kmichels

Saturday August 30, 2014IBSHumor, Top TenLeave a comment

1. The thought of eating ethnic food you’ve never tried before makes you break out in a cold sweat. Actually the thought of eating anything new makes you break out in a cold sweat.

2. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve had to employ the courtesy flush more than once in a sitting. See #1

3. You will eat the same thing every day for a month with no complaints, because your IBS isn’t acting up and you don’t dare rock the boat. See #2

4. Going from trim to muffin-top back to trim over the course of an afternoon isn’t disconcerting, it’s just a day of the week that ends in Y.

5. You’ve come to accept that a bad IBS day during allergy season means that you’re staying within 10 yards of a restroom. At. All. Times.

6. Conversations about poop don’t strike you as odd. In fact you find it a little bit odd when you realize that some of your friends don’t talk about poop at all, and you have a special bonding moment when your new-mother friends realize that they have someone to talk about poop with.

7. You are familiar with every homeopathic and OTC “tummy fix” and are secretly, or sometimes openly, annoyed when someone offers you one that isn’t your preferred brand.

8. You know that if you ever get appendicitis you’ll probably die because you won’t realize that that pain isn’t your normal pain/cramps/malaise until too late.

9. You play the “Is it worth it?” game with at least one dish at every buffet, BBQ and party you go to. Sometimes it’s totally worth it, other times you rue the day you were born.

10. You’ve perfected the art of farting in public . . . because it happens . . . a lot.

Thursday August 28, 2014Life, SistersLeave a comment

I was tagged on Facebook to list ten books that really made an impact on my life. Not because of grandeur or quality of writing, just books, or literature in general, that has managed to stay with me. In the instructions, you are admonished not to spend a lot of time thinking about it, just put down the ones that immediately come to mind. So I started to make my list, and I found myself thinking really hard about it. Not because I wanted to make it just right, or I wanted people to be impressed by my selections. I was struggling because I’ve never been a big reader, and I was having difficulties coming up with ten titles. In the end I wound up with five plays and five books, and of the ten only three of them were read in my youth, and one of those three was read at the age of 17.

1. The Borning Room by Paul Fleischman
2. Our Country’s Good by Timberlake Wertenbaker
3. The Giver by Lois Lowry
4. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
5. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
6. When Nietzsche Wept by Irvin Yalom
7. King Lear by Shakespeare
8. Henry V by Shakespeare
9. Stop Kiss by Diana Son
10. Arcadia by Tom Stoppard

You see, my sister and I were born 11 months apart. Crazy, I know. My parents always claimed that it was on purpose. Personally, I think that there isn’t much to do in a small mountain town … At any rate, we are very close in age and living in the aforementioned small mountain town we wound up sharing everything. Everything. We had the same teachers, were in all the same clubs and to a certain extent we even shared the same friends. Since we were so close in age, and the opportunities were few and far between, in many instances we had no choice in the matter. However, when my dad jokes that he raised a right brain and a left brain in two separate children, he’s not far off. My sister and I have little in common, heck we don’t even look alike.

Therefore, whenever it was possible we would do things separately and there became this unwritten code that both of us acknowledged. Some things were hers, some things were mine, and we never strayed into the other person’s “things.” Oddly, we never fought about who got what “thing” either, it just naturally happened. We had plenty of other things to fight about though. There was a time during our early teens that I affectionately refer to as WWIII.

My sister’s biggest “thing” was reading. She was, and still is, a voracious reader. Now that’s not to say that I didn’t read at all, obviously for school and summer book clubs I had to. So I would read the minimum amount required and no more, and I would make damn sure that I never read the books that Jen did. Those were hers and that was sacred territory. Likewise, she stayed away from the books that I read, keeping that world completely separate. My biggest “thing” was theater and performing and she was more than willing to stay far, far away. We had our things and it kept us sane-ish. The funny thing is that by the time we were both in high school, and the treatise had been signed to end WWIII, we realized that maybe this whole sharing thing wasn’t such a bad gig. We embraced our mutual group of friends and stopped trying to avoid each other in clubs and groups.

