For my 40th birthday, I gave myself the best gift I have ever been given. I gave myself permission to Not Give a Fuck about anything that didn’t deserve them. This gift comes on the heels of nearly a decade of therapy, of tearing myself apart from the inside and rebuilding myself as I want to be, and has cost me nearly everything, $1000s of dollars and enough deep breaths to float the Hindenburg.
You see, somewhere about half a decade back I realized that so many things I did to protect myself actually harmed me. They felt good – or at least normal. But they harmed me all the same.
I was afraid of too many things – and I don’t want to be afraid like that anymore.
He’s thinking you’re an idiot. Stop talking now. You have nothing to say that won’t put you in danger.
Ah, there it is. The crux of so many of my current maladapted behaviors – fear. Fear of being judged, fear of being hurt and harmed by someone that was supposed to care about me, fear of proving them right (and an even deeper fear of proving them wrong, because how could they be wrong? They are supposed to love me, goddammit!)
Fear used to be my ally. It used to protect me from inexplicable mood swings, the occasional backhand from left field, the disgust and disdain of those that claimed to love me more than anyone else ever could. Fear was my friend. Fear helped me survive. Fear guided my steps and made me so aware – hyper-aware – of other’s moods. I got so good at reading people that it felt like I could read their very minds.
Quick, be cute! Quick, be quiet! Quick, be gone!
That look means he’s frustrated. Time to be soothing. Offer to get him a drink.
That look means he’s angry. Time to go outside. Forget your shoes. Forget your jacket. Forget everything and just GO.
That look means he’s happy. Go and hug him, so he knows you love him so so so much and he won’t hurt you later.
Once I left for college, I thought I left fear at home, unpacked amongst the clothes that I no longer wanted. It had been years since I needed fear on a daily basis. I grew, I thrived, I became someone that I liked.
But fear lingered insidiously. It cropped up in places that I never thought I’d need to root it out. It happened in the moments my boyfriend frowned at me and I winced. It happened in moments when my boss asked to speak to me, and I had to swallow bile. It happened in moments that my friends looked to me for strength and my knees shook.
Unchecked – because it was ignored – it grew. Relationships faltered. I stopped thriving and started to wilt.
No more.
I fought back – but fear knew me. It knew everything about me. It had built me in my youth after all. The process of rebuilding was painful and long. It took as much time to undo the damage as it had taken for the damage to be done.
30. 31. 32. Tears. Anger. Therapy.
33. Rage. 34. Denial.
35. No one knows you. You don’t even know yourself.
36. Healing. 37. Hope.
38. Grace.
39. Forgive yourself. You saved yourself with fear. It is a tool that you no longer need. Lay it down.
40. Trust yourself.
Fear is the old friend that you nod at when you see them in the grocery store. It still knows me. It built me after all, cared for me, saved me.
Fear is my enemy. It harms me, cuts me off from the life I want, whispers lies about cowering when I was born to SOAR.
We are many things, fear and me. But we will never be strangers. We have an uneasy truce at the moment. Maybe it’s the best to hope for, but going forward, when my guts clench, and my breath hitches, and my brow sweats – I will ask myself if I give a fuck.
More times than not, I don’t.
Time to be free.
This entry was written for therealljidol 05: “My enemies are all too familiar. They're the ones who used to call me friend.” If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
My title is taken from the following quote by Marilyn Ferguson: Ultimately, we know deeply that the other side of every fear is a freedom.
You see, somewhere about half a decade back I realized that so many things I did to protect myself actually harmed me. They felt good – or at least normal. But they harmed me all the same.
I was afraid of too many things – and I don’t want to be afraid like that anymore.
He’s thinking you’re an idiot. Stop talking now. You have nothing to say that won’t put you in danger.
Ah, there it is. The crux of so many of my current maladapted behaviors – fear. Fear of being judged, fear of being hurt and harmed by someone that was supposed to care about me, fear of proving them right (and an even deeper fear of proving them wrong, because how could they be wrong? They are supposed to love me, goddammit!)
Fear used to be my ally. It used to protect me from inexplicable mood swings, the occasional backhand from left field, the disgust and disdain of those that claimed to love me more than anyone else ever could. Fear was my friend. Fear helped me survive. Fear guided my steps and made me so aware – hyper-aware – of other’s moods. I got so good at reading people that it felt like I could read their very minds.
Quick, be cute! Quick, be quiet! Quick, be gone!
That look means he’s frustrated. Time to be soothing. Offer to get him a drink.
That look means he’s angry. Time to go outside. Forget your shoes. Forget your jacket. Forget everything and just GO.
That look means he’s happy. Go and hug him, so he knows you love him so so so much and he won’t hurt you later.
Once I left for college, I thought I left fear at home, unpacked amongst the clothes that I no longer wanted. It had been years since I needed fear on a daily basis. I grew, I thrived, I became someone that I liked.
But fear lingered insidiously. It cropped up in places that I never thought I’d need to root it out. It happened in the moments my boyfriend frowned at me and I winced. It happened in moments when my boss asked to speak to me, and I had to swallow bile. It happened in moments that my friends looked to me for strength and my knees shook.
