Spring Routine

I’ve stayed away from this spot because a) I hadn’t made much time for personal writing until recently, b) I received judgment from people who read this space before getting to know me, and c) life + health have kept me plenty busy. But spring seems to be the time I come back to space after a hiatus. After Mr. First and I broke up (10 years ago…yikes!), I restarted my young blog in May 2008. I moved out on my own and brought my family and friends through that new phase along with me. When my relationship with A. exploded, I hid for months and was reluctant to reopen what was essentially a digital diary of a five-year-long relationship. In May 2016, I had things I wanted to share again. And now, in the twilight of another significant relationship, I find myself here again.

Since I last wrote:

• I started sharing my illustrations on Instagram and pushing myself much more with my art. The goal of publishing a children’s book/memoir is back on.

• I started a new position as senior editor at Parents magazine’s sister publication Parents Latina. It’s been a wonderful challenge and I’m happy to work alongside people who are as compassionate as they are talented.

• I recently had my exchange surgery…the final step (I hope) in my breast reconstruction after 2016’s mastectomy. The worst of it is over. I promise I’ll follow up on part 2 of the mastectomy blog post.

• I bounced between hopeful and hopeless on the romantic front. I won’t say where I stand now, but in the meantime I’ve been doing what I do best: filling the void with creative pursuits. Journaling, drawing, painting, guitar playing, on, and on.

My sister, who was this blog's first (read: only) reader back in 2007, keeps nudging me to blog again. If you ask me, I think she just misses those nights we'd stay up reading each other's diaries, but I'll take the push where I can get it. Let's see what stories and observations sprout this time.

Image: pixabay.com

Potential Energy

This week, I finally turned in the keys to my apartment and closed a chapter I’d been stressing over for the last few months. After a string of long days hauling things out of what used to be my home, waiting on Craigslist people who would sometimes just fail to show up entirely, and seeing my belongings get thrown out, donated, or placed in someone else’s hands, I crawled out on that final day emotionally spent. Even though that apartment stopped being home a good month before, it still sucked to see it devoid of the attention I’d put into it. A part of me didn’t care, I’d been wanting to move on for a while, but in the process I became, as a my best friend put it, an “accidental minimalist.”

Burning Man has been going on this week and for the second year in a row I’ll be missing the man going up in flames Saturday night. Even though I spent last fall and winter determined to return and make it my own, I slowly found that desire wavering as the new year went on. I do want to return and I do miss it, but other priorities took over. Plus, I want to go back when I no longer have something to prove to somebody else and right now that’s just not the case.

I was lying in bed the other night thinking about this and wondering what the hell will come next. I want to make whatever happens after this pretty damn amazing so that this was all worth it. It’s quite obvious though, I still have something to prove.

That said, I’ve already seen a few positives flow in over the last week:

- After discovering that I’d lost my health insurance coverage, I was able to purchase a new plan that is so much more affordable for me. I’d been dragging my feet on switching out for years and this unexpected mess forced me to finally make the leap.

- A new arrangement with therapy as well as no longer having a full rent to pay every month means that I can hack away at those nagging medical bills and save up for future plans.

- I’ve been considering joining a yoga gym in the neighborhood and exercising regularly again. I fell off last September when I realized how much weight I’d lost, but now that I’m back at a healthier weight, I’m excited to reintroduce it into my schedule next week.

- I’ve landed new freelance positions and can’t wait to share those stories with you once they’re published.

I keep being reminded that sometimes you have to take one step back to go two steps forward. I always saw that as a failure - letting up on any progress even if it’s to catch your breath, reevaluate, and then make the next move - because as I’m stepping back, no one can assure me that there’s a step forward coming up for sure. All I see is the increasing distance between my goals and me.

Dad, who feasts on analogies, likes to use another metaphor to describe this stage I’m currently in. When a baseball pitcher goes up to the mound, he said, he sees his target, looks behind, winds up, and in that pulling back he’s able to drive that pitch farther and faster.

I like this imagery better. For one, it sounds way more exciting and purposeful than taking a step forward and back here and there. It incorporates the need to take stock of where you are and what's around you, prepare yourself for the leap, and then throw all your efforts into the aim. Sometimes you hit the mark and when you don't, you dust yourself off, pick up the ball, and launch yourself over and over again improving your technique along the way. It's exhausting work.

