My dad told me that when he was young, he'd gotten in trouble for DUI and had to attend alcohol abuse counseling. The counselor he worked with was in recovery himself, and laid down some of the fundamentals of alcoholism, including how the people around you enable alcoholism. When he came home to talk about it with his mom, she came unglued, accused him of blaming her, and he didn't complete the counseling.
Given what I know of my grandmother's upbringing, this isn't a shocking reaction. She herself had to deal with alcoholism, rarely drank, and definitely didn't have a healthy psyche. Er... not because she didn't drink, but rather because she never actually dealt with her "issues" (and not many in her generation did, it wasn't what was done). So as was (and is) often the case, the disease of alcoholism swiftly passed down to my dad, aided by genetic and environmental factors.
Threaded into those factors, almost certainly, is depression. I've done the dance with alcohol for sure, but also with depression. The older I get, the more aware I am, and the less I am willing to give in to the completely useless exercise of self-medicating with alcohol, the more I feel like I'm losing the battle.
I was thinking last night and yesterday about how the people around me have reacted to my own struggle to come to terms with depression. The struggle is, of course, ongoing. I recalled when I was first diagnosed and medicated, which was not so long ago. 2007.
Per usual, I spent a lot of time educating myself about depression after the diagnosis. I realized that I've always struggled with it, that it probably started to show up somewhere in my pre-teens, and that it dogged me through the years. Instead of viewing my struggle as a struggle with an illness, I viewed it as a personal shortcoming. A lost battle with personality defects. When I had a term and a biological explanation, I felt freed. But then I started talking to my friends and family.
Many of my friends also viewed my struggle with depression as a personality defect, something I could decide not to have. My family was (and probably still is) skeptical of my decision first to abstain from alcohol, and then to try to find a way to be healthy with it. (And that's a whole 'nother post topic, which I'll make some day.) Jeff was (and is) very supportive, though I think he wants to save me from my depression, to chase it away when the dark time comes, and it just doesn't work that way. Things have changed over time, but that's the initial reaction I had back in 2007 when I first started to try to deal with depression head on, with therapy and pharmaceuticals.
When I think back to my own reaction to various people I knew who struggle with mental illnesses, I realize that I too once thought it was a choice and a weakness. Maybe that's why it was, and is, so hard to change that view. Maybe that's why my friends and family have struggled with accepting it. Maybe if there is such a thing as mental illness, and it can't be cured by just making a choice to be happy, maybe that's really fucking terrifying. Because why? Because at the end of the day, I/we have tools to fight it, but it still comes back, every. fucking. time. And I/we have a very small amount of control over that.
I exercise, and that helps a little. I take vitamin D. I take Prozac. I'm experimenting with how food affects my mood. I do little CBT exercises to "cognate" my way through it when it comes. I meditate. I pray. My depression surfboard is an eclectic-looking thing. I surf, and I keep my head above water, but it doesn't always feel like a sure thing.
This morning when I woke up, I felt like I was losing the battle with getting out of bed. I did it, eventually, because there are appointments on my calendar, people who are counting on me. But I've been having mini-anxiety attacks at work for the past week. I fear I'm losing it, at least for the extra things, like planning big events and going out and doing presentations. And I can't afford that.
How can I explain it?
"I'm sorry, I can't go do this job you hired me to do because I'm struggling with depression and I can barely drag myself out of bed each morning?"
"I'm sorry, I know I volunteered to do this thing, but right now getting out of bed feels like facing death, no really, and I don't know if I can do more than the barest minimum."
"I'm sorry, I know other moms do all the things with the brightest of smiles and happy intentions. I'm an absolute coward and I'd rather stay home and hide."
That's probably not going to go over very well, and I certainly can't quit any of those things.
I have an appointment tomorrow to talk to my doc about all this. We'll probably do some more pharmaceutical intervention. I'll continue to exercise and fiddle with my diet. Maybe I'll pick up a light therapy thingy.
I want to be better. I want to get up every morning like it seems every one else does. I want to be excited and energized about my work. I want to look forward to meeting people, to reaching out beyond my office. I want to be good at organizing and connecting. I want to not only NOT feel like I'm whining, but to know that I'm inspiring people to do their best. I'm just afraid that I can't. And that is the most terrifying thing of all.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
perspective
I just met with a student who's homeless. Here's what he told me.
