Morning Affirmations of a Desperate Woman

I hate my alarm.

No, Jen, start over.

Today will be a new day.  I feel gratitude for the mattress beneath me, for my alarm clock beeping, for my tangled hair that I still have on my head.  I will get up, have some breakfast, and go to work. Simple.

I don’t feel well.

Wait, why did you just think that?  You feel fine. You have a little nervous twitch in your belly because it’s Wednesday.  Just take a deep breath…1…2.3…4…hold….2…3….4….exhale…2….3….4.  And up!  Start the day!

I would like it if I could become more of a morning person. Something to aspire too. Little goals. Baby steps.

Let’s see…coffee before anything.  My heart is beating normal, should be fine.  I need it. I had that dream….what was that dream?

There was that house again, on the side of the river in the woods. The big balcony had the vines overgrowing the house, like in all the dreams.  At one point, I was with a couple of people, I think one of them was Kate from group therapy and the other was possibly my dad, but it kept changing.

Shit. Grounds everywhere. Fuck it. I’ll clean it up later. Just need coffee.

I need more milk.  Milk milk milk.  Don’t forget to pick up milk. I can also swing by the tea house. I’m running out of tea.

No, you aren’t running out of tea. You have 50 different kinds of tea, you just need retail therapy and you can justify buying tea because it isn’t booze, cigarettes, or sugar. You don’t need more tea.  I am running out of honey.

And my head is already onto what else I can buy when I get milk.  Jen, you have a refrigerator full of food and only one person to feed.  Stop buying things you don’t need, you piece of shit.

Wow….that was an extreme response. It’s honey.

Sorry, self! That kind of talk is not self serving.  Drink your coffee, you little rockstar, and get ready for the day!

Do I put on the news? Maybe just the weather. Nah, I can just look on my phone. Decent day.

I am grateful for a decent start to what I hope is a decent day.

I want to stay in my pajamas. I should never invest in comfortable pajamas. I never want to take them off my body. It’s a motivation problem.

I’ll need to bring this coffee into the bedroom…not the bathroom. You are not the kind of person who drinks coffee on the toilet. Be grateful for that.

Poop. You don’t want to do that at work. Can it happen?

Will it happen?

I need to wash my bathmat.

Yup. Good. See, something is already going well today.

Thank you, self, for having an apple last night. I am grateful for fiber.

I need to clean the corners of the floor here…wow, it gets dusty fast. I don't want to think about bathroom floors. 

Your’s is only used by you, so chill and put clean the bathroom on your to-do list.  It’ll be done by Springtime. Hahaa. 

Nah, I’ll put it on the to do for the weekend. I’m not a complete basket case, I like to live in a nice home.

Clothes: Black pants, are they clean? Yes. Okay, simple black top? Yes. This is a no effort kind of morning, and that’s okay.

I need to do laundry. I only have silly socks. Why do I have so many pairs of socks that I can’t wear?

One day, I will be the kind of classy woman who has perfectly hung clothes in the closet and folded pants in the drawers. I will have socks that match, not just themselves, but my outfit itself.  I will not have to wear boots that cover my socks not only because they have yellow stripes, but also because they don’t reach up to the bottom of my pants and my hairy dry leg skin is showing.  

It’s one of those things where someone’s eye will be drawn to the yellow socks, and they’ll see how they don’t work with the professional/casual look of black on black, and while they are looking at the socks, they will see… the dry flakey hairy legs.  Any credibility is out the window.

Someday, I will have smooth clear legs that I will show off with unripped pantihose and high heels, but today, I will secretly be a child wearing grown-up clothes.

I need new razors. I will only have nice legs for so long, and my elderly self will want to look back with pride.  I need to clean my fucking house. Dammit, the windows are dirty.

Stop.

Not helpful.  Right now, all you can do is the next right thing, and that is go to work.

So brush your long tangled hair and don’t focus on the split ends. It’s a ponytail day.

I am so thankful that I invested in good lightning. My freckles look cute in this light, especially across my button nose. I am thankful for my nose.

My lips on the other hand…I do not have pouty lips. Thin thin lips. Ugh.

Stop. Be nice to yourself: you love your big brown eyes. For every negative thing I say about myself, I will say one positive.

Deal?

Deal.

I don’t feel well.

Why do I keep thinking that? I’m fine, I just don’t want to go to work. 

What time is it? What have I been doing this whole time?

I have bags under my eyes, do I have time for one of those gold eye mask things?  No.

Just a little make-up then. You are going to work, not a night out.  I should have a night out soon, I love my couch too much.

What did I just step in? Foundation. Fuck, I’ll have to clean that up later. Why do I spill everything?

This is taking too much time. Just even it out with your fingers…

fine.

