February 1, 2012, 5:04 am in public
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I stumbled upon the video from “Gratitude” while going through my youtube channel late in the night. I still get an intense and somewhat dubious exhilaration when I pay attention to what that time in my life felt like. I like it.

January 20, 2012, 5:26 am in updates
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I try to insert myself into situations that don’t interest me out of the fear of being rejected, and then blame the person I want to be closer to for how uncomfortable it is when it doesn’t work.

January 2, 2012, 8:12 pm in public

Inspiring voices

I, probably like you, have an inner voice. I sense it more than I hear it, and I know it’s my inner voice because I don’t ever “hear” it telling me anything, I just “know” what it’s saying. Usually, it keeps me full up on self deprecating chatter, razor sharp and often hilarious judgements, and that everlasting reminder that as hard as I work at everything I do I’ll never be enough.

I’d always figured that when I got around to hearing actual voices, they would be the Smeagol sorts of voices that encouraged me to press someone’s head into a belt sander, fuck a dead animal, or chop off my own foot because it itched.

As it turns out, it seems that I have taken to hearing the voices of people around me complimenting me.

It’s happened twice in the last week, and I pretended not to hear it. I’ll be in the kitchen and think I just overheard part of a personal conversation in the living room that I wasn’t supposed to be privy to.

I started wondering if these things were actually happening, just had a little bit of a sense about it you know? Like in dreams, my name is never used. And it’s a one-liner type thing, something that can be interpreted as being about how awesome I am but isn’t blatant, such as “I love doing this with her”. And at one time, in 2001 or so, I would dream so vividly about it being the day I was transitioning into sleep from that I would think conversations I’d dreamed that night were real the day after.

It took a little while (and a boatload of fucking balls, honestly) to ask someone who could tell me if these things were actually being said aloud. They weren’t, but asking did open up a lovely conversation about the possibility of thought transference and the concept that I might be picking up on them. I think that’s possible and I’ve had experiences that caused me to wonder if I have a keen sense in the past, but that would ultimately really surprise me.

What wouldn’t surprise me, is if I feel on some level that I need to externalize self-focused positive thoughts, being as uncomfortable with thinking well of myself as I am. Worse yet is my discomfort in assuming anyone else thinks well of me, and that’s the trick I seem to be playing on myself, which in my deviant little world makes perfect sense.

There’s also the age old (for me) threesome factor, as both of these situations involved two people conversing together in agreement of how much they appreciate me.

Maybe this is how self esteem shows up for me? Or maybe it’s happening because validation and acceptance from the important people in my life is so important to me and so hard to articulate or ask for, letalone truly accept. Or maybe all this self love over feeding myself good food and resting and focusing on my health shorted my brain out, like that one time in 1999 when I was high on E and I heard groups of people whispering praises to me as I wandered around the club.

I suspect this is something akin to the time period in 2008 when I would wake from a vivid dream, sit up, see both my dream and my actual surroundings, and lose the dream image only when I tried to touch it and shattered my depth perception. My brain is pretty.. well.. awesome, and keeps me entertained, and finds amazing ways to cope with stress and trauma, which I had in spades in 2008 and now.

In all honesty, I would be a lot more comfortable with being able to read minds than I am at the thought of projecting fake compliments onto myself. Telling another human being I thought I might be doing that was not easy. And if my life has taught me fucking anything about this internal examination shit, it’s that the least comfortable option is probably it, sadly.

I guess I’ll continue to ignore the lottery for now.

December 19, 2011, 7:02 pm in public

Profits, and loss.

I just spent the last 2+ hours compiling a profit and loss statement for the Swedish Medical Center, of which I am requesting charity medical care so we can get CT scans of my sinuses and brain. This would be, at the best of times, a trying task for me; Math on its own avoids my grasp, and formatting documents isn’t far behind how daunting math is, so put the two of them together and I’m squinting fiercely trying to keep track and constantly having to rework things.

I got it done, and though it wasn’t the easiest or most comfortable thing to be doing right now, I am immensely appreciative of having to do it. Here’s why:

Though I’ve improved over the years, I still have a hard time seeing past being sick. Which makes the frequency of illness in my life especially damaging and annoying. This time hasn’t been any different, and I’ve had other things going on in my life as well to be down about, so mostly, I’ve been slow and mopey inside.

What this statement showed me is about what I expected: I have profited, after expenses but before taxes and living costs, just shy of $11,000 this year.

But my reaction to it wasn’t what I expected. My jaw would have dropped if I hadn’t been clenching it for the last 2 hours; what I found notable about that fact, is the reasons why that had flooded into my head.

In 2011, I:

  • Lived in a huge, gorgeous victorian house with people I adored
  • Made my living doing things I loved, in my own office with my own schedule, sharing my space with someone I admire, trust and work well with.
  • Trained as much aerial circus as I desired
  • Stayed at an amazing Bed and Breakfast in Leavenworth, WA, 3 times
  • Took a 2.5 week road trip in a fast, fun, new car all down the west coast, to LA, Las Vegas and to visit my family in Sacramento, all of which I stayed comfortably and safely in.
  • Attended Defcon, and the swankest party I’ve ever been to at the top of the Palms hotel in Vegas
  • Stayed a weekend in a gorgeous Bed and Breakfast in Port Angeles, WA
  • Put on an ambitious, expensive, AMAzing show of my music, and did it MY WAY.
  • Spent a week exploring Ireland.
  • Created art when, how, and why I wanted to.
  • Always had a way to see a doctor when I needed one, even without insurance (through Qliance)

I have lived a LOT of life this year. A lot. And I don’t go hungry, I don’t live in squalor, I don’t have to sell myself on a street corner for rent, I don’t have to stress about feeding a family or insuring a car or put up with abuse.

