Seeing and Believing

What I see when I look in the mirror and what I imagine myself to look like in my mind’s eye have never been one in the same. Never ever ever.

This is not always a bad thing. There are days when, for whatever reason, I feel very good about myself: maybe I had a hard workout the day before and I am sore in that way that tells me I did something good for myself; maybe I listened to really great music on my morning car ride that got me going on a path of positivity; maybe I just had a good sex dream and started my day with an imaginary ego boost. WHATEVER. The point is, on these blessed days when Pamela like Pamela, I could have frizzy hair, no make-up, dark circles under my eyes, and be retaining approximately 7 gallons of water, but I’ll think that I look fabulous. I have found myself strutting–fucking strutting–in the mall, confidently making eye contact with strangers like I’m just the shit, and then walked past a window and scared myself because the face I am seeing is grotesque compared to the one I thought I had. But while that might be a little embarrassing, the fact of the matter is, I’d much prefer to look like a troll but walk like royalty rather than look like I’m worth a million dollars but feel like the cheapest trash on the block.

But usually, my body image issues manifest themselves in the usual feminine-beauty-dilemma fashion: I’m not “fat,” per se, but I see myself as a total cow. Now, for most of my life, could I have used to lose a few pounds? Sure. But even at my heaviest, I was never even medically speaking “overweight.” My BMI was always technically in the healthy range, I just found myself drifting towards the higher end of that spectrum. But right now, I am as close to my happy weight as I have ever been in my whole existence. And if I look in the mirror and try to see myself for what is actually in front of me, I can say that I look pretty good. On certain days I might even wager that I’m hot. But so often, I don’t see that version of myself in my mind.

First of all, I often still feel like the 10 grade version of myself: a girl with bad skin, who had yet to grow into her Polish nose, and who thought a frizzy bob made her look cute when it really just made her look dweeby. I can’t seem to completely shake that mindset. I once ran into some boys from high school in a bar in Canada, and I literally watched jaws drop. It was a fantastic feeling. But I felt wrong standing in their presence: I was Pam Wall, nerd, weirdo, unattractive, unwanted loser and they were the popular boys that were mean to me but that I still always sort of liked, or at least found *does Valley Girl voice* totally and completely dreamy. And now three years after that experience, I still sometimes wonder why anyone would want to look at me EVER. I know that’s such an obnoxious thing to say–it’s the sort of thing I would try to slap other girls for–but it’s true. Sometimes I remember that my skin is clear, I did grow into my nose, and my hair is now long and soft and age-appropriate, and then I think I’m a decent sight to behold. But most days I’m still just 16 and invisible.

I also have serious problems seeing my body clearly. I found myself this evening coveting the legs of middle-aged women on my mother’s soccer team. Now, I may not love my thighs, but they ain’t enormous. And yet I’m looking at these mothers thinking, “I wish I had her quads.” How fucked up is that? I had to step back and say, “Uh, hello? That lady is 30 pounds heavier than you. And probably wears Mom Jeans. What are you thinking?!” (Not to criticize these Soccer Moms, because they all look amazing for their ages. And kudos to them for being active and fit when society still expects them to drop their every want and need for their families.) I had to go in the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror, I had to literally look at the size tag on my jeans, just to get my thoughts back to a healthy place. It was a frightening moment, there.

What causes this disconnect between what is and what we believe to be?  I know I am not the only woman who has ever seen herself in a completely different light than the one others see her in. Most if not all women (and plenty of men) struggle with body image, I’m sure. But I’m not asking, scientifically, why does this happen? I’m more asking, as a gender, as a people, as a community of humans just trying to better themselves, why do we allow this to happen? Yes, images of beauty and fitness and thinness and perfection are thrust upon us from the moment we exit the womb, so that naturally is going to screw with our views of ourselves, others, and the world at large. But why do we keep letting it? At what point do those of us working towards wellness and self-improvement not only say, “I can’t compare myself to her or to him or to you. I am an island, and I can only determine what’s right by me on terms of me,” but truly believe it and act accordingly. I tell myself every single day that my happy weight shouldn’t be determined by a number on the scale, it should be determined by how I feel. But then I catch an episode of Top Model where they mention that some chick is 5’11” and 116 pounds or something sick like that, and I can’t help but find myself drifting casually towards the bathroom to weigh myself.

I hate myself sometimes, I really do. I want to be better than this. I want to be the woman who stands up and tells others that you can look at yourself and love what you see and feel truly at home in that body. I want to be the one who encourages others to aim for  nothing more and nothing less than to be as healthy as possible, and fuck what you look like. But I’m not that girl. I want to have slender thighs just as much as the next girl, if not more so. I want to walk past a mirror and scare myself, not because I’m so hideous, but because I’m so nauseatingly pretty that I am taken pleasantly taken aback by my own face. I am not proud of these desires, but I would be doing myself and my readers a disservice if I didn’t put these thoughts out there because, damn it, I know I’m not alone.

And I would give anything to be alone in this struggle. I would love if I could save every other poor soul from being plagued by these nagging hopes and dreams by accepting all of your struggles as my own. I would hate every inch of my body for every second of every minute of FOREVER if it meant you and you and you could love yours.

But, unfortunately, we’re all in this together.

A little elf in my favorite Christmas movie once said, “Seeing isn’t believing, believing is seeing.” Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

Hey, guess what, a genius agrees with me

Just a super quick follow-up to my last post.

Remember how I don’t believe in god? Remember how I don’t believe in heaven? Welp, Stephen Hawking agrees with me.

I feel pretty smart right about now

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

…and I feel FINE. Great, even.

In case you live under a rock inside a cave at the bottom of the ocean, let me fill you in: the world is going to end next Saturday, May 21, 2011. Or at least, that’s what this guy thinks.

Judgement Day, The Rapture, the End of Days…whatever you wanna call it, supposedly it’s a’coming. And even if you are like me and don’t believe that for a second, the mention of the end of the world tends to make one take a close look at his or her life and wonder: what’s waiting for me “on the other side.” Well, I’ve considered that question myself, and I’m fairly certain that if anything is waiting, I’ll be happy with it.