Unchecked – because it was ignored – it grew. Relationships faltered. I stopped thriving and started to wilt.
No more.
I fought back – but fear knew me. It knew everything about me. It had built me in my youth after all. The process of rebuilding was painful and long. It took as much time to undo the damage as it had taken for the damage to be done.
30. 31. 32. Tears. Anger. Therapy.
33. Rage. 34. Denial.
35. No one knows you. You don’t even know yourself.
36. Healing. 37. Hope.
38. Grace.
39. Forgive yourself. You saved yourself with fear. It is a tool that you no longer need. Lay it down.
40. Trust yourself.
Fear is the old friend that you nod at when you see them in the grocery store. It still knows me. It built me after all, cared for me, saved me.
Fear is my enemy. It harms me, cuts me off from the life I want, whispers lies about cowering when I was born to SOAR.
We are many things, fear and me. But we will never be strangers. We have an uneasy truce at the moment. Maybe it’s the best to hope for, but going forward, when my guts clench, and my breath hitches, and my brow sweats – I will ask myself if I give a fuck.
More times than not, I don’t.
Time to be free.
This entry was written for therealljidol 05: “My enemies are all too familiar. They're the ones who used to call me friend.” If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
My title is taken from the following quote by Marilyn Ferguson: Ultimately, we know deeply that the other side of every fear is a freedom.
“Parenting is the most humbling thing we will ever do in our lives,” someone once told me. “You are inevitably going to fuck up and it will hurt the ones you love most in this world.”
Ouch. Talk about a reality check.
When I look at my child, I see everything good in the world – and then he spits a mouthful of water in my face. (It’s funny now; at the time, it was less so.)
“Take this A-Hole from me,” I remember saying to my partner-in-crime-and-parenting. Of course, mothers are not the only ones with inherent survival instincts about their kids, so said A-Hole’s father was already reaching to take him out of my arms before I throttled him to Z-Hole status. “If you were anyone else in this world,” I growled at the aforementioned A-Hole and let the threat trail off as cartoon like visions of punching someone and sending them through a wall floated through my brain.
And there it was – the Impossible Conundrum – wanting to kill your child and loving them to death at the same moment.
Quite frankly, while I am not a pacifist, I don’t choose violence – but the odds are astronomically high I would have hit anyone else on pure instinct fueled by disbelieving rage. But, not this A-Hole. Not MY little A-Hole. Him, I wanted to survive to another day.
I walked into my kitchen and wiped my face with a towel. I could hear A-Hole’s father, “That’s not nice. You hurt mommy’s feelings.” I could hear A-Hole as he started crying in earnest, foolishly thinking that the worst thing I could have done to him was walk away. “Say you’re sorry.”
Not likely. A-Hole is barely 2 and not at all cognizant of some of the more subtle social niceties – like not spitting in someone’s face, or apologizing if you spit in someone’s face.
He cried. I took deep breaths. A-Hole’s daddy tried to parent. “Be nice to mommy,” I heard. “Don’t spit,” I heard. “That’s yucky,” I heard.
But that all drowned out into background noise as the true upset in my son’s voice became more and more clear. I heard him scramble down and I heard his feet as he ran towards me. I turned and watched him come, his face squashed up in real misery, and all my anger vanished. I knelt before he even got to me and he literally threw himself at me, desperate to feel loved, safe, secure.
“It’s okay, baby.” I said. Truthfully, it wasn’t, and it was at the same time. There are other days to tackle social boundaries and bodily fluids and germs, but it wasn’t this day. This day, this moment, my job was to love that little A-Hole with all my heart. So, I did.
Or, maybe I just fucked him and let him think it was okay to spit water in people’s face. It’s impossible to know at this point. Wish me luck!
This entry was written for therealljidol 04: "Impossible." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
Ouch. Talk about a reality check.
When I look at my child, I see everything good in the world – and then he spits a mouthful of water in my face. (It’s funny now; at the time, it was less so.)
“Take this A-Hole from me,” I remember saying to my partner-in-crime-and-parenting. Of course, mothers are not the only ones with inherent survival instincts about their kids, so said A-Hole’s father was already reaching to take him out of my arms before I throttled him to Z-Hole status. “If you were anyone else in this world,” I growled at the aforementioned A-Hole and let the threat trail off as cartoon like visions of punching someone and sending them through a wall floated through my brain.
And there it was – the Impossible Conundrum – wanting to kill your child and loving them to death at the same moment.
Quite frankly, while I am not a pacifist, I don’t choose violence – but the odds are astronomically high I would have hit anyone else on pure instinct fueled by disbelieving rage. But, not this A-Hole. Not MY little A-Hole. Him, I wanted to survive to another day.
I walked into my kitchen and wiped my face with a towel. I could hear A-Hole’s father, “That’s not nice. You hurt mommy’s feelings.” I could hear A-Hole as he started crying in earnest, foolishly thinking that the worst thing I could have done to him was walk away. “Say you’re sorry.”
