Unabridged Me

JUST ANOTHER WRITER

Beta Readers and Feedback

October 31, 2017

Today Vivian and I headed south to have lunch with some ex co-workers. We try to do this at least once a month, in an attempt to stay in contact despite not having proximity of space for relationship maintenance.

I’ve been to the office a few times since I quit. Several times to train my replacement and a few times for lunch. The first few times were a bit surreal, as if walking into an alternate universe where everything looked exactly as I left it yet everything was different.

Namely, I wasn’t there any longer.

My office had another person with the same title, staff had overturned a little bit, and the shared reality of the office had continued without my presence. In my mind the office was as I left it, yet I knew it continued without me.

Today was different, as I’ve been gone long enough to move onto my new reality completely. Which in turn means the business in my brain has moved on as well.

Though I was still asked a damned payroll question today. I will never get away from payroll.

Lunch had managed to translate into new realties as well. The first time we had lunch together, there was an awkward how-do-we-proceed-with-this-new-relationship feel about it. I was still deep in the business, and they were still feeling the lack of my presence. According to them.

Today I no longer felt the sense of business moving without me, and we were able to discuss things beyond changes since I’ve worked there.

Like my writing, which of course is just standard catching up what’s going on in your life conversation.

We talked about how client writing is making me slightly paranoid regarding technological advances. After all, you can’t research cutting edge tech week in and week out without the brain seeing some potential.

Potential that was confirmed by my friend in IT. Thanks, Matt. I could have probably used some nah it’s all in your head, not yup you are right we are seeing the birth of Skynet. But the spider web of connections in my head regarding technology was a mere transition to the topic of creative writing.

I was asked by one individual if I was writing anything other than for clients, to which I confirmed I’ve re-upped on my blog if only to practice my skills. One of my friends commented it’s good I’m doing creative writing for myself and not just client writing, and then quipped that means I can finish my story.

The first friend then replied the story is finished, don’t you remember?

A little background. In about June/July I was on a writing frenzy. I was writing all the time in my blog, and my creative writing was getting juiced as well. I posted a (very) rough draft of a short story for some feedback.

Which was all over the board.

betareaderThe feedback I received provided a standard bell curve after dissemination, and I realized it was probably worth editing. Which I have since done.

These two friends represent opposing sides of the bell curve.  Well, maybe not opposing. One friend enjoyed it; however, she believes it’s not finished. The story is a flash fiction. I pick up in the middle and I end in the middle.

She wants to me to complete the story, for the protagonist to find resolution and a happy ending despite her unhappy circumstances of life.

My response? The story is finished. It’s done. Life does not wrap up in pretty bows when situations move on. Life is on-going with one ending: death.

The other friend hasn’t read the entire 800 words of the story. Probably because I did post a (very) rough draft. Though her complaint comes from the story being too detailed. Which I get, however I am not going to change most of the details as they set mood.

My sense for not editing to that feedback was confirmed when she stated she skims pages in books of a well known romance author. He puts in too much detail about setting.

While listening to this discussion, and finding out what everyone was reading in general, I got a sense about reading audiences. And whether or not to write to an audience or write for self, hoping the right audience is out there.

Personally, I see both scenarios benefiting authors.

It’s important for authors to know there is an audience, as well as what reader experience is going to be brought to the table. If anything, it helps with word choice and editing decisions.

On the other hand, putting too much stock in individual readers will ultimately confuse and confound the writing experience. Of the four friends at the table: two hadn’t read the story, one didn’t read it entirely, and one felt it was incomplete.

Frankly, my story makes her twitchy because of where I left it.

Am I going to change the story to fit either of the two who had feedback? Not entirely. From the first time we had the conversation, and we’ve had the conversation about this story before, I learned some of my (not so) well placed clues were hard to catch. This caused the ending to be more mysterious than needed.

This opinion was backed by a beta reader who has extensive reading experience in multiple genres.  Feedback? Well written but didn’t understand the ending. Noted.

So I am not dismissing reader feedback entirely. More edits are due as I tighten the story, after which comes more beta reading and maybe some submittals.

I do think finding beta readers and critique partners is important, though. Feedback is necessary for editing, if not for the story.

Today I am writing as soon as I have a thought.

Well, not exactly as soon. I needed to rinse my hair, towel off, make myself decent, and descend to my computer.

But close enough.

I have been struggling with the whole concept of niches. As I mentioned before, I started on social media as marketing and market research for my writing. Not my business writing, that fell into my lap. My personal writing.

It’s true, I have nothing published to date so why would I need to market?

To see if there is interest. Despite the appearance of an impulsive nature and wayward mind, I am risk averse when it comes to putting forth efforts. I think I’ve explained the whole perfectionist thing in a previous post.

One thing that has always gotten in the way of my writing is concern I have nothing to say of interest. Words and I have a long standing relationship. But I lean towards functionalism. If the words I produce serve no function other than purging my thoughts, then there is no point.

Ya, I hear some of you. Purging my thoughts serves a function. But language is developed to communicate. My thoughts and I go way back, like my whole life, so purging serves no function. If what I write does not communicate to another person, no reason to do it.

Which is why I never wrote in a diary. Diary writing always felt pretentious for me. It serves a purpose for some, but for me it never felt like a productive use of my time.

Academic writing is different, and therefore easier. There are several purposes: to make a point based on research and intellectual debate, communicate a new theory, or in general educate the masses.

