10 years of Writing

A week or so ago, this blog celebrated it’s 10th anniversary.

Unfiltered Me Ten Years Past

I didn’t know anything about blogging when I started. I know slightly more about blogging now.

And the question on my mind is what to do with this blog. Do I continue writing this blog or do I stop and try something new?

Ten years ago, the blog was called Rosereads because I had intended it to be a place where I review books and eventually introduce my own writing. Papi gave me the idea. My book reviews never really did take off and I never did get tons of free books or advertising. Still, I continued writing.

And writing.

The fact that I have been actively working on writing for ten years is a success. That success has been bolstered by guest editors help me along the way and to each of them I am so grateful for that assistance.

If you are new here, I’ve dysgraphia which is an odd thing for a writer to have, but here I am. It makes writing a struggle. I have difficulty getting my thoughts out without making spelling errors, omitting words or using the wrong word completely.

I never thought growing up I would be a writer, let alone have a blog (those weren’t a thing when I was a kid) and two published works. My English teachers used so much red ink on papers they looked like victims of a massacre instead of term paper drafts. Friends and family ridiculed things I wrote. Poor grammar and spelling is mistakenly seen as lack of effort or intelligence.

Blood Child
My 1st Publication
My 2nd Publication

I’m still pretty shy about putting myself out there. Writing anything takes me a while because of the fear and anxiety of rejection and ridicule.

And yet, I am still writing.

This blog is going to stick around. It is an important part of my journey. It is something that Papi inspired me to do and even though he wasn’t happy with everything I wrote; it was his push that got things started. This blog will be everything that it should of been from the beginning, a record of my journey as a writer.

New blogs and adventures are beginning after all, what is the fun in making the rational decision and not continuing to do something that isn’t seen as a success. But, the writing while not award winning, it has reached people. It has touched them in heart and that to me is a success. Poe didn’t reach greatness until he had experienced long periods of horrible sanity.

Thank you, dear reader for all of your support.

Going Back In Time

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Florida was my home for 18 years. In a way, it will always be my home. So much of who I am today was formed in the Sunshine State, albeit from the shadows as I am not really found of heat or sun. Yes, I did willingly move to Florida but until you live here you don’t understand how oppressive the sun is. It never really stops trying to scorch the invaders so it can go back to being a happy mosquito infested swamp. We all have our glory days, and Florida misses when its very nature repelled development.

The journey here was longer than expected. We left my beloved mountains and solid ground around 7am thinking that with stops we would be in Orlando around 7-8 o’clock. Alas, we made it in shortly after 1am. While we were finishing lunch and getting gas, there was a multi-vehicle car crash 25 miles from the Georgia-Florida line.

We were rerouted by GPS so many times that at one point after a much needed stop we had to head North on 95 to be able to navigate around it. With all the detours, there wasn’t much time to think or reflect on my first trip back home in two years.

Reflection came after I relinquished the wheel and saw the Orlando area for the first time. Places that I had known flying by in the shadows and then the lights growing of downtown Orlando. This is not the land of the mouse. It is hard to define what it is the land of because Orlando and Florida in general is more than a vacation designation. It is home and not home.

Home is the solid footing of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but home is also where the heart is and pieces of my heart will always be in Florida with my family (both biological and chosen). There were so many people and places that I wanted to see. I managed more than my last trip in 2019. Time, however, was not on my side.

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I remembered Papi, first. I remembered the place where we first kissed and so many other bittersweet memories in between. We passed where my friend, Shannon, lived in the last days of her life. We drove pass what had been the home of my friends, Wolfie and Awen. Awen passed away in the home and Wolfie moved out more than a decade ago.

We briefly stopped at Lake Eola before discovering that our bladders wanted us elsewhere. I thought about the walks around the lake. One sticks out, we were walking around before Papa passed, my brother E was with us and we were all sad, but happy to be together in the sun and fresh air.

My companions and I walked through Disney Springs and all the happy memories of my best friend and I hanging out. Memories of family birthday gatherings at the Rainforest Cafe and the day I walked into the Chapel Hats and asked them to find me a hat to match my outfit.

