A Broken Shell
Today’s post may not be exactly like one of my normal blogs, but it’s something I want to talk about today in a very open way and by telling some stories. These are snapshots from my memory. While I do have a plethora of memories I could write about, these are the ones that are coming to mind tonight. And I want to get something posted before bedtime so I can feel like I’ve not lost myself again.
Bear Mountain
A couple of years ago I went to visit a good friend of mine up in New Jersey. She’s someone who is near and dear to my heart, and who I met in yoga teacher training about six years ago, so I look forward to our trips every time we get to go. On this particular visit, she and her husband took us on a day trip to Bear Mountain in New York State. And it was everything I’d imagined the northeast would be.
It was trees and mountains. It was a lake full of splashing kids near the shore and adults in life jackets paddling in small kayaks. It was a gift shop with rustic-themed souvenirs and an outdoor bathroom that reminded me of a forest cabin. It was a hiking trail with rocks and lush greenery all the way up.
It was also my first trip since I’d become really sick and I just didn’t have the stamina to fully participate. I remember breathing heavily and struggling to get up that hiking path as my friend and her husband sprinted ahead, and as my husband came along slowly behind me. I remember sitting down with my friend at an overlook about 15 minutes up, knowing she wanted to go further on with the guys but feeling grateful she sat and talked with me instead.
I also remember feeling utterly defeated by my body as we sat and watched a train snake picturesquely around a hill and along a river. And then I remember the excruciating pain in my knee on the way down, and the hope that it was mostly hidden from the others.
House of Blues
My husband went to a concert last year with some friends at a place here in Dallas called House of Blues. It was an old school hip-hop concert by some random artist from the early nineties, and it was one I would have loved to see.
I wanted to get dressed up and maybe dust off my heels. I wanted to fix my hair and put on some dark berry lipstick, which I rarely get to do anymore. I wanted to go out there and recapture my adolescence with likeminded middle-agers, and remember how I used to feel before I felt the way I do now.
But by 7 p.m. I was already so fatigued and reactive that I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it through the concert. I’d have trouble standing and I’d be too tired to dance, and beyond that I’d likely make my husband leave early. And I just didn’t want to be that person.
So instead of putting on my heels and my dark berry lipstick for a fun night out, I wished my husband a good time and watched him head out the door looking sharp. I answered a message a bit later from one of our friends asking why I wasn’t coming (“I’m tired and didn’t think I’d make it too late. No worries! I hope you have a great time!”), and then I took a shower and got into bed.
I was sad but resigned. What else could I have done in that moment? I didn’t want to ruin it for the others.
Atlanta
A few weeks ago I took a trip to Atlanta to meet my new coworkers and to see my boss (and her boss) in person. I’d known it would be hard on me and I’d tried to mentally and physically prepare, but there’s no getting around your health when it simply is unable to cooperate.
I’d started my trip in a deficit because things had been unusually busy at work and I’d just finished an extremely stressful project. I was leaving on a Tuesday and I’d tried to rest the weekend before, but it just wasn’t enough recuperation time (nothing ever is, it seems) and by the time I got off the plane I was already on the downhill slope.
What happened, first, was that I didn’t sleep the entire trip. I was reacting to the flight, to the hotel room, to the food, to the stress of meeting people. To offices and to elevators and to weather and to food that my body doesn’t normally ingest.
One morning I found myself in the office restroom praying my stomach would pull itself together before a meeting. Another afternoon I got dizzy while a colleague was explaining something to me on my computer, and I asked her to pause for a moment so I could try to get myself together. I finally told her to continue and I faked being fine, because I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t do the job.
The second night of this trip I called my husband after an exceptionally long day, and after a happy hour where I couldn’t drink, and after meeting up with my sister-in-law, and after working on an important project that had to be done by morning. And I just laid there in my rickety hotel bed, crying at 11:30 p.m., hurting down to my bones.
“I can’t make it like everyone else,” I’d said. “I’m so tired. Everything hurts so badly and I can’t sleep. I don’t know how to make it through the rest of the trip.”
