I write a bit of everything, I try to get some of it published. Most times, I get rejected. I submit again (to other places). Eventually, I get published. In the meantime, I complain about the hazards of real life. It's a process, really.
I've been kind of giving reviews of books in a mini fashion, not really respecting them enough (or taking the time) to write an entire blog post about a book. It's a good and a bad thing.
However, the book I'm about to tell you about made me sick to my stomach. It made me so angry with the male gender, I didn't want my boyfriend to even put his arm around me. I was left with the staggering question, "Why did this happen?"
With no further ado...
A Stolen Life
By: Jaycee Dugard
Rating on Goodreads: ***** of *****
A Stolen Life is Jaycee Dugard's memoir. She was 11 when she was kidnapped, and held captive for eighteen years. In that time, she endured countless tortures, including repeatedly being raped and told to stop
It's hard for me to fathom how men like that can live. It's also difficult for
It is unacceptable that we live in a culture that looks the other way, or slut shames, or does any other awful thing toward women. This book further reiterated why I'm a feminist, why I'm doing what I'm doing at AbortionChat, and why, above all else, I will fight for women.
This book should be read by every single person out there. I didn't give it a five star rating based on writing quality (her formal education was cut off at 5th grade) but instead, by the sheer ability to recount what she'd gone through, and how she's trying to heal.
Brace yourselves. This is NOT a pretty story.
me to have any sympathy towards rapists. Personally, I feel like they should have a "One and Done" mentality, where if it happens, even once, they get dismembered, slowly. Jaycee's rapist had raped a woman before. He was on parole. His parole officer came to the house she was kept at. He went to jail for a month was she was captive. And yet no one discovered her.
crying because it was ruining her rapists fantasies.
This Christmas was spent in a basement of crazy folk, sipping hot chocolate and peppermint Kahlua. I bought and watched Rudolph, and Frostie the Snowman (terrifying now that I'm 25). I was the only person who volunteered to work both Christmas Eve and Christmas day.
Moments before settling into spiked hot chocolate, I'd stopped over my Partner in Crime's to witness family life; his parents, girlfriend, and sister gathered around a beautiful tree exchanging gifts. I felt like an unwanted alien. Something to pick at and dissect. I didn't mean to intrude. I just wanted to drop off a present for him and a card for his parents.
An hour or so later, as I watched the animated cartoons, from time to time, I spurted a few tears, but after a long while, Baxter and I cuddled, said Merry Christmas, and went to sleep. It was over for another year.
Father's Day kind of feels like that.
At work, the cash register faces a pretty display of cards. Right now, the hot sellers are Father's Day cards. They're witty, and clever, and everything I'd want if I were buying a F-Day card. But I'd have no one to send it to.
At work today, a man came in who strikingly resembled my father. My hands started shaking as I imagined him grabbing the back of my head and bouncing it off the counter top, or worse, calling me by my first name. Or worse yet, rendering me unmovable, and telling me to go outside and being trapped, and kidnapped, and helpless...again.
I imagined him saying he missed me, or he loved me, or any of those things my father had repeatedly said before he'd hurt my sisters or me. Even after I realized the balding gentleman in front of me was not my father, I couldn't stop shaking.
Not all little girls grow up with Fathers. Not all little girls grow up with Mothers. But some of us grow up with Sisters, or kickass friends, or amazing teachers. Never underestimate who you're influencing when you interact with the youth. Many people kept me from becoming my parents. Many people kept me from throwing my life away, several times over.
Kind of like an empty dinner table...all the time
I'm not saying it's easy to not have family. It's not. Christmas is never fun. Thanksgiving is lonely. I don't get to imagine my wedding and my father (or anyone's father) giving me away. Growing up without parents isn't easy. But people can do it. And people can turn out okay.
So for those of you who having loving husbands, hug them. For those who've had loving fathers, love them, too. Celebrate the strong men in your life, let them know what they mean to you, because there are some people in the world cringing on this day, wishing for the chance to give a strong man a hug. Instead, settling for cuddling with a large dog.
Baxter is the one who kind of put my memoir in motion. More-so, he was the one who told me something was wrong.
Let me back this up a bit. I'm sure you've gathered that he sleeps on my bed every night. And if any of you are familiar with dogs, or wolves, you know that they know female's cycles. It turns out, Baxter was no different.
My period had been late. And I mean, really, really late. I was laying on my back, when Baxter rested his head against my stomach. My heart dropped. He'd never done that before. Suddenly, I stopped waiting. I stopped thinking I was late. He was telling me was I was terrified to know.
In less than a week, I sought an abortion. I laid on the couch crying for weeks until we became homeless, until I got fired from my job, until my entire world fell apart. But he still needed to eat. He still needed to go outside. He forced me into motion when I wanted to give up.