Chapstick not lipstick. It's the dry season. The skin on my hands is cracking. That’s attractive.  

My father’s feet were always dry and cracked. Do people think that about my hands? I need to get it together to moisturize. I’ll make that a priority. 

Old hands. Workers' hands. Stop staring at your hands.

Last looks: very girl next door business casual today. Well done.

Wear your winter coat, Jenny, you’d rather be warm than fashionable.  It makes sense with the boots.  Why do I always slip off my boots? Every single time I have to untie them, I decide that I’m not going to do this anymore. It’s better to add time to the end of the day than the beginning. What kind of knot is this?

Got it.

You look great kiddo!  Grab your keys and go go go.

Next time I invest in a winter coat, it will not be yellow. “Big Blob of Mustard on a Pickle Fork”

That’s what I would call me.

Keys in hand. Phone…where’s my bag?

Oh, right in front of me. Okay, keys, phone, wallet.

Check.

To the garage.

I love this smell. The musty garage smells of gasoline, mold, dust, dirt, and oil. Why do I love this smell? What do I associate it with? I’ve loved it since I was a kid.

“Hi car. Ready?”

Yup, me too. Let’s ride.

I am grateful for garage door openers. Good job remembering to be thankful for the small stuff. That’s important, and you are good at it.

Look at these people all going to work…all leaving their homes like people. See, they do it every day too!  They manage to go to work and come home and be human.  

What would I do if I had a child? Like, what does the kid do after work starts but before school? Bring them to work? A nanny? I don’t know how to parent. Doesn’t matter. I don’t have offspring.

Well, I might..

Why would you think about that right now?  Ugh! Stop.

My thoughts are butterflies, watch them flutter away.

Watch them flutter away.

Breathe 1,2,3,4, Hold, 2, 3,4, Out, 2,3,4.

Ugh, I forgot my book. Stupid idiot. 

Oh my gosh! Enough with the negative self-talk. It does not serve anyone. Bright side: you’ll be forced to practice your social skills at lunch instead of reading.

Drive.

It's Happening!

 

"Equilibrium in Entropy"

 Click here to read "Equilibrium in Entropy."

To Be Continued...

Dear Readers,

Words cannot express how humbled and honored I am that you have followed me on this journey. 

I am moving the second half of my novel, "Equilibrium in Entropy" as well as an edited first half to Substack. The plan is to roll out publishing chapter by chapter. I would be forever grateful if you would be willing to subscribe for free. Click here to subscribe!

Join me and find out what happens in the lives of Gary, Mira, Sandy, Hector, and Dr. Kelmer. I hope you find it as enjoyable to read as it has been to write.

I will be taking down all chapters of the book from my blog at the end of the week; however, I will continue to post other musings here.

Peace, love, and light.

-Lightning Liz

Not an adult?

A child at the playground yesterday yelled “Hey girl!” I assumed she was speaking to my four year old daughter; I looked up to smile. She established eye contact with me and said “Yeah you, girl!”

Realizing that she was speaking to me, I replied “What’s up?”

She said “I don’t have any friends.”

I retorted “I’m sure that’s not true.”

She slid down the poll that separated us, her above, me and my daughter below.

The child was about 7 years old with two long brown braids and sweet big brown eyes. Her white ruffled tee shirt framed a large brown wooden cross that she wore tied by a piece of twine around her neck.

The girl, now at my feet, looked up at me and said with a smile “I killed my father. Jesus made me do it.”

Startled, I said to my daughter “Go play with your father.” 

I turned to look at the child. “I don’t think that’s a good thing to say,” I said while scanning for a parent or guardian, but I could not distinguish which adult she belonged to.

As if reading my mind, the child said “My father is that ugly guy on the phone.”

I saw a completely fine looking man, glued to his cellphone, walking in and out of the playground.

“I am going to go to space and become a vampire. When I come back, I’m going to kill my father,” she said, getting my attention.

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” wondering what my responsibility was as an adult in this situation. 

I looked over at my own child, playing happily with a five year old she met 30 seconds ago.

My responsibility was towards her, my own kid. 

I turned to the patricide-planning child, who was brandishing a sharp metal gardening spade that she must have conjured out of thin air with her devil powers. She yelled into my face “Come to the garden with me, girl!”

To which I said “I need to watch her,” motioning towards my little one.

The child said “Leave her with your dad.”

It took me a moment.

There I am, a 44 year old mother confused for being a kid by another kid. 

“That’s my husband!” I laugh.

The girl’s eyes changed to disinterest, and she ran to stab at a patch of dirt.

I turned to my husband, delighted that he had been confused for my father while knowing full well that I do not look like an actual child.

I am going to look at this from a couple of angles.

