Push and Pull: a Conversation

It just got to the point that I realized: no one here is happy. He's not happy. I'm not happy. So I thought, what would need to happen for us to be happy? Really happy?

And what did you decide?

That there was nothing we could do. It wasn't anyone's fault, when it comes to it. It was just -- he kept waiting for me to want the exact same things he wanted. To hold onto all of his priorities the way he was holding to them. He had this idea in his head of who I should be and how I should be that way and that wasn't matching up with who I am. 

That's a hard thing.

I tried. I mean, he could be right, couldn't he? Maybe I should try to meet his expectations.

It doesn't work like that, though. One person can't do all of the bending. Compromise is a multi-party endeavor.

I know. I started to get mad. Like, how come my way isn't okay? How come my priorities and expectations and the things I want and need matter less than yours?

He thought you would change.

And I guess that I thought that he would, too.

People change all of the time. Change is a thing. But -- you can't force someone to become what you want. You can't expect them to. That's not fair.

I feel like a dope.

Oh sweetie. Your're not a dope. You just -- okay. You started out down the same path. Right? Like, holding hands and occasionally skipping and singing songs. That was good. That was great. But then you started to notice the scenery; the flowers and the animals and the trees were interesting to you, so you were, like, tugging on his hand -- look over here! Come and see! -- while he was looking at something down the road, totally walking forward and pulling on your hand -- stop lolly gagging! Look what's just ahead! And you can't... If you can't both give a little? Either someone is getting dragged along, which is not awesome, or your hands just pull apart. It doesn't make either of you bad people? It just means that your paths are going different ways now.

And that's okay? No. That's okay.

It IS okay. You'll be okay. You can meander and dally and check out the daisies and stop being force marched down the wrong kind of path while you figure out what the right one is, and maybe you can also -- not today, but eventually? -- wish him well on his.

I'm going to be fine.

You already are.

F'ing Perfect

Since I posted Love. Story. people have been interested in how the Fella and I are doing.

Here's the deal, y'all.

Neither of us are perfect. I tense up and go silent when I'm upset.  He has a tendency to lose track of time.  I get overly emotional and crazy when I feel like there's clutter. He would rather gnaw off one of his limbs than attend a wide variety of social events.

We're not perfect. We both have baggage and issues and ... stuff.

But ... and here's the thing ... that baggage? That stuff? Makes us perfect for each other. Our crazy lines up just right.

And that? Is magical.

Of course, I continue to maintain that I recognized it when I was FIFTEEN and it took him, like, forever, to catch up. (Because I TOTALLY did.)

So if you're wondering how things are?

They're imperfect.

Which is what makes it perfect.

Enough

The Fella and I live in a studio apartment. As far as studios go, it's actually pretty spacious and interesting. There is a galley kitchen that is a goodish size, and the bathroom is practically roomy. It's also a unique shape, and that allows for some nooks in which we could tuck bookcases (because we're book people, and need to be surrounded by them).

For all of that, though, the reality remains that it's essentially one large room. It's a dining/living/bed kind of a room -- it's the Swiss Army knife of living areas. Except for the door to get in and the bathroom door, there's no way to escape from anyone else or to shut anyone out. It's all right there.

When I moved in, of course, there was no Fella. When I moved in, I didn't even have a cat. It was just me and the room and my thoughts. I loved it. I loved the way the space flowed and purposes intermingled. I would pour a glass of wine and sit in the windowsill and watch the waterfall* and listen to myself as I remembered how to breathe -- really breathe -- after one of the more challenging periods of my life.

This space helped me to find peace when peace was a thing I had been missing.

Then I got Lizzie B, because this space without a cat was awesome, but this space WITH a cat? Would be phenomenal. She's a little cat -- so little, in fact, that I often call her Little -- but she made a huge, furry, loving, purr-tastic impact on my tiny home. She made me laugh.

I needed to laugh more, too. And now I was.

And then -- the Fella arrived in my life. Which, while awesome, was also terrifying. Tiny space. Two people. No way to escape. How would this work? What would I do if it DIDN'T work? I adore this man. What would I do if I needed space? There IS no space!