But the real olive branch came, when one day Jen came into my room and handed me a book. It was one of “hers.” From a series she adored, by an author she had gone to meet to get an autograph. Normally, I would not have touched that book with a ten foot pole. It was off limits, go directly to jail do not collect $200, end of story. And here she was, handing it to me and encouraging me to read it because she thought that I would really like the story. Mind blown. That is how I came to read the Redwall series, and the beginning of my sister’s and my odd reading relationship.

Now we will often read the same books and talk about them. Generally books of her choosing because she finds my taste a little too heavy and I’ll read just about anything. What cracks me up though, is that every now and then she’ll call me to ask if I told her that she wouldn’t like a specific book, or if she’s avoided it her entire life because it was one of “mine.” Funny how something that seemed so important twenty years ago, doesn’t matter at all now. It still feels a little against the grain every time that I pick up a book, but I’m getting over it. Maybe next time it won’t take me so long to come up with ten titles.

Monday August 18, 2014Life, MothersOne comment so far

My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) when I was two. Eighteen HORRIBLE years later she died a few weeks before my 21^st birthday. The progression of her disease was swift and unrelenting. She started out with the worst possible kind (which is rare), and therefore she never had remissions. There were times that the rate of increasing damage slowed, but it never went away completely. It certainly never reversed! I learned several things with great clarity watching my mother die.

It is the quality of one’s years that matters most, not the quantity of those years.
Ignoring something bad does not make it go away. It actually makes the situation worse.
My worst nightmare is being diagnosed with MS.

I was always told that MS was not a genetic disease and therefore my odds of getting it were the same as everybody else’s. However, I have since come to learn that many doctors/scholars disagree with this belief and there is plenty of evidence that MS does indeed run in families. So my odds of having MS are a little bit higher. Then last year someone else in my family was diagnosed. That’s the beginning of a run. That’s one more blow to my odds. That means that if this were a bet in Vegas, the smart money is on me being diagnosed with MS in the next few years.

Needless to say, this has preoccupied a large part of my thinking for some time now. Then recently, my aunt asked me if I had been tested – you know like the breast cancer test that they have that shows if you have the genetic marker showing a predisposition to the disease. I of course told her that I hadn’t, because a test doesn’t exist. But this got me to thinking, maybe I was wrong. So I contacted an MS Center and asked them if there was a test. I was right, the answer is no. However, because of my family history they said that I could/should be screened by a neurologist who specializes in MS.

Silence

They could even help me find one in my area if I didn’t want to drive down to the center.

You could hear a pin drop.

Now I don’t know what all is involved in this screening and whether there would be definitive answers. I always thought that the only way that doctors could tell if you had the disease was after it was already full blown and wreaking havoc in your system. I had assumed that the only option open to me was to sit it out and let time tell. Apparently I was wrong. But now I’m left with the quandary of whether or not I get screened. The way I see it, there are only a few probable outcomes.

I don’t have MS and will never develop MS.
I don’t have MS right now, but it might develop later.
Results are inconclusive, only time will tell.
I likely have MS, but no damage is evident yet.
I have MS – worst nightmare realized.

So the question becomes will screening make me worry less or worry more? I’m not a doctor, so I realize that there are probably a lot of other possible outcomes, but since I can only work with what I know I’m going to work with these. If I get screened there is only a 1 in 5 chance that the screening will remove my worry and fear. However, there is a 3 in 5 chance that the screening will not only do nothing to allay my fears, but it might make them worse. These odds aren’t really in my favor. I know that knowledge is power and it is always better in the long run to know what you’re dealing with so you can react intelligently. But ignorance is also bliss. If I’m not going to start having symptoms for three years, will the quality of those years be better with me not knowing, or will they be better with the knowledge that there is a rain cloud on the horizon just waiting to sweep over my life?

My head knows that the prudent choice is to get screened and face whatever it is that needs to be faced head on. My heart isn’t sure that it can survive one more wrenching ache and prefers to stay ignorantly hiding from it all. I don’t know. Do I listen to my head or to my heart?

