still looking. haven't found it yet.

christopher robin believed in his crew. his neurotic, depressed, hyperactive, pessimistic, bumbling crew. unfailingly.

i have the knock off version of this quote in my room, of course on an adorable decorative wooden box on a side table next to a salt lamp and another decorative wooden box with another particularly cliche quote. it's a very stereotypical mid-30's single white girl bedroom. bitches love their salt lamps. *correction: bitches love their pink himalayan ionized positive energy infusing salt lamps*

the knock off version of the quote changes it the required trademark 10% to read: i'm stronger than i seem, braver than i believe, smarter than i think.

as different as night and later that same night.

i bought it on a whim a few years ago hoping that maybe seeing the words every day i could convince myself of their message.

same theory with the tattoo on my collarbone that says: love yourself (literally IN MY SKIN but i still haven't been able to achieve that one quite yet either).

now most days i feel vagueishly smart. especially when creating my own words like vagueishly. IT IS TOO A WORD SPELLCHECK. i just used it in a sentence twice. fuck off.

but most days i do feel a little smart. sometimes i even see my bachelors degree in it's frame (of course placed right behind the decorative quote box) and *almost* convince myself that it's a real degree. that i actually had to EARN it. i mean- it's a literature degree. not like, you know, a rocket surgery degree or anything. i just had to read a bunch of books and write a bunch of papers. i've been doing that my whole life. but, i guess, since the college gave it to me, maybe i actually earned it.

yes, you read that right. there is a not-insignificant portion of time i'm convinced that a college just, like, gave me a degree because i paid all my tuition, didn't have to repeat any classes, and finished all 4 years.

but at least most days, degree smart or not, i at least feel some version of smart.

bravery- that one is a bit of a joke. i'm not brave. i mean, my dad and my brother are brave. 4 generations of cops in my family tree. they literally run at danger, all the time. they're brave. i have friends that travel all across the country, all the time, even as crazy as the world is right now. friends that have literally flown into war zones. i know people that fight illness, massive life devastation, they take on impossible tasks and jobs with no idea what the outcome may be. i know EMT's and firefighters that every. single. shift. is a test of their mettle. 

what do i do? paperwork. read books. make sure the teenager has food and long sleeved shirts. no wait...hoodies.  no wait, flannel long sleeve shirts with a hoodie. NO WAIT... (can you guess what the conversation at our house has been this week?)

i've maybe had moments of bravery. leaving my marriage was scary, but i did that. and i've sat in the ER with the kid without losing my shit. i guess that was...maybe not brave, but at least not a hot mess?

i'm sure there's another example. 

and strength. ha. strength. i really like to pretend i'm strong but my family always treated me with kidd gloves.

in the 90's my dad wrecked his patrol car. he hit a patch of black ice and it threw his car off the road. the glove box was found 50 yards from the car. he had a broken collarbone, a few broken ribs, a punctured lung. i wasn't told about it until after he was out of the hospital.

same thing with my brother- he wrecked his bike, had to have a craniotomy and be placed in a medically induced coma for two weeks. i found out after he was out of the coma and moved to ICU.

when my dad died they waited several hours then called my mom and had her come tell me in person.

they all insisted that i wouldn't have been able to handle the news any other way. they "didn't know how i would react," so they tried to keep it from me as long as they could. i've never really thought of myself as a delicate flower, but you know, they must know something i don't. maybe they remember something from my childhood. maybe i reacted to things badly then. i've blacked out a significant portion of everything before 17, so i really don't know. maybe they're assholes, maybe they know something i don't.

the point of all this endless self depreciation?

i'm like- i don't even know the words. i'm at this place. it's not the swamp of sadness. it's not even the pit of despair. it's like...the chilean mine shaft of failure.

i've been applying for jobs here and there, been on a few interviews, looking without LOOKING. i'm putting off an intense job search, but at the same time, the ones i have applied for haven't worked out, so, is *actually* looking going to go any better?

i have so little bravery, so little strength, so little faith in myself that i talk myself out of jobs before i even hit the apply button.

school tutor? i can't fucking do that. yeah, i have a college degree, but that's not what i WENT to college for. i mean, they probably want people that took education classes, not just english classes.

barista? i mean, yeah, i learned to make coffee and i love it. but i couldn't actually like WORK at a shop with rush hours and cranky customers. and i mean, i never really fully learned how to take down a machine. i'm sure there's MUCH more qualified people out there.

a part time office assistant? i can't do that. i'm sure their office isn't at all like all the others i've worked in. it's probably like, way busier and harder than any of the places. i'll fall behind and make a mess of things and not be able to figure out their systems.