A Random Thursday
Tonight (it’s Thursday) I found myself falling to the kitchen floor before making it to the sink to wash my plate. I’d been nauseous for a couple of hours, I’d been burning up and sweating, and then I’d been plagued by chills. Earlier in the day I’d been fatigued, I’d had brain fog, I’d had skin pain on my leg and a slight rash on my arm. And then I’d reverted to feeling okay for a bit (this happens often).
Around 5:30 p.m. I’d tried to eat some okra and experienced GI upset, so I tried to eat again around 6:30 p.m. (eggs this time) to allow me to take some enzymes and bile salts. And after reading something upsetting online immediately after that, my body said that was it – no more.
My husband asked me if I needed some water and I said yes, but to also bring me some Benadryl. I took my little pink pill and then I sat there and cried until my body was calm enough to get up and walk out of the room.
“How do I keep going every single day?” I’d said to my husband. “Being sick is a full-time job, and I’m trying to work a full-time job on top of that. I just don’t know how to manage.”
Full Circle
So here I am now, writing this post before I take more medication and attempt an evening walk with my husband and head off to bed. Because as a writer I use my words to process things and to try to make sense of life. I use them to get my feelings out and to share my experiences. I use them to forge invisible connections and to make me feel like I’m contributing something to the world.
One of the things I’d said to my husband while sitting on the floor tonight was, “I can take more medicine but I can’t think when I do. And then what am I, if I can’t think? A writer has to be able to think.”
Who am I if I can’t write anymore?
I know that sounds really narrow, but writing is the thing that I feel I’m meant to do. It’s the talent I feel I have to contribute. Sometimes, though, it’s so hard to write when I’m spending so much time trying to survive. It’s why I haven’t put any new blog posts out in several weeks, and why I’m running behind on getting my book promotion together.
So I guess that’s what I wanted to write about today. I know so many people who are silently suffering from chronic illness, from cancer, from depression, from pain. And while we talk about how hard it is to make it through every day amongst ourselves and with our spouses, we don’t often share that piece with the world.
So I’m here to tell you that if you see someone with a medical condition or some other challenge, and you see them trying to hold down a job or raise a family or volunteer or just get up in the morning, you should know that it’s an enormous feat for that person to keep going. Not just physically, but mentally.
Because it’s the worst feeling in the world to be a prisoner in your own body. To want to do something but to be limited by your exterior. To need to work in order to secure your future and get the healthcare you need, but to not know how to keep going because your body can’t keep up.
Will I make it 10 years? Fifteen? Five? Even less? I don’t know. But I know I’m still here because there’s something I’m supposed to be doing. There’s a talent I have and there are all of these experiences I’ve overcome that I want to share.
So I’ll finish with this: I was listening to a podcast this morning of an interview with Ina Garten. Apparently she just lived her best life day-to-day, not thinking too much or planning for the future, but rather focusing on being her best at whatever she was involved in. And in doing so, she sort of rode along and landed where she was supposed to be.
This resonated strongly with me because I don’t really have control of what’s going on in my life right now, so I do try to live day-to-day as much as I can. But also, I can still try to write as best I can every day that I can. And I can still search for the energy to put my book out into the world, because the stars have aligned for me to do so. And I can still do my very best in my job every day, even if it’s not as good as I wish it was.
Any of us who are sick can just do the best we can, every day, and maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe we’ll ride along and just land wherever it is we’re supposed to be.
Thank you for reading.
———
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My first book, Halfway There: Lessons at Midlife, was released on August 18, 2020 by Warren Publishing and was re-released on February 16, 2021 by White Ocean Press. To read an excerpt, check out reviews, see the author Q&A, or find links to buy, click the Learn More button.
I'm Too Old for That
Recently I stopped into Dillard’s with my husband while we were taking a lap around the mall after dinner. I’d wanted to look at some pajamas, which I was in dire need of replacing after more than a year and a half of perpetual unemployment. But I didn’t end up looking at the pajamas.
I ended up looking at the undergarments.