We made it work by not making it permanent. We'd try two weeks, we said, and see if it worked. Then we decided we'd try, like, a month. Then a season.

It's been about a year.

As hard as it is to believe, the space issue is not often a problem. We don't get in each other's way. We don't fight. Our most significant issue is, really, that we could use a closet. And more bookcases.

Despite that, I sometimes think about getting a bigger space. Maybe one with -- and I know this is crazy -- an actual bedroom. Another closet. More walls for bookshelves. You know, important things.

Sometimes.

But then I look at the waterfall, and watch the cat fall asleep in the sunshine on the windowsill, and I think about how hard-won that sense of peace has been, and how cozy the apartment that we have made our home really is. I think, So what, we have a lot of stuff in storage. So what, we don't have doors. So what?

We have peace and laughing and a tiny tabby and love and a freaking waterfall.

Is it enough?

It's more than enough.

*because, yeah, I have a freaking waterfall outside my windows. I'm that fancy.

Fail.ed

I keep hearing friends -- people I hold in high regard -- saying they've failed.

Failed at a job.

Failed at a relationship.

Failed out of higher education.

Failed at a diet.

Failed at a business opportunity.

Failed at a craft project.

Failed.

*****

I think it's time to re-frame what it means to fail. It's nearly always said with shame and sorrow, as though there's something inherently wrong with trying something and not having it work out EXACTLY the way that one hoped.

Which, when you think about it, is pretty freaking stupid.

*****

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who spent a lot of time cleaning up after her family. Like, a LOT a lot of time. There were multiple reasons for this -- she was a smidgen OCD and couldn't deal with clutter or dirt, and her family members were on the other end of the spectrum and were kind of hoarders, so she worked herself to the bone trying to keep their stuff from overtaking the house, and they kept making more clutter and mess, plus there was the kind of survivor's guilt that can come from losing family members -- whatever. The point is, girlfriend had some baggage and was working her backside off.

Finally, she thought, you know what? I need a BREAK.

So she hooked up with a personal shopper and got herself a nice dress and some snappy shoes and took a night off to go to the social event of the season. Sweet, right? She felt good, looked good, danced her butt off to Beyonce, and maybe enjoyed an adult beverage or two.

And she met a MAN. (Perhaps while shaking her stuff to Uptown Funk. I mean, who knows?)

He was cute. He could tell a good story. He listened to her talk. She dug him. He dug her. And then, just as she was about to ask for his number, she remembered that she needed to get home and let the dog out, because there was no WAY that she was going to get home after her super fabulous evening and clean up dog poop, thank you very much.  So out she dashed, throwing an apology over her shoulder, because the anxiety of having to worry about cleaning up dog shit had taken over her brain* -- in the process, she lost a shoe, but she didn't really notice.

So. She got home. No doggy accidents to clean up. A win!

Oh, but -- the guy. He was so cute. She had really liked him. She REALLY should have asked for his number.

She beat herself up. She had failed.

Or had she?

*****

It turns out that the guy? Had really liked her too. So he started a Facebook campaign to find her. And sure enough, soon enough, they reconnected. She thought she had failed -- but she had made enough of an impression that he moved heaven, earth, and social media to find the girl who made him laugh, and that is the opposite of failure.

In addition, she learned something -- she learned to seize the moment. She learned to take a chance.

She learned to hire a dog sitter.

And they lived happily ever after.  Because that's what happens in Cinderella and other fairy tales.

*****

It happens in life too -- and it happens more quickly if you realize that what you perceive as failure is just a stepping stone, a bridge to the next place you are supposed to be.

*****

One of the things I believe most in this life is that it takes vast amounts of courage to try things. It takes bravery to put yourself out there and go for it, whatever "it" might be.

If it doesn't work? Failure is not an indication that you are terrible, or a loser, or an idiot or any of those negative things that we all tend to attach to the word failure. Failure is an indication that you are willing to try, willing to learn and grow.