There was a drive through my old neighborhood and so many memoires. My companions got to see the porch where the novella “Blood Child” was conceived. And the places where I used to walk with Luke

We wandered through the Greenwood Cemetery where I poured out every bit of knowledge I have concerning it. I couldn’t bare to take them to the Pulse Memorial but I could point out the section of Greenwood that were some of the 49 Angels have been buried. The City of Orlando donated the plots for them. I pointed out the trees and other features that mark it as unique.

My companions traveled with me back in time. They were most amused after dinner with Zee and the Professor where I had indulged into far too much wine. During the journey back home, I gave them Lucinda’s drunken tour of Orlando. Apparently, I had a lot to say about every building I could identify and quite a few that had been built in my absent.

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The present and the potential future blinked in and out of my days home.

The past is not a place you can stay. You can only really glimpse it. The emotions push through the veil separating past, present, and future. You are there for a moment, feeling all of the emotions, drowning in them. Then you are in the now, and nothing is right.

Nothing is the same.

Everything changes regardless of your desires. Your favorite nacho places closes after twenty years. Friends move out of your old neighborhood. And sadly, there are people you never get to say goodbye to again, even when you are going back in time.

State of Things July

Wow, what a month!! It is hard to believe that in five days it will be over. And then it will be back to my day job and the stresses and pressures of being an American educator.

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This summer, I have taken more steps to eventually leaving teaching to write and create full time. It is a slow process but I am working on it. Even if I never make a complete transition, I am happier when I am creating.

Most of my writing this month focused on editing, journaling and blogging. The outlines for my non-fiction projects haven’t really gotten off the ground. (Meaning, I’ve thought about them but not put time into the research.) I was hoping to squeeze in another trip to Richmond to write and research but alas I need to attend to more mundane things.

I did get to spend a wonderful day at the lake yesterday celebrating a good friends birthday and making some new acquaintances. It was the day of rest and relaxation that I didn’t know that I needed. Thank you to S for not only being my friend, but making me feel like family.

Family is important to me. In recent years, I’ve spent more time with my chosen family than my biological family. It hasn’t been something that I’ve done consciously. I tend to get lost in the day and when my spoons are gone, I am done. I am horrible at communicating with people I don’t come in regular contact with due in part to my anxiety. I want to, but… well anxiety is not a nice person, to say the least.

Momma and Me Many Years Ago.

This month, I got to see Momma and my sister and her wonderful kids in Florida. I won’t lie and say the visit was great. We all have issues that we need to work on as well as how we communicate with each other. Sissy, if you are reading this, I do love you.

The visit has prompted me to return to therapy sooner rather than later. I have a list of things that I want to work on so I can improve my communication skills, establish better boundaries and be a better me. Therapy has been helpful to me in the past, however, I never actively worked on communication skills. My doctor wants to see how I am feeling after a couple of therapy sessions how I am dealing with things on a mental health front. Did I mention that I love my doctor? Cause I love my doctor.

She did ask if the summer had been restful and I hesitated. It has been good to work on other things without the stresses of work. I’ve gotten to travel, hugged my Mom and good friends, saw new things and breathe the fresh air and sunshine into my soul. I’m lucky to have this time. Time to recoup.

The time is never enough. My gratitude for things I have is not comparable to the things I have lost, the things that have hurt me and the things I still need to heal from. The things I love lots, the things that have hurt me, and the things I need to heal from don’t compare to the things I am grateful for. I could rest for a thousand days and still not be ready to return to my work as an educator. I will, however, return, because I both love my job and need that sweet sweet health insurance.

Sometimes There Are No Villains

And no victims.

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In fiction, there is a villain to oppose the hero. In the wake of a villian’s terror, victims call and plead for help. In real life, no so much. And that’s just the way it is. No matter how much you want there to be. It is a hard concept for many of us to let go of.

In the days and now weeks since Papi’s death, I have thought a lot about this idea: villains, victims and heroes in everyday life. When we are hurt, we want someone to be responsible. We never want that person to be ourselves. When our heart is broken, we want to blame the one who did it. The one who made us feel this way. But is that healthy? Is it healthy to always seek to blame someone for our woes?

