I got a job! Jesus Christ almighty, I got a job!
I was beginning to stress and regret and ponder going back to the other place that I had quit recently. I had been there officially almost two years, and unofficially another 7 months, after all. Then one day, I awoke to an online job post that a friend sent me. I emailed my resume, had an interview by 10am the next morning, then hired on the spot. Starting to feel like my old self again! Right…?
First day, great. Second day, great. I’m doing less than half the workload, hell, less than 2/3 the workload that I did at my last job AND I’m getting paid more. Win win, right…?
By the third day, things have begun to slow down. I work at an exclusive little movie theatre that is located at a very well-known state park which shall remain nameless. The theatre only shows one 40 minute movie a day about the state park at which it is located. Every 45 minutes, the same little movie (that I myself have seen in its entirety at least 2 times) repeats itself to hundreds of sets of eyeballs. However, considering this is the off-season, it’s only about 20 sets of eyeballs at a time.
Which makes my new job so incredibly boring, I’m about to rip out my hair.
Boredom: the state of being weary and restless through lack of interest.
There are 5 other employees here: one is a little newer than me, two will be leaving in the next couple months, one has ADHD or more like just HD, and the other one is a fabulous grumpy lady that I take so much pleasure in attaching myself to so I can listen to her bitch about everything and anything. She’s been here the longest, next to the manager who has been here for 14 years.
We’re a small group of misfits. It all seems to be going well. But after that third day of getting to know the basics (scan the wristband, sell a ticket, usher people to their seat), it feels more like I have been hired as a sort-of Stepford wife and less as a supervisor. The manager shows up late and leaves early, if he even comes in at all. As soon as he shows up, he puts his cellphone away and starts nit-picking about the weirdest things around the theatre: a breaker cabinet that needs to be painted, organizing the supply closet, dust on the top door frame on the outer doors. Weird shit that he says nobody has taken the initiative to fix. I’m sittin’ here thinking “you’re the fucking manager, tell them to do it.” But it seems to be some sort of weird power play.
Or maybe he’s just crazy and lazy and could give a fuck about this job. Yes, I think that’s it.
The other employees here tell me to “just observe”. My boyfriend says the same thing. When I hear those two words, it takes me back to my meditation retreats, where the Master Teacher S.N. Goenka repeats to his students “just observe…just observe….”. At these moments of observations, you are to notice any changes, no matter how big or little, in your breath or body. Notice the change, give a few moments of your time, then move along for the next observation to take place.
When I think about my first retreat, I remember how fucking hard it was to “just observe” without wanting to scream out loud about it being absolutely impossible to sit there and notice my breath. I mean, you’re sitting there silently and you’ve got a crazy fucking monkey mind tearing up the insides of your brain, and you’re supposed to just sit there and observe things….? Really…….??
YES.
So with this stupid new job, I’m just going to observe. I’m going to observe the boss not noticing the work I have done, or any of the work other employees have done. I’m going to stand or sit, scan or usher and just observe what I can while I’m here. I’ll organize the closets and paint a door. If my monkey mind starts kicking in, I’m going to observe that, too. Because honestly, I have no idea how long I can stay at this place. It’s so BOOORRIINNGGGG. At least with meditation, you work through the observation and start to feel things become more real and more present and less irritating and everlasting. At this new job, things just keep getting more tedious.
It’s not that I expected this to be the most amazing job ever; I feel more like this was supposed to be a transition job, keeping me afloat until the next perfect thing comes along. The thing is, though, I feel like I was sold a lemon, ya know. The boss told me at the interview how I would have so much responsibility and accountability (which I prefer). I would be in charge of making sure all the breaks and lunches were taken when scheduled, that all chores would be completed, all duties and projects assigned, etc. But instead, I stand up front, talking to the other employees about how bored we all are.
However, I can’t help but wonder if this is yet another gift of time. Since I’m not using much mental energy here, I can focus on writing during my breaks and lunch time. Since I’m not burnt out by the time I get home, I can use that time for sitting and creating. I have asked for time, as much time as the universe can give me. I seem to keep getting it.
So I will keep taking it.
I will observe. I will write. I will be patient.
But I still might have to find a more interesting job that doesn’t make me want to staple my eyelids to my forehead to keep them open…
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Thursday, January 24, 2019
So, I Wrote a Book Once...
It’s true, LaFou. I wrote a little book. A teeny, tiny collection of short stories. Then I went out of my way to self-publish that book. It was a painstaking and lengthy process. But, goddammit, I fucking did it.