Thankfully, along with providing me with a constant stream of wise words and dad jokes, my father taught me how to have a mean throw and I learned how to not be so afraid of the ball.

Hanging Ten

This weekend was so humid and hot in New York City that when Alex invited me to learn how to surf with him and his cousin, I was on that Long Island Railroad within the half hour. We spent our Sunday morning splashing around the cool water in Gilgo Beach and even though I still can't really swim, I decided to give surfing a go anyway. Wouldn't you know that I actually managed to hop on the surf board, hop on an incoming wave, jump onto my feet, and ride that wave for a few feet?! I wiped out so many times before and after that, but it was such a fun experience and one that I'd never even cared to try before this weekend. It feels awesome to see myself slowly shedding my fear of drowning at the beach and I can't wait to jump on a board again.

Now to squeeze in more pool time and swimming practice before the summer is over. I can't believe I haven't gone to a beach or a pool since our cruise trip back in April. I feel like I've been wasting the summer away, though with the way this humidity has been brutalizing us, I won't be sad to see autumn come earlier.

This little getaway was a needed one, too. A week ago, I started moving back in with my family and have been readjusting to living in my childhood home again. After struggling to hold it together in Harlem, I've decided to give up the apartment and spend time refocusing on some goals before jumping into a new lease. It's going to take a little getting used to, living with my mom and brother, but overall it hasn't been as bad as I feared. Of course, there are some major pros (way more family time, saving money, familiar and beloved neighborhood) and cons (goodbye privacy, sleeping on the couch, bickering family), but I think the act of leaving such a stressful situation and being around family as I figure out my next move will prove to be so much more valuable than the sacrifices I'll have to make over the next several months.

Adrift

I wanted to write about creativity and such, but after a tough week - physically and then emotionally - I’ve had my mind on other things and it’s left me feeling rather torn. Torn because I keep coming up against measures of success that indicate, to me anyway, that I’m failing, but then there’s still an underlying current of fight inside. Even though I’ve been home with a stomach bug all week long, it wasn’t until I tried to tackle yet another batch of medical bills that I was so sick to my stomach I burst into tears. Money earned instantly disappears to get debts paid off. And they just keep coming in, every day, from all around. Cancer treatment. Imaging. Therapy. Psychiatrists. Just when I had finally paid off surgery and radiation from three years ago, I had to land in the hospital and start another trail of bills. This in addition to paying hundreds upon hundreds for health insurance “coverage” that doesn’t cover very much and charity care that clearly believes I have more money than I actually do.

After hanging up on the attorney now handling my medical case after throwing another $600 into the hole, I buried my face in my knees and lost hope. I work and work to create the kind of life I’d like for myself, but then I look around and wonder, what’s the point? I’m not rich enough for that luxury. I’m not even rich enough to get sick.

*****

This blog goes back so far that I’ve taken to clicking through the relevant stories at the bottom of these posts. It’s like a tiny time capsule for me because I’ve forgotten so much of what I’ve written over the past nine years. Some of those earlier thoughts feel so foreign and immature, but I have to remind myself that I was 25 when I started sharing my life online. “A quarter of a century,” I’d say as if that were anywhere near old enough to know anything.

Last night, I stumbled upon two things that are so close to how I’ve been feeling lately. First, the post “Up in the Air” from August 2011. My life was in flux at the time. I was just given notice that I would be losing my full-time job at the end of that month and wasn’t sure if I should continue with plans for a trip I’d dreamt about for so long. I was struggling with the shock that came with the news as well as disappointment and anger over being so dispensable (I’d also been laid off just two years prior). Did I want to keep hacking through the traditional route working for one company in an office or did I want to break away from that? Could I make it as a freelancer and write about the things I cared about rather doing whatever it took to earn a paycheck? Should I finally start that stationery company I’d been talking about for years?

It’s easier to do what is expected, the norm. Land a job with benefits, climb the ladder, and hope they don’t fire you. Rent an apartment, buy a home. Get married, have kids. Eat, sleep, work, repeat. It’s not because they’re inherently easier to achieve, no. They take a lot effort and motivation, but there are also countless roadmaps to follow and so many mile markers along the way if you want to see how you measure up against others. How long have you been at this job? Does your employer match your 401k? How many vacation days do you get? How big is your home? How long have you two been together? When do the kids graduate from school?