And I was reminded of earlier today, as I was considering on the bus ride home from my testing of all the possibilities that could lie ahead of me; if I ended up finding out something crazy, something like I had a brain tumor and a year to live, there is very, very little that I would do differently in the time I had left.

Very, very little.

My world — this utterly beautiful, ruthless, gentle, amazing, infuriating, incredible world, is literally brimming with generosity, like my eyes are brimming with tears right now.

It is utterly staggering, and a relief to me, to finally feel something other than frustration, hopelessness, jealousy and failure when I look dead on at how much money I make for my incessant, hard work.

Money is symbolic for me in some negative way. I’ve touched on it in therapy before and haven’t quite figured out what it is yet, but I know that my relationship and self imposed barriers surrounding money are a source of deep personal struggle for me. I suspect it goes beyond simply being frustrated consistently lacking the resources to do the work I want to do in the world, and not having a stable home base to do it in. Though, those two things are pretty big obstacles, all on their own.

It is a relief in this moment to feel such a deep gratitude among the pain, disability and loneliness I’ve felt these last few weeks after my health deteriorated. And it feels so, so fucking good, to look back on all the people, past and present, that have made this small, complex, vibrant little life of mine such a worthwhile experience.

…and I don’t think I’m going to have any problem, getting the tests done that I need.

Thank you.

December 18, 2011, 7:57 am in public

Putting the “*mew*” in “badass”

My trapeze partner is a badass. She is a strong, capable, independent woman who many, many people respect, admire, and look up to. She rarely seems to seek the approval or support of others, and accomplishes remarkable things in her life that benefit a lot of people around her, including myself.

She and I both gravitate strongly toward leading, and do so naturally in social environments and, as far as I can tell, in our close relationships. We share a lot of traits, one of them being how challenging we find vulnerability to be. We handle those challenges differently, but the core is the same if not similar: Sometimes all we want is to be able to be fucking vulnerable, not have to be the one in charge, and so very often, feel as though we can’t.

I think most strong people, particularly strong and assertive women like Bev and I, and my friend Christina, Kirsten, and Adrienne, and many more that I am surely forgetting, struggle with this dichotomy.

It’s an educational and often inspiring experience for me to see how these women behave in the world and interact. To be able to see them objectively, from the outside, as well as enjoying the insider scoop from being a confidant to them. I’ve learned much about myself, and how I want to be in the world, from our friendships. I relate to their strengths when it’s difficult to accept my own, and my connections with these women are part of what is allowing me to share the following insights about myself (So thank you.):

With few exceptions, I believe (and am told) I am mostly seen, intentionally, as strong, independent, fearless, and downright intimidating. I like it, and want to, be seen that way, MOSTLY, at least at first. I am capable of and often embody all these things, and I am proud to be the resilient, exceptional person I have fought through the odds to become. There’s not a lot of damsel action going on here, and I very often know what I want, how I want it, and how to get it.

And sometimes, I don’t know. Sometimes, I’m not strong. Sometimes I’m taken off my guard, confused, beat down and struggling. Sometimes, all I want, all I really fucking need, is someone to fucking stand up for me. Not rescue me or save me or do it for me, but to show up, by my fucking side, take an opening, and STAND UP for ME. And I so very rarely seem to get that.

It stands to reason that, being the strong, capable, savvy woman I am, if I’m not getting something I want, it’s probably because I’m either looking in the wrong direction for it, or something prevents me from expressing that I want it. In this case, it’s been both.

I am fortunate to have a vast support network of awesome people who think well of me. I have an array of like-minded people to commiserate with and receive praise and encouragement from. I know that I have a lot of people out there who are truly on my side. And honestly, I can’t remember the last time I asked one of them, point blank, in words, in the moment, to stand up for me. I can ask for help, some more than others, but to be stood up for.. that’s been a different animal all together.

Part of it is internal conflict, the intense discomfort in being vulnerable, the feeling that by shifting my place from the anvil patch in this quilt of a universe that I’m letting everyone down somehow, and the mixed signals I put out when I feel that way.

And part of it is simply that I don’t want to have to ask. Sometimes, even, particularly in romantic and specifically deep connections, I go so far as to feel I shouldn’t have to ask.

Now, mind reading would be fucking creepy and violating, not to mention completely invalidating and disrespectful. I am THANKFUL my mind can’t be read, and that’s not what I’m looking for. And I don’t do well being coddled or kept, I’ve tried that and was completely resentful and miserable.

But there is more to relating with people than reacting to their words, and I do appreciate, on an extremely and increasingly profound level, when I experience people in my life who have a sense of this, a strong one to sniff past my dominant traits and recognize the undercurrents, and simply know when enough is enough and I need some fucking back-up or a tap-out. And I particularly, almost exclusively now that I think about it, crave that in my relationships with men — partially because holy shit, do women know how to stick together when the situation calls for it.

A perfect example of an execution of the sort of thing I’m talking about, is one of the best memories I have of my “evil” ex. Even though I think about as much of him as a human being as I think of a petri dish full of sludge, I light up when I tell this story, and I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to recognize how notable that is;

We were at the 5th Ave theater, at the intermission for a terrible ballet that I thought was a play when I purchased the tickets as present for my lover. Most everyone who was still in the theater was milling around or sitting at their seats talking. Most of the seats around us were empty.

I was punchy, trying to make the best of a ~$400 investment that frankly sucked, and spiritedly telling a story to my boyfriend. After a few minutes, a well-dressed older man perhaps in his late 60′s who was sitting a row ahead and a few seats down from us turned back to me, and in a condescending, scolding tone, said “Would you MIND watching your LANGUAGE.”

I was completely stunned and taken off guard. I’d been comfortable and free, telling my story, no people around me, having fun, being animated. I couldn’t even remember if I was actually cussing. And now suddenly, I’m being scolded and talked down to, and little me felt terrible, like I was in big trouble, like I’d done something really bad.

