tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52804946524878824472023-11-15T11:11:43.681-05:00Dysphorically SpeakingEcho Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.comBlogger189125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-39787380363191694162015-11-17T23:11:00.002-05:002015-11-17T23:11:59.693-05:00Day 13 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 13 - Religion<br />
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Ouch.<br />
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Probably not the best topic to be discussing at the moment. Or maybe it is THE topic to be discussing. I am not sure.<br />
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All I know is that it's a little too sensitive right now for me to start spouting my opinions on religion. So I will only share what else I jotted down on the subject the day I put this in my notes:<br />
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"Religion. Spirituality. Believe in myself. Be good. Get good. Not organized."<br />
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That says all I need to and want to on the topic today.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-33537994638624782982015-11-17T23:01:00.000-05:002015-11-17T23:04:24.274-05:00Day 12 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 12 - Dreams.<br />
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Ah dreams. <br />
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I am a big dreamer. Not in the sense of wishes, goals and desires, but honest to goodness sleepy time dreams.<br />
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I am a very vivid dreamer. My dreams can usually be tied to something, and even though they seem odd, I can make sense of them for the most part, or at least explain them away.<br />
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Occasionally I will have a super weird dream. One that makes no sense. One that I can not place the people, situations or feelings. I love these dreams because they make me question myself. I am always present in my dreams. They seem to happen in real time except for the occasional dream within a dream, where I wake up from my dream but in reality I am still in it.<br />
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Dreams are so strange. You can wake up from one with a plethora of emotions swirling in your head.<br />
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I have woken up with tears streaming down my cheeks, pissed off at my partner or highly aroused. It is amazing how your body reacts to your emotions even when you aren't consciously experiencing them.<br />
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I love dreaming. Even when they evoke sadness or fright. I love it because I own it. I own it completely. Even though I am sharing the moment in my mind with people, I really do not have to share it with anyone. Once I wake up, I can decide whether or not to allow someone into that moment.<br />
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Sometimes your dreams can defy your ethics and morals. Other times it allows you to be more vulnerable than you are. And choosing to keep those feelings or share them is completely up to the dreamer. <br />
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I often blame my self conscious for my dreams. I worry I must be harboring some ill intentions or desires to make situations come out in my head that otherwise I never would consider. <br />
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Have you ever dreamt you had an intimate moment with a co-worker? Eeeeek? What is THAT?<br />
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Or you wake up so scared from your near death experience and climb all over your partner, never getting close enough, all the while making sure you accidentally wake them up to save you?<br />
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And the famous infidelity dreams, Not yours, theirs. Waking up so angry you can't even speak, much less look, at your cheating spouse?<br />
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I love dreaming. Even when I hate it.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-39264574963731696102015-11-15T22:03:00.000-05:002015-11-15T22:05:47.199-05:00Day 11 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 11 - Librarian. How people can change our lives.<br />
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There was a story in Reader's Digest. It was about a young girl who, upon the recommendation of a librarian, took out a book that ultimately clanged her world.<br />
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Later in the story the girl, now a woman, sees the librarian when she returns to town to visit. Excitedly she confronts the librarian to thank her for suggesting the book that encouraged her to be the writer she had become.<br />
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Unfortunately the librarian had been stricken with a form of dementia and could not share in the woman's memory or understand her enthusiasm. <br />
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Sadly the woman never got to tell the librarian just how much her simple gesture shaped who she now was. <br />
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The story is a sad tale, but one that happens every single day. <br />
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We live in such a busy, self absorbed world. We take so much for granted and give thanks way less than we should. Every day we are touched by people, and most times that goes unnoticed. Simple things like someone suggesting a book, or giving directions, or assisting in choosing an outfit all can change the outcome of a day, or more.<br />
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After I read that story, I started running things and people though my head. I could come up with several "librarians", for a variety of reasons, that have no idea they have made an impact on my life. And they don't know because what they had to offer was just them being themselves. Offering experiences or words of wisdom that were just part of who they were. Yet those interactions have resonated with me to the point that I revisit some of the memories still.<br />
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My favorite example was a simple phrase "Be good to yourself" that was uttered to me during a very difficult time. Four words, said out of kindness, have been carried with me for over a decade. Because of that phrase I now stop and think about how situations are going to affect me. I make choices with those words floating in the back of my mind. I have done things completely differently than I might have had I not uttered those words to myself.<br />
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Today, those words are ingrained in me and who I am. I do not need to constantly remind myself of them. So today I share those same words with others that I know need to hear them as much as I did then. Today I hope those words resonate with someone else and help them be confident in self love and care.<br />
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I never did tell that person how much those words helped me. I think it's time for a phone call.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-45503455706657691252015-11-14T23:55:00.000-05:002015-11-15T00:00:43.499-05:00Day 10 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 10 - Resolutions<br />
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I am sure when I wrote the idea to blog about resolutions, it was January ish. And since the new year is right around the corner, I suppose this one might have some merit.<br />
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I hate resolutions. Not because I do not think I will keep my new year promise, but because it seems backwards to me.<br />
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Every year we tell ourselves we are going to quit something or do something better. Basically we are saying that what we do is bad and wrong and we need to change. That is a lot of focus on the negative aspects of ones life.<br />
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I think resolutions shouldn't be made to "fix" a person, they should be made to do more of what already works. I believe if we build on the positive things we have to offer ourselves and others, we will create less and less space for the negative stuff that doesn't work so well.<br />
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Instead of saying, "I am going to lose weight", say "I am going to eat more vegetables". The better you eat, the more weight you will lose. Your goal is the same but the negativity is taken out of it. It is so much kinder to reward yourself with a pat of the back for eating healthier than it is to tell yourself every day that you dislike something about who you are.<br />