But creative writing has always fallen into the void of what is the purpose? What is the function? At the end of the day, do I have anything to contribute to humanity’s ongoing monologue?

When I realized writing is something not going away, and trying to avoid writing created a miserable soul deadened creature, I had to approach it systematically like all things anxiety causing.

The blog came first. A jump in the deep end and see if I can swim attempt, which left me floundering and bored quickly. Until I busted the seams of creative language use and found a few loyal audience members by way of co-workers and family members.

Next comes true market research (albeit completely amateur with no methodology). Is there an audience, and who are they?

So I read how to approach marketing on social media, and I was introduced to niches. It’s not a new concept, businesses the world over have specialized and focused in on their target consumer.  But social media? Really? I need to decide what subculture for my writing, and then stay there?

And this is where I struggle. I’ve known this struggle with Instagram for years, which is why I post rarely and have never really cared about followers.

People unconsciously arrange themselves in niches, and if you are not in their niche they are less inclined to follow.

And followers/friends mean little to me in social media. Except that if people don’t watch you, no one sees the stuff you put out, and then your research is flawed and provides no usable data.

More importantly, no one reads your writing.

So I had to solve this problem of social media and unlock the mysteries of why marketing people are all agog with the potential. Empirically I understand algorithms. I get how systems do what they do, and I am reaching a much larger understanding of how human behavior lays down upon the system and furthers the driving force.

So ya, I get why marketing gurus say find a niche and stick in it. But I find niche driven behavior boring and stifling to my creativity.

While I was still bumbling around Twitterverse as a newbie, bouncing into things and figuring out how this whole mini-blog, stream of consciousness world worked, I tried to limit myself. I attempted to find a voice to speak to who I thought I wanted listening.

And I was bored. Both with my feed and with what I was writing and saying.

I tried playing games, and it was fun for a little while.

But the more I understand the system, the better I am able to operate within it. What I’m finding is different cultures respond to different tweets, and invariably not everyone will respond the same. And I’m okay with that. I’ve had crazy response to the most random  thoughts in my brain, and poems I thought were amazing received little to no feedback.

At first.

The more you put yourself out there, the more response and feedback you receive. Which is impossibly hard and easy at the same time. I hesitate, delete, and sometimes just don’t say anything at all. It’s overwhelming. The weight of untold people reading a tweet is crushing.

At the same time, these are not people who see me every day. Liberating an otherwise socially reserved nature to experiment, explore, and challenge who I thought my audience would be as well as my own interests day in and day out.

Which is not niche driven.

I like a myriad of topics and large buffet of information to absorb. And this is how I am choosing to interact with the platform.

I admit I avoid certain conversations and topics. Even if I agree with the sentiment, or some language moves me, I will not respond. Not because I’m not taking in the information. I read everything. I prefer some things about me remain unknown, just as I would rather remain off the radar of certain types of people.

I’m not here to shout from the mountains.

And for those who say they are on Twitter “just being me,” you are in a niche. Look at the feeds followed and likes/retweets. Most will find they like the same things they produce, creating a homogenous group of interests and philosophies.

Just being you is tribal and niche behavior.

However, none of this understanding of niches and Twitter helps me with the one question I am asked repeatedly in writing circles, and with which I will struggle forever. What genre do I write in?

I don’t know.

And I’m not sure I want to be defined by a genre either. Similar to my hesitancy in choosing a career path, or anything that requires high levels of specialization, I think I would become bored if I had to write within a specified form and style all the time.

I understand there are reasons for it. Namely, readers have expectations to be met. So they shop genres that will provide their style of escapism, edification, or time passing.

Yet I find myself bouncing between prose and poetry, essay and aphorisms, all of which do not have an underlying genre. And not because I don’t know genres. I know all the forms, styles, tricks, history of creation, blah blah blah. Maybe what I write is too close and I can’t see the genre. Then again, maybe I just write.

So until I am asked by a publisher what genre my story is, I will keep writing whatever I feel.

And don’t be surprised if my next post or two has nothing to do with writing. There is only so much writing I can do about writing.

Thoughts are bouncing in my head like wayward balls from a ball pit.

I think I have one in my grasp, and it slips off my finger tips to bounce around the concrete cavern of my mind. More often than not to get lost in a corner somewhere.

As mentioned before, the largest issue is when the thought occurs.

Today was no different. We had yet another birthday party to attend. The son of a friend is turning four. Since they have two younger children, they hosted the party at a local trampoline gym.

I was familiar with the location, having thrown our own toddler party there, so my normal strange environment anxiety wasn’t kicking in. Being around people I didn’t know, eh. We’ve been to their house for parties, I knew in general who I would see.

However, the sensory overload was more than expected.

In May of last year we had a tremendous hail storm. I was still working out of the house and spent my days about 20 miles south. The storm dumped water where my office was located, but coming home I passed snow plow trucks pushing a foot of hail from the roadways.

The summer has been filled with door to door solicitors and sounds of nails banging into roofs.

West of the city received the most damage, including the mall where the trampoline gym is located. Most of the mall is still closed, nearly six months later, with some peripheral locations opening.

What that means is everything within the gym is newer than it was last spring. In designs for children, newer means brighter. Full rooms of carpet with pops of neon color jumping out in rapid pattern brighter.

Okay, I got this.  Just don’t look down.