Willing to try.

Willing to learn.

Willing to grow.

You know -- everyone knows -- that when you try something, it might go spectacularly poorly. But you also know -- everyone knows -- that life is a risk. Walking out the door in the morning is chancy. But you do it. We all do it.

We do it because what is out there is beautiful and worth the risk.

Even if we fail.

*****

To my dear ones who think they have failed -- maybe things didn't work out the way you thought. You left the dance early. You lost a shoe.

On the other side of that there are amazing, exciting things. You'll get to them. They're there.

And because you tried -- because you're brave enough to try -- when you get to those other dances, those other destinations?

You are going to kick major ass.

I promise.


*I know some of you know what I'm talking about here.

On Being Worthy

The Fella gave me a laptop for my birthday.  It's the nicest computer I've ever owned, the kind of computer that I would look at when computer shopping and dismiss immediately because there was just no way I could justify the purchase.

But now I have Fancy. (Because of course I named my computer. Doesn't everyone do that?)

When he gave Fancy to me, The Fella said, "I want you to have something really good -- I want you to have the best tools for your writing." He was earnest. He believes in me.

My first thought was, "Oh, but I'm not a real writer."

My second was, "I don't deserve this gift."

*****

In retrospect, this is pissing me off.

*****

Fancy lived in the box she came in until today. Today, I fitted her with a hot pink, lace printed silicon case to protect her so she can live out in the open, where I can snag her and write whenever I feel like it.

Before today, I think I opened the box maybe -- and this is a generous estimate -- fifteen times?

I could see the box from where I slept -- it's a small apartment -- and would often see it first thing in the morning. It always made me feel guilty, because there was this amazing tool that the man who loves me got me so I could do the thing that makes me happy, and I wasn't using it -- further proof, I thought, that I didn't deserve it in the first place, but I couldn't figure out how to articulate that without also confessing what a huge loser I was.

One morning I thought: he believes that I deserve this.

And then I thought: what if he's right?

*****

It's interesting to me, the way people -- I think this is especially true of women, but I have also observed it in men -- are quick to declare themselves unworthy. "I wasn't really qualified, so I didn't apply." "I couldn't ask him out -- he's so HANDSOME and I'm so ... blah." "I really liked that dress, but ... it was for something special and I don't have anything." "My car is kind of falling apart, but ... it still runs. I shouldn't get a new one." "I couldn't audition for that role -- they wanted REAL singers."

*****

You are real.

You are qualified and attractive and special and deserving of feeling safe and warm and happy. You also have art -- all kinds of art -- flowing through you and whatever that art is, if it is singing or dancing or painting or writing? It counts and it is REAL.

It is real and you are real and you are worthy. You are worthy of the job and the date and the fancy dress that makes you acknowledge your own beauty and the car that works and runs and auditioning for the role because you ARE a real singer.

You deserve the chance and the evening and the sparkle and the horsepower and the spotlight.

You deserve it because you are here and you are amazing and you are worthy.

*****

You won't get everything you want. No one does. That doesn't mean you don't deserve to try. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't believe in yourself.

You should.

And you should believe in the fact that other people believe in you.

*****

When other people believe in you, embrace their belief. You are worthy of it.

When other people offer you blessings and gifts, take them. You are worthy of them.

When other people offer you praise, take it. Thank them. Don't dismiss it. You are worthy of praise and they are allowed to praise you -- by dismissing their praise you are telling them that you don't believe they are worthy.

They are.

You are.

I am.

WE are.

Stopping ... And Starting

Once upon a time, many years ago, I started a blog.

It was fun.

I mean, I guess it was also work? But it was fun. 

Here's what blogging did for me: it gave me a voice. It gave me an outlet. It created friendships. It created some super awkward situations a couple of times, but I figured out how to negotiate through those and (I hope) became a little more savvy.

Here's what it has never done: made me famous or rich. There are people that happens for, and that's incredibly awesome. I have never generated any income from my writing. I don't have a secret book deal -- and since I hate ads, I'm not making revenue that way.

