’ve been too busy peering down the dry well, begging it to be water, that I miss the river.

Whatever the cause and effect, or lack thereof, I’m grateful. Hugely. I bought a (cute, but) cheapy new notebook for my morning pages yesterday. I intend to take another look at how I planned to distribute my funds this month. Because the truth is, even though I hadn’t planned or had money in the item lines of entertainment, or notebooks, or toiletries – the reality is that I spent money in them anyway.

Last night, I found a note from February when I was meeting with some money folk, and there’s a huge note-to-self that says to be honest about my needs, so that I don’t overspend.

This month, instead of having been honest about what I really need, I wrote up a meager, scarce, and skeletal spending plan, and of course I haven’t stuck to it. Be honest about my needs. They’re not overwhelming, they’re not indulgent, they just are what they are.

And I can allow myself to own and take care of them, while I breathe into my abs of jello. 

Rage Against the Whatever's Handy.

Last summer, before I started getting help around money, I was in a bad way. I answered an ad for a company/house looking for dominatrixes (dominatri?). I was desperate for money, and was almost willing to do anything to make it.

So, I answered the ad, spoke with a woman on the phone, looked at their website, and scheduled an interview.

Then, I emailed a friend of mine who’d been a dominatrix once upon a time, and I asked her what her thoughts were around it. She replied with an interesting thought. She said that it was a very low and base level of energetic exchange.

Even though it sounds “woo-woo,” I knew what she meant. She didn’t tell me yes or no, she just said, basically, that it felt icky. And that she was heavily using drugs at the time.

A few days later, and before my interview, I called to let them know I wouldn’t be coming in for my interview, that I’d like to cancel. And that was the end of that.

However. I’m reminded of this now, about a “low” source of energy, or power, because I’ve been experiencing the most wonderful (<-- sarcasm) feeling of free floating anger lately.

For those of you who know me, “angry” is likely the last thing you’d associate with me – quirky, awkward, loving are most likely the top layers, and indeed, the most core layers. But, in the middle of those is everything that I’ve tried to put in between me and you. That includes sex, and that includes anger.

Now that I’m in the process of extricating myself from any sexual entanglements, grey areas, … dating sites…, I’m noticing that anger has arisen where “sex” used to be.

When I was in junior high, and I came into school that one Monday with contact lenses and makeup and suddenly I was visible, I rode that high, and my anger that “you” only now noticed me, I rode that well into my twenties.

I fed off of that energetic exchange. The power that a woman (or man) holds via sexuality is more than palpable, it’s addictive. It’s enlivening. It becomes what I’d come to believe was my only source of strength.

This was a “low” form of strength, and a false form. But oh the many heads of it. I feel powerful (or visible, or valid) when you pay attention to me. When you’re giving me what I think I need, when you’re eying me, or flirting with me, or seeing what I know (or think I know) you’re seeing when you see me.

So, now, I’m removing this source – I’m calling this well toxic, and trying to walk away from it. Sex isn’t bad – but it can be a natural outcropping of feelings rather than hormones.

I said yesterday to a friend that I feel like someone has pulled my covers. That my defense mechanisms are being shorn away one by one, and so, now, here I am with anger.

I am very aware that anger is just the other side of vulnerability. I don’t want you to see how vulnerable I am, so I will put on my angry armor and tell you to fuck off.

But, being aware of it doesn’t cancel it out.

I was reflecting this morning about the power of anger. I realized that before there was the Power of Sex, there was the Power of Anger in my life. It was modeled to me that if you were angry, you were powerful. If you were angry, you were paid attention to (and left alone). I learned that anger was an appropriate way to feel visible.

This, is a poor lesson. As frightened as I was when I was younger, I began to learn to fight fire with fire. I learned this young too. I was not really a pleasant kid, behind my shy exterior. The shy came after. After I learned how to be angry, to yell back, to provoke, to antagonize, and to defy. I learned that not everyone, especially in school, was going to put up with that, and it sank inward, enclosed by the layer of “demure” and “shy.” I’ll just disappear then. If I can’t have power via anger, then I apparently don’t have any at all.