Not likely. A-Hole is barely 2 and not at all cognizant of some of the more subtle social niceties – like not spitting in someone’s face, or apologizing if you spit in someone’s face.
He cried. I took deep breaths. A-Hole’s daddy tried to parent. “Be nice to mommy,” I heard. “Don’t spit,” I heard. “That’s yucky,” I heard.
But that all drowned out into background noise as the true upset in my son’s voice became more and more clear. I heard him scramble down and I heard his feet as he ran towards me. I turned and watched him come, his face squashed up in real misery, and all my anger vanished. I knelt before he even got to me and he literally threw himself at me, desperate to feel loved, safe, secure.
“It’s okay, baby.” I said. Truthfully, it wasn’t, and it was at the same time. There are other days to tackle social boundaries and bodily fluids and germs, but it wasn’t this day. This day, this moment, my job was to love that little A-Hole with all my heart. So, I did.
Or, maybe I just fucked him and let him think it was okay to spit water in people’s face. It’s impossible to know at this point. Wish me luck!
This entry was written for therealljidol 04: "Impossible." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
~ Cars, 2006
Any parent of a child who has been a toddler since this movie came out just cringed. I know this. I have a toddler and even before he was alive, I watched this movie about 10,000 times with my godsons. I sympathize with all those cringing parents, but... I empathize with Lightening in this moment.
Picture it:
The alarm goes off at 6. You roll over and turn it off. It goes off at 6:10 - what can I say? You know yourself. You hit snooze. Repeat this pattern until 7:45, when you suddenly jolt awake. Crap! You're late. No time to say hello, goodbye, you're late, you're late, you're late!!!
This was my life for so long. On any given day, this could still be my life. I am not a morning person.
"I don't want to work. I don't want to get dressed in anything but yoga pants. I don't want to eat healthy breakfast. I want fast food. I don't want to pack up my leftovers. I don't want to floss my teeth. I don't want to wear make up, do my hair, pick out jewelry, shower... Just, no. Today, I don't wanna adult! You can't make me! I can't even make myself!"
And so, it begins. The day is inevitably gross. I'm flustered. I feel caught off guard every time I get an email or my phone rings. My anxiety gets so high that everything sets it off. By the time 5:00 rolls around, I'm bolting out of the door, with emails unread, and phone messages unheard, and projects incomplete for the next day. Just gross all around.
The alarm goes off at 6. You roll over and turn it off. You roll back to your lover and give one last kiss, then you hoist your butt up out of bed. Gym. Shower. Music. Feeling good, today. Breakfast? Oh, that's right, you bought a smoothie and put it in your fridge waiting for your drive to work. Coffee, good! Water, good! Banana, good!
That was my morning this morning. It's a work in progress, but the difference is noticeable and distinct.
I'm totally wearing this cute dress. I think I'll try that new eye shadow trick. That dress looks good with this necklace. I'm glad I ate that banana, I feel so much better than I do when I skip breakfast! Today, I'm killing it. Today, I'm going to knock off every one of my to do list projects. Today, I'm going to get ahead.
And so, it begins. The weather is gross, but you know what? We desperately need the rain. Dude is emailing me every five minutes, but I've got this. He can chill. There... now he's laughing. Much better. I'm grooving to the music today. I can probably work until 6 and be totally set for tomorrow, or hell, the week! I've got this. Today, I am a mother-effing hammer. You can't stop me! Don't even try!
Tomorrow? I guess we'll see.
This entry was written for therealljidol 03: "Everything looks like a nail." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
A Facebook meme floated across my feed a few days ago. "The version of me you created in your mind is not my responsibility," it said. "Holy shit," I said back.
Not my most eloquent moment, true, but definitely a real light bulb for me. Not so long ago, someone I was close to told me that I was gas lighting her, that I was causing her anxiety so severe it was crippling to her.
I felt... so many things in response, but at the end of the day one fact was crystal clear in my mind. I was not trying to make her believe anything in particular except that I only had good intentions. After a few rounds of anxiety, guilt and depression on my part - and I don't know what on her part - I stopped caring if she even believed that I had good intentions.
I wish I had known then what I know now - I wasn't responsible for the version of me living in her head. My actions had always shown that I wished her no ill will, that I accepted her for all of her flaws and limitations, and that I asked only for honesty back.
My demands for honesty - a fairly low bar - eventually proved too much and the friendship cracked and failed. From the dust of that experience, no phoenix rose.
I was angry. I was bitter. I felt stupid. I felt guilty. I felt responsible.
The repercussions of that failed relationship spread out from my center like rings from a stone thrown in a pond. It affected everything, because I could not reach the conclusion in my mind that what she thought of me was beyond my control.
First, after many conversations with those who had my best interests at heart, I let go of letting her live in my mind. I knew what I had done and why. If she didn't believe me, that was her issue. But more than that, I had to finally reach the point where what she thought of me became not a reflection of me - but a reflection of her.
In other words, what she thought of me was not only not my business, but on a deeper level, also not my fault, nor was i responsible for fixing it.
That was a very hard pill to swallow, and I choked on it for months, maybe even the better part of the year. It took me until that silly little Facebook meme to put it into words, because a part of me just quit caring well before this lesson was fully understood.
