at long last.

Because I can't not write. And because I want to keep doing it forever. Let's try this instead:

https://caffeineandme.wordpress.com/

See you there?

Cheers!

ears wide open.

I think I may be done here. By here, I mean writing into the blogosphere, shielded by anonymity and vagaries. It's been a fun ride, and at the beginning it felt like I was really writing. Back when mySpace was a thing I thought the idea of writing a blog was so...romantic. Then it morphed into some strange place where everyone wrote passive-aggressive monologues at their peers and the world in general. Later, after the feeling we were all invincible wore off, we got down to the business of reporting our progress and just generally performing a verbal lobotomy on ourselves from time to time. Which I guess is pretty good if that's what one needs. But for me, it's been as of late only a place to go when I'm feeling down, or a time-killer when I just don't dare to do more serious work. A hobby. Avoidance. An old brown shoe.

It's been dipping one toe in the water to see if it was as cold as it seemed out there in the internet abyss. It is--even colder, really.  

Maybe that sounds dramatic, but if it's all the same I've discovered something even more inspiring and more frightening. Sharing my life's work, not with the faceless, but with people who are right there--who have names, who have families, who understand (or not), but most of all, people I can see, standing there in front of me, who feel with their guts. People with the guts to understand my message, even if it's not as palatable as another option.

It's a time of change for me. A new chapter in my life, cliche as it is, deserves a fresh start. I'm not talking about a clean slate, because I don't need it. You can't have a new beginning without a history, and I'd like to think I can maintain both. So I need a new place in which to do my best work, and a better way to file away the moments that have built me up or busted me open. But especially, a place where I'm not passively "reaching out" to people that I need and who need me, but rather being wholly present for both of those things to exist. To be real. To be more vulnerable, because that's the hardest thing in the world, at least for me.

Daunting as it seems, I think that ending this chapter also means that I'll gain more freedom. For one, I won't continue to function with the crutch that is feeling invisible. I can write down incomplete thoughts and let them roll around on paper for a while until they form an entire mass. I will allow others to see things, but I'll also be able to see their faces and their feelings, even if they aren't exactly what I'd expected or hoped. I will learn to take criticism, but I will also be guaranteed of the kindness that comes when the cloak of the internet is lifted. We will talk. We will ask questions. I will listen. Perhaps they will read with their eyes open, seeing things as a whole rather than all in pieces. I will hand-pick my readers, with the hope that it will help boost what interest I have in writing as a hobby and something I'm good at to writing because I can't do anything else. And so yeah, I have to leave this behind to get to that.

What I do now is take what are essentially rough drafts of a map of my life and make them complete. Because it's the one thing I was meant to do, even if I never do anything else. Because if I choose writing, then I'm not being lazy by letting it choose me.

I guess what this all means is that I'm ready for something else, even if something else isn't ready for me yet. I'm not even saying I'll never write a blog again. Just not this one.

and no time had passed.

I am sitting in the living room where memories were made. The thing is, nothing has changed. Some important people are now gone, but it feels like they are here. It feels like small me is still here, while a larger, older me looks on. I am loved. 

I know, because as my Memaw counted grandchildren yesterday, she counted me. Because and in spite of being "steps", my sister and I count. As do my sisters step children. I know, because she counted four greats without a second thought. The south is a different place. Time slows down, and sometimes you just sit. The hugs last longer and squeeze tighter. I'm so glad for this place, and so glad I made it back. This time, with no other plans except to completely accept that it is good. Good for me, and the best thing I'll probably ever know.

It doesn't feel like a new year. It feels like all of the old years rolled up into a sameness that is home. Truly, because for the most part everything looks like it did when I was seven years old. The foggy old mirror over the fireplace, the yellow, stained wallpaper in the kitchen, and the nicotine-stained drapes on the windows. At first, I wondered if the smell of years of second-hand smoke would bother me. Would bother J, who doesn't smoke anymore. It doesn't. It can't. Because I am seven years old when I smell it, and it's not yet bad for me, and I don't yet know any different. 

I don't make resolutions anymore. I don't see the need, since waking up every day is a reason to make my life the kind of life I enjoy living. The kind of life that I hope influences the people I love in a way that will make them happier, too. If I could bottle up what I find here, I would take it to them so they, too could feel counted. So they could feel what unconditional really means. It's kind of a big thing, unconditional. I guess that could depend on how often one has been subject to conditions, but for me, it's huge. Larger than me, many times. 

