Look out, he might be a dbag!

Being in Michigan, especially around the holidays, often inspires me to tap into my inner redneck in one way or another. Today I took a picture of the giant Uniroyal tire on I-94 just before crossing into the Detroit boundaries, and dozens of friends affirmed this display of redneck awesomeness with thumbs up on Facebook. It made me feel proud. Jeff Foxworthy is a god among men in my neck of the woods, so surely a redneck joke from him is the confederate flag sticker to the bumper - the icing on the cake - to my re-acculturation to the Mitten State once a year.

While it's easy to embrace this Michigander cheekiness, what's harder is taking hold of the warm and fuzzy Christmas spirit in wake of a hard break up with a.... oh, what word to use... a very nice young man? ...who, after telling me he needed to be single, moved onto a new set of legs just as quickly as he first fell in love with me (3 weeks time). Can't say I didn't see that coming. But a girl's gotta cope somehow...

Look, I suppose there were a few, subtle signs that my recent relationship wasn't ideal. It's clearer in hindsight. It is absolutely my failure for not dumping this jerkoff the first time he called me his exwife's name, or called her "baby" in front of me. But hell, I'm young and allowed to make a few mistakes. I'm allowed to be a Bad Santa. I'm allowed to say "Fuck It" on Christmas Eve- I have first amendment rights. I'm allowed to be angry, and I'm allowed to share my frustrations with the world, and I'm allowed to caution my young readers not to make the same blind mistakes I did.

Thus, I present this cheeky little post. Merry Christmas, everyone! And thanks for the inspiration, Mr. Foxworthy!


If he stays married on paper so he can reap health insurance from his exwife, he might be a douche bag.

If he keeps his exwife's ringtone unique from everyone else's (Caribbean Melody) because it reminds him of all the great vacations they took together, he might be a douche bag.

If he has to use his cell phone to remind him when your anniversary is, he might be a douche bag....

If he refuses to delete the reminder of his and his exwife's anniversary from his phone, he might be a douche bag.

If he only introduces you as his "friend" to his family only after you've move in with him, he might be a douche bag.

If he calls you a hypochondriac even though you have a genuine, chronic, painful, bloody health condition, he might be a douche bag.

If he picks a fight with you in front of your friends because you got ketchup on the fries you were sharing, he might be a douche bag.

If he mocks happy relationships on their way to marriage when you're in a cab on the way to a Hawaiian vacation together, he might be a douche bag.

If he says that your once in a life time display of confidence about your hobby makes you sound "cocky," he might be a douche bag.

If he says the only reason he asked you to move in with him is because he felt sorry for you, he might be a douche bag.

If he generally thinks people from your part of the country are uneducated, fat, and have unreasonable faith in Jesus, he might be a douche bag.

If he's a Catholic and thinks any of the previously mentioned, he might be a douche bag.

If he surprises you by taking you to see your favorite band in concert, then makes you pay for the tickets, he might be a douche bag.

If he tells you to hurry up when you're walking up a mountain and having an asthma attack, he might be a douche bag.

If he takes you rock climbing and gets you stuck hanging from a rope for 3 hours, 200 feet in the air, and gets mad at you for being a little shaken, he might be a douche bag.

If you give him hundreds of dollars worth of sports gear for Christmas and his response is "let's not do anything for Valentines Day," he might be a douche bag.

If the first thing he tells you is "you spelled 'your' wrong" in a love letter you wrote him, he might be a douche bag.

If he says your down jacket looks better on him, then tells you to buy a new one in the store for yourself that's $200, he might be a douche bag.

If he tells you that you don't make enough of an effort while you're making him a sandwich, he might be a douche bag.

If a friend has to tell him to comfort you when you've pulled your hip-flexer and are crying in a pile of snow, he might be a douche bag.


If you have another example of douchebagary from your life, don't be shy, add it in the comment section. It's a fun game! And it's a way healthier way to manage anger than slashing tires and drop kicking someone in the throat... :)

Embracing The Dark Times

I have to preface this blog by explaining why I am writing it at all.

I think there are many, many people out there that write because they are burning with creativity and the only way to let out some of the steam is to put their pen to paper or their finger tips to a key board, or now a days, even their voice to a recording device that will literate their words for them.  It's the same thing for dancers, who are compulsively compelled to move and stretch and fly in order to express their emotion; same for singers who are required to, at times, belt it out at the top of their lungs; just to make the point, I will even go as far to say that athletes have this same creative drive as the run or row or throw or flip. People express their inner selves the best way they can through these creative forms... I just don't think that's the real reason I write.

There are others that write, not because of the liberation they feel to expose their creative energy, but simply because they are damn good at it.  It's a much rarer reason to write, I think, since there are thousands upon millions of people who would love to "make it" as a writer, but really they just don't have the extreme and effortless talent.  When I look up at my modest shelf of books written by authors like Eggers, Palahniunk, Foer, Kerouac, Murakami, Sedaris, Robbins, Lamott, Thoreau, London, Whitman, I do not think they got as far as they have with their publications because they have repeatedly bared their souls in the only way they knew how, but because they worked hard, threw away the crap, and made examples of their excellence. They are Writers, real ones, because they are good and because they are masters of perseverance. That's definitely not the reason I write.