I have always been a lover of short stories. Don’t get me wrong. At any given time, I will be reading anywhere up to 4 actual books at one time. I can’t ever NOT be reading a book. Whether it’s biographies or jacked-up murder mysteries, I’m always reading a book. And even though I enjoy a good book, I absolutely positively adore reading a good short story. Those little slice-of-life tales are so powerful to me. In only a few pages, you can read about somebody’s heartbreak, or murder, or most embarrassing moment EVER. They are so effective and relatable to me. So, I would identify with them, and write my own out.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
In the winter of 2012, I decided it was time to get off my wannabe literary ass and put together some of my little stories to share with the world in hopes that I would finally achieve the publishing dream and get an agent and a contract and all that jazz. I carefully picked out 12 stories, some shorter than others, and arranged them perfectly like Christmas decorations on a folded paper tree. My brother did a lot of web design and he helped me design the layout of everything, from the page numbers to how the cover should look. My friend Jacob (we like to refer to him as “Old Man” or “Yacob”) took the perfect picture for the front and back covers. It all looked exactly as I dreamed it would.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
I had to go through all the red tape of buying the ISBN, paying certain fees, figuring out the size, blah blah blah. The book itself had to be edited, which meant I had to order a copy online and have it sent to me so I could make sure every single word, sentence, page, layout was absolutely perfect. This process was so redundant, I almost gave up. I had to re-read my book dozens of times to make sure everything was right. In the end, when it was just right enough, I was ready.
The self-publishing world is really quite easy. Anybody can do it. It just costs a few bucks of your hard-earned money, and BOOM! You’ve got a shiny paperback with your name on it. But by self-publishing, you also spend hours, days, weeks, months making it perfect. So when I say the book was just right enough and I was ready, really I mean I was sick of editing it anymore. I said “fuck it, let the chips fall where they may”. (I.e. Let the remaining misspellings suck a fat one, I don’t care anymore!)
By the summer of 2012, my little cherry-covered girl was ready. She was so pretty! I knew a guy that worked in a local bookstore and was in charge of organizing local author signing events, and he excitedly approached me to set up a date. While waiting for the date, I got the book up and running on amazon.com for an affordable price and people were even leaving little reviews. I ordered about 40 books to sell at the library for my signing and then-some.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
Being new to the self-publishing world (and self-financing world as well) I paid to have the books made and delivered without regard to how long it would actually take for the books to be printed and delivered. So when the day of my signing came, I literally had NO books to sell any potential buyers. I was fucking mortified. My bookstore working associate assured me it would all be fine and suggested I go purchase some bookplates from the local office supply store. That way, people could still get my autograph and pay for the book, they would just pick it up at a later date when the books actually came in.
I was stunned at how many people actually came to the signing. I mean, really. If you wanna talk about supportive friends, let’s talk about mine. A big group of buddies had gone bowling before it was time for my signing. And they all came in with huge smiles and giant hugs, ready to buy my little book. An old friend (in fact, she was the muse for two of my stories in the book) that I hadn’t seen in a few years showed up. My sister-in-law brought the baby (who hated me at the time but posed in a picture with me long enough before he ran away from me). There were even 2 separate ladies that showed up that I didn’t even know and said they had been looking forward to reading my book and were so excited to meet me! I felt amazing!
Everybody purchased a book. I signed bookplates for every single one of them. All in all, it took about 2-3 hours. About 25 of my books sold that day, making myself and the bookstore a little bit of money. That weekend, my book topped the sales at the store over 50 Shades of Grey (Ha Ha, slutty bitches!)
A few days later, the books were finally delivered. I pressed every signed bookplate into a book and labeled them all with the names of who purchased them, delivered them to the bookstore and collected my check. I felt like a real fucking writer and it was kickass.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
The book didn’t sell like hot-cakes online or anything, but it was a start. I eventually converted it to Kindle as well, and made another couple of bucks off of that. It was no living. Honestly, I probably broke even considering the cost I had to pay for everything. But I felt like my dream of becoming a published author was finally materializing.
Then the manager of the bookstore called me about a month or so later, informing me that several of the books hadn’t been picked up after the buyers had been contacted. I was slightly embarrassed; surely, it must’ve been the 2 ladies that didn’t know me and maybe a couple of my friends hadn’t gotten around to picking it up yet. I sent some text and facebook messages, reminding people I knew to pick it up. I had an author’s page up on facebook and made a general message: Hey everybody! The books are available at the bookstore! If you haven’t picked up your copy yet, head out there! And thank you for your support!
Then another month or so later, I was contacted by the store manager. He informed me the store was closing (the beginning of the end of printed media; do you hear my heart breaking?!?) and I needed to come pick up the rest of my books. When I got there, there were still several left unsold, and still some that hadn’t been picked up by my friends that had purchased them. I took the liberty to deliver to those that hadn’t picked it up, brushing off my embarrassment. After all, they showed up to my signing. They had contributed to my project. I was grateful. I told myself to get over it, and move on.
I wrote letters to independently owned bookstores throughout the state of California and Oregon, pleasantly introducing my little book and offering the owner a free copy to read to determine if it would be something they wouldn’t mind trying to sell off of their shelves. I received no responses. My amazon bank account resembled an underground cave filled with stalactites, filled with only the sound of random drips of water, echoing into the darkness.
My dream suddenly came to a deadening halt. It felt as if I had put so much hope into this little baby project of mine, and now nobody wanted to buy it, or even read it. They didn’t even want to be polite and peruse through it. I was crushed.
So, I stopped writing. Well, I stopped writing creatively. I took my book off Amazon, deleting it from all existence.