We moved to Maine shortly after.
When we arrived, I was still fresh off a knee surgery, the abortion, uprooting our
One of the first pictures I took of Baxter in Maine
entire lives. I couldn't breathe. I could barely stand. I felt disgusted with myself, and though through years of depression I'd said I hated myself, I truly, truly, did. Each day that passed, it took every fiber of my being not to hurt myself.
At nights, Baxter would still lay on my bed, but since the days of my pregnancy, he hasn't laid with his head on my stomach.
So, maybe I didn't want to be this person anymore. Maybe I was sick of being miserable, of putting myself in stupid situations, of trusting guys who would leave me when I was pregnant and not call to see if I was okay. Maybe...it was time for me to grow up.
When I'd arrived at the clinic, I wrote my name on a small piece of paper. That was the name they'd called me back by. Every time someone called me by that name, I heard the nurse. How could I escape from that?
And so I did what any insane girl would do. I started giving everyone another name, my middle name. People bought it, no questions asked.
I began to rebuild myself, from the inside out. Each day, I would say, "You're okay, you're okay, you can do this." I tried to be positive. And this month marks the one-year anniversary of my last round of cutting.
Baxter saved my life. He forced me into motion when I wanted to stand still and play dead. No matter what I tell people my name is, he's been there through all of it. He knows me, he accepts me, and he loves me. I've had an identity crisis. Some days, I'm still wondering who I am. But now, thankfully, most days, I feel like I'm on the right path.
In case you haven't heard, I am not meant to live with or near people. There needs to be about a ten mile buffer zone or my crazy will bring out your crazy. It happens. Time and time again.
I live in Maine. It's beautiful, has four seasons, and ::gasp:: one of those seasons is Winter. Which means snow, and sometimes a blizzard. A few weeks ago, I drove home, went off the road twice and arrived only to find that the steeply up-hill driveway hadn't been plowed. After several attempts, I gave up, turned my car off, and walked angrily up the hill.
"Lynne," the roommate's son said, 'Are you stuck?"
"Yes," I said in a very short manner.
"Want to try again?"
"Nope!" I nearly screamed and walked into the house where they proceeded to bombard me with, I need to be up and gone in the morning, yack, yack, yack. I got re-stuck in the morning, and stood in the driveway at 5am crying (good day, right?)
It's been a million little things like that. But last night, for the first time since I've moved in and had to readjust to alcoholic roommates, I had a friend spend the night. Yes, I like him. After I got out of work, we drove really slippery roads (he told me I drive too fast in crappy weather), then went downstairs to watch The Hunger Games. Yes, he's cute. Yes, he slept in my room, but no, nothing happened because I'm a good kid and not currently self destructive. (Also, even if something did happen, I'm an adult. I'm allowed to do those things!)
So we get up this morning, make oatmeal for breakfast (which was delicious, though Baxter got to finish most of it), and then he offered to give me a ride to work (since we were both headed in the same direction). As I go to finish getting ready (brushing my teeth and all that jazz) the guy who wanted me to "Try again" when my car was stuck and his baby mama were taking a shower together. (Keep in mind, he also pees with the door open, and pees on the floor. Not. Cool.)
So we sit and wait and we talk about watching Harry Potter because I haven't seen the last movie (still. Have you heard it's demonic?), so because it's human decency, at work I text the roommate/landlord and say, "Hey, he's coming over again tonight because we're going to watch Harry Potter."
Her response?
Bad roads. Not safe. I'm not sending peeps home in that
"NOT HAPPY COST ME THIRTY DOLLARS for the guy to plow only part of the driveway OBVIOUSLY After a storm you get plowed FYI Just hoping you are not planning another SLEEP OVER here. The first one was quite enough."
So let's rewind a bit. A month or so ago, as the mountain started picking up, she sat me down, looked me straight in the eye (without a beer in her hand, maybe that was the problem) "Listen, you live here. This is your house too. We want you to feel comfortable. If you want to bring people over, you can. If you can give us a heads up, that's be cool, but you don't have to ask permission or anything."
Tack on the fact that my room is FREEZING and I've asked her to help warm it up some so I don't feel like death. Okay, now re-read the text.
My brain just exploded on the ceiling. Resuming the living arrangement hunt. How is Germany these days? Is it still way over populated? (I need not crazy people in my life!)
Guess what, guys? We have our first real complain about 2013! Aside from Bax being sick. Just when you thought it was safe to forget about all of the quarrels of 2012, one comes creeping back. Kind of like a court case that just doesn't go away...
Wait, that's exactly what it is.
If you missed any of the drama of the Roommate Saga, you may want to freshen up here. Once upon a time, I lived in a super sketchy place because when I moved to Maine I had no place to call home. So I went on Craigslist, and found this place. The landlord said, "Oh, the house keeper is kind of strange, but he's harmless, I swear."
