Why Are You Squeezing Me with Your Body?

originally posted on 365 Attempts [at life]

Mama Greek knows we did IUI.  You may think we’re crazy for telling her, but she’s pretty astute: she knows we want to have a kid, and she can see there’s no kid.  We don’t want her to give up hope, so we feed her crumbs.  If you've ever met an old Greek lady, you understand why.

So a few days after the - ahem - procedure, she calls to check up on me.  Tony’s out that night, and I’m burrowed into the couch cushions under a blanket, watching old episodes of Arrested Development.

“Tony tell me you do the thing, and I want to know if you okay,” she declares, when I answer the phone.

“I’m fine,” I laugh.  “Don’t worry.”

“I don’t know if it’s difficult, or if you have pain or ever.”  (Or ever = Mama Greek Speak for ‘whatever’.)  “Because Tony tell me you have hard time.”

“No pain,” I say.  

Which is the truth, unless you count the fact that I’ve started having insane insomnia.  I’d googled this (always a smart idea,) and learned that insomnia happens to less than 1% of women who take Clomid. But I’ve always been sensitive to drugs.  Not that I know this from experience.

Anyway, the hard time Tony's referring to is that Clomid turned me into a raging lunatic, but thankfully that's over now. (I know what you're thinking, keep it to yourself.)

“Well, I’m glad you okay,” Mama Greek says.

But suddenly, I want her to know that I’m not okay.  I want her, just for a second, to know the sleeplessness I’m going through in the hopes of having a child.  I want her to acknowledge my pain, and my suffering.

“The thing itself wasn’t hard,” I say.  “It’s just that I’ve got -

“Good, good.  I’m glad.”

“Yes. But I’m having -

“Well, Natalie, I’m glad you okay."

"I'm having a really hard time -

"Go relax now, okay?  Kiss Ruble for me.  Goodnight.”

And with that, she hangs up.

On Sunday, we find out that the IUI didn’t work.  Tony and I try to deal with this by taking Ruble for a walk, and mopily eating sandwiches at a picnic table in the park.

“Call your mother and tell her,” I tell him.  “I don’t want to deal with any questions at dinner tonight about whether I’m okay.  And please tell her I don’t want to talk about it.”

He obliges.

A few hours later, we arrive at Mama Greek’s.  Tony heads to the bathroom to wash his hands, and I’m not even out of my coat before she sidles up to me.

“So,” she says, scrunching up her face sympathetically. “It not work, eh?”

“No,” I say, gently, “but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” She pats my arm.  “But are you sure it not work?  When I get pregnant with Tony...”

“I don’t. Want. To talk about it."  This time, I say it loudly enough that Tony can hear.

“MA!” Tony shouts from the bathroom.  “DON’T.”

“Okay,” she whispers, “but -

“Shhhh,” I say, cutting her off.  “Go relax now, okay?”

I hold my finger to my lips, and walk away.  

                                                      

The reason I don’t want to discuss the comings and goings of my womb with Mama Greek is not because I want to annoy her, although I admit it’s a nice bonus.  It’s because I’m starting to learn that it’s really hard to deal with my own feelings when I’m also trying to care of someone else’s.  In this case, I know my and Tony’s feelings are the only feelings that count.  But, although she’s hiding it well, MG is devastated not to be a grandmother, and it’s hard for me not to feel responsible for this.  

So I’m pleasantly surprised at my decision, and resolution, not to talk about it with her.  Less pleasing is how I’m dealing with some of the other stuff.  Reading the fertility discussion boards, where my fellow <1%ers share their experiences with Clomid insomnia, I keep coming across this sentiment:

“I don’t care what I have to go through if it leads to a baby in the end.”

But here's the thing: I do care.  And the more I go through, the more I care.  I hate being tired all the time.  Just recently, after years of restricting 15 zillion variations of gluten, sugar, booze, dairy and grains, I’ve started to just eat what I feel like eating.  It was like getting out of prison, and I was loving every minute of it.  And then yesterday, I had my first appointment with a new acupuncturist, one who specializes in infertility. 

“Stop eating cheese,” she says.  "Also sugar, and fatty meats.  And no more alcohol.”  

Basically, my 4 favourite things on earth.

