I've been listening to the audible, Unfuck Yourself, by Gary John Bishop. I have spent 2019 filling my head with the voices of those who think nothing like me. Grant Cardone, who is surely one of the biggest douche bag billionaires on the face of the earth, opened my mind up to the kind of images of success and perseverance that I had never allowed myself to sit with growing up; Rachel Hollis, so raw and honest and everything I would hope to be as a writer; and Jen Sincero, her ability to paint a picture of what her life once was until she started to believe in herself. And it's so funny to me because this is exactly the shit I made fun of throughout my youth. Now here I am, looking for the secret.
When I thought of money, I saw gaudy Hollywood stars with pools in their backyards and multiple divorces, lifestyles of the rich and egomaniacal. I saw my handicapped brother and the battle for who controlled his estate and all the ugliness that came with my parent's divorce. At the end of it all, I decided to embrace a beatnik kind of mentality. I would spend my life writing and singing for nothing. When I pictured my future, I saw myself in a cheap studio apartment, singing at some shitty jazz club making next to nothing, but it was everything I could ask for. I wasn't even happy in this strange, romanticized version of my older self; just beautiful with a kickass voice. In this dream, my sexually and verbally abusive high school "sweetheart" had tracked me down with a promise to change and be better, and that was always where the dream ended; happily ever after.
So many girls my age were planning their future, applying to colleges and dreaming about the differences they would make in the world while I was romanticizing the fairytales of abuse and seduction. I could sit here analyzing the shallow bar I lived by, sure, my home life was a wreck and I had a deadly eating disorder, but at 38 years old, what or where will that get me?
The fact is, I'm coming to terms with the destructive forces that have routinely dictated my thinking; the forces I've created and battled against for my entire adult life. There's an entire chapter in Bishop's book titled, I'm Wired to Win, and it's not at all what I had expected. He discusses how every aspect of our lives has been a win, even if we consciously felt like we were losing, due simply to the fact that we consistently create the scenarios and results from the foundation our subconscious lays out for us. I have always believed I'm destined to lose and have, without realizing it, made it my life's goal to validate those very beliefs, so in the end, I have won, and it's totally disappointing.
And now I'm faced with a single question; how the fuck do I rewire my brain? I didn't expect so much anxiety to accompany it. There is so much more at stake today. I'm not a bill-free, depressed, self-centered teenager with all the time in the world. The depression is under control but here I am $70,000 in debt later and a beautiful son I want to be so much better for. I'm trying so goddamn hard to reverse those future images of myself of being poor, miserable, talented, and directionless. So, what the fuck does 50-year-old me look like? If I'm wired to win, what do I want to win and how do I get there? These are the questions that keep me up at night lately while I push all the regret and frustration of so many wasted years and tears behind me. All I can start with are images and risks. I stand up for myself on occasion when faced with a toxic person. I see myself writing, debt-free, sitting on the front porch of my own home looking out at a huge front yard surrounded by trees in the early days of summer with a journal in my hand, writing. My bank account is full from passive income and a successful writing career. There So I guess that's where I'm at today.
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
Monday, September 09, 2019
Fruit Flies
I sit, listening to Bright Eyes, staring out our dirty windows through the plants, hanging fairy lights, and two drapes I ripped in half to create 4. I try to capture the part of myself I've lost to anger and exhaustion. I think about the moment, the loss of one of our best friends, my beautiful son, and frustrations my husband and I hold against each other. I sip my wine, I take a deep breath...why the fuck won't that motherfucking fruit fly leave me alone. I frantically swat and clap the air, furiously determined to kill the shitface ruining the few goddam moments I have. He taunts my eyelash, just barely touching it, what the hell did I do to deserve this? We Can't Be Friends by Lorene Scafaria comes on. I played this song for him when he was living with us. he listened to it in a loop for an hour. "I wanna tear you apart, wanna make your bed, I wanna break your heart, I wanna break your head."
Parker was enigmatic; he was funny, brilliant, and tragically selfish. Like a tornado, if you got too close, you were sucked in and a lot of devastation always followed. But, like a tornado; intriguing, powerfully mystifying, and beyond human comprehension, you couldn't not get close to Parker on some level.
That fucking fruitfly.
When did I become so angry, so unapproachable? Racking my brains, I want to know at what point I completely stopped having faith in the world. I know, I jump back and forth between past and present tense, it's my thing and I don't give a shit. Was it puberty? My parent's divorce? My first hospitalization? After Parker's death, I began thinking about how hateful I am towards to people I love the most. He opened up to me in a way he wouldn't to anyone and I turned my back on him, the forces of my judgment and fear pulling me, maybe at times even against my own will, don't do it, don't hate, don't judge, don't, don't, don't, but suddenly I was twisted and blown away by it all before I could ever say "I love you, you are so important to me." I missed the many chances I had as I, once again, allowed myself to be dictated by pride and ego.
