A Hermit, a Wild Child, and a Dog Walk Into the Woods

On this day...I was walking with my daughter and Buster down over the hill behind our home, through the beautiful wooded path that leads to the two small run-off ponds that pool on the ferny forest floor, and as I was taking in the normal calming scenery I realized something that many people might not understand about my seclusion. The Hermit's Nest is so much more than just the house! I get the whole damn forest! I think some people assume that because I struggle with depression and anxiety that I am wallowing and broken, hiding in the woods, melted into the couch with pillows over my head avoiding life. Don't get me wrong, that does happen on occasion, but a lot of the time people just suck and honestly I prefer trees to many humans. I'm not hiding, I am exposing myself. I just prefer to do it by myself. So, why wouldn't I be a hermit? Why wouldn't I want to spend the majority of my days enjoying this land with my favorite mini-person and best fur friend? It finally just made sense to me and I didn't feel guilty or wrong, but deliberate. Can you blame me? We are blessed enough to have an amazing little chunk of pretty to enjoy daily. I am blessed enough to have the luxury of staying home and raising my daughter and we live IN the woods. I am surrounded by trees and nature. The Divine Spirit is all around us just waiting to be observed.

As Skynard sang, "I ain't trying to put down no big city!" but I am not a "flatlander" or a "townie" and I am very grateful for that. It has made me who I am. I am a mountain girl, born on a mountain top, raised in the woods and grown on the hillside. I'm not scared that I'm going to be eaten by bears or get lost. I know that deer are not inclined to attack me. I mean, that's always a possibility, but don't ever let that keep you from going into the woods. 

We visited the ponds for the second or third time that day and then we went down another path to an area that Celie refers to as "our secret hideout" where I will sometimes sit cross-legged and let her and Buster explore the smells, sights and sounds while I commune with nature. This time there was a small token to be found, two feathers that were right in our spot. A gift! We collected them with gratitude, and then made our way back up to the house. It's wonderful to be able to simply step out of your back door and into a different world, one that centers you and brings you back to your Self. When either of us has become overstimulated we can easily take a walk "down over the hill" and recharge. Nature is definitely a depression hack.

Sometimes I question my unconventional parenting style, like the fact that my kid did not have any shoes on for this entire stroll. But it's hard to keep shoes on the girl, she loves to be barefoot and wiggle her toes and there is nothing wrong with that! At times, though, I doubt my judgements, like most mothers. I wonder if I'm being too permissive or irresponsible but then I remember that I was raised similarly and perhaps that's why I am drawn to nature for sanctuary and solace. Fuck it! She sprints across gravel, her feet are like mountain goat hooves---I'm almost convinced that she could walk across hot coals. When she gets cuts or splinters, I tend to them with black salve, like my Pap used to use on his cows. Afterall, wounds and filth are caused by what childhood is supposed to be all about, exploration and learning! 

I squatted in the woods growing up, I wiped with the leaves, I ran barefoot and was constantly covered in bruises, cuts and scratches. My ankles were perpetually torn up from the trip vine jaggers, burdocks were always stuck to my clothes, and I spent my days leaping over logs and sprinting through tall grasses, with the scent of pond mud and the sulfar creek in my hair. I was free-range! I think that my daughter is a good mix for a modern kid; she enjoys Minecraft and her tablet but she can also appreciate the way of the woods and get down like the wild thing that she is! Despite judgements, I think I'm doing just fine. 

I consider us incredibly lucky to live here. In drifting you will always find your own way and we have learned that there is more than meets the eye down over the hill. There are no sidewalks here, only paths. I am inspired by this place just as Thoreau was by Walden Pond; I'm a writer living in the woods, why wouldn't I be a hermit?

Joe VS. The Driveway

Today we had a bit of Joe Vs. The Driveway. My husband and I are lucky in that in MOST cases, it's usually only one of us that freaks out about a situation, and the other can still freak out, but to a lesser degree and try to help the other remain calm...or tell them what an idiot they are being. Regardless of the chosen roles or tactics, one of us is usually calm-ish...and one feels irate. This musing has to do with getting stuck part way up the driveway, 3/4 of the way, to be exact...and THAT is a metaphor!

My husband was driving, and I was in the passenger seat. If this was a dream, I would say that is a significant note. I don't know about in real life. (No, really---I don't know about it.) During this particular incident, I was actually the calm one, which I love, because it honestly doesn't happen as often. I usually am the one dealing with the unstable mood or explosions of emotion, and will occasionally need to calm my husband down here and there when he does the same. So, needless to say, I feel awesome when I'm on the other end...like I'm a god damn Zen master or some shit. I revel in it...just a tad...because it's a good lesson. And, as synchronicity would allow, it usually has something to do with what I am personally working on in my inner world at the time. (Go figure!) And explaining or teaching, seeing something from the other seat, as it were, is one of the best ways to LEARN what it is you are teaching. So not only because I don't feel like the idiot, but because I get a chance to SEE how I should be reacting all of the time. I get a chance to see my reactions mirrored...and see how futile they are. How self-sabotaging, how pointless. Preach it, sister! Preach it! It's amusing to me, although, it is a humble sermon, because I am too often in the driver seat...literally. I am the one stuck in the driveway and not the one just watching the drama unfold. Sometimes you lose sight of that.