It has taken me several years to convince myself it was OK to consider myself a "writer" at all. Sure I've had a few poems and stories published in school newspapers and private printings, hardly the platforms to boast or declare credible value to my efforts. And of course when I'm feeling especially vexed I may open my little red journal or whip out my computer to rant about some personal or ethical dilemma, but trust me, I face a lot more dilemmas in my day to day life than my rants give me credit for. If I only felt on fire once a month or 2 or 3 times a year like this blog would suggest, I'd be a much more comfortable person.

I should clarify that I do write in part because it is creative, it takes effort and wits, it expresses something inside of me, and perhaps I am OK at it, better at it than I am at any other mode of communication or art.

The fact of the matter is, I write because I have depression.

I think I need to pause here because it is not something that most people with depression would like to admit. It is also a disease (be that a treatable one) that is severely minimized and depreciated in our society, even though an estimated 21 million children and adults are affected by the disorder annually.

Now, you may be thinking, like the rest of your collectively unconscious American peers, "This 'disease' (cough, cough) is merely a weakened state of mind which is over diagnosed because antidepressants are trendy and doctors aren't paid to care about causes, but treatments, as they are sell outs to pharmaceutical companies."

Well, I guess I can't argue that point. It's entirely possible. However, my point is that as much as people know, or think they know about depression, it is remarkably stigmatized here in America and all over the world.

Why do I write, I ask myself? Not so much to create, but to cope; not so much because I deserve a platform, but to build a platform for others so that anyone who's ever felt as crappy and lifeless and desperate as I have will understand that depression is not one's fault. Not to mention, typing it out here reaffirms this truth for myself, and I can't hear it enough. Major depression is an illness just as real as cancer. It will not go away without the right support systems in place, whether that involves medicine or family or friends or religion or time.  While I am still seeking an effective support system for myself, and while I am digging myself out of the trenches of this illness now, as I have been for several months, and while I carry a history of depression at different depths that go back in time as long as I can remember (I idolized Eeyore and my imaginary friends committed suicide, if that gives you any insight into my troubling childhood), I feel just as deeply that this topic should be discussed openly and freely, without shame, in order to conjure the support it takes to heal from the beast.

I recently heard a lecture discussing pessimism - a surprising topic, as most of us are trying to be the opposite - and the speaker quoted Nietzsche several times explaining that the proper way to live is to embrace the dark times we all face - the pessimism - embrace the lessons that suffering provides, and cultivate the relationships that are naturally built when one confesses their private selves.  This clever idea really strokes my sulking conscience. Embracing the idea that I should embrace my suffering encourages me to write about my depression as publicly as this blog will allow, not just for myself as a way to vent and cope and seek solace in the few friends who may read this, but for everyone who has ever been touched by the problem of depression, and I think that has to be just about everyone, period. I know most of my own friends and family don't know how to "deal with it," and I know a lot of my friends don't even know I suffer from it, since I, like my 21 million fellow melancholics, am trained to mask my truest emotions as much as possible and minimize sadness by calling it things like "a case of the Mondays" or "I was really burnt out from work so I just slept all weekend" or by only posting *happy things* on Facebook, even if they are completely insincere, because nobody wants to be cyber-friends with a Debby-downer. My hope is that my rambling thoughts to make these ugly truths more visible (even though I run the enormous risk of vulnerability and appearing as though the only way I can be emotionally intimate with anyone is by disclosing e v e r y t h i n g  to  e v e r y o n e) will give people a better understanding of what depression is, why it is, and how to kick start the healing process with the people they love.

What it is:

 (A journal entry from an unknown time)

It took me an hour to get out of my apartment today just to get a cup of coffee and write a little bit. It didn't take me an hour because I had to shower and eat a nutritious breakfast and have a pre-cafe coffee before hand... I was already dressed, my chores were done, all I had to do was put a few things in my bag and walk out the door. What slowed me was the dark pull that urged me to just stay where I was, close to my bed, and think about writing as I actually watched a marathon of Scrubs on Netflix. "Why leave? I have coffee here. I have internet and a computer and Netflix instant streaming and pen and paper, all the options are readily available."  I looked at my bed and at my writing chair, both flaunting my own, sad, Homer Simpson ass-impressions, which perversely attracted me. "I must get out."

I started to pull myself together and I looked in the mirror. I looked away, went toward my bag and stuffed my computer into it, then I went back to the mirror.

"God I'm ugly. I look sad. My fucking left eyebrow is so unruly.  I'm hideous. I'm definitely gaining weight. Who am I? I hardly recognize me."

I was trying to look further into my eyes for some deeper sense of recognition, but I couldn't. "I look empty. I am nothing. I hate myself. I hate looking at this. How can this be me? Why would anyone want to look at me? This is disgusting."