What would you do?

Thursday August 14, 2014Depression, Life, Live and LearnOne comment so far

With Monday’s announcement of the death of Robin Williams I’m sure that like me, you have been inundated with shocked reactions, tributes and more articles than you could possibly read about depression and suicide. Well, as loath as I usually am to jump on any social media trending bandwagon, this one I’m getting on board, because this is a topic that has been on my mind as of late. About a month ago I finished reading a book where the main character kills herself and I wrote a blog about the emotions that journey churned up inside of me. You can read that post here. A couple of weeks later one of my followers on Twitter asked how I would describe suicide in one word. She told me that it was for a survey. I told her short-sighted.

In my opinion, the biggest symptom of depression is short-sightedness. When you are depressed, truly, clinically depressed not just bummed out over something, you become short-sighted. You can’t see beyond the pain. You can’t see beyond the haze, the loneliness, the dejection and the failure. The burden that your heaviness places on all those that you encounter. It’s as if there is an all-encompassing fog. You can be surrounded by people, hear them, feel their presence, see them swirling the fog around you, but be completely unable to reach them. Unable to absorb their words, unable to feel their comfort, unable to process their presence. You are absolutely alone. No one can understand what you’re feeling, no one has ever felt like this before, and no one cares. So you sleep. You sleep more than anyone needs to sleep, because in sleep you escape. The pain eases and the fog lifts. You are free to just be.

The second you open your eyes, however, it all rushes back in with a whoosh and the weight of it takes your breath away. Do you get up and fight through one more day, or do you sleep some more? Eventually the lure of sleep becomes stronger and the need to fight wanes. The struggle seems insurmountable. There’s a looming giant blocking your path that takes a step closer every time you reawaken until you are finally forced with the decision; do you stand alone on the field of battle with no weapons and your reserves of energy spent to fight the goliath, or do you peacefully slip into sleep forever? In that moment, that pivotal all-encompassing moment the decision is easy. Your short-sighted depression has already told you that you won’t win against the giant. So why delay the inevitable? Why cause yourself more pain?

I have definitely seen people react to a suicide by calling the person selfish. I disagree. Suicide is not selfish. Suicide is the only logical answer in a disconnected world where sophistry rules. In a mind where all thoughts, interactions and beliefs belittle, shame and discourage the self. For those people, in the grips of that disease, suicide is the only logical answer. It not only ends the mind-numbing pain, it removes the burden placed on all those around you. Your family, friends, and co-workers will no longer have to deal with you. To a depressed mind, suicide is the cessation of a great burden and the removal of pain for everyone involved. The theme song of “M.A.S.H.” – “Suicide is Painless“ was clearly written by someone who knows the grips of true depression.

Of course, to a healthy mind, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. And everybody has felt depressed from time to time, so they assume that they can relate. However, I think the best comparison I have ever heard is that somebody who has only been momentarily depressed (in my opinion any episode that lasts less than a year is a moment) telling someone who is clinically depressed that they know what they’re going through is like somebody telling an amputee that they can relate because they once had to get stitches. It’s just not the same. Clinical depression is a disease that affects everything you do, every day of your life.

I have been clinically depressed for 21 years. This way of life is all I know. So when I heard that Robin Williams had committed suicide, unlike all of the people around me, I was not shocked. I was saddened, but I was not shocked. In my mind it made perfect sense that this man, with a history of depression and addiction who made a living making people laugh uproariously for years, would commit suicide. You heard me right. I lumped his comedy in with his darkness. There is a reason that the majority of painted clown faces are crying. I would hazard to guess that most comedians are, or have been at some point in their lives, severely depressed. David Wong an editor at Cracked.com wrote this article about that very topic, and he hit the nail on the head. Even going as far back as the class clown in school, there is usually something lurking beneath the comedy.