Can we just forget I lived here? Please?
Turns out, not so harmless. So the other day at work, the arresting officer (in civilian clothing) came up to me as I restocked the liquor aisle. "Remember me?" he asked.
My face lit up. "Of course, how are you?"
"Good, and um, sorry to be the bearer of bad news," he said, handing me a piece of paper.
I opened it, and wham-bam, it's a subpoena. I am now to appear in court any time between January 9th-31st.
I'm trying to tell myself it's just research for a future novel, but really, I just want that whole ordeal to be over. I'd be a happy girl if I never had to see him again. So the truth about Craigslist, is that you may want to fully research your place before you move in. This is the second time things have blown up in my face (the first being that incident with bedbugs).
Any of you have any legal issues? Or, better yet, what's your worst (best) roommate story?
The thing people fail to warn you about when it comes to your memoir is how much you'll cry. The first draft, I didn't do much until I finished. Then I spent a few hours drinking beer and sobbing. Then the second and third drafts ripped open wounds I was unaware I still had. I even edited a section about happy things and couldn't stop crying. It got to the point I couldn't open my word document without cringing.
Then, I prepared the first chapter to present in front of a room full of adults. And this, is how my presentation on December 6th, started.
I read the first chapter, and near the second page...I felt the lump in my throat. My hands took on a tremor. When I looked up (like you should during all public speaking engagements), every single eye in the room was on me.
It was hard to breathe. The small voice in the back of my head kept saying, You're just reading a book, you're just reading...But I wasn't. It was my life and it felt like I was eight years old watching my sister get beat by my father.
I sat next to the president of the
organization. Intense, no?
I didn't fully cry, but I got choked up and recovered by saying, "As you can tell, I'm still a little sensitive about all of this," and continued talking. I told the group about the presentations I did where young girls reached out and told me about the horrors they're currently living through. About the fact that they hurt themselves. I talked about the drop-out rate and how we as a society need to step in and try to guide the kids who are growing up in broken homes.
When I finished, I was surrounded by adults who hugged me, called me brave, and strong, and further confirmed that I am doing the right thing. I met a man who is involved with a high school program, and they may be able to bring me to a new district. A lot of it is in the air, but I can breathe a little easier. When I finally got in my car, I was still shaking.
There is a huge difference presenting in front of adults verses teens. I felt like I had significantly less room for error and rambling. But at the same time, hopefully it is these adults that will help spread the message that life can get better. Even if you live in a crappy household where all you're told is that you'll never amount to anything, it can get better. People will tell you your whole life that THIS (failure) is your projected outcome. It's not true. My sisters and I grew up with awful parents. We all graduated high school. We all got college degrees. We're not alcoholics, homeless, drug addicts. We are functioning members of society.
But even with all of that, when the presentation wrapped up, I was presented with an award in my name. Suddenly, everything that I've been doing became real. Because I grew up in that environment. I'm doing what I love to do. For the first time in a million years, I'm happy.
And this is the moment everything became real
Moral of this post and of my presentation is this: No matter your circumstances, you can amount to something. You can be anything you want to be. And once you're there, you can help other people amount to whatever they want to be, too.
It's true. I really am ashamed of the place I work. Today, I saw a boy who looked faintly familiar, and so I blurted out, "Hey, did you go to UNE?" and he said, "I thought you looked familiar, too."
From there, I cashed him out and we chatted superficially. He wore nice slacks, khaki colored, what appeared to be a tailored green shirt, and a tie. Meanwhile, I wore a dirty pair of khakis I hadn't showered, and the same shirt I usually wear to work.
I discovered he's a middle school science teacher, and I'm well...I'm a retail associate, ahem, a shift supervisor/retail associate. Even still, the pay sucks, the hours are variable, and I feel like I'm going nowhere. My managers claim to be "joking" but most of the time, I just leave and feel angry and frustrated. I'm not happy there, and I'm really only doing it to make ends meet. Each day, I feel like my soul is dying a bit more.
This is so much of a better place to work...
I'm surprised to find that I'm more proud to be a snowboarding instructor, than to be a cashier. I liked the way people's eyes popped open last year when they said, "What are you up to now?" and I answered, "I'm a snowboarding instructor." It felt like an accomplishment. Like acing a test I'd been unaware of taking.
I think part of it has to do with talent and effort. ANYONE can do retail. But to be able to teach people about their boards, their bindings, how to go down mountains without breaking their necks, knees, or wrists. That takes time. That takes effort. That truly takes skill. Plus, it's fun. You can throw snowballs. You can make snow angels. You can go off jumps and rails.
The pay was substantially lower, but it didn't matter. I was happy being broke. I was happy being late on my rent payments, because if I didn't have work that day, I got to go out and play. And if there was work, well, I still got to play then, too.