As much as I wanted to tell the guy to fuck off, to defend myself, to really nail him with some awesome, slick, scalpel smooth comeback, I stammered. I just sat there and stammered. And then I realized I was just sitting there stammering, looking like an asshole, giving this fucking jerk the satisfaction of being right.

And then I got mad at myself for letting him do that, I got embarrassed for being unable to stand up for myself effectively, and started to feel like total shit. All this internal dialogue zapped through my brain in only a few seconds, while I sat there stunned with my mouth open.

I was about to blurt out whatever primitive, unsatisfactory, childish response was at the tip of my brain, just so I didn’t sit silently and let some stranger talk down to me that way. It had been just long enough that something needed to be done.

A split second before I was about to let the hydrant spew, my boyfriend put his hand over mine as he leaned forward across me to address the man, who was still looking at me expectantly, and coldly told him “Excuse me. We’re having a conversation, here. You’re free not to listen.”

Hole. E. Shit. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I couldn’t remember another time in my life where someone had gracefully, forcefully, capably, respectfully, and so elegantly interjected into a social confrontation like that. No “Yeah, I know she’s a nutbag, sorry”. No “Why you gotta be that way, maaaan?”. No “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!”. Just pure collected burn, right there with me, and total shutdown from that old man. It was breathtaking. It swept me clear off my feet.

Before that moment in my life, and a few notable times after it (some ironically revolving around the breakup with said boyfriend), my limited experience being stood up for largely involved a lot of discomfort and embarrassment for me. People generally, frankly, made things worse. It had always just seemed better to go it alone and I never thought I’d respond so positively to someone taking over like that.

Now, I am seeing that having access to that relief is more than just a nice-to-have. Being proactively advocated for is something I am officially inviting more of into my life. Cause sometimes, it just isn’t feasible, or I just don’t have the balls, to ask and direct people. And sometimes it’s just fucking NICE not to have to, god damnit!

I want this, not because I want to be lazy, or run away from my problems, or not face my internal conflict regarding being vulnerable around people and resolve it, (I think anyone who really knows me knows how unlikely that is.) but because I want help doing that.

And as a plus, it’s cool to know that were I being mauled by a bear or mugged or picking a fight with someone way too big for me that there’s a good chance my companion would do more than stand there slackjawed and watch. Not all of ‘em, I adore and love my passive squishy sensitive geeky friends, but, you know, some of them, and probably the ones I’m fucking for sure.

So there it is: I want help. There. It’s out. I said it. Fuck.

Now time to go out and fuckin’ TAKE THAT SHIT. Rawr.

*** My acquaintance, Alyssa, another badass woman, wrote a pretty great article about judgement, selection and priorities that pairs well with this post. You should read it. 

December 15, 2011, 4:58 am in public

I am NOT crazy, and neither are YOU.

Among the everyday occurrences of this and growing up with a military Dad, at one point I spent a year and a half with a sociopathic partner who incorporated this kind of emotional manipulation to cover up his lies.

It nearly cost me my mind, and my life.

Though I’ve virtually eliminated this kind of treatment of myself in current times, the PTSD from that horrifying relationship experience, and other significant experiences of emotional nullification, can still significantly overwhelm my interactions.

Man or woman, read about what’s covertly happening to us, and don’t fucking tolerate this being done to you anymore. Use your voice to stand up for yourself, to educate and empower others around you, and take back your emotional body for the intuitive, amazing gift that it is.

A Message to Women From a Man: You Are Not “Crazy”
Posted: 09/12/11 04:34 PM ET

You’re so sensitive. You’re so emotional. You’re defensive. You’re overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You’re crazy! I was just joking, don’t you have a sense of humor? You’re so dramatic. Just get over it already!

Sound familiar?

If you’re a woman, it probably does.

Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said?

When someone says these things to you, it’s not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling — that’s inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, “Calm down, you’re overreacting,” after you just addressed someone else’s bad behavior, is emotional manipulation, pure and simple.

And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It’s patently false and unfair.

I think it’s time to separate inconsiderate behavior from emotional manipulation, and we need to use a word not found in our normal vocabulary.

I want to introduce a helpful term to identify these reactions: gaslighting.

Gaslighting is a term often used by mental health professionals (I am not one) to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.

The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman’s husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim’s perception of him or herself.

Today, when the term is referenced, it’s usually because the perpetrator says things like, “You’re so stupid,” or “No one will ever want you,” to the victim. This is an intentional, pre-meditated form of gaslighting, much like the actions of Charles Boyer’s character in Gaslight, where he strategically plots to confuse Ingrid Bergman’s character into believing herself unhinged.

The form of gaslighting I’m addressing is not always pre-mediated or intentional, which makes it worse, because it means all of us, especially women, have dealt with it at one time or another.

Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction — whether it’s anger, frustration, sadness — in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren’t rational or normal.

My friend Anna (all names changed to protect privacy) is married to a man who feels it necessary to make random and unprompted comments about her weight. Whenever she gets upset or frustrated with his insensitive comments, he responds in the same, defeating way, “You’re so sensitive. I’m just joking.”

My friend Abbie works for a man who finds a way, almost daily, to unnecessarily shoot down her performance and her work product. Comments like, “Can’t you do something right?” or “Why did I hire you?” are regular occurrences for her. Her boss has no problem firing people (he does it regularly), so you wouldn’t know from these comments that Abbie has worked for him for six years. But every time she stands up for herself and says, “It doesn’t help me when you say these things,” she gets the same reaction: “Relax; you’re overreacting.”

