We've All Got Bruises

When I was younger, thinner, and before life had its way with me (multiple times), I bought into the fairy tale that said we should all live happy ever after. The goal was to have the perfect life – straight, white teeth (the bane of my existence); a 2000+ square foot home with impeccable landscaping; a luxury car; and the right shoes and handbag for every situation. Of course, the reality is that I have terrible yet expensive teeth; hooves instead of feet, and a black thumb. How I got from my illusions of happily ever after to a place where a cat condo is considered appropriate interior décor for my living room is perhaps not a real shocker to anyone but me.  

I’m getting uncomfortably close to another birthday, which can only mean that I’m that much closer to the senior discount at Denny’s – and of course, these little life milestones provide ample opportunity for self-reflection. As I consider my past 30 – 70 turns around the sun, I can’t help but pay attention to those who’ve played a role in this sitcom I call my life. I’ve collected a fascinating cast of characters over the years. Some are on the payroll like my kick-ass personal trainer or my elfin therapist while others are just the people that I meet when I’m walking down the street. Maybe it’s the wisdom of middle age, maybe it’s my inability to establish and respect interpersonal boundaries, or maybe it’s just a coincidence but I notice that lately, most of my conversations are focused on bruises. I’m not talking about actual contusions of the flesh but rather, those bruises on our souls. I’m talking about those moments where life knocked us down hard and we had to decide whether to give up, give in, or give it our all.

Lately, the people who I find the most inspiring are those whose bruises have healed but still lurk beneath the surface. I’m talking about the guy at work who took out a second mortgage on his house to pay for IVF so his wife could have the family she always dreamed of. Or the woman on the city council who’s battled cancer three times while running a company and giving back to her community. Or the guy who served two tours of duty in Iraq, lost his hearing and some of his sanity, and can’t quite reintegrate into real life the way he wants to. Or the single mom of three down the street who works three jobs to put a roof over her kids’ heads and who wants nothing more than to see them all graduate from high school. The nurse at the clinic who just had her own son arrested after he stole her car but who manages to take your blood without leaving a single mark or bruise on your skin. A woman who lost her fiancé to accidental overdose who channeled her grief into starting an overdose prevention charity. Your dear friend who stays married for the sake of the kids. That colleague who dotes on his ungrateful wife and kids. Your coworker who has a demanding job, an adult child with significant special needs, and an aging father who is showing signs of dementia but who shows up every day with a smile on his face regardless. And of course, my very own husband who overcame addiction and incarceration and stigma to become a force to be reckoned with.

When they share their stories with me in the matter of fact way that one might deliver a weather report, it breaks my heart. I want to take their hands and look into their eyes and weep. These are their bruises and in some cases, their scars. Of course, they are more than the sum of their bruises. They are complex, resilient, strong and determined human beings. They are my friends, my coworkers, and my posse. And just like the song, their bruises make for better conversation. They’re not alone in how they’ve been . . . we’ve all got bruises.

I have my own bruises and scars, but I do my damnedest to keep them covered up – not because I’m ashamed of them but because I don’t think they’re anything special. We all have bruises and mine aren’t any more or less interesting or colorful than yours or anyone else’s. I don’t want anyone’s pity or even their empathy for the bruises I’ve endured along the way. In fact, I almost never show all my bruises to anyone. If you ask, I’ll tell you my story, but I might omit a few chapters – mostly unintentionally. Even my therapist is still learning new details about me and let’s be honest . . . I’ve let that asshole see my cry a whole bunch of times lo these last eight years. Here’s the deal. Yeah, I’ve got bruises – but I am more than that. Every single time life has knocked me on my ass, I’ve gotten back up, arms swinging, ready for a fight.

I may not live in a McMansion. I may (okay, I do) have a cat condo in my living room. (You're welcome, Carl.)  I may not be wearing a diamond ring the size of a compact car. I may buy my clothes at Target and I may forget to wear makeup to work more often than not. Do I work hard? You bet I do. But so do a lot of people. I happen to be lucky enough to get a big paycheck for the fruits of my labor. There are people who do much more important work than I do – teachers, police officers, addiction counselors, and nurses to name a few – who deserve much bigger paychecks than mine. But I’m happy with my humble little existence. I get up every day with one goal. I want to make my part of the world a little bit better than it was yesterday. I want to be a daymaker. And I want to believe that the reason this old gal has survived all these bruises and scars is because she’s here to quietly make a difference.

I guess that’s what give up, give in, or give it all you’ve got is all about. Of course, my husband just ordered a megaphone from amazon.com, so any ambitions of quietly doing anything are probably off the table.

© 2016 Princess D.

Expectations & Acceptance

As I was hosting yet another Princess-themed pity party, I caught myself lamenting, “When will it ever get easier?” Then I realized the fallacy inherent in my line of thinking. I never received a save-the-date informing me that the amorphous it would suddenly be simple and easy at a predefined date and time somewhere in the future. But without the hope and promise that someday, somehow this will get easier, life becomes pretty bleak, doesn’t it?

