It's Not Always Me

I think I'm addicted to introspection. This may be a more benign addiction than meth or porn or skin-picking (yes, dermatillomania is a thing). Still, I spend hours picking at scabs of conflicts past and present, wondering what I could have done differently and how I might handle things more gracefully in the future. Because I prefer to avoid being hurt, or hurting others, I practice what therapists call "identifying my role" in times of interpersonal strife. I have become really good at identifying my role when shit goes down.

I embrace the truism that you can't control how other people behave, only how you react. Or maybe it's that you can't change other people; you can only change yourself. Probably both. Whatever. Either way, when I'm struggling in a difficult relationship, I feel compelled to do a bunch of messy internal work to figure out how I should react differently to the other person. I examine how my own issues could be contributing to the discord.

So it looks something like this: my reactivity + my issues = my role in conflicts.

This exercise provides a sense of self-awareness and empowerment, two things of which I am very fond. But while I have wrapped my brain firmly around the fact that I cannot control or change others' behavior, I still believe that changing my own will make difficult relationships easier, that if I take enough responsibility for my shit, the relationship will succeed.

Of course it doesn't always work that way. And then I feel sad and guilty and I go back to digging around my psyche, examining my shit. I even revisit relationships that ended years ago, excavating the ruins in search of the moments when I could have done more, or less, or better. Sometimes mutual friends or family members pressure me to make things right. Maybe I listen to them and give it a shot. Or maybe I do nothing because they don't know the whole story and that's really annoying.

Lately I've begun to see how this fuckery can be damaging, not just to relationships but to my emotional well-being. Instead of nurturing old friendships or fostering new ones, I waste time holding on to people who don't want to be held, providing life-support to relationships that were never healthy. This little epiphany materialized when I realized that people sometimes behave like assholes without me playing a role in it.

Some people behave like assholes for one simple reason: They're just assholes.

Family and friends, people we love and feel closest to, occasionally say or do hurtful things. I've hurt people, both unwittingly and deliberately. No one waltzes through life shiny and happy all the time. When I know I've behaved badly, I do what I can to make it right. When I've been hurt, I may talk about it or I may let it go.

If I choose the uncomfortable talky scenario, I hope to hear an expression of regret—not a bullshit nonpology like, "I'm sorry you feel that way," but an admission that they made a mistake and they feel really crappy about it. No excuses or rationalizations. I know this is possible because I have a history of unshiny moments and I know how liberating it is to say, "I was wrong. I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry."

The relationships I most appreciate are those that weather occasional tension, or even full-on blowouts. These are people I know I can trust. We fuck up and it's okay because it's an anomaly. We apologize and we move on and we hope we are stronger for it.

It's okay to occasionally behave like an asshole if you regret it and offer a real apology.

When the anomaly becomes a pattern and I find myself in a cycle of hurt with someone I love, my mind executes an accelerated infinite loop, pinging from pain to anger to fear to confusion to guilt to hey look a squirrel! until my entire emotional system becomes unresponsive. (My brain is a poorly coded computer program.) I might go into offense mode to make sure the person is still paying attention, but eventually I start looking for my role so I can make everything okay again.

My success rate might be higher if my counterparts went through a similar process. But it turns out not everyone wants to work on strained relationships. Not everyone cares to admit they've made mistakes that call for an apology. Not everyone feels compelled to identify their role in the unpleasantness, much less cop to having one.

In the past, I spent wasted lots of time exploring my "trust issues." After years of trying to figure out why I was so "triggered" by dishonesty, I had one of those aha! moments, followed by a facepalm. I don't have trust issues, nor am I triggered by deception. I just don't like being lied to.

I also get upset when someone lashes out and then plays the victim when I try to talk about it. There is no give and take or rational discussion, just anger and resentment. Sure, I can be a reactive jackass and make things worse for a while, but I assume that talking it out will bring resolution.

For some people, however, the only acceptable resolution is a one-sided apology, even if they were the aggressor. I've offered too many bullshit apologies in the interest of maintaining big, important relationships. I've told myself that a scary relationship was better than no relationship at all. I was wrong.

Some people aren't worth my energy because I will never be able to please them.

People who hold on to too much anger tend to lash out unexpectedly. They hold others to standards of behavior that are constantly shifting, but are always higher than what they expect of themselves. When crossed, they don't accept an apology and move on. They file the infraction away for future reference. They hold grudges. These people are toxic, and changing my reactions or behavior is a waste of time. I am not "triggered" by them, either. I just don't like self-absorbed assholes.

I don't want toxic people in my life. They exhaust me. More important, I absorb their negativity and start acting like an asshole myself. I've seen it happen during difficult times in the last few years, and I've behaved in ways of which I am not proud. Enough. I've decided the only way to put my introspection to good use is to make positive changes. I want to surround myself with people who have compassion and integrity, people who are not just self-aware, but also interested in personal growth.

Self-awareness can be used as an excuse or it can be used to make positive changes.

If I start to feel as if I'm doing all the work in a relationship, or constantly apologizing for shit I didn't do, it's time to let go. I no longer need to muck around in my head and search for responsibility where there is none. It's not always about me and my "role." Sometimes relationships fail, and I need to accept that and move the fuck on.

In conclusion, I offer this pretty Venn diagram to illustrate my new and improved mentality around relationships.

My Relationship With Drama

I recently joked to a friend that everyone insists they hate drama—unless it's their own, and then it's okay. I was only half-kidding, and as soon as the words were out there, I realized I'm no different. I'm not some special snowflake who avoids drama, whether it's someone else's or my own. I sometimes grow genuinely tired of drama, but if I'm honest with myself (something I allow as infrequently as possible), I have to admit that I'm usually comfortable with it. Maybe I attract it. Maybe I even thrive on it.

