Reflecting on Bill Cosby….

I was an avid Cosby show watcher as a child. I felt a kinship with the Huxtables, and wanted to spend holidays with Rudy so we could sing along to our favorite 50’s radio songs, and eat delicious foods off the kitchen bar counter top.

I remember reading once that Bill Cosby would often place a pillow on his lap before ever letting a child sit there, in order to create a safety barrier of comfort. “How considerate,” I thought, once I realized the intricacies of men and their laps. This knowledge made me like Bill Cosby even more, because I considered him a compassionate and soulful man who relished the innocence and vulnerability of children.

To be honest, I don’t really recall the 2005 accusations of rape against Bill Cosby. I don’t know if it was because I was too caught up in my world to pay attention, or if there simply wasn’t enough mention of this situation in the news of the small, sleepy, Costa Rican village I was living in at the time.

The past week has completely shattered my innocence regarding Mr. Cosby– which unfortunately now include Heathcliff Huxtable and the gang. One after the other, women are coming forward to state that Bill Cosby drugged them before engaging in sexual activities without their consent.

This is rape.

And based on the plethora of allegations: this is serial rape.

Granted, these allegations are just resurfacing (although some for the first time) and I do believe in due process for everyone…..but if these allegations are true, then does that mean Bill Cosby is a serial rapist?

The consideration of this is mind blowing, as this was the man who promoted wholesome family values, loving parenting techniques, and yes, the innocence of children.

And I admit, the image of him in this way makes me not want to believe he could be capable of harm to another human being– especially something as repulsive as drugging and raping repeated women over a long span of time.

But I think that is time that we MUST acknowledge the fact that ALL of us contain this polarity within; the light and shadow aspects of ourselves.

Ok, beware. I am about to get woo.

I see our existence as an interplay of energetic frequencies that manifest as thoughts, feelings, actions, skintone, body build, behavior, etc. This means we are walking beings with a shit-ton of disharmonic frequencies emanating from us. It’s why we can laugh while we are crying, or be so happy in one moment, and quickly change to sad in the next. Its how we can be happy for a friend about her new job promotion, while also being jealous and a little afraid of what will happen to us. We are human. We are complex. That is the point.

Recently, our culture has focused a lot on sexual assault, rape, and violence towards women. It has become a more mainstream conversation in the recent years, and this particular year we have seen a huge surge of people coming forward to declare that the rights of the female body are sacred and do not belong to another. We have also seen much resistance to this idea, and a surge of violence against women as a result.

As a collective, we have focused on violence towards women in a variety of ways, all positive and negative. And we each have a plethora of disharmonic frequencies emanating about the subject.

So it makes complete sense that the collective has manifested the current Bill Cosby situation.

Here is America’s father figure, champion of wholesome values and fun, being accused of committing heinous sexual crimes against a multitude of women.

You cannot get more paradox than that.

And I think we manifested it NOW because we need to really gain some resolution and focus on this topic. I mean, hey, Bill is an old man. These allegations are from decades ago…. so why now?

As a collective group of human beings, we NEED to address this type of violence. We need to see how we are creating this type of dynamic. And we need to realize that this type of shadow is inherent in each of us.

And we really, really need to address our shadowy views about rape, violence, and the overt sexualization of the female body. These shadowy, low vibrating beliefs are running the show, so to speak, and will keep resurfacing until we confront them directly.

How we respond to Bill Cosby in this moment is paramount to how we will move forward as humans.

So in that way, Bill is really teaching us a lot by giving himself up as a catalyst of change to the masses.

Don’t hate me– I am in no way validating what he might have done, but I do see the miraculousness of the timing and status. Who better to teach us about what we are capable of than the man who taught us that very thing each week as a child (and again in syndication)?

The blaring lesson I see here is this: why do we have such disparate frequencies about violence in any kind– but specifically violence against women? Why do we think it is okay to harm another in any way, be it sexually, physically, or emotionally? Why is it okay to make public policies regarding women’s bodies?

Why are some aspects of violence abbhored, why others are deemed “necessary for the good of the many”?