Maybe easy isn’t the right adjective anyway. It’s just that I’ve been banking on the notion that I’d eventually get my shit together. Does having my proverbial poop in order equate to easy? Maybe, maybe not – but one thing is certain. Life would certainly be a lot less complicated. Some of the chaos I bring on myself – things like keeping my grey roots at bay with frequent hair coloring; like the ritual pore popping I do in the name of young(er) looking skin; and like the occasional mani/pedi to keep my hooves looking polished. I recently read an article that’s become the fodder of my most terrifying nightmares. Let me share a few nuggets with you. “Women 55 and older who lose a job have more trouble than men getting another one . . . ‘older displaced women are less likely than displaced men of the same ages to be re-employed and more likely to have left the labor force.”  I might not be 50 yet, but I know a few things to be true. One, this household doesn’t operate without me in the workforce – and if someone kicks my aging ass to the curb, we’re screwed. Two, in the event that I do wind up “over 50, female, and jobless,” I'm sure as hell not going to advertise my age on my resume; on my hair color; or on my skin. I’d like to leave you guessing, thank you very much.

Why I’m worried about being unemployed ten years from now is part of my irrational charm. I’ve been in my current job for just under six months. No one has stabbed me yet, and it’s entirely possible that I’ve fooled a whole bunch of people into thinking I know what I’m doing. (Poor bastards.) The truth is, I just show up, apply as much common sense as I can muster up, and hope for the best. Lucky for me, common sense is as rare in corporate America – especially in HR circles – as the dodo bird, so as long as I can keep the f-bombs to a minimum and feign interest in what’s going on around me while using copious amounts of moisturizer and hair dye, I might survive the next ten years.

Let’s keep it real. I come from a long line of anxious people. You’ve probably met some of them. You might be one of them. My dad, a million mile frequent flier, still insists on arriving at the airport half a day before his scheduled flight. My mom is incapable of being a passenger in anyone’s car because she wants to control your driving. Never mind that she’s the one who gets pulled over all the time . . .   My brother is probably the least anxious one of all of us and that’s only because he’s too damn tired raising three tiny humans to have anxiety. Plus I think he had it all stabbed out of him in acupuncture a couple of years ago. The anxiety apple didn’t fall far from the tree where I’m concerned. Without chronicling all my anxieties A-Z, just know I am absolutely that person who assumes the worst. A blemish on my arm? Skin cancer. A headache that won’t go away? Brain tumor. Bad meeting at work? Everyone hates me and I’ll be fired any second now. Half a pound weight gain on the scale? I’m on an expressway to morbid obesity and eventually, they’ll need the Jaws of Life to get me out of my own home.

Of course, I do have therapy to help me deal with my anxiety and all the other weirdness in my head. I’d like to say it’s helping but frankly, even therapy has taken a turn for the worse lately. I was tasked to focus on ‘self-care’, which is fancy psychobabble talk for unfucking yourself. I had worksheets to complete and lists to make and the whole idea of focusing on self-care when I can’t even remember to put the toothpaste cap back on made me itch. So – while I knew the elf-therapist would be profoundly disappointed in my lackadaisical attitude toward self-improvement, I simply couldn’t force myself to do it. (And – in full disclosure, when looking up the phone number to his office, my Googling led me to this YouTube video and frankly, I can no longer take my mental healthcare professional seriously. Somethings cannot be unseen, dude.)

YouTube videos aside, therapy went south when I realized that I was not only insubordinate in completing my homework assignment, but I was also running late for my appointment. Really, really late. I sent a quick, “be there in 10 minutes” email and then hauled my ass across town as fast as traffic and my Volkswagen could take me. Naturally, I missed every light and I swear to you, I sat at one red light for approximately four minutes in impotent rage. After finally arriving, I burst into the building Kramer-style and sprinted up the stairs as fast as an out of shape, middle-aged woman in impractical shoes could maneuver. I grabbed the door handle to let myself in to his office and . . . it was locked. Flummoxed, I stood there, huffing and puffing as if I’d never encountered a locked door in my life. Do I knock? Wait? Call him? Take this as a sign from the universe and leave? I knocked. I waited. I called. I thought about leaving. I finally sent an email, all the while wondering if this locked door was some kind of psychology experiment.

Being locked out was the highlight of my therapy experience. I left with more homework – a book to read this time – and a mantra I’m supposed to repeat as many times a day as possible. On the plus side, the elf kindly informed me that I don’t have to believe the mantra, but I do have to repeat it. I’ve been trying but talking to myself makes me feel stupid, and the mantra itself makes me feel like a fraud. Do I fake it until I make it? Or do I do what comes naturally which is to avoid this homework assignment altogether?

Of course, my anxiety and fears are first world problems. I get that. And I’m more than a little ashamed of the fact that I can’t get out of my own way when there are real people dealing with real problems every single day. My body images issues; subterranean self-esteem; and the wagon of guilt and shame I drag around behind me everywhere I go are not matters of life and death. They’re boring. They’re trite. And yet . . . they are the things that hold me back.