I've been thinking lately about drama and boundaries and how the two are connected. Having been through a fairly tumultuous childhood with frequent conflicts and nonexistent boundaries, I'm primed to participate in friends' crises willingly, even enthusiastically. In these moments, I lose sight of how healthy boundaries might be far more helpful than burrowing into others' private lives. Even if I've been invited in, I don't need to become so personally invested.

In the context of platonic relationships, too much personal investment is costly and rarely pays off. While I love my friends and want to help when they are struggling, I'm beginning to realize that I needn't compromise my boundaries or theirs. I don't need to question every detail, or act all wise, or get all bossypants on them. I'm not very wise, for one thing. More important, that shit does nothing but hurt everyone involved. If a friend ends up making a choice I adamantly disagreed with during a crisis ("Don't take that crappy job!" or "Don't send that angry email!"), our friendship is likely to be pretty fucking awkward. At least for a while, and possibly forever.

Yet I don't want to swing to the other extreme—being distant or offering banal platitudes. Here is where I struggle to find that sweet spot between too much and too little personal investment. I'd like to be able to voice my opinions in a constructive way (as I wrote here), to be open and honest but also supportive and accepting.

Because I'm all grown up and I don't want to remain stuck in an unhealthy pattern that I've recognized, and now written about, I'm going to start working on that, pronto. I'll let you know how it goes.

An aside: I create my own personal mini-dramas, too. My family is leaving tomorrow for Minnesota, and rather than doing laundry and paying bills and thinking about packing (yes, just thinking), I'm writing this blog post. While I like to believe I function with grace under pressure, the reality is that last time we flew anywhere I was folding damp clothes into a suitcase while the taxi waited in the driveway. I have issues, man.

Badvice

A list of some of the worst advice I've received in my 45 years. I like to think much of it was well-intentioned, but I suspect there was a lot of projecting going on. Most of these gems came from one or both of my parents, and a few from well-meaning friends.

Photo courtesy of the internets

1. "Fun is not a worthwhile pursuit."
Honestly, I never really believed this. Still, it's stupid advice.

2. "Expect the worst and hope for the best."
I fell hard for this one, and spent most of my childhood and adult life waiting for something awful to happen. I still have difficulty just being happy.

3. "Brad will never change."
Okay, this was good advice at the time, but it still turned out to be wrong. I love my girlfriends!

4. "Never quit a steady job, no matter what."

This, just before I took a six-month sabbatical and returned to my previous employer as a consultant, billing four times what I was paid before.

5. "Don't trust anyone. Not your realtor, not your best friend, not even your husband."
Wow. Just... wow. Not a great way to experience intimacy. Enough said.

6. "If you have to ask for help, it's not the same as if someone offers."
I spent so many years waiting for people to read my mind. That didn't work very well, and when I finally learned to ask for help, it was every bit as good—maybe better—than when people offered. It gave me a sense of control over my needs, and made it easier for me to help others who were brave enough to ask.

7. "You could manage your depression with diet and exercise, you know."
I am not exaggerating when I say I would be dead if it weren't for antidepressants. And yes, I have tried EVERYTHING ELSE, including talk therapy, diet and exercise, homeopathic crap, acupuncture, hypnosis, meditation, and a smelly shaman I met in Guatemala. (Okay, I made up that last one.) To those with so little understanding of chronic, clinical depression, I say: lucky you! And, you know, don't speak.

8. "Don't get a dog. You'll lose it someday and it will break your heart. It's not worth it."
I got my first dog when I was in college. She was a year old, and we were together 15 more years. She died in my arms and it broke my heart more than I ever imagined possible. But it was worth it, and I will do it again and again and again until the day I die. Dogs rule.

9. "Save the best for last."
What does this horrible cliché even mean? If I save the best for last, I'll be enjoying the shit out of all that mediocre stuff until... when? The end of the meal? Retirement?

10. "I don't think you should bother taking calculus again. You passed."
Oh, freshman year of college. While a D- is a passing grade, I should have taken that class again if only to prove to myself that I could do better. Going to class might have been a good start. Studying earlier than the night before the exam would have helped. Most important, I should have taken college more seriously from the start, an expensive lesson in priorities.

What badvice have you received?

Koyaanisqatsi (Life Out of Balance)

A few weeks ago I was at my wits' end with my daughter, and I vented to an online group of women friends. I needed to know, as mothers often do, whether my child’s behavior was alarming or simply annoying but age-appropriate. My ladies came through for me with empathy, insight, and solid advice, and my parenting crisis passed−but not before I spent a day questioning why I ever believed I could be a good mother.

I have never found parenting easy or intuitive. Dealing with the good and the bad, reconciling enjoyment and exasperation, was more difficult than I expected. When Grace was four or five, I mentioned this to a friend, who told me she believed it was her responsibility as a mother to be affected by her child, positively and negatively. I took that to heart, because she is a smart woman, a psychologist who counsels college students, as well as a thoughtful, deliberate mother. I decided to stop trying to tune out my child’s tantrums. Instead, I let myself feel my frustration, anger, and helplessness, to sit with those feelings and process them and let them go. In doing so, I was also able to feel empathy, something that was missing before, and I began to engage with my daughter on her own level, or closer to it. We were better after that. I was a better mother and she was a happier kid. I thought it was over.

It wasn’t over, of course. At seven, she still goes through phases, or relapses, of raging for reasons I only occasionally understand. Now, however, she’s more articulate and persistent, and both of us have bigger feelings around these conflicts. If I let myself feel whatever emotions arise every time she throws a tantrum, I would be too overwhelmed to find any empathy. So I wonder how much I should take in, when every squeak of protest or cry of discontent cannot be given full attention.