In retail, you greet customers, answer the phones, get bitched at when your knee starts throbbing and you need to sit down for five minutes when everyone else gets cigarette breaks whenever they want.
I'm glad that the mountain is opening, and hopefully I'll be able to instruct again, even if it's only on a part time basis. The mountain keeps me centered and sane. Things can go wrong there, and I'm more able to deal with them. In my "full time" retail position, I'm less able, and more quick to anger.
Moral of this post, is if something is eating your soul, chances are that's not the path you're meant to take. If you have to do it to make ends meet, do it, but then pick up, move on. Find happiness again.
I think Bilbo Baggins said it best when he said, "I feel like butter that's been scraped over too much bread." Can you guys relate to that?
Like when you step off, and get swept away?
You have a job, you write, you read, you play with your dog, you make dinner, you sleep. Then you get an email from a company you're not familiar with and they say, "We just took $59.95 out of your bank account for your one year subscription" and you're like, "Excuse me, what????"
There gets to a point where your body and mind just can't handle it, and you pass out for 12 hours and then wonder why you're still tired when you get out of bed.
Well, I hit that point.
Thankfully, it ended up being my Half Birthday (6 months from my real birthday). For those of you unfamiliar with me, October 19th, 2011, I'd had every intention of killing myself. I'd set the date, set the means, started looking for a home for Baxter. So October 19th, 2012 was a pretty big deal, because a) it was my half birthday, and b) I am still alive. So I contacted some friends and asked if they wanted to celebrate with me.
They said yes.
Just as I hit Portland, Maine I saw this:
Always happens at the most inconvenient time
So I pulled off, got $5 in gas, donated a crap ton of clothes to the biggest GoodWill I'd ever seen, then continued along. Finally, I arrived in the lovely town of Biddeford where I went to college. It amazed me that you can spend YEARS away from home, and still remember each road, each way to avoid tolls.
Stepping out of my car, I inhaled. If you want to know how Biddeford smells, get a large cup of water. Add about two cups of salt to your water. Swirl, swirl again, put your nose inside the cup and inhale. You cannot escape this scent walking to or from class. This sticky smell reminds me that I am home, and acts like stitches to any emotional wounds I may have.
The Atlantic Ocean
I visited John, my college manager, who told me I looked good, which is always a compliment. This man saw me at my worst, when my weight slipped below 100 pounds, fully dressed, keys and a deck of cards in pocket, shoes on. When people would hug me, I could feel their arms go through me because there was nothing left of my body. I know he remembers this, and I know he worries I'll relapse or manage to hurt myself in another way.
It had been a few months since I'd seen him last, and I brought him up to date on my current living situation, my financial woes, and my hopes for the future. Then he told me about him, his kiddos, his wife, work. "Oh," I asked, "what do you guys want for Christmas?"
"Your presence," he said. My heart swelled. It was nice, and reminded me that I am loved, no matter where I am. He also threw some money my way, so I was able to get a full tank of gas and pay for my storage unit this month. (Which also helps me to breathe a little easier, so thanks for that!)
The beautiful sea
After parting from him, I made my way to the ocean, because though she and I have had our quarrels, I love her. The waves were crashing, hard. Even with the radio playing, I could hear the rumble as white foam broke away from the grey water. Growing up in Michigan, yea, we had lakes, and swimming pools, and ponds, but there is something hypnotic about the ocean. The sounds, the smell, the feel. I LOVE the ocean.
It had been raining all day, but I took off my shoes and socks and walked down the stairs and waited until the waves put my feet in the water.
Of course, when the wave finally came, it was a huge one that soaked through my jeans, and I sat for the next half hour wetter that I'd anticipated.
After that, I ran some errands and went to my storage unit. It was raining. Not a soft rain that somewhat makes it feel like you've been sweating mildly. Instead, it was a hard rain that made it feel like you've just jumped in the ocean. My boxes got wet. My helmet, my boarding boots, they all got soaked. Where I was going to try to dig out some books to take home, I just grabbed my snowboard (because Winter is just around the corner!) and threw it in my car and headed over to my friend, Liz's.
We went to our place (Olive Garden), and had a margarita. We talked about politics, gay marriage, my anger with what I believed when I was younger, and other various intense, and sometimes funny things. After, because she didn't believe me, we headed to a branch of the pharmacy I work at. Upon entrance, we were properly greeted (which I commended Chad, the very attractive cashier on), and I promptly asked, "Where are your condoms?" because the store's layout was much different from mine.
He led us in the direction, and I found the large purple box, and exclaimed, "I told you we sell these!" and she stood there, slack jawed, and partially in awe. "I feel like we should have placed a money bet. I did not believe you, at all."