I did some basic freelance work for some local magazines and newspapers. But nothing that spoke to my soul. Nothing that felt like personal expression. My art went from Van Gogh (well, maybe more like Jackson Pollock) to house painter.
And then I stopped completely.
Life happened. Break-ups, moves, kidney donations, blah blah blah. And it wasn’t until recently after facing all the crappy things of life and getting myself to write again that I realized how important that sweet little baby book of mine was to me.
When I originally took it off the internet and stopped writing creatively, its because I felt jaded by the whole self-publishing experience. I can even quote myself saying I “hated” the entire experience, and almost felt as negatively about the book itself. I was angry that it wasn’t my big break. I was angry that it was such an shitty amateur attempt at making myself a great author. I was pissed that my friends and random bookstores and the internet had let me down by not making it a bigger and better experience.
Eventually, I realized that it had nothing to do with anyone but myself. It had nothing to do with my friends or the bookstores or the internet. I was the one that made the experience seem so lousy. And it wasn’t even a lousy experience. It was a phenomenal experience and I was so lucky to have such wonderful friends that loved me enough to SHOW UP. They supported me and my dream. I was the one that didn’t.
I put my book back up on Amazon. Go buy it. Buy it for yourself. Buy it for your friend. Buy it to support literature. Then share it with anyone and everyone or donate it to a library. Because. Maybe it’ll make you smile. Maybe it’ll be boring. Maybe there will be something in there that will touch a nerve within your gut that might inspire you to do something you love. I don’t know, it will mean something to you somehow, even if you hate it. Art evokes emotion. So, feel some.
The stories were written over a period of 10 years or so. Some are based on my own personal experiences, some are based on experiences of others. They all have a little fictional tweak to them. But they’re my heart and my heart has grown more since I wrote those stories. I love those stories. I love that book. So, onto the next one…
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
I have always been a lover of short stories. Don’t get me wrong. At any given time, I will be reading anywhere up to 4 actual books at one time. I can’t ever NOT be reading a book. Whether it’s biographies or jacked-up murder mysteries, I’m always reading a book. And even though I enjoy a good book, I absolutely positively adore reading a good short story. Those little slice-of-life tales are so powerful to me. In only a few pages, you can read about somebody’s heartbreak, or murder, or most embarrassing moment EVER. They are so effective and relatable to me. So, I would identify with them, and write my own out.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
In the winter of 2012, I decided it was time to get off my wannabe literary ass and put together some of my little stories to share with the world in hopes that I would finally achieve the publishing dream and get an agent and a contract and all that jazz. I carefully picked out 12 stories, some shorter than others, and arranged them perfectly like Christmas decorations on a folded paper tree. My brother did a lot of web design and he helped me design the layout of everything, from the page numbers to how the cover should look. My friend Jacob (we like to refer to him as “Old Man” or “Yacob”) took the perfect picture for the front and back covers. It all looked exactly as I dreamed it would.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
I had to go through all the red tape of buying the ISBN, paying certain fees, figuring out the size, blah blah blah. The book itself had to be edited, which meant I had to order a copy online and have it sent to me so I could make sure every single word, sentence, page, layout was absolutely perfect. This process was so redundant, I almost gave up. I had to re-read my book dozens of times to make sure everything was right. In the end, when it was just right enough, I was ready.
The self-publishing world is really quite easy. Anybody can do it. It just costs a few bucks of your hard-earned money, and BOOM! You’ve got a shiny paperback with your name on it. But by self-publishing, you also spend hours, days, weeks, months making it perfect. So when I say the book was just right enough and I was ready, really I mean I was sick of editing it anymore. I said “fuck it, let the chips fall where they may”. (I.e. Let the remaining misspellings suck a fat one, I don’t care anymore!)
By the summer of 2012, my little cherry-covered girl was ready. She was so pretty! I knew a guy that worked in a local bookstore and was in charge of organizing local author signing events, and he excitedly approached me to set up a date. While waiting for the date, I got the book up and running on amazon.com for an affordable price and people were even leaving little reviews. I ordered about 40 books to sell at the library for my signing and then-some.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
Being new to the self-publishing world (and self-financing world as well) I paid to have the books made and delivered without regard to how long it would actually take for the books to be printed and delivered. So when the day of my signing came, I literally had NO books to sell any potential buyers. I was fucking mortified. My bookstore working associate assured me it would all be fine and suggested I go purchase some bookplates from the local office supply store. That way, people could still get my autograph and pay for the book, they would just pick it up at a later date when the books actually came in.
I was stunned at how many people actually came to the signing. I mean, really. If you wanna talk about supportive friends, let’s talk about mine. A big group of buddies had gone bowling before it was time for my signing. And they all came in with huge smiles and giant hugs, ready to buy my little book. An old friend (in fact, she was the muse for two of my stories in the book) that I hadn’t seen in a few years showed up. My sister-in-law brought the baby (who hated me at the time but posed in a picture with me long enough before he ran away from me). There were even 2 separate ladies that showed up that I didn’t even know and said they had been looking forward to reading my book and were so excited to meet me! I felt amazing!