So, at the end of the day, what this woman thinks of me is not my responsibility. I did my best by her at all times. I'm sure others could have done better, but I could not have. She can either believe me or not, but what she believed of me... that's all her.
This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Living Rent Free In Your Head." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
Not my most eloquent moment, true, but definitely a real light bulb for me. Not so long ago, someone I was close to told me that I was gas lighting her, that I was causing her anxiety so severe it was crippling to her.
I felt... so many things in response, but at the end of the day one fact was crystal clear in my mind. I was not trying to make her believe anything in particular except that I only had good intentions. After a few rounds of anxiety, guilt and depression on my part - and I don't know what on her part - I stopped caring if she even believed that I had good intentions.
I wish I had known then what I know now - I wasn't responsible for the version of me living in her head. My actions had always shown that I wished her no ill will, that I accepted her for all of her flaws and limitations, and that I asked only for honesty back.
My demands for honesty - a fairly low bar - eventually proved too much and the friendship cracked and failed. From the dust of that experience, no phoenix rose.
I was angry. I was bitter. I felt stupid. I felt guilty. I felt responsible.
The repercussions of that failed relationship spread out from my center like rings from a stone thrown in a pond. It affected everything, because I could not reach the conclusion in my mind that what she thought of me was beyond my control.
First, after many conversations with those who had my best interests at heart, I let go of letting her live in my mind. I knew what I had done and why. If she didn't believe me, that was her issue. But more than that, I had to finally reach the point where what she thought of me became not a reflection of me - but a reflection of her.
In other words, what she thought of me was not only not my business, but on a deeper level, also not my fault, nor was i responsible for fixing it.
That was a very hard pill to swallow, and I choked on it for months, maybe even the better part of the year. It took me until that silly little Facebook meme to put it into words, because a part of me just quit caring well before this lesson was fully understood.
So, at the end of the day, what this woman thinks of me is not my responsibility. I did my best by her at all times. I'm sure others could have done better, but I could not have. She can either believe me or not, but what she believed of me... that's all her.
This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Living Rent Free In Your Head." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Yesterday, as part of my year of 40 x 40 (40 awesome things I’m doing for myself as a gift the year I turned 40), I went to a spa and had a float in a sensory deprivation chamber. The mechanics behind it are simple – dump a bazillion pounds of Epsom salt into a water tank, put in ear plugs, get naked, climb into the tank, shut the door behind you – and voila! Very little sensory input.
I spent 90 minutes floating the dark with nothing but myself, the dark, and my thoughts – and I will tell you this: 90 minutes of unadulterated (if slightly salty) Bewize is a lot of Bewize to take in. Even for Bewize.
My thoughts went something like this:
“Wow, it’s dark! Let me open my eyes more… nope, still dark! Close my eyes, open my eyes, close my eyes, open my eyes… no difference.”
After I heard a dripping noise rig to my ear, because the tank apparently gets condensation on it and it drops back down, “Holy shit! There’s something in here with me! The Devil…. I don’t know if I believe in the Devil… maybe it doesn’t matter if he beliees in me… holy shit, I can’t get out of this 90 seconds in, that’s total chicken shit behavior….I bet this is like the beginning of space and time, all this nothing darkness…. It’s probably God in here…. I don’t know if I believe in God, but if anything is in here, it’s probably God…. I wish I could see stars like God would see at the beginning of space and time….”
“I’m floating so intensely I can’t go underwater…. Let me twist this way? Nope, still floating. That way? Nope, still floating. I guess that’s why they call it a zero gravity experience. I wonder if I sit up… yep, there’s the bottom. Ha!”
“Don’t hold your neck so tense. Your head won’t sink. This is why you get headaches.”
“I wonder how long I’ve been in here.”
“They said I might get hot. I’m a little cold. I really am a freak of nature.”
“Sex thoughts. Sex thoughts. Sex thoughts.”
“I’m hungry. I can hear my stomach growling through my body, since the ear plugs are blocking everything out.”
“OMG, this tastes like the worst thing on the planet! I’m dying! I’m dying! Okay…. It’s better now. DO NOT LICK YOUR LIPS.”
“I think I’ll get sushi for lunch.”
“How long have I been in here? She said the music would start when its time to get out. No music…. She said I’d hear it for sure, so I could sleep.”
“Relax your neck!”
“Sex thoughts.”
“I wonder if my boss got that thing done he said he’d get done. I wonder if he thinks I’m a giant idiiot. I wonder if he knows I’m faking it all the time….No, don’t say that! You’re not faking it, this is imposter syndrome. You’re good at your job, stop telling yourself you aren’t.”
“I cannot believe my baby is two! I don’t know if I want to get him a fish for his birthday or not. The cat will eat it…”
“I love my baby so much.”
“I SAID DON’T LICK YOUR LIPS.”
“I’ve probably only been in here like 10 minutes. OMG, I’m never getting out of here.”
“What was that noise?! Am I snoring?”