And then we proceeded to laugh, loud enough that our voices bounced off the aisles.
When the adventure finished, we said our goodbyes, she wished me a happy half birthday, and I bought the Some Nights CD by Fun, and rocked it my entire drive home, feeling that feeling which always results in a visit to Biddeford, love.
For your listening pleasure, Some Nights, by Fun :)
It's like I'm a rechargeable battery. Life sucks all the energy out of me, makes me sleep, but doesn't exactly make me feel like I'll make it through the next few weeks with my head up. Time with John (my manager) and time with Liz is like being plugged into an electrical outlet (in a good way). I listen to them talk, smell the smells associated with a garage and a lovely house. I memorize my interactions with them in case I need to recall they way their presence makes me feel.
Then I hug, release, and it's like being unplugged, fully charged, ready to face the next few months/weeks/however long it will be before I need to recharge again.
I never thought I would need people in my life to help keep me afloat. I thrive on living by myself, and roommates freak me out. But there are people from past lives, who still call me by my first name, that I am incredibly grateful that they've been on this roller coaster with me.
On October 16, 2012 one of my Life Goals had been accomplished. I was in attendance for a Post Secret event and got to meet the founder of the project.
Frank Warren (the founder of PS) has a theory that we all have secrets, and if we keep them secrets they become walls. But, if we're brave and we tell those secrets, it has the ability to turn those walls into bridges (his words, not mine).
One of the most common secrets he said he gets is "I pee in the shower." I'm not gonna lie, I pee in the shower. I feel like a) it's more environmentally friendly and b) it's a time saver and c) Haha, boys. I can pee standing up, too.
You just, you know, pee first, then lather, rinse, repeat.
Anyways, at the end of the event, Frank invites the attendees to go to the microphones and say something. It can be a secret, it can be a thanks for the project, whatever. And because a year ago last week, I found out I was pregnant, and suicide was a better option than having a child, I went up to the mic. I told my story, about writing "If I test positive I'm going to kill myself," and mailing it in, about having an abortion, chopping my hair off, changing my name, and moving 1,000 miles away.
Frank Warren! I got to shake his hand!
In that aspect, I did kill myself. But, I'm alive. Because I told my friends and my dog my secret, and they kept me alive when I couldn't breathe.
The last girl at the microphone was small, and adorable. She said something along the lines of, "You know, I've always been a goodie-two-shoes. And when I got stoned out of my mind, I realized I have the best friends in the entire world."
The audience cheered for her. I cheered for her. The fourteen year old version of me who believed that Harry Potter was demonic cried a little inside, but thankfully, her voice is getting smaller and smaller by the day.
On the way home, I called my mom. For the last year I've been hiding what happened, why I moved from North Carolina. And I told her. Then we hung up, and I exhaled. I assumed she'd tell me I was a huge disappointment, or that she was disowning me. Instead, less than five minutes later, my phone rang. It was her.
"Hello?" I asked.
"I just wanted to tell you that I still love you," she said.
I smiled. My relationship with my mother is a complicated one. I grew up hating her, moved to Maine to get away from her, and now we chat on a frequent basis. I didn't tell her I loved her back, I wanted to, but I couldn't. Instead, I said, "Thank you. Thank you a lot," and we hung up again.
So, for those of you who pee in the shower, who have holes in your doors from your parents trying to break in and beat you, for those of you who have cutting scars, or want to grow up to become the cat woman, I love you. Don't be afraid of your secrets. Own them, embrace them, share them, and exhale.
Today is October 1, which for the last nine years has been an incredibly difficult day for me. In 2003, my best friend, at the age of 17 was killed in a car accident. It only makes sense then, that I would post about something death related...
It was Winter in Maine when Laura (my sister, I'm just going to start referring to her as Laura from here on out, okay?) and I were chatting on Facebook. She was in Michigan and I was supposed to be studying for Final Exams (Organic Chemistry, to be exact), but decided to slack off a bit....as usual.
"Whoa," she typed. "Sarah Hunter (name change for respect) committed suicide."
I stared at her words, and stared at the name. Sarah was a girl I'd attended youth group with. She'd driven me a couple of times when no one else could. We were friends. And she killed herself.
"What happened?" I typed back as tears stung my eyes.
"I'm not sure, I'm looking into it."
At long last, the dam burst, and I started crying, sobbing. I cried for Sarah, who had always been soft spoken and slow to smile. I cried for me, who only a few months before had been committed to a psych ward of a hospital for "attempted suicide". She was so pretty, and so young. We would sit in her car and chat before and after youth group. And she was dead.
The Mackinac Bridge
In Michigan, there is a lovely place called Mackinac Island. I've been there once and tried a million different kinds of fudge (and got a horrible tummy ache). But to get to the island, you have to cross the Mackinac Bridge.