I recently had the opportunity to see Michael J. Fox speak at a conference. Here is a guy who has been handed a whole bunch of lemons – and who has made lemonade, lemon meringue pie, and lemon bars. He spoke of optimism, of gratitude, and of hope. He didn’t wonder if it’s every going to get easier. He didn’t blather on about self-care or mantras. Instead, he talked of choice and circumstance. He spoke of gratitude, saying, “Just be grateful. Everyday. And – if there are things you don’t like about someone, just be grateful that you’re not them.” Not once did he speak of what he “should” do – and I’m confident that Marty McFly isn’t wasting his precious time shoulding all over himself. No way, sir.

The real question isn’t “when will it ever get easier?” The real question is – how do I face each day with acceptance and gratitude for the opportunity to make my tiny mark on this great big world.

© 2016 Princess D

Soundtrack to My Life: The B Side

If my life had a soundtrack, every lousy, rotten, craptacular moment I’ve endured would be foreshadowed by Bonnie Tyler’s 1983 power ballad, Total Eclipse of the Heart. It all started November 15, 1983 when, as a buck-toothed, painfully awkward and nearly six foot tall ten year old kid, my dad wrote the first of many big fat checks for my orthodontia and I became the very first kid in Mrs. Hengler’s 5^th grade class to have a full set of shiny, metal braces. What on earth does Bonnie Tyler have to do with any of this and why am I such an ungrateful brat, you ask? Excellent questions. Allow me to explain.

With the benefit of hindsight and my own Korean-car sized investment in my teeth, I’m incredibly grateful that my parents scrimped and saved to straighten my jacked-up teeth. But in 1983, I didn’t want to stand out. I wanted to blend in and ideally, disappear. I didn’t want to be the smart kid or the tall kid or the clumsy kid (although I was all those things) – I desperately wanted to be average. More than anything, I wanted to be invisible. You know what makes you visible as heck? Becoming the first metal mouth in your 5^th grade class. I endured orthodontia for four and a half long years. I had three different orthodontic headgears and I singlehandedly kept the tiny rubber band companies in business. Before I could participate in my first real “boy-girl” kiss, I had to deftly remove something like a billion rubber bands that were cleverly serving as some kind of orthodontic chastity shield. (Side note: I wasn’t real popular with the boys until college. Coincidence?)

November 15, 1983 is the day I had my braces affixed. My orthodontist’s office had zero privacy. Instead, there were two large rooms filled with dental chairs in every color of the rainbow. They summoned their snaggle-toothed patients to their kaleidoscopic torture chamber by bellowing your name and directing you to the “red chair on the left” or the “blue chair on the right.” On this fateful day, I was summoned to the orange chair on the right, where I would spent a nearly five hour shift having things stuck to my mouth.  Back in 1983, we didn’t have iPods or Pandora or Spotify or whatever you cool kids are using to listen to the tunes now. We had cassette tapes, we had vinyl records, and we had FM radio. Many businesses relied on the soothing, muffled doo doo di doo doopidy doo of elevator music as ambient noise, but not my orthodontist. Instead, he had his FM station tuned to WLTE, the “light rock, less talk” station favored by our parents. No one was going to turn their FM dial to WLTE and blow the knob off. But if you wanted to hear some Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack; Linda Ronstadt, or Pointer Sisters – this was your station. And on November 15, 1983, as I laid upside down in the orange chair on the right becoming the most visible mouth in the 5^th grade, I heard Total Eclipse of the Heart played six times. Six.

Fast forward a few years. I’m a sophomore in high school, and I’m getting ready to start my first day at a new high school – the third school I’ve attended in three years.  Total Eclipse of the Heart plays on the school bus radio and tees me up for the worst school year I can remember. When I find out that my pimply boyfriend is cheating on me with a younger girl with greasy hair and a huge nose who puts out - Total Eclipse of the Heart is playing in the background. The short version of this story is that every single disappointment in my life felt like it was set to a Bonnie Tyler soundtrack. Jobs I didn’t get; promotions I was denied; car accidents; flat tires; you name it. And sometimes Bonnie Tyler predicted some really dark shit too. On my 26^th birthday, I woke up to Bonnie Tyler on the radio and although I turned the station as quickly as my chubby fingers allowed, it didn’t stop my neighbor from roughing me up and robbing me three hours later. The day my grandfather died? Total Eclipse of the Heart. I think you get my drift.

It might be a musical masterpiece. It might be a beautiful song. I’m a little biased. What I can tell you is that it’s a l-o-n-g song and I can name that tune in about four notes – and my cat-like reflexes will have me pouncing to change the channel, the station, the song to avoid whatever doom lurks around the corner. Bonnie and her seven minute song about vampire love or whatever the hell she’s carrying on about enjoyed a lot of popularity in the 1980’s. I enjoyed a temporary separation from her doomsday predictions during the grunge era but like any damn iconic song, I’ve never been able to fully avoid it – but here in 2016, things have gotten out of hand. Bonnie Tyler is being used to peddle Fiber One bars. Her music is the cure for constipation. And yet, if you’re someone like me, it may cause metaphoric explosive diarrhea.