I went back to my bag. And back to the mirror. This is a masochistic game I can't stop playing. The dark pull is always trying to get me back into bed. The microbial hopefulness left in me is always quieting nagging and trying to get me out of the cloudy dungeon I've created for myself, but to little avail. It smells stale, like something is slowly dying. Even with candles and air fresheners thoughtfully placed throughout my abode, all I sense is decomposition. Even when all the shades are drawn on my window dominated walls and it's sunny outside, it seems gray and foggy where I am.  I feel like you could punch or stab me, and I would have no sensation of it. I think, "Can I get someone to try that on me?" Wadded up tissues surround me. I can't remember eating in over a day but I'm not hungry, though I could use a beer.  My legs and arms feel like I'm heaving logs to and fro when I try to cross the room.  There is a pile of clothes on my bed and on the floor, I sleep on it often because I'm so apathetic I can't bother to push one pile onto the other, and I just keep pulling my sweatpants of out the mass for everyday wear.  There is a pile of dishes in the sink. There is a pile of DVDs scattered across the carpet.  There is a pile of me staring at myself in the mirror again, trying to ignore the other piles and collect myself decently enough to go into public, where I can get a few shots of Vitamin D and fresh air and pretend to be a normal person.  The effort it is taking is all just so I can say I left my apartment this weekend... just so when a coworker asks me what I did this weekend, I can say "I went out for coffee" because at least that's something.

"That fucking left eyebrow - why is it so asymmetric from the right one? Fuck!"

Why it is:

The reasons people have depression varies greatly from one person to the next. Of course I could generalize some of the causes, or you can go look them up on webMD. But since I've written this much already, I figure I might as well keep going and confess why depression is for me - not to throw a pity party for myself, but to validate that it's real, to embrace my suffering, and to illustrate that it is in fact a disease beyond the control of my frontal lobe. And the reasons are:

1. There is no reason at all. I know it sounds like I'm playing some semantics game with you, but the truth is that for many, if not most major depression sufferers, it seems like they just woke up one day and there were all the previously mentioned symptoms and hopelessness.  Nothing extraordinarily bad happened - a few stressors, but nothing they couldn't manage before. It's like a wire gets loose in the brain and suddenly nothing "clicks" anymore. When I had my first major depression episode my freshman year in college it was a few days after a douche bag who I'd been on a couple dates with dumped me for my best friend. I can still remember what my dorm room looked like when I got the instant message that exposed the truth, what it felt like to kneel down in the middle of the room and scream and bawl while my roommate tried to study, what the other girls in my hall looked like when they came in to muzzle my madness. As if I had never been dumped before! I honestly didn't even like this guy that much. He was a terrible kisser.  And once the rage resided that night, I proceeded with my regular routine for a day or two, until something inside me shut off. I skipped my first classes ever. I slept through track practice, faking the flu.  I couldn't stop crying, even when I mustered up the courage to call the clinic and tell them I wanted to kill myself, I was bawling on the line and continued to do so until I got to the health center and they put antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills in my mouth. This is a long first reason, but depression really threw me off guard. I had been a 4.0 student and a track-star, and for those things to not matter because a sloppy kisser preferred my friend seemed outrageous even to me. But it was what it was. And it is what it is now. People always try to tell me to have perspective... I DO. I know there are good things happening around me, and there are many worse things that I could be dealing with.  I know I am "fortunate" in many ways. But fortunes are impossible to embrace when you feel like the walking dead for no reason.

There are other reasons though.

2.    Genetics. My brother has suffered from depression and generalized anxiety much of his life. My dad, too. When I asked my dad about our family mental health history, he couldn't go too much further than himself, since pre-1940's, even with Freud around, the stigma of mental health was probably at it's strongest, not to mention my dad's parents lived through a national depression, aside from a personal one, so no one dared discuss such things, but he suspects my grandma and grandpa were melancholics, too.

3.    Low-income. This is a reason my depression lingers as well as a reason it exists. I can't afford to take a lot of preventative vacations, get a bi-annual full body massage, or buy organic produce from the farmers market. Money is a huge stressor for me - I haven't been able to pay my hospital bills from 4 months ago; even though I do have insurance, it didn't cover most of the cost of my colonoscopy. Each co-pay I spend is half a day's pay (before taxes).  Each rent check I sign is over half a month's salary, and I live in the cheapest studio I could find that didn't have a toilet in the living room. There is absolute truth to depression rates being higher among low-income groups. C'est moi.

4.    Poor physical health. With anyone who has a chronic or terminal illness, there is a deserving need for profound emotional support, and others are generally game to play the supporting roles. I have no intention to exaggerate the severity of my health problems... I don't have cancer, I'm not going to die from what plagues me today, but I am plagued.  I've had over a year and a half of intense focus on my digestive system. I've lost count of how many doctors' visits I've been to, how many antibiotic pills I've swallowed, how many supplements and aids I've purchased to ease the pain of 18 months of diarrhea, constipation, anal fissures and thrombosed hemorrhoids.  If you bled from your ass nearly everyday, if you had to walk with a limp because of razor sharp pain in your rectum, if you've had bouts so bad you couldn't move an inch from your bed or your bathroom, I think you'd be depressed too.