Which was fine to a point. Until I noticed the smell. The carpet and interior still had a bit of straight out of the warehouse chemical smell, which they tried to hide with fruity air freshener.

Just breath shallow.

The party started as soon as the place opened, so before I knew it The Wall was pumping loudly from the speakers and tons of screaming children were running around.

The music was not an issue. I like Pink Floyd. In fact, their odd choice of music for a children’s venue helped me to focus on something other than screaming, shrieking, yelling, and crying tiny beings all around me.

So many children running around, attracting and repelling like atoms. No sense of boundaries or self, children change course mid thought causing collisions between adults trying to not run over the tiny being.

But I survived. Vivian had fun. And as we were driving away I started having amazing ideas for writing. Deep thoughtful ideas about tiny humans and not so tiny humans.

Yup, I said I was driving.  All I managed to hold onto was the beginning line to this post.

So here I am wondering what else to write. I’ve led you up to this point where I am in the car, having amazing thoughts, and then boom… nothing. Kind of disappointing, I know.

And that’s how I feel when I have thoughts bombarding my brain in locations where I can do nothing to transcribe, record, or even notate. While driving home I attempted to stop my brain from thinking. If I don’t allow my brain to move through a concept, and I focus on developing the perfect opening line, than it should all still be there when I’m ready to write.

Right?

Wrong.

My brain doesn’t listen to me. My mind wanders as I drive, even as I focus on operating a machine. As I slow down for a red light, my brain thinks about how to describe the carpet. As I check my blind spot and change lanes, I focus on the confusion regarding music choice.

And it’s not just thoughts, words are developing and forming. Amazing phrases are flowing through my head like a sparkling stream from one ear to the other. I sit in awe at the beauty flowing past.

And then straight out, a waterfall of words.

I will never know if the thoughts are really that spellbinding. Or if the words are interesting enough beyond not using the every noun. Because once it’s thought, it’s gone.

Today was a busy day, way busier than I prefer. After the party and a nap, we took my

20171029_001126

While my mom was driving, I was taking pictures.

mom to the airport. To return just in time for another party.

 

This time we went to my in-laws for their Halloween party.

My sister-in-law and I were talking about my posts and having thoughts in the shower and driving. She recommended we get a recorder for me so I can record my thoughts while driving.

A water-proof recorder, of course.

And that idea was kind of brilliant. I don’t think I would ever use it, though. Mostly because starting a new habit is difficult and takes focus. The reason I have most my ideas while driving or in the shower is because my brain is not otherwise occupied. It’s free to do it’s thing while muscle memory and sensory input take over.

And I listen to music while driving. Which gets my brain all creative like and into a different zone. Talking out loud would definitely interfere with my (poor) singing.

Until I can solve for where I am when ideas drop from the sky, I will continue to post blogs late at night when I can patch together something I hope is similar to my thoughts. Sleep deprivation seems to have the same conduit affect as showering and driving.

I just have to keep myself off Twitter.

Games Writers Play

October 26, 2017

Throughout life writing has been a butterfly hovering and then flying off. I’ve spent hours writing, and I’ve spent years not.

Not to say my inner voice isn’t always running at top speed.

Usually in showers and driving. Words gifted from my subconscious descend upon me with clarity and precision. However I can’t write them down, so I am stuck repeating the thought while trying to either avoid a speeding ticket or rinse off.

Unfortunately, my mind has a mind of it’s own and runs away with the idea, effectively creating and pushing any decent stuff out of my brain before paper can be found.

But I digress. Writing for me comes in torrents with gushing in every direction or bare dribbles as I attempt to focus on important things.

Of course, surrounding environment plays a huge role in whether I am flooded or parched.

While I was getting my graduate degree I worked in a call center for a waste management company. The pay was tolerable, the work load light (barring blizzards), and in the early days society was limited allowing me to focus on my studies.

The graduate course I attended was a front runner for accelerated online programs. While some may snub such styles of education, the system is perfect for students like me.

In a traditional system, I performed well in the first month and the last month of study. First month because I was fascinated by a new topic, last month due to anxiety of meeting expectations. The 8 weeks between bored and frustrated me.

Hosted by a state university, I was able to earn an accredited Masters in Arts while consuming information in mass. Finishing a topic before boredom set in. The graduate program presented me a challenge of learning 16 weeks of information in a 5 week period, with the same expectations of performance. I was in cerebral ecstasy.

That also meant I was reading during lunch, reading at night, and writing papers and emailing in assignments while sitting at my computer between calls.

My boss knew what I was doing. Talk about big brother, call centers watch everything. But I was performing above metrics, so they didn’t bother me.

As I mentioned, society was limited so I was able to push through a magnitude of reading and notating during lunch.

Until Troy.

Troy was (or still is, I don’t know) a very typical post-Goth individual. He alternately dyed his hair blonde and black, and was sure to wear short sleeve collared shirts so everyone could see his star tattoos despite the dress code.

And of course, wore all black. Always all black.

I admit, I wear majority black accentuated with gray. However, my reasons are pure aesthetic laziness. In the morning, I don’t want to worry about separates matching. I grab and go, focusing my mind on other items like making sure my toddler gets in the car before I drive off.

I do have to focus on matching shoes, to each other, but that story is for a different day.

Troy was ego-centric, highly emotional, and constantly in a state of angst. The epitome of poet and alt rock musician.