The Sad Clown by jlmorris

I was not the class clown growing up. I didn’t discover the magic of laughter until later in life. Now I use it all the time. I love to make my friends laugh and I revel in that moment of power that that laughter brings me. I made them laugh. I must be worthwhile after all. But if you really look closely, you’ll notice that my particular brand of humor is self-deprecating. I tell funny stories of me doing embarrassing things. I make funny faces and noises. Sometimes I do so unintentionally and when a friend says, “say that again, “obviously making fun of me, instead of blushing at my out of place remark or reaction and fumbling forward, I repeat whatever I did or said with pride, usually exaggerated a little bit for better effect. I do so because I know that I’ll get the laugh, and there are times that that laugh is the only thing that connects me to the people around me. That laugh is the only thing that I have that says that I belong and that those people want me around. So I make them laugh again and again, and each peal is a gentle pat on the head saying “There, there. Someone wants you.”

Sounds pathetic doesn’t it? Well it feels pathetic too. And I can tell you right now, that reaction does not come from low self-confidence, or low self-esteem. It comes from my depression.

It’s a part of my disease that I recognize and acknowledge. I always have. That’s why when I was an actress and the cast was encouraged to greet the audience after the show I would drag my feet. I would take extra-long to get out of costume and make-up so that by the time I made it to the lobby there were only a few patrons left. I yearned for their praise and applause, but I knew, that like the laughter I could provoke, that praise wouldn’t penetrate to create a connection and so would leave me feeling hollow after time had passed. It would leave me seeking more and more, and it would leave me broken if I didn’t get a steady stream. So I didn’t allow myself to drink from that well. It didn’t matter if people liked my work, as long as I didn’t like myself. Somewhere in my brain or my heart or my very being I understood this. I also understood that as long as I let my depression have free reign in my head, I would never like myself. So I waged war on my depression. I took the battle to the goliath before he had a chance to get too close and overwhelm me. I didn’t go alone either. I armed myself with knowledge, therapists, pharmaceuticals, exercise, sunshine, diet, vitamin supplements, emotional-release therapies, herbal remedies and a good deal of thick-headed stubbornness.

Did I win the battle? Nope. I’m still depressed and probably will be until the day that I die. The difference is that now I know how to manage my disease, and I understand that that management is going to have to change as my disease shifts and fluxes with my life. Depression is a wily little fucker, and just when you think you have everything figured out it’ll throw you a curve ball. It keeps things interesting.

The one weapon in my arsenal that is new, is talking about my disease with more than just a therapist or a really close friend. A huge weight lifted from my shoulders the moment that I decided to throw caution to the wind, stare all of the stigmas in the face and admit to my condition. There are those in my acquaintance who do not approve of this choice. I don’t care. Having a mental illness does not mean that I am weak, and it does not mean that I have been “strong for too long.” I think we’ve all seen that meme floating around. It means that for whatever reason, physiological or environmental, my body does not produce the correct chemicals in the correct amounts. End. Of. Story. There is nothing shameful in that. Therefore, I am not ashamed to openly admit that I suffer from clinical depression and anxiety, and if that admission makes some people uncomfortable, that’s their problem not mine. I will not hide a huge part of who I am for the comfort of others, and nobody else should have to either. It is in the hiding and denial that the giant is allowed to creep ever closer.

Robin Williams has undoubtedly left a rich legacy behind him. I thank him the most for unwittingly opening up the door for a frank discussion about depression and suicide. Thank you for that. May you stand in the sunshine and finally be at peace.

Monday July 21, 2014Depression, LifeView all 2 comments

I just finished the book 13 Reasons Why, and there were some things that I liked and there were somethings that I didn’t like. The premise is that a teenage girl has committed suicide. But before her death she recorded tapes explaining the events, more precisely the people involved in each event, that snowballed her life to the point where she felt that suicide was her only option. After her death these tapes get mailed out to each and every person that has a feature part in her story. Sort of a blame game from the grave. From a psychological stand point, this book was very intriguing, and for me hit a little close to home.

I have battled depression since I was 11, and while I never wanted to end my life, I most certainly contemplated attempting suicide. Like Hannah, the girl in the book, I couldn’t understand how people didn’t see how miserable I was. And if they did know, why they didn’t do anything about it? Also, like Hannah, I reached out for help. However, this is where our stories diverge. Not because I got help, boy wouldn’t that have been nice, but because my reaction to the refusal of help was different. I reached out to three people.