So my husband was getting angry as we were going up the driveway and backing down again and again trying to get past where we were. Meanwhile, the snow was just continuing to come down, not making it any better. But we had full bellies, we were in our own driveway and we were together. This is what I told my husband. No big deal. We'll get 'er! We were 3/4 of the way up the driveway...and a day later I would realize how odd it was that our driveway is shaped exactly like the arc my therapist made with her hand when she was describing how I was doing progress wise, and we got stuck in the exact spot she stopped her hand in the air and declared that I was at...3/4 of the way...riiiiiiiiight near the top of the LAST little hump before you're home free...where you keep sliding off track! Hmm...interesting. Where you are tested with what you have learned thus far. You can't make it up smoothly without knowing what you've learned. Do I digress? 

In all actuality, I just had the car stuck in our driveway a week prior on my way back home from my friend's house one night. (It was a BAD winter for our driveway!) Luckily, I had a little wine in me, so the cold wasn't bad at all and it turned into a beautiful moonlit walk, as Sam Cooke serenaded me via Pandora the entire length of my trek. "Darling, you send me...Honest, you do, honest, you do..." It was actually rather enjoyable, as I sneaked up to my snow covered abode like it was a hidden cabin in the woods. Which takes me back to us being stuck in the driveway. It's no big deal...it is what you make it. I had decided to walk and listened to Sam Cooke! It was enjoyable. It could have been made into an ordeal. I could have become so pissed that I tried to kick my tire, slipped, and fell on my ass! I could have broken my coccyx! It COULD have happened. But I CHOSE to enjoy the moment. This is what I was thinking about when we became stuck after our outing for breakfast that morning.

In my husband's defense, though, he was the one in charge of unstucking the car both times, so I am sure that is why he wasn't enjoying the moment as much as I was. I didn't see much amusement in his eyes when I replied to one of his outbursts with, "I"m having a really good time!" and a large grin. Maybe now wasn't the time? But if not Now, when? Now is exactly when you need to have a good time! Even when you are stuck 3/4 of the way up your driveway...because you're almost home. No matter how much you keep sliding into that deep drift, no matter how long it takes you to pull yourself out...no matter how many times you have to back down the drive and get a head start back up...you're gonna make it home...even if you have to walk. That's a metaphor...and a good life lesson.

Reflecting the Stigma of Depression

Robin Williams’ recent passing has everyone sad, a bit confused and even some ranting up on their social soapboxes.  Facebook blew up last night with the news and everyone was chiming in on the subject, even those who probably should not have been.  I saw many comments and statuses from people asking why, some even stating that celebrities and others just can’t deal.  It is in comments like this that we see how many people simply do not understand how depression works or even what it is, for that matter.  Many people believe that depression is just being sad.  Often times the word is used interchangeably for the state of temporary sadness we all experience from time to time.  People seem to think that Robin Williams should have been able to snap out of it or just think positive and change his mood.  For those of us suffering from depression, we know the dark truth.  Depression is a demon that surrounds you no matter where you go or what you do, and as this tragic event shows us, no matter who you are.  Depression does not discriminate.  All walks of life are afflicted and anyone can be sucked into this black hole, even the brightest of us, even the most talented...especially the most talented. 

In retrospect, as soon as I heard the news I wondered how I or others didn’t recognize this about Robin.  Looking into his face, I think you could see his inner pain.  His manic style of stream of consciousness comedy was so intense and unmatched, but Newton’s law tells us that what goes up...ultimately and inevitably must come down.  Ain’t it the truth?  In my readings I saw people mention that most comedians suffer from this type of manic expression of their darkness.  It is in my opinion that a good majority of artists in general are plagued by this same darkness, for no light that bright can exist without its corresponding shadow.  And it makes for great art, don’t get me wrong, but the creation of that art can be one of the most difficult graces to grab onto.  The hardest thing for us to do is to let that inner light shine through that murky cesspool of despair that shrouds our souls, and it can be quite the struggle.   People do battle with depression and often they do this most of their lives.  There are ups and downs, major episodes, minor episodes and then the mania, which can seem like a relief from the pain, but in all actuality, it is one of the biggest energy suckers of all.  Once you go up that high, you go down even harder.  It’s difficult pretending that everything is fine or that you are “normal”.  Robin Williams never pretended to be “normal”, per se, but he did hide his pain behind the mask of comedy.  I don’t believe that I’ve ever pretended to be normal or faked it, but I certainly wear my own mask to cover the many faces that I have.