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There is a reason New Year's resolutions are given up on so quickly. It does not feel good to fail at something that didn't feel good to begin with.<br />
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Positive affirmations work. Resolutions do not.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-78113176064938955202015-11-13T21:30:00.002-05:002015-11-13T22:22:11.056-05:00Day 9 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 9 - Obsession and Chanel No5<br />
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Ahhhhh smell.<br />
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Smell is probably the single most sense that can take me a million places.<br />
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When I was a teenager I worked for a woman that wore a combination of Obsession and Chanel No5. It is a smell I not only recognize, but I wear to this day.<br />
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I had a bit of a problem with obsessiveness when I was young. If I was intrigued I put my all into it. It started when I was just a small girl, probably 6 at the most.<br />
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A woman moved in down the street. Her and her husband were probably in their early 20s, however to me they were light years away.<br />
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Somehow I ended up convincing this woman that my presence was wanted or at least tolerated. She would allow me to come to her house and watch her cook. I found myself mesmerized by her beauty and her soft spoken words. I sat there day after day watching and listening and obsessing. I couldn't get enough of her. This behavior carried on through my entire young life.<br />
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When I landed the babysitting job at the Obsession/Chanel house, I couldn't think of anything else but my employer. She was 35, had classic 80s frosted hair, drove a luxury car and had no man. I was sure at 16 I could win her over. I was convinced I was the one that would show her what love really was. I confused obsession with passion. I would do this many more times before I realized that wanting to make someone feel good wasn't a conquest. That feeling like you would give up your entire being for a relationship you have created only in your mind was not healthy.<br />
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I suppose my shrine of plastic cups and cigarette butts that touched her mouth, stolen shirts and photos should have been an indication that my obsession was probably not good for me.<br />
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I loved the chase. Not just with her, but with all the women. I loved that I usually caught them in some way or another. And then I loved that I could move on.<br />
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I no longer allow myself to obsess. However I do still love to woo. <br />
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That being said. my Obsession and Chanel No5 bottles sit on my dresser and get worn together frequently.<br />
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My wife likes it. It was what I was wearing when we met.<br />
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That smell will forever be a part of me. It reminds me of a very confusing time, a new relationship and a current forever.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-77610368935686738112015-11-12T23:32:00.001-05:002015-11-12T23:37:46.215-05:00Day 8 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 8 - Eye contact - where my demons hide<br />
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While I do not really know what I was specifically thinking when I wrote that down to "get back to later", I do actually remember doing it. I was in my car on the way to work. I heard the song Demons by Imagine Dragons on the radio. <br />
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<i>When you feel my heat</i><br />
<i>Look into my eyes</i><br />
<i>It’s where my demons hide</i><br />
<i>It’s where my demons hide</i><br />
<i>Don’t get too close</i><br />
<i>It’s dark inside</i><br />
<i>It’s where my demons hide</i><br />
<i>It’s where my demons hide</i><br />
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Every time I hear that part of the song it speaks of how bad I want to let people in. But it is a sad reminder of how I keep most of them at arms length. Being told I was no good, I was ugly, I was imperfect. I was in the way, I was not what people wanted me to be as a child has taken me a life time to stop believing. <br />
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My demons used to cause a lot of sadness and guilt. My demons have ruined relationships. I learned very early that if I let people get close, I will hurt them. That if they looked into my eyes, even if I wanted them there, they would somehow be subject to pain and misery. And if they were big enough to challenge me, and care enough to find their way in, I still could/would not allow that eye contact, because if they got to that point it meant I was then vulnerable.<br />
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I have a very hard time letting people know I feel vulnerable, when in reality it is in those moments I want someone the most.<br />
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It's funny how we carry certain things with us forever, even when they make no sense any more. I know I am not the person I used to be. I am not plagued by those demons to the point where they affect my relationships. Yet my rational mind cant seem to get the memo to my heart.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-29988802948184232192015-11-11T23:45:00.002-05:002015-11-11T23:49:18.555-05:00Day 7 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 7 - Can Can<br />
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I grew up in a couple of very weird towns. Between the ages of eight and twelve I lived in a town that was literally a hill and not much else. If it was a mile walk to the other side it was a lot. This meant that everyone knew everyone's business. It was hard not to when the houses were so close you could seriously reach into the neighbors kitchen window and pour yourself a cup of coffee from your own kitchen.<br />
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This made for a lot of annoyances for the adults but it was great for us kids.<br />
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There was never a minute that you were friendless. If you walked out of your front door you were guaranteed to see someone else walking out theirs. We all hung out at three or four places in town, depending on age, and there was always at least 10-20 kids in each spot.It was a kid's paradise. The parents had no clue where we were, but no one worried. They knew you were with friends and you could only be up to a mile away.<br />
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Because it was a very eclectic town, there were a lot of events that took place. And while they were mostly geared toward children, I am positive they came about because of the adults attempting to one up each other. Although it was a very middle class town, "keeping up with the Joneses'" ran rampant.<br />
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Each summer we had Children's Day. In reality it was a weekend event full of contests, performances, parades and midways. Every year parents would volunteer to help the kids put on a production at the tabernacle in town. It was a wonderful building with tons of windows and an old stage. If you wanted to be in the production you tried out. You made it or you didn't. I can distinctly recall being a card in Alice in Wonderland and a can can girl in something.<br />
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I was taught the can can routine by a neighbor who ultimately ended up my dad's girlfriend years later. At the time, however, my mom was put on the mission to adorn me in the half size coke cans that came out in the 70s. My siblings and I were happy to oblige by drinking enough for all the girls to have a dozen hanging off their tush under their skirt.<br />