You know you will fit in because most people will have been where you are and they will be more than happy to share with you their similar story of struggle or triumph. To me, it’s felt slightly harder to do something different. Not only because it feels riskier and less stable, but because the urge to compare my trajectory to others' is still there.

I never did go back to an office job. Since that second lay-off in 2011, I’ve worked remotely taking on jobs, going full-time with contracts, then back to part-time, losing jobs, freelancing for others, launching a company, in and out of projects, working from home, abroad, the park, a coffeeshop. The constant churn of ideas is relentless as is this never-ending need to figure out, “What’s next?” What if I don’t know what my next should be?

After I finished my sobfest, I let myself get lost in Vimeo films where I found Adrift. It’s a time-lapse of fog rolling over the San Francisco Bay Area. It’s simple, with beautiful sweeping views of the landscape at dawn, and it stuck with me. Sometimes I feel like I’m not tethered to much of my own. Wayward, in transit, “still figuring it out.” Or rather hazy, and sometimes consumed by it.

Still Alive

That bittersweet reunion in our apartment ushered in a new phase in our relationship: a confusing mix of I love you, we’re still involved, and you’re important to me, but you’ve been demoted from girlfriend. Imagine being constantly reminded that the person you trusted with everything has now placed a glass wall between you, dictating when you could get close and when you needed to know your new role, when it was alright to be intimate, but please don’t get so attached. I kept unraveling. I took whatever crumbs of attention I could get, mostly feeling happy that at the very least we were speaking at all, but also feeling my insides turn to constant dread. To me, every intimate moment felt like it could be the last time. I was a tangled ball of feels whenever we slept together and afterwards, I’d lay there in bed, wide awake, hearing him sleeping next to me while I wondered if things could ever be the same between us. I told myself to be okay with this unfamiliar stage, that perhaps we didn’t have to go down the same route everyone else did. That we could create our own version of what “broken up” looked like.

But it never felt like enough, not when I had gone from having all of him to barely having him at all. I’d make myself available whenever he wanted us to meet. I would get slapped with an insensitive comment only to dry the tears and come back for more. "Humble yourself," he said to me. "You may have taken a lot of hits, but it's a cross you're proud to bear. You keep throwing yourself into the lashes." Did that mean he needed to keep cracking the whip?

I spent four more months on top of five years still trying to prove my worth, still hoping that we could reignite whatever love we’d shared between us. This was made all the more difficult by the fact that a mutual friend, his best friend’s girlfriend 12 years his junior, had been filling in all the voids he might have felt. I tried to be understanding, I tried to be considerate, but it was driving me even more insane. As the summer bore on, the closer they became. When I’d lash out over being slighted, insulted, I’d turn around and apologize. I bought her flowers to make up for my rage when he said they’d be going to Burning Man without me. I pulled up skill after skill I’d learned in therapy to show how capable I was of changing. When he said I was destined to fail 100 percent of my attempts at change, I countered back with defiance. I was not going to let him dictate my future. But when she invited me out for coffee only to tell me I was manipulative and she couldn’t be in my life anymore, I was almost sent back to the hospital in a depressed and suicidal state. I felt like nothing was working for me. If I were to make it out at the other end of this, everyone will have left me by then.

After a month apart, he and I rekindled for no more than a passionate midnight tryst and a few days of texts. The mind-fucking continued. “I don’t know why you’re so irresistible to me,” he whispered to me in bed only to blame me for his attraction days later. “You’re dangerous,” he texted, suddenly annoyed by our flirtatious messages. “If you wanted my friendship, you’d leave your ego at the door. But you swing your sexuality around knowing how to affect me.”

When I continued to seek out ways to create a healthier relationship, a friendship, anything with him, he saw being kind to me as too big a burden to bear. I came with too many emotions, I was in “enemy territory,” I was “on trial,” "your feelings won't be accommodated," "you're trying to break into a space you'd been removed from." Why couldn’t we just fuck, he wanted to know. “We may have a lot between us, but it’s just fuel for the fire when we spark,” he told me. “I can’t return the feelings you give me and I can’t bear the burden of receiving your love without returning it. I don’t want your heart.”