I need to admit that this is partly a humble brag; it delights me that I was confused for a child. In reality, I do look my age, or thereabouts, and so does my husband. We may both err on the side of spring chickens, and he would never be mistaken for my father. 

I think what this child observed was my silliness. Maybe the adults in her life aren’t silly; therefore, I must be a child.

I would be remiss to not mention my concern for this child and her dark fantasies. The wearing of the cross and her mentioning Jesus only hardens my view that religion does more harm than good. But I do not want to pass judgment on her family; the child seemed happy and healthy.  I wish for her continued health and happiness with a pinch more silliness and less damnation.

Amen.

My Great Expectations

This I know now: If I do not state my expectation, it’s uncool for me to turn around and throw a fit.

When I was in college, I said things like “I should not have to explain why I am mad, they should know,” or “They should know better.” 

“Should” is a word that I am avoiding nowadays. It’s a controlling word and a word that is held up in past regret. “I should have done this,” or “They should do that,” are not helpful phrases. Nothing makes me feel like I’m being treated like a child more than someone telling me that I “should” have done something differently, as if my intent was to make the wrong choice.

Those who know me would not consider me to be an angry person. Those who know me well have seen the rage, sudden and unexpected, often followed by an unattractive smugness.

Actually, those who know me well and complete strangers…

In the past, if I held the door open for a stranger, and they neglected to say “Thank you,” I would snap sarcastically “You’re welcome!!!”

I sure showed those people a great side of my personality. 

This is the situation, I held the door open. No one asked me to do this. I probably held the door to be nice, and I could have continued to be nice. Instead, I essentially told them they should have thanked me. Rather egotistic of me, wouldn’t you say?

In the broader sense, Life does not owe me anything. I have to let go of the expectation that I deserve good things, that I should (there is that word) have great things happen to me. Karma should exist, but it doesn’t. Atleast, not in this life. Otherwise, life would be fair.

People do not owe me anything. Organizations do not owe me anything. Unless I have a written IOU, I need not expect anything…and honestly, IOU’s can be broken. 

Am I a pessimist now? No, that’s not it.

I’m happier without expectations. I may be smug in my anger, but I am not happy in that place. I am attempting to remove the word “should” from my vocabulary and recognize that no one is a mindreader. 

It’s freeing.

I open doors for strangers now simply to be helpful, not to hear the “thank you” I desperately think I deserve.

Dying Leaf Disease

They were purple and turquoise green. Their hair was no longer gray and coarse, but silver and sparkling. They were 85 years old. To be old, was to be beautiful.

Wrinkles and knobby knuckles, arthritis and bad backs, diabetes and heart disease all still existed, but instead of reminding us of decay, it showed a road map of a life well lived.  The oldest were, by far, the most beautiful beings that ever existed. To live to 100 was to become a god.

Lilith Parkfield, of Richmond, Indiana, USA, was the first senior in History to turn a different hue. On her 85th Birthday, Lilith, or Lily, as she had been called in her youth, was alone at her senior living facility.  

The day had started normal. Lily had no need for an alarm clock, and she awoke to the neighbor’s dog barking outside. This did not bother Lily; she liked animals.

She assessed her body: eyes - open and working, bones- stiff but able, muscles - sore but still strong. As she rose from bed, she was vaguely aware that it was her 85th Birthday, but honestly, it wasn’t much of a thought. It didn’t feel like much of a day.

Lily visited the toilet without a glance in the mirror. It was not until she had her morning tea and looked at her hands that she noticed anything different. Her skin seemed to be almost glowing an emerald shade. Lily thought it must be her eyes, and moved to the sink to wash her face.

Looking back at Lily from the mirror was the most fascinating creature Lily had ever seen. She screamed and swooned gracefully to the floor.

She dreamed of her first crush and could feel herself blush in real life.

Lilith woke up to her concerned neighbors and the sound of hurried footsteps. That is all she heard; everyone was silent. It was Lily who broke the silence. She asked if she looked any different.

It started happening quickly after that, almost like an 85th Birthday present. The next day, two seniors, Albert Conrad and Marie Chung woke on their 85th Birthdays to their own surprising colors. Conrad, while on a cruise in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and Chung in her hospital bed in Hong Kong. Conrad was ruby colored, Chung was sapphire. The day after that, four seniors, garnet, amethyst, topaz, and onyx. The number of changing seniors grew exponentially.

When all the 85 year olds had fully bloomed, the older folks started turning.

The first name for it sounds laughable now, but “Dying Leaf Disease” is what this physical condition was called. Obviously all the tests were run, and nothing physical other than appearance had changed. And what a change!

The elderly glowed. Deep shades of every color, and all, except the bald, with the most exquisite silver hair. It looked like stainless steel, but felt like hair, original texture and all.