He was also very intelligent.  Which, when combined with his childhood and life decisions, gave support to the image he worked so hard to propel in efforts to equally push away and entice other people.

At some point Troy started talking to me about something I was reading. I know for sure it wasn’t me. I don’t approach in general, with rare exceptions, and at that point in my life I was an island with nothing but ocean around me.

Not really sure how our friendship progressed to the state it did, but when two writers meet each other they will inevitably throw out they are a writer and begin talking and bonding over writing.

Except in the cases of competitive people. Since I am not competitive, one-upping writers make me gag and turn away.

At the height of our inescapable bonding, I was taking a poetry class. I was not in a creative writing tract, yet this class required me to learn not only history and differences of form but write in every form studied.

So Troy and I started a game, via IM.

Each week we chose a form. We would alternate writing a poem in the prescribed form based on a theme decided by the other person. Troy would pick the theme, and I would write a poem. Then we would switch.

The person who picked the theme would get to grade the poem for both form and theme strength.

Yes, all this between phone calls. I was in the commercial division, he was in pro accounts, we had time. And yes, all under big bro’s tech spying.

We had a pretty laid back boss. As long as her boss didn’t walk behind us and see what we were doing, we were golden in her eyes.

After the first day of independent writing, we upped the ante on ourselves and each other. We co-wrote poems, taking turns on theme. I would pick a theme, Troy would write the first line (or first two depending on form), I would write the second (or 3 and 4), and on and on and on.

We played this game every day for two months. Together we created some astonishing poetry.

None of it transcribed, saved, or archived beyond whatever IT did with IMs on their server.

Part of what worked so well between Troy and me is there was never any physical intimacy. I was coming out of hell and wanted nothing to do with most of humanity, and he was all agony over his ex/girlfriend/wife (she was all three during our friendship).

Even if there was physical attraction, it was quelled early. He was too much emotional maintenance for one. I was a bare ghost of a human for two. And for three, we were too similar.

We were not a soul split in two, we were mind clones. There was compatible intellect, curiosity, and boredom in equal measures. Of the same topics. Yin and yin do not make a whole.

About a month after the height of our friendship (eating lunch together, hanging out after work, writing poetry) the company went through a restructure. Troy was laid off.

We maintained contact for a short period of time.

Then my life went through a restructure. And we slowly drifted away as is natural in friendships developed in daily proximity between two people who are not inclined to reach out.

Troy called me randomly about two years after we had drifted apart. He and his ex/girlfriend/wife had moved to the suburbs, and he was working construction. Troy explained he had a dream in which I was screaming, and he felt an overwhelming urge to save me.

At the time I was evolving into a fully content being. I didn’t want his kind of saving.

Troy admitted it was pretentious of him to think I needed to be saved by anyone.  In all our time, conversations, and mind melding that was the first time Troy dropped his hero-to-all-tortured-women filter.

We talked for about 15 minutes and never spoke again. And I don’t miss Troy. We were never meant to be more than an intense fling of intellect.

But I miss the games we used to play.

“Whatever, Michelle.”

Yes, I can hear your voice. Ever since I hit send with that final sentence of not setting standards for myself.

For any other readers, I am hearing a friend’s voice in my head, a friend who worked with me for several years. This morning she would have walked into my office and said whatever, Michelle.

So let’s clarify.

I have an immensely strong work ethic, though in full transparency not so strong there towards the end with my last employer.

I will do whatever it takes to make sure any individual depending on me does not fail. Including reconciling payroll (which is the worst thing in the entire world) until I have one eye closed to keep excel rows straight.

I am dead serious about the payroll thing. It was like living in purgatory. So serious I am making a special paragraph just to point out I despise payroll. And to say I somehow became an expert in it because that’s what was needed by the system in which I was operating.

No offense to anyone who enjoys payroll. Just not my thing.

So my friend would be entirely correct by calling bullshit on me stating I don’t set standards.

For the sake of my sanity because this will become a barb festering in my brain, and so I don’t have to hear about it next time we go to lunch, I will write a somewhat boring blog to clarify.

What I meant by not setting standards is I have always lived my life to date in a more impulsive nature. Rooted entirely in having an anxious, perfectionist personality, I learned early to procrastinate and complete things at the absolute last minute. Thus avoiding gut wrenching misery and compulsions to control everything

Ya, I see the paradox. I create anxiety to avoid anxiety. Totally get it.

However, when a less than perfect grade is earned, or negative feedback is received, it’s not that I wasn’t perfect. It’s that I handed in an inferior product and any feedback to that point was justified. Not some commentary on my worthiness.

I don’t set personal goals; rather I move with my own nature of inquiry and curiosity with no emotional drive towards end results. I am incapable of disappointing myself because I rarely invest in expectations. When I do, though, watch out. Talk about a control freak.

Unfortunately, this has backfired on my psyche. Two-fold.

First, I rarely receive negative feedback on my end result. I walk around the world with a sneaking suspicion I have pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes since I am putting forth mere mediocrity. Or I have avoided diagnosis of significant personality disorder.

Resulting in the inability to receive positive feedback without feeling it’s unjustified and slightly ridiculous.

One note: I always produce up to expectations. If someone has high expectations, I will increase my output. If you have low expectations, well…

Second, I am lazy with tedious, grunt work that goes into any endeavor. External drivers create anxiety which in turn produce results. With no anxiety, I offer very little. If I get bored at any point in the process, I’m done. I turn off, game over, next item please.