You see, I was raised Catholic, but from an early age, I just knew that their doctrine and dogma was not for me. Sitting in Catechism in the 8th grade, I got in a heated debate with a substitute who suggested that anyone not Catholic, who didn’t go to church every weekend, and who didn’t read the “correct” version of the Bible was going to Hell. I staunchly refused to believe…nay, I simply knew in my heart that god would never condemn someone for what their parents did. Because, frankly, that’s where most people get their religion: from the people who raised them. There are plenty of us who abandon religion altogether, and there are a few people who search for a religious community that suits them, and to those select few, I say, good for you! But, for the most part, you believe what your parents told you to believe. And thus, there I was, 13 years old, shouting at this droopy balding man that my very close friend who was Hmong and far from Catholic would NEVER end up in hell because she was the nicest, sweetest, least judgmental girl I had ever met, and any higher power would know that she had earned a place in a beautiful afterlife, no matter what label her faith was given on Earth. Catechism guy disagreed with me and instructed me to “save” her, but at that moment, I stopped thinking of myself as Catholic and instead as someone who “hung around Catholic people and was influenced by their ideas.”

Over the years I’ve pulled fairly far away from all religion. I no longer attend church except for holidays (because it makes those days seem…special, I guess is the best word) and when I am on vacation with my mom (it makes her happy, dammit!), the last time I went to confession was nearly 4 years ago (and I felt dirtier after walking out of confession than I had going in), and I don’t really “pray,” per se, anymore. My mom finds value and peace in her faith, and thus I have no qualms about it. I feel that some people use religion as a weapon, as an excuse for ignorance, and as a way to make others feel as if they are less than you, but to those who simply nurture their soul with their religion, that’s great for them. I just don’t want any part of it.

Now, would I call myself spiritual? Sure. I look around the world and see god everywhere: in each purple blossom on the lilac tree outside, in the clouds swimming across the periwinkle sky, in my dog’s adoring eyes, in my yoga instructor, everywhere. Do I define that “god” as a powerful-grandfatherly-thinking-being-in-the-sky? NO. Do I believe in a god with set rules for what is a sin and what is alright? No. Do I believe we go somewhere when we’re no longer here? Nah. But I do believe in…something. An energy, a force (not The Force, a force), a uniting positivity, something that makes here have enough meaning that we don’t need an afterlife to justify it.

But I also believe that even if there is a grandpa-in-the-sky, he’s not such a selfish, jealous bastard that he’d be pissed that I don’t believe in him. If anything, he’d think I was a silly little girl and enjoy watching my antics…much like a real grandfather. He might even smile bemusedly, put his hands on his hips and shake his head in disbelief sometimes, but I know no god or gods in the universe would really give a damn about my little slip-ups.

See, I am a firm supporter of The Atheist’s Wager. Unlike my mother who I think would agree with Pascal and say that she’d rather believe in god just in case he does exist, just to be safe, but here’s my problem with that line of thinking:

A) There is a slim-to-none chance that you’ll even believe in the “right god” because there are so many sects of so many religions that whatever you choose to believe is probably WRONG. (Unless, of course, everyone is somehow right, but how could that be? God would have to be…GOD…to make that magic trick work.)

AND

B) I think there is more value, more beauty, and more good in acting morally because you simply should, not out of fear of retribution. My mother has on various occasions expressed to me that she takes comfort in the notion that bad people will someday be punished and she will be rewarded; and furthermore, if she didn’t think she would someday get props for being a good person, that she wouldn’t be a good person. I’ve tried to explain to her how fucked up that is: you don’t want your son to not hit his sister because if he’s a good boy he’ll get a cookie; you want him to not hit his sister because it’s mean and everyone will be better off if he doesn’t. But she doesn’t seem to get it.

I, however, feel it is much better to live your life as best as you can; forgive yourself when you make mistakes or do something that may not have been definitively good because you are, after all, human, but learn from those mistakes and try to be better; and use your intellect and your empathy to dictate your actions, because the world will be a better, happier place if you live that way–NOT because you want to get something in return for being a nice person. Let’s work to create happiness and well-being on earth, and then we won’t need heaven later.

If there is a god out there with an afterlife all set up for us like a painted and furnished nursery awaiting a baby, I think he’d be much more impressed with the latter way of thinking. Doesn’t it just seem so much more rightt–dare I say, more Christian?–to act morally simply for the value of being moral? I think if you said to god, “Yeah, I really wanted to kill that guy but I didn’t because I knew you’d be pissed and I didn’t want to get in trouble,” he’d be a little peeved. But if you said, “I was very angry, and even had murderous thoughts, but I didn’t kill him because killing is wrong and by violating the social contract I would only have made our community a less safe and comfortable place for everyone,” I bet god would give you a high-five.

Yeah, if there is a god, I’m pretty sure he’s a high-fiver.

OK, I’m dragging this out. I had a point, and now I am going to get to it: If the world ends next weekend, and it turns out that there is a god, and he has expectations for our behavior, I think I’m in the clear. I doubt he’ll care about any underage drinking that I did (which, yes, my mom has made a religious issue in the past), any premarital sex that I had (which doesn’t hurt anyone), or any time I used his name in vain. I think he’ll see that I tried to put others’ needs ahead of my own as much as possible. He’ll see that I loved my neighbor as myself: I hurt when they hurt, and felt joy when they felt joy. He’ll see that I didn’t steal or cheat or lie (except when I was saving someone’s feelings, which I think falls on the side of morality) or seek to hurt. He’ll see all that, and he’ll be pleased. And if there is an afterlife, even though I don’t believe there is, I’m confident he’d let me in.

So bring on the end of the world. I’m ready.

P.S. I just realized I referred to god as a “he” for that whole post when I’ve always been a fan of the notion that any god worth believing in would totally be a chick. So here’s a little something to make up for my gender-slip.