I vividly remember the day that I carried my diagnostic sheet up to the front desk after seeing the doctor and was given the referral to my therapist and the prescription for my medication.  Looking down at that diagnosis of “Depression” staring up at me like some label, like a mocking label, was hard to handle at the time but it was certainly easier than everything else I have had to deal with since.  Admitting I had a problem was just the first step in this long journey of recovery that I have been on.  I suffered in silence for almost 20 years before getting any help.  I feel guilty that the Robin Williams situation makes me feel better in a way, but it does.  It also makes me feel incredibly worse, because it is terrifying.  This situation is terrifying in that the demon that took his life is the same shadow that lives inside of me, however different.  I haven’t had suicidal thoughts since college, but you never forget that feeling even if you do heal.  It’s like a scar on your soul.  Even though I don’t believe suicide is ever the right choice to make in this situation, I don’t judge his decision because I have had that same demon whisper into my ear.  Today I am taking a look at my own scar and it has been making me sob off and on all day, especially when looking into his face in all of the pictures people are sharing.  It is proof that this illness is serious and real and that I should be proud of the progress I have made because many of us are not so fortunate.  It is also a reminder that I am not alone in this.  None of us are alone in this. 

It has been raining all day today, offering a deep cleansing for our collective soul.  I think why this is so sad for me and others is because we can relate to it so well.  I understand what it is like to mask the darkness inside of you and carry on excitedly and happily for the benefit of others, or simply for survival.  I understand what it is like to go to that manic place only to fall to the bottom once again.  It is incredibly draining and life sucking.  I think a lot of us can relate to Robin Williams; I think humanity has taken a deep collective sigh at his passing.  Nothing seems right about this but nothing is wrong in talking about it and perhaps his death can serve to help others take this condition more seriously and treat it with compassion.  Depression is a real problem but suicide is never the answer; that is something that depression tells you when you are vulnerable.  But people should not shame others for having suicidal thoughts, either.  It just goes with the territory.  Robin Williams struggled for years with his depression, and ultimately it won the battle, but nobody should judge him as weak for this and throwing words like coward around at suicide victims and the depressed does nothing to extend the compassion that these situations and people so desperately need and deserve.  He fought the good fight for years and he did one hell of a job at that and anyone that deals with depression will agree that is one of the bravest things that you can do.  Perhaps he was just tired of fighting that demon or simply succumbed to a moment of weakness and lapse in judgement, but we don’t REALLY know, do we?  You can never truly know the heart of another.  May his beautiful soul finally rest in peace.  Na-no na-no.  

Half Full: Shots From the Crystal Skull

Throughout this healing journey or whatever you want to call it that I have been going through I have focused on the importance of avoidance, the wisdom in limitation and the worth of enough.  Many things require LESS of (something, a behavior, a substance, a person) in order to see improvement.  Some changes to make are things you need to stop or limit, while some are things you need to start or free.  Some areas of your life you need MORE of (something, a behavior, a substance, a person) in order to move forward.  If you need more of, you need to go through the same rough stage where, instead of learning to cope without (insert trigger here) you learn how to deal with (insert trigger here).

I have a few vices and negative behaviors, but one of them definitely was binge drinking.  At the beginning of 2013 I was mostly left with vodka, the only thing that I could binge on yet without horrible repercussions.  My friend got me a Skull of vodka for my 33rd birthday...last October.  It has since become somewhat of a ceremonial piece, for true occasions of need and/or want.  I have passed the skull around a few times and others have drank from the great crystal head.  Surprisingly there are still a couple of shots left in her, yet!  The only reason I guess I mention it is that I was very into vodka a year and a half ago.  Before I started therapy and got on meds I basically self medicated my anxiety and depression.  I numbed myself a lot of the time for socializing.  A bottle of Svedka wasn't drank in a day around here by any means, but it was lucky to last a few weeks let alone a month...let alone 9!  I wasn't so much an alcoholic as I was a binge drinker.  My crystal skull has survived 9 months.  I've carried this baby for 3 trimesters, longer than any vodka I have ever had.  My friends helped in her consumption, yes, so I guess this shows that I'm not doing that bad?  I didn't even drink all of it.  Less drinking, more eating.   Now, if I can just get off of these meds and kill the Ed in my head.  Imagine being able to live vice free? I commend those people who have no vices, but sometimes it is hard not to believe that such a person is only the romance of myth and legend...although I have witnessed some in my time.  Regardless of the vices of others or lack thereof, I'm finally beginning to get a grip on mine.  The skull is half full.