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During the weekend a king and queen were also crowned. It was an obvious popularity contest and typically if your parents were someone you had a fighting chance. It was during that competition, the can can year, that I realized I liked girls. Gerry W won that year. She was about 17. I was 8. I can remember quite vividly the dress she wore, her feathered hair and the fact that she kissed me on the cheek for telling her she looked beautiful. And even though I had been infatuated with many older women in the previous years, this was the moment I knew what it meant. This was the moment I knew what those feelings were.<br />
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I still have a picture of Gerry that night. And although it has been forty years since that can can performance and that kiss on the cheek, I can recall it like it was yesterday.<br />
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Just don't ask me to do the dance.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-54627237929816239602015-11-10T22:50:00.002-05:002015-11-10T22:50:44.270-05:00Day 6 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 6 - Whatcha' fuck up this time<br />
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Ahhh my mother.<br />
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Almost every negative memory can somehow be traced back to her. Like a lot of kids, my mother was not Donna Reed, although her trying is the cause of a lot of our issues. She was not nice, not nurturing, not present and not good for me. For many, my stories involving my mother seem unfathomable. But she, and her antics were very real. It wasn't until she said the phrase "whatcha fuck up this time" that I finally had enough. Enough of her, of justifying her behavior towards me, and allowing her to hurt me.<br />
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I checked myself into a mental health facility back in 2001. I had had a doctor that apparently thought it was a good idea to combine medications that should never have been taken together. The side effects were not only unsafe, but down right scary. I was hallucinating, homicidal and manic. I was also a mom with kids to care for. I tried to shut it up, off, whatever. I drank to calm myself down. I made poor choices most definitely. <br />
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Eventually I checked myself in voluntarily for three days to safely get off the drugs, or at least figure out what was going on.<br />
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On my first day with the doctor he asked if I wanted to call anyone. I said I would like to call my mother to make sure she was aware of what was happening and to make sure she was making herself available if need be for the kids. The doctor called her number and introduced himself. He said "your daughter is inpatient at blah blah blah hospital currently receiving mental health treatment and would like to speak to you".<br />
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He handed me the phone.<br />
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I said "Hey". She said "Whatcha fuck up this time?"<br />
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I hung up.<br />
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That was a very liberating day for me. I learned I was not at fault for some of my recent behavior. I learned I was stronger than I thought I was and I learned that my mother was unhealthy for me.<br />
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I took advantage of those three days of intense therapy to ultimately walk out of there free of her.</div>
Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-68782281832858114062015-11-10T10:05:00.000-05:002015-11-10T10:08:57.189-05:00Day 5 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Day 5 - Posting endearments</div>
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I know this is a day late. I will post two today. Maybe that means I lost the "challenge". But who the heck is keeping score anyway. </div>
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Posting endearments. There was more to that sentence that I had jotted down but that is the gist. </div>
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Posting your love, thanks yous, cryptic swooning. We all see it, we all do it, but why?</div>
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On one hand I think it's great. People feel safer and less vulnerable expressing themselves on a screen, out of sight. They might say more than they would or could directly. And if what they say is not well received, they can always shut their screen off. There is no way to escape that situation face to face. On the other hand though, I think the person is shortchanging themselves and the recipient and being almost cowardly. </div>
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Taking the safe route feels, well, safer. But where is the connection? The real human connection. And when our endearing, heartfelt posts get a ton of "likes", doesn't the validation that the poster is endearing and heartfelt somehow supersede the purpose of the post? Is the pat on the back more gratifying than saying I love you to begin with? I think for a lot of people it is. </div>
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Self gratification seems to be all the rage. Saying I love you publicly seems to be as much about the person saying it as it is for the person receiving it. I think for many sharing that love via social media comes with the expectation that THEY will get something out of it. That people will think THEY are sweet, and kind and all things yummy and good because THEY were "willing to put yourself out there for all to see". Somehow the meaning becomes lost and the recipient takes a back seat. </div>
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If that same "I love you" was said to the person directly, there is a moment being shared with whom it should be shared. And it becomes about THEM, as it was intended, or should have been anyway. </div>
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I like people to know my heart is happy and full. But I honestly don't need anyone's validation that it makes me a good person to love my wife. When I buy her a gift it is because I love her, not because I want people to think I am awesome for swooning over the person I care about. And when I do something for her, I don't wait for her to post it on Facebook so people can tell her how lucky she is. I appreciate when she acknowledges my endearments, and is proud of our relationship, but I do not need others approval to feel better about how I conduct myself.</div>
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I worry that the meaning behind the love and wooing, and the pulse racing possibility or acceptance or rejection, is getting lost. And I worry that in our quest for validation we are misguiding our feelings of love and ultimately using them to feed our own egos. </div>
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-36165097911321594692015-11-08T19:47:00.000-05:002015-11-08T19:49:11.317-05:00Day 4 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 4 - "Getting old was someone else's unattainable dream".<br />
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Wow. I remember this sentence well. It wasn't mine. It was actually lifted from a friend's post. I cannot begin to pretend that I know how she felt when she said it. I do not walk in her shoes and have not had the horror of experiencing losing two partners to cancer. But what I do know is that I found that statement quite profound. And once again, reading someone else's words has made me think and possibly rethink how I feel about something.<br />
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Getting old.<br />
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I have always wanted to get older. When I was a child I could not wait to be an adolescent. When I was an adolescent I couldn't wait to be an adult. Even as an adult it seemed that an older version of adult was more desirable. Even at pushing 50, I still sometimes wish I was just a little bit older, That somehow more sophistication and class come with age. That if I just get a little older I will get regal looking with my gray hair, and that I will carry myself with an aura that attracts people and makes them want to sit and listen to my wise words of wisdom. I know it's not true but I find age to be a positive, not a negative.<br />
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So much of the media, and what is put in front of us, tells us that getting old is bad. It repeats, over and over, that wrinkles are ugly, your slower metabolism will make you fat and unattractive, and that you are destined to be lonely putting milk in the cabinet instead of the fridge. Our world is full of ways to prevent these terrible things from happening. The market on "how not to get old" (and essentially undesirable) is huge.<br />