I popped into my local coffee shop a few days ago to pick up some motivation in cup before a marathon day at the office. Because I’m not always a total dick, I’d taken coffee orders from my colleagues and purchased four designer drinks to go. The moment I finished placing my order, Bonnie Tyler began blaring from the sound system. The tweenaged baristas squealed and said inane things like, “Ohhh! I just love this oldie! What a great song!” while I made the sign of the cross and wondered what horrific joyride the universe had planned for me next. Would I spill coffee on my cute suit? Would I be late to work? Would I break my leg? Or would I get fired? The possibilities are endless.

I’m a little bit older than I was when I sat in the orange chair on the right. I’m not necessarily any wiser but I have grown more comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am and while I still occasionally fight the urge to fade into the background, I’m not afraid to be center stage anymore. I do my best work from the wings, though. I’ll be your biggest and loudest cheering section; your toughest coach; and your confidante. There is no greater joy for me than to see those around me achieve their goals and reach their amazing potential. While I will still go into epileptic-type seizures to silence Bonnie Tyler, just know it’s so I can fulfill my real mission – which is to be the wind beneath your wings.  

© 2016 Princess D 

You Are Here . . . For Now.

One of the craziest things about middle age is that you often have as many chapters behind you as you do in front of you. On your life’s map, “you are here” appears right smack in the middle – and for many of us, the more colorful chapters are behind us as we continue in our quest to “make it” in this strange adult world. Sure, you might crank your car stereo and blast a little Paradise City in your mid-priced imported automobile as you make your way to your middle management job at some behemoth conglomerate – but you’re not cutting class and driving across the state at 80 miles an hour to catch a Jayhawks or Babes in Toyland show at First Avenue. You’re not existing on a diet comprised solely of coffee, diet Mountain Dew, macaroni noodles, Raisin Bran, jello, and Busch Light beer.  You’re not writing checks for $3.02 at McDonalds when the urge for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese becomes overwhelming and then praying that it will clear the bank. You earn more than minimum wage now, after all. You probably have a mortgage and a 401(k) and health insurance – and it’s probably been at least ten years since you’ve run out of toilet paper. You take vitamins now. You exercise – not for fun but because you’re trying to stave off old age and death. If you still have hair, congratulations. It’s probably grey. And these days, you color it not because you thought blue hair would be a fun change of pace but because you’re too embarrassed to face the millennials at work with your old lady hair.

Welcome to middle age, where we eat our vegetables and floss. The high-high and low-lows of yesteryear have been replaced with a steadfast predictability. Maybe you’ve accepted your fate. You’re not getting any younger, smarter, or more attractive. Your bucket list likely contains a few completed items and may even have a post-script of “don’t kick the bucket” scribbled on the bottom. If you’re like me, you may be on version three or four of your bucket list – as you’ve come to accept that you’ll never be America’s Next Top Model; you won’t win the Amazing Race; and you probably won’t be discovered and cast as the leading lady in any blockbuster movies. I’ve come to see the world through middle-aged eyes; eyes that require corrective lenses while driving, according to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I sometimes forget that not everyone in my age demographic shares my perspective. Just the other day – a day when I was admittedly fired up and feeling particularly angst-ridden about life, the universe, and everything else – I was conversing with some dude at work about middle-age and ended whatever epiphany I was waxing on about with, “Well, I’ll be dead in 25 years anyway.” This dude happens to be a mere 361 days older than I am and I fear he hasn’t spent nearly enough time pondering his inevitable mortality because he cocked his head to the side and said, “Really? I figure I have at least another 40 years in me.” I wisely abstained from bursting into an a cappella version of Only the Good Die Young, muttered something about adult diapers, and let him continue on in his blissful ignorance.  I should get an award for that kind of restraint.

Since my emotional age is hovering somewhere around 13 and my physical age (if my cardiovascular endurance is any indication) is somewhere around 136, I find middle-age fascinating. I occasionally pause, look around and wonder, “How in the hell did I get here?” I was a weird kid with an active imagination, paralyzing shyness, enormous teeth, and a terrible haircut. I was taller than my teachers by 4^th grade but my height did not make me graceful. I tripped, fell, and blundered my way through gym class, praying for the power to become invisible. I escaped into books and my favorite place was the library or the bookstore. I loved books so much that I wanted to own all of them so I could read them over and over and over again – and that paved the way for a minor crime spree where I “relocated” about 100 books from my school classroom to my own personal library. I was eventually caught and brought to justice and the books were returned, but I sure did miss them.