Bleed [the Furnace] to Love Her

Earlier today I fretted over my mental progress a bit.  I'm trying to bring the light of consciousness to my inner world, and get to the bottom of my moods and behaviors.  Most things I am working through have roots in my childhood.  Trauma is a funny thing.  Okay, no, actually, it's not at all, but it is odd.  Even after the trauma itself is over it leaves a residue that you need to scrub off of your psyche, I guess you could say.  I'm elbow deep and scrubbing, but I think I need steel wool or something sometimes.  I've been trying to understand my triggers better and I'm shining a spot light on things that have been hidden in darkness for years, but the healing process doesn't work unless you FEEL the past so it can be released. The purpose of a feeling is to be felt. How mad do you get when somebody ignores you? Think of how pissed off repressed and suppressed feelings can get. 

I feel as though most times I am running on empty, so what am I actually running on? Fumes? Old energies are mostly what fuels me; old patterns, thoughts, habits, and behaviors have me locked into their vicious cycle of negative regurgitation.  That's fuel made from past trauma. I am resisting, but what am I resisting? What I'm denying are mere memories, but it's not the memories themselves being denied but rather the emotions tied to those memories. All of these things have me fighting against the current of Life, but in truth resistance is futile if you wish to avoid suffering. I'm learning to change my fuel, reboot my system. It's a process...and quite the journey. I listened to Concrete Blonde's song Bloodletting earlier today and thought 'That's what I'm talking about!' That was foreshadowing. I need an emotional bloodletting. I need to release all of the pent up feelings that never were granted expression. I need to bleed out my demons. You can deny feelings all you want, but they will be felt EVENTUALLY on your terms or on theirs. I'd rather it be on my terms.

I can't help but be consumed with my healing and awakening. This is a precious period of time in my life that will NOT be repeated, and I feel I need to enjoy the journey, for lack of a better phrase. I was a victim this morning again, but by dinner time I was my own hero. We ran out of fuel earlier today, but had 5 gallons in a jug on the back porch. I successfully heaved the full jug up and got the kerosene into the fuel tank. For the furnace to work, though, I needed to bleed the line, which is something I have never done before. I've seen it done a number of times, but seeing and doing are very different experiences.

After getting instructions via the phone from my husband I made my first attempt. The furnace kicked on but shut off again. I obviously hadn't bled it right, but was getting too frustrated being in the middle of my yacking, incessant toddler and my instructing husband on the line. I declared I would figure it out and hung up the phone. I did just that. Fuel spraying out of your furnace can be a little intimidating, but after a few failed attempts, I figured out where I went wrong. Three soda bottles later and I had successfully bled the furnace properly. Celie and I high fived and cheered as the blower kicked on and started to heat our home again. I was proud of myself, and the sound of the furnace brought a real sense of accomplishment. I can now bleed a furnace. It might not be a huge accomplishment, but it's more than some men can do...and that's the truth!

This, of course, is a metaphor. When you run out of fuel, you can end up sucking air, running on fumes, if you will. You can put all of the fuel you want into your tank, but the furnace won't work until you bleed the air out of the lines....ALL of the air. I can pour all the fuel I want in my tank, but I need to clear my lines before any changes I make will be lasting.

Spring Time: Pruning for Growth

Today Celie and I spent some time outside.  This is the first I've been out to really examine winter's damage.  I spent most of my time gathering garbage out of the woods that the bear drug off, and hauling scrap wood leftover from last fall's bathroom remodel onto the fire I made.  I gathered up broken glass and ceramics, I raked up junk and filth.  Our burn pile needs sifted through something awful;  somehow we acquired a good amount of glass and tin on it for recycling everything that we do and it's maddening.  It's a mess. I plan on working my way through, getting to the bottom of it, I guess you could say.  Just another thing on the list. 

I also pruned my roses, which is something I actually should have done before winter came, but I didn't get to it.  So, I get to do it now and pray that there will be regrowth??  This is actually what was mostly on my mind as I gathered, sorted, burnt and pruned.  I tossed things on the fire that once were new and exciting. I tossed pieces of my old bathroom wall into the licking flames, and watched as it ate them up. Isn't it funny how we prune off and rid ourselves of the past year every spring and don't think twice about it, but when it comes to aspects of ourselves we are ridding ourselves of we often stop short? Behaviors and beliefs that don't move us forward, those should be tossed out with last year's garbage on the Spring Fire.

Often we are blind to how attached we are to things. Maybe we're deluded? Are we addicted or attached? That's probably just a matter of semantics. We probably are pretty attached to things we're addicted to and likewise, addicted to some things we are attached to. So what is so hard about letting go, especially when letting go will promote new growth? I mean, that's the concept of Spring, right? (It's a metaphor!) If it's in our best interest, why can it be so hard to do ourselves this solid, and better ourselves? That's a loaded question. There are many reasons.