The simple answer is no. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on what didn’t work out in my previous relationships. The common factor in all of those relationship was me. Sure, some of the guys I dated broke up with me in harsh ways but that only makes them a jerk not a villain. I’m not the victim. They weren’t the bad guy. They just weren’t the right guy for me and when they realized I wasn’t the right one for them they left. I was hurt but not victimized.

There were a couple that were toxic and not nice people. Yes, Patrick, I am looking at you. (kidding, mostly).

That maybe is over simplifying it. There are toxic people out there. People who seek to victimize others. They want to be the villian and get off on it. What I am talking about is villianing everyone with whom you have a relationship that doesn’t work. Playing the woe is me card over and over again and hoping that something will be different.

When we seek to blame others and take no responsibility for our own unhappiness, it is really hard to take responsibility for our happiness. Why is one in our control and the other not? There will always be things outside of our control but not everything is outside of our spheres of influence.

We can work to control our reactions. Notice, I didn’t say control our reactions. No matter how hard we work, it is impossible to control all of our reactions. We can get better at it. It has taken medication, therapy and a lot of self-reflection to be able to control some of my reactions.

Twenty years ago, I was a hot mess. I may still be a hot mess emotionally at times. Adulthood is a series of events leading to the collection of your shit and the collapse of your shit. We are all at some point in the cycle. Some people are better at keeping it together than other. There is also a whole league of people that are incredible good at making everything seem like it is all okay dokey when it isn’t. I like to call them influencers.

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These days, I am pretty good at making it look everything is shipshape when it isn’t. Not because I don’t want people to know the realities of my life, because if I stop moving long enough to explain things to them something else is going to come crashing down on my head.

Papi and I had a complicated relationship. I never hated him even when things were twisted. He was never a villain to me. I don’t understand why he did the things he did, but I loved him. I loved him so so much. He wasn’t the villain. I wasn’t a victim. We were two people who loved each other, were horrible at communication.

When I reflect on my own childhood, I see a lot of things that were done to me. I didn’t have power and agency as a child. Adulthood comes and we aren’t always ready for it. There is no magically awakening that occurs when we turn eighteen. We don’t suddenly get all the skills necessary to live as adults. We don’t learn how to deal with each other.

I’ve been a teacher since 2006 and one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that adults don’t act very adultlike much of the time. They are petty and sometimes cruel for no reason. Logic may as well just be a pretty wreath of flowers that smells horrible. It is as rare as common sense.

Growing up as an eighties kid, a lot of the movies I watched pitted the underdogs against the popular kids. The good guys against the villains. Real life isn’t black and white. It is shades of grey and colors more beautiful than one imagines. It is seeing someone you love grow, love and live a life that makes them happy.

Papi had that with his partner. There is never going to be a day that I don’t miss him. There may never be a time that I don’t wish things had been different between us. But knowing he was happy, he was loved and loved in return, makes me smile.

Get Away – Don’t Tell

This is the second weekend that I have left the Big House on the hill for the wonders of the city and a room in a friend’s home.

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For the second weekend in a row, the stress and anxiety of the past weeks along remnants of the pandemic have drift away as I left the day to day behind for an adventure. This weekend’s adventure found me traversing the streets of Washington, D.C. in a quest to get to my friend’s house as close to four o’clock as I could. Waze, by the way, I don’t trust you any more since last weekend you guided me to the wrong restaurant and this weekend there was the detour through D.C. during rush hour. I made it to my destination in the nick of time but I fear you will do me wrong again.

This weekend, I decided not to post my trip on social media. Partly, due to fear of backlash for having the ability to get out of town. And mostly because I needed a break from everything. A break from my everything and a chance to refresh and renew my internal control system. I can not be the change I desire to be in the world if I allow myself to be crushed by the weight of things out of my control.

My weekend away let me reflect on the things that have been causing me anxiety.

Other People’s Perceptions.

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You can not change the way others think of you. You can not control their choices. You can only manage your own reaction. Do not be mistaken, you can not control them. So much of our lives are controlled by habits. The majority of habits are not set intentionally. We set them through routine. Resetting habits is difficult. Resetting thinking more so.