When I found sexuality, I found a “more acceptable” pathway to visibility. And now, again, as that one’s being taken away from me – the abuse of that power, rather – now, I’m falling backwards through my timeline into anger.

Rage, really. I learned a lot about rage growing up – surely, not as much as some, but more than Mr. Rogers would have wanted in his neighborhood.

So, here I am at rage. One of my last defenses. I am sorry to be here at it. And I also know that freedom from it will bring untold gifts. But… I like it. And that’s the problem. The problem is that these sources of power are still salivating. I still feed off them. I still feel powerful from them, even “knowing” that they’re false.

I made someone angry yesterday, and I liked it. I felt validated. If I’m able to make you mad, then that means that I’m alive, around, meaningful. If I’m able to cause a reaction in you (previously, a sexual one; now an angry one), then I have a purpose.

Yes, I “get” that these are totally fucked up thoughts. I get that this has to be “gotten through” or it will continue to cause me pain. And isolation.

But I felt that “low source of energy” when I was the recipient of that anger yesterday. It’s like a “HA! See, you do care."

It’s so Psych 101, it’s stupid – better negative attention than no attention. But, it’s recorded in textbooks for a reason. It must be prevalent enough and common enough to fall asleep to at your freshman college desk.

So, that’s my thoughts for the day. Thoughts on feeling vulnerable, and what I do to hide that. Thoughts on my reluctance to let go of sex and rage as sources of “power” and validation. My thoughts on compassion for myself, as I know this is hard. And a modicum of hope and self-validation for choosing to move through this anyway. 

Bollocks.

Through a series of work I’m doing right now, I sent out a stack of three letters to former employers yesterday, each with a variation on the theme – I was an unprofessional employee, I am sorry for how I behaved, and I aim to be more responsible in my jobs now and going forward.

The messed up, fucked up, I-don’t-want-to-do-this part of all that is… that now I have to stick to my word – the word about being a better employee going forward. This means, fewer endless hours on facebook while at work (if any at all); it means taking my breaks so I’m refreshed to actually do work instead of sit and stare at whatever I’m doing; it means being efficient in my work. I means, basically, doing what I’m paid to be doing.

I don’t like that. And, yet, I know how completely necessary it is. I’ve been talking here about responsibility lately, how I don’t want it, but that I do want the things that come to people who are responsible – in their work, extracurricular, and home lives. So, if I want what they have, then I must do what they do.

I don’t have to. Sure, I can say one thing and do another, but in truth, that feels, obviously, worse. Better to not say anything at all, and continue to slide along on half-steam, than to say that I’m making changes so that I don’t slide along on half-steam and then not do it.

Most recently, having the (rated G) dalliance with the married man, I got to see very acutely where I was either going to stick to the letter of my word or not. I’ve had to make many an amends to women whose boyfriends, and, once, a fiancé, with whom I’ve dallied. I told them each, specifically, that I was making changes in my life so that I don’t act like that anymore – that I was sorry for how I behaved, and that I wouldn’t do it again.

So, when I began talking in the flirtatious way with this man about a month ago, I knew – I felt – how off this was. How against everything that I’d set up over the last few years this was. How, basically, I was breaking my promise to each of them, and indeed to myself – having promised myself that I wouldn’t behave in ways around men that would make me feel bad about myself, or guilty, or ashamed.

And so, I stopped the dalliance with the man, and am now newly engaged in a body of work to help extricate and sever and lay to rest the last of the beliefs and behaviors that influence me to believe that this is all that is available to me, or what I deserve.

So, here I am, now, about work. About telling these folks that I fucked up in the past, and I’m trying to do better. That, specifically, I will be more responsible and work with more integrity. And, I know, now, that I’ll have to stick to it. I know how it feels from that recent experience to come right up against something I said I wouldn’t do – I know how icky it feels, and against my morals. And so, now, I must take that same self-line into the professional world.