5.    Circumstance.  This is the main cause for most depressive disorders. It gets called "circumstantial depression" to depersonalize the problem and place blame on the crap luck of life, and that diagnosis seems to bring comfort to people, so I'm ok with it.  Circumstance is just one branch of major depression though.  Or maybe a better analogy is it say that circumstance is the thorny bark of major depression.  My circumstance is that I live far away from my family and friends. I moved to San Francisco without a job and only knew 1 person, who quickly fell out of friendship with me in the first 2 months.  The job I have now is completely isolating - I don't have any coworkers in CA, all my communication is done through email, Skype, and an occasional phone call.  Coworker-friends from previous jobs live spread out across the Bay Area which lends me to see them once every 3 or 4 months if I'm lucky.  I've had really shit luck with roommates, and because of this, I've lived in 6 different places in 5 years. Most recently, I moved to be by myself after breaking up with my live-in boyfriend who said I was a hypochondriac and exaggerating my pain, among other vengeful, gas-lighting accusations (more on that in the near-future post).  Finally, I'll add that the affect of the winter holidays only strengthens my pessimism.  Not only is there less sunlight now to draw good vibes from, but there's the societal pressure to be with loved ones, or particularly, one loved one, at this time of year. It does not surprise me that the elusive single straight male is craigs-listing for a holiday girlfriend. The pressure is on to be happier than ever at this time of year, which makes it especially difficult for anyone who's ever lost a loved one. There's the memories of Thanksgivings and Christmases past that cannot compare to the punctuated loneliness felt without those loved ones. I always get especially blue in late November because three of my four grandparents died on Thanksgiving. Crap luck. Tie these circumstances in with poor health, low income, and genetic predisposition, then it should be easy to see why I'm afflicted so. 

How to help:

I think of my battle with depression as a lot like Frodo Baggins carrying the ring to Mordor. I know it's cliché to reference this trilogy, but none the less, the story fits.  Carrying the powerful ring is a struggle... a long, dark, burdensome journey... and it takes a huge network of allies to help Frodo get through the world so he can be done with the ring for good.  The evilness of the ring is always whispering to him, begging him to give in to it, to let the darkness win. If it weren't for the Fellowship and about a billion other friends that back him up along the way, Frodo would have certainly been lost to Dark Lord Sauron's cause.

Now, it's hard to speak on what the right magical ingredients are that can help the hypothetical sufferer of depression feel relieved of his/her burdensome journey; there are too many variables that play into any one person's affliction. But the underlying aid that I feel must certainly be there for anyone carrying the "ring" is a band of altruistic friends that will help guide him, have his back when circumstances get especially tough, and who will remain steadfastly determined with him, even when his own determination wanes, for the time when he can embrace ultimate freedom from the despondency and actually feel, perhaps for the first time, the lightness of joy, love, and happiness.

The billion of metaphorical allies might come in different shapes and sizes... some in a pharmaceutical pill form, others in vitamins and supplements like Omega-3 and St. John's Wart. They might come in the shape of a doctor or therapist. They might come as giant Redwood Trees. They might come as adoptable cats.  They might come as reruns of Seinfeld episodes.  But the best allies to depression I've seen are a few plain and simple friends.

I understand how tiring the role of ally to a depressive can be, believe it or not I've been on that side of the coin, too. It can be frustrating because it feels like nothing you say is getting through. You can say, "But you DO have so much to live for, you're beautiful and smart and kind and a hard worker..." and the sad one will say, "No. I'm not. The end." which can feel like you’re hitting your head against a brick wall.  It can be annoying because, hell, we've all got problems and stressors in life, and sometimes you'd like to have someone relieve you of that drag, but the depressive is pretty self-absorbed and it's nearly impossible to shake him of his own self pity. I do not always envy the lives of my friends trying to deal and cope with me, as I have become their heavy burden to carry. Depression is damn sticky and ugly, and it can ruin a lot of relationships all on its own.