I have no doubt this is partially fuelled by fatigue, but I’m starting to wonder: not sleeping for months on end, in order to conceive something that’s going to prevent me from sleeping for another 2 (or is it 18) years?  Going back to reading ingredients on every box at the grocery store, and not being able to even have a whole grain spinach organic goddamn turkey wrap when I'm about to faint from hunger? Asking irritating questions in restaurants? (“Do you thicken the sauce with flour? Could you ask the chef if there's sugar in this?”)  No glass of wine on a terrace with a friend on a sunny spring Montreal evening?  Spending unthinkable amounts of money to have needles poked in my face every week?

Is it really worth it?

Those of you with kids will probably tell me it is.  Or, you might reassure me that you shot crack cocaine for the full 9 months of your pregnancy and your child is now graduating from law at Harvard.  I’m open to all advice (as long as it’s not “just relax and it will happen,”) but for the first time since this whole thing began, I’m drawing a line.  

Somewhere.  

I’ll decide where as soon as I'm done this cheeseburger.

Fun with Fertility*

*not that kind of fun. RUDE.

a version of this was originally posted on 365 Attempts [at life]

It’s 9:40 - 20 minutes until blog deadline time - and I’m panicking .  I’ve been putting this blog together all week, but somehow it’s just not clicking for me.  I blame the Clomid.  This week, I blame everything on the Clomid.

I took my first pill last Friday night, because I’m doing IUI this month.  But the thing is, when it comes to health, I’m a crunch-fest.  I LOVE health food stores.  I read books about vitamins… for fun!  I haven’t taken so much as an antibiotic since 1995, and if you’ll let me, I’ll talk your ear off about all the pitfalls of Western medicine.  But I also want to get pregnant, and I’m 36 years old.

Obviously, I did my googling.  What I learned is that Clomid might help me get pregnant, yes, but it could also cause me give birth to a horribly deformed Elephant child, with no brain. I went back and forth for weeks, until I finally consulted two of my closest friends.  One took Clomid for 7 months, and is one of the most scientifically-minded people I know.

“It’ll make your boobs bigger,” she said.

The other friend pointed out that if something does go awry, I’ll never know if it was because of the Clomid, or just because of the risks of having a baby in my (gulp) “later years.” 

“You’re right,” I told her.  “Also, I’d love to no longer be able to fit into t-shirts from the girls' section at the Gap.”

And so it began.

The first few days were pretty okay.  My crack research skills also uncovered the fact that if you take Clomid at night, you supposedly miss out on most of the side effects.  I actually started sleeping better, which was a thrill.  Hello, a drug that can knock you up and knock you out?  What took me so long?

Yeah, there were a few hot flashes, but nothing I couldn’t handle.  In fact, hot flashes have their benefits.  On Saturday night, I left my brother’s show at 1:30 in the morning and strutted down Parc Avenue without a jacket, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

The nausea came, but even that wasn’t so bad.  I texted my friend, and told her that Clomid was like being pregnant without actually being pregnant. 

“What about the hormones?” she asked.  “Won’t this cycle be a little Keith Richards for you?”

“Nah,” I replied.  “It’s all physical for me.  I’m good.”

The next day, I was Keith Richards. Also, Sid Vicious, and Simon Cowell. 

I’d woken up 300 times the night before, either bathed in sweat or freezing cold. In the bathroom in the morning, I said something not very nice to Tony, and, because he hadn’t yet put two and two together, he said something not very nice back.  I retaliated.  He (wisely) retreated downstairs.  I followed.  

I could hear myself yelling, feel myself crying, see in the mirror that I had become that woman -  the one with the crazy hair and the mascara streaming down her face before 8am.  But there was nothing I could do.  Tony, who still couldn’t figure out why his wife had turned into Linda Blair, asked what was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.  ”WHAT’S WRONG?” I was too angry to answer.  How could he not know? Why did this have to be me and not him?  WHAT IF I WAS LIKE THIS FOREVER? 

Somehow, though, I calmed down, made it to work, and got through the day without killing or eating anyone.  

“The storm has passed,” I thought, that evening, and sat down to meditate.

Oh boy.