Just before Christmas, and either just before or after her birthday, Sarah had driven her car to the bridge, walked, and then jumped into the icy water below. To my knowledge her body wasn't found.
"Did you know her?" Laura typed, as I sat on my beaten in couch crying.
"Yes, we went to youth group together."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know you knew her."
We chatted for awhile longer while I sat there crying. Eventually I made my way outside and started chain smoking. This could have been me. This could have been me. My mind was reeling. Though I'd been committed for attempted suicide, I maintained that I wasn't trying, I'd just cut myself too deep. But just because I wasn't trying that day didn't mean I hadn't tried before. It also didn't mean that I wasn't considering it on a daily basis.
Months later I was on the Outer Banks of North Carolina when PostSecret shared a voicemail. It was the last phone call a young girl made to her boyfriend before she killed herself. On it, she stated, "I'm so sorry, please know this wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done." Her voice cracked as she spoke, and I listened to the voicemail on repeat, fighting my own urge to cry.
The voice mail removed any doubt in my mind that before Sarah jumped she was looking at the black water, sobbing. I know this because as I walked to the beach my sophomore year of college to drown myself, I was sobbing. She might have screamed on the way down, or maybe she was quiet. She could have jumped feet first, or head first.
But the church we'd gone to told me that suicides go to Hell, and I was supposed to believe that my friend was now burning for eternity for committing this grievous act. Not only had she had a rough life and lost her battle to depression, now she was going to suffer. Forever. Even though she probably cried on her way out of this world.
My faith at that moment became something like a pencil and snapped in half.
I've known God my entire life. I've loved him, prayed to Him almost every night. And yet I was supposed to believe that this Being that I've loved would torture someone who'd already been tortured?
No. No way.
And so like my belief that Harry Potter is demonic, I stopped believing that suicides go to Hell, simply because I need to believe in something that would take compassion on my friends. I need to believe that He would understand why we made these decisions, and that He truly is as epic as the Bible tells me He is.
I think this song pretty much sums up this entire post:
"What about me and all my friends, are we all sinners if we sin? Does it even matter in the end, if we're unhappy?" ~Noah Gunderson
Writing comes with an occupational hazard. We're not well. I don't know a single writer who says, "I am mentally stable," unless of course, they're seeing a head shrink. I'm not saying we don't have good days, because those do exist. But I am saying that many of us are plagued by self destruction, alcoholism, drug abuse, and a healthy dose of self loathing....which usually leads to suicide, and if not suicide, then missing ears, eyes, body parts, etc. Janet Reid recently posted THIS video. If you're a writer and you haven't seen it, watch it. (It's slightly less than 20 minutes, but it's incredible.)
Yes, this was a pitcher of beer
For a long time, I figured I would be like Sylvia Plath. She was a poet, and a writer. She was brilliant, and haunting, and I can't find any of her writing that is terribly happy. Her voice sounded like cigarettes (in my poetry class in college we listened to her read). My entire life I've had friends ask me to write something with a happy ending. Well, I didn't want a happy ending because I wasn't a happy person. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to kill myself. It's not because I've lost count, but because the lines of self destruction and actual attempts blur together for me now.I wanted to follow Sylvia. I wanted to hold her hand as the ocean waves carried me out, and have people say, "She was brilliant, and she (finally) killed herself." I wanted my writing to affect people the way hers affected me.
And then this year, I attended AWP in Chicago. Margaret Atwood was a keynote speaker. She made a joke something along the lines of:
I've been around so long people are starting to question whether or not I'm still alive.
Brilliant woman. Still alive.
She was clever, and old, and humble, and funny. She had a spark in her eyes. She had wrinkles on her face. For the first time in my life, rather than wanting to die young, and beautiful, and fast...I wondered what it would be like to live to be 80 or 90, or like my granddad, 100 (he celebrated his 100th birthday this year!). Imagine the connections you could make with people, the lives you could help save. Imagine how many more novels you could write!
A few months after this I was invited to a middle school in Maine to talk about depression, cutting, eating disorders, etc. During my three week invasion, the option to kill myself became revoked. I fell in love with the students there. I told them they could have a future, and each day by querying, by putting myself out there, I am trying to prove to them that you can grow up in a shitty environment and come out swinging.
I'm not saying that every day it's easy to drive my car to work without the urge to veer it into oncoming traffic or off the cliff I drive by. (I actually had this conversation with one of my managers the other day.) Some days it's harder than others. But I don't do it, because I can no longer do it. I have something to prove to those students.
I may not live to make it to thirty. I may not make it to see 25. Who knows? But every day, I am alive, I fight the burden that many of the creative minds have. I am not mentally well, I've known this since I was in sixth grade. But as I said earlier, there are happy days. If live long enough for people to question my existence, I hope it will be a life well lived. I pray that I'll be able to stand in front of a room full of strangers and make fun of my age and the things I've been through.