The road maps of the wrinkles each held a feeling, a story, and one could get lost just gazing at an old person’s skin. The comedy and tragedy of it all was hypnotic. 

It must be mentioned that not all 85 pluses led good lives. This was not Utopia. 

Some people almost got away with it. Evil doesn’t die young as a rule, nor does it necessarily die.  However, the wrinkles on their skin, their maps on their body, did not lie.  The truth and darkness shimmered as bright as the knowledge of what they had done. These elderly people still seemed magical, but also wretched, naked, and lonely.

Good deeds, on the other hand, shown like rainbow mist over the fields and valleys of skin. The truly exceptional could be displayed in a museum. Their complexion like dewy summer sunsets, the most loving, kind people were beauty incarnate. It became a goal: do the most good to get the most exquisite ending. Maybe it was Utopia after all.  

Their eyes did not change color, nor did their vision improve; however, in that glimmer was the Book of Life. When you looked an elderly person in the eye, it was no longer lost youth that you saw, but comforting knowledge.

People started going to senior care homes to see the colors, like taking the family to see the North East American leaves in the Fall. Instead of enticing the grandkids to stay with treats and toys, Nannas and PopPops were falling asleep with their loved ones gently petting and braiding their silver hair. 

85th Birthdays were more heavily attended than ever in History. Among the rich and famous there were grand unveilings. These were works of art, parts of History, and completely breathtaking.

Longevity became a goal. One may argue that it has always been a goal, but not by comparison. 65 year olds who were still working, supporting adult children, and giving birth to age spots everyday, had a new beginning to anticipate. 20 years time promised to deliver the recognition they have always dreamed, the love they have intensely craved, and the beauty they chased. 

In short, it was so perfect to die this way.

Now An Adult

It has been since 2016, which isn't as long ago as it feels.

In the short past 7 years, much has changed, most notable event being the birth of my daughter, Madeline. 

Also, during this time, I have grown-up.

I think a lot of it had to do with becoming honest with myself, and once I successfully practiced that, I was able to be honest with others. Life as an adult is more present. It's harder in big picture ways, but it is more manageable. I understand why I was a child for so long. There is such virtue in simplicity.

I spend my time with a focus on the beauty around me. I try to notice trees and see what the clouds look like today. I listen for birds and garden on my little Brooklyn Balcony. My favorite thing to do is to go on adventures with Madeline.

I think I'll post some short stories here, or pieces on which I am working. Maybe you'll find a connection in my words, and I hope that makes you feel like you are not alone.

Maybe I'll make you mad. I can control what I say, but I cannot control how you react to it.

Either way, good to see you again.

An Honest Living

I have been meaning to address this for a long while.

It's a pride issue.
It makes an anger-bubble pop up inside me, on the subway, on a run, in the grocery store.
I gently put my finger up and end its life with a they-don't-know-any-better.

Maybe it is my job to let them know better.

Instead of harboring ill will. Instead of keeping the self-worth in an easy to reach a place where I can defend and coddle it. Instead, maybe it's best for them to learn a little lesson.  It's okay to make them feel humbled, uneducated, and ashamed for being....well....rude.

Here is the plain and simple truth: people sometimes need to work more than one job.  Not only people in the arts, but also people who are looking to improve the world through political action, or people who are school teachers, or people who, as lawyers, work pro bono for causes that help change lives for the greater good.  In many walks of life, it is possible that a second job is needed.

This second, or third, or even forth job should not diminish a person's view of another person's worth.

I live in New York City.  My last apartment cost me $1200 a month.
For a bedroom.
In a shared apartment.
Above a dive bar.
That was falling apart.

This is not a crazy NYC story. This is what may be considered a good deal by a few people.
Still, it's a lot of money.

A common rule of thumb is that a person's rent should equal one forth of their salary.  As a working actor, this can be an impossibility.  For instance: A Tier One Equity Contract pays $625 dollars per week for a "midsized" theater (that is a theater with 699 seats or less).  To give a little perspective on this, the New York Public Theater's biggest indoor space, the Newman, only seats up to 299.
Let me do the math for you: If my rent is $1200, and I got a dream role of performing at The Public Theater, I would only have $1300 left to pay for utilities, food, and fun.  Forget about having a savings. Also, keep in mind that my neighborhood grocery store sells cereal for $6 a box.  Nothing in New York City is cheep.   The crowded, smelly, filled with crazy people subway is $2.75 a ride.  My $20 metro card always runs out in a surprising amount of time.

Money, money, money.

Currently, I am a full time performer.  I love my performance job.  I also love teaching comedy.  I truly love it, and feel lucky that I get to do two things that fill my meager bank account.