The anxiety that I have been feeling has been intense. I struggle to focus when my entire being is racked doubt, confusion and pain. The pain is so deep inside my core that I don’t know how to deal with it.

Recently, one of my closest relatives has been calling to vent. The anxiety and stress they feel has been passed to me and I have been waking up in the middle of the night racked with worry that I can’t do all these things at once. My relatives perception of what I have or have not done is beyond my control. Trying to control it and problem solve from hundreds of miles away is not working.

So, I am attempting to focus on what I can do and how I can help while maintaining my own mental, physical and financial health. It isn’t an easy balancing act, but it is necessary.

The Return

First, we are never going back to the way things used to be. Not a 100%, too much as happened and it is impossible to go back. Nearly 4 million people have died as a result of COVID. Business have closed and careers have been lost. The “normal” so many crave returning to was toxic to people of color, women and the working poor.

Maya Angelou said “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better”. We know as a society how much we rely on low wage workers to keep everything running. While some folks are still refusing acknowledge the importance of these lower skill jobs (there is no such thing as a no skill job, fyi.) and say that people just don’t want to work, that is simply not true. It is an excuse to ignore the issue. I would also argue that they aren’t low skilled at all. My own work history has taught me that much.

As our society attempts the return to “normal”, we will all adjust at our own speeds. Some have already rushed back to their “normal”, others are still testing the waters. Everyone had been affected. The stress I was feeling from personal and work matters stems in part from the pandemic. The pressure placed on family ties and the education system for which I work exposed cracks and widen others. We need to take our time personally so that we don’t go back to what a comfortable dysfunction.

The Social Media Break

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My weekend break from social media let me two things. First, I enjoyed the weekend without trying to narrative it the same time. Freedom!! The second was living fully in the moment and resting. For myself, not telling folks that I was taking the break or the weekend was key. The people who needed to know where I was did and everyone else didn’t need to know. The purpose of the weekend was to visit with old friends and recharge. Unplugging from my normal was exactly what the doctor order.

It is going to take several more treatments and a lot more hugs to fully recharge. Honestly, I need to recharge on a regular basis and make that a habit instead of running myself again and again to the point of exhaustion.

What about you? Have you gotten away ? Taken a much needed break? I would love to hear about it in the comments below.

Lucinda Rose is an author and teacher living and working in the mountains of Virginia.  You can follow her on Twitter, Facebook and Instagam

Meds are not a Failure

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A little over year ago, I went back on medication for anxiety and depression. It wasn’t a hard decision. I was crying in my office, seeing a therapist and trying not to break down pretty much daily.

There was a lie I had committed myself to that I could no longer stomach. It was simple. I was coping with mental illness through diet and exercise only.

Here is what I wrote about it at the time.

I am in a good place.  There is a roof over my head. My relationships both familiar and romantic are going well. I have a steady day job.  There is food in my fridge.  I have health insurance.  There are even nights of the week where I am free to write.

I am in a bad place.  My steady day job has become a nightmare over the last couple months.  Dreading going to work has lead to anxiety attacks both at home and at work.  A couple of weeks ago, I closed my office door to cry.  I stopped wearing make-up to work because there was no point when tears were going to ruin at some point in the day.   Nights when I would have time to write are spend dealing with the aftermath of the day or going to bed early because I don't have the strength to anything else.

 I feel worn and mostly dead.

Looking back on it, I know that the biggest thing keeping me from medication was the mistaken believe that if I went back on it, I was failing. I didn’t put those thoughts into words until after I walked out of the building with a friend. She talked about her medication into a down to earth fashion. It wasn’t big deal to her. It was like taking medication for a cold. The conversation led to a lot of reflection.

Then my co-workers started talking about their own medication and how it was helping them handle things better along with therapy. Why was I denying myself another tool in my fight? Hadn’t I recommended medication to others? If I was physical ill, wouldn’t I be working with my doctor to find the proper treatment?