The moral of all this is that as writers, we have an occupational hazard. We feel more than most people, and sadly those feelings aren't usually happy ones.
Don't give in to it. Don't die from your own hand. Seek help; support groups, therapy, psychiatric wards, friends, family. Live to joke about paramedics coming to your house and asking if you're still alive. Live to tell youngsters about paper back books when they existed.
Just. Live.
That's all.
Happy Monday :) (I know it's not Monday, but I didn't say Happy Monday yesterday, and this is how I roll)
In December 2011 I blogged about reality. How I live in the Occupy Wall Street generation, and how we don't know how to make change, but there are some of us who try, anyway.
Recently, I'm sure you've heard of the shooting in Colorado. If you've followed my blog for awhile, you'll also know I become obsessed with shootings and tragedy. This one is affecting me in a different way than the others though, and I'm trying to figure out why.
It's hard to think that the world
can be so beautiful, and yet so
heart breaking
Maybe it's because James Holmes is 24, the same age as me. Maybe it's because usually these tragedies come from people who are older than me. But I think it's something with the age. The newspapers call him a man, like he's an adult. Most say, "A man entered a movie theater...." But to me, he's not. He's the same age as me. Most days I consider myself a kid, still. I'm not grown up. I suck at managing my finances. I'm not responsible enough to have kids. I'm a kid, a child. I learn new things every single day. High school still feels like it was yesterday.
It's taken me a couple of days to write this blog because I'm in such shock because of what has happened. I've seen stories in the echoes of the aftermath. There were brave "men" (also very young) who saved their girlfriends and lost their lives in the process. There were people celebrating their birthdays. There was a six year old girl.
And then there was this one person who lost his mind and killed all of them. I can't even get a handle on the tragedy.
I want to know why. I want to know what went wrong that this person would walk in and start shooting. I want to know what went through his mind (the newspapers tell me that he'd planned this for MONTHS. Months! I can't even plan today let alone tomorrow!) I've taken enough psychology courses in college to know that this isn't right. That something went wrong.
I'm not going to rally and say that Holmes should die, because while I do support the pro-choice movement, I don't like death.
I don't even like eating carrots because I killed the plant it came from to live. If I eat a lobster (I mean, come on, I'm in Maine, and they're super yummy) I say a quiet prayer of thanks that I get to eat the yummy-ness, and apologize to the creature I devour...dripping in butter.
I'm not going to say Holmes should be tortured, and hurt, and shot, and scared, because I don't like being shot at, hurt, tortured, or scared. When Klebold and Harris killed themselves, I was sad. When McVeigh was killed, I cried and prayed. I don't hate any of these people because I don't know them. I am incredibly saddened by the choices they've made, but I do not hate them. (Though, I do hate the driver who killed my best friend in high school, so if you hate these people, I understand.)
The answers come from understanding how something like this could happen and preventing it in the future. It's not more strict gun laws (though maybe people should have to take a psychiatric test before obtaining guns?). The answer comes from studying, from research on psychology, from not damaging our children, our friends more.
"You Can't Kill Yourself....You Have Twitter Followers Now"
~Claire
I haven't blogged in a week because I've been digesting what's happened. Last Wednesday, I was invited to a Middle School to talk to students about my life and offer hope that they can overcome child abuse, eating disorders, depression...etc. I talked with a lot of students, had my heart broken, and I walked away thinking that I'd done some good.
My stuff, in a somewhat neat stack
I returned to the basement that night, after being so excited about the difference I was making, and found that several of the girls had already friended me on Facebook, followed me on Twitter, e-mailed me...I returned the e-mails, pitched my author page on Facebook to them, and went to sleep happy. I was making a difference.
Thursday, I woke up, in the basement. I was cold, cranky, and not wanting to move. The happiness faded. I looked around the area and my stuff was surrounding me like a prison cell. I got off the couch, and my back and leg hurt because of the way Baxter was sleeping on me. I did an interview with one of the girls as an author, things I've learned, advice to give to aspiring young authors (still the whole Don't Give Up! business)...But something started eating at me. I went to the post office, ran other errands, and got gas. At the pump, someone from the Advertiser Democrat interviewed me, so I'm in the paper today for an opinion column.
But the more I evaluated my life, the more I started feeling like a hypocrite.
Friday, I went to work. My knees hurt, I got frustrated with small things, and thought, Who am I kidding? Who am I to be talking to girls about having hope? I live in a f#$ing basement!I get paid a little above minimum wage, with a college degree. I have bills that I can barely pay...
Then the thought hit me; I have a college degree. I can do anything I want.
Bone crushing fear took hold of my heart, I can't fail.
It is no longer an option for me.