I couldn’t understand why it was so hard for him to be nice when I was able to sit on the grass beside him, vulnerable, reaching out only to have him recoil from my touch. When I stormed out of the park after that last encounter in which he blew my mind by saying I needed to cater to that person he’d now fallen in love with in order to remain in his life, I knew without a doubt that a) I had finally grown to hate him and b) I had given this relationship every single ounce I had in me, and it was more than it deserved. There was nothing left to give.

I don’t know what it would have taken for me to have left sooner. I don’t know if I would’ve been capable of leaving my stubbornness aside and accepted that this person and his ego were too toxic and triggering. I’ve since been told over and over again that most people in my situation, in that relationship, would have reacted in the same way. That most would have left long ago, but instead I stayed and gave it everything I had. I flip back and forth between feeling like a martyr and an absolute idiot. I walked away having taken too much of the blame. I was the cog messing everything up. I had to change, get in line, submit, accept, permit. I had to do the work. I was the only one going to therapy so clearly I was the one with the problem.

It was so wrong and so unfair and I wish I’d had the strength to stand up for myself back then. I wish I had the guts to say that this situation was unhealthy for me and this person refused to give me what I needed in this relationship. That he hasn't wanted me for a very long time and I shouldn't have sacrificed my self-worth in order to make him stay. Do I still get angry about it? Yes. Am I sad? Definitely not as much as before. The respect they lost from family and friends after they ran off together with zero fucks given towards the people they were attached to is enough of a reflection on their character that I no longer feel the need to confront them about how hurtful their actions were towards me. Instead, I spent the fall and winter grieving and healing and while I know it’s going to take a long time to be fully repaired, I can acknowledge that I have better things going for me now. I might have lost someone in the process, but my life is so much fuller than before.

Two Weeks in the Psych Ward

I was wheeled into the New York Psychiatric Institute around midday nap time. The halls were quiet save for a few patients shuffling around the center. I noticed that they were wearing actual clothes and suddenly felt embarrassed that I was still rocking my oversized hospital gown, disposable underwear, and socks.

“Do you have any clothes from home?” was one of the many questions I’d be asked that first day. Everyone wanted to hear my story despite my having recited it countless times in the last two days. When I’d tell them to ask the last person I’d talked to, they’d just say that they wanted to hear it directly from me in case anything was left out of the last person’s notes.

The pillows were as thin as the bedsheets and the mattress made me crave the cold, tiled floors. I couldn’t sleep. If my mind wasn’t racing, then I was stifling my cries so as to not wake my roommate, an older woman who'd been in there for a year or two. It all seemed unfair, simultaneously having to deal with my breakup and my mental health all the while surrounded by no one I knew. I was furious, hurt, devastated, over and over, every stupid day. I felt like the world was moving on beyond these walls while I laid there with my hands tied behind my back.

But not literally. There were no straightjackets or padded walls, just a room with a single mattress that patients could go into whenever they were spiraling downhill. I went in there two or three times. Once to meditate after a spark of “I’m going to get back on track and everything’s going to turn out OK” and, days later, to cry my eyes out feeling like the biggest failure after A. emailed to say we shouldn’t speak anymore and that he’d signed a lease for another apartment. He’d be moving out sometime that first week of May, he wrote.

The rooms were either singles or doubles with two twin beds on opposite ends of the room. We had little cubby holes to place our clothes and other possessions, but aside from my T-shirts, underwear, and single pair of jeans, I kept most of my belongings on my nightstand. It was just a big yellow envelope I’d filled with the travel-sized toiletries, a toothbrush, a comb my family had brought me, and the stack of papers I’d been reading and writing on. They were mine and I wanted them near me. When we’d be ushered out of our room at 6am, I’d bring all my papers with me and carry them around all day until it was time for everyone to tuck in at 9pm.

By 4am, I’d be awake in bed, wishing I could just sleep this whole thing away. I’d watch the flashlight shine in through our door window and quickly shut my eyes so they didn’t discover that I was wide awake. I don’t know what they would do if they saw you staring blankly into space. More inconveniences, I assumed.

At 6am, a loud knock on everyone’s door meant it was time for vital checks. We would make our way over to the hallway in our pajamas, rubbing our eyes from the lights, and saying good morning. I was usually one of the first ones out there, clutching at my elbows, disoriented from my lack of sleep.

“You know you can request a sleeping pill, right?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if I need one.” I never did.