No, I think my every day decisions are based on a basic question. "Is this a good decision, or is this a bad decision?" It's rare that there is no definitive answer. If I am sitting down with my coffee and smoking one more cigarette will make me late for work, the answer is easy. If I think about quitting my job because I am tired of being bumped around and treated like a non-entity, I think about my mortgage. Still easy. There are only a few times lately that it has been too complicated to apply such a simple question. Or that it seems too complicated. Because in the end none of it is very difficult, unless you make it so. Sometimes you just have to say, should I spend this money on some plane tickets and fly thousands of miles to feel seven again? And you just have to answer, shit yes. Yes, financial consequences be damned, yes. 

AmIright?

successful women.

I woke up unusually (some would argue this) bitchy today. This is the way I'd like to document my morning for future reference. I think it's fair to say that I'm not really bitchy, because that's a word we use when women don't fall into line, or more specifically, allow themselves to be criticized, ridiculed, or ostracized. But in this moment, I'm not thinking about how men perceive women and keep them "under control." This is the moment I realized we are victims of our own gender's view of how women should behave. It's not pretty, and we don't even realize we're doing it to ourselves.

I caught myself doing it yesterday, when I learned that an old school mate, whom I now work with, though very much from a distance, was being moved into a new office. With her new title. She was one of the "mean girls" when we were in school, but that's of little consequence today. When I overheard the man helping her say, "If there's anything you need, (Ms. Person), just let me know." 


And I rolled my eyes. 

After hearing too much as of late about what I can or can't do in the future, and how I am supposed to do things, and when am I getting married and so forth, I can't believe what I thought: I said in my head, "How does she keep getting promoted--who is she sleeping with?"

But I am smart enough to 1. not say this out loud, and 2. think more about what would make me have such a thought in the first place. One reason is simply that I haven't been as successful. The gaping difference between she and I is that she has a degree. I am still working on mine, which means the both of us are on an entirely different professional playing field, especially in our line of work. She also seems to be lacking the one thing that most women possess. Self-doubt. This could be surface deep, and I realize that I am in no position to judge what she feels. But what she appears to be is a confident, well-dressed, well-organized person. This makes me incredibly jealous, as I typically fail in all three of those categories. I'm much better fitted into the hole that is self-doubt. I'm pretty sure that's the square hole into which we square pegs do fit. 

Now I'm going to delve into the even more uncomfortable, because I think it needs to be said. A few months ago I had a spontaneous abortion, which not so loosely translates into "miscarriage." This isn't something we are supposed to talk about, so if you think you're shocked, you should know that I'm shocking myself by even writing this down. But I think it's important. For me and for women. 

The night of said miscarriage, I was filled with self-doubt. I questioned whether it really happened, or if I was just "freaking out." I called my step-mother at 11 p.m. and she, the anti-sexist, was supportive, comforting and really listened to me. Maybe she could handle this because she gave up having children of her own, just so my sister and I wouldn't have to deal with the thing known as the blended family. She is a fucking saint. But anyway.

The next day, I called my primary care doctor and told her what I felt and what I saw. She said that it sounded like I was right, and that it seemed unnecessary to go to the emergency room because my body was doing what it was supposed to do. She asked if I was o.k. This is another person whom I rely on heavily--and she always comes through for me. She is not alarmist, and she doesn't treat a woman's body like a thing that needs tests and medication and excessive visits when something doesn't go quite the way we expect. She knows that our bodies are complex things that often are doing what they should even if we don't like it. But I digress. 

I called three of my closest friends that morning. Two that have experienced pregnancy, and one who hasn't. Two were sympathetic, and one was downright wrong. I'll ask that you guess which one of them said, "You didn't have a miscarriage. If you had a miscarriage, you would know it." 

It was the one who successfully did everything in order. Got married to the love of her life, had two kids, and bought a bigger and more beautiful house in which to raise the two kids. The same one that wants the best for me, and therefore refuses to see my point of view when I venture too deep into uncharted or unconventional ways of thinking. She continued the conversation by telling me that my doctor was just "telling me what I want to hear." Which makes no sense whatsoever. Because I'm quite sure that I didn't want to hear that an embryo that would have been my child fell out of my body and got flushed down the toilet. 
 