Because for years, I boosted to other (foolish so) of how I was control my mental health issues without medication. The problem was there were days that I was terrified to leave the house. Or drinking way too much from time to time to chase the blues way. Theses were acceptable to me: parts of everyday life.

I told myself there was nothing I could do about my crippling anxiety when it came to making even necessary and important phone calls. And I continued to tell myself that even after I missed an invitation to the White House in 2015 because I couldn’t get myself to listen to my messages.

Cascades -Pembrooke, VA – Now that my anxiety is being managed, I am able to go hiking again, Photo credit: Lucinda Rose

I lied to myself for years because the hassle of staying on medication along with the cost were the real reasons I stopped taking them.

I am not saying that medication is for everyone. Some people have a hard time finding what works for them or it doesn’t work.

Human beings are complex organisms. Our bodies react to everything from flowers to food differently. Some people do really well with therapy alone. Others do well with a combination of both. Therapy has really helped me break some of toxic patterns.

What I am saying is that medication can be helpful and if you need it then there is no shame in taking it.

Last December, I needed it. And now that I have it, I am able to see more clearly how the believe that medication was a failure kept me from being happy or working my way in that direction for way too long.

Be Well, Be Safe and Stay Spooky,

Lu

Becoming….

Recently, I read “Becoming…” by Michelle Obama and it has helped me to not only see the former First Lady in a new light, but look at my own story with less judgement and more honesty.

How did I become a woman who not only embraces her curves but also her gray and silver hair?  How did my fourth decade on this earth become the one where I feel more at home with myself, my past and my pain?  How did I become a person who takes selfies at the gym?

One blog isn’t going to answer that question.   Ten blogs won’t, but that isn’t the point. Becoming or being my true self isn’t about reaching a mystic destination.  It is about excepting where I am, where I’ve been and working on being the best version of myself.  My New Year’s blogs were about goals.  Goals are about getting closer to the version of myself that I wanted so many years ago.

There is a TED talk about being the person that you needed as a kid.  I am not sure the person I was then would have had the strength to listen to who I am now and who I am becoming.  So much of my life has been defined by lost.  Something I learned to do from those around me. The lost of loved ones, a home, innocents and so on.  It is a long list.  I don’t know if she would have been able to conceive of actually living life closer to her Aunt Judith’s life than the one her mother and grandmother lived.

I love the life I have right now. I love going to the gym after work with my little brother. I love living in a house where we eat dinner together several times a week and walk the dogs around the high school track.  I love waking up and being able to see the mountains.  I love how the moonlight touches the corner of bed at night and how even though depression and anxiety are still deeply entrenched in my psyche, I am better today than I was last year.

Last night, I challenged myself to write a hundred words on the current project after having spent the last three days sick.  I did it and a bit more. Today, I went to the gym without my little brother and pushed myself to complete our normal routine.  Tomorrow, I am not sure what I am going to do, but I will do something.

I have become… no, I am becoming the person I needed to be when I was younger. The one that pushes through the mental muck and finishes what she started.   I do it little by little, with a plan, but also with a mirror.  One that reflects the whole me not the me that I want to be or the me that I fear I am, but one hundred percent me.  The good, the bad and the depressed.  All of me including the scars is beautiful.  And it is that me that isn’t going to stop working towards her dreams and goals.

I may get sidetracked by cold or by a hectic day at work. I may given into my personal demons from time to time.  Still, I am not going to stop working or becoming.

Thank you for reading.  Please feel free to share your thoughts below.

Love,

Lu

The Not Quite So Lost Writer

Issues, I have them.

But, they aren’t as bad as I thought.  I made a mountain out of a foot hill.

I felt so lost because I didn’t know where I wanted to be.  My heart, my love was in New York and I wanted to be with him.  I also wanted to be in the mountains.   My last message to him didn’t go well.    Now,  I still don’t know where I want to be as I look around  but I know where I am going and things aren’t so bad. Don’t get me wrong my heart is broken.  Tears are pretty constant right now.  I wake up wanting to have another conversation and re-write my last messages to him.  I wanted him to see my intents were good and change the narrative he has about me.

These are things I have no control over.  The control I do have is where my focus is.