We lined up for medication dispenses twice a day. I’d get my mood stabilizer in the evenings and my breast cancer medication first thing in the morning along with a multivitamin. I was already alarmingly small and my continued weight loss was an issue. So they’d serve me cans of Ensure three times a day. An extra 1,000 calories in my system definitely didn’t help my appetite come meal times. The red paper placemat at the bottom of my food tray meant that I needed to be closely monitored and I came so close to slamming the whole thing on the ground when I’d be interrogated as to why I didn’t eat all my food. I just did not give a fuck. I wanted to go home.

Family visitations began at 5pm. My family was there every single day, except for a time or two towards the end when I started turning my resentment their way and told them not to come. I didn’t want them to come watch me cry for two hours and then go home to sleep in their own beds. They couldn’t help me in there. They couldn’t get their own child out of that miserable place. My sister would sneak in my phone so that I could browse through my messages. Facebook was a cruel torture I couldn’t resist. Babies had been born, lives continued on, A. was smiling for photos. Meanwhile, I had to drop various projects and commitments because of my open-ended stay. I dropped out of the National Stationery Show just weeks before the big trade show. All that time and money, gone. Work wanted to know when I’d be back. Everyone was concerned and I could only imagine the questions that were floating around.

The guilt was strong whenever I had a good day though. I’d made friends quickly and before long had gathered a small clique of the 35-and-below crew. We ate all our meals together. We debated about religion and relationships. I would banter with the boys and laughed with them when the meds made them feel so loopy. In the evenings, we would compete for access to the computer and watched music videos on YouTube. We sat together during the various life skills sessions throughout the day and clowned around. We played ping pong before lunch and blasted the only radio and danced around the game room. When the beds were opened again for nap time, I’d take refuge in that one room with the radio and sing my heart out. I needed some way to purge the pain away and for me, that was through writing and music. This was necessary, I reminded myself. It felt like a mental health vacation.

“Fresh air” on the day’s schedule meant that the group would be escorted to the outdoor patio. I called it The Cage because of the green wire fence that rose up and curved over us as a reminder that we were not free. The cars on the Hudson River Parkway just below us went by so fast and I wished so hard that I could be in one of them heading far away from this place. I counted the tiny Smart cars that zipped on past while I waited for someone to rescue me.

“What is the first thing you’re going to do once you’re out?” we’d ask each other.

Some would mention their favorite meal, a particular place, sleeping in their own bed, or turning right back the vices that landed them there in the first place. Me? I wanted to run. Nowhere in particular. Just run.

But I didn’t run when I walked out of the hospital on May 1, 2015. I just grabbed my clothes, the shoelaces that were confiscated on my first day, the manila envelope stuffed with my paperwork and toiletries, and made my way to Dad’s car. I clicked on my seatbelt and we drove uptown towards home. I still didn’t feel free.

When I arrived at our apartment in the middle of his workday, I braced for what I felt would be a jarring scene, a quiet, half-empty home devoid of the life he and I had created together. No one knew when I'd finally be home, and I hadn't spoken to A. in days, but when I turned the key, I noticed that the front door wasn’t completely locked. I walked into our hallway and there he was, exhausted and hunched over his office chair, surrounded by boxes, waiting for the movers to arrive.

2015

The first third
A muddy blur
Exploded into existence
It was an error to ignore all the tremors
Psychedelic love met resistance

Forced purgatory
For emotional surgery
Paper dreams went up in smoke
A summer in vain spent fanning the flames
But he took and she took and they took

Heart burned
Lessons learned
Feeling foolish because deep down I knew
Finally believing there’s no need to stay hidden
Though others left, my circle grew

Strum down
Twirl around
What would it have cost to be kind?
Mending and grieving via drawing and weaving
Cocooning with the butterflies

Goodbye and goodbye
With head held high
What a twisted end to this game
Cold shoulders and dark hours
I was bracing for a winter that never truly came

Break

When a doctor led me into an interview room to assess my mental state, I told her what I thought she needed to hear in order to set me free. It’d been two days. I said I felt better. That no, I didn’t feel like killing myself anymore. That I was just really sad over the breakup. That I could continue recovering at home. That I would be safe.

She didn’t believe me.