Abbie thinks her boss is just being a jerk in these moments, but the truth is, he is making those comments to manipulate her into thinking her reactions are out of whack. And it’s exactly that kind manipulation that has left her feeling guilty about being sensitive, and as a result, she has not left her job.

But gaslighting can be as simple as someone smiling and saying something like, “You’re so sensitive,” to somebody else. Such a comment may seem innocuous enough, but in that moment, the speaker is making a judgment about how someone else should feel.

While dealing with gaslighting isn’t a universal truth for women, we all certainly know plenty of women who encounter it at work, home, or in personal relationships.

And the act of gaslighting does not simply affect women who are not quite sure of themselves. Even vocal, confident, assertive women are vulnerable to gaslighting.

Why?

Because women bare the brunt of our neurosis. It is much easier for us to place our emotional burdens on the shoulders of our wives, our female friends, our girlfriends, our female employees, our female colleagues, than for us to impose them on the shoulders of men.

It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.

Whether gaslighting is conscious or not, it produces the same result: It renders some women emotionally mute.

These women aren’t able to clearly express to their spouses that what is said or done to them is hurtful. They can’t tell their boss that his behavior is disrespectful and prevents them from doing their best work. They can’t tell their parents that, when they are being critical, they are doing more harm than good.

When these women receive any sort of push back to their reactions, they often brush it off by saying, “Forget it, it’s okay.”

That “forget it” isn’t just about dismissing a thought, it is about self-dismissal. It’s heartbreaking.

No wonder some women are unconsciously passive aggressive when expressing anger, sadness, or frustration. For years, they have been subjected to so much gaslighting that they can no longer express themselves in a way that feels authentic to them.

They say, “I’m sorry,” before giving their opinion. In an email or text message, they place a smiley face next to a serious question or concern, thereby reducing the impact of having to express their true feelings.

You know how it looks: “You’re late :)”

These are the same women who stay in relationships they don’t belong in, who don’t follow their dreams, who withdraw from the kind of life they want to live.

Since I have embarked on this feminist self-exploration in my life and in the lives of the women I know, this concept of women as “crazy” has really emerged as a major issue in society at large and an equally major frustration for the women in my life, in general.

From the way women are portrayed on reality shows, to how we condition boys and girls to see women, we have come to accept the idea that women are unbalanced, irrational individuals, especially in times of anger and frustration.

Just the other day, on a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a flight attendant who had come to recognize me from my many trips asked me what I did for a living. When I told her that I write mainly about women, she immediately laughed and asked, “Oh, about how crazy we are?”

Her gut reaction to my work made me really depressed. While she made her response in jest, her question nonetheless makes visible a pattern of sexist commentary that travels through all facets of society on how men view women, which also greatly impacts how women may view themselves.

As far as I am concerned, the epidemic of gaslighting is part of the struggle against the obstacles of inequality that women constantly face. Acts of gaslighting steal their most powerful tool: their voice. This is something we do to women every day, in many different ways.

I don’t think this idea that women are “crazy,” is based in some sort of massive conspiracy. Rather, I believe it’s connected to the slow and steady drumbeat of women being undermined and dismissed, on a daily basis. And gaslighting is one of many reasons why we are dealing with this public construction of women as “crazy.”

I recognize that I’ve been guilty of gaslighting my women friends in the past (but never my male friends–surprise, surprise). It’s shameful, but I’m glad I realized that I did it on occasion and put a stop to it.

While I take total responsibility for my actions, I do believe that I, along with many men, am a byproduct of our conditioning. It’s about the general insight our conditioning gives us into admitting fault and exposing any emotion.

When we are discouraged in our youth and early adulthood from expressing emotion, it causes many of us to remain steadfast in our refusal to express regret when we see someone in pain from our actions.

When I was writing this piece, I was reminded of one of my favorite Gloria Steinem quotes, “The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.”

So for many of us, it’s first about unlearning how to flicker those gaslights and learning how to acknowledge and understand the feelings, opinions, and positions of the women in our lives.

But isn’t the issue of gaslighting ultimately about whether we are conditioned to believe that women’s opinions don’t hold as much weight as ours? That what women have to say, what they feel, isn’t quite as legitimate?

Yashar will be soon releasing his first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up.

I hope you will join him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter.

This piece originally appeared on The Current Conscience

Original article can be found at

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/yashar-hedayat/a-message-to-women-from-a_1_b_958859.html

December 8, 2011, 5:49 pm in public

The long hello

There’s this time in every significant relationship where things are simply dripping in awesome. Life is flowing through everything you do with one another, you stand stronger on your own, the layers you skillfully peel away together reveal excitement, reverence and possibility. The processes are as enjoyable as the outcomes and it’s impossible to not at least occasionally catch yourself wishing and hoping that you may have found a fountain of perpetual fairy tale bliss that may just never have to end.

And then someone fucks up. And shit gets real.

In the most recent case, that someone was me. I found this detail highly inconvenient. It’s usually not me, at least not the first significant trial, but regardless of when it happens, the first time I royally screw up signifies a very particular point in the everlasting, yet constantly progressing cycle that is my relationship with relationships. It signifies a very important and basic test, a subconscious impulse that demands verification: Is this thing real.

One side of a coin is not a real coin. Until you suffer challenge together, you don’t know the strength you may have in a bond. But until you’ve suffered the inevitable fallibility in the other person, until you know what that looks like, and how they handle themselves, and you, when it happens, you don’t know if that bond even truly exists. At least, I don’t. Or at least, some small hologram that periodically takes the wheel inside me doesn’t.

So, that happened. I fucked up and it broke us both open and we were awesome and authentic about it and continue to progress as individuals and as a couple because of it. I’m not proud of it but I’ve worked through the vast majority of my guilt regarding my actions and I continue to learn a little bit more every few days.