“OMG, I can’t breathe…. Yes, you can, relax, fool. This chamber is like 4/5 air, and they aren’t trying to kill you in here. … Are they? NO, OF COURSE NOT. STOP THINKING SCARY THOUGHTS! Puppies! Kittens.”
“That book I’m reading says emotions are like puppies – even the good ones will wreak havoc and you have to put them away to focus on getting things done, so you don’t live in constant anxiety. I think that’s really wise. That’s definitely the best way I’ve ever heard it described. I’m going to work to remember that.”
“Didn’t Eleven get locked in a sensory deprivation tank in Stranger Things? I think she did. Poor Eleven.
“I should probably think about important self-improvement things in here.”
“Was I asleep? It’s hard to tell.”
“How long have I bee in here? What happens if I just… get out? They can’t force me to stay. But, I’d feel like a big ole loser.”
“I’m definitely having sushi for lunch.”
“I wonder if this is what it’s like to be an unborn baby. I wonder if they are cold. Poor babies.”
“My skin feels slimy to the touch. Eww.”
“Wheee, it’s fun to shift around in the tank.”
“I read somewhere most people in small dark spaces follow the edges to figure out the space. I wonder why I didn’t do that? … OMG, what’s that pipe thing?! That’s why I didn’t do this! I don’t want to know.”
“Relax your neck!”
“I wonder if this is like tripping… cause I’m kind of seeing colors now. In all this darkness.”
“I’ve probably only been in here like 5 minutes. OMG, what if this is the end of all things and the “real” world doesn’t really exist?”
“I think I was asleep for sure. I wish I’d slept more.”
“I wonder if I could float on my stomach… nope! That’s a big ole negative!”
“What’s that noise? Oh, the music. Time to go!”
Outside, in the real world that was, in fact, real, I felt utterly disoriented, off balance, and sluggish. But, by the time I’d showered off, and realized I would find dried salt on my body for the foreseeable future, I was also very relaxed. My back didn’t hurt. It felt like I’d been asleep for a lot longer. My friend was waiting for me and said that she’d not made it through the full 90 minutes of her soak. She said 60 minutes would have been enough.
Perhaps 90 minutes of unadulterated anyone is too much. When I was leaving, the lady at the desk reminded me I have 2 more soaks. I felt equal parts anxiety and excitement. Can I handle that much me? Guess I’ll find out.
This entry was written for therealljidol 11:00: "Introduction." If there is one, I will share the poll. Thanks.
I am in.
I was on the fence for a while - not gonna lie. I'm busy and I have a lot going on, and writing, while a major love, is not something that *can* take up a lot of time in my life now.
But, the title and idea of this season got to me. Homecoming.
This year has been a lot of things, but the end of this year has felt very much like a return to myself - a return of the things about me that I like and discarded for a while to try and be something/someone else.
I have grown; I am not the same as I was; I never want to go backwards - but, going home? That sounds wonderful
So, I am in.
I was on the fence for a while - not gonna lie. I'm busy and I have a lot going on, and writing, while a major love, is not something that *can* take up a lot of time in my life now.
But, the title and idea of this season got to me. Homecoming.
This year has been a lot of things, but the end of this year has felt very much like a return to myself - a return of the things about me that I like and discarded for a while to try and be something/someone else.
I have grown; I am not the same as I was; I never want to go backwards - but, going home? That sounds wonderful
So, I am in.
Did you ever see the Disney cartoon where Donald Duck went to Mathematics Land, which looked a lot like Disney's version of Wonderland? That cartoon really impressed me as a child, but not the bits about math or science. No, I was struck and forever branded with the image of the brain being a storage room. In the cartoon, Donald had to "clean out" his brain to make room for more important things (like math), but the cartoon image showed brooms and dustpans magically going to work.
Viola.
I have forever thought of the brain as that storage room (only more updated and modern now, like from Inside Out, of course).
All of this lead up should help explain why there is a file in my brain called "The Unread Riot Acts." Simply put, it's the storage space for where all of my unspoken outrage goes. I literally will picture binding it up, like a book, and putting it on that shelf - rather than speaking my outrage aloud into existence in the world.
For example, let's take dinner last night. The boyfriend, baby and I took a really good friend out to dinner. We went to a new restaurant with good reviews to receive probably the worst service I've had anywhere in a while.
The server kept vanishing - and the restaurant wasn't that full. She wasn't in the weeds - she was just not on top of her game. The food took a long time to come out. The plates the food was served on were extremely hot - probably to disguise the lukewarm food.
So, picture it. Three adults in a booth. A baby in a highchair at the end of the booth. The server kept setting EVERYTHING in front of the baby. Now, if you have children (or have been a server), you know this is a poor choice. Everything - and I mean EVERYTHING - is immediately grabbed, groped, crunched and eventually hurled to the floor.
The three adults keep moving things out of his reach, but this server just kept setting things down there, oblivious.
By the time my food came out (which was second to last, because it made perfect sense to feed the baby last), there was no space left on the table to hide another hot plate. The server marched over, hot plate firmly grasped in oven mitts and prepared to set it on the only clear space left - right in front of the baby.