He told me he came out here from Midwest for a girl. (He's 19). He said when he got here, her story changed. He worked at a restaurant, but the season ended. He worked at a cannery, but the season ended. He's being kicked out of the "Christian" shelter because he wants to go to school. (He's smart and thoughtful, scary to fundamentalists, I guess). He told me he didn't have a place to sleep tonight because the mission won't have him back. The next closest shelter is about 25 miles away. He has no friends here. His mother has passed. His dad won't answer the phone when he calls.
There was no lie in his voice, and he said to me that he didn't want to lie to the Mission (we told him to say he wasn't coming to school just to buy some time until his financial aid can arrive). He said his mom told him to think of others first, so he shared his food stamps with others. He told me that it's hard to get a job when you can't take a shower. He said it's hard to read in the shelter because it's noisy and people bother him.
I had to let him walk out the door into the rain and fog. He probably won't sleep inside tonight. He said he's coming back on Monday to bring me a paper that might let me help him. I hope he does. I really do.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
at the end - NaNoWriMo
So I didn't win, by which I mean, I didn't finish 50,000 words by the end of November. In fact, I became paralyzed halfway through when I hit a rough spot at work and let it get to me. I think I'd do better with some group support, and maybe next year I'll find some local write-ins before they happen, rather than after.
That said, I do have a solid outline for a book, and a plan to continue working on it at my own pace. That's more than I've ever had before at the end of a NaNoWriMo, so I'll take it.
I'm not going to lie, it tastes like bitter failure in an old record kind of way, but I'm working through that. Every reason just feels like an excuse, which as it turns out, isn't really a great way to move myself forward, but rather a great way to be glued in place. Having awareness helps though, and so far that's been the key to moving forward, however long it takes.
This process of writing is much like witchcamp always was for me. Really fucking hard to get through with moments of beauty and epiphany, followed by weeks of crying and laughing and processing, followed by a permanent, though sometimes subtle, shift. So it goes.
That said, I do have a solid outline for a book, and a plan to continue working on it at my own pace. That's more than I've ever had before at the end of a NaNoWriMo, so I'll take it.
I'm not going to lie, it tastes like bitter failure in an old record kind of way, but I'm working through that. Every reason just feels like an excuse, which as it turns out, isn't really a great way to move myself forward, but rather a great way to be glued in place. Having awareness helps though, and so far that's been the key to moving forward, however long it takes.
This process of writing is much like witchcamp always was for me. Really fucking hard to get through with moments of beauty and epiphany, followed by weeks of crying and laughing and processing, followed by a permanent, though sometimes subtle, shift. So it goes.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
week 2 - NaNoWriMo
This may be the week that keeps me from winning NaNoWriMo. And it's kind of killing me.
I felt great about catching up on Tuesday. When I went to bed I was a hair below 20,000 words. I knew that Wednesday would be tough because it was going to be a 12-14 hour day at work. I knew I'd get home at 9 PM at the earliest. I hoped I'd have the energy to write. I did not. As with most events where I have to be Super Me, I was wiped out. I went to bed, knowing that I'd have day two of being Super Me on Thursday. I hoped that since it would end much earlier, and I'd likely be home by 6-ish, I'd be able to catch up. Instead, I was wiped out, and felt completely sapped of creative energy. Actually, I felt sapped of ANY energy. And I could feel the snarly little tendrils of depression begin to creep in.
By Friday I was fully engulfed. Today I either numbed out or laid in bed in my darkened room, occasionally weeping for no good damned reason that I could name. At one point, I was recalling times I felt I'd failed my children as a mother. My brain was in deep search of memories that would support the biochemical wonk going down. My litany is like so:
I felt great about catching up on Tuesday. When I went to bed I was a hair below 20,000 words. I knew that Wednesday would be tough because it was going to be a 12-14 hour day at work. I knew I'd get home at 9 PM at the earliest. I hoped I'd have the energy to write. I did not. As with most events where I have to be Super Me, I was wiped out. I went to bed, knowing that I'd have day two of being Super Me on Thursday. I hoped that since it would end much earlier, and I'd likely be home by 6-ish, I'd be able to catch up. Instead, I was wiped out, and felt completely sapped of creative energy. Actually, I felt sapped of ANY energy. And I could feel the snarly little tendrils of depression begin to creep in.