And I hate it.

I know it’s good for me. I know it’ll open doors for me, and duh, it’s the right thing to do. But, Oh! My Beautiful Wickedness!, I don’t “want” to. Luckily, it doesn’t quite matter whether I want to or not. Pain will always push me in the direction forward. I don’t want to feel the pain of being a hypocrite, so I will work better. I don’t want to feel ashamed that I’m not living to my word, so I’ll stop accepting jobs that I know I’ll work half-steam at.

I don’t like it. It feels like an entirely new level of adulthood to go toward this direction of integrity. But it’s necessary, and it’s time.

I have no doubt that the opening up of this line of vision will amount to something more in my professional life. I have no doubt that by working to a better standard of duty that I’ll feel better about myself and less like a fraud. I know that this will take me somewhere different internally and externally. But, still, it sucks.

It’s like this is what teenagers experience when they get into their 20s maybe. Or, these days, 20somethings into their 30s. I’d love to learn this now. It’s late, but it is certainly a better late than never.

I also wrote an email last night to a recent former employer to apologize for how I ended my employment there, and to ask for clarity around some money they gave me to pay off the last of my braces when I had them a few years ago. He said that they had dental, so it was covered, and no liability to me. He said that he did think I “handled the separation badly.” And he said that if I ever needed a reference that he has “[my] back.” I’m glad to know that the money is clear. I agree that I could have handled things differently. And for fuck’s sake, I promise that I will handle them differently in the future.

Change sucks. Especially when it’s good for me. 

"Love as Burrito" or "This, or Something Better"

Grateful to my friends who gave me feedback, I texted the okJew yesterday morning that I was a fan of getting to know someone before getting physical (I couldn’t help but hear Olivia Newton-John as I typed it), and if that was something he was interested in, then I’d love to continue getting to know him, and if not, no hard feelings. He texted back to say that, in fact, he was looking for something else, and didn’t know how that fit in with me or not.

So, I got to sit with that. Tall, attractive, well-built Jew? What’s not to like? Oh, unavailable. And, I did sit, I questioned, I turned inward for a few minutes to test that option, and ultimately, gratefully, I said I was looking for something less tenuous, and good luck.

Then …

I sat and stared at a wall of books.

I was shocked, honestly, at how “air out of a balloon” I felt, without all that funny noise it makes. It made me realize that I still do have some work to do. I identified very clearly the feeling of a crash after a high. I could almost smell the cigarette smog and late 90s radio.

Hm. Love as Drug. Huey Lewis has a song about it. And, duh, it’s not “love” as in Love. It was intrigue. Oh, Intrigue!! – when’s the next text, what do I wear, how flirty do I be, funny do I be, do I invite him in, scheduling plans, etc…etc…etc… Something to think about, and then the plug was pulled yesterday mid morning, and I sat deflated and comatose for a few minutes on and off till lunchtime.

When I went and bought a burrito. My friend texted me to say that it’s normal to feel feelings, and we get to let them pass. I said my feelings now feel like a burrito in my belly ~ Real feelings TBA. And that much was true. How much easier it is to feel full, or to buy something to feel better – not better, to just feel different. My burrito accomplished both of those. Better to eat, feel full (and mildly grossed out that I ate a pound of tofu and salsa flesh), and to get the thrill that I spent money on lunch when I had a perfectly decent one in the fridge at work.

Cuz, what do I feel when I’m not caught up in the nonsense? Fear. I feel fear about money and work and job applications and directionlessness. Who the hell wants to feel that?? No one. But, better to feel those feelings, and thereby get into action around them, than to stuff them with something else, and continue avoiding the elephant in my psyche.