When you reach middle age, people assume you have an interesting story to tell. I don’t know if mine is all that interesting, but it’s mine – and I certainly never imagined that somewhere between 30-70 years on earth would have brought me to this place. What do you remember most when you look back on your life? Do you remember the first time you fell in love? With a troubled boy you met at a youth group Christmas caroling event, who smelled like Downey fabric softener and Marlboro Reds and happily ever after? Of course you do. You still have that homemade Valentine he sent you in a box of memories in the basement – even though he slept with your best friend and broke your heart. Every time you hear Air Supply – or Metallica, oddly enough – you can smell the fabric softener, you can feel the St. Austin’s gymnasium, and you are suddenly transformed to a 14 year old girl with a bad perm and acid washed jeans feeling all the feels.

When I was 14 or 15 or 16, I had all kinds of ideas and dreams about the rest of my life. I was going to save the world. I’d be a teacher; an actress; an author. I’d fall in love, have 2.5 perfect children with the perfect husband. (And by the way, I had him all scoped out too. His name was Pete and he was perfect. He was also incredibly kind and patient and although he knew I had a mad, crazy crush on him, he never mocked me. He did, however, impregnate and marry my arch rival when we were a mere 18 years old, but they have lived happily ever after.)  I’d have a career, a family, and I’d make my mark on the world. At 18, I went on some dates with a guy who delivered Hostess products for a living. I called him “Twinkie Tim” and I didn’t mind that he wore blue polyester pants. He had access to fruit pies and cupcakes, for Christ’s sake! I was never afraid of a little hard work – and although I was lucky enough to go away to a fine, fine liberal arts college, my heart was never far from Minneapolis. I was too young and too focused on “what’s next” to fully appreciate and enjoy my college experience. Instead, I graduated early and tried to start my adult life right away. Of course, with a liberal arts degree and a teaching license in the middle of a medium-sized recession, it was a struggle. I worked lots of jobs and kept trying to “adult” – and I kept searching for my happily ever after with a boy who captured my heart in 11^th grade and for the rest of my life. (His name was Nate. He was WAY better than Pete.)

My more successful friends went on to graduate school; became lawyers and doctors and police officers. I wore a headset and made outbound calls to people who missed payments on their Target Red cards. I made popcorn at a movie theater. And I sold cigarettes and milk at the Qik N Ezy and endured all the horrible jokes that went along with that. Note: it would be years before I became either “qik” or “ezy”. (Sorry, Mom.) I never planned or expected or dreamed of working in business. In fact, there was a time when I would have peered out at you from behind my John Lennon sunglasses and told you that I refused to work for the man. But 20 years later, I find myself working at a Fortune 15 company where I’m earning a stupid big paycheck (considering my total lack of knowledge, skills, and experience). How the hell did this happen?

There’s a whole lot of reasons how and why I find myself where I am today – but I’m struck by the profound influence a handful of people have had on my trajectory, and it’s those folks whom I’d like to talk about. To every single high school principal who refused to give me a full time job . . . I say thank you. There are many great teachers out there – my baby brother being one of them – but I’m not sure I have what it takes to mold young minds. Not hiring me forced me to find another path. To Joe Kalkman, my former boss and mentor: you saw things in me I didn’t see in myself. You knew I was a Maximizer before I ever knew there was a thing called StrengthsFinder. You knew that I would take something good and I would not rest until I made it great. You gave me an opportunity to create a world class, memorable recognition event and you gave me the latitude to make it my own. In spite of all the turmoil and grief that my personal life brought me, I will never forget what we did at Disney World. I’m the only person I know who teared up at the Animal Kingdom – and you showed me that I was capable of making a difference. You also helped me open the door to my first “real” HR job at Best Buy – and that changed the course of my career.

To Kal Patel, the smartest and kindest leader I’ve ever known . . . I’m sorry you got stuck with a rookie HR generalist. I had no idea what I was doing and you needed someone to help show you the ropes. You talked about networks and nodes and I nodded like I understood, but I mostly was just trying not to wet my pants. Over time, we began to understand each other. You took all kinds of chances on me and you are the single most influential leader and mentor I have ever known. Your generous gift became the down payment for my first home – and buying a house all by myself is one of the proudest moments of this ghetto princess’ life. I’ve bought other houses since then, but I will never be as proud as the moment I closed on my first house in Powderhorn Park. You introduced me to my idols, Gary Hamel and Liisa Valikangas. At the moment when I needed something to believe in, when I needed to know that things happen for a reason, you invited me to consider resilience. You gave me the space to introduce an entire company to the quest for resilience – and while we didn’t save the company from its inevitable fall, you surely did save me from my darkest hours. You believed in me, yes – but more importantly, you showed me that hope and faith were not as elusive as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. You created the space and the opportunity for me to believe again.

As a kid, I was not only a book thief but also an avid reader. One of my favorites was the Choose Your Own Adventure series. I loved being in control of the story – and each choice I made would open up a new and different path. In life, we can’t control our stories entirely – but we can choose our adventures by aligning ourselves with inspiring allies like Joe, Kal, Gary and Liisa. I want each of you to know that the lessons you shared with me? They mostly stuck. My story exists because you wrote a crucial chapter . . . and for that, I am eternally grateful.