Person #1 – I went to a teacher that I trusted and had a relationship with. I told this teacher that I was horribly depressed, that I hated my life and that I wanted to get help. I wanted to find a therapist, but I didn’t know how. This teacher’s reaction – “But you function so well, you don’t want to get involved with a therapist. They usually screw you up worse.” There was a suggestion of journaling and meditation. End of conversation.

Person #2 – Another adult, outside of school. Again, I told this person that I was horribly depressed, that I hated my life and that I needed help. I needed to talk to a therapist. Are you ready for this person’s reaction? “But it’s such a small community and there’s only one therapist. Everybody would know. Are you sure?” No suggestion of something else that might help, I was told to think about it whether it would be worth it.

At this point I was at my wits end. I didn’t want my life to end, but I was seriously starting to think that the only way that I could get someone to help me, is if I tried to commit suicide. If I attempted suicide then people would finally believe me that I needed help. Then people would understand that I didn’t give a crap who knew. I wanted to feel better. I wanted life to not suck so much. So I started to devise ways to kill myself that were guaranteed to fail. The main problem, I had always been an overachiever. I needed it to look like a genuine attempt or people wouldn’t believe me, so I was afraid that I would accidentally succeed. So enter:

Person #3 – I was fed up with adults by this point, so I went to someone my own age. I told this person that I was horribly depressed, I hated life and was thinking about killing myself. Then I asked if I could stay with them for a bit, so that I wouldn’t. This person’s reaction? They yelled at me. Why was I coming to them with this? What were they supposed to do? Why did I say that?

My reaction? I left. I have a feeling that most people in my situation would have then gone on to carry out their plan. After all, how much more validation that nobody gives a crap does one person need? That is not what I did, and I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because I have a stubborn streak the size of the Mississippi River. Maybe it’s because I knew deep down that I wanted to keep living. Or maybe it’s because I finally realized that in this instance, as in almost every other thing in my life, I was on my own. If I needed something, I had to get it for myself. So instead of being crushed, I was furious. I had point blank, no beating around the bush asked for help three times and on each occasion that person couldn’t see beyond their own feelings or stigmas to help me. So fuck all of them! Fuck everybody! I was going to live and I was going to get my own help just to spite them. (Remember that stubborn streak I mentioned?)

When I went off to college, I did just that. I found myself a therapist. And when she didn’t work out, I found a different therapist. I did this until I found one that clicked with me and then I stuck with her until the clicking was gone. Then I found a new one. I did it on my own, but I shouldn’t have had to do it on my own. I was a teenager who worked up the nerve to tell people that I needed help, and I was denied that help. Until the end of my days, I will never understand that. I will never understand how someone can ignore a person standing right in front of them asking for help. Asking for help, especially for mental health issues, is one of the hardest things anybody can do. Looking back at my own experience and after reading this book I can understand why some people feel that suicide is the only answer. When no one is willing to help you, that seems like the only option to make the pain stop.

So if someone stands in front of you and asks for help, HELP them! If you don’t have the skills personally, help them find someone who does have the skills. If you think that they’re just looking for attention, you’re right. They are screaming out for someone, anyone to pay attention to them. To prove to them that they are worthwhile, that their life is precious and worth saving. Help those who ask for it, and even if they don’t ask for it outright, if you see the signs show them that you care and that they matter. Sometimes all it takes is one person, one smile, one shared can of soda and a moment or two of truly listening.

I was watching “The West Wing” one day and one of the characters told a story. That story affected me so much I re-watched it several times before continuing on with the episode. In that story a man falls down a hole and can’t get out. He’s screaming for help, but no one seems to hear him. Until finally a doctor peers down into the hole. The man pleads with him to help him out, but not seeing an easy way to help, the doctor writes a prescription, throws it down into the hole and goes on his way. Again the man starts screaming for help. This time a priest stops and peers down. The man pleads with him to help him out. Again, not seeing an easy way out, the priest writes down a prayer for the man and throws it down into the hole. Frustrated and with two worthless scraps of paper, the man starts screaming for help again. This time a friend of the man peers down the hole. Upon realizing the predicament, the friend jumps down into the hole. The man is incensed with his friend. Why did he jump into the hole? Now both of them were stuck! But the friend smiles and shakes his head. Clasping his hand on the man’s shoulder the friend says, “Never fear, I’ve been down in this hole before, and I know the way out.”