I’ve adopted a triage approach. If she’s frustrated by homework and throws her pencil and crumples her assignment, I try to work through to empathy as quickly as possible. If she hits the dog and refuses to put on her shoes because there isn’t time to put her hair in a ponytail before school, I honestly don’t care right in that moment. Later, I might wonder if something else was going on with her that I missed, some deep fear or insecurity that I don’t love her because I said no to what probably seemed to her a fairly small request. And that’s where my friends come to my rescue and assure me she isn’t a sociopath, that kids her age don’t differentiate between big crises and small ones the way adults do.

Still, I keep searching for ways to prevent the next meltdown.

I awoke two weeks ago to news of the Connecticut elementary school shooting. Grace wasn’t home, so I did what I suspect many people did that day: I sat in front of the TV, crying. From initial news coverage to a late night interview with one traumatized, exhausted little girl, I took it all in, even though it was too much to take in. My imagination led me to awful places: the kids’ last moments of terror; the scene that must have greeted the first responders; the parents who weren’t allowed to see their children’s bodies. I wallowed in my sadness and anger and crazy helplessness, and I never tried to tune it out or look away. To do so would have been selfish, I thought, and disrespectful to those who had lost loved ones.

I wanted to hug my daughter and tell her I love her and snuggle on the couch watching endless episodes of her current favorite TV series. I wanted to listen to her chatter through each show and watch her dance to the music at the beginning and end. I wanted to be present and engaged−to show her, rather than tell her, that she is more important than work or Words with Friends or any other distractions. More than that, I wanted to erase all the times I felt her anger hadn’t warranted my empathy, like that morning I didn’t care she wanted a ponytail. Because what if that had been the last time I saw her?

I don’t usually sink so completely into tragedies, yet there have been a few times I’ve spent days watching the news, unable to look away: 9/11, Hurricane Katrina (when Grace was just a month old), the 2011 Norway shooting. I come away from these immersions shaken, disoriented, and discouraged. I am most affected by disasters that involve human depravity or indifference. I cry over natural disasters, too (the 2004 tsunami in Indonesia, the 2010 Haiti earthquake, the 2011 Fukushima nuclear disaster), but I’m more likely to succumb to news of catastrophes that might have been prevented, those where someone is to blame. They allow me to be simultaneously horrified and angry, which is more comfortable than being just horrified. But I always wonder how much horror is the right amount to take in, how much anger I should hold.

And, along with everyone else, I wonder how we can prevent the next tragedy.

The first time I left the house after 9/11, I went grocery shopping. I felt connected to everyone around me, even though I didn’t know them. It seemed we all had the same expression, the same rhythm to our movements. No one was rushing around with self-importance. Strangers made eye contact and tried to smile at each other. I was temporarily comforted by a sense of community based on grief, fear, and maybe a little gratitude that we were okay. I hadn’t felt lucky until I went out into the world and felt that loose connection with strangers.

Some people are able to feel real gratitude for what they have, not because they live in a bubble of ignorance or compare their lives to those less fortunate, but because they empathize with those who have very little, or who have lost everything. They feel others’ pain without letting that pain overwhelm them. They are happy in their own lives, and they go out into the world and try to change what they can. These people, I believe, are good at appreciating the balance between ugliness and beauty in the world, between destruction and rebirth. I admire these people. I aspire to be one of them. For me, however, it has become too easy to focus on the tragedies, the injustices, the destructive nature of humans. I know how lucky I am in my own life, but I’m weighed down by all that is wrong outside, in the world, because I rarely look for what is beautiful there.

For now, I long to shield Grace from the worst of the world, but still help her to appreciate her place in it. She’s too young now, but eventually I want her to learn how much to take in and how to balance the bad with the good. I remember my friend’s advice and think how much healthier it feels to be affected by my child, both negatively and positively. If I could do the same on a much larger scale−if I could seek out beauty in the world to temper the cruelty−I might be able to teach Grace to do the same.

A few nights after the Sandy Hook shooting, my husband and I went to a Hanukkah party. It was the first time I’d left the house, and I was still raw. I planned to stay only briefly, but what I found there, among good friends and their families, was a completely different sense of community than what I experienced with the strangers in the grocery store after 9/11. I hugged my friends hard and told them I loved them. And then I realized I had been selfish to consider staying at home, wallowing alone. We needed each other and needed to celebrate the holidays and our friendships so we could cope with the shock we’d all been feeling. Just as my friends and I have always helped each other muddle through parenting crises by sharing our experiences, we helped each other that night by sharing the pain of the past few days, along with love and laughter and a lot of food and wine.

We need to share all of these things because we will never prevent the next tragedy, any more than I will find a way to prevent Grace’s next tantrum.

Years ago I was in Crested Butte with a group of people celebrating a friend’s 40th birthday. We were up late, talking and sipping excellent tequila. At one point, the birthday man remarked (and I’m paraphrasing here), “When you get right down to it, the only thing that really matters is love.” It was one of those moments I will always remember, because it was honest and simple, yet profound. Connecting with those we love is the true salve for a world of beauty marred by horror, joy tainted by suffering, and, of course, happy childhoods peppered with tantrums. It’s not just about taking in the ugliness and the beauty, but sharing both with people we love.

I should watch this movie at least once a month.

 

Regrets, I Have More Than a Few

I cringe every time I hear someone claim they have no regrets. I wonder, “Are they that flawless a person? Are they deeply in denial? Have they discovered the secret to accepting their mistakes and moving on, and if that’s the case, would they mind sharing it with me?"

I understand that some people reach a point in their lives where they have found happiness, success, enlightenment, and they view their past as a convoluted but necessary path that brought them to that place. My life isn’t perfect—I’m still waiting for greater professional success and personal enlightenment, and I struggle to be a better mother, wife, friend—but for the first time in many years, I’m happy with my little place in the world, and I realize that if I had made different choices, I might not be able to say that. Yet I don’t believe I will ever be able to say I have no regrets.

