Today I stopped and got a cup of coffee before work. I stopped going to my old place of business a long time ago because the quality fell apart and all of my favorite people left. Now I go to a locally owned drive-thru. While nothing beats a shot of espresso brewed yourself and frothing the milk to perfection by hand, they are decent java slingers and super nice people.
So, I just got done at the speaker-box and I'm waiting behind this dark green jeep when I see the barista attempt to make contact with the occupants. He folds open his little windows and waits for a few beats while the driver rummages around. They make the exchange. I'm waiting for the signal to take my foot of the break when the barista, beginning to slide his window shut, is stopped suddenly. At this point, all I hear is someone yelling. I'm not sure exactly what she's yelling, but it's pretty obvious that she's upset. The barista, initially reacting with calm aplomb, leans back out the window. A few moments later, he begins taking empty, dripping cups from the the green jeep people. All the while, I can hear them screaming. It's indecipherable and it's angry. It's hitting this dude like bullets.
I'm just far enough away to be unable to make direct eye contact but still able to see every emotion flicker over his face. It's eight in the morning. This is probably the very first customer of his day and he's getting pelted with sopping, empty cups and being publicly berated by a stranger.
My heart goes out to the guy, and I immediately flash back to a few months ago when I was working at a coffee house. I remember how, despite all the little things I loved about the job, I always came home feeling discouraged that people thought I was less than they were. I was constantly down on myself because people would make comments about how I was "too smart to pour coffee" and how I "should get a real job". I remember how, because I was a server, people treated me like a servant. I remember getting screamed at by people who ordered macchiato and became enraged when they got a stained espresso shot instead of some franchised bullshit bitter shot and cheap syrup orgy. I remember being treated like an imbecile by people who asked me to put sugar in their "expresso". I remember how all the things I loved about the job couldn't make up for the fact that a lot of people are cruel and miserable and uncaring. I remember how--on the worst days--I would take little breaks to cry in the bathroom because I just needed, like, four seconds of quiet to put myself together.
I see him slink away from the window feeling a thousand different kinds of defeated--looking like someone sucked the life right out of his veins.
I slide my car into park, knowing it would be a minute.
When the green jeep's new order is up, a different barista came to the window. This time, the hand off is seamless. Green jeep drives away, ready to fuck someone else's day up full of vigor and caffeine.
I pull up to the window am immediately greeted with an extra dose of cheer and an immediate apology for "such a long wait". Check the clock--four minutes passed. Considering the machines I used took thirty seconds per shot, I'm pretty impressed. I tell him it's no big deal. I ask him what happened to the other barista; he says that he needed a minute.
My total is $4.75. I'm still a couple days from my paycheck and this is the last of my coffee allowance, but I give him the ten and tell him to make sure that barista gets it. I tell him it seems like it's been that kind of morning and that I know it's not much, but I hope he has a great day. He smiles, assures me it'll be taken care of, and that's it.
I go to work, hoping that pumps just a little bit of air back into deflated barista and saying a prayer that green jeep finds something to smile about today.
We're all fighting different battles, there's no need to be a dick about it.
3.31.2015
3.27.2015
Snowflakes and deep truths.
I want my words to be pretty. I want them to be articulate and beautiful--shimmering pieces of wisdom and profound truth. It's impossible to write with that purpose, though. The muse can be pretty fickle; she catches you off guard.
Inspiration doesn't come when you're sitting in front of a computer or notebook, scanning your brain for things you know to be real. It comes at 4 AM when you're laying in bed on the precipice of sleep. It comes on an empty, rolling highway when the light hits the cornfields in a way that makes everything look golden and hopeful. It comes when you allow yourself to be quiet--when you are able to connect to the voice inside that lives simultaneously in your heart and mind.
At least that's how it is for me.