Cutting the canes of my rose bushes got me thinking of my own dead limbs and stalks. What pieces of me have dried out and shriveled up over the winter? What pieces of me need to be cut back...in order for me to grow better? I'm incredibly sentimental, almost to a flaw. You can't be sentimental if you want to rid yourself of toxic behaviors or relationships. You need to be ruthless with your trimming. You cut back until you get past the dead parts. You need to trust that you will see new growth.

Letting go has never been my strong point, even though I work hard at it. Therapy and the whole recovery road has forced me to analyze my behavior and relationships. Like the roses, we need to prune ourselves periodically if we want to grow stronger. Like the roses, the power of Spring can bring us back to life, but not until we throw our garbage on the fire and cut ourselves back. The hardest part is deciding which ends are dead or draining, and which ones still have the potential for new growth.

Flower Power: Self-Love for the Soul

These are my beautiful flowers that a secret admirer bought me.  I love flowers.  I love the metaphors, the fragrances, the petals, the blooms.  A bouquet effectively cheers my Spirit when on my kitchen counter, especially when I lay eyes on it while dragging myself out of slumber in the morning, or during a capital B Bad day when I'm stressed or having anxiety issues I can literally stop and smell the flowers, and just admire them. This helps keep me focused on gratitude and reflecting on the good things. Sometimes it's hard to remain positive. A colorful and fragrant flower can help. Don't they do this for everyone?  Does it matter who the flowers came from? Should it matter that the secret admirer....is my Self?

Last week I had what I guess you could call a regression of sorts, if we are speaking in recovery terms. I had a mini depressive episode that really made me reflect on the major depressive episode I had at the end of 2012 that lasted over 3 months and landed me in therapy and on pills and on the journey I find myself on now. It really threw me back into that state that I was in during that Dark Night of the Soul, and I was really able to physically feel how much I have mentally, emotionally and spiritually progressed. After getting through that drag of time, I figured I could use a little cheer.

After I started trying to basically be better to my Self and start to swing back against the blows of Depression (capital.fucking.D), I started to buy myself flowers. It might sound pathetic, or sound bad for my husband, but it's honestly not. My husband is a good man, but he's not always home to present me with such things and isn't the greatest at surprising me with tokens of his affection. I can count my bouquets from my husband in ten years probably on one hand still? Although, the ones that I have bought for myself (albeit still bought with his hard earned money) I'm pretty sure I would need both hands for...and maybe a foot? About a year ago I started to randomly grab flower arrangements for myself when I was out shopping. $5 usually, sometimes even up to $10 if I am feeling the need. Once a month, or every other. Is that really so much to spend on the health of your Spirit? I'll tell my husband, "You got me beautiful flowers this week, thank you so much, babe!" Funny...and true.

There isn't always going to be someone there to bring me flowers, so I'll get my Self some. What is your Soul worth? Flowers were probably the first things of beauty valued by man. They are so fleeting, so delicate, so bright. They involve all 5 senses if you eat them and chew loudly, right? They are a wonderful positive stimulus for the senses and that crosses over into positive energy for the Soul. Bouquets help to bring a little color to your day when the Gray has got you down. There is power in the flower.

A Whole New Year: Here's To Me

"And so this is Christmas and what have you done? Another year over, a new one just begun..."
To quote John Lennon, "what have you done?"  Have you made the most of this year?  Are you a better "you" than you were a year ago?  I was thinking about the state I was in a year ago and the state I find myself in now.  I can't believe that an entire year has flown by, but upon reflecting I can see the time and changes.  2013 saw some good stuff!  I started off in bad spirits, but this year has seen more personal growth in me than possibly any other.  Like the phoenix out of her ashes, I too have risen out of the pit I found myself in at the end of 2012.  Mind, Body, and Soul, I feel that I have come a long way in 2013.  I have gained insights and a new perspective through my experiences this year that I hope will help me to continue to progress as well in 2014. 

Last year I was too depressed to get a Christmas tree.  I simply didn't give a shit, about most things at the time, but especially for anything that seemed more of a pain than it was worth to me.  This year, even though I didn't decorate it and it was obtained in the easiest way possible, we actually had a tree.  I think that was a step in the right direction, even if the Christmas spirit was more so forced, it was there, nonetheless. And that was symbolic of my recovery, even if I feel I should perhaps be a little farther along on my journey after a year of therapy and medication, a lot of other things have happened this year that have shaped me.

1) I started therapy shortly after the first of the year in 2013. After how things went with Doc X I was so scared I would get a Bible thumping therapist who wouldn't 'get me'. One of the best things that happened was me being referred to my therapist, who I love. She, being an art therapist, understands my artistic mind, we have built up a good report, and this relationship has been key to the success of my progress in many areas of my life. With her I switched from Lexapro to Prozac for an SSRI to help with my seratonin levels and then started on Wellbutrin and discovered how wonderful dopamine can be.