You know how you’re not supposed to sweat the small stuff?  Apparently, on Clomid, I sweat the incidental stuff.  I hated our house.  I hated how we have so many walls without pictures on them. I hated our bed, and our bed sheets, and my hair, and basically everyone.  I knew it didn’t make sense, but there was nothing I could do - I felt totally disconnected from common reasoning.  

“You better sleep downstairs tonight,” I snarled at Tony, when he came into the bedroom.  But he was now wise in the ways of Clomid, and hugged me, and let me cry about Ebert and my cousin-in-law’s cat and other sad things, and then told me a story about a guy in the metro station and a salami, which I will do you the favour of not sharing here.  It made me laugh hysterically, and then I passed out for 10 hours. 

And that was it. Well, yesterday I had the worst headache of my life, but I’ll take that over batshit crazy any day of the week.  I really don’t think I can handle another round of Clomid if this doesn’t work out, but I’m not going to think about that right now.  Some days, you just gotta be thankful for what you got.  And on that note, if you’ll please excuse me.  I’m going to put on my Gap girls t-shirt and watch some TV.

Serenity Prayer

originally posted on 365 Attempts [at life]

I am in a room with about 60 people, most of them strangers.  Some are in suits and ties.  Others are wearing ratty t-shirts and sweats.  There are piercings and tattoos and stilettos and briefcases.  One man has shorts on and a reflective vest and a very long soul patch that curls under his chin.  The woman beside me is dressed in a pencil skirt, blazer and soft, pointed leather boots. 

Aside from me, all of these people have one thing in common: they are recovering drug addicts.  This is a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, in a community center in downtown Ottawa.  It’s Tony’s “home group” – the place where he came every Monday night for 10 years during his own recovery, before he moved back to Montreal.

The reason I’m allowed to be here, as I’m not an addict myself, is that it’s an open meeting.  These take place once a month.  

I’ve been looking forward to this one for years.

That’s how long it’s been since my last – and first – NA meeting.  Like that one, this meeting also a “celebration,” which is when someone celebrates a milestone anniversary of being clean.  They actually call it a birthday.

At these open celebration meetings, people give short speeches about the celebrants, and usually their sponsor and some of their sponsees speak as well.  As well, there is one main speaker, who talks for about half an hour about an aspect of their experience getting, or staying, clean.  Both of the speakers I’ve seen blew my mind.  They shared stories most of us have only seen in dramatic films.  They openly shared moments of unimaginable shame; tales of hurting their own children; huge, awkward, sometimes near-fatal mistakes they’d made.  Their willingness to do this, for the benefit of everyone present, turned me into a blubbering mess both times.

After that first meeting, I was very close to wishing I’d been a drug addict too.  I know that’s a glib and ridiculous thing to say, and of course I don’t mean it. But in that small, fluorescent-lit room in that retro community center, surrounded by people I may, in other circumstances, may have crossed to the other side of the street to avoid; may have judged and dismissed as unworthy, I feel a sense of acceptance I can’t put into words.  It’s an all-permeating kindness, a “we’ll take you exactly as you are,” that I’ve never experienced at any church, ashram, yoga retreat or Buddhist mediation group. This spirit of encouragement, this wide open welcome, this sense of “we know how hard it is and we will never judge you for what you’ve done” is tangible.  In this room, no matter your god, the colour of your skin, or whether you woke up in a gutter with a needle in your arm, you are treated with respect.  If you’re okay with it, people will hug you.  There is a lot of hugging in NA.  That usually makes me cry even more.

Also, there’s the sponsor thing.  The idea of being able to come in from an icier cold and a bleaker darkness than many humans will ever know, and ask for help from someone who has been exactly where you are… it just makes so much sense.  And then, further down the road, to be able to give back – to do the same thing for someone who stands where you once stood.  Why are we not all doing this?  In that room, not a single person has an attitude of “cool” or “better than” or “I know more than you.”  In its absence, I see how commonplace that energy is.  This is not because people are intrinsically assholes.  It’s because we are scared.  We want to protect ourselves.  We are afraid we are not good enough, and we try to nullify that fear.

In that room, no one had anything to prove.  And when the person sitting next to you has nothing to prove, it’s very easy to remember that you don’t, either.