To those who are at the end of their rope contemplating suicide, don’t give up. As hard as it is to believe, there is someone who would miss your smile, or the particular color of your eyes. There is someone who wishes that they could get to know you better. There is someone whose life will be irreparably damaged if you’re not in it. You are not alone. I’ve been there before, many of us have been there before and we know the way out. There is always someone who has stood exactly where you are right now. Their reasons for being there are probably different, but it doesn’t change the fact that they have stood in that same hole, and they now know the way out. They know what it is to feel so alone that the very thoughts in their head echo like a canyon. They know what it is to feel so beaten down, abused and misused that even the thought of moving is exhausting. The very act of breathing hurts. There are people who understand and know full well that some exercise, St. John’s Wart and a better attitude are bullshit. And even better, they know that life doesn’t have to be so hard. They know that there is a way out of the hole, you just have to keep screaming for help until that person arrives.

So hold on. It doesn’t matter if it’s a life line that someone has thrown to you, or the tiniest, most delicate thread of hope or faith that things have got to get better. Find something, anything to hold onto and never let go. This world needs you.

For help 24/7 in the United States call this number – 1-800-273-TALK. Click here for help worldwide.

Thursday June 26, 2014DatingOne comment so far

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually think we had something figured out back in sixth grade. I know, middle school is the tenth circle of hell that Dante left out of his Inferno for fear that he would scare people to death. But when it comes to dating, I think we had something figured out back then. Think about it, if you liked a boy you mooned and giggled over him with your friends for a bit, and then you’d send one of them over to him with a carefully folded note – the folding was very important –

that had some variation of this on it:

Do you wanna go out? Circle yes or no.

Yes No

He got the note, he responded and you were either on cloud nine, or you became so depressed that you wanted your life to end . . . until your BFF gave you her Lisa Frank folder that you’d always been jealous of and then everything was alright. How much easier is that, than what we do as adults?!? It takes all of the pressure off! Imagine a bar – because we’re adults now, so we’re allowed to drink! – where you go with your friends and when you see a guy that you like you send one of your friends over with a note:

Do you wanna get a coffee tomorrow at 10:30? Circle yes or no.

Yes No

He gets the note, he responds and you either keep looking or you have a fantastic evening with your girlfriends secure in the knowledge that you have a coffee date the next morning. The next morning you go out and chat over coffee – where you can make nice sober decisions – and decide if you’d like to pursue things further. So. Much. Easier.

Or, if you’re a little more adventurous than that, there could be a nice game of Spin the Bottle over in the corner. A coat closet designated for 7 Seconds in Heaven. You can find out a lot in seven seconds! Sometimes, all you really need to know can be discovered in seven seconds, ladies you know what I’m talking about. If things get really out of hand then maybe some Twister or Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board!

Okay, that’s going a little too far, but the rest sounds fantastic! No skeezy guys invading your space who won’t take a hint, no public rejection for all to see. A simple yes or no question and then you move on with your evening. I like this plan. Who’s in?

Monday June 23, 2014Life, Live and LearnOne comment so far

I had a conversation this weekend about when it’s appropriate to call it quits on a relationship with someone. At what point do you decide that a person causes more grief and drama in your life and you gracefully cut them loose. I find that I have a three strikes and you’re out policy. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, I’m done. To my thinking, life is too short to spend it with people who repeatedly hurt you, continually criticize you or expect you to be somebody that you aren’t. Quite frankly, if you can’t accept me for who I am and show me the same respect that I show you, then I don’t feel the need to spend my time or energy on you.