I demand integrity and truthfulness and breadth in my significant interpersonal experiences. But real, as much as I covet and search for and insist upon it, is god damn fucking scary. She wants you to fail that test. She wants to stay right, to have (job) security, to stay alive, to keep doing what she knows and does so well it’s almost sickening: Protecting the rest of me. And she’s incessant, she’s crafty and wise and skeptical, she’s righteous and wants to be right because her being right inevitably means less hurt.

And that’s who bursting the bubble makes real, inside, for me. That’s when the shadows step in. That’s when insecurity starts nipping away at my confidence, when I start periodically shutting down emotionally and not knowing why, when I become ambivalent and oscillate between intense attachment and wanting the fuck out. Cause once it’s real, I have something to lose. Something else to invest in, give myself to, protect and foster and fight for, and fucking lose. And that just fucks up everything. She’s on. She’s fucking AWAKE. And it permeates everything in my life. I periodically want to leave my job, stop teaching aerial, give up music, get rid of all my shit, and disappear. Travel light. Travel light, and survive.

I used to think it was all guilt. Once I stepped out of my integrity with someone, and treated them poorly in some way, the guilt ate my resolve away. I thought I felt muted and inconsistent because I deserved to for whatever it was I did, whatever thing I inflicted in my fucked up gauntlet I make the people close to me run. And I could imagine all kinds of things, even things that I hadn’t even done yet and may never do, that made me a bad person and a bad partner who was better off, and made others better off, alone.

As well as I’m able to see this stuff in a relatively short timeframe, I’m still blindsided the test. It wouldn’t be a subconscious thing if I wasn’t, but god damn it if I don’t feel like I should see it coming. I’ve figured out that I feel muted and inconsistent afterwards because I’m threatened somehow, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less natural when it happens. I’m just being me, and everything feels fine. Monosaturated, but fine.

I finally saw her today. She’s about 12, with long, stringy, dirty blond hair. She’s wet, and cold, and dirty, standing inside a stone cave, Indiana Jones style. She’s holding something, like a torch or a specter, stationed outside a huge, heavy door. She’s collected, logical, matter of fact and appears unphasable, but there’s a look in her face that tells you she’ll tear your jaw off with her teeth if you step sideways at her too quickly. She radiates old soul, intimidation, and is undeniably smarter than you.

She’s the part of me that mama bears. She’s the one who stands up for the people around her because no one stood up for her. She’s the child that was so impressively mature. She’s constantly tense, constantly on guard. She’s intense and serious. She doesn’t sleep. She’s defined by her duty and by what lies behind that door. She’s the one who understands that there’s always a motive for someone to attack and try to steal what she’s charged to protect. She’s wrung out and full of endurance at the same time. She’s emotionally muted because she has to concentrate, obsessed with finding a breaking point and getting rid of you. And she has no fucking idea what it is she’s guarding.

All the time I’ve known about this test, from the first “I’ll try to run eventually” warning I gave to this last “Aww, man, not again — What the fuck did I do that for?!”, I thought it was about the staying. It’s always been about the staying.

Can they? Will they? Now? What about now? Oop, apparently it was time to test again, agh, I’m such a jerk. What, you’re still here? Really? Why? Sheesh, you’re fucking stupid. Again! Again again! .. This is boring. You know what, just.. nevermind.

The test is never satisfied because it’s not about the staying. I want it to be that easy, and for a long time I’ve stayed in some version of this corrosive loop where the all-telling test us supposed to solve everything and prove I’m capable of becoming comfortable being close with someone, if I just run it one. More. Time.

But it’s not. It’s about all the other shit that comes after the staying. All that scary shit I actually want.

And it’s all behind that door.

Another ingenious, beautiful, incredibly effective, creative, awe inspiring, bulldog stubborn, self inflicted fucking masterpiece of a booby trap.

Fuck.

September 23, 2011, 1:25 am in updates
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I want to heal. I want to go back to school. I want to learn more about music. Epiphany: Music therapy.

September 18, 2011, 5:27 pm in public

Caged

The other day, my friend Sophia updated her twitter with “It’s amazing how being caged quiets my anxieties.”

I took a great pause when I read this and felt an instant kinship to what was said. I’ve been spinning into a long chain of thought that is still moving through me, searching for the point of origin that caused her sentiment to stab straight into my core.

I think of myself as being free, and needing to be free, to function. The concept of being caged makes my stomach churn and my talons protract. I’ll rip anyone’s throat out who tries. I’d probably fight so hard I’d break myself if someone did, actually, manage to fight me into a cage. I can feel my back lighting up just thinking about it.

Last winter, when I was dealing with one of the worst depressive episodes of my life, I talked about the internet, and wondered aloud if its existence as my main social avenue when I was young hindered or enabled my ability to interact with people. I was met with a visual, provided by my best friend, who said something to the effect that I’d hidden away somewhere dark and controlled and safe, and through the computer I reached out my hand to see who would take hold of it.

I’m frequently struck by the bravery in Sophia’s posts, how openly she talks about being vulnerable or scared, knowing how hard that is for me. I do it, but it’s often terrifying, I’m usually shaking and crying and imagining the intense, merciless judgement I’ll surely receive for having weakness. I just.. say it anyway.

That judgement never happens. It has never, ever happened. Even back in the days of phuqed, when I was a dumbshit kid blaming the entire world for everything that was wrong with my life, I have never been ripped into like I constantly expect to be when I’m all feared up, desperate and aching for someone to show me they know what I know.

It’s subsiding as I age, and yet, I still feel it, and I identify with that fear every time I conquer it — which is nearly always, now — and savor the relief when the support comes. I’m learning that I can count on that, that I can show these parts of myself in front of people, and even moreso — that if support doesn’t come, I can count on me.

This place is my cage when I need one. And I damn well like having it.