THAT'S RIGHT. I CAN TALK MYSELF OUT OF A JOB I'VE BEEN DOING FOR 20 YEARS.

i have friends that believe in me and encourage me ALL THE TIME. i wish like fuck i could catch a sliver of a glimpse of what they see.

and i'm scared ALL. THE. TIME. lately.

i would love to start my own business but before i can even get the full concept of the business written down i've already started a list of 101 ways it will fail.

i would love to push myself to actually publish but i already have myself convinced that it's a waste of everyone's time to put together a book no one will read.

i just. i don't love myself like my shoulder says. i'm not stronger than i seem. i'm not braver than i believe. i'm not smarter than i think.

i want to be. i wish i could find that path for myself. i'm still looking. but i haven't found it yet.

i want to learn how to be my own christopher robin.

PLEASE ASK FOR HELP

Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-8255

@800273TALK

who ever said "time heals all wounds" is a fucking asshole and a dirty liar.

eight years ago today my little brother made the heartbreaking decision to end his own life.

that wound is still very real.

sure, i don't flat out break down and cry and need days to recover whenever i think about it now, but i still think about it. ALL. THE. TIME.

birthdays. holidays. seahawks games. whenever someone orders a miller high life. whenever veteran suicide is in the news. whenever i think about family. whenever i think about tattoos.

how he would be 35 now. 

can i imagine him as a 35 year old? i still can't imagine myself as a 35 year old and i'm 37 now.

if you die the second time when the last person says your name, steve still has a few years left to stick around.

i've never been mad at steve. unfortunately i understand suicide. i've been in that dark corner. i've fought that demon. i've stared into the abyss and, somehow, always found a reason not to jump off the ledge. i'm heartbroken steve didn't find that reason the last time, but i can't be mad at him.

steve suffered a massive TBI just a few months before. he literally had half his skull opened to relieve pressure on his brain after an accident. this 27 year old kid went from being super physically fit, extremely independent, creative, vivacious, to having to relearn everything, medical bankruptcy, being dependent on others and losing his life as he had it set up.

the TBI also brought to the front some PTSD from being in the first wave of OIF/OEF that has cost thousands of soldiers their lives after returning home. i won't get political. i will just say we NEED to take better care of our soldiers. (please check out the IAVA to see how you can help prevent veteran suicides and support OIF/OEF soldiers).

the hardest part for me is that for the last 8 years i've wondered if i could have helped steve.

we weren't close. we weren't ross and monica by any stretch of the imagination.

i didn't get to grow up with steve. he lived with my dad and his mom. we spent spring break and 2 weeks during the summer together. i think i learned more about him while cleaning out his apartment after his death than the whole sum of our childhood.

i knew basic things growing up- he was the bratty little brother trying to keep up with the older brothers at any cost. he was the daredevil willing to do the dangerous stuff. he was vibrant and creative. when they moved into the new house, steve painted his room in BRIGHT primary colors- red on one wall, yellow on another, blue on a third. he had a massive bright red chair. he was always drawing, his pencil portraits were breathtaking. he was great at sports and almost as good at tattling as i was. 

cleaning out his apartment i got to see how organized he was, everything in it's place. his art work was all over the place- drawings, wire art sculptures, off beat decorations (chicken feet slippers on the feet of a bookshelf still makes me laugh). talking to his coworkers and friends after the funeral i learned how dedicated he was to people and how dedicated they were to him. pictures showed a kid that liked to have a good time with friends- outrageous costumes, adventures, just hanging out on the beach.

the only time steve ever called me was on my birthday, just a few weeks before his (both september babies), only a month before he died. he called to place an order for tacos, no sour cream, extra tomatoes, delivered right away please. i told him the delivery fee would be really high and the tacos would probably be cold by the time i got them to him. he was ok with that.