Yeeeeaaaah, 90′s.

My Thoughts Create My World

Long, long ago, in a galaxy that looks an awful lot like the one we’re living in, I read a book called The Secret. Even as I was immersed in it, I found very much of its content to be…a bit loony (though I should have suspected that before even opening to the first page: Rhonda Byrne, the author, looks more than a tad batty).  The concept is very much along the lines of magical thinking: that if you tell The Universe what you want, and you think long and hard enough about it, and you really believe it is not only possible but will come to be, then it surely will. I’m paring it down quite a bit, but that’s pretty much the point.

Here’s a brief illustration of how far this philosophy (for lack of a better term) tries to go. There is a story in the book about a man who drew, in great detail, a feather. The man looked at the picture of the feather dozens of times a day, and concentrated all his mental energy on that feather. And after a few days, what came drifting to his feet but the exact fucking feather! MAGIC! Let us all be convinced of this way of thinking because of this anecdote!

No, I’m kidding. Do not be convinced of this way of thinking because of the feather. Do not be convinced of this way of thinking. I am not Augusten Burroughs. I do not think, nor have I ever thought–unlike Mr. Burroughs–that if I concentrate really hard on, say, someone dying, that they will die.  If that was possible, well, I’d have committed patricide long long ago.  I do not think that just because you really want something and think about it a lot, that you will certainly get it (how many people can hope and pray to win the Mega Millions and actually win?) and I do not think that if you do not get something you want it’s all because you didn’t believe hard enough. That’s what The Secret tries to argue. I do not buy into it.

HOWEVER, I do believe in the very real power of positive thought.

When I picked up The Secret, I was going to weekly therapy sessions, and had been told by a psychologist that I was bipolar. (Actually, what she said was that I had some of the symptoms of depression, and some of the symptoms of manic depressive disorder but didn’t really fit the bill for either. That didn’t stop her from handing me a 60-day trial of meds, however. Quack.) I had originally gone to see a counselor at my university because my family problems had been wearing on me for too long and I just needed someone to talk to. She put me in touch with a real therapist, and thus my brief foray into the mental health arena began.

Once a week I sat and talked about all sorts of shit I went through in my life, starting as far back as I could remember. She never once asked me how I was feeling that day, or how my current life was going; she simply wanted to pick up where we had last left off: “So, last time, we were talking about your memory of handing your crying mother Kleenex…let’s start from there.” The more I talked about my less-than-stellar past, the more morose I felt. I was drowning in bad memories. But after reading just a few pages of The Secret, I realized that I was doing myself more harm than good by continuing my therapy. I quit my sessions the next day, started focusing my energy on the good things in my life, and just told myself that even if my past wasn’t “resolved,” that didn’t mean I had to dwell on it. And, miraculously, I was cured! Or at least, I was smiling again. And frequently.

Thoughts, I feel, have inertia: once they build momentum in one direction, it’s difficult to change their path. When you allow yourself to wallow in unhappiness, you find yourself seeing all the negative in the world, and missing all the positive. Now, Ms. Byrne would say that by thinking about negative things you are asking the Universe to send you more negative. I’m sorry, you are not a magnet, and sometimes, shit happens. We get bummed out. It’s not your fault that in every life a little rain must fall, and sometimes, when it rains, it fucking pours. BUT, that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t all try to put our thoughts on a positive path. The more good you concentrate on, the more good you see. Building momentum in a happy, hopeful direction can only make your life better.

Another valuable little nugget I sifted from the rubble of The Secret is that you need to make what you want very clear–not to The Universe, or to the Lotto gods, but to YOURSELF.

We live in a world in which we are bombarded, beaten and berated by images and sounds and smells of things we are supposed to want. How many billboards, print ads, television commercials, and Facebook sidebar blurbs do you encounter every day? A lot, I’d wager. The purpose of those ads is to make you want something. Or at least believe, for a brief moment, that you want it so that you might get it.

But you know what? You probably don’t give a flying fuck about 99% of the bullshit that passes before your eyes. The bright colors and jingly songs might draw your attention, and marketing is a dastardly art form that can be quite hypnotizing, but how often do you see an advertisement for Cinnamon Toast Crunch and linger on it for days out of utter want? OK, maybe that wasn’t a great example because as a recovering sugar addict, I can linger on Cinnamon Toast Crunch for quite some time…but you get my point. It is honestly difficult to decipher what we really desire anymore, because everyone else thinks they know better than we do.

So when the time comes when you have a very real want, that is important. It is meaningful. We’re always seeking ways to make ourselves happier, but feeling a real connection with something, truly believing it will put you on the road to a better phase of your life, you need to own that. Being able to say to yourself with conviction, “I want that job/house/partner/peace of mind/etc.” and mean it is a beautiful thing, and it should not be taken for granted. And by telling yourself, by saying, outloud “I WANT THAT,” you’re actually giving yourself permission to hope. And, more importantly, to do something about it.

There is something to be said for dwelling on the things we are striving for. If you are applying for a great job that you very much want to land, and you tell yourself all the time that you are qualified and would be great at it, and you daydream about how your life will be when you get it, wouldn’t you think that would affect how you approach applying? Wouldn’t you write a better cover letter because your head is already filled with your positive traits? Or walk into your interview prepared and confident because your mind’s inertia is already moving in that direction?

Cynicism is rampant these days–I should know, I’m the cynic sarcasmo supremo–so we tend to shy away from enthusiasm and hope. We’re often so afraid of disappointment that we would rather not want anything in the first place. But that line of thinking is all wrong. Your perception is your reality, and your thoughts, your mental inertia, color your perception. By simply stating your wants and your goals (maybe even writing them down) and then allowing yourself to fill up with anticipation and belief that these things are possible and that you’re worthy of them, well, that will open up a whole new world of possibilities. A few happy thoughts and a self-sure statement of purpose are the first steps to a bright and shiny future.

I’m a slightly noir chick. If I’m saying this stuff, well, you should just take my advice.