I have never cared. Not once. That wasn't why I started writing; I started writing because writing brings me joy.

Which probably makes you wonder why I kind of stopped.

*****

When I started this blog, I worked from home. Working from home has some major perks, like never wearing shoes and unlimited access to coffee and snacks and having Facebook open all day and having the time to write a blog. In my case, those perks came with a challenging employer and no personal life, but whatever.

Eventually the "whatever" became intolerable and I had to find another job -- my (admittedly shaky) mental health demanded it. 

So I did. But now I had to wear shoes and cut back my coffee obsession and eat fewer snacks and couldn't be on Facebook during the day and ... I didn't have time to write.

I couldn't figure out how to make time for it either; when I tried, it felt like ... Work.

That was a problem.

*****

Another problem was a friend of mine. You know how I said I don't do it for the money or fame because... There isn't any?

For a friend of mine... Someone I like a lot ... There is. It's wonderful. I'm thrilled for him.

Or I was until the day we found ourselves at a party where he was being introduced to people as an important writer and I wasn't being introduced to anyone at all. 

He had asked me for help when he was getting started, and I was happy to do it. I'll always be happy that I assisted him in any way, because he's a bona fide rock star.

But suddenly he was a writer. And I was ... Not even worth introducing.*

That was... Not exactly a problem?

But it wasn't NOT a problem.

*****

Somewhere along the way I lost my joy. Every time I picked up a tablet or my laptop or even my phone and tried to find it again, it was with crossed fingers and the hope that this time the words would come and I would remember how much I used to love this thing that is pretty much the only thing I've ever felt good at.

I would occasionally get near it, which was... Well, it sucked a little because almost getting there is not the same as actually getting there. It's like peering at an amusement park through a fence but never going in and riding the rides. It's disappointing.

After a while, I stopped looking through the fence.

*****

I'd started thinking, lately, that I might have some things I wanted to talk about. A lot has happened in the two years since I stopped blogging daily. I'd like to talk about some of it, I thought. I might have some things to say.

 Another thing that began happening -- just recently -- is that people (other than my mom) began asking about the blogging and telling me they missed it.

Which made me realize: I missed it too. I missed looking at the screen. I missed watching the words assemble as I typed. I missed thinking about how to say what I wanted to say.

I missed it.

I got out my laptop, took a breath, and began writing.

And just like that, it was making me happy.

*****

You have to make time for the people, places, and things you love. You have to work it in. I think my biggest problem is that I wasn't willing to let go of some things I thought I was supposed to do in order to do what I wanted to do. I couldn't give myself permission to let the dishes sit for an hour while I did the thing I loved. I think too many of us do that and, in doing so, begin to endure life rather than live it.

We're not here to suffer through our days. We're here to dance and laugh and sing through them.

And sometimes, we're here to write.

*i don't believe this was intentional but it was crushing.

Friday Randoms

I

"That is a really good idea!"

"I have them regularly. You just, um, ignore them."

"You only think I'm ignoring them. Really I'm stealing them."

"... That's... Wait. What?!?"

"I'm kidding... OR AM I?"

II

"The shiv. For when you only LOOK unarmed."

"Oh my God, that is my new motto."

III

"There's a notice posted on the door of that house."

"That's never a good sign."

"How come notices on doors never say anything like 'please come in and play with the unicorn'?"

"They're usually warnings like, 'we're citing you because your unicorn is rabid and frothing rainbows out of its mouth.' "

"Eeeeew!"

"I know, that's why there's a notice."

IV

"Ugh. She sent me an email in all caps. So shouty."

"I wish there was a way to respond to that."

"There is!"

"What?"

"All lowercase. In a teeeeeeeny font. She's gonna yell? I'm going to whisper."

V

"The trouble with insomnia is that it causes you to look at your partner, the person you love most in the world, sleeping peacefully beside you? With rage. Because -- how is she sleeping? WHAT IS THAT?"

"But you don't elbow her?"

"Because I am a SAINT."