I've never started writing anything with a clear endpoint or thesis. I have no idea where any given piece of prose or poetry will take me, and that's why it's so therapeutic. There is this sense that it's not really me writing it--not me as I know myself, anyway. When I am compelled to write, it's as if the words are coming from my intrinsic self--straight from my soul. They uncoil themselves from my ribcage, taking concrete shape sometime after they've been splayed onto the paper or screen. A lot of the time, I feel like they are escaping---like there is some kind of poison inside of me and the words are drawing it out as they appear before my eyes.
When I try to write something grand and dazzling, when I try to weave golden threads out of contrite, pretentious bullshit, the words never come from that place. Instead, they come from a place of self-consciousness and fear of judgment. They come from a place of self-defense, from a desire to be vulnerable but only in a way that is safe... They aren't profound or powerful or especially striking because there's no emotion behind them.
Real beauty comes from rawness and realness and honesty. Real beauty is scary and messy. Real beauty is easy to connect to because it makes us feel like we aren't alone.
I am slowly but surely learning that the human experience is universal--that people aren't the terminally unique snowflakes we make them out to be. And I want you to know, that's tremendous.
The things about myself that I am the most scared of, that I'm the most ashamed of, are things that exist in the hearts and minds of thousands of other people in the world. The things I don't want to admit to myself are the same things thousands of other people are repressing. We all feel like misfit toys sometimes--we all become convinced that we're broken or defective or unusual because we all have something inside that scares us, some deep truth that we don't want to face.
But as I write--as I share the deep, dark things about myself that fill me with shame and insecurity and fear--I get amazing feedback.
I have people reaching out to me saying, "Hey, that monster that lives under your bed....well, he shows up at my house some nights. He scares me, too."
I'm not alone in my shame or fear. Neither are you.
And so I'll keep showing it to you. I'll keep digging deeper and deeper into that strange darkness inside of me because I see now that we share it. It's ours.
The most isolating thing about that darkness is that we're desperate to hide it--to stow it away and keep it only for ourselves. Well, I say "Fuck That". Take my hand. Let's figure this out together.
Inspiration doesn't come when you're sitting in front of a computer or notebook, scanning your brain for things you know to be real. It comes at 4 AM when you're laying in bed on the precipice of sleep. It comes on an empty, rolling highway when the light hits the cornfields in a way that makes everything look golden and hopeful. It comes when you allow yourself to be quiet--when you are able to connect to the voice inside that lives simultaneously in your heart and mind.
At least that's how it is for me.
I've never started writing anything with a clear endpoint or thesis. I have no idea where any given piece of prose or poetry will take me, and that's why it's so therapeutic. There is this sense that it's not really me writing it--not me as I know myself, anyway. When I am compelled to write, it's as if the words are coming from my intrinsic self--straight from my soul. They uncoil themselves from my ribcage, taking concrete shape sometime after they've been splayed onto the paper or screen. A lot of the time, I feel like they are escaping---like there is some kind of poison inside of me and the words are drawing it out as they appear before my eyes.
When I try to write something grand and dazzling, when I try to weave golden threads out of contrite, pretentious bullshit, the words never come from that place. Instead, they come from a place of self-consciousness and fear of judgment. They come from a place of self-defense, from a desire to be vulnerable but only in a way that is safe... They aren't profound or powerful or especially striking because there's no emotion behind them.
Real beauty comes from rawness and realness and honesty. Real beauty is scary and messy. Real beauty is easy to connect to because it makes us feel like we aren't alone.
I am slowly but surely learning that the human experience is universal--that people aren't the terminally unique snowflakes we make them out to be. And I want you to know, that's tremendous.
The things about myself that I am the most scared of, that I'm the most ashamed of, are things that exist in the hearts and minds of thousands of other people in the world. The things I don't want to admit to myself are the same things thousands of other people are repressing. We all feel like misfit toys sometimes--we all become convinced that we're broken or defective or unusual because we all have something inside that scares us, some deep truth that we don't want to face.
But as I write--as I share the deep, dark things about myself that fill me with shame and insecurity and fear--I get amazing feedback.
I have people reaching out to me saying, "Hey, that monster that lives under your bed....well, he shows up at my house some nights. He scares me, too."