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But when you put getting old into perspective, such as realizing how many people will never even have the opportunity to experience getting old, phrases like "getting old was someone else's unattainable dream" should really make you rethink your take on aging.<br />
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I can guarantee you, those that never had the opportunity to experience "old" would not be complaining about their wrinkles, fat or memory loss if they were just given the chance to live to see it.</div>
Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-30416597840747648122015-11-07T21:18:00.002-05:002015-11-07T21:18:38.050-05:00Day 3 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 3 - Facebook has made me less judgmental<div>
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I am unsure why I thought this particular realization was blog worthy, but since it is next on my list of blogs ideas in my notes, I will write about it.</div>
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Facebook has been called a lot of things by a lot of people, good and bad. I am sure we have all witnessed posts that validate just about every opinion of the social media giant. I know I have.</div>
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As much as I want to hate Facebook, and social media as a whole, for taking us away from real life, for breaking up relationships, for grooming narcissistic adolescents etc, I cannot deny it's power to do good.</div>
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This past year has been really difficult for my family. We have had job losses, incarcerations and brushes with suicide. I am pretty sure on paper that makes us seem dysfunctional by every account of the word. The truth is, we are not, My family is real. Full of real people with real problems. We are also a family full great things; legal same sex marriage this year, a new grand baby on the way and children that have conquered things against all odds.</div>
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I took quite a hiatus from Facebook and my writing to focus on my family and myself. But truth be told, when I needed support, both emotionally and financially, it was social media that was there with no questions asked. </div>
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My family is in a much better place heading into the new year. I have found some time to breathe and realized in those breaths I have really missed being here. While I have silently stalked you all, I did not engage. I quietly watched your lives and loves unfold. I read posts and comments. </div>
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When I wrote "Facebook has made me less judgmental" I am positive it was because I was finding that being able to read others comments to things always made me think before I made an opinion. And many times, by the time I was done with the comments, what I assumed I thought about the person, situation, whatever, changed. I was listening (reading), and thinking. I have taken this skill into my everyday life. I now stop myself when I pass judgement, and think. I look at all of the angles. I consider all of the people or parts. And many times my initial knee jerk reaction and opinion ends up wrong. </div>
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Facebook has certainly made me less judgmental of others. However this past year I have realized that Facebook has also made me less judgement of Facebook. </div>
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I appreciate it's positive power </div>
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-65205459512694293952015-11-06T23:36:00.000-05:002015-11-06T23:36:17.442-05:00Day 2 - "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 2 - Why don't you smile<br />
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I can only assume I jotted this down because I hear that about 100 times a day.<br />
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"Smile".<br />
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I suppose I am graced with the highly overused phrase - resting bitch face. But honestly, I don't think that is the reason for my puss. I am in thought. Deep thought. Almost all of the time. My head runs like it's on jet fuel all day long. My brain is spending way too much time analyzing the ridiculousness of my consuming thoughts to find much time to remember to smile.<br />
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I dislike that people find me a human version of grumpy cat. I am not typically grumpy in the situations where "smile" comes at me.<br />
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What I find interesting is that even with my seemingly unapproachable and unwelcoming face, people cannot help by seek me out. While one is telling me to smile, another is telling me their life story. I am a magnet for conversations with people that I truly did not elicit. As a matter of fact, I am pretty sure I keep eye contact at the bare minimum hoping to avoid the interaction. Still, they find me.<br />
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I know my blog was supposed to be about why I don't smile. But I find it much more fascinating that my uninviting lack of a smile seems to be the same thing as holding a neon welcome sign over my head. It makes me wonder if the smile is really what people even find comforting.<br />
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Smiling is a universal sign. It says "I am happy" or "you make me feel good" or "that was funny". I experience all of those things and I smile when I do. I know this to be true because I have seen picture evidence.<br />
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But is smiling what says "I am approachable"? Or are there other ways for people to recognize empaths and people willing to listen and care? And when someone tells you to smile are they saying it really because they are superficial, seeing only the obvious and not capable of connecting on a different level? <br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-4561532066325692562015-11-05T22:47:00.003-05:002015-11-05T22:50:02.318-05:00Day 1 of my "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge - What would you say in couples therapy.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 1 of my "pick a blog idea from my notes and run with it" challenge<br />
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- <i>What would you say in couples therapy</i>.<br />
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Most of my reading is done either in the bathroom or while procrastinating. Typically ideas for my writing come from the conversations I have within my own head triggered by things I have just read. And since a good portion of my "free time" to read is while I am in the bathroom, suffice to say that this blog idea came from something I read in Reader's Digest or some home magazine with Martha Stewart on the cover.</div>
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I do wish I knew what I was thinking when I jotted that sentence down. I would love to know what I was saying to the therapist and/or to my partner. Clearly the scenario was playing out in my head. Unfortunately I have no idea. </div>
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There hasn't been a time in many years that I thought counseling was needed or would be appreciated. So it's not like I had a laundry list of "well you........"s or "I need......."s to get out of my system. My guess is that I was probably questioning the validity of counseling, or praising it's ability to get people to communicate when they otherwise can't or won't.</div>
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Therapy is supposed to be a safe place. and sometimes it actually feels that way. For me, therapy was about the only place I would allow myself to be honest and vulnerable. And only ever with one therapist. But when I think back to those days. I wish everyone was able to have that experience. I know most do not.</div>
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As I sit here right now, the sentence "what would you say in couples therapy" does not trigger any powerful response. Since it's been over a year since I had the idea to write a blog about it, it's possible that whatever passion I had at that time has taken a back seat to something more prevalent.</div>
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That being said, if I was in couples therapy today, I would hope I would allow myself to be vulnerable and honest. I would hope I would feel OK to say I'm sorry, I'm scared, I'm hurt, I'm afraid etc. All the things I do not know how to say on my own.</div>