She said that my intense reactions, overwhelming emotions, and tendency to self-harm in various ways could be indicative of a more serious underlying issue. I hugged my knees as she told me that I would not be going home that night either. What would it take?? Eventually, a little flicker started to go off in my brain as I wondered if this could be what I’d been needing all along. If I couldn’t go back, then maybe there was something to find moving forward. No one knew how awful I’d felt most of my life. When my father was interviewed about my past behavior, he easily answered that I was mild-mannered and successful, focused and quiet, yes, but never violent. Only A. knew the extent of my suffering because he had to live through it with me. And I so wished he were there to comfort me as I sought my way through this mess, but he was gone. God knows where he was at that time.

Upon hearing that I would not be discharged, I decided there was no use hiding anymore. As I began unraveling before her, a voice told me I was only digging myself in a deeper hole; they’d never let me go now. Another told me this was my chance to finally get the help I needed. Years of going to therapy had done nothing for me; I still felt severely depressed. When I was hurt emotionally, I’d let myself "bleed out" until I’d finally grow empty and numb, absolutely exasperated with myself; I’d feel that deeply. I’d hold things in until they burst out in flames. I was constantly fighting against the mean voices in my head. Even in my happy days, the joy was short-lived. This dull ache was always lying underneath and I truly believed that a consistent happiness was just not in the cards for me. I will always sink back to sad.

I believed that if I just talked to someone long enough, an answer would suddenly appear and make things all better. This doctor, who I remember as being sweet and kind and beautiful, said there was never a plan with my methods. That was true, I wanted to figure it out all by myself and felt that therapy could unlock something for me. But I didn’t know that wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough, and here I was finally facing that idea.

It was the first time anyone had ever mentioned the words “mood disorder” as a reason for my behavior. Which? She couldn’t say, but she suggested the possibility of taking medication to help me cope with the surges in the meantime. After just a few months of being on antidepressants in my mid-20s, I had sworn I would never go on medication again; it was that awful of an experience. In a letter to A. describing this moment, I wrote:

“All this time I’ve wanted to tackle my issues without chemical assistance, but it’s been an exhausting uphill battle. Every single day I’m gritting my teeth, hoping I don’t fuck up. I am so tired. I just wanted to be free of this endless suffering. I was terrified, regretful, so many emotions. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I can’t do this anymore. I’m so scared, but while I talked to the doctor, I felt some hope that things could get better. That there’s an answer in all this.”

She also wanted to transfer me to an inpatient clinic within the hospital facilities where I could be monitored and have access to resources that would help me address my issues. I asked the important questions first.

“Will there be access to Internet?”

“Yes, and you can write from there or do art and other activities.”

Cut to me envisioning a mini staycation of sorts. I could have my laptop and keep working from my room or wherever there was a WiFi connection. There’d be a window with a view. I could paint and continue my ongoing art projects. And if I was struggling through anything, I’d have doctors available to get me through the hurdle. It sounded like mental health sleepaway camp! I never got to go to sleepaway camp!

I signed the agreement hoping that there would be a slot available for me soon, and took my first dose of mood stabilizers that evening. It was the first time in days that I’d been able to sleep soundly through the night - save for those wretched vital checks, of course.

The Triage

If you thought going through a breakup from the comfort of your own bed was tough enough, imagine trying to heal that heart from a hospital emergency room at one in the morning alongside a row of patients moaning through their own personal hell. That. Shit. Sucks. There’s no crying in peace when a thin, white bed sheet is all that separates you from the rest of this God forsaken triage.

It wasn’t until I’d recounted my story several times over that I figured I could deaden the pain by focusing on the people around me. One belligerent woman had to be strapped down and sedated after an unsuccessful suicide attempt involving a bunch of pills and a bottle of liquor. Somehow the woman was still very much alive and kicking and fully believing she was fit to walk out the door. “That’s going to be one God awful hangover in the morning,” I thought.

But where the hell was my family? I was sure they would start questioning their decision to bring me in after seeing the lot I was lumped in with here. See? At least I wasn’t that far gone! I wanted to go home, but no one was giving me any answers, just more of the same damn questions.

“Tell me what happened. Why were you brought in?”
“Did he hit you?”
“Have you ever done drugs?”
“Earlier you indicated that you were having suicidal thoughts. Are you still thinking of hurting yourself?”
“How are you feeling now?”
“We’re still waiting to hear back if you’re able to go home.”