There are two scenarios in which I write: for education/business and for self. In the first situation, external drivers solve any issues regarding laziness. In the second, I rely heavily on whim and mania.

So to clarify. It’s time for me to set goals and be responsible for my own discipline. Which involves writing every day, not counting Twitter feeds or client work.

Assignment for the day, check.

It had to be somewhere.

Was it in the garage? No, all my other papers are here in my office. Along with dusty creative writings I’ve done nothing with, critical theory books collecting dust, corporate theory books that make me cross-eyed…

Oh shit.

I never printed it. There was no reason to print it. My advisor was in California, and as I rarely edited my writing back then, paper copies held no purpose for me.

And that began the digging under the stairs through tangled wires to find my Master’s thesis, stored on two laptops ago. Once the correct electrical cord was matched up with the correct laptop, I was on my way.

So why the interest in a paper written almost ten years ago?

Twitter conversation, of course. I committed to providing resources for a topic. A month ago. And in my typical struggle with subjectivity of time, I allowed a month to pass before anxiety made me move neurons and boxes to find it.

After finding a USB to transfer data to my new computer, fingers crossed software was still compatible, I sat and read it for the first time since it was approved and submitted.

Ugh, I used “the” a lot.

Wait, what? Does that sentence even make sense?

Then I moved past the grammar and expression. I had some good ideas. Not fully flushed out, definitely needed some tailoring and editing, but I was a little taken back I had written 50 Master level pages.

Especially knowing how it was produced. Which was about two weeks of solid research, about a week of note and quote taking, 5 months of procrastination, and three weeks of writing.

All while working in retail full time.

One would think normal emotional progression would be for me to get despondent, something about lost possibilities or potential.  Wasting my life away when I had so much going for me… blah blah blah.

But that’s not how my brain works.

Instead I started reading other things. Like my blog from when I quit my job (most popular article to date), and the poetry I find myself writing on Twitter, and even the way I have been picking up how others use language in their writing.

Language is how I engage with the world.

I adore language. How words can build or decrease emotion. How rhythm can make prose sound like music.

Let’s be honest. Language is not always the best way to engage with the world.  I know, seems a bit ironic ya?  But language can often get in my way.  Using a word that isn’t understood, discussing philosophies that aren’t readily available in other people’s realities, even using literary tricks in spoken vernacular: these are all things that make most people go as cross-eyed as books on business theory make me.

And I’m highly introverted. So unless I know you well, my words will fail when trying to speak.

Yet I accept this is who I am.

So I have come to the conclusion I have to strike a very weird balance with myself.

I am paid to write, and what I am paid to write is business oriented. This is not a bad thing. I get to research and teach myself new things every week as I find topics to discuss. I am exposed to subcultures I have previously passed by with little to no interest. I’m learning what a very scary world technology can be.

Yet this writing does little to open my inner monologue.

As evidenced by my thesis, conversations with co-workers, and even my earlier blogs, I have a knack for intellectual discourse. I enjoy theory and debate. Coming up with a thesis, researching and exploring, crossing fields of study to come up with something new, all entices me.

Yet there is little room for this outside academia, and my attention span rarely allows for completely thorough exploration of a topic. I have an inherent fear of committing to one subject and losing opportunity to discover a world of other interests.

Side note: same reason I never had career goals.

I enjoy creative writing. When music is created as words flow together, building emotion through word choice, choosing to leave something out in order to make an impact, it makes me smile and take a deep breath.

Yet I find myself blocked from writing a story longer than 800 words. I’ve written blog posts longer than that. Mostly because I am unable to immerse myself long enough to develop something in my mind and transfer it to screen.​

After all, the reason I jumped off the soul crushing corporate train was to stay home with a very special 3 year old before she becomes a 16 year old who screams at me to stay out of her life.

So the balance I must strike is how to pay bills with writing while still engaging intellectually with the world and artistically with language. In essence, how to make myself whole.

Which interestingly enough brings me back to why I started this blog in the first place, almost a full year ago.

Have I learned anything in the last year?

Yes. I learned to be courageous and quit something I hated. I learned to accept a part of me that never really went away, just hid under the crushing pressure to climb a ladder I didn’t want to climb to a place I didn’t want to be.

And I learned this shit is going to be hard.

For the first time in my life, I’m not going to be able to wing it.  I will not be able to impulsively jump through this like everything else. This is going to require discipline and structure, setting high expectations for myself. Because one thing I have always known: I am a perfectionist and I will reach an impossibly high standard if it’s set.

I’ve just never set standards for myself.

I have committed one of the cardinal sins of writing.

I had an idea. It was forming along nicely, filling out in the shower, with a finish line to end all finish lines.

But as the water evaporated from my skin, so too did my idea. I thought I could return to it after errands and daily to-do items. I still had the concept. I wrote down the leading sentence as a phone memo.

But the essence was gone, gas escaping into the atmosphere.

I just attempted to write, assuming the words would come to me as they did originally. I know better. Instead an overly intellectual essay came out, one that didn’t go where I wanted or say what I thought I was going to say.

My educated self emerged without any research or notes to support my writing.

Delete delete delete.

Instead I am writing this post. About my inability to capture my idea and write it.

I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve written. I could feed a line like I needed to recover.  Which I did. Or that my mind hasn’t been in a great place. Which it hasn’t.

But none of that matters.