I have tended bar off and on for years.  I have made many friends through working behind the stick, and I even met my husband while behind the bar.  When I was on a solo tour making $50,000 a year, I actually missed bartending. Did I miss the late nights or serving the occasional mean customer?  Of course not.  I missed the money.  Honestly, I almost went into debt on that tour.  It simply was not enough money for a person like me to live in New York City. (Disclaimer: you can live in certain neighborhoods on that salary.  I enjoy living in Brooklyn near many trains, and I also love taking advantage of what the city has to offer: restaurants, theater, other fun adventures.)

Point being, if I have not seen you for a while, and you ask how I am doing and I say "Great!" and then you say "Are you still doing the whole acting thing?" and I say "Of course, I mean, what else would I be doing?" and you answer "Oh, well, are you still bartending?" or "Are you getting paid for it?" or the absolute worst, "Did you find a husband who can support you while you do this?" I think you are being rude, and I automatically become defensive.

Incredibly talented, beautiful, successful people work in the service industry. I have such respect for professional bartenders and waiters.  They have the patience that I cannot possibly match.  They should be proud that they are good enough at what they do to go into a shift with a smile, not get flustered by the events of the evening, serve with pride, and then do it all over again.

Incredibly talented, beautiful, successful people work as actors (or in other fields), and fill in the gaps to live a more fulfilling life by working a few shifts.  This does not mean that they are not successful. It means that they are making an honest living working hard to live in this impossible city.  Do not think less of them.  Do not judge them poorly.  Instead, praise their work ethic.  Go to one of their shows.  Speak about them with respect.  Instead of phrasing it "Well, he's out there doing his thing, but he is still waiting tables," why not say "He just did a stand-up set at the Comedy Cellar and is beginning rehearsals for 'Winter's Tale."

A good rule of thumb, speak about your friends and family in a way that they would represent themselves.

Let us not pity the actor, the teacher with the summer job, or the political activist.  They want to make this world a more fantastic place by bringing beauty, human rights, and passion to everyday life.  Sometimes, they just want a little more money to pay the bills.

smoldering

There is a fire.

And like

All fire

It is.

So you fuel it.

And it is hot

And big for my eyes.

And troubling. And beautiful.

It is because I contained it.

Locked it down and drained it.

So it was soft, yellow, and warm.

It now threatens, but I am yet to be burned.

And I hate the cliche of fire.

The first known metaphor, the beginning invention.

But yes, I think of sun and light and reflection

Of us, you, me.

There was no spark.

No lightning strike.

A cigar left in a wet pile of leaves.

A joint between the covers.

Red ash under the rug.

Grown, to a comfortable level

And now it keeps me up at night

Worried the house may burn down.

Funny that it tickles.

Funny that it is distant.

Funny.

But any way we decide, there will need

To be fire.

Without it

The shivers, trembling, palpitating 

No longer have the cover of softness or harshness.

It will just be dry, and if not cold,

It will just be.

And being has never been enough.

The Last Adventure

Beautiful.
Beautiful, Beautiful Lady.
A Lady in the truest sense.
An accent, a dignity, a softness.
Silver white shoulder length hair.

Sinewy muscles hold on during a bumpy ride.
The youth of the boat is distressed.
She is calm, serene, ready.
Barely speaking
Everything through the eyes.
The eyes that bring a sudden staggering blue.
I am stopped in my figurative tracks.

That bright icy blue, long wet dark lashes
Then a child-like smile as she slips on her equipment.

Her boastful daughter: "She's had over 60 dives."

Standing tall under tanks and skins,
effortless in the silliest of functional footwear:
flippers.

The bobbing seasick boat has a reason,
a reminder of why we came here

Her eyes, her light, her quick fleeting laugh.


We need to leave early.

The talkative daughter: "She had to abort her dive."

I glance over.  Double take.

A crumpled elderly woman sits sideways.
Purple against gray stuck in two lumps of red clay.
Closed eyes
Closed smile for my benefit
Calming nose breath

She is held over chopped water
A clumsy scurry to the harbor

I glace over, again again again.

The nonplussed daughter: "Thank you for  your understanding."
"We just want her to be okay."
Of course of course of course.

The slits open,  a cloudy gray
not  the bluest sky of eye.
The rejection of the sea
The salt and pressure
The fear
The heartbreak.

A heartbreak.
A lady who becomes an old woman.
The last adventure.

The Death of Lightning Liz

Some workaholics have been know to say "I would rather die than retire."

I am not one of those people.  I love vacation.  I love naps and food and playtime.  I have designed my career around a life of play.  Forever a child.

Reaching for a youthful adulthood.

(We've heard this before, so I will continue forward.)