My thought is this:
If Bill Cosby is a rapist, then we all are in some way.

My question is: So what are we going to do to change that?

little yellow paper…..

We weren’t really fighting, that day,
when i vehemently told you to “stop”.
You had just moved your things into our home,
except ‘our’ home was a mixture of personal solitude,
mixed with months of wonder.

I had placed a piece of paper into the trash… except that this was
no ordinary piece of paper, it was a symbol of me trying to
control the situation, make my mark, and keep things progressing.
But this piece of paper was important to you, for far more than its tangible worth,
and you saved it–you– from becoming obsolete.

You rifled through the garbage and asked why I had thrown this away in my
haze of hurried movement.
Didn’t I know this was important to you?
Can’t I see the worth of this yellow, tattered paper?

I never stopped to look at what that paper might have said– and even if I had,
would I have understood its meaning?

When I said “stop”, I wasn’t asking you to stop everything,
I was asking the world to stop moving for just a moment,
so that I could catch my breath, stop, and see what we were building.
I ran to to the sanctity of an empty room,
where I could catch my breath, my thoughts, my mind.

And in this space I could see that everything was unfolding so quickly,
so absurdly, in all the right places.

So now I want to keep all of your things
forever scattered around our new home,
so that I can notice and appreciate each detail,
scratch,
and tear,
and lie in wonder of what is to come.

37 things I have never done….

It has been almost one month since my 37th birthday…. in fact, it will be exactly one month in about 10 hours from submitting this post. This recent birthday was less than dramatic– which is sometimes a good thing. It started with a sleepless night, migraine, run in with a snake, spider, and crazy owl man in the woods, followed by a beauticious walk on the coast with a man I love, and ended with Mexican food.

All in all, a pretty goo HoJo day.

But upon reflecting (and inspired by Erin McKeown), I am compiling my own upside down bucket list– 37 things I have never done (and some I really don’t want to do).

In no particular order:

37- I have never won a car, or other large sums of money through the lotto.
36- I have never seen the sunset in Thailand.
35- I have never been bit by a snake.
34- I have never punched someone else in the face– whether they deserved it or not.
33- I have never been to a mosque.
32- I have never read War and Peace.
31- I have never seen any of the new Star Wars movies.
31- I have never read an entire book from finish to end in one night, then pick it up and read it again (though I almost did with HP).
30- I have never been to Kansas.
29- I have never driven a car in the UK.
28- I have never given anonymously given someone $1000.
27- I have never mastered the underwater turn kick whilst swimming laps.
26- I have never ran a marathon/half marathon.
25- I have never been a part of a sexual threesome.
24- I have never left my shoes behind at yoga….on purpose.
23- I have never been married.
22- I have never ran the Great Wall.
21- I have never eaten bull’s testicles.
20- I have never read any Eckart Tolle stuff, even though I own lots of his stuff.
19- I have never kissed anyone with red hair and blue eyes.
18- I have never bought a last minute plane ticket to Istanbul.
17- I have never eaten frog.
16- I have never been able to stare at someone’s face for more than 5 minutes without smiling.
15- I have never drop kicked a cat.
14- I have never eaten pizza from a 7-11.
13- I have never read any JR Tolken.
12- I have never crushed on/been in love with someone in my adult years without telling them that I had feelings for them (at some point….sometimes at a safe distance).
11- I have never told my mom about what it felt like to not see her for so long.
10- I have never learned proper chord progression on a guitar.
9- I have never crawled from the couch to my bedroom and back 5 times.
8- I have never told someone I hated them and really meant it.
7- I have never told any one person everything.
6- I have never purposefully re-arranged all of my boyfriend’s books on his bookshelf in un-alphabetical order.
5- I have never seen the moon up close.
4- I have never been hugged by Amma or the Dalai Llama.
3- I have never told my grandmother how much her hugs mean to me.
2- I have never admitted to anyone how utterly lost I feel sometimes.
1- I have never thought that the “reality” we see before us is real.

B.Y.O.D.

Sometimes all I really, really want is a hug. Perhaps this hug is accompanied by a sweet whisper in my ear that says, “You are totally worth it. All of it. And I love you”.