On the one hand, I wonder if this attitude means that I miss out on good things because certain people are no longer actively in my life like they used to be. But on the other hand, I spent a good portion of my life forgiving any and all trespasses against me, and all it got me was repeated heartache and the belief that embracing who I am was wrong and inappropriate. I don’t know that the former has enough draw to make up for the latter. So does that make me an emotionally stunted, unforgiving person, or does that make me an emotionally healthy person with enough respect for myself to set clear boundaries? I’d like to believe that it’s the second, but sometimes I really don’t know.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to realize that I don’t enjoy drama. On the stage or in a book it’s great, but I don’t like it in my everyday life. I don’t need to have some sort of crisis to solve or problem to figure out to make my days exciting. Quite the contrary, I prefer things to run smoothly and easily. Now that’s not to say that I’m afraid of or avoid conflict. I’m one of the most bull-headed people I know and will step up to a fight and argue a point until even a two-year-old would back down. I’m stubborn and I like to win, but I don’t thrive on the conflict. I don’t need it to feel good about myself. So spending my time with people who continually bring that part of me out is exhausting and vexatious. What do you think? When is enough, enough?

Wednesday June 18, 2014Change, InspirationLeave a comment

There’s something that happens when everything falls into place and finally makes sense. When the path clears before you and no leap of faith is necessary because you can see every step that you will take for the next few feet, few miles, few years. You finally know who you are and what you are supposed to be doing. And all of a sudden everything else feels superfluous. It doesn’t matter and you have no idea why you’ve spent so much time and energy and stress on something so . . . inconsequential. The clarity becomes a numbing certainty and you realize that deep down you knew, you’ve always known.

This has been a part of you since day one, you just needed someone to open your eyes. Open your soul, peer inside and extract the very essence that pulses through your veins. That thing that makes getting up in the morning not just bearable, but joyful. That makes your job your work. Your life’s work. Your legacy that you will leave behind to impress upon the minds of all those who are yet to come. All those who are just a glimmer in their parent’s eyes. All those who will come from the eyes that do not yet exist to hold a glimmer. That kind of work. That kind of clarity. That kind of purpose. The path is clear. Just place each foot in front of the other.

Thursday June 05, 2014#100HappyDaysHappiness, Life, Live and LearnOne comment so far

I recently came across the hashtag #100HappyDays and was intrigued. So I investigated. I enjoy a good motivational article or program, so I figured, let’s see what this one is all about. Turns out that it’s this initiative for people to sign up, and every day for 100 days you’re supposed to take a picture of something that makes you happy and then post it on social media tagged with #100HappyDays, or some other personal variation that you come up with if you don’t want it easily searchable by the masses. What a fantastic idea! Focus on the positive. Even on a bad day, you have to come up with something that makes you happy. They had me hook, line and sinker. I signed up. May 1^st I was going to start my 100 days of happy. I didn’t make it. In fact I don’t even think I made it three weeks before I gave up completely. On the Happy website it stated that the #1 reason that people quit was because they claimed that they didn’t have the time. This was not my reason for quitting. It also was not because I had a lack of happy things to photograph and post. I quit, because I realized that it had become work. I had plenty of things that were making me happy, the trouble came from the fact that I wasn’t interrupting my happiness to document them. I enjoyed the things that made me happy and then I moved on with my day. Which meant that at the end of the day I was stuck manufacturing some photo for the project. I had actually begun to plan out my photos in advance. Staged happiness. Which seemed a little counter intuitive. I realized that I didn’t need the reminder that there is something to be happy for every day, because I was happy every day. In reality #100HappyDays was a success for me, just not in the way that they would measure success. It helped me to realize that my life is full of everyday things that make me happy, so anything above and beyond is icing on the cake. I realized that my furry babies give me endless amounts of happiness. The endless funny things that they do. The way Bubba will “talk” to you if you’re not giving him the attention he thinks he deserves. The way Zoey will crawl into my arms in the middle of the night because she needs a snuggle. They make me happy.