 © 2016 Princess D

I've Got 99 Problems . . . And I'm ALL OF THEM!

I’m a lot of things. I’m tall; middle-aged; and involved in an epic love-hate relationship with my teeth and the professionals I pay to care for them. I’m a wine drinker; a pizza lover; a voracious reader; a community volunteer; and a reluctant role model. I’m an unhappy size 10 with questionable hygiene and a gym membership to a cut-rate “bring your own towel” joint that smells like a dirty sneaker. I’m an animal lover; a registered voter with scheduled jury duty (yay, me); and a recovering fingernail biter. I’m a homeowner; a raging introvert; and I have no idea how to wear eye makeup. None. Was there a class on this that I missed somewhere along the line? I’m a music lover who can’t carry a tune but who sings her heart out anyway. I’m lucky my parents didn’t name me “Grace”; I’m incapable of small talk; and I’m terrified of birds. I find everyday life thrilling enough and I don’t understand you “thrill-seeking” types who ride roller coasters, bungee jump, or jump out of perfectly good airplanes. I’m hypertensive and living with depression. I’m not a real writer but I play one on the internet – not for any audience (although if you’re reading this, thank you) but because the act of writing things down helps me create order from the chaos inside my mind. So . . . I’m a lot of things. But one thing I hope I’m not is ordinary, with trite a close second.

After I finished kissing frogs, found a prince, and decided to buy the dress and the tiara, I stopped seeing my elfin therapist. (He looks like a Keebler elf. A really compassionate Keebler elf.) I’m a big therapy advocate – for other people. You, for example, would obviously benefit from working with a mental health professional. I, on the other hand, am a therapy graduate. It’s just that level of smugness that will bite you (translation: me) in the ass. Graduate or not, I noticed I haven’t been my normal level of awesome lately. I’m short-tempered and I threaten to hit someone with my good whacking shovel a minimum of 30 times a day. My favorite response to any inquiry or statement is, “Shut your word hole.” (My second favorite response is considerably more vulgar. And – if you receive any unexpected, anonymous gift by mail, simply do as instructed. You’re welcome.)

If it was just an anger management problem, I’d suck it up, take up kick-boxing, and move on. But it’s more than that. I’m feeling a lot of sadness on behalf of my posse, too. As a socially awkward, raging introvert with near crippling levels of shyness, I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m a workaholic so I absolutely and truly suck at keeping in touch with people, and at the end of a long day of work, no matter how much I may adore you, I’d rather retreat to the safety of my bedroom and my Cookie Monster loungewear. This is a long prelude to the fact that my inner circle may be small, but if you are part of my posse, it means I choose you over loungewear, which is no small feat. Lately, my small but powerful posse has been struggling with all kinds of grown-up stuff like divorce; infidelity; infertility; addiction; illness; death; elder care; job loss; financial struggles. Their pain has become my pain, and my heart breaks to see these amazing, brilliant, beautiful people bear these incredible burdens.

I had a few brief flashes of clarity that precipitated my (likely overdue) return to the Elf Therapist. After spending an evening with a friend and his family recently, I found myself on the verge of tears for the next 72 hours. I’m not suggesting these two events are related in any way – I mention it only because the waterworks threatened to begin as I embarked on a long drive home in the dark on unfamiliar roads, and I was trying to listen to Siri direct me; wipe my eyes so I could see; and prevent snot from dripping onto what I felt was a fairly sassy ensemble. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure my outfit was procured at some tragic old lady store like Coldwater Creek, so the whole snot thing was a non-issue since I’m going to have to burn it anyway. After walking around the office terrified of springing a leak, I decided to suck it up and I contacted the Elf. He replied immediately and like the nicer men in my life, he let me down gently. He doesn’t see patients anymore. He, too, is a therapy graduate. Now he runs the practice. But since I clocked a lot of hours on his lumpy couch between 2006 and 2010, he was willing to make an exception. Could I come in on Monday at 2 PM?

Well, Elf, as it turns out, I have a job. So 2 PM on Monday isn’t super-convenient for me, but I was so low that my knuckles literally dragged on the ground when I walked.  At 1:55 PM on Monday, I found myself in the throes of a panic attack while I sat and waited for the portal to hell Elf Therapist’s door to open. The cognitive part of my brain understood that therapy is useful and beneficial, my stupid reptile brain (and Catholic upbringing) decided that it would be a swell time to deliver a heaping, wagon full of guilt and shame. I kept waiting for someone (my boss, maybe – or my mom) to show up with a “life” report card that reflects my current failing grade.

We exchanged pleasantries, the Elf and I. Oddly, I felt like going in for the hug – I mean, this guy has been by my side and has heard some shit, to put it mildly. Yes, he’s on the payroll and I get that you’re not supposed to hug the help (not to mention my general aversion to touching other people) but these are my feelings and this is my blog and I wanted to hug my therapist but I didn’t. He’s quite petite, being elfin, and I worried that I might break him. Or that he’d have me arrested. He has a new, rather nice and decidedly unlumpy couch, so I sat down and we got down to business.