If I'm depressed, if something bad happens, I cannot kill myself now. Why? Because I met these incredible girls who look(ed) up to me. If I relapse, all this hope that I've been spewing will be complete bullshit to them. Keeping myself alive, keeping me going now is the only choice I have. (That whole Practice What You Preach Business.)
More of my crap. I need to downsize.
I can't mess up, can't turn to drugs, or liquor, and homelessness. All of those things are failures. Now, because I said I'd come speak to a middle school, I have to do something with my life.
This is a lot to live up to.
Last week, I received rejection letters, I didn't get the job at the vet clinic I'd applied to. I am still broke, frustrated with life, living in my friend's basement, and constantly on the cusp of giving up.
But, I don't, and I haven't, because now, I can't.
Since these epiphanies, my sister has mentioned Teach for America, as well as supporting me no matter what. I'm considering applying, but I don't know what will happen between then and now. After speaking with these girls, I do know that I want to do something that can actually affect people and start creating change and hope. (Yes, writing novels can do that, but I'm not published yet, so until I am, I need a back up plan!)
Yesterday, I went back to the school and had the girls start their own Boards of Inspiration. The idea is that this board will have happy things, things that when they're sad, will help them get through the hard times; uplifting or funny quotes, pictures, inspiring words. I walked around the room, and saw several of them were putting TWLOHA pictures on their boards, and my heart flew (I wore their shirt to speak on the first day. Yesterday, I wore a Boycott BP shirt :) ).
A lot of the girls seemed really happy to see me, and I felt blessed to be back.
When I left, I went to Claire's, dropped off some food, and then went to my UNE manager's house. It was his 18th wedding anniversary, and they fed me lobster. His wife asked why I was asked to speak at the school, and I told her about my hospitalization, my eating disorder, my depression. She looked at me point blank and said, 'You had an eating disorder?' and I answered, 'Yes. Your husband was one of the people to help pull me out of it.'
When I left, they told me that they were proud of me, and if I need any help getting a place to live financially, they'd help me, no questions asked.
So here's what I've come to conclude. I'm not full of bullshit. I struggle with depression, anxiety, and an eating disorder every day of my life. Each night that I fall asleep without hurting myself is a victory. Each morning I wake up, is another day to influence people, to be a role model. I have scars on my leg, and wrist, but I try every day to push through. I won't tell them that life will be easy, because I, and most people know that THAT is a lie. Instead, I'll tell them that they can get through anything, because they can, and I am living proof of that.
Yay for being happy!
Thus, I've decided that I'm sick of living life the way I've been, it's time to start making changes. I moved to Maine to find happiness, and at Sunday River, I found it. Now, it's time to start making a difference. It's time to start being someone that truly deserves to be looked up to. I told Claire last night that while these girls may think I made a difference in their lives, they've completely changed mine.
My sister last year got me Journalation, a book that has tips and things like that to keeping a journal. I still haven't gotten very far into it, but one of the things I picked up was when journaling to write a few things at the top of the page:
Date (I always write the date. If I don't, there's usually some significance why. I'm probably hiding something)
Location (Where are you? What are you doing? Are you with anyone? Why are you here? Music on?)
Time
End writing time
And so, I kept my regular journal for a couple of months, daily lists of random crap I did through the day. Usually things of non-importance but I did like keeping track of who I interacted with through the day. (I have a really bad memory and these things would be lost otherwise.)
Then something happened and I started falling a little off kilter. I found a composition notebook that Laura had given me before I'd started college. I'd been saving it and bringing it along everywhere because I knew someday I'd need it. So, I started a Fear Journal. When I would start worrying about something, I'd write about it and specifically track what I was afraid of, possible outcomes, then probable outcomes. Entries are far between, usually once a month, maybe less. (I lost the journal in my trunk for a long while.)
Just recently, I've been writing just about every day. Today, I asked Laura if I could read her my entry from yesterday though it was a million pages long. She sat on the phone with me while I read. There's something nice about reading out loud, it allows you to detach if you just focus on the words and not the fact that something horrific has just happened to you. There was one point during the reading I almost cried, but I kept it together. Her response?
"That....was intense. I know someday you're going to write about this...."
Which I found funny, because hadn't I just written about it?
This is kind of my point. As a writer, we channel a lot of energy through our writing. I keep journals and write when things become too much because it's like releasing it. It can't eat me from the inside out if it's on paper. I try to write when wounds are fresh because it's much more honest and someday when I come back to it, I can face it again and turn it into a story of some sort. I don't have a lot of coping mechanisms, but writing is by far one of the strongest ones I have.
And so....when you're scared or overwhelmed, what do you do?
I've been kind of giving reviews of books in a mini fashion, not really respecting them enough (or taking the time) to write an entire blog post about a book. It's a good and a bad thing.