2) I started taking piano lessons in March and it's amazing how I feel about it. It was sort of a symbolic make up for childhood thing that coincided with therapy. It was for my self worth, to feel that I am someone that deserves to and is worth piano lessons. I was entirely more nervous than you would think starting, especially considering a friend of mine is giving me the lessons. I think it's just because I want it so bad. This is something that I have wanted to do since I was an incredibly young child, so I had doubts about my ability to do it. I was scared I would flake out like I have with so many other things, the clarinet being one of them. I was determined though, and I am proud of my progress. I feel more natural at the piano than while playing any other instrument. I'm determined to stick with it. BEETHOVEN OR BUST!!!

3) Facebook actually made a wonderful connection this year and frankly I think it is the most wonderful thing to ever come from this social network's algorithms. It actually suggested my Musing Through account to my new friend Melissa, that's how we met. We both live locally so we met up and started jamming together in February and this has turned into a great friendship and partnership. She has saved my musical muscle from atrophy during my 'recovery time'. I quite possibly would have put down my guitar had it not been for her and I am forever grateful.

4) I reconnected with my friend Leslie after she got out of rehab and together, I think, we helped keep each other together. However different, we were both going through a metamorphosis of sorts and our friendship was a much needed salve that helped our wounds heal faster than they would have alone. It was a symbiotic union from the start.

5) While my sister was in from South Korea in July we went to see Old Crow Medicine Show at Penn's Peak in Jim Thorpe. It was my third time seeing OCMS and it may have been the best!!

6) In July we went on our first REAL family vacation. I made my first Outer Banks trip and I now understand why SO many people proudly sport the OBX stickers. I had an intimate moment with a rising sun.

7) Leslie and I made a road trip to New York City to take my sister to the JFK Airport. While there, we went to the city for a visit and checked out the New York Public Library and bought some fedoras on the street!

8) Saw Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band!! BUCKET LIST EPIC!

9) I saw FLEETWOOD MAC!!! I can now die happy and have personal proof why everyone who underestimates Lindsey Buckingham can suck it!!

10) I attended my first Oak Mountain Hideaway House Concert and saw the son of icons, Ben Taylor. Got to meet him, have him sign some stuff, talk of life, and play a song on his guitar in what I like to refer to as The Ben Taylor Experience!! SURREAL!!

11) I have experienced a great deal of Spiritual Development and have, I think, come to better terms with my place in the world and my Life Purpose.

12) I have also experienced a great deal of emotional and psychological healing, due to therapy, drugs, art and writing. It's been a good year for expression.

13) While bored in early summer we came up with the "Scale of Promiscuity" that rates people according to their sexual activity. It is entirely too thorough and descriptive, with a scale for each sex and a name for each spot on the Scale. The trick is to unabashedly place yourself on the Scale, which is more of a spectrum, perhaps. Why?? Because boredom loves stupid.

14) I attended the 10th Annual and my first Greenwood Furnace Folk Gathering with my friend Melissa. It was a super fun camping weekend of music workshops and performances. It was one of the coolest things I've attended!

15) I started writing like a mother fucker!!! After being blocked for months and wondering if I would still be compelled to create while on meds, I had a huge creative burst during the second half of the year. I began to experiment extensively with iambic pentameter and writing in form, including Odes and Sonnets. I've filled up my 3 subject Life Liver's Log in around 5 months. I'm collecting tablets to use for LLL's in the colors of the spectrum and I want to go through the chakras. I'm still on Red for the Root!

And so, what have I done? It seems like a lot, considering. I've made some good connections and progress. It was an eventful year and it was a pretty good one. I am incredibly blessed and I feel that now more than ever. I am in a much better place this time around. Hopefully this year I can continue moving forward toward where I want to be. Here's to moving forward. Happy New Year!

The Sacrifice of Joan of Arc: Burning for Change

"We set the night on fire!!" 
Well, not so much the night, but last night.  And not so much the night, but a tree.  Last night, we set the tree on fire; we burned a dead piece of pine in an attempt to symbolically release things we no longer want or need.  (You know me and symbolism.)  I think that there is much symbolism in the purification aspect of fire.  I wrote and learned about this earlier in the year as I burnt remnants of a cluttered past.  I decided that at the traditional yearly "Turkey Party" that my husband and I host we should burn our Christmas tree in a metaphorical sacrifice and we each could adorn it with our own symbolic ornament to send off into the ether, transmuting its energy for a new designated use.  Letting go of the old to make way for the new.

Earlier this year my husband and I watched St. Joan, a 1957 British-American film about Joan of Arc listening to the voices in her head and following a calling she had inside of her. The movie was haunting.  I was moved by the idea of her heart not burning.  I was moved to tears during the burning scene and consumed with trying to envision what it was actually like for her to burn on that stake for what she believed in as her flesh was boiled off into the ether.  Death is the ultimate form of transmutation, changing the form of our life force, sending our energy out and into the cosmos.  I believe in the power of transmutation and the power of personal symbolism.  Once fire eats something, be it pine or be it flesh, it is gone.