I’m a rather small, interestingly shaped individual and this usually means a nightmare in almost any clothing store. Even though I’m 5’3” (considered petite), I’m extremely short-waisted. So my legs are as long as a regular-sized woman while my torso is even less than petite. Nothing ever fits. Clothes aren’t made for me.
Underwear isn’t made for me either.
Now this post isn’t really about underwear, even though it’s kind of about underwear. Hang with me (especially if you’re a guy) and I’ll get to my point.
“Excuse me,” I asked a young girl working in the department. She was probably in her early twenties and seemed quite normal in the sense that she wasn’t dressed too conservatively or too ostentatiously. She had just the right amount of makeup on and looked beautifully herself.
“Do you sell any bikinis?” I asked, as that’s the only cut I can wear without the waistband coming halfway up my torso. “All I’m seeing are briefs.”
“Oh yes, we do,” she said, motioning for me to follow. “But we don’t sell a lot of them. We only have about three styles.”
She showed me the first style, which was stretchy and plain Jane. Not bad, I thought to myself. Then we moved to the next table.
“Now these are really great,” she said. “I own lots of these and I like the lace. It’s a nice touch.”
“Oh I don’t need lace,” I said almost before she’d finished her sentence. “I just need something comfortable at this point. I’m too old for lace.”
“What? You don’t look old to me,” she said.
“I’m thirty-eight,” I replied, never ashamed to tell my age.
“Thirty-eight! Wow. I hope I age as well as you have.” She smiled at me and folded some items on the table.
I smiled back and thanked her, as I could tell that it wasn’t just flattery. But something shifted in that moment and I began an internal dialogue with myself as I quietly picked up a pair.
I’m too old? Did I really say that?
I can’t wear lace anymore?
Why not? Really?
She doesn’t think I’m too old. Why do I think I’m too old?
My outsides haven’t matched my insides for the past four years due to medical issues. It was like I’d accelerated thirty years into the future even though my exterior wasn’t showing the wear. But in that moment, for the first time since age thirty-four, I realized that I sure was my age. My treatments had been giving me a better quality of life this year but I hadn’t found my way back, mentally, to actual age thirty-eight just yet.
Stuck is what I would call it.
“Maybe I’ll try a pair,” I told her, eyeing a purple one. “But, umm, one size fits all? Really? Is this a thing now?”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “I know it sounds really crazy but they really do fit everybody. You can go try them on over your existing panties and see what you think.”
“Okay. I’ll give them a try.”
Turns out they fit pretty nicely. In fact, those lace panties came home with me along with a sunshiney pair of yellow and white pajamas that I’d grabbed on the way to the fitting room. I left the plain Jane stuff behind.
I share this story to tell you that mindset means a lot, and also that you can change it in an instant if you want to. For me, I’d decided in that moment – in front of the underwear table – that I wasn’t going to condemn myself to an early retirement anymore. What a silly way to approach life, sticking myself into a category synonymous with washed up.
Maybe it’s not lace panties that seem out of reach for you at your “age.” Maybe it’s something else like a hairdo or a hobby or a job. Maybe it’s a type of music or staying out late, or having people over for an old-school style pool party with a cooler full of beer and rap music blaring from the speakers.
But perhaps you’re not actually as old or as boring as you’ve allowed yourself to slide into over the years. Perhaps the only person holding you back is you.
So how about you decide what age you are going to be and feel? How about you decide to no longer condemn yourself to a rocking chair because you think you’ve missed your prime? Why, because you’re a parent now? Because you’re tired after a day at work? Because you can’t binge on wine without destroying your body for a few days instead of a few hours?
You’re evolving. You’re gaining wisdom. Your body is aging but you’re not old. You’re the same you, really, that you’ve always been. Just a bit better.
I think it’s your internal dialogue that controls your reality sometimes. I’d hung onto a medically-induced “oldness” long after it had lifted from my life, because it had become familiar. Because I didn’t look particularly “young” anymore (i.e. twenty-five) when I looked in the mirror. Because I couldn’t do the physical things I used to do. Because my energy levels had dropped and I’m tired by 9 o’clock.
So I was automatically “old.”
Have you told yourself you’re automatically “old?” Maybe it’s time to use your own brain to reframe your perspective.