What matters is I am out of practice. Words are not flowing as easily and quickly as they did in June. Nor are the ideas as inspiring as they were then.

Changing your entire reality can be a wonderful muse.

But I’ve also spent the last few months much more outward facing than I have spent most my life. Not that this period was particularly unique. I go through periods of outward facing, expending energy. I end up being over stimulated, over sensitive, and retreat to recover from any wounds of engagement.

This time I learned something while doing it. The world is a lonely place.

The more we reach out towards others, the more lonely we feel without people. It creates an addiction of sorts. People join social media or other platforms in attempts to reach out to people, to be part of something, and in turn only feel more lonely.

I joined social media to promote my writing. That was the entire purpose, and at the beginning that is what I used it for. Marketing.

But with exposure comes understanding.

I still don’t get Facebook. It’s not really a platform I’m inclined to jump into, and that is mostly because of my own reserved and private nature.

But Twitter has become something else. It’s taught me to write succinctly (a word I would not use in a Tweet, too many characters). It has taught me to edit. It has taught me to get to the point.

And I’ve been writing a great deal on the platform, diving a bit more into poetry where prose and essay have always been my forte. I have found an amazing community of writers supporting writers. And in this I have gained confidence and skill.

But I have also been sucked into the loneliness.

I am not normally inclined towards loneliness. I cannot say that was true of the young adult me, but as life progressed and experiences were had I settled down into a self contained being.

My inner monologue is strong, and I rarely feel any urge to share it unless requested in the situation. And even then you are likely to get intellectual me over any kind of emotional or personal me.

When I was younger, I was highly opinionated and insisted on my opinion being heard. I was trying to be seen, asserting I existed, insisting I mattered.

And then I didn’t need to be seen. I had been seen enough, heard enough, damaged enough. It was time to refocus on myself and who I was. More importantly who I wanted to be.

But I became addicted. And thus pulled out of myself into an outward facing world. Emotionally engaged and exposed.

Because here’s a secret that you may or may not know. Twitter is dangerous to those with strong inner monologues. Once we start stream of conscious sharing, we open the very essence of ourselves.

And just as combating the loneliness is addicting, getting notifications is addicting.  Getting the validation for who you are, a sense that people understand you, a chance to have your voice heard.

For those of us who are guarded and self protecting, it is a slippery slope. Virtual reality makes it too easy to expose our soul where normally our body language keeps everything away, protecting the private sanctity of our being.

For a time being I was no longer self contained.

And I felt incredibly lonely. I cried a lot. Mostly because I felt overwhelmingly sad, all the time. There felt like so much emptiness around, so much space that needed to be filled.

Yet all things return to their natures, and I returned back to mine. Like taking a mental shower, I processed and washed off what was not in my inherent being. I expanded to fill myself and refocused my attention.

And that first day after I felt powerful and at one with everything. A hero emerged from the underworld, I stood with better understanding of the human condition.

Now I just need to work on writing as soon as I have an idea. If I don’t practice my prose more, I will never get stories written. The human condition cannot be shared in 140 character segments.

Although, my post did end up being about the topic I had in the shower.

What It Is to Be Abused

October 5, 2017

Ghosts are scratching my brain tonight.

The topic has been on the edges of my periphery for awhile, swirling the drain of my consciousness.  And maybe it’s time I talk because to not do so is just sticking my head in the sand.

I was in an abusive relationship for 6 years, from my early to mid twenties.

I’m not talking about Hollywood stereotypical woman with a black eye, cigarette and baby acting nasty to her husband.  Hollywood does not have the right of it, in any fashion.

Physical abuse was part of it, to be sure.  Particularly in the early years.

But I was a college student.  Then college graduate.  Then professional.  The surface of my life appeared to be following in standard mid-America fashion, though I was a bit weird and definitely introverted.

The hows and whens of getting into this relationship are not necessary to share.  I had moments of intuition, to be sure.  I had moments of doubt.  But what people need to understand is abuse does not start out the gate as beating someone up.

No, the first step is emotional engagement and manipulation.  The first portion of our relationship was him learning my buttons by way of wooing and earning my trust.  Don’t get me wrong.  Not a smart man.  Just very manipulative and wise to navigating human nature.

I want to take a moment to point out lying and manipulating are not the same thing.

I had childhood injuries used against me, sandwiched with the repeated message of the only person who understands you is me.  The only one who gets you is me.  The only one who will always be there for you is me.

It was by far the easiest button to push.  A lonely introverted child who was not close to her family at this time, in an attempt to extricate herself from perceived childhood misery.

Repress and run, that is my standard M.O.

By the time I felt the urge to run, I was tightly wrapped in his reality.  A reality where he was nearly suicidal any time he felt me slipping away.  A reality where drinking, and cutting, and midnight runs to the ER became David Lynch nights to my college days.

I wanted to save him.

We were about six months into the relationship before the first fist flew.  He was drunk.  Blacked out drunk.  Made it easier for me to accept, I think.  Not being in his right mind.  Along with the teary eyed, nevergonnadoitagain apology.

And he didn’t.  Not in that fashion.

Looking back, I hadn’t even seen the war I was losing before the first bruises.  It was a 3 prong attack:  isolating me, convincing me he was a victim who just needed my love to do something with his life, and exposing me to the world of night most people do not realize exists when they are at home sleeping in their beds.

The emotional abuse and sexual abuse were a majority of my reality.