So while the ally has a big job to do, I can only say that with me, the simple efforts you make are by far the most effective. I can't swallow it when my friends try to fix my depression for me... force feeding me perspective does not ensure I can keep it down. Don't give me a laundry list of things I should be doing to take better care of myself. "Go make new friends. Go exercise. Do more writing. Get out of your apartment. Appreciate what you have" - I'm already ruminating about the things I should be doing to slay my depression, hearing it as a command only makes me feel even more like a failure. More obviously, you can't fight the battle for me or try to take away the stressors causing me pain (unless the stressor is you), just as Frodo's Fellowship couldn't carry the ring for him. But for all the ways you can't help, there are easy things you can do. I hope people can apply these things to anyone who's got the blues without much straining:

• Call, write, or stop by just to say hi and that you're thinking of them
• Instead of telling them to "think about other things," share what's going on in your life
• Go for a walk or run together - invite him to be your wingman for some physical activity [it is like swimming through molasses just trying to get out of bed for a solo activity, but I very rarely miss a date if a friend asks me to workout]
• Make dinner together
• Do not allow your own joy and enthusiasm to fade. Keep it high, and hope the one who's sad will eventually rise to your level of happiness
• Make her a mixed tape or CD filled with silly / happy / kick ass songs to help her keep her mood up when you're not around
• Smile
• Softly remind him of the things he used to find pleasure in - if he likes to play guitar, remind him how playing makes him feel, and encourage (without putting pressure on him) to play it maybe once a week
• Hug - virtual hugs are great too
• Just BE together, no motive or activity is necessary. Be ok with silence. Your quiet presence can tell someone a lot about how much you care

So now that I’ve written more than what is required for most college papers, I will conclude my lengthy confession.

As I try to summarize, I’m filled with quivering self-doubt and I’m wondering if all this rambling was at all useful or appropriate.  Have I over shared? Over exposed? Have I perversely sanctified depression (it’s starting to sound like a bad word again) as if it were something to actually talk about aloud? How sick is it – how disturbed will I be perceived – to have streamed my thoughts on this topic with oh so many words? I’m about to press “publish” on this epic tale and come face to face with the rest of the world that places no value, only stigma, on any health problem let alone a mental one, as if there was any difference from your bodily health and your brain health. I’m scared, to be honest.

I’m trying to remember why I have written all this at all… why did I preface this blog so many finger taps ago?

Because writing saves me.  And I hope so desperately that what I write can in some minuscule way save someone else – or at least teach someone a little more about the secrets I see about the world.  I do think health is important enough to talk about in public, and even online. I want to be a part of a braver society where we can genuinely be who we are and not hide ourselves for the sake of appearing “normal” or professional or unjudgeable. I have to accept that I’m being judged for all this, but the benefit outweighs the risk. I own my problem with depression, and that helps me deal with it; I hope my writing will help you help me deal with it, and I hope it can help you deal with it in whatever other way it may affect you in this lifetime.

I often wish I never had to deal with any sadness, ever. I frequently cringe when I’m forced to consider why anyone has to suffer at all. But it’s like The Lord of the Rings…

Frodo: I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.
Gandalf: So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring. In which case, you were also meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought.

Maybe, just maybe, I am meant to carry depression so I can be more empathetic and better help and serve others who are plagued with health problems. Maybe it will somehow make me a better writer. Maybe this will make me a better friend.

When I have another down swing and get a little a lost in the darkness, maybe I’ll remember I wrote this; maybe my friends will have read this and be a little more available in the way I need them; maybe I’ll just lean on what Frodo’s best friend and companion said in response to Frodo’s gloomy doubt…

Sam: I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding onto something.
Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?
Sam: That there's some good in this world... and it's worth fighting for.

Holding on

One of a baby's first instincts, along with suckling and screaming, is holding on. A baby will hold her breath until the moment's right, and stick your pinky finger by her newborn hand and she'll grab it fast and tight. I remember babysitting a newborn once when I was seven... well, ok it was my oldest brother babysitting me and the newborn, but I played a part by holding the baby in my lap as she slept. And even in slumber, this child gripped my finger as if it was a life or death situation and letting go would terminate her dreamy existence.

Holding on is primal. You see it in every mammal species (I'm pretty sure, at least). And every time we adults see a newborn baby responding to instinct appropriately, we ooh and awe and reward her with smiles and cuddles and love.

So what the fuck happens to that sort of approval when we are reborn into a new life situation, boyfriendless and all, as adults?

A little back-story: Despite my catholic upbringing, I truly believe in reincarnation. I had a school bus conversation with my BFF, Caryn, once in 3rd grade. Somehow, on the way home from a field trip to the DIA, the topic of life after death came up. I remember wanting pretty desperately to believe in a plain and simple heaven like everyone else around me in my white, middle class, revived farming town brimming with happy Christians. It was the expected thing for a 9 year old kid to believe in there. Other suggestions had not ever been proposed that I can recall. But as I sat there dazing out the sliding glass window at the streets of downtown Detroit, trying to ignore my motion sickness, I found the concept of being in one cloudy place in the sky for all of eternity rather far fetched.

After several minutes of wrestling with the language in which to explain these radical thoughts, I said to Caryn, "It just doesn't make sense that all this LIFE we have when we're alive could just go away or float into the sky. How can our souls exist without our bodies? It must go into something new... it must get recycled somehow. The Earth must be able to sponge it up... right?"

A little stunned, Caryn quickly labeled my insight. "So, you believe in reincarnation?!"

Reincarnation? - Not a word I was used to. Not a word tossed around at my weekly CCD classes at St Andrew's anyway.