We all have the power to do that, today, if we want to. Our ability to shine is only limited by our desire to do so. So go out there, polish the old penny of a body that you have, and shine. You’re not too old for that.
———
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My first book, Halfway There: Lessons at Midlife, was released on August 18, 2020 by Warren Publishing and was re-released on February 16, 2021 by White Ocean Press. To read an excerpt, check out reviews, see the author Q&A, or find links to buy, click the Learn More button.
The Whispers of Youth
This weekend we went to a jazz festival up north of Dallas, in Denton, near the University of North Texas. I attended this university for one out of my four years of college so I’m aware of its famous jazz program and the unbelievable talent that comes through those doors.
My husband and I found a small patch of grass amidst the endless lawn chairs and blankets, crowded by the people who’d been camped out since breakfast to absorb as much music as they could. My hat shaded my eyes (and sometimes impeded my view) as we sat down and clasped our knees under the branches of a sturdy, swirling tree that was blowing in the wind two stories up.
We relaxed and we listened to the UNT jazz ensemble on a tiny stage shrouded in green and white (university colors). I was captivated by the A Cappella sounds of a tune reminiscent of 1940s harmonies, which later transitioned into doo-wop, a piano and a cello. These were sounds that gave me goose bumps and that wrapped me with joy, but that also carried me back to an earlier time in my life that often feels buried in practicality.
The singers and musicians were between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-two, most of them about to graduate and step into the rest of their lives. And they reminded me of the person I used to be at that age. The person who was once in college and studying the arts (literature for me), with the whole world in front of me, with dreams brewing, and with a desire to do something out of the ordinary as I walked on this planet.
But then life hit and plans went askew, as often happens when we realize the idealism of our young minds isn’t actually the reality of our existence.
I think we remember our youth as we age but that we forget it, too. We may not forget the things we used to love but sometimes we forget how much we used to love them. And in doing so, we forget who we truly wanted to be before bills and life and responsibilities got in the way.
Many of us walked across that university stage and picked up our fake degree (the real one comes in the mail later) and we believed that the fervor would continue. That the love we had for our subject matter would land us in a job we’d love, doing something we love. That our life would be extraordinary and would continue along the same path we’d started forging.
I watched those college kids singing their hearts out and I knew they were churning the same idealistic thoughts. I saw the joy in their eyes and the real talent in their solar plexuses, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d get lost in the swirl of life like I did. If their music would dissolve into a mundane job that paid the bills and allowed them to take care of their homes or their kids or their cats. If their artistic gifts would fall back into the shadows, because our world is not one that supports the arts.
I’ve been in a good place recently where I’ve decided to grab my life and force it back in line with where I’d hoped it would be. I’ve been focusing on my personal creative work for the first time in a long while, and I’ve been demanding a creative path in my career endeavors.
This means I’m no longer allowing myself to fall into the grayness that is work I don’t want to be doing. Yes, I have bills that aren’t going away and I do what I have to do. But no, I won’t accept the idea that gray work is all I’m allowed to do. I don’t care what anyone says or how many people get in my way.
Arriving in this place happened when things got bad earlier this year and I turned inward, listening to myself for an answer on which turn to take. And what I discovered was the college kid I’d lost touch with, sitting quietly in observation. The one with the hunger for stories and discourse, with the talent for the written word, with the professors who encouraged her to go to grad school (but she declined due to massive burnout).
I found that kid who wanted to do something meaningful and special with her life before everything got in the way.
I’d seen her from time to time because that part of yourself never leaves and, I think, always strives to break free from rational constriction. But I just hadn’t paid much attention to her whispers because my life was so utterly full of turmoil for well over a decade. I couldn’t hear anything but the loud noise of my mangled existence.
So this time when she started speaking again, I grabbed her. I snatched her. I held her close and I refused to let her fade into the background again. And I’m going to empower her with a voice (not a whisper) and urge her to step back into my world. To be heard. To participate. To thrive like she did in my younger days.
These writings are part of that process.