Thanks, Sophia.

(P.S. I just realized like 6 hours after posting this that the youtube video frame looks like… a cage. Wow.)

September 18, 2011, 4:37 pm in public

The fall is coming

thefall

It’s getting cold. Gusty. Leaves are just starting to wither and float crisply away. Even with only a whisper of what summer used to be in Seattle, I like this season. I like the destruction and death leading the way to renewal. I like the layers, the heavy coats, the warm scarves around my neck. I like the hot baths I take just to warm up.

I like the season, the food, my birthday, the sense of nesting and home. I even, dare I say, am beginning to like the holidays, and the opportunity they provide me to create my own rituals and traditions around them. Opportunities to bond with the people around me, and sometimes, the people around them.

I’m even sensing a readiness, an ever so slightly coiled spring, for the emotional crush I’ve felt every long, dark season. I can take this again — some new version of what happens every winter, another agonizing layer of skin I’ll shed and make into something that actually makes a difference in this world. My tools are sharper, my mind is finer tuned, and my safety net spans wider every day.

Seriously. See the fucking show.

September 18, 2011, 6:42 am in public
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Thank god for the internet or I never would have done anything artful in front of anyone.

August 29, 2011, 10:28 pm in updates
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Leveling up.

(I’m getting old and wise enough to feel it and know it when it’s happening now. So cool.)

August 29, 2011, 9:03 pm in public

Protected: I Made This

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August 18, 2011, 4:07 am in public

Gratitude

Summary video of my two week solo road trip, taken from my laptop webcam over the course of the 2500 mile drive. The music is Desert, Day 1, from the Fallout: New Vegas Soundtrack — which is excellent driving music, by the way.


View Found – Route of 2011 in a larger map

This was, roughly, the route I took. There were a few stops I didn’t map that were within a few miles of other destinations or along the way.

I took a fair number of pictures in the first week, and not so many after that.

My deepest gratitude goes to my friends and family for all that they did — cars, equipment, meals, hotels, support, interest, text messages, emergency kits, parties, massages, cuddles, movies, phone calls, crash spaces, sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, music, lock picks, books, advice, appreciation, excitement, and much more — to make this trip the profoundly therapeutic epic healing catharsis it became. I don’t have pictures of everyone who contributed, (um.. there were women too. Really!) but here are a few. Thank you.

August 13, 2011, 1:45 am in public

Wilted

I went back out there again. I can’t pass by the Dillard Rd. exit without going miles into nowhere to go drive by that lot and that shack and that tiny store along those uneasily familiar roads. My face is low and slack with a resigned, defeated horror from the moment I turn off the highway. My eyes immediately wet in a stinging regret as I do it, and still I’m compelled, and still there is simply something right about going out there and feeling through this.

This time I added the school I went to. I sat in the bus-only lane looking at my 3rd grade classroom, appearing even more like a prison than 20 years ago. The entire place is chainlinked now, the kids get locked in, and all the grass is paved over. Near one of the gates is a large sign explaining the school is overcrowded and it’s possible kids will get bussed elsewhere or simply transferred outright. The sprinklers watered the pavement rather than the grass. I’d forgotten that in the lot next door is a cemetery. That place was so fucking depressing I didn’t even consider taking a picture.

Whatever is still here for me is out there somewhere. I went to both the elementry schools I went to before and after Pleasant Grove and neither of them were so wretching. Leimbach was actually heartwarming, the school looks great. I went to the house my mother broke the windows out of when I was in 6th grade and remained largely unaffected. Yet looking at the new house that’s on the piece of land where the trailer we lived in once was, I fought the overwhelming urge to drag my wilted, bereaved self to their doorstep, crying like a mad woman.

I wanted to meet them. I wanted to tell them I grew up there, I didn’t know why I’d come, shivering like a tiny monster in the middle of the night. Some part of me hoped they’d recognize me, end up being the kids of the original landlords or something. I wanted them to take me in, to feed me, to comfort me and tell me it was ok for me to reach out, to show me their house and tell me what happened to mine.

I wanted to sleep out there somewhere. In a bush that I’d spend all day tomorrow picking out of my socks or on a floor or in my room that was either freezing or way too warm with that doll lamp and the adult contemporary radio station playing and that huge, deafening fan I insisted upon having on me so I could curl up under my thrashing sheet and pretend I was weathering an intense storm outside.

I was so. Fucking. Lonely. Out there.

August 4, 2011, 6:01 am in public

I hate California

I woke up before the sun yesterday and said goodbye to my friend, sitting on the rocky shore that beat his body lifeless 6 years ago. I’d arrived in Crescent City at night and had yet to see the beach until that morning. When I did see it, my heart sank into a kind of sick, beautiful wonder.

I feel utterly foolish for having spent a week after his plane crash holding out hope that Josh had survived this beach. On the plus side, having finally seen this place, I no longer think he suffered very long in that water once his plane crashed into it. I sat in the car and sobbed thick, heavy tears, for a while, before deciding to head farther south to the public dock to watch the sun come up.

As I walked back to the shore from the dock after the sun broke over the horizon, thinking of how Josh had already missed 6 years of new days and will miss many, many more, I noticed my shadow developing alongside me. It was one of those epiphany type moments that I’ll struggle to articulate for some time, but the sense I got of it was that I could make that shadow be whoever I wanted. I could make it be Josh walking me to my car, or an unknown sense of a hundred spirits, or the sun reminding me I couldn’t possibly be alone in this universe.

And then I thought something about how I live my life reaching for people to stand beside, and how the way I do that will continue to reach them long after I am gone, and how the entirety of my existence is a constant struggle and drive to live as long as possible. Like the Red Violin.

Out of nowhere, “Here comes the sun” leaped into my mind, and I slowly mumbled the chorus, walking with cold beflopped toes along that shit-caked fucker of a dock, back to my car. And I say, it’s alright.

