FEAR No. 058 – Peace In Anonymity
March 15, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
This weekend has been draining. I’m dealing with some things and, without getting into too much detail, I will say this: It’s hard. I’m OK now. And God bless my husband. I’m not even joking about that last part. I wish I could say more, but just typing anything related to it makes me cry, so…
There’s that. Until further notice, anyway.
Onto (semi) lighter things:
Things in my mind hit me in waves. I wish I was one of those people who had singular thoughts, and could process them one-by-one, like an assembly line or checklist. And I can sometimes. But the times between assembly line and tsunami are very few.
Case in point – I’m working on a new concept for this blog. Big. Shocker. I am a scatterbrain, yes. But one day recently, I sat and looked at my blog. Then I started reading old posts. Then, because it is the universe’s way, I realized half my posts are missing pictures because of edits I’ve made on Flickr (DON’T LOOK!). Then I go to check my stats: who’s reading; from where; what posts are popular; where did I dip in readership; what topics are reeling people in; what key words are being used to search me…
And, while we’re on that subject, I just want to give a special editor’s note to those using the words booty, big booty girls, and big booties… I’m sorry. I swear that, in most instances, I was talking about Kim Kardashian. Or treasure.
Honest.
Also, when I mentioned this little fact to BFam, his response was, “Have you ever posted pictures of yourself? You only do shots from the waist up, right?”
Nice, honey. Like the taste of couch much?
…So then I started getting analytical as this is my nature (read: psy-choooo). And I start wondering, well, hey! How come I don’t have a lot of readers? What am I doing wrong? There are obviously lots of unhappy, depressed, suicidal people out there. Why aren’t I reaching them? Is it because I called them unhappy? Or depressed? Or suicidal? Why, Santy Claus? Why?
When I start visiting my special place of crazy neuroses, I tend to distract myself. Since I was already sitting at a computer, I took this as an opportune time to catch up on my blog feeds. This is the time I stumbled on this post.
Now, before you ask, no. I am not a single mama. I don’t even remember how I found the site. But I liked the style of writing, liked the content, and liked that she was sort of a local (from the town of my alma mater, anyway). See how I make sense?
And it got me to thinking because, with all my crazy, you have no idea how close to the ledge I was before that post. The ledge of changing my style. Changing my voice. Using my real name and those of my children (BFam threatens to divorce me if I ever use his, and I like him too much to let that happen; use of his likeness is as much of a rope as he’ll lend me). Because, when you start out into the world of blogging, you’re originally doing it as an act of catharsis. Then you get a flow. Then you get readers. Then, ultimately, you think you’re Dooce. Because what person out there doesn’t want to quit their day job, stay at home, and receive national and monetary recognition all while spewing details of their daily life?
Don’t lie to me.
But, like most blogs that catch a fire, that situation is special. For whatever reason, the cosmos aligned and brought us the Dooces (Dice?) and Pioneer Women of the world. They didn’t ask for it. And, I don’t care what book or how-to site you read, it’s not for everyone. Not only are the set of circumstances surrounding the popularity of these sites special (read: happenstance), it takes an equally special type of person to deal with the popularity because, let’s face it. Not everyone is going to love you. And if you deal with the love, you’ve got to deal with the haters. Like Lady GaGa says: Once you kill a cow, you gotta make a burger.
Yeah, I have no idea what that means either. But it sounded cool. I think.
In my short time (and even shorter list of readers), I’ve had a few negative comments. Only one had me so incensed, I was not only ready to shut the site down, I was ready to trace the URL of the commenter, hunt them down, and do some serious damage. And that was one person. ONE. I have screws loose, and I’m not medicated. That can’t be a good combination. At least Dooce made fun of her situation with a Monetize The Hate site (she has since taken it down so as not to give too much power to the haters), and I don’t think an ill word has even been said of P-Dub at Pioneer Woman because, let’s be honest. The woman lives on a ranch with her cute kids and her cute dogs and her cute husband in his cute chaps. Leave her be!
Of course, it begs the question: Why the hate? In the time it took you to read what I wrote, only to form an opinion you felt (anonymously) worthy of leaving in the comments (anonymously), spewing your (anonymous) venom about how you (anonymously) hate someone you’ve not only never met, but who probably wouldn’t remember you or your (anonymous) cyber bullying should you (anonymously) choose to come out from behind your curtain.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not well known or well read because I’m… well, an idiot. And the only crazy I do well with is me.
Oh, and one more thing… ANONYMOUS.