it should have triggered me. as cool as it was for him to call me, it should have made my ears perk up. it was so out of the blue and so unexpected, i should have been more aware. i have a hundred excuses- it was my birthday, i was getting ready to go out with friends, i didn't know how hard his recovery was going, i didn't know...

if i had know. if i had taken the time to connect with him more as kids. if i had...

if i had been able to tell him i get it. i get dad/brother pressuring you to grow up and pick a career. i get feeling alone when you're surrounded by people. i get having everything in your life not turn out how you planned. i should have offered to let him come stay with us while he recovered. i should have told everyone to fuck off when they told me it wasn't necessary to drive to seattle and see him while he was in the hospital. i should have...i should have been a safe place for him. i should have tried harder to let him know he wasn't the only one. i should have found a way to let him know he had more options than he saw. 

so yeah. wound: not healed.

all i can ask, all i can beg of people now is PLEASE ASK FOR HELP. ask in bold words. some of us aren't smart enough to catch onto nuanced taco orders.

PLEASE ASK FOR HELP.

being stuck on this side with the should haves, the what if's, the regrets, it's selfish to say, but IT SUCKS. please don't do that to someone.

and YES, there will ALWAYS be a someone with those regrets.

PLEASE ASK FOR HELP. if you can't talk to friends or family, please call the suicide hotline, hit them on twitter, go to their website.

PLEASE. ASK. FOR. HELP.

call me. hit me up. ANY TIME.

i'll bring tacos, no sour cream, extra tomatoes. we can have a miller high life and talk. any. time.

ps: steve, you would have love/hated the seahawks game yesterday. they ended up winning, but there was plenty to yell at the tv about before the final whistle. love you kid and miss you every day.

born into it

as a kid, my love of books started early. reading them, writing them, "publishing" them.

my grandmother used to buy those early-start books for me- you know the ones where you trace the letters, learn sight words, simple math. i LOVED those things. and it showed. by the time i started kindergarten i was at a second grade level. i made it through a week of kindergarten classes before they moved me into first grade (the school wanted second, but as a september baby i would have been WAY younger than the other kids).

i've known i am a writer forever. journals, terrible plays, short stories. i've never DONE anything with it, but i've known it's a part of me since back in the day.

the other thing i was born into? natural defeatism and procrastination.

as easy as writing came to me, so has putting off writing. also the ease with which i convince myself that everything i DO write is total crap.

isn't it nice to be blessed with SO MANY natural gifts?

hashtag: blessed.

hashtag: sarcasm


BUT. the last few months i've been working on shifting a LOT of things. self perception, goals, resuscitating some long lost dreams.

one of those dreams has always been DOING something with writing.

and so, with the encouragement of a very good friend, i signed up for some writing classes this last weekend.

AND I WENT.

not sure which is the bigger miracle.

the first class i signed up for was: micro fiction (flash writing): 1000 words or less.

i know it may not seems like it, but this is something that has piqued my interest for a while. bj novak wrote a book of short stories that ranged from 2 words to a few hundred words. it captivated me and took a huge chunk of the fear out of writing for me. you don't need to be a stephen king or a jk rowling to be a successful writer.

i am NOT going to write the next great american novel. in the traditional sense at least.

but micro fiction...that's something i can sink my teeth into.

one vein of micro writing is the 6-word story.

hemmingway is attributed with writing "for sale: baby shoes, never worn" to win a contest for the shortest story possible.

in the class the presenter gave us 5 minutes to write a 6-word story.

so i started:

hot coffee. all over. terrible idea.

starbucks coffee: never purchased, only rented.

i saw red. you honked anyway.

i'm terrible at six word writing prompts.

the room went silent. except jim.

writing prompts before coffee. pure torture.

alone with my thoughts = just alone.

"beautiful sunrise." said the blind man.