By Friday I was fully engulfed. Today I either numbed out or laid in bed in my darkened room, occasionally weeping for no good damned reason that I could name. At one point, I was recalling times I felt I'd failed my children as a mother. My brain was in deep search of memories that would support the biochemical wonk going down. My litany is like so:
- Simply Red – Money's Too Tight [To Mention] (and it is, and I'm serious, my cupboard is bare and we've eaten all the things you only eat when you're desperate)
- Tracy Bonham – Mother Mother (because I'm worried to death about my kid in Portland, see lack of funding and other joys)
- Danger Mouse – Dark Night Of The Soul - Feat. David Lynch (because I'm having one, and it's freaking my shit out)
- Little Comets – A Little Opus (actually writing a book is a BFD to me, one deeply tied to my identity and doing it, even as a shitty first draft is seriously messing with me)
- Soundgarden – Black Hole Sun (as much as I love the rain and fog, I now know without a doubt that I have SAD and that and my Oregon allergies are making ME sad)
- The Dresden Dolls – The Perfect Fit (just work anxiety and generally falling apart and feeling inadequate angst)
- Everclear – Everything To Everyone (because this month I also decided to try to be a GS leader and all the other things)
I could go on. I won't. I'm trying to take care of myself, to honor where I am and what I'm struggling with, to make some GD room for life happening the way it really is happening, rather than how I want it to be happening. Maybe I can give myself another month to finish my book. Maybe I won't win NaNoWriMo this year. Maybe that's okay. Maybe it's not. Honestly, I'm too dark to even care right now. So I'll go read and huddle under the covers and eventually this will past. Has to. Simon & Garfunkel – The Sound of Silence
Sunday, November 10, 2013
week 1.5 NaNoWriMo
I ended the week, as did many other WriMos with a writing marathon. And like most marathons, turns out training matters. Training in this case being less about miles run and more about words written. There were two days this week that I didn't write. That, plus a misreading of a word count calendar I have left me short, even after the marathon. Because why? Because I didn't do a good job training and I suck at anything that looks like math. Yeah, sue me. Figuring out the stats to finish NaNo on time looks like math to me.
The first day I didn't write was Tuesday. My partner fell and hit his elbow first thing in the morning while accompanying our sprog to the bus stop. He (my partner, not the sprog) is on a blood thinner because he had a heart valve replaced a few years back. He was the first guy in Arizona to have it done robotically. It was in the news and shit. If you're particularly good with Google, you might be able to track him down. Anyway, bruises are bad news for him because of the blood thinners. About midway through the morning, I texted him to see how he was doing. He said there was swelling. He is a notorious under-reporter, so I demanded that he bring his elbow to my office so I could judge for myself whether a trip to the ER was in order. He brought it, tried to hide it, but ultimately revealed what looked like a second elbow growing adjacent to the first. It was truly gruesome. I - not a fan of shows with graphic surgery, despite my horror fandom - could not look at it for long. We went to the ER.
At the ER, we generally made the nursing staff uncomfortable while waiting for the doc. Aside from the truly grotesque image of the elbow itself, once they found out he was on coumadin and that he - such a cliche here - hadn't been to the doctor as he should have been in months, they kinda freaked out. It didn't help that he raised his arm to try to relieve the pressure and a great gout of blood came shooting out of his elbow. This happened while only the two of us were in the room, and I swear to you, it looked like the worst special effect ever. The blood jetted out as if someone hid a smallish garden hose next to his arm. I thought it looked vaguely arterial and panicked in the somewhat British way that I do (though I'm not at all British), which is to say I calmly walked out into the hallway and said, "There's a great deal of blood on the floor - can you please come check this out?" By the time they got in there (seconds), it was done bleeding because rather than being arterial bleeding, it had been more like a giant blood-filled zit popping. The weird swelling on his elbow was gone, leaving behind normal looking damage from the fall.
The doc came in and explained it all in doctorly terms, made an appointment for the partner with a cardiologist (I cheered), tested his coumadin-levels and proclaimed it safe for him to go home. The whole ordeal took around 4 hours. We came home, made him comfortable, cooked dinner... and I could have written. I really could have. He was okay. We were okay. But I just didn't have it in me. I went to bed early.
That was the first "training" error of the week. I should have at least got in 1000 words, which takes me about 30 minutes. Seems that's kind of like skipping a training run. My second error came the next day when I only did about 1100 words. I should have done more, but I claimed difficulty getting the hang of working a full day and then coming home to write. This is like cutting miles from your run when you should be ramping up.
My third error was not writing on Friday. I had no reason. I just came home from work, decided to have a glass of wine (or two. Okay, I had three. Have you seen how big my wine glass is?) with the fam and relax. We had cable again. I played WoW. This was the most egregious sin of all. I could have made up for the earlier day off quite handily here. The reason I didn't was that I looked at the word count calendar, mistook the weekly total for the total total and thought I only needed to write 2500 words to be on track for the week.