Now, she was present and (theoretically) cognizant of the discussions we'd had about the two previous hot plates She witnessed our scramble to keep the baby from putting his hands on them.
So, I said - and I was speaking mildly - "You cannot set a hot plate like that in front of the baby."
She looks at me and said, with some attitude, I will add. "Well - where do you suggest I put it?"
Just like that - BOOM - the Riot Script was written.
I had suggestions of where she could put that plate, y'all. I had SO. MANY. SUGGESTIONS.
I also had commentary on her service, her attitude, the speed of service and a few other choice observations.
I am not normally reticent to share my suggestions or observations. That's not my speed. But... we were celebrating and I didn't want to make a scene. So, I took a deep breath and said...
NOTHING.
I just stared at this girl until she suggested setting the hot plate on an empty table behind us. I nodded my head, pursed my lips a bit, and said, "That seems like a wise choice."
I am not sure how she interpreted that interaction. I am sure that the manager was the one who served our table for the rest of our meal. I am sure that my friend across the table was amused at my superior show of self control. I am sure that, as I sat there and mentally wrapped up the Riot Act for the shelf in the brain, I suddenly knew what I was going to write for Idol.
I suspect that this naive (idiotic), young (moronic), unobservant (clueless) server (nitwit) felt the icy breath of her demise on her neck. I suspect she realized that she nearly experienced what I call a "Come to Jesus Moment." I suspect that she couldn't quite settle the shake in her knees and thus, had to be excused from serving us for the remainder of our meal.
I also reinforced my own belief that sometimes, an unread Riot Act is as effective - or even more so - than one that is read aloud.
So now, the shelf has one more bound act sitting, gathering dust. It's next to the Unread Riot Act of "Explain how 'I'll do it Tuesday' means Friday," and "If you're late to the doctor, we cancel you and charge you; but if you sit here an hour, you just have to eat it." It's stacked on top of "Amazon promised you'd have this package tomorrow, but they lied," and "So what if you asked for no meat, that bacon is just a garnish."
If we're lucky, the shelf will remain untouched and un-added to for a while. At least the remainder of the day. If we're lucky.
But, who among us is that lucky?
This entry was written for therealljidol 03: "Tsundoku." According to Google: Tsundoku (Japanese: 積ん読) is acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one's home without reading them. If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.
Viola.
I have forever thought of the brain as that storage room (only more updated and modern now, like from Inside Out, of course).
All of this lead up should help explain why there is a file in my brain called "The Unread Riot Acts." Simply put, it's the storage space for where all of my unspoken outrage goes. I literally will picture binding it up, like a book, and putting it on that shelf - rather than speaking my outrage aloud into existence in the world.
For example, let's take dinner last night. The boyfriend, baby and I took a really good friend out to dinner. We went to a new restaurant with good reviews to receive probably the worst service I've had anywhere in a while.
The server kept vanishing - and the restaurant wasn't that full. She wasn't in the weeds - she was just not on top of her game. The food took a long time to come out. The plates the food was served on were extremely hot - probably to disguise the lukewarm food.
So, picture it. Three adults in a booth. A baby in a highchair at the end of the booth. The server kept setting EVERYTHING in front of the baby. Now, if you have children (or have been a server), you know this is a poor choice. Everything - and I mean EVERYTHING - is immediately grabbed, groped, crunched and eventually hurled to the floor.
The three adults keep moving things out of his reach, but this server just kept setting things down there, oblivious.
By the time my food came out (which was second to last, because it made perfect sense to feed the baby last), there was no space left on the table to hide another hot plate. The server marched over, hot plate firmly grasped in oven mitts and prepared to set it on the only clear space left - right in front of the baby.
Now, she was present and (theoretically) cognizant of the discussions we'd had about the two previous hot plates She witnessed our scramble to keep the baby from putting his hands on them.
So, I said - and I was speaking mildly - "You cannot set a hot plate like that in front of the baby."
She looks at me and said, with some attitude, I will add. "Well - where do you suggest I put it?"
Just like that - BOOM - the Riot Script was written.
I had suggestions of where she could put that plate, y'all. I had SO. MANY. SUGGESTIONS.
I also had commentary on her service, her attitude, the speed of service and a few other choice observations.
I am not normally reticent to share my suggestions or observations. That's not my speed. But... we were celebrating and I didn't want to make a scene. So, I took a deep breath and said...
I just stared at this girl until she suggested setting the hot plate on an empty table behind us. I nodded my head, pursed my lips a bit, and said, "That seems like a wise choice."
I am not sure how she interpreted that interaction. I am sure that the manager was the one who served our table for the rest of our meal. I am sure that my friend across the table was amused at my superior show of self control. I am sure that, as I sat there and mentally wrapped up the Riot Act for the shelf in the brain, I suddenly knew what I was going to write for Idol.
I suspect that this naive (idiotic), young (moronic), unobservant (clueless) server (nitwit) felt the icy breath of her demise on her neck. I suspect she realized that she nearly experienced what I call a "Come to Jesus Moment." I suspect that she couldn't quite settle the shake in her knees and thus, had to be excused from serving us for the remainder of our meal.