I know that I am a product of watching way too many romcoms. I have imagined what love…ahem, true love…. should look like since I was a kid. Notes passed from friend to friend until they reach my hand in math class, with scribbles of love and other undecipherable sayings. “Meet me at my locker after 6th period,” they might say. “I have a surprise for you.”

Or better yet, maybe they would stand under my window with a boombox, playing peter gabriel and telling my father that the only thing they wanted to do with their life is love me.

Chase me up a fire escape to state their love, after whisking me away in their limo and saving me from a life of prostitution.

In reality, most of these films are simply tales of a white knight, a savior even. One of the reasons I love Tori and Ani is that their music completely bashes this concept.

I am not a pretty girl
that is not what I do
I ain’t no damsel in distress
and I don’t need to be rescued
so put me down punk
maybe you’d prefer a maiden fair
isn’t there a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere

These words would completely dismantle the idea of romance and love…they made me feel powerful, feminine, and a brazen hussy (in the best possible way).

So why, in the throes of trying to find solace in a relationship, do I come back to the thought of wanting to feel loved in the most trite ways? Why do I– a feminist, queer, anti-sexist woman– seek solace in the arms of another. Of a man, even?

I blame my template of unrealistic love.

Parents. Crushes. TV. Movies. Patriarchy. Tiger Beat magazine. I blame them all. Every fucking one of them.

We don’t teach young girls how to find solace in themselves. Instead, we teach them to find solace in their friends, in being nice to one another, and in the hopes of being pretty, talented, or cunning enough to land a husband to take care of them.

I watched my mother, then my step mother, wait hand and foot on my father. Dinner every night– always with some sort of meat and potatoes, which was my dad’s favorite. Bringing him iced tea to his usual spot in the armchair recliner, as he dozed off in front of the tv.

“I work hard all day. Can’t I just get some peace and quiet,” he would yell when pestered with questions or pleas for attention.

I don’t know how many nights I went to sleep with tears in my eyes due to his outbursts….or worse yet, his complete dismissal. I will take a slap to the face any day over someone walking away as you are talking, or falling asleep as you are sharing a vulnerable moment.

I love my father, but for the bulk of my childhood, he was dismissive, mean, and I watched him physically beat the shit out of both of my moms– one while she was pregnant with my younger brother.

We have some great memories– precious memories– but living with him taught me to keep men at a distance because they seemed to only feign interest when they needed something: food, sex, a ride, or iced tea.

And as the older I get, the more complex it all seems. I used to cut my losses and run pretty early in a relationship if it felt tense. Sometimes I ran too early, sometimes I stayed too long. Although I still feel the urges to run when it feels difficult (survival mechanism, i s’pose), I really want to figure things out and take responsibility for my actions, and give some credence to the fact that relationships take work if they are comprised of two separate people.

It is soooo much easier when dealing with the hypothetical relationships in one’s head. All arguments have authentic dialogue with compassionate listening, filled with “I hear you”, and “I really love yous”. In reality, this is not always the case. Sometimes your partner doesn’t affirm your thoughts, sometimes they do. Sometimes they acknowledge that you are hurting, and sometimes they are too caught up in their own pain or defiance to really meet you halfway.

I keep reading these relationship articles that speak to how “easy” relationships are…at least with the “right” people. What does this mean, really? Who are the ‘right” people? Those that think and act like you? Drama free people? Healthy, self-actualized, completely healed people?

Perhaps, my friends, the problem is me. Perhaps I demand too much, and will settle for too little. Perhaps my complex neurosis will make every relationship a challenging affair, until I throw in the towel and surrender. I feel as if I have been fighting to feel like I matter for most of my life….. so much that fighting and expressing my voice is what I know to do best now. Simply sitting back and enjoying the experience feels difficult because of the fear that my needs will become obsolete. That perhaps I will become obsolete.

Feeling obsolete and invisible was a theme of my childhood, which is probably why I have dedicated my life to finding opportunities and ways to feel alive. Screaming my needs until someone hears me. Becoming obsessed with ghosts because I resonate with the feeling that no one can hear or see you.

