Top 25 relationship "Dont's"

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.

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?".

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.

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.

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.  

Relationship "Do's" only work when the "Don'ts" aren't winning.

Here is my (unsolicited) Top 25 list of "Don'ts":

1:   Don't assume your partner knows what you are thinking/feeling
2:   Don't forget what brought you to the relationship to begin with
3:   Don't take anything for granted, you aren't "owed" their love
4:   Don't stop communicating
5:   Don't forget that your actions effect others
6:   Don't let yourself go
7:   Don't stop wooing. Ever.
8:   Don't be inconsiderate
9:   Don't lie
10: Don't sugar coat
11: Don't hold in your feelings
12: Don't "spare them" information that might upset them
13: Don't treat your partner like a companion or roommate. You may just end up that way.
14: Don't stop having sex
15: Don't put your relationship last even when it seems to need the least attention
16: Don't ignore the silence
17: Don't forget to compliment
18: Don't give up
19: Don't allow others to sabotage your relationship
20: Don't forget that you are not the only one with feelings
21: Don't sacrifice who you are
22: Don't cheat
23: Don't stop being spontaneous
24: Don't assume just because you feel complete your partner does
25: Don't forget that someone else is always willing to take your place

Take responsibility. Treat it seriously. Be good to each other.

Whose body is it anyway?

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.

So many people seem to miss the fact that body image isn't always about weight.

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 real issues.

When I dare to join the bash-your-body talks, I get raised eyebrows and a lot of "but you are so skinny" comments.

Sometimes I want to scream! "DON'T TELL ME HOW TO FEEL ABOUT MY BODY. WHOSE BODY IS IT ANYWAY?"

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.

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 so skinny.

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 feeling, and I cannot help feelings).

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".

Next week I have an appointment in NYC with an amazing woman 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.

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.

This IS my journey

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.

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.

So I took a hiatus. From writing. But not from thinking.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Today is the day I have decided to change that.
 

Fetish Love - Wind Pants Style

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.

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 her passion for his passion was genuine and beautiful.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Regrets

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.

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.)

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.)

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.

The vicious regret cycle.

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.

I think I will head regret off at the pass, or meet it before it finds emotion.

I will stop thinking about what happens after I choose to fulfill a want or need and just fulfill it.

Sacrifice

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.

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.

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.

Sacrificing yourself.

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.

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.

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.

So today, on my first day back here, I will leave you all with the same thought I have been pondering lately:

Sacrifice for compromise should never mean losing yourself for change.

Make It Stop

I have been working on my presentation for an anti-bullying event being held next week in Texas.

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.

And then it hit me.

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.

When I realized that the angle of what I had to present was just as important as the content, the ideas flowed.

As soon as I took myself out of the equation and replaced me with our young people, it became so obvious.

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.

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.

For more information on the event visit Make It Stop.

"Home" is where you are "from"

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?

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.

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.

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.

The next house I lived in held a lot of bad memories and surreal moments. Even Lifetime 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.

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.

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".

Do I look like a boy?

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.

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.

After relentless persuasion I finally got my hair cut. I would like to say it went down like this:

Me: "Mom I reaaaaaallllly want my hair cut short. Please???????"
Mom: "OK honey."

However, it went more like this:

Me: "Mom, I reaaaaalllly want my hair cut short. Please??????"
Mom: "Fine. If you want to look like a friggin boy I will chop your hair off like a friggin boy!"

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.

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.

Me: "Do I look like a boy?"
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."

It was the worst haircut ever. But at that moment I didn't care. That is what I needed to hear.

My GAY Cape

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.

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.

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"

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.

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.

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.

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?

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".

"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.

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.

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.

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.

Be True to Yourself

As you may or may not know, I am working on a new project.  After my epiphany (I have way too many, way too often), I realized what I wanted to do more than anything was to be a story teller. A teller of human interst stories.  I love to read about people, to learn about them, to figure out what makes them tick.  Had I been a better student and could actually have afforded school, I would have been an amazing phych something (insert some initials after my name here).