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-37446768756558404292015-11-04T21:29:00.000-05:002015-11-04T22:34:32.064-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Scrolling down through my 'notes'.<br />
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I feel like I may not even have had a smart phone last time I posted a blog it's been so long. Where have I been.<br />
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That isn't a real question. I know where I have been. I have been experiencing life in the busiest, sometimes scariest places possible. I have been filled with things to do, things to think about and things to avoid. Life has consumed me, and I took sharing out of the equation, I just didn't seem to have time.<br />
<br />
In my phone notes, I have a list, "Blogs". Pretty simple. I jot a sentence down certain it will trigger what I was thinking at the time and I would come back and write about it. I was wrong in that thinking. The list is pretty lengthy. It looks intriguing. It sparks ideas and thoughts. But honestly, I have no clue what the sentences really meant to me then. <br />
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I have not only stopped sharing with you, I stopped sharing with myself. For that I am sad.<br />
<br />
I saw a fellow friend and blogger take on a challenge about posting a blog a day or something. I honestly do not know what the challenge really is. But after seeing her post the past three days in a row, I feel jealous and hollow. I feel like I have short changed myself. I feel like screaming "hey! I have things to say too!".<br />
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Since I do not know what the real "challenge" if, I have made up my own.<br />
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My list in notes contains 20 sentences that were supposed to trigger a blog. Even though I have no idea what I was thinking at the time, I am am going to take each sentence and see where it takes me.<br />
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So tomorrow I will start with "what would you say in couples therapy".<br />
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Oh boy.<br />
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I hope you join me.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-51827782952426757792013-09-12T10:14:00.000-04:002013-09-12T10:14:10.616-04:00Top 25 relationship "Dont's"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is no shortage of relationship advice online. If you want someone to tell you "it's not you, it's them", you undoubtedly will be able to find something to justify that. If you want an article to tell you how awesome you are as a lover, friend, spouse, whatever, I am sure somewhere you can relate to someones advice. And as much as we don't need anymore relationship experts to chime in, I am going to anyway.<br />
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My news feeds seem to be swamped with miserable people's posts about their failed relationships. The most common thread seems to be "How could they do this to me?". Hardly ever do I see "What did I contribute to this situation that caused this to happen?". <br />
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Relationship "Do's" are easy to come by. Do this, do that, and you will be prince charming (or whatever you want to be). "Don'ts" are a little harder to swallow, especially when we know we are guilty of them. Taking responsibility for your part in a relationship is not always so easy.<br />
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After a considerable amount of relationships, including long term, short term, one nighters, kinky, convenience, friends with benefits, completely inappropriate etc, I have made a lot of mistakes and have had a lot of mistakes made against me. I certainly should have been held accountable for the failure of some but in all fairness, there were plenty where the accountability lied on my partner's end.<br />
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However, blame is useless and gets us nowhere. Maturity teaches us to focus on what we personally contribute rather than what someone else does or doesn't give to us. <br />
<br />Relationship "Do's" only work when the "Don'ts" aren't winning.<br />
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Here is my (unsolicited) Top 25 list of "Don'ts":<br />
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1: Don't assume your partner knows what you are thinking/feeling<br />
2: Don't forget what brought you to the relationship to begin with<br />
3: Don't take anything for granted, you aren't "owed" their love<br />
4: Don't stop communicating<br />
5: Don't forget that your actions effect others<br />
6: Don't let yourself go<br />
7: Don't stop wooing. Ever.<br />
8: Don't be inconsiderate<br />
9: Don't lie<br />
10: Don't sugar coat<br />
11: Don't hold in your feelings<br />
12: Don't "spare them" information that might upset them<br />
13: Don't treat your partner like a companion or roommate. You may just end up that way.<br />
14: Don't stop having sex<br />
15: Don't put your relationship last even when it seems to need the least attention<br />
16: Don't ignore the silence<br />
17: Don't forget to compliment<br />
18: Don't give up<br />
19: Don't allow others to sabotage your relationship<br />
20: Don't forget that you are not the only one with feelings<br />
21: Don't sacrifice who you are<br />
22: Don't cheat <br />
23: Don't stop being spontaneous<br />
24: Don't assume just because you feel complete your partner does<br />
25: Don't forget that someone else is always willing to take your place<br />
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Take responsibility. Treat it seriously. Be good to each other. <br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-36237016173492020122013-07-19T13:35:00.000-04:002013-07-19T14:09:17.354-04:00Whose body is it anyway?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Like most people, I have an issue with my body. And like most people, telling me I should not feel that way is not going to change that.<br />
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So many people seem to miss the fact that body image isn't always about weight. <br />
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I am relatively thin. Which somehow immediately takes all negative body image credibility from me. I am secretly banned from the self loathing water cooler conversations, since my issues shouldn't be <i>real</i> issues.<br />
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When I dare to join the bash-your-body talks, I get raised eyebrows and a lot of "but you are so skinny" comments.<br />
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Sometimes I want to scream! "DON'T TELL ME HOW TO FEEL ABOUT MY BODY. WHOSE BODY IS IT ANYWAY?"<br />
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It is frustrating. But I get it. We are so conditioned to think that fat is bad, skinny is good, and that those black and white lines define how we should see ourselves and each other. For me though, it's so much more. As with most areas of my life, I live in the grey.<br />
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My body issues are weight, shape and gender related. I could go on all day explaining how I got so delusional, what pharmacological and surgical steps I have resorted to to shut my head up, and the stresses extreme poor body image adds to a relationship. But I won't. It really doesn't matter, nor do most people care. They are too busy picking themselves apart and quietly telling me to shut up because, after all, I am<i> so skinny</i>.<br />
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The majority of the people I am in contact with all day have no idea that I suffer from gender identity issues, depersonalization and body dysmorphia. No matter what mirror I look in, I will never see "me". No amount of drugs or surgery could ever make me look like I feel on the inside. And while I have grown to accept the majority of that, I still have a hard time thinking anyone else can. I feel incomplete, wrong and judged because of it (yes, I know that is not true. It is a <i>feeling</i>, and I cannot help feelings).<br />
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Next month I turn 45. My children are basically grown and my life is essentially slowing it's pace and rounding the corner to the next part of my journey. When thinking of how to answer "what do you want for your birthday this year?" the only thought that came to mind, was "peace with myself, stillness in my head, the ability to believe your love is genuine, and the possibility of living the next years of my life free from self loathing".<br />