There’s another okJew who I’ve been talking to – and I’m not entirely sure that I want to pursue it at the moment. I met up with some of my new “relationship/emotional intimacy” folks last night after work, which was a very good use of my time. I’m so glad I’ve chosen to fall in with them – and they were talking about dating, and showing up, and boundaries, and desires, and how to be honest. These are things I want. I want to have desires – I have no … desire… to be celibate, or nunnish. I am a hot-blooded woman with hot-blooded needs, and a great big bag of tools that don’t work.

That said, I obviously do have more tools than I used to (burrito coma aside) – because I did let this dude know what I was available for, and he said he was glad we got that worked out early – and it’s true. I know plenty of times when I’ve let my “fear of looking needy” keep me from speaking up about my discomfort at the level of murk in a relationship or sexytime companionship. Once, it took me almost a month, and when I finally broached the subject with the dude, he said he wasn’t available or looking for more. So, I said, great, and was glad to know, and left his house feeling better and confident in my ability to state my needs, and let go of the results.

Sure, I didn’t “get what I want” in that situation – who doesn’t want the person to say, of course, I’d love to continue to get to know you and see if there’s something substantial that can come from this. But … as my “sugar crash” yesterday proved to me, there’s more work to be done. It’s not at all fair to place that amount of expectation on anyone – because they’re not really being asked to be themselves, they’re being asked to fill something in me, or distract something in me, or fix something in me. And, that, my dears, is an inside job.

When I said a few days ago, that if relationships are Miracle-Gro for your character defects, then surely they are/must be for your spiritual growth – this is why. My defect here being the desire to run away from the reality of my professional and financial situation – and when someone says they can’t be that for me, I’m left simply with my situation all over again, like the ugly step-sister you lock in the attic. Still here.

So what do I do? Well, firstly, I meet up with folks and I ask for help. Done, and will continue to do. Secondly, I continue to work on the job front. I was invited to go camping this weekend, and had accepted, as I love to camp, and getting out of dodge sounded so very nice. But last night, as I was compiling job listings into an email draft so I could take a look at them in my spare moments at work… it occurred to me that perhaps going camping was not the best use of my time at the moment.

This temp job will likely end in the next week or two, and after that is a blank horizon. It’s time for me to assist in coloring it in.

Lastly, I offer myself kudos. I made my intentions known, quickly. I listened honestly to what another person was telling me about their intentions. Which I didn’t take personally at all (a thought, I recognize, is also huge progress, but seems so “of course” now). I can try to treat myself kindly with how I treat my body and not go food coma on myself.

I showed up. I got in the ring. I made out. And, I can be confident that what’s available for me is “This, or something better.”

Progress, Not Perfection.

So, I did not sleep with my okJew on the second date. We did however come back to my place, and have a rather heated make-out session.

It was lovely. But. I feel today no better. I realize today that even though we didn’t sleep together, which was something I didn’t want to do, knowing him so briefly, that I still feel a sense of sadness around it. And in writing some about it, I realize that it’s sad because I still don’t fully believe in my own inherent worth – that I’m more than my body.

Even when we were making out, however fun it was – and it was, and I’m sure that if we ever do have sex, there will be no problem in that regard – but I felt not fully present. I felt a little disconnected – and, really, I was. I was disconnected from the emotions that can come when you are making out with someone you know, like, and maybe even more than like. I was only acting from one part of myself, not all of me.

And, knowing that, I notice the desire to pack “Beauty” back up behind her glass terarrium, and say, see, you can’t be trusted. But really, it’s not her fault. I didn’t have to come back to my place – it could have been a short date. I didn’t have to have the extended make-out session – I could have ended it earlier. But, I did. And this is where “progress, not perfection” comes in. Because I really could beat myself up here, and retreat back into isolation, and a position of “See, you really don’t know how to hold intimacy and sexuality, so you better pack it in.”