Oh fuck.
I would like to state for the record that I made this miscalculation BEFORE I drank the wine. I can't blame being drunk. I just suck at math. And even though the calendar even has nice little blocks to help the numerically challenged such as myself, I'm not much better at spatial intelligence. Ask the hubs, who regularly has to do all the packing because when I do it, we use twice as many boxes and need three times as much room on the moving vehicle.
So I took my damned time on Saturday morning, which was the day of the NaNoThon, a day designed for catching up. I slept in. Why not? I only had to write 2500 words. And if I ended up writing more, that would be okay, but not necessary to my goal because I thought I was on track. When I finished at 2710, it was like I finished my race with a PR.
And then I looked a little more closely at the stupid calendar. (Don't bother pointing out that I'm the stupid one here - I know. It's a defense mechanism.) This was about 11-ish last night. I looked. And then I looked again. What I'd thought was the overall count was the weekly count. I wasn't ahead. I was behind. I couldn't even tweet. I didn't have the umph even for that little thing. I just closed my laptop and went to bed, but not before I did the math (correctly this time) that told me I'd have to put out about 3700 words today to be on track.
Did I already say oh fuck? Let me say it again. Oh fuck. With an illustration. This combo of disasters was like getting stupid drunk and eating crap the night before a race, then running the race with a broken watch and thinking that just because you finished while breathing, it was a personal record when in fact you were about twice as slow as usual.
Today I have on tap a meeting with my local writer friend. That's in about two hours. I choose to write this instead of starting on the mountain of words I have today. Yesterday I saw people posting word counts in the 10,000 - 20,000 range. A few were even higher. I have to keep reminding myself of last week's lesson. No comparing. And I find myself wanting to think nasty (defensive) things like, "Well what kind of quality could those words be?"
But that's the freaking point, Mo. It's not about the quality, it's about getting them out. (This is what I imagine you, dear reader, saying right now.) And also (you're still talking), it doesn't matter how many more someone else does. Just stick with YOUR method.
So I'll go to my meeting and enjoy it. I'll come home and do my best to come close to 3700 words. That's about a chapter. I can pull that off. I think. Tomorrow a friend is coming from Portland. That will eat up several hours of the day, so I can't rely on that as my time to make up word count. I'll try to set it up so I can move back towards the 1700 words per day goal. I think I can keep that up during the week. Think. Sorry Yoda, but here, there IS try, and if I'm lucky, do.
Good thing I'm not a Jedi.
The first day I didn't write was Tuesday. My partner fell and hit his elbow first thing in the morning while accompanying our sprog to the bus stop. He (my partner, not the sprog) is on a blood thinner because he had a heart valve replaced a few years back. He was the first guy in Arizona to have it done robotically. It was in the news and shit. If you're particularly good with Google, you might be able to track him down. Anyway, bruises are bad news for him because of the blood thinners. About midway through the morning, I texted him to see how he was doing. He said there was swelling. He is a notorious under-reporter, so I demanded that he bring his elbow to my office so I could judge for myself whether a trip to the ER was in order. He brought it, tried to hide it, but ultimately revealed what looked like a second elbow growing adjacent to the first. It was truly gruesome. I - not a fan of shows with graphic surgery, despite my horror fandom - could not look at it for long. We went to the ER.
At the ER, we generally made the nursing staff uncomfortable while waiting for the doc. Aside from the truly grotesque image of the elbow itself, once they found out he was on coumadin and that he - such a cliche here - hadn't been to the doctor as he should have been in months, they kinda freaked out. It didn't help that he raised his arm to try to relieve the pressure and a great gout of blood came shooting out of his elbow. This happened while only the two of us were in the room, and I swear to you, it looked like the worst special effect ever. The blood jetted out as if someone hid a smallish garden hose next to his arm. I thought it looked vaguely arterial and panicked in the somewhat British way that I do (though I'm not at all British), which is to say I calmly walked out into the hallway and said, "There's a great deal of blood on the floor - can you please come check this out?" By the time they got in there (seconds), it was done bleeding because rather than being arterial bleeding, it had been more like a giant blood-filled zit popping. The weird swelling on his elbow was gone, leaving behind normal looking damage from the fall.