"Uh, what?" I asked.

"It's what you just said! Non-Christians believe when you die, you come back as something else. If you're bad you come back as a frog. I thought you were Christian?"

(Conversations like this would later explain why I had nightmares about not being a good enough church go-er, and I'd scream things in my sleep like "I CAN'T DO THAT I'M A CHRISTIAN" and highly disturb my parents and neighbors.)

"Oh... no..." I muttered, "I don't believe in reincarnation..."

Though I doubt any of my other peers on the bus were paying any mind at that time, this discussion was a pivotal moment in my social standing. I'd do anything to avoid being judged for my apparent non-Christian introspection; what would people have honestly thought of me? Even now the idea of this display of individuality and freedom of thought at such a young and impressionable age still lends me to a queasy stomach and chills down my spine. I would have leper-ized myself.

So I paused a moment more before on withdrew my previous statements and proclaimed the "truth." "No, I believe in Heaven. I guess our souls can be without our bodies. That does make the most sense. God! I hope there's a Heaven!"

And it was settled.

Years and years later, past my conflicted, Catholic-guilt driven sleeplessness, after experiencing tragedy and death and heart breaks and some growing pains, after depression and antidepressants and asking myself the really big life (and death) questions, I was reintroduced to reincarnation in a Christian-college philosophy course. The possibility of reincarnation made a lot more sense to me at a slightly more educated and experienced 19.

I recalled my childhood conversation and determined that my open hearted, honest 9 year old self instinctively knew something I couldn't admit for another 10 years.

How often do we get to say that, by the way? - That our child-self was right all along? Right for me at least. Whatever happens at the intersection of life and death is up to each of us to decide, if we want to, on our own, but reincarnation certainly edged out in the debate for me.

Without going into all the details of what it is or how it works, I can say the philosophy has given me calm in the most personally chaotic moments of my young adulthood. My mantra echoed in every crazed, stressed out, dire, mood-swinging, desperate moment: "Slow down... be good... your next life will be rewarded." I knew I'd screw up, lose my senses, I would feel the weight of the world, and I’d weave myself into an emotional blizzard again... "Slow down... be good... your next life after the next life will be rewarded. Live intentionally, be godly, and your reward will be just that: Being. Godly."

I can't tell you how much this has improved the quality of my present life. The fact I had this intuition as a child only proves to me that 1) Children are always right, and 2) I should always trust my instincts. I am grateful I held onto this particular childhood memory as it has crystallized my jig-sawed philosophy on how to live my life as an adult.

That moment in philosophy class opened me up. It inspired me to leave that Christian school and transfer to The University of Michigan, even though the campus was in my parents' backyard, because I knew the cultural and spiritual impact it would have on me, and that is what a college education is all about.

It was this decision that led me to post-college job prospects and big dreams and desires, and finally to the idea to leave Michigan and go to an even more progressive, cultured place on a tiny peninsula in Northern California.

It was this decision that has led me to the series of fortunate and maybe more frequently unfortunate circumstances with employers, roommates, boyfriends, and the ebb and flow of general happiness, which has then in-so-fact-o led me to write it all out with the stomp of my fingers on this here keyboard... and write, and write, and write I will.

(And it is writing that best allows me to tap back into my wide-eyed, childlike intuition and instinct; and good GOD it makes me feel better! It is really the best feeling I ever feel, and the best thing I can offer this world.)

But I digress. I say ALL this so I can share an insight I had just the other day. You see, there's a photo going viral on the internet, and a story to that photo:

The picture [taken August 1999] is that of a 21-week-old unborn baby named Samuel Alexander Armas, who is being operated on by a surgeon named Joseph Bruner.

The baby was diagnosed with spina bifida and would not survive if removed from his mother's womb. Little Samuel's mother, Julie Armas, is an obstetrics nurse in Atlanta. She knew of Dr. Bruner's remarkable surgical procedure. Practicing at Vanderbilt University Medical Center in Nashville, he performs these special operations while the baby is still in the womb.

During the procedure, the doctor removes the uterus via C-section and makes a small incision to operate on the baby. During the surgery on little Samuel, the little guy reached his tiny, but fully developed, hand through the incision and firmly grasped the surgeon's finger.

The photograph captures this amazing event with perfect clarity. The editors titled the picture, "Hand of Hope." The text explaining the picture begins, "The tiny hand of 21-week-old fetus Samuel Alexander Armas emerges from the mother's uterus to grasp the finger of Dr. Joseph Bruner as if thanking the doctor for the gift of life."

For some reason, this picture, too, reminds me of my philosophy. I was told once (by graffiti art on Haight Street) that every time I die, I am born again. Hmm. I'm thinking back on my last post about being reborn so...

It makes perfect sense to me that in every life we have, we have the opportunity to experience many mini or metaphorical deaths and rebirths. I suppose it's how you choose to frame it when shit hits the fan. But for the really really big things, when that shit hits and blows the roof off, you have an instant to choose, from your heart of hearts, "Do I want to keep living this way?" And if you don't, as I didn't, you can start over with a fresh set of eyes. Each life is a journey of its own that plays into a much larger and longer network of consciousness, and we really do have an opportunity in this one little life to learn and grow to our maximum potential.