Everybody purchased a book. I signed bookplates for every single one of them. All in all, it took about 2-3 hours. About 25 of my books sold that day, making myself and the bookstore a little bit of money. That weekend, my book topped the sales at the store over 50 Shades of Grey (Ha Ha, slutty bitches!)
A few days later, the books were finally delivered. I pressed every signed bookplate into a book and labeled them all with the names of who purchased them, delivered them to the bookstore and collected my check. I felt like a real fucking writer and it was kickass.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
The book didn’t sell like hot-cakes online or anything, but it was a start. I eventually converted it to Kindle as well, and made another couple of bucks off of that. It was no living. Honestly, I probably broke even considering the cost I had to pay for everything. But I felt like my dream of becoming a published author was finally materializing.
Then the manager of the bookstore called me about a month or so later, informing me that several of the books hadn’t been picked up after the buyers had been contacted. I was slightly embarrassed; surely, it must’ve been the 2 ladies that didn’t know me and maybe a couple of my friends hadn’t gotten around to picking it up yet. I sent some text and facebook messages, reminding people I knew to pick it up. I had an author’s page up on facebook and made a general message: Hey everybody! The books are available at the bookstore! If you haven’t picked up your copy yet, head out there! And thank you for your support!
Then another month or so later, I was contacted by the store manager. He informed me the store was closing (the beginning of the end of printed media; do you hear my heart breaking?!?) and I needed to come pick up the rest of my books. When I got there, there were still several left unsold, and still some that hadn’t been picked up by my friends that had purchased them. I took the liberty to deliver to those that hadn’t picked it up, brushing off my embarrassment. After all, they showed up to my signing. They had contributed to my project. I was grateful. I told myself to get over it, and move on.
I wrote letters to independently owned bookstores throughout the state of California and Oregon, pleasantly introducing my little book and offering the owner a free copy to read to determine if it would be something they wouldn’t mind trying to sell off of their shelves. I received no responses. My amazon bank account resembled an underground cave filled with stalactites, filled with only the sound of random drips of water, echoing into the darkness.
My dream suddenly came to a deadening halt. It felt as if I had put so much hope into this little baby project of mine, and now nobody wanted to buy it, or even read it. They didn’t even want to be polite and peruse through it. I was crushed.
So, I stopped writing. Well, I stopped writing creatively. I took my book off Amazon, deleting it from all existence.
I did some basic freelance work for some local magazines and newspapers. But nothing that spoke to my soul. Nothing that felt like personal expression. My art went from Van Gogh (well, maybe more like Jackson Pollock) to house painter.
And then I stopped completely.
Life happened. Break-ups, moves, kidney donations, blah blah blah. And it wasn’t until recently after facing all the crappy things of life and getting myself to write again that I realized how important that sweet little baby book of mine was to me.
When I originally took it off the internet and stopped writing creatively, its because I felt jaded by the whole self-publishing experience. I can even quote myself saying I “hated” the entire experience, and almost felt as negatively about the book itself. I was angry that it wasn’t my big break. I was angry that it was such an shitty amateur attempt at making myself a great author. I was pissed that my friends and random bookstores and the internet had let me down by not making it a bigger and better experience.
Eventually, I realized that it had nothing to do with anyone but myself. It had nothing to do with my friends or the bookstores or the internet. I was the one that made the experience seem so lousy. And it wasn’t even a lousy experience. It was a phenomenal experience and I was so lucky to have such wonderful friends that loved me enough to SHOW UP. They supported me and my dream. I was the one that didn’t.
I put my book back up on Amazon. Go buy it. Buy it for yourself. Buy it for your friend. Buy it to support literature. Then share it with anyone and everyone or donate it to a library. Because. Maybe it’ll make you smile. Maybe it’ll be boring. Maybe there will be something in there that will touch a nerve within your gut that might inspire you to do something you love. I don’t know, it will mean something to you somehow, even if you hate it. Art evokes emotion. So, feel some.
The stories were written over a period of 10 years or so. Some are based on my own personal experiences, some are based on experiences of others. They all have a little fictional tweak to them. But they’re my heart and my heart has grown more since I wrote those stories. I love those stories. I love that book. So, onto the next one…
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0615494250?pf_rd_p=c2945051-950f-485c-b4df-15aac5223b10&pf_rd_r=357P5EDEFW9MQ24EFX6T
Friday, December 21, 2018
First One’s Here!
Welcome to Un-Wally World. Park’s closed. The moose out front should’ve told ya....
That’s what it feels like sometimes. Like you’ve planned it out, packed your bags, filled the car up with gas, the map is marked (or googled, whatever), you go through Hell to get there, you show up and the parking lot is empty giving you prime parking, you get to the gate, and you’re sent away because of ‘repairs.’ The journey sent you to a closed destination. It was all for not. And now you have to get back into your car and start all over again on your way home, with no kitschy t-shirt or funny coffee mug to commemorate your fun family trip.