My narrative. What I tell myself about myself.  The way I see things.  I don’t see him as a villian or myself a victim.  I won’t paint him that way or myself for that matter.

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My life, my narrative. Not a victim or a villian.

I live with depression and anixety.  They are constant companions.  Sometimises they invite friends. A panic attack came to visit last night and ended ump staying for hours.  It pressed on chest while I was trying to sleep. Flashed images on my mind that forced my eyes open.  So I wrote for hours and got most of the way through today’s word count goal.

The moment where I felt so lost I couldn’t take it anymore happened twice.  Once for the things I could talk about and once for the things I couldn’t talk about which ironically I can talk about now.  Both moments were poured into writing.

Yes, I don’t love the fuck out of my job, anymore.  But, I know this and I know the reasons why.  I needed to admit how lost I was to be able to come up with a plan.  It is a ever evolving thing.

Quitting just because I am not in love with it or because I am stressed out isn’t an option. It goes against everything I was taught growing up.  And I have prided myself for my increased ability to take care of my own messes.

A year from now, I plan on quitting my job.  Why a year? Why not now? Well, I need to put some things in order before I quit and go on the the next chapter.  I have some serious life editing to do.  Not everything I want to do is going to get done.

Change is painful and taking a year to make this change isn’t going to make it any less painful.  What it will do with a little luck and a whole bunch of work is give me a few more things to deal with that pain.

 

Making a New Map

How does one get unstuck in life?

How does one deal with being so lost that they have finally gotten tired of throwing their hands up in the air? Of starting all over once more.  Of staring at the end and knowing how much work it is going to take to make it a beginning. If one is a writer, you write.  You talk about it with people and then you write some more.

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My to-do list will always exceed my can do list.

This is me doing just that.

This is me working it out.

Today, I crossed off 11 of the 14th things on my to-do list off.

I did good, today.

All and all, it was pretty spectacular for someone who has been sleeping through much the last month of her life one of two sofas.  My living room is a mixture of items I have been given over the last five years.  There are only a couple of items in the room that I purchased. A lamp shade I purchased with an ex-boyfriend  from Ikea that looked vaguely like one of the chocolate oranges you see around the winter holidays. It is absolutely hideous.  And fits perfectly.  It works in the space.  It adds something to it  The rugs and one of the bookcases as well as the TV make up the rest of the items that I purchased.  Well, beyond the books which even some of those were passed on by the dearly departed.

There are a lot of things in my home that came from death.  The death of a friend or loveIMG_8514 one has filled my living room with furniture.  My favorite lawyer bookcases and the desk where my TV sets all came from a friend’s parents.  They gave me these things after her death because I needed to furnish my new home and they were moving. It was too much for them to stay where she had died. So much of the last two years of her life were spent with them watching her.

I wear a set of rings they gave me everyday. These belonged to my friend. It is my way of remembering her. Of honoring her. I feel naked without them. If I forget these things then I will dash back into the house.

Death and the past are constant companions. Maybe that is why I have such a hard time mapping out my future direction. So much of the home I cherish has come from the past. When you walk in my house, it is clearly that I have an affliction for darker things.  I stopped repacking the entirety of the Halloween decorations years ago..  My living room, the first room, that you see has seven skulls in it.  One witch, two bats and a couple of dragons. The only room without a skull or something Halloween in it is my bathroom.

Then there are the books. Lots and lots of them.  A great deal of them are histories from around the world.  Scattered among these are the skulls and various nick-nacks.

My house sometimes scares my landlord. I have been a good tenant for the last five years which combined with being a writer as well as teacher has ensured the good will of the landlord.  Thus he has learned to humor me. I may be odd, but I pay my rent on time and don’t cause trouble.

Drapped in death and the slightly macabre my home gives most visitors a sense of peace. What is more peaceful than death?  The long sleep.  The goal for me in decorating has been to create a place that is inviting.  So far,   it seems to be just that.  I have worried in the past that my collections and love of skulls would turn people off, but as far as I know I haven’t scared anyone away.  And if I have then I have no problem with it since they didn’t tell me they were uncomfortable.  I can’t fix what I don’t know is a problem.