The doc came in and explained it all in doctorly terms, made an appointment for the partner with a cardiologist (I cheered), tested his coumadin-levels and proclaimed it safe for him to go home. The whole ordeal took around 4 hours. We came home, made him comfortable, cooked dinner... and I could have written. I really could have. He was okay. We were okay. But I just didn't have it in me. I went to bed early.
That was the first "training" error of the week. I should have at least got in 1000 words, which takes me about 30 minutes. Seems that's kind of like skipping a training run. My second error came the next day when I only did about 1100 words. I should have done more, but I claimed difficulty getting the hang of working a full day and then coming home to write. This is like cutting miles from your run when you should be ramping up.
My third error was not writing on Friday. I had no reason. I just came home from work, decided to have a glass of wine (or two. Okay, I had three. Have you seen how big my wine glass is?) with the fam and relax. We had cable again. I played WoW. This was the most egregious sin of all. I could have made up for the earlier day off quite handily here. The reason I didn't was that I looked at the word count calendar, mistook the weekly total for the total total and thought I only needed to write 2500 words to be on track for the week.
Oh fuck.
 |
| I was so proud. |
I would like to state for the record that I made this miscalculation BEFORE I drank the wine. I can't blame being drunk. I just suck at math. And even though the calendar even has nice little blocks to help the numerically challenged such as myself, I'm not much better at spatial intelligence. Ask the hubs, who regularly has to do all the packing because when I do it, we use twice as many boxes and need three times as much room on the moving vehicle.
So I took my damned time on Saturday morning, which was the day of the NaNoThon, a day designed for catching up. I slept in. Why not? I only had to write 2500 words. And if I ended up writing more, that would be okay, but not necessary to my goal because I thought I was on track. When I finished at 2710, it was like I finished my race with a PR.
And then I looked a little more closely at the stupid calendar. (Don't bother pointing out that I'm the stupid one here - I know. It's a defense mechanism.) This was about 11-ish last night. I looked. And then I looked again. What I'd thought was the overall count was the weekly count. I wasn't ahead. I was behind. I couldn't even tweet. I didn't have the umph even for that little thing. I just closed my laptop and went to bed, but not before I did the math (correctly this time) that told me I'd have to put out about 3700 words today to be on track.
 |
| Lost it. |
Today I have on tap a meeting with my local writer friend. That's in about two hours. I choose to write this instead of starting on the mountain of words I have today. Yesterday I saw people posting word counts in the 10,000 - 20,000 range. A few were even higher. I have to keep reminding myself of last week's lesson. No comparing. And I find myself wanting to think nasty (defensive) things like, "Well what kind of quality could those words be?"
But that's the freaking point, Mo. It's not about the quality, it's about getting them out. (This is what I imagine you, dear reader, saying right now.) And also (you're still talking), it doesn't matter how many more someone else does. Just stick with YOUR method.
So I'll go to my meeting and enjoy it. I'll come home and do my best to come close to 3700 words. That's about a chapter. I can pull that off. I think. Tomorrow a friend is coming from Portland. That will eat up several hours of the day, so I can't rely on that as my time to make up word count. I'll try to set it up so I can move back towards the 1700 words per day goal. I think I can keep that up during the week. Think. Sorry Yoda, but here, there IS try, and if I'm lucky, do.
Good thing I'm not a Jedi.
Monday, November 4, 2013
lessons from 3 days of NaNoWriMo
The number one thing I know? Committing to do something without any accountability (other than what I set for myself) is harder than doing it because I paid for a class. The number two thing? I am a PRO at productive procrastination. There is nowhere the dishes can hide, no dust that can escape the broom. Friend or family member has a problem? Well I am THERE and it is then JUSTIFIED productive procrastination. The intarwebs have never been so well read, my Facebook status has never been so well attended. And now is the perfect time, of course, to add a little daily exercise and home cooking to the mix. Why the hell not? Productive procrastination. I am an expert.
Still, I have managed to stay above the line for the daily average, meaning I'm not setting myself up to have to do some crazy amount of writing in one day, and I think that is a good thing for me. Otherwise it would be so easy to just hang it up till next year (again).
I am fighting, on a daily basis - hell, on an HOURLY basis - the certain knowledge that I'm a mediocre writer, my work is neither scary enough or funny enough, and I am convinced, CONVINCED, that everyone else is brilliant on their first draft. Giving myself permission to write a shitty first draft in no way really makes it okay to my inner editor, who can only be silenced by alcohol, and I just ain't doin' that. The battle feels Herculean, like a life battle, like a fight for my soul and I can see how some people feel that doing something like this is a spiritual undertaking.