I didn’t want to go to college, but started to anyways because my parents told me I was ‘supposed’ to go. It was never about what I wanted to study. I wanted to study theatre and film, but was told that would be a waste of time and I wouldn’t make any money, so I should get a degree in something else as a fall back. If the time was right, then maybe I could make a little money doing what I loved. But really, I should be a teacher or computer tech or something else I could never imagine myself doing.
After getting my gen ed credits at the local community college, I enrolled in a REAL college about 600 miles away from my home. After only one single quarter, I hated it. I could NOT find a job for the life of me. I didn’t care for the type of people that were up there (dirty hippies that literally didn’t bathe in anything but patchouli and sandalwood oils), and in all actuality, I missed my family and my home.
So after that first semester, I moved back home and started over. The first time....
I didn’t want to go to back to school. Structured learning was not my forte. I wanted to get back into theatre. So I did. Then I fell in love with the director of a theatre group, and a year later, we moved to Los Angeles to start our careers in the film and television biz.
Starting my life over: time number 2.
For 4.5 years, I worked a shitty bank job, became completely disenchanted with the idea of becoming an actress, and got my first writing gig as a theatre reviewer. Some shows were amazing and a complete gift to watch and review. Some shows were such crap, I wanted to throw my keys onstage and curse the actors for ruining all of our lives by being at the heart of such a terrible piece of shit.
Then, my uncle died and for whatever reason, it opened my eyes to do something that would make me happy. I wanted to keep writing, and I was often typing out another short story about how misunderstood young women were during their journeys through pregnancy tests and mommy issues. My uncle’s life was cut short, and I didn’t know if he died satisfied with his life. Our family was shocked by his death and felt short-changed by his short existence. I wanted my life to be so complete, that nobody would feel short changed. Least of all, myself.
Life starting over: time number 3.
I enrolled myself in Massage Therapy school. I really don’t know why, other than at the time, it rang in my ear like a constant doorbell. I had to answer it or else it would never go away. I got through my schooling, I passed my licensing exams with flying colors, and started my first independent job at a little spa. Within three weeks, I learned that the other massage therapists stole clients from each other’s schedules, the owners were essentially stealing money from potential clients by selling relaxation packages that they didn’t ask us to honor, and another therapist came into my massage room wanting to kick my ass (seriously) because I used one of her business cards to write my name on and give to a client because my business cards hadn’t come in yet.
To top it all off, my 5.5 year relationship with the theatre group director had fizzled to a simple friendship and I wanted out. We ended it amicably, and I couldn’t find another massage job. The best option was for me to pack my things and get relicensed back at home. So that’s what I did.
Restart number 4. (For fuck’s sake)
Almost immediately I got a great little apartment and great massage job working at a great doctor’s office. Then my creepy next door neighbor kept coming over asking me if I wanted to come over for a few beers and a smoke, and when I would decline (‘cause, um, NO) he would then ask if I HAD any beers or cigarettes. Again, I would decline and shuffle out of my apartment as quickly as I could. My job ended up not paying me well and I struggled to pay my bills. I had to move back in with my parents (again), get a part-time job, then another, then another. I started dating a great guy that I had known from high school and it was going really well. But almost as suddenly as the relationship had started, the problems started, too.
I switched jobs to a busier doctor’s office, made more money, and even won Best Massage Therapist in the county in 2012. The relationship kept fizzling and we kept fighting, but for whatever asinine reason, we wouldn’t break up. For almost 4 years, we struggled to make the other one happy. Then one day, I just knew, and I ended it. I moved back in with my parents for the 74th time, and within a year, I had a mental breakdown. The money stopped rolling in, I was heartbroken, exhausted mentally, emotionally and physically. I had to stop. Everything. I quit my job and surrendered to rest and some minor financial support from my parents.
Do we hear number 5?!?
After one month of this uninspiring lifestyle, I started working in a flower shop. The colors and smells and constant smiles on customers faces was uplifting and relieving. I started coming back to life. I learned how often to water certain plants, names of roses, how to get lilies to open overnight. It was as if learning about all these little lives that grew and bloomed helped my own life to do the same. I started a new relationship, which bloomed as well. Things were on the up and up. My depression was manageable, I smiled often, I was in love. Every morning I’d get to work and I’d smell the heavenly aroma of fresh cut flowers and earth.
Feeling back up on my feet again, I felt the itch of another restart. Dear god, the itch…. I knew it was time to move. I brought this up with my man; he hesitated for a week or so, then agreed. Even more amazingly, he wanted us to move to San Francisco. Even MORE amazingly, he wanted to support us completely, meaning I didn’t have to work and could focus solely on my writing. And then even MORE amazingly, he paid for the entire trip for us to head up there for a three day weekend, intent on looking at as many places as possible in hopes that we would find the right fit. We found three. Hell, one of the apartment managers offered it to us the same day. We came home to ponder.
The very next day, my boyfriend said we were making a mistake moving in together. I ran off into the night, devastated. He dumped me a week later, the day after my grandmother died.