I have decided to kill Lightning Liz.

For those of you who do not know, Lightning Liz was my make believe alter ego. She was born in high school.  I believe she developed during a rousing game of Egyptian Ratscrew.

She started hosting variety shows at Silver Bay.  While lifeguarding, she would either will or block rainstorms, depending on the sleepiness and mood of her other, Regular Liz. In college, she had a catch phrase: "Shazam!"

"With great power comes great responsibility."

Okay, so it's not like I have carried her around with me like a twin.  I have faults, but I do not actually have multiple personalities.  Lightning Liz is fun.  Speedy.  A handy character that I can pull out during card games, stage shows, or tense situations in order to show whose boss.

Why kill her?

It has come to my attention that I cannot tell the future.  Shocking.

Before you get judgemental, consider yourself. It is a rare thing not to think you are special.  Everyone does, in some way.

When I got hit by a car in high school, I thought back to the moment I almost turned the other  way and said "I knew I should have gone down Sixth St."

My mother would call. "I was just thinking of calling you!"

When I dodged a knife wielding man on the street: "Something told me to watch him closely..."

Really, these events were not foretold.  I was just observing.

I often turned a different way when driving home in high school. Of course it crossed my mind to make that turn. It often did without consequence.  My mother and I go weeks without calling, and then we start to realize that it has been too long.   That guy on the street looked shady, so I reacted with a sense of obligation to stay alive.  This is not a superpower.  This is simply looking at things in hindsight and choosing to believe that I was something more than human.

Let's think: If I actually could tell the future, I would have had a thousand heart attacks on the subway. My panic attacks would come true.

I would have never have been her friend. I would have scheduled the picnic on a sunny day.

I  am terrible at fortune telling!!!  I am a fraud!  Can you imagine how different my life would have been if I could actually read minds and foresee future events?  I would already have my Tony Award.

This may seem simple.  It is simple.

But this is freeing.  This knowledge that I do not know what will happen has actually given me strength.  Not being an expert in the field has given me power.

I will no longer try with all of my might to decide which way to turn so that an air conditioner does not fall on my head.  I will not spend a few panic minutes memorizing the right thing to say to the  casting director.  I will not pretend to be a medical expert when I smell toast and decide it's a stroke.

I am not Lightning Liz. I cannot make it storm.

She is dead.  And with it, I can tackle life with a free fall.  Not knowing what each day holds is a freedom.  It's a gift.  It could be the best day of your life, or it could leave you shaken til you are inside out.

Time is my rock star.

I will jump everyday with the knowledge I actually have, and life will continue on.  Or not.

Who knows?  Not me or Lightning Liz.

A Thousand Deaths

It is time to reflect.
I am feeling sort-of positive.  And somewhat negative...but only about two particular things:

money.
identity.

The positive stuff is great....which is what makes it positive in the first place.  I just got married.  Everything went very well after stressing over the what ifs.  I am attempting to learn a lesson from that.  A overwhelming downfall of mine, a trait that leads to panic attacks, is worry.  I worry about everything.  I am nervous almost constantly.  My stomach is full of butterflies and my heart races a few times a day. Some days are worse.  There are triggers:

not sleeping.
too much caffeine.
lack of money.
lack of time.
too much time.
hangovers.
lack of excersize.
driving in intense traffic.
being on a crowded subway.
being too hungry or thirsty.

So, in a nutshell, if I get a good night sleep and have only a cup and a half of coffee and the mail brings a handy surprise residual check and I have some work to do, but not too much work, and I have enough time to go on a long walk with the dogs after I visit the gym, and I was healthy the night before so I am feeling hydrated and I have fruit and veggies in the fridge that I can nibble on all day guilt-free, and though the work I am doing involves memorizing lines for an awesome job, I do not have to get on the subway that day and my car is parked in a reliable spot....

then I can almost be certain that I will not have a panic attack.

Can you see where I am going with this?

"A coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero only one." -Shakespeare

What was the point in worrying about my wedding for the past hundred days?  It was perfect.  It was better than I had hoped.  I am now happily married, and I feel more solid in my friendships and family.  The check did not bounce and the weather held. 

I am pretty sure I did not get more than 5 hours of sleep each night all summer.

If I just let things happen a little....
Fighting for control is futile when it comes to things like storm clouds.
Worry worry worry.

I could have just been excited for my wedding. 
I WAS excited for my wedding, but I could have been sleeping at night and bright during the day.  I did not need to talk myself into thinking I was seeing double while I imagined smelling burnt toast. I do not need this. That.

I will die a death.  One big old day will end it all.  Time will speed by and stuff will happen to me. It'll be bad.  It will be good.  I cannot keep dying all these little deaths everyday because things are out of my control.