It is not with irony that the first line to a song dedicated to my father starts with “Daddy, Daddy can you hear me? I’ve looked through this big old world, but can you see me?”

Hmmm.

This is the romcom that needs to be made. And already has been… but without the external (read boyfriend) component.

So tonight, as I slip into sleep, I might whisper to myself “You are totally worth it. All of it. And I love you”……. and wake myself up to my own boombox of music 😉

B.Y.O.D.

Be Your Own Dobler.

Asking for abandonment is the key…..

I just returned from a week long pilgrimage of sorts down the California coast. It didn’t start out as a pilgrimage at first, as I was simply seeking asylum from my own cluttered mind of anxiety. And I love road trips, and I really wanted to see some friendly, familiar faces.

And all of those things happened. Coastal views. Laughter. Visits with old friends. And then there were tears…and lots of them. The demons of my mind battled themselves out within my psyche, to the point where I hit a soul wall at some point between Orange County and San Diego. I kept crying over and over to myself:

“I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I want to feel love. I want the impossible. I want to be loved no matter what I do.”

I have spent the last 13 years trying to heal— seeing myself as broken, wounded, and incomplete, and attracting people into my world that reaffirmed these thoughts. Believing myself to be a spiritual person, I sought out spiritual circles, rituals, books, affirmations, psychics, and all the stuff that would help me make sense of this life.

Move towards love.
Distract yourself from negative thought.
Negativity is toxic.
Embrace the light.
There must be something I am doing to perpetuate this, since we create our own reality.
Think abundant thoughts.
Namaste.

Anytime that something painful happened, I immediately tried to find my part in the situation, so that I could heal and move forward.

Healing. So much healing. I continually saw myself as so broken that I needed immense healing.

Sometimes, the act of thinking one needs healing separates oneself from the essence of what they really are: human. The minute we think we need healing, we automatically move into a space of disconnection from ourselves.

And in this moment in the car, I had had enough. I wanted more. I wasn’t okay with what I had, and I wanted the sun, moon, and stars. I wanted love no matter the cost…..and I was tired of rationalizing why I couldn’t feel it. I was at a point where I wanted to die rather than keep thirsting for this type of experience.

The nice things about having a breakdown in the car, especially at nighttime, is that no one can see your tears, witness your snotty face, or have to feel awkward about the sobs. It was liberating to let go.

There was a sense of surrender to it all. A deafness. A complete feeling of falling on the floor to let the waves wash over me until I had become sand.

There was no more. I was done.

**********

The next day, I went to see a favorite psychic in San Diego, Anya. I loved her cute, British accent, and would always adore the memory of her wearing the tiny hat on our first encounter a few years ago. though she spends most of our sessions talking about herself, I still like to visit and get a reading. I realized that if I let her ramble, she tends to provide a golden nugget of light just when I need it, hidden amongst the tangent.

I had asked her about the current relationship I was in. We had just moved in together, and I was feeling extra needy for his time and attention. And it seems that I created a dramatic situation almost everyday based on some of my insecurities. Mostly, I was fearful that I would lose myself in this relationship. I had already moved away from the familiarity of friends and socal sun to be with him, so it felt like I had handed over some of my power in this choice alone. And it is hard to merge lives with someone you have primarily known from a distance. I could feel my flexibility bent into various shapes that fit his schedule and expectations, and I wasn’t sure how I could maintain that durability over time.

But my biggest fear was the one of abandonment. That I was shifting so much of my life to fit the needs of another person….and if it ended, what then?

I asked Anya about this fear. She asked me to go back throughout childhood and talk about all the times I had felt abandoned. I so didn’t want to go there, because it seemed trite and over worked in my overly-psychologized brain. She adamantly stated that abandonment was a theme in my life– a life lesson that I had chosen pre-birth to experience and learn from. So then she asks:

“Well, have you learned your lesson yet, or do you still need this experience?”

Ouch. And whoah.

“Which abandonment feels the worst? Which one still creates havoc on your soul? And do you need more”

Silently, but clearly, the realization began to form in my mind.