A list of lingering regrets, incomplete and in no particular order:

• I regret losing interest in my beloved horse, Darby, when I discovered boys.
• I regret forgetting to dance with my father at my (first) wedding.
• I regret hurting people, deliberately or unintentionally. Every single one of them.
• I regret wasting two years of college drinking and chasing boys.
• I regret not spending more time with my brother.
• I regret that awful perm and makeup during the eighties.
• I regret not visiting my grandfather just weeks before he died.
• I regret the hundreds of times I could have said, “I love you,” but didn’t.
• I regret worrying about what other people think of my appearance. (I’m still working on that.)
• I regret all the time and money I spent on clothes and home décor, trying to impress people.
• I regret the times I made an ass of myself when drunk.
• I regret that I have no relationship with my parents, regardless of the circumstances of our estrangement.
• I regret allowing fear to keep me from doing things I wanted to do.
• I regret losing touch with good friends.
• I regret time wasted worrying.
• I regret that unfortunate tumble down the stairs of the Nordstrom shoe department.
• I regret every chance I passed up to show my daughter something wondrous—a full moon at bedtime, Christmas lights when it was cold and late, a concert that might have been crowded.
• I regret letting that financial advisor talk me out of investing in environmentally-friendly mutual funds.
• I regret that I didn’t make my novel available on Kindle.

For the most part, none of these are life-altering, and I guess that’s my point. If I regretted the big ones—a failed marriage, an imperfect career trajectory, turning down an opportunity to live for two years in Jane Goodall’s house in Tanzania to build her Roots & Shoots program (gah!)—I’d have to acknowledge that the things that now bring me the most joy might be missing from my life.

My daughter was born during my first marriage. How can I second guess anything leading up to the moment my egg said howdy-do to my ex’s sperm and gave us a healthy baby girl? Divorce was a wrenching decision and painful process, but it allowed me to meet my current (and final) husband, who makes both my daughter and me happier than I thought possible.

My diverse work experience has provided a range of skills that I hope will one day make it possible for me to earn a better living doing what I enjoy: writing, editing, and futzing around with website design and development.

And the Jane Goodall project? I still kick myself over that one, because I sometimes imagine the adventure of living in Tanzania, the satisfaction of teaching children to be responsible stewards of their own environment, and the sheer awesomeness of working with Jane Goodall. But if those two years had sent my life in a different direction—one that didn’t include my quirky little family and friends and a promising, fulfilling career—I wouldn’t be the same kind of happy I am today, regrets and all.

Girlfriends!

Grace and I joined a few families last week at Kruger's Farm for their weekly concert. Once we pumped enough food (sugar) into the kids, they had a blast. (Until then, they clung to our legs and whined about everything, and nothing.) Most of this happiness occurred in the half hour before the concert ended. Thanks to Rebecca for the pictures.


Grace expounds on the economic crisis, while Ava and Annika wonder if she'll ever stop talking.


The pile up was great fun, and they took turns being on the bottom. They look like sisters, don't they?


Gigi pretending to be a sweet, innocent little angel.

Cave dweller.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that not too many people get what I'm doing right now. Most family and friends are, after all, under the impression that I had everything I wanted, and lost it all through a series of mishaps and bad decisions. I went through that self-pity party myself. I now, however, feel the need to clear up something important to me: I am doing exactly what I want. Yes, I live in a basement; no, I don't have a job; yes, it's a challenge being a divorced, downwardly mobile single mother. But I've arranged my life very deliberately so that I can focus on endeavors other than dinner parties and buying shit I don't need. I have created this window of time in my life where I can be a mom and a writer, in that order. I'm also a friend, a sister, a daughter, a lover and, most of the time, a card-carrying whack job.

I've spent too much of my life trying to fit in. To blend, to not draw attention to myself, to be appropriate. Problem with that is that I was so good at it, I ended up feeling invisible, and wondering why nobody really knew me. Growing up in rural Washington as an east coast transplant gave me a very tangible goal: DON'T BE WEIRD. Learn the country lingo, dress the part and don't let on that my family was at all different than everyone else's. (In that we hadn't lived there for generations, among other things.)

This was fantastic practice for when I went off to college in St. Louis, and found myself surrounded by kids from the east coast. Rather than feeling reunited with my people, I was so thoroughly countrified that, once again, I was a fish out of water. College, for me, was a giant game to which everyone else knew the rules. I was lost, and terrified of being considered weird. So I switched gears and did the best I could to emulate my peers, but I'm not sure I ever really fooled anyone. I certainly didn't enjoy those four years of putting up walls and then waiting for at least one person to tear them down. (One did make the effort; all I can say to him is, "I'm sorry.")

When I moved to Chicago, I felt at home. Something about the anonymity of a large city made it easier for me to move about undetected. Perfect. But then I made a bunch of friends, and had to go through the process of trying to be close without anyone figuring out how weird I really was. I got really good at this; some of my neuroses I was able to pass off as quirky, which provided a release valve. A few toxic friendships torpedoed my self esteem, though, and I still carry around parts of that scared, twenty-something girl who was never pretty enough, successful enough or cool enough. At least I was funny; funny was my thing. But the rest of it eluded me, until...

...I moved to Portland. Here, I finally got comfortable with myself. Not so comfortable that I didn't hate visits to Chicago, but I found my niche pursuing the American Dream with a vengeance. (This blog is about how that didn't work out so well for me, however, as both of my readers will attest.)