I couldn’t tell you how long we waited in the emergency room; there was no clock and my cell phone had been confiscated along with everything else I’d worn in. My father and sister were still out in the waiting room and I’d catch glimpses of them walking by, trying to get answers from anyone. Because I was kept in a small communal area, my family couldn’t stay long with me, but I’d try and catch their attention whenever I saw them pass by the nurses’ station. I just wanted someone to come lie next to me, hug me, and tell me things would be okay. I wanted warmth. If I was going to feel this alone, I would have rather locked myself in my bedroom and curled up under the covers until the numbness took over. There was no sleep here.

At around four in the morning, another nurse came to transfer me to another holding area where I would stay through the rest of the night. I was cranky and not as happy to comply with their demands. Where were they taking me now? How long would I be there? And didn’t they know I had work to get to in the morning? Did they expect me to just suddenly stop my life over this?

Oh, did they.

I asked if they could at least bring me my phone to quickly shoot off a few vague emails along with a handwritten note to my sister on what she should tell my employers. They clearly didn’t want me to have these possessions for a second longer than necessary because as soon as I was done, they grabbed my things, gave them to my sister, and locked the hallway door behind them. Now it was just me and these fools.

I was ushered into a larger communal pen lined with reclining chairs and sleeping bodies. The area was dark save for the lights along the passageway the circled around the holding area. Security guards would check in on us from time to time, entering the pen through one side and exiting through the opposite end. I’d watch them come and go, come and go. I curled up on my chair, wrapping the oversized hospital gown around my cold feet, and then the blanket over every inch of me. Whenever I’d hear a rustle, I’d go on high alert, immediately stopping my sobbing to listen to what was going on in the darkness. At one point in the night, a shadow - one of the male patients - stood a few feet from my chair and just watched over me for a few minutes. I’m sure he just wanted to help somehow because I’d been crying and shaking so much, or at least that’s what I’m going to tell myself, but there was no way in hell I was falling asleep in that place. Days later, a patient I’d grow to befriend said she felt sorry and concerned when they first brought me in; I looked so sad, scared, and alone.

Oh, the snoring, wandering patients, people chatting, my constant vigilance; sleep deprivation was a given. Even if I had managed to doze off, those insufferable nurses would roll on through to check your vitals every three to four hours aaaall night and aaaall day. I didn’t brush my teeth for two days. I don’t remember caring.

I was thrilled to see that the woman with the shrill voice and colorful language from the emergency room had made the transfer over here as well. Absolutely fabulous really. Since I couldn’t run away from these people via reading or writing, I just sat and observed. I wanted to remember everything. Some of us were in there due to suicide attempts while others seemed to be addicted to one thing or another, led into this fine establishment by concerned family members who didn’t know what the hell to do with them anymore. Those struggling through withdrawals would cry out for their methadone doses, more nicotine gum, patches, food, more food! Soon I was one of them, getting my daily cancer medication in a teeny plastic cup at the beginning of each day. I was stuck in an endless reel of mealtimes and getting my vitals checked.

“No, thanks,” I’d say whenever the cart rolled by. “I’m not hungry.”

Secretly, I was starving.

Visitation hours were in three time blocks throughout the day, so my family was there three times a day without fail. It was comforting to see someone I knew. It helped break up the otherwise nothingness that filled those first couple of days. In my craving for connection, I befriended a distraught woman who was placed in the chair beside me. I so wanted a friend in there and we were…for about a day until she was transferred to a psychiatric institution somewhere north of the city. I made it a point to find her before she was wheeled off to the ambulance and hugged her goodbye.

I still think about her. I hope she also made it through.

"I Don't Feel Well..."

By the time my sister arrived an hour later, I’d started murmuring that I wanted to stop. I wanted to stop feeling. Feeling was taking too much out of me and I was so, so tired. She’d stroke my hair as I rested my head on her lap and ask what I meant by it. “I want it to end,” I said, dazed and numb from expending so much energy. “I don’t feel well…”

When she asked directly, “Dorkys, are you thinking of hurting yourself?” I couldn’t bring myself to say yes or no. This was my little sister. I couldn’t tell her, “Yes, you’re so close to losing me. I’m sorry. I just can’t care anymore.” I wasn’t ready for what an affirmative answer would bring, but I also knew better than to lie and say no. Answering, “I don’t feel well,” was my compromise. It was all she needed to hear.

What I wouldn’t give now to not have put her in that position. To not have yelled at her from the bathroom, “No! No! Please don’t!” while Dad hugged me so she could step out to call 911. "What are you doing?!" I kept crying out.