Everything about us is because of something else.  We simply would not exist if we haven't had experienced. Everyone comes from somewhere.  Sometimes its a great place, sometimes its horrific.  Be we all come from somewhere. All those somewheres create who we are right now. Even what you did mundanley ten mimnutes ago shaped who you are right now.  Every breath, everything we eat or drink, each time we use any of our senses. 

Most of our daily movements go unnoticed.  Its only those that create memory that have power, both good and bad, over us.  If we fail to remember, we fail to be effected.  Or so our brain would like to fool us into thinking. We have an uncanny ability to forget things. Especially when they are painful.  And those painful things we cannot forget, we tend to blame for hanging around making us miserable. 

All of these things we experience, whether we remeber them or not, create our story.

Since beginning this project, I have had the honor of reading and writing some very powerful stories.  It was a leap of faith for people to share such intimate details with someone they dont even know.  With nothing other than a promise to tell their story and a hope that it lifts some emotional burden, my mailbox filled with a chance for the opportunity. It was quite humbling.

One parrticular person that found their way to my mailbox was someone I knew over 25 years ago.  We were not friends, but we shared the same small high school.  The last time I saw her was probably 1986, so this is how I pictured her in my head.  And as I read her words I saw that young girl. I could so easily place her in the story.  I felt bad. Bad for what she was going through, but worse because I was going through so much then too.  I felt bad that we didnt know each other.  That we werent able to share with our peers.  That we probably would have been friends if only we had been honest with ourselves.  We shared some very similar experiences that shaped who we have become.  And yet not once would I have ever thought that she was feeling what I was feeling.

I suppose my point of this ramble is that we need to teach people that you can find friends and support in the most unlikely of places.  That we really have no idea what is happening inside someone else and they have no idea what's going on inside you.  It's not the clothes or the circle you associate with that makes you who you are. It is OK to step outside that box and open yourself up. You just need to be true to who you are and tell your story.

I am a storyteller

I had an epiphany in the shower today.  So much happens mentally in the shower.  In ten minute windows, I slowly change my life, one reflection at a time.

This morning I was feeling guilty. Guilty of not writing. Guilty of not producing the volume of articles I would like to.  Guilty of holding people up that relied on me for their web content. Guilty for thinking I was not being passionate about things I know I am passionate about.

As I washed my  hair I thought about my declining health, how it is effecting me mentally and thought perhaps I was just too tired right now to care so much.  However I know better.  No matter what the world throws at me, if I am on a mission, I will give 110% always. And I am still on a mission. The mission to write. 

I am a writer. But of what?  What do I write? Why do I write? These were the questions to myself.  I write articles. I write reviews. I write opinions. I blog. I write song lyrics, poetry and love letters.  Pretty much in that order now a days.  And that, my friends, is why I am in a rut.  I have put the very things I am most passionate about,  the topics, the subjects and the feelings, at the end of my writing priority list.  Somehow I have allowed what was once a passion in itself, writing, to become a job. One I do not get paid for.

When I began blogging and opening up my world to others, I was passionate about my feelings. I reached out and was met with open arms from many communities.  I took solace in them, and they in my words.  I was fueled by the stories, the feelings, and the injustices. I found common ground with people for the first time ever.  I learned so much, and shared even more.  I connected.  I found a place for my story and listened to theirs.  And then it hit me.

I am not a writer.  I am a storyteller.  I want to tell my story. I want to tell yours.  I want my story to effect you and yours to effect me.  I am passionately interested in sharing what brings us together and what keeps us apart.  My opinion matters and so does yours.  This is why I write. 

I am interested  in the news and what is happening in our communities.  I am thrilled to see sucessful LGBT artists portrayed in a positive lilght.  I am excited at the advances in legislation, albeit slow.  I am sickened by the injustices and the phsyical attacks on our communities.  I am just not a writer of it.

I am the writer that takes those physcial and mental scars created by the news events and shares it.  I am the writer that talks about the feelings you get when seeing couples marry after being together decades. I am the writer that opens the door to my story and encourgaes you to open yours. 

I do not feel guilty for stepping back from that which stopped feeling passionate. I am not just a writer. I am a storyteller. I have a renewed passion, a new mission and a new goal. 