This year, for me, has been one of healing.  A year of therapy, a year of medication, but one of letting go of old patterns and behaviors.  At the very least the year birthed the recognition of my need to change and it conceived a damn good attempt at getting myself moving forward.  The recognition that chronic depression, anxiety, and self doubt were holding me back from reaching my full potential in every single aspect of my life was a fire in itself that took off and slowly began to consume and transform the negative qualities of my psyche.  Learning to trust in and stop doubting my own voices, instincts, and feelings is becoming easier after receiving professional validation for such things.  To quote the Beatles, "I've got to admit it's getting better, a little better all the time..."

So, last night at Turkey Party after games and festivities the remainder of guests and us watched our woes burn away with our Christmas tree.  I cut out orange and red slips of construction paper and got out a trusted black Sharpie and we each wrote on the slips of paper what we wanted to surrender to the power of fire's purification and/or release.  Some had symbolic photos, some chose qualities or habits to write down.  I took an orange and a red strip of paper and assigned one to my Self Doubt.  On the other, in honor of my year of healing and the recognitions I have made, I surrendered "victim mentality/poor me/and all other sad ass excuses that keep me from reaching my full potential".  I think that about sums it up.  All of the energy we put into harboring negative thoughts and behaviors eats away at the precious time of our lives like a cancer.  If we transmuted that energy and used it for a better purpose we could transform our lives phenomenally.
So we all gathered together in new tradition and watched as this year's Toast Master lit this years Christmas tree, decorated with our ornaments of transmutation, on fire.  It turns out negative energy burns like pine, fast and hot.  For a few momentous minutes, before us stood a pillar of fire as our woes and words burned off into the sparks that flew out toward the darkness of night sky.  The heat was intense, and I blinked away the tears.  It was magnificent.  The intensity was only momentary.  I thought about Joan of Arc dying this way, in pain as her flesh melted away.  Dying this way so we would remember that life is precious and no matter the consequences we should listen to our inner voice(s) and follow our calling.  Obstacles be damned; life is short.  All earthly things are transitory. Tradition is an important tribute to the constant in the chaos, almost as important as the symbolism we use.  The pillar of fire quickly turned into a tower of sparks and soon, from all of our worries, all that was left were the skeletal remains of our sacrificial tree.  I could still make out her silhouette by the hot glowing embers on the charred wooden lumbar of her spine.  We all stood in silence for a few glorious seconds lost in our own hopes, thoughts, and dreams until she finally fell over.  We had released the energies of 2013.  Would the symbolic burning of these things really be a catalyst for the changes that we crave?  This new year shall see.  Bring on 2014!!

Ode to Prozac

Got my blues from a bottle, but even when they're white,
They can grant me recuperative sleep through the night.
Keeps me from chewing off my kid's face,
Keeps me from throwing shit all over the place.

Stabilizing my mind, from spikes to flat lines.
Relieving my symptoms...most of the time.
In bed I can sleep without tossing and turning.
My brain doesn't boil and my nerves have stopped burning.

When properly taken it mellows me out.
If I forget it or lose it, anxiety seeps out. 
You fight off attacks made on my heart,
My dear Prozac, I fret the day we must part.

Stop Signs: Turning Right at Intersections

Last December I came to an intersection in more than one sense of the word: physically, literally, metaphorically, spiritually. Emotionally. I'm speaking also of this actual intersection. So, I come to this intersection and I STOP.  I do, of course, because there is a stop sign, but also because you need to look both ways before turning. You need to think about which way you want to go. In this moment, I wanted to go RIGHT in every sense of THAT word. Home was right. My family was right. What was left? Just a long and winding road through a familiar dark wood...a road that I have traversed all of my life.

So there I sat at the intersection of HOME and DARKNESS. I have come to this intersection a myriad of times in my life; I stop every time. I take a pause. On this day I took more of a reflective pit stop. Luckily, you can go hours at times without seeing another car on these roads; I had the time to sit there. So I sat there until I knew exactly which way I was going to go.

I was thinking about an appointment with my doctor that I had the next day...an appointment that my husband had made for me.  I was deciding whether to go or to entirely flake out on it in fear.  It wasn't a check up...it was a nightmare...or a dream...? I was, at the time, floating head down in a breakdown soup that was possibly 25 years or so in the making. But is that really true? What the fuck is truth anymore? This. THIS is truth.