Please Keep Your Thoughts to Yourself

Let me set a scene for you: it’s December 24th. My aunt and uncle’s home is decked and tinseled to the nth degree, the table is laden with handmade pierogies and spice cookies and egg nog, seasonal tuneage is practically coming out of the walls. The youths of the family have gathered around the dessert table to chat without the dark cloud of our parental units hanging over us. The conversation is light and fun and yay-holidays! My brother, Phil, is thrilled that his (lovely! wonderful! TOTALLY AWESOME!) girlfriend, Taylor, has joined us for the evening, and she is fitting in splendidly. We are having a swell time.  (Did I just say “swell?”) All is well.

Leave it to my aunt, Lu, to ruin such a cheery scene. Right in the middle of our Christmas gathering, she deemed it fit to tell Taylor (who she had never met prior to this night) to break up with my brother. She listed a good half dozen negative qualities about Phil (which are untrue, by the by) and suggested Taylor come back in a few years after he “grows up.” Yes, this was appropriate holiday conversation in her eyes because, for Lu, there is never a bad time to say exactly what’s on her mind.

Thankfully, Taylor was eloquent enough to ignore Lu’s insensitive outburst, but we all heard it. We all heard her open her big fat mouth and say very disrespectful, hurtful things about her nephew to the girl he loves and who loves him back. I WAS LIVID.

(And still am, as a matter of fact.)

Lu does this. She says exactly what she thinks all the time because she thinks she has not only the right to speak her mind, but the obligation to do so. In her opinion, she’d be doing people a disservice by not telling them how she feels about something. But so often, the opinions she shares are not compliments or constructive criticism: they’re downright cruel. She’s had a problem with plenty of my life choices, and has never had a problem making that fact known, even though my choices don’t affect her life in the slightest.

Does this remind you of anyone? People giving unsolicited opinions on things that don’t even matter? People who voluntarily feed negativity into the world because they think it therefore they must say it?

It reminds me of way more people than I’d like: My uncle who called me “Granny” when I was growing up because of my glasses; the girl who turned around in math class in the 9th grade to say, “You know, you’re really weird.”; overly unpleasant customers at some of my past jobs. They all toe the line between bullying and “I’m just saying,” but it still stings.

I always thought everyone was taught that if you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.  Apparently, many people missed that lesson. I just…I don’t get it. I don’t understand meanness. There’s enough hurt in this world. Why do people want to poison the waters even more with their venom?

I don’t enjoy reading celebrity tabloids because they’re just an excuse to pick apart people’s lives. They are people. Not art, meant to be critiqued. People. If I see mean things on Facebook or Twitter I just defriend/unfollow. I don’t need to read other people’s hateful words. I’d like to fill my life with as much positivity as possible, thank you very much.

But, hey, I guess I’m not exempt from this. I did just write a post complaining about people registering for gifts, when, really, what’s the harm? There is none. So I need to brush up on my own policy. But I just wanted to throw it out there. With all the wars and natural disasters and economic bullshit going on, can’t we all try to be a little kinder to each other?I think we’ve all suffered enough.

I’ll hold my tongue if you hold yours.

Tim Allen just made me think…

It is a rare thing, finding wisdom hiding in a TV commercial. But I just heard this little gem on a Pure Michigan ad:

“Sometimes life isn’t just about finding yourself; it’s about creating yourself.”

Well, damn. Yes, yes it is. Thank you, voice of Tim Allen, for making me think, and for helping me remember a point I have been meaning to make.

I hear people say, frequently, that if something is meant to be, it will happen. That notion of god closing a door and opening a window has been thrown in my face many a time. And I have a large Catholic family and a very religious mother who promote prayer whenever life presents you with pretty much anything, be it hope or hardship. “It doesn’t hurt to pray about it,” my mom tells me on a weekly basis.

All of these mindsets, I believe, allow a certain amount of inaction, and that bothers me. To me, life is not about sitting back and letting things happen to you and around you; it is about going out and making shit happen. I believe that very very firmly. And while some people are comforted by the notion that if they don’t get that job they were hoping for or that relationship didn’t work out, then, oh well, it wasn’t “meant to be,” I like to feel like I am in control of my destiny, even if that means taking responsibility for my failures.

I pissed and moaned for a month when I wasn’t getting a job after my college graduation. I put the blame on everybody else: “No one wants to give me a chance”; “If they’d just meet me they’d like me.”; “Well she met me and was clearly put off by my beauty, so, psh, fuck her.” It took me a while to come to terms with the fact that maybe I just wasn’t qualified. Maybe I wasn’t the brilliant interviwee I thought I was. And maybe, just maybe, just because I am a writer doesn’t mean I have any fucking idea how to write a fucking cover letter. While that realization certainly stung, it put me back in control. How does one become qualified? Education and experience, so I’d have to either start at lower level gigs, or go back to school. How does one improve her interview skills? Um…OK, well, I’m still not sure about that one. Practice…being normal? How does one become a better applicant? Research and writing writing writing until something starts sounding less like crap.

Even if taking responsibility meant that I was lacking, I had the opportunity to improve and move on. By saying that it simply wasn’t meant to be takes all the control out of my hands and gives it to the ether. That’s just too scary. If I don’t have some say in what happens to me, then what am I doing here? I don’t believe I am a pawn being moved around by god. I don’t believe in fate. Or destiny. So how can I believe some things are simply meant to be. I can’t.

I believe in taking action and creating the life you want. That’s what I believe.

And it all occurred to me thanks to a tourism ad. Who woulda thunk it?

Yeah, I heard this quote about creating yourself rather than finding yourself  it just rang so true. You can look for yourself all you want, or you can go out and make yourself. You can pray about your crappy car 24/7, or you can go get it fixed. I love my mom, but maybe if she prayed a little less about my dad’s drinking and made a few more decisions about what to do about it, maybe he would be sober by now, or maybe his drinking wouldn’t be her problem anymore. Just a crazy thought.