I'm more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. Getting in touch with my inner weirdo has proved much more enjoyable than I expected. Much the way I've always imagined a schizophrenic feels when they go off their meds and just listen to the voices in their heads for a change, it's a huge relief. For me, it's been a healthy relief. It's allowed me to write without worrying about what people/readers will think. (Let's face it, most writers are anything but normal.) It's brought friendships that are real and messy and intimate and all that other stuff I avoided for so long, because I've surrounded myself with people I find interesting, and who don't think I'm all that weird. I now find that for me, normal = B-O-R-I-N-G.

I live in a cave. I'm a little weird. And it's okay.

Misc. drivel...

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Facebook funk.

I went to bed in a great mood and woke up at 5am. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I slumped in front of my computer and spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at the walls of Facebook friends. (If you're not familiar with Facebook, skip this post and never, ever join.) Over the course of the next hour or so, I managed to work myself into a really, really bad mood. I learned a few things about my "friends," which was nice, but I also began to feel like — dare I say it? — a loser. This is a trap into which I fall too easily and often, but I'm fairly certain that almost everyone leads a more interesting life than I do.

Facebook is fine, as long as it's taken at face value: a convenient way to keep in touch with many people at once, on a fairly superficial lever. Most people on Facebook, including me, try to be witty and clever and show how cool they are. Share photos, share news, share random thoughts, share political views — all free, with no risk attached. Then wait for validation that what you've shared, no matter how banal, was read and appreciated by a handful of "friends." It's good, clean fun.

But Facebook is a poor substitute for maintaining or creating real connections with friends, old or new. We present our best selves (most of the time), and it feels a bit like a high-school party. Will anyone "friend" me? If I "friend" someone, will they accept? Will I say something stupid and be met with silence and subsequently ignored by the cool crowd? Even worse, will someone UNFRIEND me? Do I look fat in these jeans?

Facebook, or any social networking site, gives the illusion of connection without having to look someone in the eye. Much like blogging, it's inherently narcissistic, shallow and — one hopes — no more than a fun hobby. When it becomes the primary means of reaching out to the world, however, it disappoints. I spend too much time on Facebook (clearly), and no matter how much I truly appreciate the friendships I've found there (I do!), it's not the same as real social interaction. Most of the friends I've met online are people I would love to meet and hang out with. But I don't. They live far away, they're busy with their families, their jobs are demanding — or I'm too lazy to take a shower and meet for coffee. I don't know why this is, but there you have it. I have yet to sit face-to-face with someone I've met online. They remain my "bonus" friends, somewhere to turn when I don't feel like making a phone call but need to vent a little or share a thought. It's just so easy, and keeps me from talking to myself.

I'm not finished retooling my life, but in the meantime, I am someone's mother, daughter, sister, friend. (And Food Lady to the dog — shit, I forgot to feed her.) All of that is very real, and it should be enough. But it's not. Not when I compare it to the picture perfect lives of friends more settled, successful, smart or happy than I am. Holding myself up for public scrutiny on Facebook doesn't phase me; it's the personal scrutiny that gets me into trouble. Stop doing that, Laurel.

Lightening up.

Last week I spent a few days moving the rest of my stuff from the rental house where we lived for a year. I decided to finally get rid of things I don't need rather than continuing to move them from house to house. (Actually the decision was made for me by the fact that I don't have enough room.) The whole experience was a pain in the ass, physically and emotionally. It was a lot of work that symbolized another false start, failed.

I've been itching to purge, however, and I'm determined to keep weeding out what I don't need or love. Clutter drives me crazy; even confined to a basement or garage, I still know it's there. Now I'm trying to identify what I want to keep and what I've held onto out of habit.

I'm hoping this exercise will inspire me to make similar changes in another cluttered place: my brain. Just as I didn't have to think twice about keeping my favorite pieces of art — and I will never apologize for schlepping my books from place to place — my top priorities are clear: Grace, family, friends, writing and striving (fighting?) to be a better person before I die. For some reason, however, I'm easily distracted from these things. In fact, I seek out distractions. Maybe I'm afraid that my best efforts won't be good enough, but without focus, I'm completely rudderless and tend to spiral into my own little self-pity party. It's pathetic.

The other day, I told a friend that I like being alone, that it was something I needed. Then I read my last couple of posts (because, you know, what better reading is there, really?) and thought to myself, "Laurel, you are full of shit." Or am I? I suspect the word "alone" means something different to different people; I also believe the experience of being alone isn't always the same for one person. I can enjoy long stretches of solitude and never consider myself alone. I take off for the coast for three days of uninterrupted writing, barely talking to another soul, and couldn't be happier. On the other hand, if I have nothing to do on a Friday night, and I feel like doing something for a change, all I can think is, "Holy crap, I'm so alone!"

Why am I sometimes so afraid of being alone? I covered it pretty thoroughly in this post , but apparently I have trouble remembering my own little epiphanies. Today I realized it's even simpler than that. What I miss is having one person I know I can talk to every day (someone over four). There is a sense of continuity when you have that person, whether it's a best friend, a parent or a lover. I've had that for my entire life and now, suddenly, I don't.

It blows.

Please excuse the mess.

Life under construction — check back soon. I've decided to take the blog in a different direction: how a newly single, unemployed, forty-something mom can raise a child (and a dog) in a basement apartment, spending (consuming) as little as possible. So far? Pretty tedious: no dishwasher, no microwave, no back up when one of us is sick. It's lonely, but I need to remember that my network of friends is just a phone call away. (A cell phone call; no land line, no cable TV.)

Day one: leaking upstairs tub creates rain in Grace's bedroom. More to come.

Happy New Year!

One of my very favorite people, Lisa Tomlin, emailed this to me recently. It resonated, and seems like a dog-diggity great way to start the new year.

The Two Wolves
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all."

"One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego."

"The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Thank you, Lisa. You continue to astound me.

Perspective, with a side of humility.