Yes, I could do that, but I don’t think that’s the point here. The point is that I realize that heavy teenage-like petting is a little more than I want to do on a second date. I realize that I still want to feel known more than that, and have more of a connection before getting so physical. I have so much f’ing evidence of how much sex before emotional intimacy is the cart before the horse, and so, yes, I can beat myself up for not having learned that “well enough,” or I can be glad that I didn’t have sex when I didn’t really want to, and be glad that I let him know it was time to go, and didn’t interpret his erection as an obligation, as I wrote yesterday. (But, … Whoo-ee! … anyway…) ;)

So, there’s that. Of course, I begin to go all the way to, now I better let him know what I’m looking for before there’s a third date, and another round of, okay thanks, bye! That I need to explain what I’m available for, and to ask if that’s what he’s available for.

Some of this sounds valid, some of it sounds unnecessary. I tend to be an oversharer. I don’t think I need to do that, or at least, I don’t need to do that today. I won’t see him again, likely, for another week or so, as he’s busy during the week, and I’m camping this weekend, so I have time to let some of this dust settle and ask some women, and see what happens.

We did have a good date, overall. In fact, it was a great date. But I feel overshadowed by my remorse.

Again, it comes back to choice. I can choose to see this as a failure, and head down to self-flagellation, and I’ll never get it, and how come you don’t get that you’re worth it – that makes you so not worth it. (A lovely circle of reasoning, that one.) Or. Or I can choose to see this as an opportunity, as I spoke so much of yesterday. An opportunity to notice my growth and change, and also to be happy (or at least contented) that I do notice how I’m feeling, and how I was feeling last night. I wasn’t feeling present, and that I wasn’t feeling present is a good thing. That I noticed it. Noticing it is the first step, I think. Then I can work on doing something about it.

I’ve written a lot of poetry about not feeling present during sex. Now, I know that that can extend to making out if I’m not properly known by someone, and they’re not known by me. This person is nearly an entirely unknown entity – of course I don’t feel intimate.

So, I can choose to take this as information for next time – whether that’s with this person, or someone down the line. I can choose to allow myself a little bit of affirmation over keeping my pants on. I can choose to acknowledge that I’ve come a long way to be so present with myself to notice these even slightly off-kilter parts of me.

Forgive the reference… but, in the final Twilight book (spoiler alert?), the main character, Bella, throws an invisible defensive bubble out around herself and her family during the cumulative battle. Imagine it almost like a Bio-Dome, to mix pop-culture metaphors. In the book, Bella can feel as one of the opponents pokes into the various places of her bubble, looking for a weak spot – testing the defenses, and seeing how strong it is. I feel very similarly about this work with dating/physicality. I feel that my bubble is being poked and prodded, and I’m getting to see where I still have spots of weakness, or places that can be firmed up.

I am sad that I don’t yet feel that I’m worth more than my body, or that I could be wanted or acknowledged or “seen” for more than my physical self. But, this is simply a place of “weakness,” a place where I could use more care and strength and affirmation, and behavior that will support the idea that I am more than that. So, I am glad for the opportunity. I’ve been shown where there’s work to do – and if that’s not what relationships are for, then I’ve got the wrong game. 

Opportunity Knocks

So, first, some news – Remember the “SOLD” blog when I asked all y’all to pray for my childhood home to sell so my dad and his fiancé could move to Florida and retire? Well, 10 days after that blog, the house sold :)!! Thank you ALL for your prayers and kind wishes! I’m really happy for them, even though my dad is still shocked he didn’t get the price he wanted… Oh dad, you can’t win em all.

Next on the horizon, date # 2 happens tonight (this is the first 2nd date I've had in almost 2 years), and lord have mercy, I’m trying to ground myself in every way possible. Stop tripping out. Remember that I’m worthy of love and am able to give and receive love in an appropriate way. Stop trying to script or plan. It’s not about “him.” I mean, it’s not about wanting this person or not. It’s so much more about how do I show up and stand in the experience of something new, trying something new. To stand with integrity, and self-esteem, and awareness, and that fair and balanced view thing that keeps coming up.