"can you hear the music?"flatline.

several coffee stories. can you tell it was early in the morning on a sautrday? WHO SIGNED UP FOR THAT SHIT? oh, i did.
 
i cranked out a list in 5 minutes. then i realized several people around me were struggling to come up with one. well huh. that came a little more naturally than i expected.

and so a flame was lit.

i now have several projects spilling out of my writing journal. every time i sit still for a second my brain just starts dumping 6 word sentences all over the place. now to wrangle them and actually COMPLETE one of them. 

goal: see it to the finish.

distraction

it's been a few days since i've written anything again.

i've been WRITING. like, with a pen. i've been leaving myself stoner notes in my phone- there's some really great stoner theories i'm working on about the battle for success for women, the evolutionary advantages of the alpha male in the current business world, chicken scratch on religion, music, dreams, friendship, reincarnation- you know, the usual stoner thoughts.

but i haven't gone anywhere with them or done anything with them.

i've been distracted. the standard go to excuse for being good old fashioned lazy.

i've been distracted waiting to hear about a job interview (a week with no response is a pretty sure sign i didn't get it). i've been distracted watching friday night lights before it was removed from netflix (then i bought the dvd's so that's not a worry anymore). 

i've been distracted by thinking about how distracted i am.

all in all, i've been lazy. i'm drifting again. just when i think i get my bearings or a plan in place, something happens.

i get a solid weekly schedule laid out, meals planned, events lined out then the teenager gets sick and doesn't want to eat for a few days or he falls asleep as soon as we get home in the afternoon and it throws the schedule off. and, of course, as soon as there's one bump you may as well throw the whole plan away. it's the way of the distracted.

i used to have gumption. it still shows up on a rare occasion.

i used to spend 6 hours in the emergency room with a screaming toddler with an ear infection, scramble to find a babysitter and still make it to my college classes at 8am the next morning (and always on finals week. kid had amazing timing).

that went away somewhere.

sure there's still nights of staying out way too late and getting my ass to work ready and on time in the morning.

well, there were back when i still had a job to get to anyway. but not so much the last few months. i still manage to get the kid to school and picked up on time. so. that's something. but there's not much in the in-between.

jumping tracks- i think the single greatest benefit to waiting to have kids is the development of conflict resolution skills well before the teenage years. if you wait until you're, you know, not in high school to have kids you may have learned some skills out in the wilds of life. like how to deal with a messy roommate. how to live with someone that drives you insane without letting it ruin your day. how to not let arguments completely detail you. you may have a chance to learn about yourself and what triggers you have, how you react to things, how to personally deal with things. learning those in the middle of an argument is difficult at best.

the teenager went all out in an argument the other night. pulled up every, single, nasty thing he could think of and threw it at me. even threatened to get physical with me. and then doubled down the next day refusing to apologize because he's not going to apologize when he doesn't mean it.

i know why some animals eat their young. 

it's still bothering me, 2 days later. it bothers me that he can be so mean and callous and know EXACTLY what darts to throw and has PERFECT aim every. single. time. it bothers me that i let it bother me. it bothers me that he attacks weak spots that i regularly attack myself. TRUST ME, there's not a moment in the last 4 years that i haven't questioned my decision to have my oldest son move out. for the longest time i felt like i was giving up and what kind of a parent gives up when it's difficult. then i slowly realized i didn't give up, i asked for help, from his other parent. ISN'T THAT WHY THERE'S TWO PARENTS? to help each other? what weakness is there in asking for help from the other person whose job it is to help?

but, the teenager still likes to throw this at me. being a bad mom. giving up. sending his brother away. HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FINE YOU KNOW. getting beat up and locking himself in his room out of sheer terror WAS GOOD FOR HIM. IT TOUGHENED HIM UP. you know, years later, with plenty of distance and counseling and support. BUT IT TOUGHENED HIM UP. if i roll my eyes any harder they'll get stuck in the back of my head.

I KNOW I MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE. i asked for help to protect BOTH my kids. it wasn't healthy or safe for ANY of us. if they choose to see it differently, i can't change that.

the younger one also likes to rip on me for cutting off my mom. HOW CAN YOU JUST GIVE UP ON PEOPLE? *sigh* it's not giving up. it's making a choice to love myself. it's choosing to protect myself and my family from abuse and injury. it's choosing not to expose my children to known monsters and damage.

i don't know where this train was headed. the tracks just wandered out into the desert and ran out.

I DO HAVE GOALS. i did finally turn in an application at a business i REALLY want to work for. i signed up for 2 writers workshops next weekend. i'm trying to convince myself to sign up for nanowrimo. well, maybe not the *actual* nanowrimo, but like an inktober for writing. an accountable challenge to write something every day.

you know, something small and manageable...like...you know...200 words a day...

because, you know...

*headdesk*