It was almost an out-of-body experience. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth and I was appalled. My so-called problems are so trivial in comparison to the very real strife other people are faced with every day. Frankly, I’m both bored and embarrassed at my inability to unfuck myself – a thought I articulated in my therapy session. The Elf was unfazed, but he said two things that stuck with me. First, he wanted to talk about “five year old me” and I went from zero to enraged on the express train. Middle-aged me doesn’t give a flying fig newton about exploring how five year old me was the only girl who didn’t quit the T-ball team or how that’s the year we moved into the house where we had bats in the attic or how five year old me saw my mom cry for the first time when we learned that my grandfather died. Can we stick to what’s relevant, please? The second thing he said was considerably more profound and less irritating and it was this: “You’re not going to uncover any new issues. We all keep returning to the same central themes, better and worse, for the duration of our lives.”

I’m going to be honest with you. I think I took the news that there’s no Santa Claus better than I took this little gem about my central tendencies or themes or whatever. You see, my central issues – the very ones that brought me to therapy in the first place so many years ago – are the three things I fear the most. They’re ugly. They’re trite. And they’re ordinary. To hear that I have a lifetime of revisiting the same smelly trash I thought I got rid of years ago was not exactly welcome news. Needless to say, I’ll be back to therapy on April 11^th. And I’m packing my good whacking shovel in case the Elf decides he wants to talk about four or six or ten year old me.

The final paragraph of my blog is usually where I whip out my ribbon and tie everything up in a beautiful bow. I high-five myself for giving up, giving in, and giving it all I’ve got. Sometimes, I do this not because the words are in me but instead, because I should. I hate to disappoint you and me – but I’m not doing it this time. Life is messy. I’m messy but I am most decidedly and blissfully alive, and as long as there is life in me, I’m not going to should all over myself.  

©2016 Princess D

Confessions of a Secret Optimist

Shameful confession: I’m an optimist. No, worse. I’m a secret optimist. Maybe it’s a side effect of a steady diet of Walt Disney, John Hughes films, and Sweet Valley High tweenage romance books during the 1980’s. Or maybe it’s a side effect of my clearly undiagnosed mental illness – I’m not just depressed, I’m delusional.

I’ve been on a diet since 1986. I’ve gained and lost and gained and lost the same 10 pounds 500 times. Which means I’ve lost and gained 500 pounds in my lifetime. With a track record like that, I’m not sure why Bob Harper and Jillian Michaels haven’t recruited me for a very special Biggest Loser expose. With no real track record of any lasting success, the only explanation for my ongoing battle of my bulge is my stupid secret optimism. Every app I’ve downloaded (I’m talking to you, MyFitnessPal – and your rotten friends MapMyWalk and Jawbone fitness tracker); every nickel I’ve spent on protein shakes and vitamin concoctions; and countless gym memberships and personal training packages are nothing more than proof that I optimistically, blindly believe that one day, I will be a size 8. Frankly, I have a better chance of being struck by lightning, but dare to dream, right?

Of course, there is no greater testimony to my optimism than the infamous frog blog. Between hundreds of bad dates with bald frogs, fat frogs, faux frogs, potentially gay frogs, and the amount of psychotherapy required to maintain any semblance of self-esteem after being dumped; told to “unfriend food”; and lowering my standards so much that I considered a two-time convicted and registered sex offender as a potential mate led me to the brink of bankruptcy. (Not my finest hour, FYI.) You can read more tales of a desperate single gal here if you’re not caught up on all the gory details.

After kissing so very many frogs, I finally hit pay dirt. The last frog I kissed turned into a prince and I married him. And after the fairy tale wedding and the honeymoon is over, nearly three years later, I want to tell you something. Marriage is hard. There are nights when I fantasize about smothering Randy with a pillow just to quiet the snoring so I can get a peaceful night’s sleep. He never imagined that his happily ever after would involve a woman incapable of putting the toothpaste cap on securely and who always leaves her dirty shirts inside out in the laundry basket. I never expected to be married to the human version of the Energizer Bunny. This man literally pops out of bed each morning like a piece of toast, ready to start the day. I require significantly more sleep and caffeine to face the day.

After nearly three years of marriage, I’ll admit it. I can’t stand Randy’s driving. It’s terrifying and it makes me car sick. And he would gladly tell you that he might prefer a more domestically inclined gal – or at least one who can boil water without burning it. He hates the way I make coffee and load the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I’ve given up on having a dining room table that is used for, you know, dining. It’s become a makeshift desk for Randy – even though he has a perfectly good home office downstairs. He wonders why I put so much effort into looking decent for the office and then revert to Cookie Monster lounge wear the minute I return home.

And after nearly three years of marriage, I’ll gladly tell you this. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my life. I love my husband who, although he snores and is a terrible driver, allows me to be 100%, authentically me and loves me anyway. I don’t have to pretend to like football or shitty music or dumb TV shows to impress him. He loves me just the way I am, which probably means he’s a secret fucking optimist too, God bless him.