I decided to restart on my own. I HAD to do this. I had to try. I gave myself two options: either Seattle or the central coast, where I had luckily spent summers with my grandparents as a child. I figured it would be smarter and easier if I kept it more local and immediately began a job search. Within a couple more months, I was employed and had a place to live. Eager with my 6th new beginning (if you’re still keeping track), I went off, practically abandoning my old life and friends, needing some space to build myself and my new life up.
Then, my brother went into renal failure.
It was obvious and unconditional: he would get my kidney. There was no doubt or question in my mind. He grew incredibly sick incredibly fast, and my family struggled to keep it together. I put this new life of mine on hold to give every piece of energy I had to my brother and the rest of the family. His life was in my hands, in my abdomen, actually, and I was practically willing to cut the damn thing out myself.
As he got sicker and sicker, he developed a polyneuropathy disorder and lost the ability to walk. He was on dialysis for 12 hours a day, and it wasn’t working. We were referred to the Keck Kidney Center at USC. For over a year and a half, we waited for them to let us progress forward and start the compatibility testing necessary to determine if I was a good match. And they LITERALLY forgot about us. We didn’t receive phone calls or emails. Both my brother’s and my coordinators kept either quitting or moving on. We would leave messages, write emails, call to complain, and kept getting forgotten.
As my brother’s polyneuropathy got worse, everything was put on hold. All of our lives stopped solely to focus on what the fuck the next step would be to get him well. He was dying, and we weren’t sure how much longer he had. My brother was a healthy athlete, married to his longtime sweetheart, with a gorgeous little boy. No history of alcohol or drug abuse. He lost his first kidney as an infant, and after all this time, the second kidney failed. There was no rhyme or reason for the torture he was being subjected to. So we waited for the fucking shitty kidney center to call us back and give us the green light.
Then by chance, he was referred to Cedars-Sinai by his neurologist to deal with his polyneuropathy. At that referral appointment, that doctor referred him to the kidney transplant center. And six months later, both my brother and I were on the operating table, exchanging a body organ. I had saved his life. It was time to get back to mine.
Until my belly started bloating and I kept getting sick. I looked five months pregnant within 6 weeks, I couldn’t eat any food or drink any water, and I was in constant discomfort and pain in my abdomen. After a diagnosis of Chylous Ascites (a very rare and random surgical complication), my body was poked, prodded, drained, ad nauseam (pun fucking intended, trust me). Over the next six months, my belly was drained of over 50 pounds of fluid, I lost 30 pounds of my own, was hospitalized 3 times, had about 15 medical procedures done, was deprived food and put on IV nutrition for months, until I finally had to have exploratory surgery to fix the problem, which had a 50/50 chance of working.
It worked. Thank fucking god.
Six weeks later, I was able to eat solid foods again. I got a return to work date from my surgeon. It was time to get back to life.
Enter my second mental breakdown.
The anxiety became unbearable. The depression crashes practically daily. I had no idea how to go back to work like this. I couldn’t, I just fucking couldn’t. My boss had tried to be patient but had occasional anger flare ups, telling me I had to “make a choice”. The lack of compassion made me feel like I had ruined every single work relationship I had there. I couldn’t handle the thought of working for someone that treated me like that anymore. One night while taking a stroll with my boyfriend in the local cemetery, I literally snapped and ran away screaming that I couldn’t take it anymore. Screaming, you guys. FUCKING SCREAMING.
What was I supposed to do? My job was very physical: heavy lifting, gardening, running around the property. I had hardly gained any of the 30 pounds back and had no muscle left in me. There was no way I could go back to the job. And my boss…. I was afraid that if he said one rude comment to me, that I was going to either cuss him out like a little bitch or run away screaming as well. So at my boss’s behest, I made a choice. I resigned.
Restart number 7.
So, here I am. Unemployed. Living by the beach. Endlessly morally supported and encouraged by my boyfriend. Doing freelance writing and editing to make a buck or two. Trying to get this restart up and running before anything else shitty happens. And you know what I’ve learned? It never fucking stops. EVER. Life will never stop throwing bad shit into your face. But it also will give the good stuff, too. Sometimes, it’s all about timing. Sometimes, it’s all about love. Sometimes, it’s all about common sense. Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes and run through it and hope that when you open your eyes on the other side, you’re still in one piece.
I had a nightmare (or was it?) the night I resigned. One of my best friend’s (she actually helped me write my letter of resignation) and I were in a car, driving on a windy and icy road. When she hit a patch of black ice on a curve, we spun out of control and fell off the cliff. As the car fell through the air down to the unforeseen ground, we held each other closely and said I love you. I was grateful for the impending death, and I was grateful it was going to be with her. We waited for the sudden explosion. When it happened, it wasn’t a loud crashing sound. More like a stereo speaker being hooked up to the wrong cord. In the dream, I awoke in my neighborhood shopping center, aware I had died, and yet was brought back to life. To start over, yet again.
That’s what it feels like sometimes. Like you’ve planned it out, packed your bags, filled the car up with gas, the map is marked (or googled, whatever), you go through Hell to get there, you show up and the parking lot is empty giving you prime parking, you get to the gate, and you’re sent away because of ‘repairs.’ The journey sent you to a closed destination. It was all for not. And now you have to get back into your car and start all over again on your way home, with no kitschy t-shirt or funny coffee mug to commemorate your fun family trip.