The map I am trying to layout currently is going to take me away from this place sooner or later. This is the second place that has been totally mine in adulthood.  I have lived here longer than anywhere else since I graduated college.  Before that I lived with my birth father after my mother and I lost our home.  I would spend the next three years living like a guest in his house.  My picture rarely made the wall of family photos and when it did, it was only for a short time.  If you walked into my father’s home, you would never know that I was his child. There is no evidence of me there at all.

The house I live in now is home. I love the idea of the life that I have built for myself.  I am proud of  how far I have some in the last couple of years.  And then there is the shame I feel for not having gotten farther. Why don’t I own a home? Why do I live so close to the edge?  Truth be total, my family won’t allow me to fall too far. They have always been there to save me from rock bottom.

Another truth be told, I have been coasting for the last couple of years.  I am smart.  This isn’t a bragging. It took me a long time to realize that I am in fact intelligent.  My mother and sister are genius so being an intelligent woman runs in my family.  I am not a Mensan like them. I haven’t bothered with the test or like my mother has suggested on more than one occasion when I as in therapy had a psychologist sign off on the paperwork.  She believes in me.  She has always seen the intelligence that has been bouncing around in my head. Years of being talked down to by my birth father, grandparents and the rest of my siblings taught me that if I wasn’t as smart as my sister and mother I wasn’t smart at all.   So I never pushed myself academically.  It was either sink or swim.  I am good at floating.

My mindset was that I only had so much intelligence. There was no way I could be as smart as other people.  Talent was something I lacked and could not develop.  Psychologist Carol Dweck calls this a fixed mindset.  I didn’t really see that I was coasting a great deal of the time just below success. I honestly thought that if I was meant to be successful it would just happen.  I never quite got there but I am never far off from it,

Don’t get me wrong, I do work hard.  Sometimes I work too much.  But that is mostly to make up from having coasted. Or when things really need to get done.  Or when I get the energy. Lack of energy has been the theme of the last couple of years.  Truth be told, I believe that I burnt out before I ever became a teacher.  Ironically, teaching is where I finally began to believe in my own intelligence.

I have been working since I was 12 years old.  Given the nature of the employment,  I worked long days and made little money (75 to 100 a week), which at twelve was big money since I didn’t have any money.  I saved pretty much every penny I yearned for either school clothes or my college fund.  I made it through college and went where life and opportunity lead me. I didn’t explore much. Kept waiting for a sign or something.  The course catalog was the sign I missed.

Kept waiting dreaming of that door to open. Kept dreaming of it.  Didn’t know how to manifest it.  People kept telling me I could do this or that.  I didn’t believe them. Seriously, I thought because  of my learning disablity (dysgraphia)  that I would never be a writer. Mmm, who was an Amazon Best Selling Author? And who is going to continue to write no matter what? Me.

I follow some very talented people online. Some of whom I am friends with and the thing about their talent. The secret to that talent is that they work at it. They keep working on it, made mistakes and kept working on it. They do the work.  (Thank you, Lisa from Halfmoon Creative Works  for reminding of this. )

I wrote Blood Child in a heart beat. I did the best I could. I got help from professionals and friends to make  and after months of hard work, there were mistakes.  There are always mistakes. No matter how hard you work there will always be typos and things you can do better.  You have to learn to do them better fix them the next time around.

The next book is coming slowly, but it is coming.  It is going to take more energy and way more work.  It is time for me to take the skill I have and begin to refine it.  I just need to shake things up and make a new map for myself.  One where I am growing.  Get out of the comfort zone and back to my happy.  My happy often comes from learning new things, traveling and having conversations.  Things that my depression and anxiety nearly robbed me of.  Things I can’t always do from where my life is right now.  From where I have directed my life.

IMG_8493Happy isn’t easy.  Happy doesn’t always mean that you feel well happy. There isn’t a glow to it always.  My happy maybe more of a flow.  When I am flowing, I am growing I moving with my life and better able to see opportunity when it presents itself.  I think though for me it is a little bit like the lamp in my living, not always pretty by itself but given a chance a thing of beauty.  The trick of manifesting that thing of beauty is seeing the potential, not listening to doubt and doing what is necessary to make it shine.  The lamp shade, didn’t natural fit the lamp.  The lamp itself had to be taken apart and reassembled.  It is still a little wobbly when bumped.