Recently I seized the chance to let my old ways die. I had a 19 month long relationship with a man that I thought, or hoped, would last forever, but as the gods of chaos would have it, the relationship itself had to die, thus I died with it. And now I'm a wide eyed babe.

But even 21 week old fetuses hold on tight, it's unnatural not to, so I cannot be blamed that there are parts of my old life that are hard to let go of.

A month after I moved out of the apartment I shared with my boyfriend I finally gave back the keys. Even with 3 new keys dangling from the key ring, it feels uncomfortably light without the old ones.

I am relearning many new habits to replace those of my past life, like what exit to take when I'm driving home from work, what side of the bed is best to sleep on, how much rice to make with dinner, how tightly to hold the person sitting next to me on a Friday night, and so forth. Some of these habits are harder to extinguish than others... coming home to someone in a warm 1 bedroom apartment and hugging and talking about the days' events is a hard thing to let go. How much rice to make? I can probably figure that out sooner than later (though there is still an extra half cup of it sitting next to me now... but I'll get it right...)

Learning these new lessons and habits is truly testing my patience, but they are the most important lessons to learn, as they are lessons of the spirit, and that's what a life's education is all about. Though, while I learn them, I do feel bad and shamed and angry and annoyed that I still have loving memories of my past life. I miss a lot about the way things were; yet at the same time, I'm bitter that life got so off course and I didn't end up as happy as I planned. It seems like this bittersweet juxtaposition and emotional confusion may be slowing down the progress of my new life. This must be why babies don't make memories between birth and 3 years of age - they need a buffer period to get over their old knowings. Maybe check in with me 3 years from now - I'll be 30 1/2, and maybe I'll be totally over this destruction - creation cycle. Maybe everything that is happening now will be logged into my subconscious like a forgotten dream or as it is in Being John Malkovich, and I won't have any recollection that this time was swollen and bleeding with vexation. Maybe in 3 years my dreams will start coming true. But maybe not, I don't want to jinx it. 

Either way, I do know for sure that I will hold onto my philosophy on starting over. I will not forget that chaos happens, and all I have to do is slow down... be good... and remember things will be better the next go around. I will hold on tight to that truth. I will survive all the spiritual deaths before me, no matter how often they occur and no matter how terrible the stretch marks get. I hope they happen often so I can get closer to my full potential. I will hold onto the memories of my most recent life for a little while, but I'll hold onto hope a little tighter, and throughout all the transcending, I will write my truths down.

Home is whenever I'm alone...

My body had wandered off again. It walked out the door without saying where it was going. It roamed aimlessly, my self inside, imprisoned as a silent witness, for hours and hours, for days? weeks? - time is obsolete for the wanderlust. My limbs had wandered off so far and for so long that my silent self had been growing anxious... "How will I get back HOME?"

I walked barefoot across the beach and I stared out across the ocean, and I trailed up the cliff-lined path watching white globes of fuzz from the dandelion blossoms float abound the pebbly way, and then, where my body sat, I saw the glowing salmon-colored bridge pillaring mightily into the clouds while a perfect white sail boat bobbed beneath in it's shadow. The waves, the most beautiful, enforcing yet pliable, majestic waves stretched across the infinite blue and gold plain. My eyes watched them attentively as they slid into the rocky beach like sex in silk sheets then subtly but erratically shifted emotion to crash and drum against the already diluted boulders, making the sky and peace around my body jerk up in fear of danger. On a far off rock in the water there were birds that looked like small people trying to stay dry as they watched the sun fall down and patiently waited for the tide to curl back into itself as the moon filled the sky.

I later found myself sitting on an outside stoop in the dark smoking a 3-year-old Clove cigarette. A black woman who I had never seen before drove into a parking spot, got out, locked the door, and briskly walked past me as she held her breath and started into the building I was sitting in front of. "How are you?" I heard myself ask.

"Good. You?"

"I'm good," and I felt myself give a polite smile.

I was smoking a 3-year-old Clove cigarette, but I am NOT a smoker. How could I be good? Why did I lie to such an innocent stranger? She didn't deserve the lies my mouth automatically spat out. I needed to get back control of this body.