I'm not alone in my shame or fear. Neither are you.
And so I'll keep showing it to you. I'll keep digging deeper and deeper into that strange darkness inside of me because I see now that we share it. It's ours.
The most isolating thing about that darkness is that we're desperate to hide it--to stow it away and keep it only for ourselves. Well, I say "Fuck That". Take my hand. Let's figure this out together.
3.25.2015
Fear.
One of the biggest hurdles to writing is my intense and immeasurable fear of being vulnerable. This has always been something I've struggled with. Although it's been a repeating theme for me, it's only lately that I've noticed these fears have begun manifesting themselves in my life and my relationships.
I've built so many walls around myself as a measure of protection, that when I share a deeply personal piece of myself with someone---when I take off my armor and show off all of my soft spots--I immediately feel cornered. I feel trapped. I become hyper-aware of just how thin my skin is, how susceptible I am to any sort of attack.
And so I get scared. I get protective. I get defensive. I get angry.
As a result, I find myself in a place of self preservation when I should be reveling in an intimate moment. Instead of enjoying my husband's love and touch, I'm dissociating from the present, trying to think about anything but the fact that I'm unguarded. Instead of basking in the glow of his adoration and existing in the moment, I'm lost.
In my mind, vulnerability and strength are mutually exclusive.
This causes a lot of friction in my life right now because I'm at such a fucked up, tender point of being. I'm still reeling from the loss of my friend, from finding my grandmother's body, from seeing my MIL pass..... I may be able to cope with these feelings and images some days, but I still have nightmares. I still get sad. I'm more scared of the dark than I ever have been, because now I know exactly how terrifying it can be and what might be lingering there. And I hate it, almost as much as I hate feeling weak because of it.
I made the conscious decision to sort through this madness--these feelings, these experiences. To think about them, to meditate on them, to sort them out. When I began this emotional cleaning process, I took it for granted that I would only be dealing with the issues that I wanted to work through, but soon realized that there is an ocean of repressed thoughts and feelings inside of me, spanning several years. I realized that dealing with one pretty much meant dealing with all, and it's been a horrifying experience.
I'd much rather cherry-pick the wounds I heal and the wounds I ignore. I'd much rather not think about why I did the things that I did, about how past relationships and abuse and abusers have shaped me and my life....but that's not an option. Not if I want to come out on the other side of this a whole person, anyway.
Because that's what it's about, I think. It's about becoming a whole person for possibly the first time in my life. It's about realizing that not only do I have the tools, I am the tools.
All this time I really thought I was protecting myself from the world, from other people, from outside influence causing me pain, but I've really been trying to protect myself from my own experience. The things that scare me the most are all things that have happened to me and if I can use that experience to grow and learn--if I can examine it and reflect on it--then maybe one day there won't be anything to be afraid of.
3.16.2015
Driving Forces.
I've slowly come to discover that my 2 biggest emotional drivers in life are fear and shame.
Despite how vastly different these emotions are, they come from the same place---the place inside of me that believes I am no good, broken and unworthy of love.
How sad.
I want the driving forces in my life to be love, kindness, happiness, compassion, empathy and confidence.
There is something to be said about writing these things down. About looking at them honestly.
I have some serious work to do on myself, and I need to get started,
3.13.2015
cursing the waters
I've been very quiet lately because I am in the midst of a tumultuous sea of emotions, and it's something that I'm feeling incredibly self conscious of. See, for the majority of my life, I've reacted inwardly. Typically, when something happens that makes me feel anxious or sad or scared or unhappy, I collapse into myself like a dying star. I write, I examine, I hide. Basically, I change the batteries on my confidence and move on. I never used to be angry.....not that I remember, anyway,
Recently, I've been a volatile mess. There's this unfamiliar and overwhelming anger that bubbles up inside of me for the most random and ridiculous reasons. When I say it "bubbles up", I mean it quite literally. It's a physical sensation unlike anything I've experienced.