If you loved me, you would…

People who love each other…

The physical abuse was used as punishment for when I pushed hard enough and he agreed to do something.  Like going out with one of my friends. The night would end with my head meeting a wall, or his head.  Punishment for wanting anyone but him in my life.

Or in the early years when I fought back.

A weird thing started happening to me.  I mean, beyond the surreal hell I was living.

He only worked for the first few months of our relationship.  During the grooming period, when he was still trying to ingratiate himself into my life.

Once he was sure of my sympathy towards his upbringing and horrible childhood, he promptly quit with big plans of all the amazing things he was going to do.

So I was going to college and supporting the both of us.  I was operating in an upward trending fashion, as if I was heading towards a Suburbian middle class life.  I was taking psychology classes.  I was an intelligent, self directed, independent individual.

Until I got home.  Then emotional reality stepped in, and I had no control over what was happening to me.  But a part of my mind stood apart, whispering to me.  My brain maintained it’s own monologue of how fucked up the situation really was.

In the sober moments.

We spent a large portion of time drinking.  He was running from the ghosts of his childhood, I was running from the ghosts of my current life.

In general I avoid conversations about domestic violence.  Repress and run.  But also because there is no way for anyone not in the situation to understand the situation.  And not every situation is the same.

What is the same is abuse is not about anger management.  It is not about being pissed off, or stressed, or a case of kick the dog syndrome.

Abuse is about control.

I was his mother.  I was his plaything.  I was his accomplice to the quagmire that was his mental illness.  The femme fatale and angel to his real life noir.

I am one of the lucky few.  I’m out.

I descended to the depths of my own mental illness, made choices that my voice told me at the time were going to land me exactly where I landed, yet was lucky enough to have support and therapy to recover some form of life.

My  life with him didn’t just scar me or break my bones.  It shattered me.  I was lucky to have professionals who picked me up piece by piece and superglued me back together.  I was lucky to have an amazing family who, despite my horrid treatment of them at his hands, rallied behind me and gave me undying love.

But I’m not really out, mentally.  I never will be, I don’t think.  Even as I write this, I feel the compulsion to put in details about how it was my fault.  How I saw the signs, or how friends tried to warn me, or how I had the means why didn’t I just get up and leave…

I have no words to describe the anguish I feel when I think those things.  How I had zero control over my emotional life.  How impossible it will always be to get others to understand.

Still I cry in torment because I can’t be angry with him.  I can’t blame him.  I will forever see him as a product of an awful childhood, someone worthy of my sympathy.  Despite the rapes.  Despite the trauma.  Despite my body never feeling quite my own.

I used to live in fear I would see him at a bus stop.  Or I would pull up to a stoplight and he would be staring at me from the next car over.  Or I would look behind me and find him following me.  Nearly ten years later, that has diminished mostly.

Except when I’m stressed, or exhausted, or worn down by life.  I start looking at bus stops again.

The purpose of me sharing this is two fold, and partially selfish.  I can’t live with the ghosts haunting me anymore.  I need to get this out, and I have no other medium to do so.

But I need to stop hiding from this.  I need to stop pretending this horror didn’t happen to me.  Because every time I do, it reinforces mainstream misunderstanding.  That they can leave whenever they want, or they asked for it, or they participated in what became their reality.

It’s not as simple as just leave him.  And no one outside will ever understand that.

Nor will anyone ever understand how my relationships continue to be defined by him.  Unless I’ve had a chance to watch you, study you, learn about you I will not trust you.  I don’t handle physical touch well unless I trust you.  I keep my thoughts and my emotions to myself.

Until recently I had successfully made myself invisible.  But people change and grow, and it’s time for me to be seen.

And the writer in me apologizes for the rough writing, but I have to hit send before my nature takes over.  No time for editing.

Life with a Mood Disorder

September 22, 2017

Vivian:  I don’t like this day.
Me:  Ditto.

While Vivian’s comment came from anger for not doing something the way she wanted, my feeling is a bit more pervasive.

I make no secret I have a mood disorder.  Check out my bio page, I’m pretty open about the chemical imbalances and subsequent diagnosis I have been assigned.  But despite being open about my brain, I still think people don’t get it.

Our society has plenty of information about it, right?  Brain chemistry, awareness, medications…  but that is not the experience of what it is to live with a mood disorder.

There aren’t words for me to describe the experience for those who don’t live it.  So instead here’s some points on how to help and not hurt someone going through this.

Don’t tell me it/I will be okay.

That is the equivalent of a patronizing pat on the head and a shoo away.  The lack of emotional investment in what I might be attempting to share merely reinforces the isolation.  If you aren’t going to try and sit with me, don’t bother stopping.  It will make things worse.

I get to say I will be okay.  Why me and not you?  Because I live this.  I have survived and will continue to survive.  In fact, I manage to thrive most times in spite of this.  I have a healthy and mostly balanced life because I embrace, understand, and work through this.

I know it will be okay.

Don’t force me to hang out in public or be social.

Right now my brain is interfering with my ability to attach and engage with physical reality.  Forcing me out will only make it worse.  We’ve all learned from society and our parents that when unhappy, distract.  When Vivian is having a tantrum, I distract her.

This is not a tantrum.  This is not a break up, or a sad movie, or wanting attention.  I am locked in my brain and cannot see things the way you want me to see them, or even as they are.