I also reinforced my own belief that sometimes, an unread Riot Act is as effective - or even more so - than one that is read aloud.
So now, the shelf has one more bound act sitting, gathering dust. It's next to the Unread Riot Act of "Explain how 'I'll do it Tuesday' means Friday," and "If you're late to the doctor, we cancel you and charge you; but if you sit here an hour, you just have to eat it." It's stacked on top of "Amazon promised you'd have this package tomorrow, but they lied," and "So what if you asked for no meat, that bacon is just a garnish."
If we're lucky, the shelf will remain untouched and un-added to for a while. At least the remainder of the day. If we're lucky.
But, who among us is that lucky?
This entry was written for therealljidol 03: "Tsundoku." According to Google: Tsundoku (Japanese: 積ん読) is acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one's home without reading them. If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.
I have never seen Mount Rushmore, except in photographs and film. While I wouldn't necessarily refuse to go if it was convenient, it's not some place that would feature high on my dream vacation destinations. I'm tired of going to see "Old White Man History," white-washed and devoid of the richness and significance the Mountain held for those who came before Charles E. Rushmore and his guide, William Challis named it without thought. (“What’s the name of that mountain?” Rushmore allegedly asked. Challis is said to have replied, “It’s never had one...till now...we’ll call the damn thing Rushmore.”)
Danish-American sculptor Gutzon Borglum is much more interesting to me than Rushmore and Challis. Borglum had the wild and crazy dream to carve a mountain. Consulting only his son, supposedly, Borglum decided to choose subject material that would stir the nation and picked four presidents, hoping to capture certain characteristics of each man and literally carve them into stone:
George Washington, chosen because he fought to create something new and better than what had existed before; Thomas Jefferson, chosen to represent growth and inherent values; Theodore Roosevelt, chosen to represent conservation; and, lastly, Abraham Lincoln, chosen to represent perseverance.
I am no artist. I can't draw a stick figure to save my life and I wouldn't know which end of a chisel to use. But, when it comes to moving mountains, each of us has our own experiences to draw from and while our final product won't be carved into mountains, for many of us it will be carved in a final stone, summed up in a pithy epithet.
Here lies Bewize. too bad she died; she was a keeper.
At least, that's what I hope my figurative headstone would say. Forgetting the fact that I have chosen cremation, headstones come with a certain pressure to have a final word. Since we don't get to necessarily supervise the carving, we have to rely on others to make sure it's embodying our best selves.
Bewize the Daughter. Bewize the Mom. Bewize the Sister. Bewize the Friend. Bewize the Lawyer. Bewize the Entertainer. Bewize the Author. Bewize the Lover. Bewize the Student. Bewize the Band Nerd. Bewize the Cat-Owned.
These are all faces that you'll see carved into me, if you look at the right angles, with the perfect squint to your eyes. I wear them proudly - and so many more.
But, the faces of my life that I want to see (figuratively speaking, but I'm not above being a ghost) are the one that capture the values most important to me.
Bewize, chosen to represent Honor. She did her best to keep her promises and worked hard to be worthy of your respect.
Bewize, chosen to represent Integrity. She was true to herself and honest, sometimes brutally so, but she worked her whole life to learn how to speak Compassionate Honesty, Kind Honesty, and Caring Honesty more than the too oft-revered Brutal cousin.
Bewize, chosen to represent Loyalty. She would move mountains for the people she considered hers. She would stand with you, even when you couldn't stand anymore.
Bewize, chosen to represent Nurturing. She showed others how to move mountains on their own.
These are my ideals, not my reality, alas. I'm all too human, all too flawed. But, that's okay. I've got the rest of my life ahead of me, and I'm armed with dynamite, jackhammers, and determination.
What values will someone carve into stone to represent you someday?
This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Mount Rushmore." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.
Danish-American sculptor Gutzon Borglum is much more interesting to me than Rushmore and Challis. Borglum had the wild and crazy dream to carve a mountain. Consulting only his son, supposedly, Borglum decided to choose subject material that would stir the nation and picked four presidents, hoping to capture certain characteristics of each man and literally carve them into stone:
George Washington, chosen because he fought to create something new and better than what had existed before; Thomas Jefferson, chosen to represent growth and inherent values; Theodore Roosevelt, chosen to represent conservation; and, lastly, Abraham Lincoln, chosen to represent perseverance.
I am no artist. I can't draw a stick figure to save my life and I wouldn't know which end of a chisel to use. But, when it comes to moving mountains, each of us has our own experiences to draw from and while our final product won't be carved into mountains, for many of us it will be carved in a final stone, summed up in a pithy epithet.
At least, that's what I hope my figurative headstone would say. Forgetting the fact that I have chosen cremation, headstones come with a certain pressure to have a final word. Since we don't get to necessarily supervise the carving, we have to rely on others to make sure it's embodying our best selves.
Bewize the Daughter. Bewize the Mom. Bewize the Sister. Bewize the Friend. Bewize the Lawyer. Bewize the Entertainer. Bewize the Author. Bewize the Lover. Bewize the Student. Bewize the Band Nerd. Bewize the Cat-Owned.