And I wonder how many of us have forgotten the person we truly are? I wonder how many of us ignore those whispers from our younger selves. The ones that float in when life feels off course, but that we ignore because of practicality?
I’d like to think that it doesn’t take a catastrophe for us to listen to ourselves again, but maybe it does. Maybe that’s what catastrophes are for. Maybe that’s what life shifts are for. Maybe that’s what turning points are for.
Maybe that’s what everything I’ve been through is for?
Maybe.
———
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My first book, Halfway There: Lessons at Midlife, was released on August 18, 2020 by Warren Publishing and was re-released on February 16, 2021 by White Ocean Press. To read an excerpt, check out reviews, see the author Q&A, or find links to buy, click the Learn More button.
The Terror of Unemployment
I turned on the AC today for the first time in a while because the temperature hit 87 degrees here in Texas. And when I did so, a grinding sound permeated the walls of my house and shot straight across the living room.
Oh no, I thought in utter dismay. There’s something wrong with the AC.
This newest development is one in a long line of terribly timed developments that have occurred since I lost my job in February—the night before we moved into this (our first) house. It’s been a vortex of bills, emergencies, obligations and inconveniences that have derailed our finances and caused us to dip into our emergency savings for the first time.
It’s felt pretty awful.
The thing is, I’m terrified of unemployment. And I’m terrified not because of some abstract idea about how it might feel or how my life might play out if I can’t find a job for six or 10 or 15 months. I’m terrified because I’ve actually been in this situation before.
Last year it was for eight months and it was one of the darkest times in my life. Between 2009 and 2010, it was for 14 months, and it was again one of the blackest moments in my existence. Right now I’m swiftly moving into month three, and although I haven’t fallen into that extra dark place just yet, I really don’t want to get there again and I’m doing everything I can to beat it out of my psyche.
My feelings of terror really go deeper than those specific experiences, though, because life is a complex ball of emotions that pulls from different moments in time. I’ve also lost everything more than once (and because of long-term unemployment), and it’s an awful thing to put your remaining possessions in a tiny storage unit and transport yourself and your two cats into a small bedroom that doesn’t belong to you.
Being helplessly dependent on the kindness of someone else for food and shelter is infinitely humbling.
My terror also goes back to my memories of growing up poor. I remember tallying up my mother’s groceries on a calculator so that we didn’t arrive at the checkout with a bigger bill than we could pay. I remember too-tight shoes and holes in my jeans, because there was simply no money to upgrade.
I also remember eating ramen noodles for the last week of the month as a young adult, because the funds had run out and we didn’t get paid again for another week. It’s like living in a perpetual state of wanting.
So today I panicked a bit when I realized this noise would translate to another bill we had to pay out of an account that was already in deficit. It would just be $75 (I hoped), because we have a home warranty program, but $75 is a lot of money for us right now.
Seventy-five dollars is money I can’t replace because I haven’t found a source of income yet. Seventy-five dollars would buy a week of groceries. Seventy-five dollars here, and seventy-five dollars there, adds up to a whole lot more than seventy-five dollars.
If you’ve ever been long-term unemployed and have watched your bank account dwindle down to zero like water going down a shower drain, then you understand what it means to think that you might end up there again. That your finances will be ruined, that your home will be gone, that your life savings will evaporate.
And I share my own story and fears because I know so many others who are walking with me in this experience. I know people who have had to move, who have drained their retirement accounts, who have declared bankruptcy, and who even are on the verge of homelessness.
I know so many people.
So if you’re one of those people, I want to tell you that I understand how you feel and that you are not alone in your plight—or in your terror. Because there are others who are wearing the same shoes.
But I also have a new strategy to share that helps me manage my terror so that it doesn’t bury me (literally and metaphorically) in six feet of heavy dirt. The thing I’m doing now, and that I did today, was to just throw my hands up and say:
Okay. I can’t control everything and I can’t control this. I’m trying my very best. I’m networking, I’m applying, I’m putting good energy into the world and I’m helping people when I can. And I just can’t control the outcome. I can’t control the broken AC. I can’t control the $75. So why spend my time overcome with terror when everything could change tomorrow? Or next week? Or next month?