I didn’t want to go to college, but started to anyways because my parents told me I was ‘supposed’ to go. It was never about what I wanted to study. I wanted to study theatre and film, but was told that would be a waste of time and I wouldn’t make any money, so I should get a degree in something else as a fall back. If the time was right, then maybe I could make a little money doing what I loved. But really, I should be a teacher or computer tech or something else I could never imagine myself doing.
After getting my gen ed credits at the local community college, I enrolled in a REAL college about 600 miles away from my home. After only one single quarter, I hated it. I could NOT find a job for the life of me. I didn’t care for the type of people that were up there (dirty hippies that literally didn’t bathe in anything but patchouli and sandalwood oils), and in all actuality, I missed my family and my home.
So after that first semester, I moved back home and started over. The first time....
I didn’t want to go to back to school. Structured learning was not my forte. I wanted to get back into theatre. So I did. Then I fell in love with the director of a theatre group, and a year later, we moved to Los Angeles to start our careers in the film and television biz.
Starting my life over: time number 2.
For 4.5 years, I worked a shitty bank job, became completely disenchanted with the idea of becoming an actress, and got my first writing gig as a theatre reviewer. Some shows were amazing and a complete gift to watch and review. Some shows were such crap, I wanted to throw my keys onstage and curse the actors for ruining all of our lives by being at the heart of such a terrible piece of shit.
Then, my uncle died and for whatever reason, it opened my eyes to do something that would make me happy. I wanted to keep writing, and I was often typing out another short story about how misunderstood young women were during their journeys through pregnancy tests and mommy issues. My uncle’s life was cut short, and I didn’t know if he died satisfied with his life. Our family was shocked by his death and felt short-changed by his short existence. I wanted my life to be so complete, that nobody would feel short changed. Least of all, myself.
Life starting over: time number 3.
I enrolled myself in Massage Therapy school. I really don’t know why, other than at the time, it rang in my ear like a constant doorbell. I had to answer it or else it would never go away. I got through my schooling, I passed my licensing exams with flying colors, and started my first independent job at a little spa. Within three weeks, I learned that the other massage therapists stole clients from each other’s schedules, the owners were essentially stealing money from potential clients by selling relaxation packages that they didn’t ask us to honor, and another therapist came into my massage room wanting to kick my ass (seriously) because I used one of her business cards to write my name on and give to a client because my business cards hadn’t come in yet.
To top it all off, my 5.5 year relationship with the theatre group director had fizzled to a simple friendship and I wanted out. We ended it amicably, and I couldn’t find another massage job. The best option was for me to pack my things and get relicensed back at home. So that’s what I did.
Restart number 4. (For fuck’s sake)
Almost immediately I got a great little apartment and great massage job working at a great doctor’s office. Then my creepy next door neighbor kept coming over asking me if I wanted to come over for a few beers and a smoke, and when I would decline (‘cause, um, NO) he would then ask if I HAD any beers or cigarettes. Again, I would decline and shuffle out of my apartment as quickly as I could. My job ended up not paying me well and I struggled to pay my bills. I had to move back in with my parents (again), get a part-time job, then another, then another. I started dating a great guy that I had known from high school and it was going really well. But almost as suddenly as the relationship had started, the problems started, too.
I switched jobs to a busier doctor’s office, made more money, and even won Best Massage Therapist in the county in 2012. The relationship kept fizzling and we kept fighting, but for whatever asinine reason, we wouldn’t break up. For almost 4 years, we struggled to make the other one happy. Then one day, I just knew, and I ended it. I moved back in with my parents for the 74th time, and within a year, I had a mental breakdown. The money stopped rolling in, I was heartbroken, exhausted mentally, emotionally and physically. I had to stop. Everything. I quit my job and surrendered to rest and some minor financial support from my parents.
Do we hear number 5?!?
After one month of this uninspiring lifestyle, I started working in a flower shop. The colors and smells and constant smiles on customers faces was uplifting and relieving. I started coming back to life. I learned how often to water certain plants, names of roses, how to get lilies to open overnight. It was as if learning about all these little lives that grew and bloomed helped my own life to do the same. I started a new relationship, which bloomed as well. Things were on the up and up. My depression was manageable, I smiled often, I was in love. Every morning I’d get to work and I’d smell the heavenly aroma of fresh cut flowers and earth.
Feeling back up on my feet again, I felt the itch of another restart. Dear god, the itch…. I knew it was time to move. I brought this up with my man; he hesitated for a week or so, then agreed. Even more amazingly, he wanted us to move to San Francisco. Even MORE amazingly, he wanted to support us completely, meaning I didn’t have to work and could focus solely on my writing. And then even MORE amazingly, he paid for the entire trip for us to head up there for a three day weekend, intent on looking at as many places as possible in hopes that we would find the right fit. We found three. Hell, one of the apartment managers offered it to us the same day. We came home to ponder.