If you force me out, I will make both of us miserable.  I will be incapable of engaging, and it will have the opposite effect you intended. My sense of isolation will be worse, and it may even prompt leaking of the eyes because I will be aware of my lacking in social regards.

Don’t ask if there are meds I can take

There are.  We all know there are a plethora of chemical changing, mind altering drugs.  Both prescription and alternative.

I choose to not take meds.  And for those who are taking meds, they are already on them.  Asking me if there is something I can take for this reinforces I am not normal in your mind.

I get enough reinforcement from society I am different.  I already combat marketing and mainstream expectations.  I consistently feel isolated and alone, more so when I am struggling.  Don’t remind me my choices regarding my body are not the easy answer.

I know this already.

Do listen and process with me

If you are a lucky one in a billion people I open up to when I’m here, please help me process.

Wait, this is chemical right?  What’s to process?

While the mood disorder is chemical, most of us have life experiences that have laid triggers and trauma on top of the chemical imbalance.  Either due to choices I’ve made, or traumas I’ve experienced, the imbalance creates a cyclone of thoughts in my head picking up speed every time they pass by.

It’s never one single thought, either.  Usually two or three minimum.  It could be a memory of bloody fights, or feelings of inadequacies, or even a generalized fear of being vulnerable and letting people close.

By listening and responding, helping me to see a different reality of the thoughts pile driving my brain, the ruminations can stop.  It helps, believe me.

If you are not going to listen, or if you are going to trivialize my experience, my feelings, or my thoughts, don’t bother.  You will no longer be one in a billion.

Give me a hug

First, disclaimer.  I do not like most people touching me.  Wait for me to initiate.  Unless you are one in a billion, you are not to touch me unsolicited.

If you are one in a billion, and you can see where I am mentally, please reach out and give a hug.  That small reminder there is a physical reality, containing someone who cares, can give me a moment to sit rather than fight.

And sometimes sitting in the quagmire of my mind and not fighting to be normal is all I need to start pulling myself out.  Embracing myself stops the anguish.  You embracing me reminds me I am worth embracing.

Be patient

At the end of the day, this is a reoccurring cycle regardless what is happening in my life.  I have chosen to not medicate, opting for more cognitive options, but that does not lessen my need for patience.

This will pass.  I will relish in awe of the small details of life, raising my face to the sun as breezes kiss my cheeks at some point.  In fact, I will be more appreciative of the beauty around me, for once again I have run my hero’s course through Hades and have emerged.

Here’s the kicker 

Most people won’t know I’m struggling.  It’s likely you will look at me and think I’m maybe a bit more tired than usual, or haven’t had my coffee yet.

So my last suggestion, in general:  don’t judge what someone else might be going through at any given minute.  Unless you are one in a billion, you don’t know me.

Music is an ever constant backdrop to my life.

Not  a soundtrack that plays in the background or crescendos at pivotal emotional moments, but an elemental presence to my reality.

Like that urban legend of starting Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon when the lion roars beginning Wizard of Oz, the album fits the action on the screen.  Personally, never got it to work but that’s neither here nor there. The point is there are times when music just seems to fit the scene.

Sometimes I randomly burst into a song lyric, to the bemusement of those who know me and the confusion of those who don’t.

Listen.

The words are almost always fitting and make sense.  If you give them enough credence.

The music itself is what holds the feeling and action of the moment, but it’s the words that communicate.  Thus the words are verbalized.

I once tried to see reality beyond words and language.  Did you know if you repeat a word over and over it stops making sense?  The word loses all significance, to anything.

I was taking a Master’s level linguistic class, an accident of a shared campus with three schools and not paying attention to the number sequence.  The professor let me stay, informing me I would only get under graduate credit despite paying graduate tuition.

The class opened up a whole new world of theory and philosophy to me, and my mind was highly permeable and susceptible to influences.

I was coming off a year of Timothy Leary style experiments.

The process and my descent are not important, the result is where the point is.

Words and language make a tapestry of communal reality, based on cultural norms and shared understanding of what words represent .  I tore the fabric of that tapestry.  My sense of things started shredding, as if I pulled a single thread and everything started unraveling.

And beyond the tapestry?

Loneliness.

Loss of my kindred sense of humanity.

I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger it on it now
Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd

I sit and watch my baby girl have moments in her head, but in her head they stay until she is provided a word that links her thought to my reality.  Mostly she parrots what we say, not quite understanding the meaning but getting the emotion and impact to a tee.

Also acts like a mirror showing me what I tend to say frequently and how it makes her feel.

One of the debates I was introduced to in the graduate course:  words or thought, which comes first?  Think chicken and egg debate about language.

Through my rabbit hole dive I’ve decided language does not come before thought, supported as I watch her twitch and struggle to communicate. Language does give a us a sense of structure; language is a way to connect, compartmentalize, and build how we want to interact with reality.

Ultimately, language allows us to share a reality outside our own minds.

Without words, each person is adrift in a sea of emotions and senses with no physical attachment.

Not that we understand each other all that well.  Even the simple things get confused.  I say rose, and you might see a traditional long stem rose in red.

I mean the two-tone orange rose with touches of peach sitting outside my front door greeting me and the sun every morning.


So what happens when language evolves, and some stay with the past and others move forward?

Don’t let the sounds of your own wheels
drive you crazy.
Lighten up while you still can
Don’t even try to understand.
Take it easy – Eagles