I don’t need a person to validate or complete me. I need to be able to allow myself to stand without armor. I had a pretty funky meditation/shamanic journey this morning. Unexpected, but right on track. About my ability to receive love, and the melting of my resistance toward it. Overbearing or absent were the ways that I learned love could show itself. Overwhelm or rejection. I’ve carried out that pattern with my own partners, and with myself as well. I’ve believed, and have stated in the past, that my fear is that my needs are too great – that my needs are like a barely held back tidal wave, and that to let them go, even in the slightest, to let them out, would be an invitation for drowning – particularly, drowning someone else. So, better to keep the dam contained.

It all comes back to what is the evidence for that today? Is there evidence of that today? And again, back to, I’ve never let myself try, or others try, so really, I don’t know. Again, I could be more capable of a thousand things, but having stopped and shunted them all, I’d never know.

I am grateful for this “obstacle to practice on,” as is written in a lot of the work I do with a woman one-on-one in the city. But I said recently to someone else, that I think I’m going to begin using the word “opportunity” rather than “obstacle.”

For a while, when I began writing that phrase with my friend, it tasted so bitter and awful in my mouth – obstacles, fuck obstacles, I don’t need no steenkin obstacles. I was pissed. How many more f’ing obstacles did I need in my life, I asked her. And she told me that it wasn’t up to me. It wasn’t really my choice. These were being presented to me, whether I wanted them or not, and it was my choice on how I chose to use them for practice.

She was right. What do I know about my path? I want to get from A to Z, but the “path” needs me to stop at H, J, and O on the way to garner skills and friends and love and esteem. So, I wrote it. Thank you, G-d, for this obstacle to practice on.

But, be it the “law of attraction”ish believing part of me, or simply a framing shift, I don't want to see or write them as obstacles anymore. They’re not. They are opportunities.

These are opportunities for me to choose – Turn Left, toward freedom and serenity, or Turn Right, to well-worn misery. These are all mental paths, psychological paths really. And in my phone right now, on my cover screen, I set the display to read, “Turn Left.” It’s a reminder to me that in every given moment (what a phrase! “given moment,” these moments are given, even gifts, if I can see it), at any time, I can remember that I have a choice. I have the choice to obsess about tonight or not. I have the choice to believe in my inherent worthiness or not. These are all choices. And my choices are reflected back to me in real time.

I’d like to choose to not obsess, to remember that I am talented and worthy, and don’t have to sleep with people I don’t know well, and that my house can still be off limits even though I said I was cleaning it to make it “guest appropriate.” I was told that I am the czar of my own experience, and further, my own body. That I don’t owe anyone anything. Repeat. I don’t owe anyone anything. A date is not a promise. A date is not a sexual invitation. It is an invitation to get to know someone better. To vet each other for each subsequent date. A friend once told me that a first date is just an interview for a second one. And so on they go. That’s all.

So many years of believing I was promising something I didn’t want to deliver, or was obligated to do because he was hard. Not my problem. Sure, don’t be a tease on purpose, but he’ll live. An erection is not an obligation. 

This is an opportunity for me to hear that and feel that in a way that I haven’t. For me to try to see that I have assets beyond my physical self. And for me to allow those assets to be shared and seen. Dating can start so physically, and that part is critically important, but physical attraction is a dime a dozen, really. (I mean it’s not exactly that easy, as I’ve realized that too) – but sex itself is a dime a dozen. I don’t want that. – as in hell yes, I want to get laid, like every other hot blooded person on this planet, but I don’t want only that, and my experience has taught me for sure that when I go to that part too quickly, I undermine myself every time, and I quash any ability for me to learn that I am worthy for more than my looks and my pussy.

So, here’s to an opportunity to try something different. To try to believe something different. And I am excited for tonight, and that’s all well and good, but I’m also going to pay attention to my own music stand, and Turn Left toward the tasks I have ahead of me right now.

Wish me luck.