She even took it one step further and said that if I did have a miscarriage my doctor would have told me to go to the emergency room, so she was of course, lying.

After a few days of unexpected and inexplicable sadness and a general feeling of malaise, I was fine. I was surprised by just how strong that feeling of loss is, regardless of whether I even knew this would have been baby was on the way. And the way women cope with the loss of another woman is, one out of three times, by making them feel like a failure. I felt as though I was just having delusions and wished I had saved the tissue so I could take it somewhere and be certain it was what I thought it was. I also experienced moments of blaming myself. Did I drink in the couple of weeks prior? I did take those four ibuprofen that day...and so on. A smart person knows that this happens for reasons we can't begin to comprehend. It is natural and in many cases quite possibly for the best. 

As I go forward with my life, I'm hoping to break a few molds, as I so often have. My lifestyle choices are most comfortable for me. I don't concern myself often with what will make my friends and family feel more at ease with my life choices. I don't think that would be fair, and I would have so much less to offer them. Don't get me wrong, I do have many friends who know what it's like to be a weirdo in a strange place. God, I love them dearly. They are the least sexist people I know, too. They don't have that thing that makes them say, "who did she sleep with," when I experience successes. I didn't even realize that was a thing that makes me want to talk to them more than anyone else. They are not mean girls. 

And I am successful. In so many fucking ways. Primarily because I'm doing things my way, and in my world there is no can't or should. There is did and done.

If this isn't suitable for anyone, I'm gonna have to go all bitchy on your ass.

too much, or too little? Or just right?

I've been thinking a lot about writing, reading, and music. Scholarly life has me down on the idea that only scholars can be truly good at their craft. I know this not to be true, as life has led me down many a path whereby the "good" comes from the depths of places many scholars can never--will never--experience. And in the end, isn't experience the thing that we are trying to convey?

Anyone can be a writer. Anyone can be a musician. The only real way to do either is to write, or play, respectively. Or not necessarily respectively. But there's a gap between us/me the uneducated, and them, the miseducated. And as I go through this process of becoming educated, I'm finding that career scholars have a leg up on me and us. The scholar is indeed receiving grants and sabbaticals and other awards to pursue his or her "passion." The rewards for simply being a scholar are enormous. And these are the people that the big people see as either a. established, or b. up-and-coming. What a shallow pool from which to draw.

One thing I've realized over the course of my not-so-successful career in writing (if we're measuring success by its ability to bring me money or fame) is that accessibility may be one of the most important things you can bring to the table. If I have a message, and I provide it in such a way that is over the head of my audience--something some artists take pride in doing--then where is the message? It's lost on so many, and so many are lost. In simple terms, it's the old he/she just doesn't "get it." And that's in large part because the artist/writer/musician isn't giving it, or just putting out bits and pieces of what they want people to see. Or perhaps that they're trying to give it half-heartedly to everyone, when really they should just stick to the tiny circle that does and leave the rest of us the fuck alone. 

All this leads me down a rocky path. I enjoy my new role as student. There are some important lessons there that will help me in the long-term. Just not in the way that some career scholars might suggest. And I don't want to become that. 

Because of this, I was busy remembering things from before I pursued the news writer thing so many years ago now. I realized that so much of what I was doing wrong at the beginning stemmed from my interpretation of what a news article is made of, vs. what it really is. Everything I can write is only really important from the perspective of the reader. I think. First lesson. A broad vocabulary is almost useless. This is lucky, because mine is fairly limited. Write at an eighth-grade reading level. Use fewer words. Space costs money. Money doesn't come easy. Second lesson. The least interesting subject can, in fact, still make for an interesting story. The day I had to write about a button collectors' club was the day I realized that everything anybody does is the most interesting thing in the world. There are layers everywhere just dying to be uncovered. Cover them. Third, most important lesson. Don't imitate what you think you're reading. People are naturally interpreting everything at the level they are comfortable interpreting it. I wrote a story about a guy that was behaving in a horribly sexist manner toward a female manager during a public meeting. Both parties were pleased with the article (though the woman was very, very thankful). But with any luck, I'd educated a few people who were capable of reading what was really there. 