The biggest abandonment has been happening throughout my life. It is determined in its consistency, and evident in everything that I do.

My biggest abandonment has nothing to do with the actions of another: my biggest abandonment is myself.

It happens every time I try to make myself see the positive and not feel the negative emotions I am feeling. It happens every time I attempt to re-write the past to feel better, or supress my thoughts or feelings because I am fearful of how another person might interpret them. It happens every time I apologize for things that I didn’t do– especially when I apologize for sharing my truth with another. It happens every time I invalidate my own thoughts, or think I don’t deserve something. It happens every time I compare myself to another, or attempt to rationalize my behavior. Or even when I say a silly remark that denounces my worth, even when that is the “humble” or funny thing to do.

I have been abandoning myself as long as I can remember.

No wonder this is a life theme.

Ad the only way back is to let it all in. I mean all of it. The gritty, the ugly, the raw, destructive feelings that we so want to hide.

If I can’t sit with myself, and these thoughts and emotions, fully in their most raw form…..how can I ever expect another person to do so? Better yet: how can I do this for someone else?

I have never loved myself unconditionally. I put conditions on my self-love every day…..and express fear that someone else will do the thing that I am already doing to myself.

No wonder I felt broken.

I was.

I was heart broken.

The most poignant love affair in our lives is the one we have with ourselves; and I ran away from that love almost every moment I could get. I literally broke my own heart, in almost every breath.

*******

The road trip ended with me feeling mesmerized by this epiphany, and also scared. Changed, but still very much me. It is still seeping in, and I am practicing little moments at a time with letting myself feel without judgement or apology. Instead of rushing to fix it, I want to just let it be. And let the thoughts flow. All of them. Especially the bad ones.

There is a freedom is giving in to it all without an agenda.

And I could spend the rest of my life sitting in this state, just letting it all happen.

And I suppose, that is the most loving thing I could ever do for myself….. loving myself unconditionally, no matter the state of mind.

There is a freedom in this sweet act of love.

It is quite possibly peace.

Why. Sex. Matters.

I was around the age of 7 or 8 when he touched me. He had taken my younger sister and I to the airport to see the planes land. This was in the early 80’s, and the airstrip still had open embankments to sit on and watch the planes as they took off and landed. It was nighttime, and I was mesmerized by how low the planes seemed to fly before they gently touched the ground.

“Let me pick you up now”, he said. He hoisted my sturdy, little kid frame into his hands, and forced my legs around his waist. I looked down at my sister, who was standing next to us, gazing back with a perplexed look on her face. “Put your head on my shoulder”, he said, and began rocking me side to side. He patted my back, then my butt, then his hands found their way into my shorts and he slid my panties to the side before stroking my “monkey”.

This was my grandmother’s name for my vagina: monkey. I know this because when we would spend the night at her house, she would often tell my sister and I to wash our “little monkeys” when we were in the shower. She never touched us there herself; she would help us wash our hair, our backs, but as soon as it came time to wash down south we were on our own.

So it took me by surprise when my own uncle wanted to touch my monkey. It took me even more by surprise when he inserted his fingers inside– even I didn’t do that.

I remember feeling paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I was scared and perplexed at the same time.I knew what he was doing was off limits, because I had seen my fair share of ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ and ‘Private School for Girls’.

And this wasn’t the first something like this had happened. I remembered Darryl, my older next door neighbor, who had used to chase me into the crawl space under his house, pin me down, and attempt to place his fledgling, adolescent penis inside of my mouth and my vagina. And when that didn’t work, I remember him humping me instead, fervent until a calm expression came over his face. “You did good”, he would say, though I had no clue what I had done.

So this experience with my uncle wasn’t my first encounter– but the first with an adult. And a relative. And unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last.

I don’t tell this story to become a victim or ask for sympathy– and goodness knows, almost every woman I know has a story like this….to the point where people are asking women to stop sharing these stories.

I am not sure what is worse: the fact that so many people have these stories, or that we are tired of hearing them.

I used to live within these stories– and there were many that spanned most of my adolescence and early 20s. I am not sure of the impetus to see a different path, but when it happened, it felt liberating.