Hey Kid - A letter to myself

A friend posted a short, yet brilliant, note to her child self today that made me think.  We all could benefit from writing to our young selves.

It seems the things that bother me most now, or have since childhood, might not have had as much power over me if I just had a chance to tell myself then what I know now. Obviously I got the wrong messages from those in my life.  What if I had received the right ones? Would I be at all different today? 

I think back to the young child being verbally and emotionally assaulted at the hands of her own mother.  During those years her mother's words were all she ever heard. I would have liked to say, "Hey kid.  Someday you will have your own children. Your kids will be awesome.  Everything she says to you today will make you a strong and determined mom.  You will know better than most, just how painful words and actions can be. And you will try your hardest to make sure no one ever makes your children feel like you do right now.  Her words are empty.  Your heart will be full. "

I think back to the kid that never quite fit in.  That was everyone's sidekick and no one's hero.  I would like to tell that kid "Hey kid.  You are not less than them.  When you are wishing you were someone else, someone was wishing they were you.  Believe it when people say they like you. Trust me, waiting until you are in your 40's to like yourself has severe disadvantages."

I think back to the kid that only wanted to love someone, even if everyone thought it was the wrong someone.  I would like to tell her "Hey kid.  Love who your heart tells you to. It doesn't matter what they look like, what their gender is, who they are related to, or where they come from.  Missing opportunities to love and feel good out of fear is just letting them win. "

I think back to the girl that was sure she was both a boy and a girl at the same time.  I would say to her "Hey kid.  You are whatever you feel in your heart you are.  And it doesn't matter if you stand or sit to pee. Most people will not understand you, but the important ones will. Don't ever be something you are not for them. "

And I think of the kid that sat planning her suicide, because no one took the time to tell her these things.  "Hey kid.  I love you. You might not know that for a long, long time.  So I am telling you now.  If you leave here, you will change the world forever.  There will people that never got the chance to feel the love they would have shared with you.  There will be incredible children that never got the opportunity to be here.  And most importantly, you will miss an awesome journey that ultimately takes you to a place where you finally "get" yourself.  And even though you think now, and will many times later in life, that no one would notice if you were gone.  They will. I need you to stay. "

I will never know how different life would have been if only I could have had this time with myself then.  I am not so sure I want to know.  What I do know is that it is never too late to help your young self heal.

What I want for Xmas

You asked me what I want for Xmas,
     and here is my reply

I thought of things I'd like to have,
     but can't afford to buy

I love the smell of fancy leather,
     the look of brand new shoes

I pictured diamonds on my hand,
     and sailing on a cruise

Electronics always catch my eye,
     you know I have a few

But what I really want this year,
     I've already found in you

~EB 2011

Freeing Myself

Did you ever have one of those days when you think, I just want to be free to do what I want, when I want and how I want?  I am not talking about staying in bed late, taking the day off of work or jumping out of an  airplane.  I am talking about allowing yourself the freedom to do what comes naturally, or wants to come naturally.

We have become a society of constant editing.  Every move we make is based on someone else's potential reaction. 

I commute to work. Many times while driving I will shut the radio off and ask myself, "what do you want to do at this very moment?"  Not something on my bucket list, but honestly what I want to do at that very moment. The answers vary; scream, cry, make stupid faces, pick my nose etc. I am not really looking to answer my question, I am looking to allow myself that freedom when there is no reason to edit myself.

It's not as easy as you think.

Yesterday I looked a little deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable doing what feels like it should be natural.  Why I am afraid to sing at the top of my lungs, cry buckets of tears, or dance, even when alone.  The fear of criticism waiting in the wings is powerful.  The reality of it may have been over 30 years ago, but the wounds must still be fresh.  It sucks.

If I could do what I wanted, reacted how I wished I could, allowed myself to the freedom just to be, life would completely different for me.  My self editing has molded me into someone that now I am realizing is very different than who I should have been. 

I am making progress in my attempt to free myself, not from the holds of the past but from who I have allowed myself to be because of it. 

I am so much more. 

Beer Muscles

Recently I have been anazlying the cyber relationships I watch unfold and unfortunately fold here on Facebook.  I pass no judgments, just make what I like to call observations.  Those observations tend to lead me to opinions, but not judgement.