You know those emails that beg you to appreciate life by depicting starving children and war-torn countries? Usually, I find them patronizing and heavy-handed, and delete them without much thought. (Which is out of character for me, because I have made an art form of finding people worse off than I.) But I received one the other day that crawled under my skin, the images making their way to my heart and refusing to go away. Perhaps because my last post was so poor-me, or maybe because Grace has been crankier than usual, or possibly because I was still feeling sick and tired. For whatever reason, the message hit its target and resonated with me, and forced me to realized that my glass is WAY more than half full. (I know — who am I and what have I done with Laurel's body?)

My next post was going to be a rant about those who complain: about having to spend hundreds of dollars on unnecessary crap for their kids because Grandma and Grandpa won't pony up the cash, about having a fender bender in their gas-guzzling SUV and having to shell out $$$ for a deductible AND a rental, about being strapped by the mortgage on their vacation home, about not being able to find exactly the right pair of shoes for a party. (I have done several of the above.) But my heart isn't in it, because I realize it's all a matter of perspective. We all struggle; who decides what is a legitimate gripe and what is not?

One of the things I love about Portland is its lack of snobbery. When I lived in Chicago, almost all of my friends were college graduates who worked in advertising (yawn). When I moved to Portland, I realized that people here do what they need to do to make a living and spend the rest of their time pursuing passions: wind-surfing, mountain climbing, horseback riding, bicycling, animals and yes, writing. What a relief it was to just be myself and have a diverse group of friends who didn't judge one another based on their income. (Don't get me wrong, there is a faction in Portland that lives to go out at night and be fabulous; they are easy to avoid by not going to the Pearl District at night, particularly on weekends or the first Thursday of every month.)

The friend tree has had a few prunings over the years, most recently those who are social climbers and are unable to empathize with someone downwardly mobile (that would be me). And by social climber, I don't mean someone with money. One of my favorite people in the world has more money than all of my friends put together, but keeps it real. In fact, she says, "I love you" more than anyone I know, and means it. But friends who are more interested in the right neighborhoods and schools and social circles disappoint me, and bore me. I was a rung on the ladder, and am therefore no longer needed. (I'm not losing sleep over this.)

I have a home. I have a strange and wonderful nuclear family. I have friends who know what it means to struggle, and who have been so supportive over the last year, I don't know how I will ever repay them. I have enough savings to pay rent and fill my fridge with food (organic or not). And I have a passion, one so strong it makes me sorry for those who don't. It's time to get back to writing, to leave behind the inconsequential speed bumps that have slowed my progress, and keep my eye on the final destination.

Ultimately, it's time to focus on helping others again, something I used to do without a second thought but have failed to do even as others were helping me. If you have a moment, please visit this website, and if you are fortunate enough that you can help, please do so. Lisa has been my inspiration for months now (which would surely make her barf if the chemo hasn't already), and I can't imagine remaining so positively... positive in her situation. Also, when she's healthy, I plan to impose on her with a visit and a horseback ride, so the sooner, the better.

Oh — and for the record, I love you. All of you.

Frame of mind.

I've been thinking a lot lately about stress vs. anxiety, unhappiness vs. depression, goals vs. dreams, abundance vs. wealth and, of course, Tylenol vs. Motrin. I've also been shuffling around the house in my underwear quite a bit, so I don't claim to be thinking clearly, but I can't help but wonder what determines my state of mind — whether it has to do with how I'm hardwired or with what's actually going on in my life.

When a friend gave me a pep talk the other day about my attitude, I took it to heart and tried to look past my chronic anxiety and assess what's going on around me and in my head. Being analytical, I decided the best way to illustrate how I spend my time and emotional energy (lately) was with a pie chart. My conclusion is that it's not pretty, but it could be worse. I do have real stressors in my life demanding attention and draining my body and mind. I've tried to be proactive rather than reactive, but it's not really my nature to take things in stride and keep emotions in check. For example, I could label one slice "finances" and allow that to include my eleven-month stretch of unemployment and the seven-month delay in the house sale, realizing that when one or both of the aforementioned are resolved, the financial strain will lighten a bit. But my brain doesn't work that way. I compartmentalize, possibly so that I can direct my frustration towards specifics: the idiot neighbor, the person who didn't hire me , even the H1N1 virus that has made daily life so difficult for two weeks now.

Fortunately, this allows me to see that, while I may have been down lately, it's because I'm overwhelmed by life's complications, not because I'm depressed or weak. And while I'm wound tightly on my best days, there are valid reasons that stress has been taking its toll on me, physically and emotionally. On the other hand, I look at that tiny little slice of things that bring me joy, and I realize that I have been waiting for the problems to disappear before I get back to living my life. That's not a great recipe for happiness, particularly if I want to make progress toward realistic goals and strive to enjoy a sense of abundance rather than deprivation.

The joblessness sucks; it's been almost a year. I've never before had to stand in the grocery store and decide whether or not I can afford healthy food instead of cheap crap. This is one sacrifice I'm not willing to make, at least when it comes to Grace, so I make concessions elsewhere. I've learned to live with less, and I'm grateful for that. Slowly, it's becoming easier to focus on what we have rather than what we don't; to realize it's possible to have more fun doing things that don't cost money; to enjoy visiting friends in their homes or ours instead of going out to dinner. Why is it so complicated to learn to live simply?

Sometime soon, I hope to have a pie chart that looks more like this. This seems like a nice, normal life. I should probably leave a little "misc." slice for the unexpected, since I suspect raising a daughter will provide plenty of of unforeseen challenges opportunities. Also, I could get ambitious and include travel, volunteer work, book tours and that Pulitzer Prize, of course. But for now, four slices of pie is more than enough, as long as I have the right people with whom to share it.

Progress, not perfection.

I came across a list I made while on a road trip early this year (January, maybe?). Once I stopped laughing, I realized it was a pretty ambitious list. While my success rate is hovering around 40%, I haven't given up just yet.