My new map is going to be made day by day.  Word by word.

 

 

 

 

The Lost Writer

For the last four weeks, I have been the type of sick that people dread.  The kind that makes your whole life slow to a crawl. There is nothing you can do but rest, drink lots and lots of fluids and hope that people don’t get tired of you asking for help. Help getting groceries, driving and  doing laundry.   My body didn’t have the energy to stand or sit long enough to fold my own laundry.  I had to ask for a lot of help.  Bronchitis turned into pnenomina.  My body forced me to rest.  It is still forcing me to rest.  While drafting this post, I took an hour nap.

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My view from the last couple of weeks.  I did finally watch “The Desk Set” with Spencer Tracy and Kathern Hepburn.  Turns out my dream career was replaced years ago by a computer.

I am on the mend.  I am off the antibodies and codiene laced cough syrup and back to my morning coffee.  I’m  back writing in my office under the watchful eye of my Ghostbuster figures.  All good things.

If I take things slowly, I can get back to a normal pace of life.

The problem is I am not sure I want to go back to the way things were.  To be blunt, my life is comfortable and there are a lot of awesome things in it,but it isn’t working.  I am not happy.   I am lost.  I’ve been this way for a while.

It is the combination of a lot of things.  Things I am willing to talk about and things that I am not sure how to talk about.

Twleve years into teaching and I am not inspired to be creative anymore.  What is the point when I am never going to be really recognized for the work I do or paid fairly for it? It isn’t about being Teacher of the Year or anything life that.  It is about not having to worry constantly about money or what deeming thing is going to said to myself or collegues next.

I tried unsuccessfully to exit teaching this year. I figured that it was time.  My resume was met with an understandable silence.  I didn’t have on paper what they were looking for.  I would have loved the job, been good at the job but I have no one but myself to blame for not landing an interview.  I didn’t do everything I needed with my resume to show them.

I have tried and failed to develop a consistent writing routine.  I have also failed to complete any of the projects that I have going.   The list of unfinished work gets longers and longer.

The sequel to Blood Child remains unfinished as does my first novel.  Everything in my life is in the works.

I have craft and art projects that are collecting dust.

I am lost. Lost in my work life, in my personal life and pretty much everywhere.  I feel like if I really let someone know what is going on then I am going to break down the cry. And the tears won’t stop.

Because not only am I a mess, I am also deemed to be broken one.  Broken because I am over weight and depressed.  Lossing weight isn’t going to cure my mental health issues.  And curing my curing my mental health issues isn’t going to fix my weight.

I am lost because I want to move and at the same time I am terrified of it.

Leaving teaching means leaving job security and my health insurance.  It means abandonning the known.

My folks are fine with me moving if it is for a better position and place in life, but I don’t know that it will be.   I can’t guarantee that I will be making a move that is going to make everything better.

If I roll the dice and pack up my life, I fear that went the dice land they are going to come up snake eyes.

There is more.

I have a serious case of imposter syndrome. I feel like I am a huge fraud.

I am a poet who can’t snap her fingers.

I am lost.

Here is the point in writing that I would normally write something hopeful and inspiring. It is tempting to end that way once again.  We all like stories of redemption.  Stories where the underdog makes it to the end, finds their ray of sunshine and lives their dream.  I think in always trying to be the protagonist in that kind of story, by forcing life into that mold, I have lost myself.  I have lost the ability to admit mistakes, short comings and given into the notion that I must always put a positive face forward.

I crave being seen yet, I have been trained to hide myself and not be trouble.  Not to worry others.

When I talk about depression some well meaning friends are always concerned that I have gone to that dark place again.  The one where sucide is the only exit to freedrom.  I am not there, trust me.  I was never really there.  I saw the other exits can clawed my way to them, sometimes figuratively some times literally.

I am in a different place, where there are a thousand doors and the reality of happily ever after has forever been shattered.