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Next week I have an appointment in NYC with an <a href="http://photographytherapy.com/" target="_blank">amazing woman</a> who does phototherapy. The sessions will consist of me and my partner in various stages of undress. The ultimate goal is to be able to see myself from a different perspective. While typically this therapy is not done with two people, I wanted the intimate moments (one will be dressed while the other is not) to show us both how we see the other from our perspective as well.<br />
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This is going to be challenging for me, my partner and the photographer. We are all wading in uncharted waters with this session. I am confident the photographer will find a way to show me someone in those photographs that is worthy. I am confident that my partner will see how much I adore her even when my defenses keep her at arms length. And I am 100% positive this is the best gift I will have ever received.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-22796475093897391762013-07-16T12:43:00.000-04:002013-07-16T12:43:22.133-04:00This IS my journey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been a long time since I have been here. Not because I haven't had anything to say, but because I haven't known where I wanted those words to go.<br />
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For a long time I thought I wanted to write for a big publication one day. But after years of climbing the "ladder" with unfulfilled columns and being boxed in to specific categories and wording by my editors, I have found writing for someone else was truly just work. And being paid minimally or not at all was not enough to make me want to do something that felt like work. Like musicians being solicited to play for free for exposure I felt used and walking the wrong path.<br />
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So I took a hiatus. From writing. But not from thinking.<br />
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I have been thinking. A lot. About life, my sense of self, family, the crappy media, Trayvon Martin, the future, weird dreams, expectations, time, this country, my carb intake, my lame attempts at exercise, people less fortunate, my sick dog, solar energy, our new landscaping project, my lack of friends etc etc. The list is long, as my mind never ever stops.<br />
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I didn't stop writing for lack of things to say. Anyone that knows me will tell you I ALWAYS have something to say. I stopped writing because I had no where to share the things that mattered to me most. No one wanted to read that. No one wanted to read the words "I" or "me". They told me my opinions only mattered if they didn't look like my opinions. Then I thought about this blog. And how it paved the way to the place I am right now. And I realized that this was the place for my thoughts, unsolicited advice, opinions and dreams. I left it to pursue what I thought was a naturally progressive journey. I was wrong.<br />
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This is how I write. This is what I need to be doing. This is what will take me where I need to go eventually. This feels right. It may not come with a paycheck, but it is lucrative in so many other ways. People can relate. It's about feeling and passion. It's about community and knowing you are not alone. <br />
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I started my memoir a long time ago. I was passionate about it. It was easy to write. It is a story that I want to share and I know some people need to read. I stopped writing that too. In my efforts to please the editors and create pieces that showed well for the publications that brought me on board, I forgot how to sit down and let my feelings write for me. <br />
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Today is the day I have decided to change that.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-58860828920904262392013-03-26T14:54:00.000-04:002013-03-26T14:58:25.686-04:00Fetish Love - Wind Pants Style<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In my never ending pursuit of human interest stories, poking around the recesses of the Internet, I came upon a gentleman with a great love for nylon wind pants; ADIDAS wind pants to be exact. The bulge in the front of said pants made it quite obvious that his love was about far more than the fashion statement.<br />
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While I applauded his kink, and everyone's kinks for that matter, what I found the most endearing about this little kinkster, was his partner. His partner, happily adorned a pair of ADIDAS wind pants too. And while I am not 100% certain that they didn't meet up at a wind pants kink party, my gut says she does not necessarily share his fetish. That being said, and with her wind pants on, I COULD be 100% certain that <i>her</i> passion for <i>his</i> passion was genuine and beautiful.<br />
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As with all people stories I read, I find myself taking it in, forming opinions and trying to relate. In this case, I was admittedly envious of the wind pant couple. I loved his zeal for the nylon and was amazed at her ability to go along for his ride. His ride made her ride. <br />
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His ride made her ride. I love the picture that conjures up in my head. The dance I love and miss so much. The finding of yourself by giving to someone else. A concept a select few ever deeply find. And my wind pant friends found it and seemed to have nurtured it into something mutually satisfying.<br />
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This just goes to show that you may not have the same interests, but you can, and should, encourage each others desires whenever possible. That nurturing the relationship is vital to survival and finding common ground. It's easy to get engrossed in your own things, especially when they differ from your partner's, but it's just as easy to find some common ground if you take more time and interest in what others are doing.<br />
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Unfortunately not all interests will end up in a sexually satisfying moment like my wind pant friends, but encouraging each other and taking a genuine interest in someone elses passions might just uncover a little spark you had long since thought you had lost.<br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-25447161302124226242013-03-10T13:58:00.000-04:002013-03-10T14:01:09.718-04:00Regrets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am no expert. No really, I'm not. However, if you had ever had an actual conversation with me, you have probably experienced my unsolicited expertise in whatever topic we are discussing. Likely it had little impact. I know a little about a lot of things and a lot about very few. I have tons of unusual life experiences to draw from, but in no way does that make me an expert. That being said, I have been thinking a lot about regrets and how to avoid as many as possible. So I am offering, once again, my expert advice.<br />
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I have regrets. I am sure most of us do. Typically, or for me anyway, they seem to come from situations that ultimately make us feel guilt or remorse. The tequila night that went bad, the time you made your grandmother cry, or when you left your baby at day care by accident. It happens. When someone asks you "Do you have any regrets", one of those types of scenarios may come up. (And no, those are not my real life examples. Except for maybe the tequila one.)<br />
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We also have the "I didn't ever......." regrets. I should have dated that 18 year old that said they liked cougars, I should have saved more money so my cats don't eat better than I do in retirement, and the ever popular, I should have traveled the world. These aren't really regrets, these or dreams or desires you held yourself back from. (Again, not mine. I have yet to be called a cougar.....dammit.)<br />
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So making my grandma cry, denying the 18 year old lover , and never leaving the country aren't regrettable? Well yes, we can regret the behavior, or lack there of. But the feelings that come from that regret are the shame, embarrassment, guilt etc. Regret isn't a feeling. A feeling comes as a result of regretting something. And emotions are the reason we avoid doing things that we later end up regretting. <br />
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The vicious regret cycle.<br />