- finalize divorce
- sell house
- find new home
- publish novel
- find job
- finish second novel
- find Mr. Right Mr. Maybe
- plant edible garden
- say "I love you" more often
- become THE PERFECT MOM

I look back on this and can't help but notice how goal-oriented I was. Yes, list making is about setting goals, but this particular collection is a doozy, and sort of, well, punishing in it's focus on BIG CHANGES. Now, I would add a few items related to physical health and well-being (thank you, car accident). I would include more truly important, life-affirming changes: spending more time with the people I care about; making time for fun; recognizing the support and generosity from friends and family; and appreciating the good in my life rather than dwelling on the challenges. Things may get worse before they get better, but the point is that THEY WILL GET BETTER. Right?

I blog, therefore I am?

I started my first blog out of laziness. I was tired of emailing photos of Grace to everyone who was interested in watching her grow, so I figured it made more sense to post pictures in one central location that anyone could access. Then, because I'm a writer and parenting was so challenging fascinating to me, I added commentary and began addressing other amusing aspects of family life. It was a funny blog and, validation junkie that I am, all the positive feedback was like a drug to me.

I'm not sure why I started this blog when John and I split up. There's nothing particularly funny about divorce, and I knew I was walking a fine line between venting and oversharing. Surprisingly, however, traffic to this site outnumbered the original "Grace Under Pressure" two to one, leading me to conclude that everyone loves a train wreck. So I've tried to keep it honest and somewhat entertaining, without being too maudlin or stepping on anyone's privacy. It never occurred to me that complete strangers would find my ruminations interesting, but I've made friends through blogging that I wouldn't have otherwise, and I cherish them as much as my friends that I see and talk to. Unexpectedly, both blogging and facebook have helped me feel connected during what I hope will be one of the most challenging years of my life.

This week I spent a few days in bed with Grace, both of us miserably sick and grumpy. Every now and then we'd wake up, stare at each other and groan, then go back to sleep. When I needed to, though, I got up and sat in front of my computer, reaching out to friends without having to leave the house or even pick up the phone. (Or shower, or brush my teeth.) I found comfort in knowing I could do that, that if I needed support it would be there, regardless of whether it was my brother and Michael dropping by with supplies, or a virtual, long-distance hug from someone I've never met in person.

I have lots of loose ends to tie up in my life, but now that I see a light at the end of the tunnel, I'm hoping the scales will soon tilt, and that my posts will become more entertaining and less depressing. (But not too cheerful; I know my audience.) Also, I've given the site a little makeover, and I'm adding free ads as a way of saying thanks to friends who have been particularly there, or things I think are nifty.

All of this is my long-winded way of saying, "Thanks, internet. You've been a good sport."

Moody bitch, in flight.

I used to love a good fight. I could present a fantastic argument; even when I was young, my parents used to say I should be a lawyer. (Yes, I know, it's never too late.) After college when I was in my twenties in Chicago, I would strike up a conversation with a complete stranger at a bar just to debate, oh, the atrocity of the Exxon Valdez oil spill. (Seriously, once a guy told me he worked for Exxon, and I spent an hour enumerating the reasons he would rot in hell for working for the man.) Back in those days, O.J. Simpson provided a lot of fodder for heated discussion, as well. And, of course, protecting the environment, which wasn't nearly as popular then as it is now. When I think about it, I didn't love to argue as much as I loved to be right. (In your twenties, you know everything, am I right?) I just couldn't fathom that people had different opinions, and I felt I was doing them a favor by setting them straight. Yes, I was great fun to be around then, particularly since quite a bit of drinking was usually involved.

I bring this up today because I don't feel like I have any fight left in me. Being an unemployed, divorced, forty-two year old mother of my own moody b—, er brat, what the hell do I know? I realized in my thirties that I didn't know shit, and I struggled mightily in my quest for knowledge. I hoped my forties would bring acceptance around this issue, and to some extent it has. But rather than get my dander up when challenged, I now sigh with resignation. We've all heard about the "fight or flight" instinct; I've swung to the other end of the spectrum. I hunker down, run away, avoid conflict and, if possible, take a nap. I hate arguing.

To say that I'm moody is putting it mildly, however, and I happen to be in a relationship with someone who is equally moody but hasn't yet had his spirit broken. When we disagree, my natural response is to think, "Well, this clearly isn't going to work out." And then I fantasize about a future with just me and Grace ("You and me against the world, sometimes I think it's you and me against the world..."), which is hilarious because she's the one who caused all this in the first place, with all that perspective crap. Is Grace happy, healthy and safe? Okay then. Is Grace behaving like Drew Barrymore in "The Firestarter?" THAT'S where I need to focus my energy, not on whether there is a discrepancy in the odometer reading of my new (old) car. Combine that with almost constant physical pain, and I'm having trouble picking my battles, and waging them with a modicum of maturity.

There has to be a happy medium, and I keep turning to the serenity poem. (I'm agnostic.) But it turns out that this tidbit of wisdom has very little to offer when it comes to relationships. It does not address, for example, what one should do when confronted with a close friend who is driving you crazy with criticism, judgement, abandonment or just a bad attitude. So I withdraw. It seems the safest option, when there are battles being fought on so many fronts right now. (Oh, and I blog, which is a thinly veiled cry for validation and support from complete strangers. Hmmmm.) But too much withdrawal will most certainly leave me in a worse place: alone.

I'm seeing a woman next Friday who is a "Personal Development Coach, Clinical/Medical Hynotherapist & Trauma Specialist." I was referred to her by my awesome chiropractor (see ad at left), and can I tell you how much I would not want to be this poor woman? The visual I have is me sitting across from her and explaining the last year of my life, and having her furrow her brow, shake her head and write down the name and number of someone who may be more able to handle my situation.