I have no idea what it means or where it's coming from either. I feel a lot of shame and guilt about these feelings, especially about my inability to identify the cause or process them in a way that is healthy.
I don't know where to start. I'm just so ashamed and disgusted and annoyed and disappointed in myself for feeling these things. For being this thing. I hate it,
I am standing on the bow of a ship, screaming at the ocean and there's just no point to it.
Recently, I've been a volatile mess. There's this unfamiliar and overwhelming anger that bubbles up inside of me for the most random and ridiculous reasons. When I say it "bubbles up", I mean it quite literally. It's a physical sensation unlike anything I've experienced.
I have no idea what it means or where it's coming from either. I feel a lot of shame and guilt about these feelings, especially about my inability to identify the cause or process them in a way that is healthy.
I don't know where to start. I'm just so ashamed and disgusted and annoyed and disappointed in myself for feeling these things. For being this thing. I hate it,
I am standing on the bow of a ship, screaming at the ocean and there's just no point to it.
3.03.2015
Bucket List
I've never really thought about a bucket list before. It's the kind of thing everyone else around me obsessed over for a while, and occasionally, I would join in on the discussion.
I've been in this weird state of transition for the past few months, and as I turn inward to examine myself and what has got me feeling so out of sorts, I've begun to realize that I don't know me as well as I used to. To remedy this, I've been spending a lot of time on self reflection. I read about an exercise that suggested writing a bucket list as a way to figure out the things that are important to you, so I gave it a shot. At first, I found myself with a lot of stereotypical answers. At one point, I even included running with the bulls. Then I thought about it.... Like, why in the world would I want to do that? Aside from the sheer cruelty of the whole thing, I fucking hate running. I think it should only be reserved for the gravest and most dire of circumstances (and, I don't know about you, but those circumstances definitely won't be my own choosing!)
Anyway, my first draft ended up with all of the things you've ever heard anybody include on their bucket list. While I don't mean to imply that those things aren't interesting or incredibly or awe-inspiring, it's just that, none of the things on my list were things I felt compelled or drawn to do. None of them were things I would pay money or make grand sacrifices to realize. So, I went back to the drawing board and really thought about it. I thought about what I like to do and what I value and what inspires me and what I find beauty in, and I think I've got a start.
*Place a prayer into the Wailing Wall
*Volunteer to work with victims of intimate partner violence/sexual assualt
*Attend/participate in a Pro-Choice rally
*Volunteer with hospice unit
*Visit Chichen Itza
*Witness the Northern Lights
*Find and visit the worlds largest library/book store
*Become comfortable enough in my skin to visit a nudist beach
*See the Pacific, Atlantic and Indian oceans
*Perform slam poetry
*Snorkel/scuba dive/swim with sharks
*See untouched/undeveloped coastline
*Visit all 50 states//Have a cup of coffee in every state
*Build a cabin
*Find a way to publish my mother's book
*Learn exponentially more about wood working from my father
*Send my parents on an elaborate and lavish vacation (Ireland, Caribbean)
*Fish in the ocean with my father
*Take Devon to a concert at the Red Rocks
*Adopt an animal at the shelter that is about to be euthanized
*Find and crack open a geode.
I've been in this weird state of transition for the past few months, and as I turn inward to examine myself and what has got me feeling so out of sorts, I've begun to realize that I don't know me as well as I used to. To remedy this, I've been spending a lot of time on self reflection. I read about an exercise that suggested writing a bucket list as a way to figure out the things that are important to you, so I gave it a shot. At first, I found myself with a lot of stereotypical answers. At one point, I even included running with the bulls. Then I thought about it.... Like, why in the world would I want to do that? Aside from the sheer cruelty of the whole thing, I fucking hate running. I think it should only be reserved for the gravest and most dire of circumstances (and, I don't know about you, but those circumstances definitely won't be my own choosing!)