These are all faces that you'll see carved into me, if you look at the right angles, with the perfect squint to your eyes. I wear them proudly - and so many more.
But, the faces of my life that I want to see (figuratively speaking, but I'm not above being a ghost) are the one that capture the values most important to me.
Bewize, chosen to represent Honor. She did her best to keep her promises and worked hard to be worthy of your respect.
Bewize, chosen to represent Integrity. She was true to herself and honest, sometimes brutally so, but she worked her whole life to learn how to speak Compassionate Honesty, Kind Honesty, and Caring Honesty more than the too oft-revered Brutal cousin.
Bewize, chosen to represent Loyalty. She would move mountains for the people she considered hers. She would stand with you, even when you couldn't stand anymore.
Bewize, chosen to represent Nurturing. She showed others how to move mountains on their own.
These are my ideals, not my reality, alas. I'm all too human, all too flawed. But, that's okay. I've got the rest of my life ahead of me, and I'm armed with dynamite, jackhammers, and determination.
What values will someone carve into stone to represent you someday?
This entry was written for therealljidol 02: "Mount Rushmore." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.
I have no idea how to post the links. I don't do DW very well!
But, if you're so inclined, you can vote for my entry here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html
My entry: "What comes after the end?" - https://bewize.dreamwidth.org/665605.html
But, if you're so inclined, you can vote for my entry here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html
My entry: "What comes after the end?" - https://bewize.dreamwidth.org/665605.html
This has been a difficult year.
Turmoil. That's the name of the game.
Beginning. Middle. End.
A sick father. A dying father. A dead father.
An infant. A baby. A one year old.
Post-partum depression. Relationship turmoil. Emotional disconnect.
A friend. A liar. A heartache.
This is how my year is gone. Beginning. Middle. End.
Of course, it's not over yet. I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting the good fight.
But, y'all. I'm tired. And sometimes, I cannot help but wonder if I'm fighting battles because it's important to win them, or if I'm fighting them, because that's all I know to do.
Sometime in the past months, I've gotten... numb? Calm? Resigned? Resolved?
I don't know what it is. I don't know what it means. I do know that the fear I had is gone, though.
I see things more clearly now. The fog is lifting and the great unknowable future looks less foreboding.
This year has been fire. I've lost many things that were important to me. My people. Some of my freedom. Friends that I valued. Pieces of inner-peace. Certainty that my relationship would hold firm. These things have burned away in the ashes of this year.
I spoke to a friend about this recently and she commented, "I know you must be so upset... but you don't sound upset."
That's what I found in the fire. The truth. And the truth is, I'm not upset. I'm not feeling like I've lost; or at least, I didn't lose more than I gained.
Underneath everything else, I found myself again. The ME that is actually ME. The Me that stares down the Future and feels nothing but a firm and unshakable belief that I'll weather those storms, best those demons, and land firmly (if not gracefully) on my feet.
I spent ages trying to figure out what came after "the end," because I wanted a pithy title to this post. I googled. I asked the Facebooks. I got lots of great suggestions: postscript, epilogue, coda, aftermath.
But, in re-reading my post, I realized the answer all on my own.
"What comes after the end"?
"A new beginning."
This entry was written for therealljidol 01.01: ""It's hard to beat a person who never gives up." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.
Turmoil. That's the name of the game.
Beginning. Middle. End.
A sick father. A dying father. A dead father.
An infant. A baby. A one year old.
Post-partum depression. Relationship turmoil. Emotional disconnect.
A friend. A liar. A heartache.
This is how my year is gone. Beginning. Middle. End.
Of course, it's not over yet. I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting the good fight.
But, y'all. I'm tired. And sometimes, I cannot help but wonder if I'm fighting battles because it's important to win them, or if I'm fighting them, because that's all I know to do.
Sometime in the past months, I've gotten... numb? Calm? Resigned? Resolved?
I don't know what it is. I don't know what it means. I do know that the fear I had is gone, though.
I see things more clearly now. The fog is lifting and the great unknowable future looks less foreboding.
This year has been fire. I've lost many things that were important to me. My people. Some of my freedom. Friends that I valued. Pieces of inner-peace. Certainty that my relationship would hold firm. These things have burned away in the ashes of this year.
I spoke to a friend about this recently and she commented, "I know you must be so upset... but you don't sound upset."
That's what I found in the fire. The truth. And the truth is, I'm not upset. I'm not feeling like I've lost; or at least, I didn't lose more than I gained.
Underneath everything else, I found myself again. The ME that is actually ME. The Me that stares down the Future and feels nothing but a firm and unshakable belief that I'll weather those storms, best those demons, and land firmly (if not gracefully) on my feet.
I spent ages trying to figure out what came after "the end," because I wanted a pithy title to this post. I googled. I asked the Facebooks. I got lots of great suggestions: postscript, epilogue, coda, aftermath.
But, in re-reading my post, I realized the answer all on my own.
"What comes after the end"?
"A new beginning."
This entry was written for therealljidol 01.01: ""It's hard to beat a person who never gives up." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.
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