My life, right now, can be my story.

And it can change in every breath; every choice; every movement, act of forgiveness, or cry.

And it is because of this that sex feels so important now. And not just ‘sex’…. Anyone can have an orgasm. I am talking about that intimate, authentic, vulnerable connection that can happen between two people that heals and transforms.

It was this type of sex that helped me moved on from my past.

Sex that was kind.
Sex that was gracious.
Sex that was compassionate.
Sex that was generous.
Sex that was soulful.
Sex that took hours without penetration or climax.
Sex that was real.

And now that I know the amazing, transformative power of sex, I can never go back. I can never be the vessel to someone else’s exterior experience. It doesn’t feel authentic to not participate. It no longer feels natural to engage in sex that focuses solely on orgasm– without that gentle touch, appreciation, and complete love for the person I am with.

If I could go back in time I would whisper all of these things into the ear of my 7-year old self. I would tell her that what was happening had nothing to do with her– it was about someone else’s selfish needs for gratification. I would hold her and tell her that touch is something to be admired and trusted, and that she would find the ways to express that to others.

And ultimately, I would tell her that she is so very loved as she is in this moment. She isn’t dirty, She isn’t a whore. She isn’t used. And she is a spark of divinity that is capable of forgiving and loving even bigger than she could ever realize.

unconditionally crazy….

I recently asked my new live in boyfriend if he thinks I am crazy.

Note to self: I really shouldn’t ask questions if I hesitate to know the answer, but this compulsive part of me just can’t help myself (is this crazy??)

He said “No”.

So I asked the next question: Have you dated other people who you think might be crazy? Funnily, I don’t remember his answer (is this narcissism??), but I do remember what he said next.

“Sane girls don’t seem to be attracted to me”.

Ok, he might not have actually used the word ‘sane’, but the impression was implicit. He think he only attracts the less calm and centered ones. The interesting, somewhat disturbed, always thinking and questioning perhaps, somewhat restless in their own skin kinda gals.

Which is totally me.

I think I place too much emphasis on approval from the outside– as if another person’s thoughts or opinions of me completely shape who I am as a person. When I was younger, I was insistent on creating my opinions about things based on how others responded. “You don’t like that movie? Me either. Oh wait, you were joking? Yeah, me too”.

Later I went through an oppositional defiant stage where I based myself on the opposite of what others said or expressed. “You like that movie? What? Why? It’s sexist and completely shoddily made”. This was my way of creating my own stance AND sharing that I might be knowledgeable about things.

Funnily enough– it was still a plea to get others to approve of me. “See me, notice my wit and humor and opinionated feminism?! And I am smart and think for myself! Doesn’t that make me seem even more lovable???

And there you go. This is what is all comes down to….lovability. The theme of my life.

When I was asking the bf if he thinks I am crazy, it had little to do with me actually thinking that there is something wrong with me. I know we all have some neurotic behaviors– those are the things that make me love other people so much. Weird obsessions, anxiety ridden road trips, after-work drinks with a friend while dissecting every conversation with a co-worker, and chocolate for dinner. These things I love. Many a self-help/therapy book will say these are unhealthy behaviors– and they are– but I dig it. It makes this life interesting. Quirky. Romantic. Fun.

But when I ask “Do you think I am crazy?” to someone whose approval means a lot to me, what I am really asking is this: “Do my quirky traits overwhelm you? Do you still like me when I ask a lot of really awful questions? Are there conditions on your love that will make me seem less lovable if I do something that you don’t like?

And so forth.

I have been thinking a lot about unconditional love lately. My bf said that is the things he wants most from me….. but I am not exactly sure what he means when he says that. Does that mean that I stay happy and supportive through every situation, no matter how it feels or what it is? And can one actually promise/strive to love unconditionally, or is this something that is as fluid as the water that flows through our system every day? And could I even ask the same of him? Is this even fair to ask?

These are the questions that go through my mind, amongst many others. And my feeling (though it may not even be true), is that he might be getting tired of the questions and inquiry.

And that is okay.

Because I love him. And I love me.