What I can do is try my best to learn the lessons life hands me, and move forward towards a future a little less fearful.

Fearlessly?  That's doubtful. 
But possibly obtainable.

Another Puff Piece

I am a optimistic pessimist, an angry happy person, a negative positive.

I have been neglecting this blog for a couple of reasons, the biggest one being that I feel the urge to write about negative experiences and angry feelings. 

I watch the news on a regular basis, and it is no secret that the news is primarily bad.  Good news just isn't as important.  It is a sad truth that I think we struggle with as a whole.  Good news is mostly considered a "puff piece." 

Happy people are thought of as being fluffy and light.  Balloons and parties come to mind.  And sunshine and laughter.  Nothing too serious. 

Hard news is serious.  Hard people are serious. People who do not smile and seldom laugh are worth hearing.  They are the subjects of the news in social circles.  The smilers, on the other hand, are the puff pieces, the gossip. 

Maybe this is the source of the urge.

I am fighting the feeling that only my negative experiences are blog worthy.

I have spoken many times about a struggle of mine.  I have problems being taken seriously and being respected.  I find it frustrating, and I am trying to reclaim it; I am trying to turn the negative into a positive by capitalizing on this public image.  This is difficult. 

The child in me wishes we only reported the positive stuff....maybe the bad stuff would just go away....hiding from a monster by closing my eyes. 

And all of my terrible experiences with people, money, politics....they want to rush out of me.  This overwhelming urge to share these...well, complaints, to get everything off my chest...

It makes me incredibly human, you know?  To want to find others who have suffered with experience, big and small.  Deny it and lie: we all want to belong.

But maybe I can keep pointing out the things I like: the beauty of a day like today, the sweetness of my canine friends, the kindness and intelligence of my fiance. 

There is so much about this world that needs to be taken seriously. There is so much about me that needs to be taken seriously. There is so much about love and happiness and light and good health that we should think about....and therefore, take seriously.

You can't trust a girl who smiles

I grew up with the idea that there is good in everyone.  It may be hard to find, but if you search down deep enough, you'll find the good. 

I have wanted to believe this my whole life.  I have tried to dredge up the good.  To drill down deep through the shallow surface, the mud, the clay, the core.  To point out when the bad guy showed his good side.  To believe that the broken part in the bully was not put there at birth.  They were not born damaged.  They were born sweet and loving and full of light.  Something happened.  Something changed.  A slip and fall and punch in the face and the good hid inside where no one could find it.  But me.  I could find it, if I tried.

I don't know if I can believe this anymore.  It hurts the innocent part of me: the part that wants to breath clean air.

I  have had many jobs.  Most of my jobs have been either customer service or team related.  When I am on stage, I am working as a team.  Fortunately, I like actors.  Any good actor is honest before anything else.  I can see the goodness as soon as they walk under the lights.  We may fight.  We may have differences.  But I know who you are, co-worker, and chances are, I like you a lot.

This is not about you. This is about the side work, the day job, the necessary evil.
The customer.

I have done sales.  Tending bar is sales, being a toy demonstrator is sales, being a promotional model is sales....I could go on and on with examples of sales jobs and my past jobs.....

People demand special treatment.  They aren't special.  Some of them have money....a lot of money.  Some of them are poor.  They feel entitled, the rich and the poor alike.  They ask if I can lower they price or if they can get the second one free.  They are insulted.  They say loudly that "she is ripping me off" and "don't talk to her, what's wrong with you?"

I am just standing there.  Alone.  I am behind a bar.  I am demonstrating a magic toy.  I am giving away a sample.  I am just doing my job.  I am a good person who is trying  to make a buck and do right by my boss.  I am not pushy.  I don't up sell or down sell.  I let things sell themselves. I am smiling and you are mean.

Someone must have hurt you.  They have made you feel like you can't trust a girl who smiles. 

I have been hurt too.  I don't need you to know about that.  There is sludge below the surface and broken parts.  It's none of your business.  My business is to smile and do a good job.  It's not the hardest thing in the world.

What is hard is being treated like I am less than you.  My fellow bartenders are smart, beautiful, creative, people who I am proud to know.  They have more compassion and drive than the average person.  They are brave.  I don't necessarily know my other co-workers....my other day jobs have been fleeting or solo.  Let's assume those people are great.

Lets assume it is not kind to make fun of someone's job.
It's not nice to talk about us like we can't hear you.
You are still a bully, after all of these years.

Disclaimer: Nothing terrible has happened.  Today has been a great day.....other than losing my voice.  I have simply wanted to address this human unkindness for a while, and being non-verbal today has freed up some time. 

Just be nice.