If you are one of those people comforted by prayer and a belief in that-which-is-meant-to-be, and it works for you, and you’re happy, I guess, go for it. But I for one want to be able to take action. I would rather hold my destiny tight in my fist than hand it to someone else and say, “Do with me what you will.”

Now that I’m claiming control of my life, the question becomes: What self am I hoping to create? What life am I hoping to create?

Aye, there’s the rub. The motherfucking rub.

I may come to your baby shower…

…but don’t expect me to be happy about it.

WARNING: I may offend some people with this one. Or hurt some feelings. I don’t want to start a family coup or anything, but this is how I feel. Deal with it.

I believe in the value of tradition. But some traditions just aren’t valid anymore. Tradition for tradition’s sake is STUPID. Embracing my Polish grandmother’s heritage and eating humble cabbage and hand-rolled kluski noodles on Christmas Eve, I think, is a wonderful tradition: it reminds me of where I came from, and of a different world in which my Gram grew up. We all know that no January 1st has ever brought with it any notable divergence from December 31st, but in believing that it will and celebrating the turn of the New Year, we really do find a more optimistic mindset, thus this tradition can be a beautiful thing.

Wedding and baby showers, however, are not.

These shindigs began as modest little get-togethers where people gave the happy couple a little something to get them started, or to show support for young parents. It was not about financing someone else’s life choices.

This is not 1920. Two 18 year old kids are not moving right out of their parents’ homes and into their honeymoon cottage with nothing but love between them. And there are no social norms insisting that married couples start producing offspring immediately any longer. When two people have already lived together for four years and already own a toaster, a blender, and a full set of pots and pans, where do they get off registering for a bunch of shit?! You are literally telling people, “I have made a choice in my own life. Because you purport to love me, buy me one of these things to show me that you are happy that I have made said choice.” It is RUDE. It is…tacky.

And baby showers, well, as much as I love babies, there are several hundred things I’d rather be doing than playing infant-themed games and not being allowed to say the word “baby” at a party about a baby. Gag. Plus, again, you chose to have a kid. You want your kid to have all this nice stuff, then you go out and buy it. Children are expensive. If you can’t afford it, don’t have a kid. When I choose to have a kid, it will be because I am emotionally and financially ready. I wouldn’t ask you to set up a college fund for my kid, don’t ask me to buy you a $300 car seat.

[Note: The only time I find baby showers acceptable are "Oops!" babies. When a young girl gets knocked up and doesn't have a plethora of resources, I can justify a party where people give her the necessities: diapers, wipes, bottles, simple baby clothes, maybe everyone goes in on a crib. No frilly expensive little dresses the baby will only fit into for one week. No elaborate room decor. No bells-and-whistles toys for a baby who won't even be interested in toys for 6 months. A baby shower in the original spirit of a shower: a little push in the right direction.]

Now, I am happy for my friends and family when they get married or bring babies into this world. And I am always touched when they want to include me in their momentous life events. I attended a baby shower just today and donned the flowery skirt and fawned over my round glowing friend. I bought a present off her registry (the cheapest thing on it because, hey, I’m a nanny: I’m not rolling in the dough) and knitted a teensy little hat. But don’t think for one second I was having a ball today. I enjoy a decent meal, and I loved seeing her all big and ecstatic, but even at a shower for one of my very dearest friends I was annoyed as hell. If I wanted to knit the little-girl-to-be a hat, I could have done it of my own volition. But no, I had to do it because it was cheaper to top a gift with a hat than a card. And no matter how happy I am for a young couple thrilled to bring a new life into this world, I simply CANNOT be happy about playing dorky games and watching Mommy open gift after fluffy pink gift.

Does this make me heartless? Maybe. Do I care? Not in the slightest.

Now, say, someone threw you a shower. You were getting married and your mom and soon-to-be mother-in-law teamed up and surprised you with a little party, and therefore there was no registry and people could just buy you something from the heart, something they thought you would want or need because they just fucking wanted to, that’s fine. That’s lovely. That’s not your fault. But if you’ve walked through a store with a price gun and scanned a gravy boat because it’s vital for a new married couple to have one of those, then, you bother me. I may love you, I may even buy you that goddamn gravy boat, but know that I am growling on the inside.

I am a contrary little snot, I know this about myself. But I don’t think my disdain for celebratory showers is purely out of a desire to be on the outside: I believe my argument is valid. What was once a pure little party for youngsters taking on the world is now a dog and pony show, and it sickens me a bit.

If and when I walk down the aisle or decide to squeeze out a kid, I PROMISE, I won’t register for a thing. I would sooner cut off my hand than ask people to fund my future. And, if some evil force possesses me and I do have a registry with my name on it, kill me. Just…kill me dead. Or find a priest to exorcise me.

It Gets Better

Last week, one of my cousins presented to me a problem she was having at school with a girl. I won’t give details, as they don’t matter and will only muddy up my message, but it was an issue of bullying. She was really troubled by the situation and afraid and I couldn’t stand the thought of my family struggling like that. I felt it was important that someone step in on her behalf, and if she wasn’t comfortable going to her parents, then by God, I would do it. But, not knowing precisely how to contact her school and say “Hey, let’s fix this problem” without seeming like I was overstepping my bounds or, I dunno, crazy, I turned to an old and trusted mentor for guidance: My high school counselor.

Despite not having seen or spoken to this man is years, he came through, as I knew he would. Now, luckily, blessedly, I didn’t end up needing his help. My cousin acted beyond her years and dealt with the problem on her own. I’m so very proud of her and her classmates for dealing with this situation with maturity. I am in awe. But I am also in awe of dear old Mr. Davidson. He has enough on his hands without past students popping in to beg for help, but he was Johnny-on-the-spot, replying to may email ready to assist. And today he called me, even knowing that the bullying matter is behind us, to see how I am. What a wonderful man.