Is there a point buried somewhere in all this? As we say in our best Fargo accents, “You betcha!” When I think about giving up, giving in, and giving it all I’ve got – I’m struck by how this adage applies in nearly every situation. Consider marriage. I’m giving up on the idea of a perfect fairytale romance – because that’s not how real life works. I’m giving in to the reality that neither one of us is a real joy to live with 24X7 and there will be amazingly wonderful days and some shitty ones. I am giving all I’ve got to making sure that we live happily ever after.

Nate's Legacy

I can’t really justify spending the money to build or buy my very own DeLorean time machine, but I often wonder why Enterprise or Hertz doesn’t have one available for a weekend rental. I don’t want to see my future or rig a lottery win in my past – although neither one of those would suck – but instead, I’d use my weekend time machine rental to rewrite the script on some conversations that seemed inconsequential in the moment but that have stuck with me years later.

What would you say if you knew that this was your very last opportunity to talk to your best friend? Would you say I love you? Would you tell him how he inspires you to be a better person? Would you compliment her artistic talent and tell her how you admire what she stands for? This question is top of mind for me today as I replay the last conversation I had with my beloved Nate 15 years ago.

When he stepped out of my car that slushy, wintery February day, I didn’t realize how precious and fleeting time was. If I’d known this was the very last time I’d see his face, hear his voice, and be able to talk to him, I probably wouldn’t have been such an asshole. Sure, I was tired. I was under tremendous stress at work; worried about money and my weight and probably my teeth; distracted; and needy all at the same time. My patience was non-existent, my compassion was on strike, and I was in a hurry to get to the airport to catch a flight that would take me 827 frequent flier miles away from home – and Nate – at a time when he needed me more than ever.

In hindsight, I can clearly see and feel the depths of Nate’s pain that last day we spent together. He wasn’t himself. He struggled to be present with me and he was obviously distracted. In that moment, I didn’t recognize what was happening, and I made it all about me. Was he mad at me? Had I done something wrong? What was his problem? Why was he behaving this way? It never even dawned on me that he was buried under the weight of his emotional and physical pain and it took every ounce of strength he could summon to get out of bed to go through the motions of living. How I wish my vision was as clear real-time as it is in hindsight!

My last words to this amazing, sweet soul aren’t worth repeating. In fact, they shouldn’t be repeated. To anyone. Ever. Under any circumstances. As I left him that day, I remember being irritated that he didn’t get out of the car faster – and then I sped away, assuming that we’d have 50 more years to make memories and express gratitude. A few days later, the phone rang in my Memphis hotel room with the news. Nate - the boy who’d captured my heart in 11^th grade and held it for the next decade and the man whom I imagined living happily ever after with – had taken his own life. And he died without ever knowing how much he meant to me.

There was a funeral, of course. We sang “On Eagle’s Wings”. The casket was closed, presumably because the self-inflicted gunshot to his head made an open casket a gruesome impossibility. I sobbed uncontrollably and simultaneously tried to rip the casket open so I could climb inside. The priest had to restrain me and I’m not proud of the fact that I cursed a priest, in God’s house. Trust me when I assure you that it takes a special kind of asshole to ruin a funeral. (But be not afraid: I confessed my sins and the very same priest absolved me. Eventually.)

The USPS doesn’t deliver letters to heaven, or whatever version of the afterlife you may choose to believe in. And I wrote letters to Nate anyway. I delivered pages and pages of letters to a mound of dirt that gave way to a headstone in the cemetery I could see from my balcony, reminding me that Nate was gone. I wrote page upon page of apologies for failing him. If I were a better friend; a better woman; a kinder soul – perhaps he would have, could have shared his burden with me. Maybe I could have written a different ending to our story.

I didn’t just write letters, though. I sat at his grave every single day for a year, and I talked to him. Out loud. I told him all the things I wish that I’d said when he was alive. I begged for forgiveness. I apologized for being cold and weak when he needed warm and strong. Nate was a better person than I could ever hope or dream of being, and his death cast a dark shadow over my soul. Why would God take this gentle, kind man and leave a shrieking, selfish, priest-cursing asshole behind? And so, between my letter writing and my grave-talking, I made a promise to Nate that has become my very moral compass. I promised to live a life that honors his memory and that would make him proud.

And guess what? Some days, I know he’s proud of what he sees. Other days, when I binge-watch Real Housewives or when I cop an attitude with a server at Applebee’s, I can feel him cringe. (And really – he should. WTF am I even doing at an Applebee’s?).  I try and there are days when I succeed and there are moments when I fail so spectacularly that I could drown in a river of my own shame.

Suicide cuts one life story short every 12.3 minutes. 105 people will take their own lives today in the United States. Untreated mental illness killed Nate and robbed all of us of his shining light and joy; a loss I feel profoundly every day, even 15 years later.

When you get your hands on that DeLorean time machine, let me know. I’d like a few minutes to return to 2001 to flip the script on a conversation that should have started and ended with, “I love you.”