All that said, my first stories were really ugly. I was writing the way I hear Scott Pelley speaking on the nightly news. Oh, how wrong I was! Yet lucky to have such a forthright editor, who put me on the right track with nothing less than a painful jolt of reality. She said my writing was shallow. Another influence was just one random person, who said one random thing about my blog. He said, "It's so vague." 

What I've done since is learn to be less of both of those things. I work to dig deep and share deep. The effect, I hope is that my message is received, interpreted, and etched in time somewhere. The New Yorker may not be interested, but then again, I'm not so sure anymore that I'm interested by it. 

Why spend one's time in a puddle when there's a whole ocean out there that's gonna swallow us whole?

you've changed.

As I approach 40, I'm finding that some things will be better left to my 30s and not revisited. In particular, I haven't the time for gossip and don't really care to hash out petty little problems that have no business seeming large when they are really small. I'm sure there are many other things I'll leave behind. I think I'm o.k. with this. Instead, I fill the space with activities that really are important, either to me or to the world at large. Things like encouraging my friends, making music (I actually lowered my blood pressure today while listening to music on the way to the doctor), writing whatever and whenever I can, work (on which I should focus more diligently), and school. Oh, and keeping the house from falling down. But really, that's just a series of chores that will likely never end.

I've changed, and mostly by my own volition. I'm interested right now in whether it's really that I've changed, or instead more or less evolved. But you never hear that about a person, coming from another person. You hear, "So and so has changed." Typically, this offering is of the negative (and equally gossip-y) sort...or perhaps that's just my own translation--though I think not. I don't really like hearing it this way. It's nonspecific and lazy. Perhaps we could say, "Wow, I never expected him/her to do that," or "I wonder what's making her so happy lately." A simple, "She used to do this, but she seems happier doing this." As for "He's/She's changed," I hate it. Especially when it's said with the implication that perhaps someone else has dictated your, my, his transformation.

What I know, or what I think I know by now is that change is hard for many, if not most people. It's uncomfortable. I get it. I really do. But what I do see in my own life is a lot of positive transformation occurring, both within me and around me. My significant is experiencing the same, perhaps in different ways, but we are growing together. We are also growing separately. What concerns me right now about this are the few times I've overheard (or when it's been shared with either one of us directly) that we are not celebrating our individuality. Apparently if say, we decline a drink one night or choose to stay home rather than run around on a cold night or whathaveyou, it must mean that we are experiencing a departure from our(true)selves.

All I can really think to say to this is that transformation sometimes means leaving one thing you are behind so that you can be the next thing you are supposed to be. Sometimes you can't be two things at the same time. I can't watch a movie and read a book at the same time. And doing one or the other more lately doesn't make me a movie buff or a bookworm. But hey, people like to label things--that's how they keep us all sorted. Some changes are temporary, of course. I may find when I'm 60 that I enjoy a good buzz every weekend. Right now I'm too busy for the ensuing hangovers. Also, my liver is very happy these days.

Anyway, if you're in it for the long haul, I'm happy to work with anyone having difficulty adjusting to the many transformations I and we and he are planning to experience. I look around me, and things look promising. I'm writing, my "other" is playing the guitar in the corner, and the house is otherwise peaceful and shut down for the night. If this isn't me, and it isn't him, I don't know what else we could be right now. And aren't we all subject to change?

not gonna not knock things down

From here on out, I'd like to refer to "my anxiety" as the "The Worry." The Worry is temporary, and often enough, unwarranted. It is not productive, nor is it a friendly face. It makes my friendly face ugly, from my mouth to my furrowed brow. The Worry makes me sit around counting blades of grass, tallying the numbers, and taking names. I realize that this is not the best I can do. I don't expect everyone who has anxiety to follow suit. Sometimes labeling something is comforting, but I'd like to label this in a way that says it isn't mine.

I am changing my face and anxiety's name so that I can take The Worry and hurl it into the woods--or the trash, whichever is closer.This may seem silly, but if I don't change its name, my anxiety is a piece of me. It's like my own arm, only it keeps hitting me. And I can't very well cut off my arm, now can I?

I don't have a lot in me today. I have cleaning to do. Because The Worry says I'd better do it so I don't come home to a messy house when we come back from a weekend away. It's Thursday, and The Fucking Worry is thinking about Sunday afternoon.

And I'm about to kick it's ass. By cleaning. Hmph.