I think back to my own relationship that started online in a chat room over 15 years ago.  The online world gives people a false sense of security and what someone recently referred to as beer muscles.  Similar to the beer goggles one might wear after a few drinks at the bar, beer muscles enable you to feel more secure, confident and powerful than you typically would without them.  That being said, I have never felt that beer goggles or beer muscles resulted in thoughts and actions you otherwise would not take, I believe they make you a truer version of yourself by wiping out the inhibitions that we place on ourselves out of morality or even fear.

In that chat room 15 years ago I was very confident with my beer muscles.  I was able to let who I was out honestly (with a few embellishments) and openly within the context of what I wanted to be seen.  Being online enables you to click, delete, or escape when an uncomfortable situation arises. If life had such provisions, we all might be a little truer to ourselves. For me, online relationships were a great way for me to feel out my different sides with people that I grew to trust and "know" but didn't have to face if it went all wrong. 

The problem I am seeing is when online relationships morph into real time ones.  Suddenly the confident, flirty, sometimes arrogant person you fell for in IMs is only capable to showing you the meek, unsure, and wishy washy person they are in real time.  It is easy to feel short changed after investing time and energy into someone only to find out they not at all who you thought they were. And although we all are who we portray online to some degree, what we feel confident showing on the Internet may be the least of what we show real time.

My relationship moved to real time with the premise that the dynamics would be only what we shared online. There were no expectations other than that. Time and establishing other dynamics between us AFTER the Internet is what kept us together and let us grow to where we are 15 years later.  For many people, the meeting for the first time comes with expectations.  False ones.  The butterflies you get when you see that special someone pop online, the anxiety waiting for your Email to load hoping for a letter, the dozens of emoticons you send back and forth don't transfer well to real life.

It is very easy for someone to say they will take care of you.  It is simple to convey strength and love in text, even on the phone. But until you are faced with the reality of who you are and who you can comfortably be in front of someone, you cannot possibly know how it will work out.

Each day I see the lovey dovey status' of those courting from afar. I watch, eagerly rooting for the couple to actually be a couple someday. Unfortunately I see the misery that often comes when they realize they were courting someone completely different than who showed up on the doorstep.

I believe we all are what we show people, to a degree.  Even the unkempt man in his dirty underwear pretending to be a 13 year old girl online is who he portrays, somewhere, somehow, inside.  And maybe life experience and maturity enables some to be confident enough to show their true selves upon a meeting.  But for many I think the online romance far outweighs reality.

I am grateful for the online world enabling me to find someone who otherwise I would probably never have crossed paths with.  But I am just as grateful that I waited to show who I really was when the real time time was right.

The Zen Den

I was watching a film short on Oprah's new network the other day. A group of people erected (I will refrain from giggling as my prepubescent behavior dictates) what was essentially a room made from PVC and white sheets on the sidewalk of a bust city street.  Inside the "Zen Den" were a variety of items at different times during the day ranging from bubbles to an exercise bike to a drum set.  The film simply showed people entering the white sheeted confines and ultimately how they chose to spend their time in there with the props provided.  My first reaction was the only people they could entice into the den were the free spirited who typically have a way about them enabling moments of free expression anyway.  My prediction proved correct for the first handful of people that entered.  However, my thought process shifted direction when I saw the business suit enter.

After a few minutes I had seen a plethora of people doing what instinctively came to them when presented with the props and a certain level of anonymity.  The raw energy these people emitted could be felt on the screen. I witnessed the release the banging of drums allowed and the return of memories, most likely good and bad, the act of blowing bubbles created. An elderly lady entered and simply laid down for a nap.

For a while I was envious of them all. Each person that stepped out of their comfort zone by entering the unknown was able to find a place where all inhibitions could be let go of and raw reaction was appropriate.  It reminded me of just how much we hold each other back. Of how guarded we keep ourselves in hopes of self preservation.  We have learned that freedom of expression is many times met with judgement and that judgment many times feels bad.  By limiting our expression we lessen the blow.  Or do we?