The writing, to date, is halting or in fits and bursts. It is nowhere near as smooth as my essay writing. It is work. But 2013 is my year of doing the things I've always said I want to do, dammit, and this is not going to break me. I will finish.
I do fear I will finish and then, in the post-partum blues stage I will convince myself that I was never meant to write fiction. How do people deal with the next month, when the editing starts? Do NaNoWriMo groups stay in touch? Do they workshop? Do they pick up the pieces of broken dreams and egos? Ah, the last is probably too much to ask. But I do have some anxiety around it.
It was nice to end my first week with this:
Still, I have managed to stay above the line for the daily average, meaning I'm not setting myself up to have to do some crazy amount of writing in one day, and I think that is a good thing for me. Otherwise it would be so easy to just hang it up till next year (again).
The writing, to date, is halting or in fits and bursts. It is nowhere near as smooth as my essay writing. It is work. But 2013 is my year of doing the things I've always said I want to do, dammit, and this is not going to break me. I will finish.
I do fear I will finish and then, in the post-partum blues stage I will convince myself that I was never meant to write fiction. How do people deal with the next month, when the editing starts? Do NaNoWriMo groups stay in touch? Do they workshop? Do they pick up the pieces of broken dreams and egos? Ah, the last is probably too much to ask. But I do have some anxiety around it.
It was nice to end my first week with this:
But can I do it a second week? With work kicking in tomorrow? Oi... why can't I ever take the blue pill?
Saturday, October 19, 2013
NaNoWriMo 2013
Continuing my streak of 2013 being The Year of Doing Things I Always Said I'd Do (to date: half marathon, master's degree, dream job, dream town), I am totally on fire to complete a novel in November.
I've been growing an idea for awhile, and starting doing some research at the start of the month. That set off a spark of character concepts, which led to more research, and now to an outline of the first part of the book. I'm getting a sense of the "feel" which is a horror/urban fantasy vibe. Not surprising, I guess, given what I read and think about and appreciate as art.
The novel is currently without a title because I haven't found one I like. That may be more obvious as I write it. Basically, I have a former lawyer/skeptic who decides to retire from the law and start a B&B in Astoria. She quickly discovers that not only is she sharing the B&B with Mags, her partner, but also with the ghost of a Victorian era Columbia River bar pilot who has been charged with the responsibility of piloting lost souls across the River of Life and Death.
The research is fascinating and leads to more and more research. I wake up in the middle of the night with great ideas. And while I'm excited about getting started, I'm also enjoying the planning phase. I find I'm moving from being a "pantser" (someone who doesn't do much planning or research) to a "planner" and that it's calming all kinds of anxiety for me. The more I plan, the more it takes a shape I feel capable of writing.
So anyhoo, if you'd like to be a NaNoWriMo writing buddy, please add me! And whether you do or don't, prepare for lots of ... er... writing about the process of writing.
Friday, October 11, 2013
national coming out day
I'm bisexual. I didn't admit this to myself until I was in my late 30's. Is there a story? Of course there is. And it involves a woman. All the best ones do.
I met her at work, and I felt that instant pull that I have with some women over the course of my life. The pull that sometimes ended in a broken friendship, with neither of us really understanding what went wrong. This woman was different, though, or maybe I was. Maybe the timing was right for me to deal with my sexuality. Whatever it was, over time things progressed from that instant pull (which I now recognize as attraction of the romantic/sexual sort) to an admission following an evening of karaoke and a few glasses of wine. From there, it moved to a lightning fast relationship, one for which the details don't matter, save these: it was fast because it was full of revelation, it was absolutely the wrong time, and because I had no idea what to do with either complication. Probably, neither did she. I ended up with a broken heart and a very confused life.
When it was over, the aftermath lasted a long time. For awhile, I thought maybe I was lesbian - as in, not attracted to men at all. Actually, to be more accurate, I felt pressured to "choose a side." A good (bisexual) friend shared the concept of bisexual erasure with me, and it played a role in my struggle over the next few years to figure out how to deal with this revelation about myself. I'm a person who feels like they have to DO something when a big epiphany occurs, so what was I going to DO? There were several lives that would be affected, not the least of which would be my (male/hetero) partner of many years and my children. Things got very, very messy in pretty much every way. I didn't really know anyone I could talk to. It was lonely.