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Today I was thinking of so many things I want to do. Both bucket lists; the reality bucket and the fantasy bucket. While my fantasy bucket overflows, I am truly not interested in pursuing most of its contents. I have made the decision that not feelings, but potential bad consequences, land things in the fantasy bucket. I have way too many things to lose and little to gain by picking out of that hat. The reality bucket list grows as I grow, not in age, but in self. And yet, I find myself visiting that bucket just as infrequently. For that I have regret, or most assuredly will someday.<br />
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I think I will head regret off at the pass, or meet it before it finds emotion.<br />
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I will stop thinking about what happens after I choose to fulfill a want or need and just fulfill it. <br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-66211221540281000362013-03-02T11:53:00.002-05:002013-03-02T11:53:50.934-05:00Sacrifice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It has been almost a year since I posted a blog. In this blog's beginning, I was full of zest and zeal. I wrote daily. At some point it changed to weekly. Then monthly. The sporadically. Eventually something caused me to hit a brick wall and fall flat on my writer's ass. Recently I realized, it was writing that caused me to stop writing.<br />
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When I began this blog, I threw my heart and soul to the wind and my readers. In return I found personal freedom, compassion, friends and connections. I felt that my words made a difference to me and those that read them. I opened the passion door and found amazing things behind it. I loved the feelings so much that I reached out to more people and places to lay my words. Apparently I reached too far.<br />
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Somewhere between then and now, writing became work. I was so happy to contribute to all of the online papers and magazines. I was happily blogging my personal experiences and writing for myself and those that needed to relate. I took on project after project wanting to sink my teeth into everything. And then, one day, I realized I was working. No longer had my writing become a release. I was losing the passion and drive. I had to think about what I would write instead of hurrying to get to my computer and let out the words that were overflowing in my head. I had stretched my limits. I had sacrificed myself.<br />
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Sacrificing yourself.<br />
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I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about that lately. So much time in fact, that it has gotten my writing juices flowing and encouraged me back to this blog.<br />
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In life, we are taught, learn, or decide that we must make sacrifices for the greater good, be it relationships, those less fortunate etc. However somewhere I think many of us lose sight of what it means to sacrifice. For me, sacrificing means giving up something or compromising to make whatever work. Certainly it should never be a negative thing, but rather something you WANT to do. It should be a conscious decision done in the best interest of whatever your particular interest is. Sacrificing should be about giving OF yourself, not giving UP yourself.<br />
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Many times, for me anyway, the two get confused. In the past I have found myself agreeing to be less than who I am to pacify a situation. I have given up parts of me that, frankly, I liked. In an effort to keep moving forward, I didn't realize I lost some important things that didn't deserve to be left behind.<br />
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So today, on my first day back here, I will leave you all with the same thought I have been pondering lately: <br />
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Sacrifice for compromise should never mean losing yourself for change. <br />
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Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-70576223933915121672012-05-10T13:33:00.000-04:002012-05-10T13:33:50.088-04:00Make It Stop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have been working on my presentation for an anti-bullying event being held next week in Texas.<br />
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For months I knew this was coming. And for months I had an idea of how I wanted to present my story in order to inspire others to find their own "awareness". For days I typed and deleted. I was trying desperately to say "Hey! Look at me. I have a story to tell. I WAS that kid." Blah blah blah.<br />
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And then it hit me.<br />
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This has absolutely NOTHING to do with me. While my story may be inspirational, it alone will not save another child from dying. There will undoubtedly be people in that audience that connect and relate to where I have come from, where I presently live within my own head, and what my desires for the future are. However, me feeling sorry for myself and asking others to take that pity train with me surely does no good.<br />
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When I realized that the angle of what I had to present was just as important as the content, the ideas flowed.<br />
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As soon as I took myself out of the equation and replaced me with our young people, it became so obvious.<br />
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Spreading awareness isn't about telling your story, or where you have been. It's about showing people, first hand, what that story has taught you. It is about creating a place where tolerance is not something we try to teach, but a value we possess and pass on to others through our own actions.<br />
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We all have a story to tell. And it is an incredible thing to do so. But not this time. It is our young people's turn to be spotlighted, not the young person I used to be.<br />
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For more information on the event visit <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/234111223353363">Make It Stop.</a><br />
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<br /></div>Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-74746208722488912622012-04-18T10:24:00.002-04:002012-04-18T10:30:58.532-04:00"Home" is where you are "from"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Someone asked me where I was "from" today. That lead to a discussion of where exactly you say you are from. If you have lived in multiple places as a child do you choose where you were born? Raised? Went to school? Started a life? What constitutes where someone is from?<br />
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I typically say the town in which I went to high school is where I am "from". Even though I technically lived in three other towns prior, I almost always say my high school town. I only lived there for five years. After I graduated, I moved on.<br />
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It got me to wondering why I chose that particular place to say I was "from". I came to the conclusion that "home" is where you are "from" and that "home" is the place with the warmest memories. Do not get me wrong, those high school years were a nightmare for me in many ways. And "home" certainly doesn't mean in my actual house. But that town had something to offer that I never found anywhere, which was comfort. I found comfort in a few select relationships that for the first time made me feel welcome for who I was.<br />
<br />
The first house I lived in for just about a year. I obviously have no recollection of that. The second house I lived in until I was eight. That house was filled with childhood scars and I was fine leaving it. However I had a very close bond to my snow fort that year and do remember crying because I had to leave it in the front yard.<br />
<br />
The next house I lived in held a lot of bad memories and surreal moments. Even <i>Lifetime</i> couldn't have made up the things that took place in my world then. I lived there until I was twelve when we moved into my father's childhood home. I have conveniently blocked out the entire moving process as well as a lot of life in general back then.<br />
<br />