The 101 got considerably less warm and fuzzy feeling as I got deeper into California, but the thing I did really value about taking it vs. the interstate was that periodically I got to slow down and peer onto the surface of some small town. CA-20 and CA-16 were windy and fun, even though everything around me looked dead. I’ve been listening to the Fallout: New Vegas OST a lot while on this drive and it’s contributing a really awesome atmosphere to the whole experience.

As I drove the 355 miles from Crescent City to Sacramento over the course of my day yesterday, my mood digressed more and more. What started out as a deep forest, complete with low hanging fog and a big white sun rising, slowly became rolling hills of desaturated, brittle angst. The closer I got to Sacramento, the more I felt it, and the more what I saw out my window looked like half dead dogshit. I don’t understand how people live here.

I suppose the fucking speeding ticket I got didn’t help, either. Mental note: ZonedNee requires a lead car. I’m looking at the fucking ROAD, not my speedometer, dickhead.

I’d considered moving back to Cali for the weather, but honestly I think that unlikely now that I’m reminded what this place feels like. Perhaps the northern tip, like Crescent City, or southern if it turns out to suck less than I’m expecting, but I will not move back to the northern valley. I can taste the hate in the air.

Last night, I was gifted a hotel room, some sushi, about 5 hours sleep and a TON of laughter by my friend Gordon. Today, witnessing another sun rise, Starbucks is my wingman, as I set out to drive the entirety of the 550+ mile jaunt from Sacramento to Vegas.

July 21, 2011, 7:59 pm in public

Anger Management

Throughout my life, I periodically run into people who are infuriatingly incapable of taking responsibility for themselves. Even when acknowledging that there shouldn’t be one, there’s always a reason, an excuse, some kind of explanation as to why what happens in their life and the effects their decisions have on others ultimately aren’t their actual fault, really.

When a persons inability to own themselves and their mistakes effects me personally, this behavior arouses my deep, penetrating anger. I find it insulting and calculatingly offensive. I see it as inexcusably dishonest to claim ownership of yourself and still behave like a fucking wimp. Sometimes, I find myself yelling obscenities and colorful insults like ‘flaming sack of curdled assbarf’, and ‘dicksnot’, and wishing death via car fire upon these types of people. In jest, of course – but seriously, fuck these fucking impotent shit spewing fuckers.

I like my anger. It’s funny, it’s effective, and it helps me get motivated when action is necessary — but it’s not always the most useful aspect of coping. The sooner I can let the slew of cuss words out somewhere, the faster I slow down and remember when I was incapable of comprehending how I manipulated and controlled my surroundings through what was, ultimately, emotional retardation. I recognize, while I sometimes see it as malicious and lazy in other people, how rarely it was about that when I was constantly failing myself no matter how hard I tried to be a good person.

I remember how incessantly difficult it was, and how much raw will power, determination and resiliency it took to pull my head out of my ass. How I spent 10 years before that moment running around digging trenches in my psyche looking for evidence of my villainy, having convinced myself that what I was doing was good inner work.

I remember when it made sense to stay stupid, to remain confused, to sabotage my life and my progress in order to avoid responsibility for the neglected brilliance I was pissing away. I remember, as I wanted to grow out of my skin so much I’d slice it open myself, how being that person allowed me to wallow in safety, and to hide.

I was like a beaten dog pressed into a corner, shivering, snapping and displaying for anyone who dared the mange and sunken eyes. I wanted it. Occasionally, people got bit, and I felt for them. But being wretched let me shirk my tasks as a human being, and for a long time, being stunted and dim was worth it.

I remember how crushed I was when I realized that I lacked the ability to be cause in the matter of my own life because of how little I believed in myself. How guilty I felt when I realized that deep down, I’d been blaming the people I loved for that deprivation inside me. For not understanding me when, frankly, I didn’t understand me, or the true motivations for holding myself down.

I remember how sobering and scary it was when I finally conjured the courage to face, and act upon the answers, to the questions I had been asking myself. How big the world became when I saw the potential influence I could have from a place of inner strength, when I’d mostly just reacted and seen myself as a shallow robotic shell trapped in a vicious loop.

I remember the weight in realizing that embodied living meant the real work I’d finally stepped into was never going to be over. I remember wondering how long it would take to feel better, and being terrified of what little might be left of me once I escaped the strangle hold of my sadness.

I still feel echos of that struggle, scanning for that terrible evil person that would make some kind of sick sense of why life can be so god damn hard. I remember overcoming being enslaved by that debilitating mindset and paying my fucking dues revisiting that place, thinking I could save others from it. And now, in my 30′s, when I see my peers still pulling the same shit I did when I was 20, I get annoyed. Sometimes I get hurt. And then I get angry. And then, I get compassionate.

And then I let them go.

July 15, 2011, 6:18 pm in public

Delayed

When I was about 8 years old, we lived in a trailer on 5 acres of land in the country. Our yard was gated with a big wide metal farm gate that I, as copilot if our little Nissan sentra, was frequently tasked to open.

One day, as I leaned on the side of the car with my open hand, I slammed the door closed (it had to be slammed to latch) onto my thumb. I felt a weird numby stab, realized what I had done, decided I was dumb for having done it, yanked my hand out of the doorjam, and decided I wouldn’t tell my dad what happened all in about a quarter of a second.

I calmly and collectedly walked in front of the car toward the gate as if nothing had happened, for a total of about 5 steps. At that point a wave of unbelievably intense pain washed through me and my legs went out from under me. I doubled over and started screaming, clutching the base of my thumb, watching the rest of it turn purple and swell in front of my eyes. My Dad was pretty confused at first, but very reactive and concerned. He acted in military medicine fashion and stuck my thumb in ice water. Over the next few weeks, I slowly lost my thumbnail. So gross.