And I love chocolate unconditionally.

And that seems to be a pretty good start.

Sometimes being depressed is the answer……

I spend a lot of time thinking. Analyzing., Pondering over minuscule bits of information, hoping to glean some bit of understanding that will prove that the inquiry was worth it.

I do this in my relationships so much, that sometimes my focus leaves the dynamic and strays dangerously into “jump ship” kinda waters.

My default: abandonment. rejection. unworthiness. burden.

These are stellar moments, for sure 🙂

For the past few months, I have been in constant motion: packing, moving, traveling, research, working, traveling some more, weddings, and moving. Lots of transitions, and lots of energy spent outwards. At the beginning of this month, I dove headstrong into my last task for the summer, which was moving to another state to be with my long-distance boyfriend.

We have been dating for a year, but separated by 3,000 miles, and bound together by some amazing Skype calls and visits, lots of texts, and shit load of hope. When he asked if I would accompany him to Oregon where he was moving for school, I knew I would go– even though I discussed my hesitation with him around giving definitive answers.

The last time I lived with someone, it ended with a shattered heart and a very long recovery period that still seeps into my psyche today. And I did not want that experience to be the defining experience of my life, so the act of moving to be with my boo was even more necessary.

I had to go. I had to prove to myself that I wasn’t resistant to love.

But holy poop, was I scared. Would I lose myself again– forget who I am, what I stand for, and merge all of my mannerisms and hopes onto his? Would I lose my own momentum for my life, dreams, and work? Would moving for someone else set the tone that this is the expectation for all our life’s decisions as a couple? And most terrifyingly: would I leave everything comfortable and familiar behind to be with him, and it doesn’t work out?

So. Many. Questions.

So I freaked out. A lot in my head– some with him. He seemed to be handling all of this so breezily, that I even questioned that. Did he understand the gravity of this choice? Was he simply that in love with me (and us) that he felt at ease? Or had he never shifted his entire life around for another person, and then have that entire new life shift again before his eyes without any say so?

Again… So. Many. Questions.

I have been in our new home for the past few weeks solo– the bf will join me in a week. There have been some good days, some bad days, and then some perplexing, heart-wrenching days that had me unable to get out of the bed. I have been re-living and purging some old emotions— the ones that I thought were pretty much healed, but were re-ignited by this move.

And to be perfectly honest, in this raw moment of self disclosure: I wasn’t exactly sure I was going to make it. It was too much.

These questions that had brought so much clarity to my life, were the very things that were killing me.

And I have had enough.

I spent an entire day just letting myself feel everything for what it was…. raw, unfiltered, unexamined emotions. When I felt myself trying to distract myself from the experience, I pulled myself back in, knowing that it was one of those excruciating things that needed to happen (much like that creepy sex scene between the brother and sister in The Hotel New Hampshire). I made myself stay in it, cry, rage, sob, and even dance with death. I gave it free reign to exist. No surpression. No explanation.

And as I was hitting an extreme low, something weird happened.

It started to subside.

The denseness of the emotions started to lighten….not feel as intense, and tinged with an air of gratitude for being allowed to come up for air.

I felt calm. Alive. Curious. Grateful.

I wasn’t reaching for happy– that wasn’t the point. I simply wanted clarity and authenticity. And since that day, I haven’t felt the need to self critique as much, or seek out the cracks. I dont feel like striving for perfection, and feel satiated by the thought that I can sit in the middle of the fire and not die.

I didn’t die.

I let myself feel deeply without restraint…. and I didn’t die. And I didn’t lose anyone. And I feel much clearer and lighter than I have in months.

I don’t feel the urge to apologize, or to take care of another person’s reaction to me. I still feel sensitive– I am a sensitive soul, so I think that is here to stay 🙂 And I am okay with that. I actually feel pretty secure about many of the things I have been pretty insecure about for a while….. even though I am still curious about how I will fit into this new city, and the new dynamics between my soon-to-be-live-in bf, I feel okay with it all, because I know it will be fine.

And I am rooting for miracles. Love. Gratitude. And the continual opportunity to expand my understanding of this life through contrast.