Speaking with some people here in Montreal, we’ve begun to riff on the idea of bringing the spirit of NA, or at least the NA meetings I’ve had the honour of attending, and create a kind of community/church/group that upholds it.  A place where there is sharing, and learning, all in an environment of kindness and acceptance and openness.  Where no matter who you are, you will be treated with respect.  Where there might even be the option of becoming a “sponsor” to someone in need of guidance, and to ask for help from someone who once stood where you stand.

If anyone has any ideas about this, or wants to be a part of it, please get in touch with me.

And if you’re curious, NA groups hold open meetings once a month.  They’re usually listed on the group’s website.  If you’re lucky, it will be someone’s celebration.  If you’re luckier still, there will be cake.

Mama Greek, Meet Baba Ganoush

adapted from a post originally published on 365 Attempts [at life]

Sunday night, as many of you know, is traditionally spent at my mother-in-law’s house.  She cooks for us, she and Tony argue, I hide in the bathroom, etc. When we eat, she points at all the food at the table, identifying each dish as if we were blind, asking me why I don’t like potatoes.

 My friend in Mama Greek's bathroom.

In an effort to break this tradition, this past Sunday night, we take Mama Greek out for dinner.

I’m going to say right now that these have not been my best days with regards to Mama Greek. I don’t know why, and it does not feel good. My patience with her, which I realize wasn’t the best at the best of times, is disappearing.  As hard as I try, as much as I tell myself to be compassionate, and put myself in her shoes, and do it for Tony, and just fake it, I can’t seem to smile through her stories or pretend I enjoy the cheek-pinching the way I used to. I am not proud of this.  I have no idea how to deal with it, but it’s the truth.

Anyway: Sunday night.  We go to Garage Beirut, an amazing, cheap, Lebanese - coincidentally, three words that also describe me - restaurant downtown.  When we take Mama Greek to restaurants, Tony and I always order, since she doesn’t read English (the reason for the existence of most of my blog posts.)  But MG is a fan of good food, and Lebanese and Greek cuisines are similar enough.  I’m sure she’s going to love it.

I am so wrong.

It starts with the stuffed grape leaves, which I offer to Mama Greek when they arrive.

She shakes her head. “Why? I can eat dolmades at home.” 

She refuses the hummus, and the baba ganoush, because she doesn’t like “soft food.”  (I don’t point out that tzatziki and taramosalata are “hard” food.)  She looks suspiciously at the salad, and really only eats the meat.  Obviously, I take this personally.

At first, I try to laugh it off.  I point at all the plates on the table and name all the food, the way she does when we’re at her place.

“Fattoush?”  I offer.  “Chicken? Beef? Grilled pepper?”  But there’s an edge to my voice.  Tony shoots me a look.  I back off.

Mama Greek launches into a story about how her nephew came to pick her up last Saturday. 

“I see white car, but in front of the Turkish.” (‘The Turkish’ is how she refers to the Turkish people next door.)  “And Peter has red car, so I think it’s not Peter.  I wait at the door, I wait, I wait, but no Peter.  I think, ‘who is this car in front of the Turkish?’ I wait, I wait.  Finally, Peter call from the celery phone.  He’s in front of the Turkish! He has a new car!”

As she is telling this story, Tony looks at me.

“You look so bored,” he says, laughing.

He can do this because Mama Greek’s hearing isn’t great, and if you speak at a normal tone of voice from across the table, she won’t catch a word you say.

“How are the neighbours?” I ask her, brightly.

I already know the answer to this question, but I’m not sure what else to inquire about.  MG describes Maria’s leg problems and how she’s looking into moving into a senior’s home, and tells us how Effie wants to move into a condo. 

“What are you going to do there all by yourself?” I hear myself say. 

Whatthefuckareyoudoing? My inside voice screams. Where are you going with this? THIS IS DANGEROUS!  TAKE IT BACK!

MG laughs.  “I be okay.”

“Why don’t you move closer to us?”

NO! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! WHAT HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU? WHAT IS IN THAT HUMMUS?

“You mean, upstairs from you?” MG asks.

“No,” I say, panicking.  “I mean, um, down the street.  Or… on another street.”

MG sighs.  “Natalie,” she says, and coincidentally, Tony chooses this moment to leap up and cross the restaurant ask the owner about the 1970s Arabic music he’s playing on the stereo.