And, believe me when I say, he is not simply wonderful for taking the time to look out for me now. Back in the day, he figuratively, possibly literally, saved my life. When I told him on the phone today that I was writing a blog, he suggested I write my teenage saga because I might be able to help youngsters that are having the struggle I had back then. Well, Mr. Davidson, this is for you, man.

Chapter 1 –Mean Girls (and Boys)

[I cannot cover everything, all the reasons I was miserable as a teenager. At least not in one post. So consider this an overview. ]

I was never “normal.” From the day my mom dressed me in a cat vest for school picture day in the 2nd grade, I was fair game for mockery. But starting in Middle School, I really think it became true bullying.

The very first day of school a rumor was spread that I gave Clark a “BJ.” I didn’t even know what that was, and had to go home crying, only to be informed by my mom that the rumor was way worse than I possibly could have imagined. I had few friends, and those friends normally fell off the face of the earth when they realized how “uncool” I was. (Once, three of the few girls that seemed to like me passed me a note on the bus informing me that they hated my guts and didn’t want to talk to me ever again.) I was smart, and not quietly smart, but teacher-reads-my-poem-to-the-class smart; announces-my-grade smart. Obnoxious smart. I tried not to be, I tried to just shut up and blend into the background so that I could be as good as invisible, but it didn’t work.  Kids didn’t like that. They also didn’t like that I was behind the times when it came to “acting my age,” which at the time meant swearing and having boyfriends and the start of partying. I didn’t really bloom till college, so back then, yeah, I was a freak. And the kids let me know it.

I had girls come up to me and say, to my face, like something out of a movie, “Welcome to Loserville: Population 1- You.” I didn’t see them doing this to each other, or to pretty girls. They did it to me. And the kids that were borderline slow but still in regular classes. And the nose-pickers and the girl who always had her hand down her pants. I was grouped with the really weird kids, the ones I defended back in Elementary School. But now, I was pre-pubescent and awkward and just too embarrassed to speak up.

My clothes were also mocked. A lot. I started begging my mom to let me dress like the other kids: flare jeans, fitted t-shirts, a bra (even though I SO didn’t need it), anything that would help me blend. But even then they found ways to make me feel…small. “Are those the only jeans you own? You’ve worn them three times this week?” Why did they take so much care to watch me? Why did my appearance bother them so much?

When all the girls started shaving their legs, I wasn’t allowed to, so I got harassed for that. I got mocked for being pale. They made fun of my eyebrows and the start of normal Italian hair on my arms (not loads, and not jet black, just not blond fuzz). They made fun of my teeth. And on the bus, the older boys absolutely tormented me: saying things that I couldn’t fully understand (being very innocent and all) but that made my tummy queasy, so I inherently knew they were being dirty and creepy; stealing my glasses right off my face; tripping me as I got off the bus.

Sounds like good times, eh?

Chapter 2–Higher  Low Times

High school wasn’t as bad. I actually got bullied worse by a few teachers (my Spanish teacher told everyone to call me “Squirrel,” because I was a vegetarian and because of my teeth) than by most of the students. Though there were a select few that sought to make me miserable. But I was learning how to be a smartass , and gaining a wee bit of courage to stand up for myself, so every once in a while I got mine.

For instance, one girl every day used to stand against my locker, and when I’d (politely) ask her to move, she’d snarl, “Damn bitch.” Lovely girl. This went on for months. They she started saying it when she passed me in the hall. Then she started shoving into me when she said it. One day, when she rammed against my shoulder, I beat her to the punch and said firmly, “Damn bitch.” She turned around and with wild eyes said, “What the fuck did you just say to me?!” I didn’t blink, just looked her in the face and repeated, “Damn. Bitch.” She called me the C-word (I’m sorry, I hate that word so much I don’t even want to type it) and walked away, but she left my locker alone for the rest of the year.

So maybe my social life was improving my hairs: I had a handful of good friends within the circle of brains in the AP circuit. I was learning to use my sarcasm and my oddness to stand out in good ways. I was still a nerd enough that I could never get a boyfriend, but at least I had people to talk to, people that I was pretty sure would not dump me via note. But I had bigger problems at home.

Chapter 3–No Place Like Home (no place quite as…awful)

My father is a narcissistic, bi-polar alcoholic. I’m sure you can imagine this doesn’t make for a very pleasant human being. I was afraid of him all my life, and never knew why he was so…so mean. My brother and I were ideal children. let me say that again. We were ideal children. We never did anything wrong besides fight like normal siblings. Our grades were great, we were obedient, we were polite, we went to bed on time. And yet Dad was always screaming at us. Spitting with rage. Calling me a “jackass” and a “bitch” and “worthless.” He would deny all of that, but I don’t really care.

His drinking caught up to him when I was nearing the end of Middle School. He got a DUI and lost his license and was put on house arrest for a month or so, and then limited house arrest (he was allowed to go to work) for a year. And while the money problems were hard, and mom and dad fighting was just as bad as ever, my dad being sober really improved out relationship. So imagine my disappointment when a few months after he got his license back–which, by the way, was thanks to a letter I wrote to the judge at his hearing, thank you very much–he started knocking back the Budweiser again, and went right back to his old drunk, irrational self.

I hated the evenings when dad was home from work. I couldn’t breathe without him finding something to criticize. Take the heated happiness argument of 2005. I was a teenager, so naturally, I wasn’t bright and beaming 24/7. Teenagers sulk. It’s a fact of life. Well, as angry as my father was all the time, he had a hang up with everyone else not just being happy, but looking happy ALL THE TIME. So there I am, not unhappy, just not smiling, one night, and he asks, “What’s wrong?” And I answer, honestly, “Nothing.” You would have think I spat at him. Suddenly I was a liar and I HAD to tell him what was wrong. Long story short, over the course of the next 2 HOURS he chased me into the bathroom and locked us in, proceeding to berate me, leading me to hyperventilate, bawl my eyes out, and pull huge chunks of hair out of my head.