Turning Off the Cold

I love living in New York City when it first snows.  Last night I walked.  The neighborhood was closer to quiet.  I realized how many street lights there are on my block.  They reflected tiny little specks of snow.  It looked like someone had thrown white glitter everywhere.  I forgot about the cold and made a wish that the snow could stay this pure for just a little while longer.

Everything is fleeting.

I am tired of being a child.  I am coming to terms with the fact that it's not about being child-like, it's about being childish.  I will never lose my appreciation for snow and sparkles; I like that about myself.

I have a ring on my finger.  It's beautiful.  If I shaved it down I could put white glitter everywhere.

I love what it represents.  This makes me feel something greater than happiness.  I am lucky.

It's a story being told about somebody else.  I can't grip it's reality.  I am pretending to be an adult and plan a wedding.  I mean, I am doing this, but I don't know how to do anything. It's highlighting how many things I do not know how to do.

I am not stressing about this wedding or anything.  I plan on doing things simply, and I am not someone who worries about the details.  That isn't what this is about.  Don't worry friends, I will make this process fun.  One of my strengths is the ability to turn anything into a game.

I am coming to terms with the fact that many people do not take me seriously.  I have fought with this my whole life.  Maybe I am too sensitive about it, but only because I know it's true.  Thankfully,  my husband to be takes me seriously.  He knows I am smart and encourages me to follow through on all of my crazy schemes.  He thinks someday I will be who I want to be, and he likes me the way I am now. 

Myself? I am not so sure.

All of this: playing pretend within reality, turning most things into a game, not being taken seriously....

I am going to attempt something new.  I am so tired of fighting.  Fighting is childish.

Maybe I can actually become more of an adult if I can recognize that there is strength in my shortcomings. Maybe I can think of my clumsiness as comedy, my game playing as charm, my ability to pretend as practice. 

I could use some practice.

And possibly, if I turn that switch in my own head and look at myself differently instead of trying to change who I am, possibly I can be taken seriously.  Because not every adult can turn off the cold and see the sparkles in the snow.

Explaining the Cleanse

I have no will power.  This has always been an issue for me.

I am currently putting myself through a raw food cleanse.  People keep saying "good for you."  Not good for me.  All I want is pizza, and no one who complains this much should be congratulated.

I am doing this because I want to go to Mexico without guilt and with confidence.

Part of me thought that I would get some clarity from eating healthier.  I do have clearer senses.  My sense of smell is much stronger.  The discarded Christmas trees on the curb are perfectly overwhelming. 

But I feel the same amount of crazy.

An ex-boyfriend of mine told me that I should go on anti-depressants.  I laughed.  I am an optimistic, positive, energized person.  I have a love of life and all things living.  One of my favorite things is to go into the world and look at the beauty.  It's free for the taking.

Also, this was coming from an overly self-medicated person who didn't witness daylight on the weekends.  I was not going to hear about my mental health from this particular dime store psychologist. 

Then I read this book.  Okay, full honestly: I read part of this book.  The book was given to me by my current boyfriend and recommended by his lovely ex-girlfriend (I actually mean that truthfully.  She is lovely and I adore her.)  It was supposed to help me with my anxiety issues.

The book did help.  It made me realize that not everyone worries this much or carries around guilt like it's going to redeem any wrongdoing.  It also made me realize that not everyone automatically assumes that they have made an ass of themselves when meeting someone new or talking to a group of people. 

I do that.  I am confessing something here.  I feel ashamed to admit it, like maybe you won't like me anymore. But it is true.  If we are friends, or even if we have just met a few times, I have felt insecure either with you or after being with you.

It haunts me.  I coach myself. 

-I try to think of things another way: "remember when you said that silly thing and everyone  laughed?" 

-And then the rebuttal: "but then you cut off your friend mid-sentence because you were too busy complaining about not being able to eat a whole pizza." 

Its a cycle. 

-Chin-up, Lightning! Ten good things are better than one bad!

-Stop calling yourself "Lightning."  You are the only one who appreciates it.

It's ridiculous.

The book helped.  I thought this was normal.  And I had to give the ex credit.  This cycle of doubt makes me sad. A lot.

Well, I am not on any anti-depressants, and I do feel pretty darn good most of the time.  I have problems feeling overwhelmed.  I have problems with anxiety. I will always have problems with willpower.

I have problems.

My head is full of positive thoughts.  It's pouring over with possibility.  I feel safe right now. The day was beautiful.  I ran through somehow wood-smoked air.  It smelled so good, and I am happy. Life feels good on me.

But I will publish this and the relief of sharing a bit of myself will turn into remorse. I will automatically feel absurdly judged and a little too human. 

Then I will go to Mexico in a week, cleansed physically, so I can feel positive about myself (in that regard.)