“If God gives you baby,” Mama Greek says, “then maybe I come every day.  Stay two, three hours, then go home.”

I know that my eyes have gone wide, and that my face has become very pale.  Clearly MG doesn’t notice.  She adds,

“Because when that baby come, you not go back to work.”

I put down my fork.  “Um, yes I do.”

“Well,” MG acquiesces, “maybe in three, four years.”

I grip the tablecloth.

“In one year.”

Tony is still chatting with the restaurant owner.  I shoot invisible knives at the back of his head.

“Anyway,” MG says, earnestly.  “Don’t think about it too much.”

“I don’t have to think about it,” I say, digging my nails into my thighs.  

“No, I mean don’t think too much about getting pregnant.”

I stop digging.  This is new.  This is strange.  This is… suspicious.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Mama Greek says, “I hear so many stories. Women adopt baby, then get pregnant. If you think about it too much, maybe that’s the problem.”

My jaw drops open.  This is woman who has made announcements at crowded dinner parties about how we need to "get busy" and give her a grandchild.  This is a woman who talks about babies the way 12-year olds talk about Robert Pattison.  This is a woman who has stated that she will not die until there is a baby Asimakopoulos.

Very slowly, I say, “I don’t think that’s the problem.”

Thank Christ and all his holy disciples, that’s when Tony returns to the table.

He sits down. 

I start kicking him in the shin, very hard.

“Ma,” he says, “stop talking.”

“Okay, okay!” she holds up her hand in her usual “who, me?” fashion.

He pats my hand under the table.  I take a deep breath.  Put yourself in her shoes.  Just fake it.  Do it for Tony.

I point to one of the plates on the table.  “Tabbouleh?” I offer.

Mama Greek shakes her head, clearly disgusted by the idea.

And because I can, and because this is the only thing I can think to do aside from run screaming from the restaurant, I try to look hurt and push the plate in front of her.

“What’s the matter?" I ask.  "Why don’t you like tabbouleh?”

The Truth is Not Out There

originally published on 365 Attempts [at life]

In the months after Tony and I got engaged, we argued.  A lot.  There was yelling and temper-losing and storming and door-slamming.  It was very romantic.  Oddly, it wasn’t covered in Martha Stewart Weddings.

      

        every pre-marriage thought should have its own colour scheme and inspiration board

I had parents who argued a lot.  It started when I was pretty young, and lasted until I was 20, at which point they split up.  Their divorce proceedings were about as amicable as those in The War of the Roses.  This was not a mistake I ever, ever wanted to repeat, to the point that I was against marriage for most of my life. 

“And that’s how you should have stayed,” I thought, lying in bed one day, beside myself with grief and fear.  I was 110% certain that it wasn’t going to work out between us.  

           

Barb responded with one of the best pieces of advice I have ever been given.  She said,
                               
“There is no objective truth.”


I don’t know if it was wisdom or desperation, but eventually, I wrote a woman who’d taught a yoga retreat I’d attended a few years earlier.  I considered Barb a sort of spiritual fairy godmother, and so I confided in her that things were not going well with my husband-to-be, and asked if she had any advice.  I asked what her secret was to her long marriage, and whether she’d be willing to pass it along.  I told her I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing.

In other words, just because I was struggling with my relationship, it didn’t mean my relationship was “wrong.”  Just because Tony and I were arguing, it didn’t mean we were a bad match.  There was no “right” way of doing things that I hadn’t figured out yet - I just had to do my best, and trust my heart.  
 This is the exact opposite message from the one we are given 99.99% of our lives.  At school, we’re taught that good grades mean you're smart. We grow older, and are told that thin is attractive, and money is success, and fame is more success.  Poverty is failure.  Weddings are happiness.  Children are more happiness.  The more possessions we have, the better we’ve done.

Barbs words helped a lot at the time (I married the guy, after all,) but the mentality stayed with me for much longer.  I applied it to everything.  How I keep my house.  How I act in front of someone I’m trying to impress.  My relationship with my family. How much exercise I get.  What I eat - that one never ends, like a parrot with dissassociative personality disorder lived in my brain. I shouldn’t eat gluten. I shouldn’t eat meat. I should eat meat, but only if it’s organic and grass-fed. I only should eat organic vegetables, except they should be local.  Organic isn’t sustainable. I shouldn’t eat grains, or sugar, or drink booze.  Except I should drink booze, because I should relax!  I should have a party! With lots of booze!  I should invite lots of people!  I should make cupcakes, because I AM A FREE WOMAN AND NO ONE CAN TELL ME WHAT TO EAT AND I’M GOING TO MAKE THEM FROM A BOX WHO THE HELL NEEDS VEGETABLES? 