I was not really fond of my high school town. My family did not meet the economic standards for living there which posed a lot of issues. Our family was "grandfathered" in (family had lived in the same small run down house since the early 1900's). The town itself was like living in a bubble. The people were ruthless and judgmental. However, through it all I found pieces of myself and connected to others. I found families of friends that were the family I never had. I found partners, love interests and people that genuinely wanted to be in my space, not felt obligated to.<br />
<br />
When I say I am from that town it is because the most tender memories of my young life reside there. It is because the tragic memories of my past did not follow me. It is because in some people I had found "home".<br />
<br />
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</div>Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-46268840693747977562012-02-23T09:44:00.000-05:002012-02-23T09:44:26.060-05:00Do I look like a boy?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">In 1973 I wanted a haircut. Maybe it was 1974. I was in kindergarten. My hair was long, always in pony tails and a part of me that didn't seem to fit right. I wanted short hair. Not quite like a boy but not quite like a girl. I wanted something in between. Something that felt like me.<br />
<br />
My mother denied me my haircut for the longest time. She spent countless hours with detangler sprays, combs and brushes. She made sure every hair on my head was perfect. If one piece of hair was out of place she would sigh, rip out the rubber band and start all over again. It was an awful lot to go through for something I didn't even want. <br />
<br />
After relentless persuasion I finally got my hair cut. I would like to say it went down like this:<br />
<br />
Me: "Mom I reaaaaaallllly want my hair cut short. Please???????"<br />
Mom: "OK honey."<br />
<br />
However, it went more like this:<br />
<br />
Me: "Mom, I reaaaaalllly want my hair cut short. Please??????" <br />
Mom: "Fine. If you want to look like a friggin boy I will chop your hair off like a friggin boy!"<br />
<br />
And while I do not remember the exact haircut taking place, or the ride there and back, I can only imagine with great force and anger I was grabbed by the hand, thrown in the car and taken to the shop where I am positive the girl was told to make me look like a boy, but a really ugly one.<br />
<br />
The only memory I have is arriving back home with my hands over my head screaming and crying and my mother slamming the front door in my face. I do know it was early morning and it seemed like the neighborhood was not yet awake. I went next door and called up to the window of the teenaged girl that lived next door. Her opinion, and company, was very important to me.<br />
<br />
Me: "Do I look like a boy?"<br />
Girl: "No, you look like a cuter version of you. It doesn't look like a boy or a girl. I think it fits you."<br />
<br />
It was the worst haircut ever. But at that moment I didn't care. That is what I needed to hear.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-32760823310510643942012-02-07T13:51:00.000-05:002012-02-07T13:51:16.106-05:00My GAY Cape<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I was asked to mentor some high school kids working on writing business plans. I cheerfully accepted. I love working with kids, in any capacity. I always walk away knowing my experiences have taught them something. It's a great feeling.<br />
<br />
When I walk into the school to meet these kids, I know I will immediately scan the group with gaydar. Even if they don't know that particular thing about them, I will. I will hope the students that I detect will be part of my team. I want the LGBT kids, I just cannot ask for them.<br />
<br />
Whenever I am in an situation where there are kids, I want to whip out my "GAY" cape and don a T-shirt that says, "I am here. I am grown. I survived, I can show you how. Just ask me"<br />
<br />
I want to be the voice for them, the confidence they lack, the tough exterior they need to ward off society. I want to be the future that looks bright, the sign of possibility and the determination that often slips from their grasps in frustration. I want to be their hope.<br />
<br />
I am not extraordinary. As a matter of fact, I am pretty much ordinary. These kids cant tell where I have come from, they cant see where I have been. They will most likely never realize I have been where they are now. They will go on about their days with their feelings unexpressed, their fears mounting and their options seemingly nonexistent.<br />
<br />
I was that kid. I wish someone would have worn that GAY cape for me. I wish I had known someone, anyone, that made it through. Someone that validated the confusion, the self loathing, the lack of understanding. A person, that through words or actions, could have assured me what I was feeling was right, OK and potentially amazing. My gay super hero would have been a phone number to call when I spent days crying in my room to my posters. They would have been someone who could help me see that childhood is really such a short period of time even though it felt like an eternity passing through.<br />
<br />
Recently I had a conversation with someone regarding the lack of resources for LGBT kids in my neighboring communities. Fear was the main reason that came up again and again for keeping them away. Parents fear for their gay children exposed in a public place. Students fear for their safety from hate filled classmates. Administrators fear liability. Liability. Who is liable for these kids' well being? For their sense of self? For their understanding of love? Who is liable when these kids commit suicide?<br />
<br />
When I walk into that school I will scan the group. I will look for that familiar face staring back at me. I will wish I had my cape on. I will try to tell them silently that high school is completely different from real life. I will try to convey that the feelings they are experiencing are real and OK. I will try to say "just hang in there. These people will mean nothing compared to what you will mean to yourself someday".<br />
<br />
</div>Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5280494652487882447.post-84189716231113359052012-01-09T14:23:00.000-05:002012-01-09T14:23:59.620-05:00"Break the cycle"I watched Oprah's Master Class last night. Jane Fonda was telling her story. At one point she mentioned her mother, or lack there of, and all that she went through as a child. Tales of childhood sorrows resonate with many of us. Naturally I thought about my own childhood and my own mother. She went on to say that when she realized her mother had been a victim of abuse as a child herself, it all made sense. Of course she used more words than that and described her emotions with great detail. The point of it was that her realization somehow relieved her of her own pain, and her mother's accountability. I wanted to buy it. I really did. But I couldn't.<br />
<br />
My mom, for a lack of better words, was a real jerk. She was demanding, a perfectionist, self centered, too strict and emotionally draining. She belittled, complained about, and was obviously ashamed of me. I could never have measured up, not to her expectations anyway. She had issues. And thanks to her, now I do. At one point in my young adult life I tried, very hard, to relieve her of the guilt I felt she should be feeling. I told myself that she too was a victim of an overbearing, unreasonable and simply crazy mother. I wanted to excuse her behavior because "she didn't now better",or "that is how she was raised". But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
I am a mother now myself. I was raised by Godzilla who was raised by Godzilla, and yet, I am not Godzilla. Certainly some of my parenting style has trickled down from the zillas, but I do not emotionally or physically hurt my children. I know better than to be that to them. Surely at some point, my mom could have said, "I don't have to be this. It didn't feel good to me, why would I do it to them". But she didn't. She had the ability, she just didn't have the strength or desire. <br />
<br />
At some point childhood sorrows needs to stop being a crutch and an excuse. My mom never used it as an excuse, but every one else did in her defense. (actually she still has yet to acknowledge her behavior) I feel sorry for her and what she endured. I really do. However living through those scenarios does not "entitle" someone to be behave improperly towards another. We all have heard the slogan "break the cycle". There is no reason it couldn't have started with her. But I am very glad it started with me. I am sure my children feel the same way.Echo Brookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04221988183165239335noreply@blogger.com0