I started wishing that every street corner had a zen den.  That my job had one, as well as my home.  I thought about how much more peaceful the world would be if we had an nonjudgmental outlet for what we were feeling in the moment.  How having no stimuli but your own self and what you are doing would allow honesty within your own soul for a few moments.  How we wouldn't do what we assumed those watching want us to.  How cause and effect would never be negative.

I am not sure what I would do in the zen den. But I would love the opportunity to let my feelings and my energy show me.

Now that I have found "me"

I have another facebook account. It is my vanilla, accountant, mother of two page.  "Friends" on that account consist of family, people I didn't care for in high school, co-workers and a very small handful of very important people in my life.  Very few of them are privy to who I am here; the writing, genderqueer, oftentimes unstable Echo Brooks.  Those that I have allowed to take the ride with me both here and there are the few that either know who I really am or would at least be OK with it.  I appreciate those that I haven't had to compartmentalize and hold at arms length.

This morning I posted a song lyric and some comments on my other account. An ex partner of mine made a comment about not realizing I had become so sarcastic.  At first I wondered why she even said that.  Of course I am sarcastic. Everyone knows that.  Don't they?  I stated that surely I had been witty and charming back then. To which she replied  "No you were sincere and heartfelt".

I was quite thrown by that comment.  At first I was concerned that people no longer saw me as genuine and caring.  That concern soon gave way to wondering when I changed.  Apparently I had.  I felt the need to explain myself.  Explain that if she really knew who I was today she would know my sarcasm is a defense mechanism. That my witty remarks keep me from having to be serious with people.  That the chivalrous charm I used to carry with me has been tainted and replaced with mocking charm.  I felt the need to say life has made me this way.  The need to protect myself made me this way.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized she knew me as a young adult just out of childhood.  She knew me before I learned me.  She knew me before the pain of life caught up to me.

I have come a long way since the 1980's.  I have grown and have evolved.   I am still sincere and heartfelt, just guarded.

Now that I have found "me", I need to go back and bring the rest of the pieces along for the ride.

One Man's Trash

Last weekend we finished the demolition of the old, and raising of the new, shed.  I opted to spare the new shed some of the old shed's contents and made several trips to the curb with handfuls of who knows what.

On one of my last trips I saw a woman walking up the alley.  She looked weathered and I suppose natural, for a lack of better words.  Her skin had seen a lot of sun, her shoulder length hair had no meaning other than to exist and do what hair does, and her clothes were dumpster at best.  She reminded me of what I would assume someone who has committed themselves to studying wildlife in Africa might be like.  Although disheveled and messy, she seemed clean enough to be healthy and exuded an air of calm and peace.

As she passed the enormous amount of bundled old shed wood and rubbish, she quietly said, "
Oh, old racquetball rackets. Mind if I take a look?".  I found it incredibly odd how she managed to see the very tip of the handles poking out of one garbage can and was able to recognize that not only were they old, they were racquetball rackets.

"Help yourself" I said a little bewildered.

In that moment I ran a gazillion thoughts through my head. She pulled the rackets out of the can, looked them over with what appeared to be the knowledge of a professional antique racquetball racket appraiser and said "I will take this one if you don't mind. You know, one man's trash is another man's treasure".

I happily obliged her request and nodded at her commonplace words of wisdom.  As I was turning around to head back through my gate into the backyard she stopped me and said "and I don't mean just garbage".

I turned and studied her face for further clues. "That applies to all things in life, including people. Remember that." Again I nodded and spun to go back into the yard.  "Nice art work" was the next thing she said. She was looking at the tattoos on my arm.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't have to have a tattoo related conversation with someone.  I prepared myself for my standard answers.  When asked I explained that I did them myself she said "are you an artist"? To which I emphatically said "no", with a chuckle just to seal the deal.  She looked at me quizzically and said "you know, it is never too late to be what you should have been".

With that she walked away up the alley.  I watched her wondering who she was, why I had never seen her before, what she was doing behind my house and most of all how she knew those little bits of racket handle belonged to a vintage racquetball racket. 

I am not an artist.  I do not desire to be an artist.  However her words resonated with me so much over the past week that I had to write them down. "One man's trash is another man's treasure" and "It is never too late to be what you should have been". 

I couldn't agree more.