I think of my sister's recent words, "I don't think you like me very much. Angie, every time I disappoint you, you go below the belt."
My husband this morning, "you're always so unhappy; if it's not Jude, or how exhausted you are, it's a client, or your mom, or, most of the time, me."
I'm not going to lie, I pictured being sad, dramatically and romantically fucked up, but not angry, not hateful, not so dam unlovable. I was a joyful and silly little girl who had a world of energy and a thirst for adventure, but at some point, I lost that.
There are people born with a natural charisma, people such as Parker and Bridgette. Paul says that no matter how dirt poor, pathetic, and unemployed Parker has been, no matter how gross his drinking got or how much he smoked, he could get more beautiful women to fall in love with him than anyone we've ever known. Bridgette is the kind of woman who people hand money to. I'm the person in the background throwing a temper tantrum asking why the fuck they didn't give it to me; why the fuck they're not in love with me. Hm, not sure. The fact that I can laugh at myself is my only saving grace, I'm not crazy enough to believe my behavior isn't completely ridiculous. It totally is. Fucking fruitfly.
I watched my son tonight as I nursed him and he slapped his hand on my chest, grappling with my shirt and running the back of his hand against my skin. His fascination with texture and the budding relationship with his senses made me smile, which to him signifies laughter, which is exactly how he responded, lips curled, nipple in mouth, giggling excitedly; his two over-sized front teeth sticking out proudly. Why can't I laugh like that? It was once so easy.
Parker was enigmatic; he was funny, brilliant, and tragically selfish. Like a tornado, if you got too close, you were sucked in and a lot of devastation always followed. But, like a tornado; intriguing, powerfully mystifying, and beyond human comprehension, you couldn't not get close to Parker on some level.
That fucking fruitfly.
When did I become so angry, so unapproachable? Racking my brains, I want to know at what point I completely stopped having faith in the world. I know, I jump back and forth between past and present tense, it's my thing and I don't give a shit. Was it puberty? My parent's divorce? My first hospitalization? After Parker's death, I began thinking about how hateful I am towards to people I love the most. He opened up to me in a way he wouldn't to anyone and I turned my back on him, the forces of my judgment and fear pulling me, maybe at times even against my own will, don't do it, don't hate, don't judge, don't, don't, don't, but suddenly I was twisted and blown away by it all before I could ever say "I love you, you are so important to me." I missed the many chances I had as I, once again, allowed myself to be dictated by pride and ego.
I think of my sister's recent words, "I don't think you like me very much. Angie, every time I disappoint you, you go below the belt."
My husband this morning, "you're always so unhappy; if it's not Jude, or how exhausted you are, it's a client, or your mom, or, most of the time, me."
I'm not going to lie, I pictured being sad, dramatically and romantically fucked up, but not angry, not hateful, not so dam unlovable. I was a joyful and silly little girl who had a world of energy and a thirst for adventure, but at some point, I lost that.
There are people born with a natural charisma, people such as Parker and Bridgette. Paul says that no matter how dirt poor, pathetic, and unemployed Parker has been, no matter how gross his drinking got or how much he smoked, he could get more beautiful women to fall in love with him than anyone we've ever known. Bridgette is the kind of woman who people hand money to. I'm the person in the background throwing a temper tantrum asking why the fuck they didn't give it to me; why the fuck they're not in love with me. Hm, not sure. The fact that I can laugh at myself is my only saving grace, I'm not crazy enough to believe my behavior isn't completely ridiculous. It totally is. Fucking fruitfly.
I watched my son tonight as I nursed him and he slapped his hand on my chest, grappling with my shirt and running the back of his hand against my skin. His fascination with texture and the budding relationship with his senses made me smile, which to him signifies laughter, which is exactly how he responded, lips curled, nipple in mouth, giggling excitedly; his two over-sized front teeth sticking out proudly. Why can't I laugh like that? It was once so easy.
Monday, June 24, 2019
What You Can Do to Help Immigrants Whose Rights are Under Attack
We live in a time where we no longer know what is true and what is false and realities become foggy as we rage and question and hate; watching in disbelief as lies are fed to us and the infrastructure so many of us have grown to rely on urges upon us violence and dissent.
To close our eyes with the hope that it goes away is to turn our backs on everything that is right and good in this world. At the end of it all, we are each human beings striving for a better life and purpose.
So far, as we know, 24 adults and 6 children have died. These are human beings that we tread this earth with, God's creatures, as Christians would refer to them as. They are denied soap, toothbrushes, blankets, a place to sleep, and access to medical care. On average, 75 people are squeezed into a 12 person holding cell, crammed so far in that they resort to having to stand on toilets. And I can't be the only one who feels detached, helpless and incredulous, but I have to wake up, we all do.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” - part of Emma Lazarus's poem recorded on the Statue of Liberty
Donate, fight, keep talking. DO NOT LET THIS GO.
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