Puggle Sandwich

I realized that my friends give me endless amounts of happiness. Whether we’re being goofy or serious, doing something planned or impromptu, their presence is comforting. They make me happy. I realized that crossing things off my to-do list, fresh produce, a glass of wine, a good book, a cool shower on a hot day, watching water lap up on the shore, good theater, finding something on sale, and abandoning all of my plans getting a pizza and staying in to watch a movie all make me happy. I realized that it wasn’t complicated, it wasn’t some grand mystical thing that is always out of reach. Happiness is easy. It’s a choice to focus on the good things instead of letting yourself get bogged down by the bad. I realized that I don’t need 100 pictures to remind myself to be happy. I am happy.

Monday June 02, 2014Couponer, Extreme CouponingLive and LearnLeave a comment

Over the weekend I decided that I was going to dip my toes into the crazy world of extreme couponing and see what that was all about. Okay, so it was really more like moderate couponing, since I only went to one store and didn’t come home with 50 of any one product. Because let’s face it, I live in an apartment with no extra storage, where would I put 50 tubes of toothpaste? Not to mention, wouldn’t most of them go bad before you had a chance to use them? How much toothpaste can one person go through? I think these thoughts should have been my first clue that I am not a “couponer.” I don’t know if that’s how they refer to themselves, but it sounds good to me.

At any rate, I sat down and strategized. Instead of figuring out my meals for the week and then shopping accordingly, like I usually do, I looked at what was on sale. I painstakingly looked through what was on sale and what coupons there were. Is that something that I normally buy? Is it something that I occasionally buy? Is it something that I never buy, but could find a use for? I made lists, I wrote down prices, compared savings between products and made note of quantity limitations. Then I divided and conquered. After all, I had two coupons that would get me $20 off of a $75 purchase. So I needed two trips that would add up to $75 each so that I could save $40.

Then I hit the store, and despite the fact that I had a very detailed list, my trip took twice as long as normal. I became that crazy person climbing into the freezer to the get to the stuff in the back because the product that I had a coupon for wasn’t on display in the front. I was the person triple checking between the package sizes on the shelf and what I had put on my list, “Damnit! My coupon doesn’t cover the 10 oz, I need the 13 oz, where is the 13 oz!” At one point, I actually asked an employee if they had a particular size in the back because they were out on the shelf. I’m pretty sure when he turned around to go check he rolled his eyes at me. I don’t blame him. I would have rolled my eyes too, because I’m pretty sure I had that manic, “But I have to save 30 cents” look on my face.

That’s when the manic took on a whole new level; they were out of one of the things on my list. Which of course meant that my calculations would now be off, because I had added everything up to reach the golden $75 mark. I’d given myself a little bit of a cushion, but I couldn’t remember how big of a cushion, and after all I was supposed to be buying six of this particular product so that was gonna take a chunk out of my total. I was paralyzed, I was standing in the store paralyzed trying to decide if I should just double up on something else on my list, or if I should start going through the aisles until I found something else on sale that would be an equivalent price, or should I just chance it and hope that it all worked out okay at the register and not be forced to scramble to find something really quick to make up the difference of $4 that I would inevitably be short of my $75 mark. Argh!!!!!!!

I have never been so stressed grocery shopping in my entire life. It was ridiculous. It was beyond ridiculous. By the time that I made it to the register and watched as the dollars fell away with each new coupon I realized that I wasn’t even enjoying it. Usually I think it’s very fun when I swipe my Vons card and watch as the amount goes down. But this time all of the fun was gone, because I had already done the math and I knew how much it was going to go down. I got some satisfaction from the fact that I actually made a dollar on one product, but beyond that I was just glad that it was over and I hoped that everything would fit in the kitchen.

All in all, I saved right around 50% off of my groceries. Like I said, moderate couponing. But if I really look at it and calculate in how much extra time I spent preparing for my grocery shopping trip, and how much extra time it took to do the grocery shopping – remember two trips on top of the extra time to get the exact right products – I’m pretty sure I actually paid about 125% for my groceries. I work freelance, so all of that time that I spent I could have been working and making money. Huh. I think I’ll be sticking to normal grocery shopping from now on.