Anyway, my first draft ended up with all of the things you've ever heard anybody include on their bucket list. While I don't mean to imply that those things aren't interesting or incredibly or awe-inspiring, it's just that, none of the things on my list were things I felt compelled or drawn to do. None of them were things I would pay money or make grand sacrifices to realize. So, I went back to the drawing board and really thought about it. I thought about what I like to do and what I value and what inspires me and what I find beauty in, and I think I've got a start.
*Place a prayer into the Wailing Wall
*Volunteer to work with victims of intimate partner violence/sexual assualt
*Attend/participate in a Pro-Choice rally
*Volunteer with hospice unit
*Visit Chichen Itza
*Witness the Northern Lights
*Find and visit the worlds largest library/book store
*Become comfortable enough in my skin to visit a nudist beach
*See the Pacific, Atlantic and Indian oceans
*Perform slam poetry
*Snorkel/scuba dive/swim with sharks
*See untouched/undeveloped coastline
*Visit all 50 states//Have a cup of coffee in every state
*Build a cabin
*Find a way to publish my mother's book
*Learn exponentially more about wood working from my father
*Send my parents on an elaborate and lavish vacation (Ireland, Caribbean)
*Fish in the ocean with my father
*Take Devon to a concert at the Red Rocks
*Adopt an animal at the shelter that is about to be euthanized
*Find and crack open a geode.
3.02.2015
Musings of a dry-drunk.
Before giving up alcohol completely, my husband and I were a part of the music festival/indie jam band scene. We'd spend our summers touring ours and the surrounding states just to witness our favorite bands and take part in the incredible community that exists within this subculture. In the winter, we'd pack ourselves into our vehicle once a month and take a three hour drive just to see those same bands play tightly packed shows in dive bars. It was always a blast....
Then we got sober. Suddenly, these shows were just booze-fueled headaches.
Here's something that nobody seems to be talking about: Music festivals and concerts can be an incredibly difficult and isolating place if you are sober.
(I want to take a beat here and clarify what I'm trying to say. Music festivals and concerts have a notorious reputation for drug use and abuse, but I'm fortunate to have been in a community that either did not participate in or sheltered me from such things. I am talking specifically about my experiences with alcohol.)
Drinking doesn't just seem to be accepted, it's encouraged. Prior to sobriety, I had made several good friends by "slapping the bag" (a term for when one removes the bladder from box wine, carries it around with them and offers individuals the opportunity to slap the back and take a drink). When I got sober, I still received offers, but when I said, "No thanks! I don't drink," I was often asked why or told that it was "just wine" and that it "didn't even count".
That bothered me. It didn't bother me that someone was being polite and making an offer, it bothered me that my experience was being discounted. It bothered me that my voice wasn't being heard. It bothered me that I was being asked to explain or justify my reasons for abstaining from alcohol and changing my life to a stranger who was breathing alcohol in my face....
We stuck it out for a while, though. We tried to remain a part of this counter-culture and community for almost a year after giving up drinking, but we were never able to find our place. Maybe we weren't looking in the right places, maybe we didn't have the right attitudes, but we just couldn't find likeminded people.
There were some who thought we were judging them for drinking, others who made it their mission or goal to get us to break our commitment to ourselves (it was like an early 90s ad for peer pressure!) Most frustrating though, is when someone says, "Oh yeah, I don't drink either except for weekends/holidays/anniversaries/parties/special occasions/days that end in y." Whenever someone says that to me I just want to say, "Yeah? Because I don't drink. Ever. Because I can't use alcohol the way you do."
It's not that I have a problem with people drinking (I actually enjoy using my sobriety to ensure the safety of people that I love. I don't mind being the DD, or lending a shoulder to steady a friend, or talking to someone who is feeling emotional. I mean, it's not exactly my first choice to deal with vomit, but if someone is sick, I am actually able to help them these days) . I have a problem with people not recognizing MY problem with drinking. I choose not to drink because I don't know how to moderate use. I choose not to drink because I use it to self medicate. I choose not to drink because I don't know how to stop. I choose not to drink because I get weird and self destructive and hypersexual. I choose not to drink because it did nothing but lead me down a path of abuse and depression. I choose not to drink because I love my life more than I love not feeling things that scare me.