Disclaimer: I know there are millions of people worse off than I am. I cry for them almost every day and try to remain grateful that I have food, housing, friends, family and, of course, beer.

Wild ride.

I'm back on that wackadoo emotional rollercoaster, where one minute I'm feeling connected and in the moment, and the next thing I know I've fallen into a funk and can't get up. I thought I had become fairly adept at rolling with the punches, focusing on the positive and trying to believe that everything is happening for a reason. Perhaps I was premature with my smug self-congratulations.

Grace still keeps me on my toes, but she seems to have turned a corner where expressing her frustrations is concerned. This is great, because now I know what's bothering her, and if it's that Brady is in her spot on the sofa, I can deal. But if it's that she's sad because she misses Daddy when she's here and misses Mommy when she's there, well, that's heartbreaking. And another post entirely. (Next up: my thoughts on divorce. In a word? Shitty.)

Back to good things. I got a sweet review on mamalit.com, which gave me a much needed boost (but has done diddly for sales). I also got a lovely email from a woman who read Soft Landing and took the time to sit down and tell me why. THAT made my day, mostly because of the act of kindness, but also because she came to read Soft Landing in exactly the way I imagined. She read a comment I left on another blog, which prompted her to check out my blog, which resulted in her ordering my book. If that happened a hundred times a day, I'd be set!

I've also finished the first three chapters of my next book, and I can't express the feeling I get when I'm writing and I'm in a groove and I know the words are coming together beautifully. It's a high, and sometimes I get going and before I know it the day is gone. Other times, I can't even open my laptop, because I'm afraid I won't find any words at all. I don't like to write when I feel uninspired; but, just as momentum can keep me going for hours when I'm loving it, inertia can paralyze me for days if I don't force myself to sit down and WRITE ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST WRITE.

Back and forth, back and forth. I'll spend time with a friend and feel so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life, and the next day I'll pick up the phone to call someone but I can't imagine a single person will want to talk to me. I spent all day today working in the yard, happy as a clam and full of optimism about the time we'll spend here. Then I came in, showered, ate dinner and totally hit a wall. (Blood sugar could have been the culprit there.) So here I am, babbling away and not really feeling anything but sore at the moment. Bedtime, and, I hope, happy dreams.

Quick, someone call the mom police!

After some quality snuggling yesterday morning, I took Grace to school as if it were any other day, and had John pick her up afterwards, a day earlier than our usual custody schedule. I love that little bug more than anything in the world, but it was my birthday. And honestly? I wanted to write, relax, have wine and cheese for dinner and sleep late this morning. I wanted to watch any movie that didn't involve Narnia or animation. (We chose "The Reader" — awesome.) I wanted to blog and fart around on facebook and do all the things I feel guilty about when Grace is home, because I'm not giving her my undivided attention. I did NOT want to deal with whining, tantrums, timeouts and a runny nose. But I missed her, of course. I enjoyed my day but something was missing — and I ended up feeling guilty anyway.

I read a blog post recently (which I should have bookmarked because I can't find it anywhere) about how harshly mothers judge other mothers, and it really hit home. I have both judged and been judged. Neither is much fun, or at all productive. It certainly doesn't contribute to the sense of community that mothers should feel, particularly when most of us are struggling to find what works best for us and our families, when we are trying to balance motherhood with work, life and being true to ourselves. For some moms, this isn't a struggle at all. They love being at home with their kids and do a fantastic job of it. Or they love going to work and don't think twice about putting their kids in daycare. The rest of us bumble along, trying to find the right path and constantly second-guessing our choices. I learned quickly that I wasn't cut out to be a full-time stay-at-home mom. This came as a surprise, because it was what I thought I wanted. It never occurred to me that I would still want, still need, to tend to the non-mom parts of my life that made me who I was before I became a mom.

Grace is loved, and she knows it. I may not sacrifice everything for her, but I certainly have tightened the criteria for what I choose to spend time on. I won't be wasting anymore of it judging other moms.

L O S T

I have achieved a whole new level of dream insanity. The basic premise is the same: senior year of high school, I realize I've forgotten to go to math class the entire year. I know I won't graduate, and I can't believe how stupid I've been. Now here's the twist (and Justine, the LOST connection is undeniable): I'm aware that I'm dreaming, that not only have I graduated from high school but college as well, but I'm worried that if I flunk out of high school in my dream, it will change my future in my waking life. So there's no comfort in knowing it's just a dream! (There's not much relief in waking up, either, considering I went through all that frickin' education and I'm still unemployed.)

I'm a big fan of a couple of things: knowledge and closure. Today I was all set to read Soft Landing's first official review on an online book review site. I thought I was prepared for anything, good, bad or just so-so. What I wasn't prepared for was... nothing. They reviewed a diet book instead. I emailed the woman who coordinates the whole enterprise, who invited me to submit my book, but I have yet to hear back from her. And I suppose there is a possibility that I never will, which will drive a little part of me slowly insane.

Which brings me to the whole dysfunction topic I mentioned a while back. I realize I'm not just afraid of losing people in my life I care about; I'm just as afraid of not knowing why. I understand that friendships ebb and flow, that, particularly at this age in our lives, people are focused on family and community, developing new interests and sometimes just lose touch. But sudden silence is different; it's a sign that a connection has been broken and needs to be fixed — in my mind, anyway. Not knowing what's gone wrong is frustrating, because I can't do anything about it. And if there ends up being an absence of closure, both present and future will change in ways I never expected. Is it worth all the worry? I think so, because the people in my life with whom I've made a connection, near and far, are important to me. But I tend to greatly exaggerate my own importance in the lives of others, so I come back to that voice from the past saying, "Nobody's thinking about you, honey." And it's not the comforting version.