So thank you, you crazy, wondrous, brain of mine. You brought me to the brink of death, and revealed a new possibility of rebirth in a space I never would have imagined.

You took my chaos and made a beautiful tapestry of hope.

Happy New Moon in Virgo, fellow travelers…..

A Letter to My Lover, part unknown

I don’t want to know how long I will love you…. the days, minutes, or years. I want to taste each moment for what it is, sip in its mysteries, and savor the unknown.

I don’t want to know how long you might love me…… or even if you do. I wake up each morning in a different frame of mind, referencing my dream world or late night texts. Sometimes I radiate joy, and other times I sit in despair.

I don’t want to know if we will marry. If I will wear a fancy dress and dance amongst friends and family. If you will carry me over the threshold, kiss my nose, and tear up when we read our vows. I especially don’t want to know if you will gasp when you see me, or if it will feel like just another day.

I don’t want to know if we will have a family– a daughter or son or a combination of others. I don’t want to think about my aging womb, my fertile possibilities, or the creeping sensation that I might have an expiration date.

I don’t want to think about us growing old together, me reaching 60 before you, but you possibly becoming senile before me. I don’t want to know how cute your graying hair might seem, or witness you fold your sweaters in that way you do, long bony fingers etched with time. I don’t want to think about the way your eyes might crinkle when you laugh, or the far away look and candor you get when thinking and writing and dreaming.

But the truth is that this is all that I think about.

Always.

Every day.

And it is equally terrifying and tantalizing– wishful and wistful.

Because now that I think these things, I can never go back to not thinking about them.

And I don’t want to know how long I will love you…….

I’m gonna swing…..

I heard this song earlier today, and I was instantly transported back to my early 20’s.

Way early 20’s. Like, broken 20’s.

I remember my first episode of depression. I was 20, a sophomore in college, and it seemed to hit me out of nowhere. Perhaps it was divine timing, perhaps it was the chemical genetic set point, or perhaps I had a bad day turned month.

Whatever the trigger, I had to find a place to cry. I mean really cry. Not the kind of tears feasible for a shared dorm room– and I was not in the mindset to share vulnerabilities. I had a key to a church basement, so there I went, all night, listening to Morella’s Forest’s song “Oceania” until the sun rose.

Shut your eyes.
It’s late.
Think of heaven.
Your wish.

Don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid.

Take no chances.
Where we’re gonna end up we don’t know.
Trying not to look up to see.
Take a blanket and wrap yourself tight.
In the morning it’ll be alright.

There have been many little episodes since that time– and some bigger ones– and even more creative ways to cope. Always involving music, sometimes involving alcohol, sex, or the occasional sharp object. Impromptu road trips to NYC to disappear into the crowd, stomping the streets until I couldn’t hear myself think anymore. Dancing until 4am for the same reason, feeling so lost in the music as a distraction and celebration of what it meant to be alive in that moment.

And as we age, we learn to cope differently; “healtheir” they say 😉 Taking responsibility, action, and remorse.

Well, this song is a reminder of the younger me– the 22 year old self whose search, though destructive, gave me life.

A thousand little deaths….. a thousand rebirths….. every kiss, drink, pain, punch, scream, and laugh made this life possible. Where making it through a single moment,a single night, was divinity.

This song is for her. A tribute.

“Chandelier”

Party girls don’t get hurt
Can’t feel anything, when will I learn?
I push it down, push it down

I’m the one “for a good time call”
Phone’s blowin’ up, ringin’ my doorbell
I feel the love, feel the love

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink

Throw ’em back ’til I lose count

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist
Like it doesn’t exist
I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier

But I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Help me, I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

Sun is up, I’m a mess
Gotta get out now, gotta run from this
Here comes the shame, here comes the shame

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, drink

Throw ’em back ’til I lose count

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist
Like it doesn’t exist
I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier

But I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Help me, I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes
Keep my glass full until morning light, ’cause I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight

On for tonight
‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Oh, I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight
On for tonight
‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Oh, I’m just holding on for tonight
On for tonight
On for tonight