I'll write about Doctor X and this amazingly awkward adventure more another time because I have been asked too many times about my religious views by him and I want to 'splain that situation.  (This nightmare was actually the last appointment I have had with him, I have since switched to his (female) physician's assistant...for many reasons.) So, I already didn't feel comfortable with him, I already knew what the appointment was for and I already knew what he wanted to put me on and what he wanted me to do.  I sobbed at that intersection, thinking of Doc X and my husband talking about the past months of my descending mental state and chest pains and all that rot, behind my back, as it were.  I, knowing how my husband tends to exaggerate but also knowing how bad I REALLY was at the time, was worried they thought I would hurt my child or something?  I did make a slight cry for help, asking my husband to ask Doc X about Deplan, which is a prescription folic acid (B vitamin) he had told me about before.  He instead, while at one of his check ups, had got me an appointment for that same week and discussed putting me on Lexapro.  Truth is, I can't "fix" myself alone.  I've needed help for a long, long time.  A window of opportunity was there:  therapy and meds.  If I went to that appointment, that would be my future. The decision was mine.

And there I was at that intersection, wanting to make it right but having emotional problems with the solution.  Therapy wasn't the hard thing to accept, or decision to make.  I've always "craved" it in a sense.  But, did I really need the use of an antidepressant?  I sat at that intersection for a good twenty to thirty minutes crying my fucking eyes out.  I had never been to therapy or taken "crazy pills"  or any of that, and even though some people are incredibly cavalier about popping their Flintstone meds, ironically, I was raised to not think the answer came in a pill. I thought about my dad and how disappointed he would be, or just the fact that he would disapprove. I didn't want to take them.  I knew that pills wouldn't "fix me".  I knew that they could only potentially treat the symptoms...but not the causes, suspending any real healing in a faux elation.  At least, that's what I thought at the time. 

I had been working on myself for years and years and have made continual progress but I had reached a point where I couldn't anymore.  My symptoms were worse than my causes.  I was seeing the changes in my daughter's behavior before my very own eyes and THE TRUTH was that I was the cause of her negative behavior.  I was THE CAUSE coming 'round full circle.  I was neck deep in the programmed legacy.  I was falling apart.  I was in the Dark Night of the Soul.  My mind had never been so fucked up.  So, I made my choice. 

Years from now, I may not be proud of myself for opting for mind pellets, but why should pride keep you from anything that is that important to you?  I had been robbed of my full potential long enough and I didn't want to be a victim anymore.  I went to the appointment.  I accepted a prescription for Lexapro.  I agreed to therapy.  For my husband and for my innocent  daughter, stranded in the storms of this legacy, I decided to go right.  For my Self and for myself alone, I chose to go home.

Ode To Body

Abundant substance, I behold;
matter over mind.
Obscuring truths sevenfold,
blind led by the blind.

Abusive fingers curl around,
the handle of a gun.
Liquid bullets to my lips;
death by consumption.

Barbara Kruger, "Untitled (your body is a battleground)"

Faithful subject, loyal friend;
true through darkest times.
Rights of passage, means to ends,
scenic view of crimes.

Restrictive habits starve my soul,
unconditionally unkind.
Sustenance---myself, I stole.
No fruit, only the rind.

I pledge my love, I make a vow:
nothing that I think,
Will from hereon ever weigh you down,
Or cause your heart to sink.


9.21.2013

Seoul Sisters

I'm on my way back from New York City.  It was an awesome day outing, but not exactly for the happiest of reasons.  My sister has been living in Korea for the past year and a half teaching and came home for an almost month long visit over her summer break.  It was a great visit, the time went so incredibly fast.  It's sad that it is over, but at least we had an enjoyable road trip to the big apple. My friend and I drove her out to JFK International for her 2PM flight.  She is in the air as I write this now.  As per her wishes, we chose to have a little city fun before returning home. 

I spotted fedoras for sale on the street as we were driving up 5th Avenue, so we parked the Caliber on 39th Street and hoofed it.  Coincidentally we went past the NYC Public Library!  I've explored the cement jungle several times before, but I had NEVER visited the library.  I was super excited to climb the steps and pass through the threshold!  And what a threshold it was; I stepped through the largest, most ornate door I ever had in my life.  The beautiful textured details and giant gold lion head knocker were just foreplay.  It was like a giant marble orgasm inside!  They had a shop and we bought some books and trinkets. I got Where the Wild Things Are and Oh, The Places You'll Go for Celie; two classics that she doesn't yet have and it will be neat to know they came from the NYC Library. 

It was an excellent day.  We had a nice trip out with my sister, and after dropping her off we were able to make a day of it instead of just a delivery.  I'm sure she'd love that we visited the library.  I took this picture on one of the huge globes they had in the Mapping room where we stuck a pin in central Pennsylvania on a map of visitors.  Pennsylvania girls in the big apple jungle!  Seoul, Korea is like New York City...only bigger...and foreign...and on the other side of that globe.  My sister walks the streets of that concrete jungle on her own, with ovaries [balls] of solid rock.  She will  return to her foreign job and her foreign apartment and reunite with her foreign coworkers and foreign friends.  I remain native...and I won't be reunited with her for another year.  I wish her well.