This wasn't conscious, of course.  I didn’t use most of my brain energy this way on purpose.  But one day, I was sitting down to meditate – you know, the thing that’s supposed to bring you to acceptance and a blissful state – and was trying to decide what kind of meditation to do.  I tried one kind for 30 seconds, then switched because that was "the wrong kind."  I did this about 4 times, until it dawned on me that this was how I lived my life, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

I put my face down on the floor, and cried.

I cried for a long, long time.  It felt like a 40 ton weight was lifted from on top of me – a weight I’d been carrying around for so long, I didn’t even know it was there.  I think it’s what Oprah calls an aha moment.  I realized that if I had a mantra, it would have been “I’m doing it wrong.”  And that is no way to live. 

I still catch myself doing it.  The first clue is usually that I’m feeling anxious, or really sad, "for no reason.”  Sometimes it takes an hour to claw my way out, sometimes a week.  I'll let you in on a little secret: telling yourself that you're telling yourself you're doing it wrong THE WRONG WAY is not a way out. Forgiving yourself is. 

Forgiving yourself, and realizing that you've been wired this way. It’s normal to think this way, but it’s not helpful.  

Because if there was only one right way of doing things, the world would be a really goddamn boring place.

Natalie Goes to the Spa

originally published on 365 Attempts [at life]

One of my favourite places in all the world, or at least Montreal, is the Scandinave Spa in the Old Port of Montreal.  I am one of those “cold” people – not in demeanor (I hope,) but in body temperature.  For those who have never done the Nordic spa thing, and apologies to any real Nordics because I have no idea how authentic this actually is, the idea is to get really, really hot, in hot water or a sauna, for as long as you can bear it (usually 15 minutes.)  Then you immerse yourself in freezing @#$*ing cold water in a pool or shower for as long as you can bear it (usually 15 seconds.)  Then you wobble to a beanbag chair/hammock/couch and pass out in a state of eye-lolling cloudlike bliss that would give Keith Richards a run for his money.  At least, that’s the idea.

       

But the thing about the spa is, and maybe this means I should be going more often, I suffer a sort of amnesia about what the whole experience.  As the deep, bone freeze of winter begins to threaten to stay for good, I start to imagine the Scandinave as my salvation.  I crave sinking into that steaming hot water.  I know it will make my troubles melt away.  I long to be inside those dark, womb-like grey walls, while the busyness of the city continues on around me, surrounded by the sound of rushing water and the smell of eucalyptus…

And so finally, I go.  I walk in the door.  I inhale the steam.  I get my bathrobe and sandals and locker key.  And then the other part begins.  The part in my head.  It goes a little something like this.

Shit, there are a lot of people here. 

Oh, right.  It’s $39 on Wednesdays.  Why did I think no one else would know that?  Do I believe I'm the only person who reads the internet?  I should have come yesterday.  Why didn’t I?  Maybe this is just a flux time, and a whole bunch of people are going to go and have lunch?

 Hmm.  Changing room is quite full, though.  Of people leaving!  Yes, they’re leaving. Go away, all of you.  Especially you, with the 6-pack.

Right.  Off I go.  Now the relaxation can BEGIN.  Wow, that girl is stunning.  How does anyone get to be that beautiful?  I bet her life is perfect.  She lives in a perfect home and never fights with her boyfriend, and is creatively fulfilled and makes loads of money.  How is that fair?  Why can’t I have a bum like that?  Right, I’m cutting out gluten, sugar, dairy and… fruit.  Starting right now. 

 Okay, I’m getting pretty hot.  I should get out and do the cold part.  Except maybe I’m not hot enough.  I should stay longer.  Shouldn’t I?   What if I faint?  Do you lose control of your bladder when you faint?  But if I don’t wait until I’m really good and boiling, will it not work and I won’t get to go into my Keith Richards coma?  WHAT IF I CAN’T RELAX? That’s it, I’m going to have one of the rum balls I stashed in my locker.  The gluten thing can start tomorrow. 