My closest friends know the details of this and have watched me bumble my way through. Some people kind of know things because they leaked out, or because I made an impulsive confession but never filled in "the rest of the story." No one knows ALL the details because there were many times I just shut down and stopped trying to explain to anyone else (or even myself). The person who has been steadfast, and who probably deserves THE Partner of the Millennium award is Jeff. He accepted, he waited, he loved unconditionally. I am incredibly lucky to have him, and that he's stuck around.
At the moment, what I know is this. I am bisexual. I am attracted to people. Gender isn't relevant. And I'm really picky, so (fortunately) it doesn't happen often that I have to address what (if anything) to do about it. I have always been this way. I regret the times that it complicated my female relationships because I couldn't face what was so clearly there. I get pissed when I think about how coming to terms with this part of myself has absolutely been impacted by homophobia. And now you may see my dedication to queer causes in a different light. Good. Hopefully this doesn't change anything, but if it does, at least I feel clean and honest.
So yeah. This was my year to officially announce the announcement. I'm out. I'm proud. I am bisexual, and I will not be erased.
I met her at work, and I felt that instant pull that I have with some women over the course of my life. The pull that sometimes ended in a broken friendship, with neither of us really understanding what went wrong. This woman was different, though, or maybe I was. Maybe the timing was right for me to deal with my sexuality. Whatever it was, over time things progressed from that instant pull (which I now recognize as attraction of the romantic/sexual sort) to an admission following an evening of karaoke and a few glasses of wine. From there, it moved to a lightning fast relationship, one for which the details don't matter, save these: it was fast because it was full of revelation, it was absolutely the wrong time, and because I had no idea what to do with either complication. Probably, neither did she. I ended up with a broken heart and a very confused life.
When it was over, the aftermath lasted a long time. For awhile, I thought maybe I was lesbian - as in, not attracted to men at all. Actually, to be more accurate, I felt pressured to "choose a side." A good (bisexual) friend shared the concept of bisexual erasure with me, and it played a role in my struggle over the next few years to figure out how to deal with this revelation about myself. I'm a person who feels like they have to DO something when a big epiphany occurs, so what was I going to DO? There were several lives that would be affected, not the least of which would be my (male/hetero) partner of many years and my children. Things got very, very messy in pretty much every way. I didn't really know anyone I could talk to. It was lonely.
My closest friends know the details of this and have watched me bumble my way through. Some people kind of know things because they leaked out, or because I made an impulsive confession but never filled in "the rest of the story." No one knows ALL the details because there were many times I just shut down and stopped trying to explain to anyone else (or even myself). The person who has been steadfast, and who probably deserves THE Partner of the Millennium award is Jeff. He accepted, he waited, he loved unconditionally. I am incredibly lucky to have him, and that he's stuck around.
At the moment, what I know is this. I am bisexual. I am attracted to people. Gender isn't relevant. And I'm really picky, so (fortunately) it doesn't happen often that I have to address what (if anything) to do about it. I have always been this way. I regret the times that it complicated my female relationships because I couldn't face what was so clearly there. I get pissed when I think about how coming to terms with this part of myself has absolutely been impacted by homophobia. And now you may see my dedication to queer causes in a different light. Good. Hopefully this doesn't change anything, but if it does, at least I feel clean and honest.
So yeah. This was my year to officially announce the announcement. I'm out. I'm proud. I am bisexual, and I will not be erased.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
no apologies
After blogging today about WW and HAES, and thinking about yesterday's entry about how other people's disdain colored my relationship with spiritual tradition, I find myself contemplating how often I apologize, whether inwardly or outwardly, for who I am, for the choices I made and for the way I feel. I do it so often that I will jump to the conclusion that I need to defend myself when it's not really necessary. And this is a lifetime Work for me.
I don't want to think of myself "in comparison to" (fill-in-the-blank). I'd rather think of myself "in the company of" or "in community with." That's hard to do, and is perhaps a legacy of growing up poor in the 80's... or a legacy of growing up in a media'd world, where most things are a commercial for something that's supposed to make you better/happier/shinier than you were on your own.
So I'm still taking inventory, but trying to keep it an inventory, or better yet, a story of where I am right now. And then not impose it over where someone else is right now, or where I was last hour. All roads led to here, here is pretty damned good, and I'll see where I'm going as I pass through. And... I'm not going to apologize for who I am.
Poke me if you catch me doing it, will you?
I don't want to think of myself "in comparison to" (fill-in-the-blank). I'd rather think of myself "in the company of" or "in community with." That's hard to do, and is perhaps a legacy of growing up poor in the 80's... or a legacy of growing up in a media'd world, where most things are a commercial for something that's supposed to make you better/happier/shinier than you were on your own.