FEAR No. 057 – Crevasses
March 9, 2010 by NaysWay · 5 Comments
Jack: It’s 1994. I went ice climbing, and I fell into a crevasse. I hurt my leg, and I couldn’t climb back up. So, fighting every natural instinct, doing the thing that seemed most awful to me, I climbed down into the darkness. And that’s how I got out. And when I got back to base camp, I went and found my fellow climber, the one who had cut me loose after I fell. And I said, “Connie Chung, you did the right thing.”
–Jack Donoghy, 30 Rock (Into The Crevasse, S04E02)
One of my favorite SpongeBob episodes is called Rock Bottom. (If you are not familiar with the excellence that is SpongeBob SquarePants, feel free to skip past this paragraph. Oh, and also? SHAME ON YOU! That is all.) In the episode, SpongeBob and his good friend, Patrick, take a bus trip home after a rousing excursion to the local amusement park, Glove World. Excited from their day, SpongeBob and Patrick are so caught up in talking about the rides and recounting their prizes, they totally miss the stop that would drop them home in Bikini Bottom. This gaffe pushes them outside city limits down a torturous, 90-degree angled cliff (for you Ohioans, think Demon Drop at Cedar Point), into a strange, foreign, and scary town called Rock Bottom. The only way in and out of the town is by bus – a tricky bus wickedly bent on leaving our dear, yellow sponge trapped. He is ultimately rescued and returned home, but not before experiencing some of his coldest and loneliest times in what seemed a desolate wasteland.
(And that, my friends, is how you dramatize SpongeBob. I’m available for kids parties.)
Some of my scariest FEAR moments have happened in dark, desolate wastelands (also known as “new experiences”). When I feel trapped in the FEAR, it’s because I’ve put myself there. More than I care to admit, I’ve wanted nothing more than to get out of the situation and, like anything trapped, I struggle. Twisting, turning, scrapping the air for higher ground. In the end, I’m only fighting myself. Never does it dawn on me that I may need to dig deeper in order to pull myself out.
Lately, I’ve been in a wasteland – a crevasse I’m in and can’t seem to figure my way out. I know the answer is to dig deeper. The shovel sits at my feet, but I don’t want to. With most emotionally sensitive people, sometimes the hollow cocoon of woe and dread is far more comforting than freedom. Of course, as I’d suspected when I realized I had a twin on my hands, Mooter is in her own crevasse. It’s times like these I really don’t envy BFam. It was more than enough having an emotionally unstable wife, but to have a daughter expressing the same traits makes you not want to come home for dinner sometimes. He doesn’t have to tell me. I know.
Yet when we are in our respective caves, figuring our respective ways out – should we choose that route – we tend to cling more to each other. To give you perspective, she and I have been extra clingy lately. To wit, the dog is officially over us both. (He is our mascot of love in most dire circumstances. We like to pet him and hug him and love him when we’re sad.) I keep trying to tell myself she’s too young to carry around such emotional burdens, but that would be like talking to a reflection so, instead, I just try to let her know I’m there and help her talk through it. And if I take my crapiness out on her, I make sure to sit her down and apologize.
So. The crevasse. How to dig yourself out. I feel I should be inclined to know but, then again, I’m not ready to dig just yet.
[Cover Image: Explorer Tree on Flickr by Josh Sommers]
FEAR No. 056 – Shadows & Forewarnings
March 1, 2010 by NaysWay · 3 Comments
When word broke that Andrew Koenig – known to most of the world as “Boner” from the television show Growing Pains – took his own life after weeks of being reported missing by family and friends, it took me a long while of sitting and thinking before I could talk about it. Like everyone else, it’s troubling me. I’m sure, if you’ve read enough of my drivel here, you can imagine why.
Most want to know how this happened. How could he have been depressed for so long and no one know, or have done anything about it. How was he so far gone and totally unreachable that no one could save him. Was there an event that triggered it.
And then, Marie Osmond’s 18-year-old son.
The words escape me again because… 18.
Looking at the two cases – one aged 41; the other much, much too young – you begin to wonder what’s in the Hollywood Kool-Aid. But you can’t. Because it’s not the Kool-Aid. In both instances, this man and man-child dealt with one key factor and it wasn’t Hollywood. Depression is real. There’s ad campaigns, and therapy, and rich pharmaceutical companies harboring on this as truth.
I’ve touched on depression and suicide before by rehashing my own experiences with both. I was lucky. I lived to tell the tale after two attempts. I wasn’t looking for attention. I wasn’t looking for solutions. I was looking for an end. No matter how I achieved it, ending the pain and weird thoughts and insomnia and panic attacks was the ultimate goal.