God, I love a good rum ball.

Except now I can’t pass out, because I’m buzzed on chocolate.  I am an embarrassment to all hedonists.  God, that woman has fantastic boobs.  I wonder if they’re implants?  Should I get implants?  Would my life be easier and smoother if I had proper breasts?  How much are they I wonder KARNEEF FOR GODSAKES SHUT UP AND RELAX!

Oh crap, I forgot to shave my knees. 

What if I fall asleep and then fart?  BE QUIET!  Look how beautiful and calm it is!  Why must I ruin it continuously with my thinking?  Right, no more thinking.  Thinking is over for today shit I forgot to tell Alex about the thing!

Should I do it right now?  Except I promised myself I wouldn’t use my cell phone today.  But what if it hinges on me doing it right now?  What if Alex’s entire career falls to pieces because of me?  Will I ever be able to forgive myself?  Why does that woman have so much more hair than I do?  What did she do right that I didn’t?  Why am I still thinking?  Maybe I didn’t do the hot/cold thing properly!  I should have done the cold bath instead of the cold shower.  I should go back and do it again.  But I’m so tired.  And comfy.  And….

Zzzzzzzz. 

They are the most incredible naps on earth, those Scandinave naps.  I could fart an entire symphony and I’d never know.  A herd of alpacas could pass by and I’d smile and snuggle further into my bathrobe.

And when I wake up, I remember: just because I’m at my happy place, it doesn’t mean I have to feel happy.  That’s not the point of coming here.  The point is to feel how I feel, not feel bad because I don’t feel good enough. 

And with that, ironically, I feel much better.

I teeter back to the hot water and sink happily in.  My thoughts join me, of course.  They always do.  

But I no longer but believe a word they say.

                         

Some Things I Learned

I've been really bad about reposting from 365 Attempts, so I'm going to play a little catchie-uppie in the next few days. I know 2012 is so, um, 2012, but let's start with this one: Some Things I Learned in 2012

1.  Get help.  I mean, if you need help.  I personally like to ignore all the signs of this until it’s way too late, telling myself to tough it out, reminding myself that there was a time before therapists, asking myself who I think I am to deserve to pay someone hundreds of bucks to listen to my first world problems.  This does not work.

Sure, there was a time before therapists.  In that time, people had communities.  They had churches, they had neighbours, they had big families.  They had big families who were neighbours. They didn’t live in freakishly isolated box-lives like we do, sharing our deepest thoughts and fears with one, if we’re lucky two people.

photo via UnhappyHipsters.com, via Zubin Shroff for Dwell

And most of them could probably have used a therapist anyway.

Pain and fear and loss and confusion is normal, and not shameful.  And if you do feel those things, and feel buried or suffocated under the weight of them, beg, borrow or steal, but get help.  Go without new clothes for a while.  Sell your car. Find a therapist who works on a sliding scale - many do.  To have someone guide you, to point out things to you about yourself that might have taken you decades to realize or understand, and, most importantly, to help you use your brain as a tool rather than a weapon of self-harm: it’s worth its weight in gold.  Or platinum.  Whatever. We all need a place to air out the dark corners of our mind. 

2. If accessing a therapist is simply financially or logistically impossible, there are millions of free resources of support out there!  I subscribe to a podcast that is my line to sanity.  There are library books and Youtube videos with really wise people who are sharing really amazing ideas.  They can be your teachers, your guides, your ministers.  And the more free help you find, the more you’ll find.  You’ll never look back.  Promise.

3. Dominos makes gluten-free pizza.  Technically this fact came to my attention in 2013 but it’s too valuable to save until next year.  It’s pretty good, and they’ll even go light on the cheese if you’re into that kind of thing.

4. You can’t change your parents. 

Okay, that's kind of a cliche, but it's also really hard to accept.  (Same goes for your siblings, or your spouse, even your friends.)  If they do change, it’s not going to be because of the emails you wrote them, or the confrontations you carefully planned out, or that one comment you "let slip" at an opportune time.  Yes, you’re probably right.  It doesn’t matter.