I did that a lot. I would bang my head against the wall or rip my hair out when Dad was being Dad. You cannot rationalize with the irrational. It is IMPOSSIBLE. They spin everything you say, they don’t hear themselves correctly, they twist and wind around until they are superior and you are shit. So you can understand that I felt fairly frustrated dealing with him. He would be spitting mad about NOTHING and I couldn’t do anything about it. So I did damage to myself. It didn’t even hurt in the moment. If I couldn’t control him, at least I could control how hard I bashed my skull into the drywall. Maybe I can leave a dent, I’d often finding myself thinking.

Everything came to a head the night he attacked me. My dad came into my room to unplug the Christmas lights I had hanging in my window. They were comforting to me, and in my half-sleep state I whispered, “Please don’t.” I don’t really know what happened next. I don’t know if I said something more, or he did, or if the next thing I remember is what immediately followed, but all I know is the next thing I remember is him kneeling on me with his hands around my throat. He was yelling, but I couldn’t tell you now what he was saying. I was fading, I could feel myself losing consciousness, and then he moved his thumb. In that split second I sucked in some air and said, “You’re kinda killing me.” Red in the face he bellowed, “KINDA?!” and then mere moments later he let me go and left my room without a word.

I wanted to die. I wanted to sink into my bed and cease to be. How could things get any worse? It was just the two of us in the house (my mom and brother were at a soccer game), I couldn’t sneak out of my room to call the cops without him catching me, and I could feel the bruise blooming across my neck. I hiccuped for who knows how long, and when my mom poked her head into my room to say goodnight when she got home, I started sobbing again, but told her I would explain in the morning.

Now here’s the part where I throw my mother under the bus. Allow me to say, I love her very very much, and I know she did the best she could with the tools available to her, but the day following my attack is the one she should go back in time and change should she ever have that chance. That is the one day I will say my mom fucked up. I told her what happened, and she cried with me, and she left me at my grandmother’s house for the day where I was hugged and held by all my relatives so she could go “Deal with things.” Dealing with things meant talking to my dad, who said, yes, he choked me, but it wasn’t the big deal I was making it, and he swore he wasn’t drunk. (My mom was comforted by this, I was horrified). Dealing with things meant asking an off-duty cop what would happen if we reported my dad, and then choosing not to report him. Dealing with things meant her coming to pick me up to take me home to the place where the man that had less than 24 hours prior attempted to kill me was, and saying that I had to be wherever she was, and she would be living with him.

Chapter 4–My Saving Grace

Enter Mr. Davidson. So, my life was collapsing around me. I had already been seeing him to talk about my shitty-ass family life, but after this blow-up, he became the only sane adult in my life. My dad was asking me haughtily every day, “You still hate me? You still hate me? Well, you know that means you still care.” My mom wouldn’t let me live with one of my friends because I had to be with her, but she wouldn’t boot drunky out of the house. My family all knew what had happened to me, yet not one of them was stepping in to save my brother and I from a clearly toxic home. Mr. Davidson was the only one telling me I had every right to feel as saddened and angry and miserable as I felt. He was the only one letting me dwell, because, frankly, how does one move on from something like that? He ate lunch with me most days while I cried and raged and struggled to find the words to describe how I felt. He was patient and kind and I probably would have done something stupid during that time, had it non been for him. And by stupid I mean, something I couldn’t take back: either killing myself or my father, most likely. He saved my life.

Chapter…Now

I didn’t have an easy time growing up. I hated being a teenager. I hated everything about that time in my life, from the acne, to the sleepless nights, to the confusion of developing sexuality, to the kids who don’t mind making others’ adolescence worse to make their own easier. But as bad as it was, I think about the kids today suffering like I suffered, struggling like I struggled, and I would do anything, give anything, be anything so that they don’t have to go through that hell. I would live it all over again if it meant that no youth ever had to feel as awful as I did every day for those long years. I am so angry that there is still bullying and abuse in the world. We should have moved beyond these cruelties by now as a race. But there is, and we need it to change.

So here’s where I tell you IT GETS BETTER. If you are reading this, and you’re being bullied or being abused or just feel bad about life for no particular reason, I promise, it gets better. You go away to school and find that you can breathe for the first time in your life. You meet great people who don’t judge you for anything. You get out of the hell that is teenage hormones, and the things that were life-shattering (and I know, they really are life-shattering when you’re going through it. BEING A TEENAGER SUCKS) suddenly aren’t a big deal. You need to push through the muck and the misery to get to the glorious mental clarity and the happiness that’s to come.

And if you’re reading this and you’re at fault for bullying, abusing, or ignoring the signs of bullying and abuse, please, wake up. This life is hard enough as it is without us stepping on each other in the process of getting to something better. Please please please, everyone, let’s just make every day a little easier, a little happier for each other. Let’s share a little more love and a lot less hate and sadness. In the words of Ellen Degeneres, “Be kind to one another.” For the love of humanity, be kind to one another.

May I have just one moment of your time?

Osama bin Laden is dead. I am actively awaiting the President’s address of the nation. But while I’m pleased with this news, as pleased as any person who remembers that day–that Tuesday when the world stopped spinning, the beautiful autumn day of September 11th, 2001 that became so very very ugly–could possibly be, I’m not celebrating here.

One of my relatives is a Marine. He just lost a good friend who was fighting in this unending war. While I am glad that the U.S. has finally accomplished one of its goals over there in the Middle East–I am, I am very glad that this man is no longer plaguing this earth–I don’t suddenly think this justifies all the lives we’ve lost in the last nearly 9 years…and all the lives we’ve taken. I do not at all. Finding and killing this one man was not worth the civilian deaths we’ve caused, or the thousands of young American lives lost. The  sadness and sympathy I feel for my cousin’s pain far outweighs any happiness I get from this one success.

That’s all I have to say.

It’s like Ohm Shanti…but not

When you think of mantras, I bet you envision monks meditating on snowy mountain-tops, or tan glistening yogis in L.A. coaching plastic-surgeried housewives and celebutantes. You don’t? Oh, well, I always did.