It’s a classic cognitive-behavioral technique that I’m still working to master.
Living in the present is really hard to do when you’re terrified, but it’s the only way to go if you want to find peace. Because you know what? Maybe you’ll lose everything tomorrow (although you probably won’t), but right now you have food. Right now you have shelter. Right now the grass is green and the sun is shining.
Right now you are still alive, and right now there is still hope of a better tomorrow because it hasn’t unfolded yet.
And if the very worst happens? If you lose all of your money and if you have to sell your home and your jewelry or if <insert worst thing ever here>? Then you’ll start over. You’ll pick up the pieces and you’ll just start over.
Simple as that.
———
To leave a comment or share this post, scroll down.
My first book, Halfway There: Lessons at Midlife, was released on August 18, 2020 by Warren Publishing and was re-released on February 16, 2021 by White Ocean Press. To read an excerpt, check out reviews, see the author Q&A, or find links to buy, click the Learn More button.
How Grace and Frankie Changed My Life
I first saw the show Grace and Frankie while visiting a friend about a year and a half ago. She lives up in the mountains of Colorado and uses Netflix for her TV service, and she invited me to watch the first episode of the series with her because she’d liked it. I remember thinking, “I like this show. It’s an interesting premise. I’m going to watch it.”
I returned home and did watch one or two episodes. But then I fell into the rhythm of my life (which for me doesn’t include a ton of TV) and it dropped off my radar.
Not long after I’d lost my job earlier this year, when my world was in absolute upheaval and I didn’t know what to do with myself, I decided to watch an episode or two as a way to escape reality. That little trickle turned into binge watching, which I don’t do, and I’m now almost done with the present season (no spoilers, I’m not done yet!).
It sounds silly, but this is a perfect example of how the universe brings you the things you need at just the right time. Don’t worry, I’ll explain.
For those who are unfamiliar, Grace and Frankie (starring Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin) is the story of two women whose husbands fall in love with each other, get married late in life, and leave the wives to pick up the pieces. Grace is the business mogul who thrives on structure and built a successful company before she retired. Frankie is the artist and free spirit who paints, is a vegetarian, and smokes some pot from time to time.
I had a moment one day while watching that hit me so hard that it changed my life: I realized that I’m Frankie (minus the pot) and I’d been trying to live in a Grace world.
Wow. It’s really that simple.
I’ve never enjoyed the rigidity of corporate life and I never wanted to arrive there. In fact, I’ve never felt quite right at any job where I’ve had to sit in a cubicle or talk about profits or sales or pushing out the latest release of software. I’ve had a persistent discontentment in all of my jobs. Sometimes not at first, but I assume it’s because the hope of a new role being better and finally making me happy drowned it out.
Over 15+ years the melancholy always came, in every job, like clockwork. I’d thought something was just wrong with me. Why does no job make me happy?
I understand now that it’s because I’m a Frankie. I’m an artist and a free spirit. I want to live life my way, I want to structure my day my way, I want to express myself and do things that are meaningful to me and meaningful to humanity. I want to write about things that matter to me and not about drywall products or computer software or dental surgery.
I’ve been living an absolutely inauthentic life since I left college and that’s why I’ve felt so off kilter for so long. But I just couldn’t find a way out.
So I’ve started trying to make a way out now, because it feels like it’s finally my time. This website and blog is part of that, as is the hard work I’ve been doing on my book for the past few weeks.
I knew when my entire life blew up earlier this year and my social media engagement exploded last month that something had shifted for me. Something big was happening. Something up there in the sky was pushing me forward down here. Get out of the wrong life, it’s been saying to me. There is no more time to push aside the life you’re meant to live. Get on it. Get started. NOW.
Ok universe, I got the message. And thanks a bunch for sending me clarity through a TV show.
It’s funny how much you can see when you really look.
———
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My first book, Halfway There: Lessons at Midlife, was released on August 18, 2020 by Warren Publishing and was re-released on February 16, 2021 by White Ocean Press. To read an excerpt, check out reviews, see the author Q&A, or find links to buy, click the Learn More button.