So I'm still taking inventory, but trying to keep it an inventory, or better yet, a story of where I am right now. And then not impose it over where someone else is right now, or where I was last hour. All roads led to here, here is pretty damned good, and I'll see where I'm going as I pass through. And... I'm not going to apologize for who I am.
Poke me if you catch me doing it, will you?
Monday, October 7, 2013
start by doing what's necessary
After the dust starts to clear (or the fog starts to lift, the silver starts to shine, choose your metaphor), I spent some time this weekend thinking about what my life DOES look like and what I'd LIKE it to look like. Okay, to be completely honest, I spent that time last night, or perhaps more accurately this morning, when I couldn't sleep after playing too much Warcraft, drinking too much caffeine and avoiding too much housework. But I digress.
Currently my life looks pretty good on the overall, which is why I'm ready to start tending seams again. What I don't like is how messy my house is, and I am going to stretch this metaphor for all it's worth. I'm talking about my literal house, my financial house, my physical house, my spiritual house... and on and on. Decades of procrastination, of wishing things would take care of themselves, of having some pretty hard hits, have taken their toll. I've managed to get myself into a pretty sweet spot here, but I think that if I'm not careful, it could disappear. And even if I take away that catastrophic thinking, I have to admit that it just doesn't look the way I'd like it to look.
I would like, for example, to have all my boxes unpacked, walls painted, decor decorated and hominess established in my literal house. I would like order and lack of clutter. This is a tough fight because I live with two clutter-makers and I'm not willing to be their maid. I'm going to have to find a happy medium. I can make it with Nina that I don't much care what her room looks like, but common areas should be tidy. But Jeff? That's a tougher nut.
I would like to have my student loan mess straightened out so that I can do IBR AND begin the ten year process of loan forgiveness for government employees. I would like to not be running the edge every month of disaster. And I know that as much as Jeff is the culprit of the literal house mess, I am the major culprit for the financial mess. I need to get on my feet so I can move forward.
Dreams are plaguing me regularly of having great difficulty walking. I know this is probably just irrational fear, but I really need to get moving. I need to eat better. And I'm writing more about this here, and will try to keep those worlds as separate as I can.
My spiritual house is two storied; the act of worship and the act of writing. Making time is the issue, and I'm not doing it. Instead, I'm choosing to spend time playing games, watching tv, drinking, whatever... all things that take me away from where I want to be. Things I find myself doing without thinking. Things I would like to enjoy in moderation, but struggle with doing so.
So I found this bookmark when I was cleaning/rearranging my cube at work. Seems like a good starting point.
Currently my life looks pretty good on the overall, which is why I'm ready to start tending seams again. What I don't like is how messy my house is, and I am going to stretch this metaphor for all it's worth. I'm talking about my literal house, my financial house, my physical house, my spiritual house... and on and on. Decades of procrastination, of wishing things would take care of themselves, of having some pretty hard hits, have taken their toll. I've managed to get myself into a pretty sweet spot here, but I think that if I'm not careful, it could disappear. And even if I take away that catastrophic thinking, I have to admit that it just doesn't look the way I'd like it to look.
I would like, for example, to have all my boxes unpacked, walls painted, decor decorated and hominess established in my literal house. I would like order and lack of clutter. This is a tough fight because I live with two clutter-makers and I'm not willing to be their maid. I'm going to have to find a happy medium. I can make it with Nina that I don't much care what her room looks like, but common areas should be tidy. But Jeff? That's a tougher nut.
I would like to have my student loan mess straightened out so that I can do IBR AND begin the ten year process of loan forgiveness for government employees. I would like to not be running the edge every month of disaster. And I know that as much as Jeff is the culprit of the literal house mess, I am the major culprit for the financial mess. I need to get on my feet so I can move forward.
Dreams are plaguing me regularly of having great difficulty walking. I know this is probably just irrational fear, but I really need to get moving. I need to eat better. And I'm writing more about this here, and will try to keep those worlds as separate as I can.
My spiritual house is two storied; the act of worship and the act of writing. Making time is the issue, and I'm not doing it. Instead, I'm choosing to spend time playing games, watching tv, drinking, whatever... all things that take me away from where I want to be. Things I find myself doing without thinking. Things I would like to enjoy in moderation, but struggle with doing so.
So I found this bookmark when I was cleaning/rearranging my cube at work. Seems like a good starting point.
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