When I yanked my hand clear and started walking, I thought ensuredly that i would be fine. And further into my life, this immediate delayed disconnect with pain and damage has continued, even as I’ve learned to know better. When I shaved the tip of my toe off on the sidewalk while taking a full speed corner in sandles. My excessive drug abuse as a teen. After labia surgery when I couldn’t find the incision where I was expecting it. Falling off an rope and breaking my back. After hitting four obstacles downhill on my bike and not realizing I’d broken my elbow. And, most repeatedly, after braving an emotional tide and getting cracked over jagged rocks.

I don’t know where I got this idea that seeing something coming is supposed to make it hurt less. Like watching someone hit me in the face with a bat or piss away my affection with mediocrity and lies is supposed to change the blow for the better somehow. Like it’s supposed to transform the damage into something else and I’m not supposed to have to really fucking feel it. I don’t know where I got it but it’s hard to put down, it’s embedded, even with the mounting evidence that it actually hurts more to get hit in my open eyes than the back of my thick, ignorant head.

Somewhere in that deep baseline of me, I am still that girl who raises her chin, walks 5 steps, and falls the fuck apart anyway.

Don’t fucking touch me.

June 30, 2011, 11:57 am in public

Of Hope and Romance

In 2005, I discovered a movie called The Red Violin, and wrote this post about it. Letting that film take me where it wanted to was one of those experiences where suddenly, and fully, I felt like someone in the world understood me. At the time, I was switching from trick based badassery on rope to storytelling and audience connection on silks, going through therapy for the first time, and grieving. So, it was pretty perfect timing to be open to a little guidance via art.

That Red Violin feeling faded of course, over time, but the influence of that experience didn’t. That influence has been walking with me, slightly behind and inside my shadow, quietly informing how I’ve grown into who I am and what I believe in, along with those core-cutting influences that came before and after it. Like The Matrix, Inception, Donnie Darko, and Batman Begins. And I hope that Obsidian, HASML, Not Applicable and Zita are that as well – core-cutting influences that alter the lives of those who dare to truly see what they are.

I realize now that that film was what planted the seed for bloodwork, which grew out of the death of my most unsettling romance to date three years after seeing it. Before Red Violin, I’d only really heard of raging nutcases and crappy artists slicing themselves to bleed on paper or squatting on a canvas during that time of the month. Both methods were primal and valid but lacked a polish and higher purpose to it that I find needs to be present for me to appreciate. The Red Violin helped me see that there was an element to placing that profound amount of self and energy into physical art that was more eloquent and meaningful to me.

So, last night, I finally hit that bump in the road of interpersonal change, and felt discouraged and lonely. As I loaded up the movie on netflix, remembering the intense connection I felt with the idea of a bereft and lovesick man varnishing the last violin he would ever make in a way that would go on to touch the world for centuries, I realized the closest name I knew for what that was, and something in my guts sank. I updated facebook: I think I might be a god damn hopeless romantic.

How utterly fucking embarrassing. For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was crying out of recognition and understanding or out of disappointment in myself. So I was a bit.. grumpy. Especially when, within a half hour, I had 30 comments on my status entry of the notion “Um.. duh, Courtnee. We all knew that.”.

Like a lot of turns of phrases and concepts, the idea of romanticism has been horribly mangled and molested in our modern, superficial world. When I think of hopeless romantics, I think first of those fucking one-dimensional people with their idealized version of “love” being nothing but positivity and sunshine and fucking cupcakes that don’t make my ass explode, who avoid all life experience besides ‘fun’ and ‘being happy’ and lack the courage to truly LIVE, let alone connect in depth with another human being deserving of being loved for their whole person.

Or worse, I think of those insufferable overdramatic assholes who think a one true soul mate is going to fall down from the sky into their lap, that they’ll recognize it instantly and fall completely and madly into an all-encompassing love that never wavers or changes, and believe they simply DESERVE a happily ever after without any fucking effort or personal responsibility, and throw a petulant crybaby fit if that’s not what they get.

Yeah, so I basically think most people who identify as hopeless romantics are misguided douches, and just haven’t had their eyes open long enough to know better. Which meant these people, my friends, knew I was a delusional asshat and didn’t tell me. Christ. Just let the world end already.

It may be true that a lot of dumbasses identify themselves as such, but actual Romanticism, it turns out, really explains a lot of things about me, and isn’t a damn thing like what I’ve identified it as being.

But really, even of the kinds of romantics I mentioned hating up there, I wouldn’t mind being one – if I actually believed consistently that there is ‘someone’ out there for me. I really just don’t. My standards for partnership are high, and yet my chemistry is drawn to weak willed wishy-washy lying fucking jerks. Clearly I’m forever doomed to clumsy polymorphic trigger-shy dating, rewarding but sexless singledom (Oh The HUMANITY!), being in an unfulfilling partnership, or being captivated and dealing with a bunch of inappropriate hurt and horseshit and drama.

Between this and my recent discovery of the Always Broken Goddess, however, I may at least be on track for discovering, and cultivating the foolproof capability of articulating, my deepest emotional and spiritual beliefs. That’s a big step in the right direction and proof, at least to me, that my failed attempts at my ideal romance are giving me lots of good stuff in the long run.

.. *sigh* A long time ago, I thought the key was growing past looking for someone to complete me. Apparently, there’s a lot to it even after that.

June 24, 2011, 1:50 pm in updates
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Woke up this morning to the electrical flairing in my spine indicative of processing betrayal. It lasted a few minutes and then went away. I remember a time when I was incapable of resolving it and simply spent weeks in grief with my back lit up in a kind of sickening neurological agony. Glad to see my hard inner work pays off.