And I hate feeling like I'm the odd girl out just because I've made a decision to change myself and my life for the better. I hate feeling like I don't fit in because I don't have a glass in my hand. I hate being considered a "downer" or a "buzzkill" for being able to walk someone through the events of a night. I hate being isolated and ignored and not invited to parties simply because I'm making a decision that is healthy for me (and my relationships!)
I wish that I could consume alcohol in a way that was healthy, but I can't. I don't know how, and I know, deep in my addict-heart, that there is no way to learn.
Most people don't realize that I've chosen sobriety over socialization. Most people probably don't realize that those were the only options I had at the time.
I'm sad that this has caused me to become an outcast in the only world I ever felt that I belonged in, but I guess that happens. So it goes, right?
Then we got sober. Suddenly, these shows were just booze-fueled headaches.
Here's something that nobody seems to be talking about: Music festivals and concerts can be an incredibly difficult and isolating place if you are sober.
(I want to take a beat here and clarify what I'm trying to say. Music festivals and concerts have a notorious reputation for drug use and abuse, but I'm fortunate to have been in a community that either did not participate in or sheltered me from such things. I am talking specifically about my experiences with alcohol.)
Drinking doesn't just seem to be accepted, it's encouraged. Prior to sobriety, I had made several good friends by "slapping the bag" (a term for when one removes the bladder from box wine, carries it around with them and offers individuals the opportunity to slap the back and take a drink). When I got sober, I still received offers, but when I said, "No thanks! I don't drink," I was often asked why or told that it was "just wine" and that it "didn't even count".
That bothered me. It didn't bother me that someone was being polite and making an offer, it bothered me that my experience was being discounted. It bothered me that my voice wasn't being heard. It bothered me that I was being asked to explain or justify my reasons for abstaining from alcohol and changing my life to a stranger who was breathing alcohol in my face....
We stuck it out for a while, though. We tried to remain a part of this counter-culture and community for almost a year after giving up drinking, but we were never able to find our place. Maybe we weren't looking in the right places, maybe we didn't have the right attitudes, but we just couldn't find likeminded people.
There were some who thought we were judging them for drinking, others who made it their mission or goal to get us to break our commitment to ourselves (it was like an early 90s ad for peer pressure!) Most frustrating though, is when someone says, "Oh yeah, I don't drink either except for weekends/holidays/anniversaries/parties/special occasions/days that end in y." Whenever someone says that to me I just want to say, "Yeah? Because I don't drink. Ever. Because I can't use alcohol the way you do."
It's not that I have a problem with people drinking (I actually enjoy using my sobriety to ensure the safety of people that I love. I don't mind being the DD, or lending a shoulder to steady a friend, or talking to someone who is feeling emotional. I mean, it's not exactly my first choice to deal with vomit, but if someone is sick, I am actually able to help them these days) . I have a problem with people not recognizing MY problem with drinking. I choose not to drink because I don't know how to moderate use. I choose not to drink because I use it to self medicate. I choose not to drink because I don't know how to stop. I choose not to drink because I get weird and self destructive and hypersexual. I choose not to drink because it did nothing but lead me down a path of abuse and depression. I choose not to drink because I love my life more than I love not feeling things that scare me.
And I hate feeling like I'm the odd girl out just because I've made a decision to change myself and my life for the better. I hate feeling like I don't fit in because I don't have a glass in my hand. I hate being considered a "downer" or a "buzzkill" for being able to walk someone through the events of a night. I hate being isolated and ignored and not invited to parties simply because I'm making a decision that is healthy for me (and my relationships!)
I wish that I could consume alcohol in a way that was healthy, but I can't. I don't know how, and I know, deep in my addict-heart, that there is no way to learn.
Most people don't realize that I've chosen sobriety over socialization. Most people probably don't realize that those were the only options I had at the time.
I'm sad that this has caused me to become an outcast in the only world I ever felt that I belonged in, but I guess that happens. So it goes, right?
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