For the families of both victims, my heart goes out to those left wondering what more they could have done. How, maybe, their loved one would still be around had they reached out a little harder. I don’t want to say those suffering with depression can’t be helped, and I can’t relieve the guilt by telling those left behind that depression and suicidal thoughts are worse than shoving cotton wads in someone’s ears and eyes; that, despite your best efforts, sometimes nothing you do is enough. Because you want to hope beyond everything that you saw this coming. That there were forewarnings. That you weren’t oblivious. And, to all those things, I say… Sometimes you can’t. Sometimes there aren’t. And you weren’t.
Out of my experience, whenever I can get BFam to talk about it with me (which isn’t often), he says it’s the one thing he blames on himself – not seeing it. He could have stopped it. He should have stopped it. He would have stopped it. And, even if he could have, I was so far gone, I would have found another opportunity. That’s how it works. You get pulled from the ledge. Loved ones offer comforting words. Therapists offer billable hours and scripts. And there you are. Nodding your head. Agreeing with it all.
Numb.
I wish this was a FEAR of encouragement. But, like I said, I’ve been sitting with this for days trying to find an upside. Trying to articulate a positive. How to understand the turning point that brought me out of darkness long enough to survive. And I know what that point was for me, but everyone’s turning point is different. I don’t want families of those suffering with depression to think I’m telling you to give up. Never give up. But, if you can help it, know that if it fails… you didn’t.
FEAR No. 055 – Dreams To Remember
February 22, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
I’ve got dreams
Dreams to remember–Otis Redding, I’ve Got Dreams to Remember (1968)
When I was a kid, I was surrounded by an abode of women. Residing in a two and a half family house, there were three generations of us. That many women would (and did) drive sane men crazy. What’s worse, every woman carried some degree of Pack Ratisitis. It’s a very common disease. Among the elderly.
Luckily, Pack Ratisitis unearthed some pretty sweet booty. One of those treasures was an old year-by-year memory book of grade school years. By the smell of it, I figured it was more than twenty years old. (I have a knack for knowing years by must. My nose is awesome. Don’t question my nostrils.) I couldn’t believe my luck. I not only had just the kind of family that collected everything under the sun, I had the kind of family that collected every school picture I’d ever taken since birth. Add the one, carry the two, and I had just enough photos to cover grades one through four.
Each page dedicated to a grade was marked with a placeholder for a wallet sized photo of your mug, followed by a small questionnaire. What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite pet? What do you want to be when you grow up? Year after year, I’d answer the same way: blue, dogs, veterinarian. I can’t remember the year, but at some point, I stopped documenting my photos. Stopped answering the questions. By the time I’d had a few years of high school under my belt, I revisited the memory book. 
My last known grade of documentation still had me loving blue. Still had me loving dogs. But the last question, the how-do-you-want-to-spend-your-adult-life question. It was blank. Peculiar. It troubled me. Had I stopped wanting to be something? Did I want to be a bum the rest of my life? I did, didn’t I? Oh, dear God, I want to be a bum. How ever will I find a blue box big enough to live in with all my dogs?!
At some point, it dawned on me when I’d come to an impasse. I took stock of the classes I was taking. What subjects were giving me the most trouble? Math and science. What subjects were the most necessary to be a veterinarian? Math and science. Nerds. My dream, deflated by Algebra and Biology 101.
I’m not sure how many of my dreams may have lost their traction because of a roadblock, but they did. Then the roadblock, fueled by enough cant’s and wont’s to create a bonfire of fear, sat in a memory book somewhere and collected must. It almost makes you wonder why children want so badly to become adults. To embody the innocence of dreaming and believing you can be anything you want to be, only to allow small holes of doubt and failure to burst your bubble, is disheartening. It’s downright frustrating. Yet everyday, in spite of what I’ve set aside in a jar to gather dust, there are those who have persevered in spite of this very letdown. I mean, we have a black president, for goodness sakes. You don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?
Who’s to say that ship has sailed? Who’s to say I still don’t have what it takes to live out a dream or two? I may not be a veterinarian (I still loathe math and science, after all), but was that my only dream? I want to have the courage to go into that memory book, grab that little girl in those pictures and say, “It’s alright. I still remember your dreams, and I still believe in you.”
I hope she’s still there.
FEAR No. 054 – The Cool Kids
February 11, 2010 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
Like most of the East Coast and Midwest, Cleveland was hit with a blizzard. Of course, most would laugh where most equals Forbes Magazine because I swear that publication has it out for us, and don’t you Cleveland-guys generally suck at, you know, EVERYTHING?
Stupid Forbes Magazine. Read more
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