I read some old journal entries to get some perspective. Apparently in the time I was just going along with my body, 5 years and 29 days, I had wandered to the Lands End region of San Francisco on a Sunday in 2008, and several pages and bindings later and exactly 3 years and 17 days later, I had discovered disgust for myself on a Friday. That was 3 days ago. Within my California wandering, pen ink inscribed my movements and behaviors. I had:

• Moved into a new apartment 6 times.
• Started 4 new jobs, the most recent of which I had taken 3 promotions but never saw a cent added to my salary.
• Sued 1 landlord. I threatened another.
• Saved lives with passionate mentorship and suicide prevention, reproductive health, nutrition, and teen dating violence workshops.
• Witnessed death.
• Contracted a life-threatening bacteria and shat intestinal tissue and blood for about a year.
• Dated 20+ guys... 1 who had a self-tattoo of a skull and the letters "L.I.P" which stood for "Living Is Pain." One who was secretly involved with cocaine. I dated a guy for 2 months before we both officially concluded he was gay. I dated a guy for 1 week who weighed about 100 pounds and never slept, ever. Another guy I dated briefly lived above a car stereo shop and was making a documentary about the car made famous by Back To The Future, the Delorean. Most recently I fell in love with and moved in with a married man. Well... separated. Eventually divorced. Whatever. We were together for over a year and half and he was my first adult love. My first adult heart break.

Flash forward to present day confessions: I'm in a studio apartment that costs more than half my monthly income. There's a hornet that's crawled on the windowsill above my bed since the day I moved the bed in. The shower faucet has two settings: frost bite and hell. The bathroom smells like smoke, and that bothers me. Me, the one who smoked a 3 year old Clove. Those things are made with fiberglass! How did I get here?? How will I get back home?

I idealized my "home" to be like the home in Edward Sharp and the Magnetic Zero's "Home," which coincides as my iPhone's ring tone...

Home, let me come home,
Home is wherever I'm with you.
Oh home. Yes I am home.
Home is whenever I'm alone with you.

But now that I'm alone, actually alone, I can see that song is bullshit. God bless it, it is a great song, but it's a song for happy people in happy relationships and big 4 bedroom houses with white picked fences and a 2 car garage with a riding lawn mower and 2 yapping mongrels pissing on everything. It's a song for the illusioned who are also going along with their bodies and buoyantly bobbing through the Bay believing they can BE someone. HA! It's impossible. The home I've propelled my body toward is a manufactured fallacy. Home does not exist... not for the wanderlust... not for the mind-tramp.

Not that home anyway.

Something in the act and motion of breaking up with my "partner," saying goodbye to his family that had welcomed me in, and saying adeau to the friends he had temporarily shared with me, and moving all my furniture and things we shared out of our tiny abode, and letting go of the dream of building a home and a family with him, something in all that has allowed something else to awaken within me. The plug that connects my mind to my body was reattached.

Reattaching is an interesting process. Watch anyone coming out of a coma and you know what I mean. They open their eyes, that's usually the first step. Then slowly... very slowly they regain conscious function of their digits and voice, they become aware of their senses, and they reclaim their human power with their human spirit.

For me, my reattachment (one could even call it my rebirth) began with opening my eyes, gasping for breath, and crying. I wish there was a stronger word for the type of crying that took over me, as its violent nature was incomparable to the cry of cut skin or broken bones, or to that of the misfortune of being laid off from a job you actually like. I heaved with sadness and sobbed until my stomach ached. Reality was too harsh for my vulnerable new self to accept at first glance - I wanted to go back into the womb of my relationship, where happiness was make believe, but at least it was happiness.

I cried until I fell asleep, and when I woke again it was like only parts of me were turned on. I could use my body when I told it to move, but it felt numb. I could follow through with previously arranged appointments, but even meetings with friends looked hazy and ever dream-like. Waves of tears would crash into me unannounced, taking total siege of my attention, and then slowly drift away. I rode this ebb and flow of dazed emotion for weeks.

Then one day I opened my eyes once more and I saw light. There was light at the end of my tunnel vision where the image of the boy used to be. I don't really know why it suddenly appeared - maybe just a credit to time - but I told my body, "Go towards that!" and my body followed. My mind called it's first shot in years, and my legs and torso and butt did as I commanded, and I trailed toward hope.

Still, I had a lot of relearning to do. Specialized therapists needed to be scheduled to help my mind take full and confident control again. I had to take extra vitamins to help my soul stay fueled through the exhausting process. I had to dig deep into my memories to remember what self-love and compassion and intentional, spiritual living felt like, and I had to trust that those feelings could be rebuilt inside my current, previously mindless, machine.

Reattaching is a process and I assure you, I am not yet fulfillingly self-actualized. It's a path to be on - a journey not a destination. Occasional slips of unconsciousness take hold... hence the 3 year old Clove... but I am making a practice in leading with my mind and my heart, not with my body.

Living this way feels like a throw back to my senior year of college, which was the last time I actually lived alone. It was the best time of my life. My heart was free. I walked through the world with a slight skip in my step and a smirk on my face, and I patiently waited for the "real world" to arrive post academia. That was the year I felt truly, indescribably blessed with life; I had very keen awareness of what was important, and I felt the presence of god daily if not moment by microscopic moment.

The circumstances are right again - I'm single, I'm living alone, and my eyes are wide open for the next big thing. With this re-found worldview, each step I take on this journey is a step in feeling more alive, earthed, and whole. Every place I plant my foot, I feel a little more me, and a little more home.