For me, the word mantra evoked notions of people seeking peace and transcendence. And while reaching a higher plane is all well and good, these days, I need a little less peace and a little more…action. But I read an article in Runner’s World about running mantras that help you power through the hard parts or push yourself a little harder for that last half mile. Something about a simple sentence to repeat over and over spoke to me, so I selected myself a little mantra to try out on an 3 mile-run: “Stride Strong, Be Brave.” After beating my 5K PR, I knew I had a winner. But I didn’t know that a little running mantra would wake me up.

Courage, bravery, that’s always something I’ve felt I lack. I have plenty of fear– fear of the unknown, fear of failure, feat of judgement, fear of conflict, fear of change (which ties in with the unknown), fear of insanity (that’s a whole other blog)–and that really hinders my enjoyment of…life. How can I make a decision, live my life at all, if I am paralyzed by the idea of something going wrong? How can I feel free to be myself if I am constantly afraid of people judging me? How many times have I chosen a safer path, a more boring haircut, a less feisty comeback, out of fear? I finally got sick of it, and it all started with me wanting to be a better runner.

Anyway, I started thinking to myself “Be Brave” on and off throughout the day, sometimes about things that may not even have anything to do with bravery: I really want that ice cream…“Be brave”…Oh, guess I don’t. I really like these nerd glasses, but my boyfriend might not…“Be brave!”…Fuck it, buying them! The more I started aligning myself with living without fear, the more  self-confidant I felt. And then, last weekend, I did something that would have mortified an old version of myself. Something that was clearly one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.

And so follows my Super Epic Tale of my Mantra. So maybe I didn’t confer with god…I think this is still pretty amazing.

Here’s what happened. I LOVE 30 Seconds to Mars (read this for more on that) and I finally decided to part with some money and see them in concert. I was totally stoked and had been planning every little detail down to what shoes I would wear for weeks.  And then, a mere 6 days before the show, they announced a theme: sports! Let me say that of all the themes they had to choose from (bloodball, whiteout, goth, etc.) they went with the last one I would have chosen for the Detroit show. And, you know, a month ago, I probably just would have worn a Tigers T-shirt (not that there’s anything wrong with that. Yay Detroit teams! Go Tigers! Go Wings! Go…oh, does anyone care about the Pistons anymore?) and called it a day. But I was in Bravery phase. I wanted to stand out, and just because they picked what I considered to be a lackluster theme didn’t mean I personally had to lack in luster. I wracked my brains for that almost- week, and literally found myself having nightmares about what I would wear to the goddamn concert.

And then, the night before, I had an epiphany: in what sport do the athletes wear fishnet stockings and torn tank tops and war paint and arm bands? In what sport is sexiness part of the fun (and I am not talking about beach volleyball)? Roller derby! I have totally admired those girls since I saw the derby episode of Psych, and it just seemed like the ideal costume idea: certainly a sport, but way more noticeable than a baseball cap. And hey, in the spirit of being brave, why blend in when you can standout…in a helmet.

So in a few frantic hours before the concert, I ran around Southeastern Michigan on a raging caffeine buzz gathering materials for two roller derby costumes, one for myself and one for my very loyal friend Shannon who agreed to be brave along with me. And that night we rolled (pardon the pun!) up to the Fillmore in Detroit decked out in knee socks and helmets and armbands. Shannon looked at the very innocuously dressed crowd with trepidation, but I felt all the more spurred on by the lame-zors in the crowd. We were dressed to theme (whether anyone else knew there was a theme or not was beside the point…the band knew, and I only cared about what they thought), we looked damn good, and we would turn heads. Maybe the people inside those heads would think we looked crazy, but I didn’t give one single fuck: I felt awesome.

We got stares. Stares and sideways glances and quizzical smirks and I loved every minute. And slowly but surely Shannon started to see the fun in being epically courageous in a huge-ass crowd. And had my whole night consisted of people thinking I was nuts, I think I would have been happy with that. But I have my little red helmet to thank for the best night ever.

I was just rocking out to the (Incredible!) show, waving my helmet around, having the time of my life, when I saw Shannon Leto (drummer extraordinaire) looking at me. Not you or you…ME. I waved, and he waved back, and then I put my helmet back on…and he mimed as if he was doing the same. I looked around at the sweaty crowd around me like, “Did anyone else just witness that?!” It was awesome, and I would have carried that memory home as a happy little talisman  except something even more unreal happened.

For the encore song–their ANTHEM “Kings and Queens” no less–the band pulls people up on stage. You hope, you pray, but you never actually think you will make eye contact with the dead sexy Jared Leto, see him point at you and say “You, with the armbands”; you never dream that you will say, “Me?” and knock on your helmet; you would never really allow yourself to believe that he will nod, and then offer his hand to you to help you up onto the stage; and you definitely never ever thought in a million billion years that you would look into his ice blue eyes (the ones you watched in the music videos  and movies all those times) and say, outloud, so he could actually hear you, “I love you.” But yeah, all that happened. I told the Jared Leto–actor, singer, songwriter, most-beautiful-man-to-ever-walk-the-earth–that I love him. To his face.

I should be horrified. But I’m not.

I am just really, really happy that I bought that cherry red helmet.

I wore this in public. I have no fear.

Bravery rules.

So yeah, I never thought a simple mantra could rock my world like this,  but it did. Telling myself to be brave gave me a night I will remember FOREVER. And now, I can’t help but wonder, what will happen if I keep it up?

Seriously, if I just keep being true to myself and keep living courageously and fuck anyone who wants to quash my awesomeness, what can’t I accomplish?What would you do if you drown out all the voices and live without fear? Think about it. No, really, stop, close your eyes, and really think about it: What would you do if you decided to just be brave. It boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Suddenly, I feel like I have no limits…just as long as I’m brave enough to barrel through the barricades.

I think I’ll start with getting the fuck out of limbo and into a career.

But change is scary…“Be brave, be brave, be brave“…OK, let’s do this thing.