The very next day, my boyfriend said we were making a mistake moving in together. I ran off into the night, devastated. He dumped me a week later, the day after my grandmother died.
I decided to restart on my own. I HAD to do this. I had to try. I gave myself two options: either Seattle or the central coast, where I had luckily spent summers with my grandparents as a child. I figured it would be smarter and easier if I kept it more local and immediately began a job search. Within a couple more months, I was employed and had a place to live. Eager with my 6th new beginning (if you’re still keeping track), I went off, practically abandoning my old life and friends, needing some space to build myself and my new life up.
Then, my brother went into renal failure.
It was obvious and unconditional: he would get my kidney. There was no doubt or question in my mind. He grew incredibly sick incredibly fast, and my family struggled to keep it together. I put this new life of mine on hold to give every piece of energy I had to my brother and the rest of the family. His life was in my hands, in my abdomen, actually, and I was practically willing to cut the damn thing out myself.
As he got sicker and sicker, he developed a polyneuropathy disorder and lost the ability to walk. He was on dialysis for 12 hours a day, and it wasn’t working. We were referred to the Keck Kidney Center at USC. For over a year and a half, we waited for them to let us progress forward and start the compatibility testing necessary to determine if I was a good match. And they LITERALLY forgot about us. We didn’t receive phone calls or emails. Both my brother’s and my coordinators kept either quitting or moving on. We would leave messages, write emails, call to complain, and kept getting forgotten.
As my brother’s polyneuropathy got worse, everything was put on hold. All of our lives stopped solely to focus on what the fuck the next step would be to get him well. He was dying, and we weren’t sure how much longer he had. My brother was a healthy athlete, married to his longtime sweetheart, with a gorgeous little boy. No history of alcohol or drug abuse. He lost his first kidney as an infant, and after all this time, the second kidney failed. There was no rhyme or reason for the torture he was being subjected to. So we waited for the fucking shitty kidney center to call us back and give us the green light.
Then by chance, he was referred to Cedars-Sinai by his neurologist to deal with his polyneuropathy. At that referral appointment, that doctor referred him to the kidney transplant center. And six months later, both my brother and I were on the operating table, exchanging a body organ. I had saved his life. It was time to get back to mine.
Until my belly started bloating and I kept getting sick. I looked five months pregnant within 6 weeks, I couldn’t eat any food or drink any water, and I was in constant discomfort and pain in my abdomen. After a diagnosis of Chylous Ascites (a very rare and random surgical complication), my body was poked, prodded, drained, ad nauseam (pun fucking intended, trust me). Over the next six months, my belly was drained of over 50 pounds of fluid, I lost 30 pounds of my own, was hospitalized 3 times, had about 15 medical procedures done, was deprived food and put on IV nutrition for months, until I finally had to have exploratory surgery to fix the problem, which had a 50/50 chance of working.
It worked. Thank fucking god.
Six weeks later, I was able to eat solid foods again. I got a return to work date from my surgeon. It was time to get back to life.
Enter my second mental breakdown.
The anxiety became unbearable. The depression crashes practically daily. I had no idea how to go back to work like this. I couldn’t, I just fucking couldn’t. My boss had tried to be patient but had occasional anger flare ups, telling me I had to “make a choice”. The lack of compassion made me feel like I had ruined every single work relationship I had there. I couldn’t handle the thought of working for someone that treated me like that anymore. One night while taking a stroll with my boyfriend in the local cemetery, I literally snapped and ran away screaming that I couldn’t take it anymore. Screaming, you guys. FUCKING SCREAMING.
What was I supposed to do? My job was very physical: heavy lifting, gardening, running around the property. I had hardly gained any of the 30 pounds back and had no muscle left in me. There was no way I could go back to the job. And my boss…. I was afraid that if he said one rude comment to me, that I was going to either cuss him out like a little bitch or run away screaming as well. So at my boss’s behest, I made a choice. I resigned.
Restart number 7.
So, here I am. Unemployed. Living by the beach. Endlessly morally supported and encouraged by my boyfriend. Doing freelance writing and editing to make a buck or two. Trying to get this restart up and running before anything else shitty happens. And you know what I’ve learned? It never fucking stops. EVER. Life will never stop throwing bad shit into your face. But it also will give the good stuff, too. Sometimes, it’s all about timing. Sometimes, it’s all about love. Sometimes, it’s all about common sense. Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes and run through it and hope that when you open your eyes on the other side, you’re still in one piece.
I had a nightmare (or was it?) the night I resigned. One of my best friend’s (she actually helped me write my letter of resignation) and I were in a car, driving on a windy and icy road. When she hit a patch of black ice on a curve, we spun out of control and fell off the cliff. As the car fell through the air down to the unforeseen ground, we held each other closely and said I love you. I was grateful for the impending death, and I was grateful it was going to be with her. We waited for the sudden explosion. When it happened, it wasn’t a loud crashing sound. More like a stereo speaker being hooked up to the wrong cord. In the dream, I awoke in my neighborhood shopping center, aware I had died, and yet was brought back to life. To start over, yet again.
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