The only exception to this rule MIGHT happen if you leave them the f*ck alone, and they take all the energy they’ve been using protecting themselves against your hounding and put it towards help themselves.   It has happened, and it’s win-win – you find something better do with your time, and so do they. 

This might mean accepting that you’re never going to get the love or approval or respect from them that you want.  It’s not easy.  I think that’s why we keep trying.

5. Watch Beginners.

6.  And Moonrise Kingdom.

7.  Your self-esteem isn’t going to arrive by email.  (Thank you, Anne Lamott.)

8. Sometimes you have to cut someone off.  Someone you love - someone, maybe, who helped make you.  Despite everything Oprah or Cosmo or the church might tell you, sometimes it actually is the only sane thing to do.  It doesn’t have to be forever.  But if this person is hurting you and doesn’t seem to want to stop, by removing yourself from the situation, you will start to know yourself in a different way.  With the extra oxygen and clean earth around you, you will flower.  You will likely also have a lot of guilt.  Shockingly, you will get through it.  As with #4, this has the chance of actually helping them.  But don’t count on it.

9.  No matter how sweet or insightful or funny you are, not everyone is going to like you.  This has nothing to do with you, but all the effort you’re putting into thinking about it, strategizing about it and feeling sorry for yourself because of it could be put to much better use.  This is hard, because - this is only a guess - maybe you fear that they're right not to like you.  That fear is an old, dried scab that has dried and caked onto the bottom of your soul.  It will be there no matter what.  But they don’t have to be.  Move on and make space for people who think you’re the dog’s bullocks.  They’re out there.

10.  Being kind to yourself is not about writing gratitude lists or pondering your good qualities.  It’s also not about getting massages or pedicures, or eating chocolate.  Those things are all great, but they won’t keep the demons away. 

Pardon me while I get granola on you, but this year I learned that being kind to oneself comes from an ethereal place.  Some people call it God, or Mary, or Buddha.  Some people get it from a pet, or the memory of a loving grandparent.  Self-love comes from a place where we are accepted and cherished exactly as we are - warts, ticks, secrets, crimes, misdemeanors and all.  Tap into that place once and you will find a well of it. Tap into it often and you’ll start to remember how to get to there without a map.  It never runs out, and the more you use, the more there is. 

It will also make the chocolate and pedicure a lot more enjoyable.

11. Being kind to yourself can also mean staying away from people who drain your emotional energy. This is not because they’re bad people, but because you only have a finite amount of it.  You are NOT helping them by being their punching bag/garbage dump/free therapist.  Without you, they will get better, or they won’t.  But you will get better.  Guaranteed. (There will be guilt here, too. FYI.) 

12. You will never, ever nag, criticize or judge someone into changing.  If you’re tempted to believe otherwise, imagine someone doing the same to you.

13. The brain is a muscle.   Work it out every day, like going to the gym, and you can shape and mold it, to worry less, to be kinder to yourself, to see the cheese instead of the holes.  It’s possible!  Don’t just listen to me – the science people have proved it.

14. That said, while you can control a lot of what happens in your brain, you can control almost NOTHING that happens outside of it. We live in a society where we are constantly fed the opposite message.  I think that’s damaging beyond belief.  Eating healthy and recycling and reading self-help books are all very important, but they’re not going to stop you from dying, or your family from dying, or your house from getting blown away.

15. Take photos of life's best moments with your mind.

16. Keeping the peace is overrated.  I don’t mean actual Peacekeepers, or protesting against war.  I mean trying to make nice-nice within your family or place of work by placating one party to appease another.  Again, THIS DOESN’T HELP ANYONE.  People will work their stuff out.  They need to do it, and you’re actually just getting in the way.  The boat will stay afloat without you doing all the rowing.   If it doesn't, you'll find a way better boat.

17. If you do creative work, share it as much as possible.  Blogs are great, but I mean with real people!  Instant feedback, discussion, reflection and brainstorming make for ideas, stories and concepts that develop 50 times faster, and will probably be a lot better.  Without them we are in a hall of mirrors. 

Join a group.  Take a class.  START a group!  It’s far too tempting to stay in our quiet, safe worlds – but if you’re making art for anyone other than yourself, people are gonna help you a lot.  Plus, it’s a good excuse to eat chips.