I absolutely hated them. I simultaneously wanted them to hug me and leave me alone. Why couldn’t they see that I was suffering through a heartbreak? I just needed more time to let it out. But even though I didn’t want to go to the hospital, something inside me kept me from saying I’d be okay. I did not think I’d be okay. I could not trust myself to be okay, which is why I didn’t run or lock myself in my room until this ride came to a screeching halt. I knew I was beyond their help.

This wasn’t the first time I’d struggled with suicidal thoughts. While I’ve never attempted to end my life, I’ve swirled the idea around in my head since I was a teenager. Suicide stories fascinated me and I can rattle off the pros and cons for various option. How did they do it? How much pain did they feel? What drove them to see death as the better option? And, did they succeed? The answer to that final question is one of the factors that have kept me from ever trying (along with the fact that I love my siblings too much to scar them in that way). As someone who’s terrified of even a needle prick, the idea of attempting and failing sounds like a fate worse than death. What if I end up trapped in my own body, my mind churning in a vessel that refuses to respond? What if I jump in front of an oncoming train only to have my limbs severed? Or what if I suffered the slow and painful decline that comes from renal failure caused by an overdose of painkillers? While I’m in the fog, it does seem enticing, just ending everything. No more pain, no more struggles, no more stressing over the bills, or deadlines and an overflowing inbox. Once it’s done, you’ll feel nothing. You won’t feel sadness, pain, or regret. It’s just *poof* over.

But I know that, for me, it’d be a cry for attention, for help, and the same is true for some others who’ve attempted suicide. They want someone to show up, to care, to save them from themselves, to remind them that this feeling won’t last forever. You forget, you know, that you will eventually return to better, and thinking of those who’ve regretted their decision soon after beginning a successful attempt hurts my heart.

I hated my family for sending me to the hospital, but could I blame them? I left them no choice. Here they were responding to my cry for help before I yelled out any louder. So when a small army of police and EMTs came to escort me outside (“We take suicide attempts very seriously,” one said.), I slowly got dressed, still wiping my face with my sleeves, and looked at my feet as I made my way down the stairs, confused, ashamed, and devastated that I didn’t know how to properly handle a breakup.

April 16, 2015

It’s taken me a while to return to this space after dusting things off because writing about fun and festive happenings seemed frivolous in comparison to what I really wanted to say. It’s all that’s been on my mind as the year comes to a close, but I wasn’t ready to offer it up. Or rather, I wanted so badly to release it, but the right words and the energy hadn’t arrive yet.

I'd been bracing for the holidays and the sadness that I knew would come with it. I spent Christmas Eve with my family and once the night ended fairly early, I retreated to my couch and spent the next two days cocooning. I was to give myself whatever I wanted in the coming days, my therapist said. If I wanted a cookie, I would eat a cookie. I do not like cookies. I hate cookies, but I didn't object to her suggestion. Turns out I didn't need too much to feel soothed, just the feeling of coziness and something important to hold all my attention. I'd never written about the night of my breakup with A. or the things that followed save for a letter I wrote to him while I was away and now I found myself ready to process it the best way I knew how.

This year, I celebrated Christmas Day with my laptop, thoughts, and a steady stream of hot cocoa; the bag of marshmallows stayed by my side all weekend. I wrote and I wrote so many strings of letters. It seems all I needed was to start and out they came. The temperature was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, so no snow, but we got days of rain instead. And save for a brief walk around my neighborhood on Christmas night, I just sat here in the quiet to allow my story to pour out.

And then I got sick.

…

In the days leading up to my breakup with A., I was stressing over my upcoming debut at the National Stationery Show. After years of working towards this goal, I wanted Porcupine Hugs to be as successful as possible at this popular New York City trade show. It was all I could think about and I was needing extra care, love, and attention as the show was just a month away.

There were other factors that played into my mounting anger and impatience towards A. in those days, but I’ll get into that another time. Just know that a refusal to help me the night before things ended between us was enough to cast yet another net of passive aggressiveness his way. After several minutes of standing in front of him in silence trying to fix our dinner salad while being reprimanded for being so selfish and inconsiderate about his time and that perhaps I'd bitten off more than I could chew, I held it in, held it in, held it in…and then I just reacted. I didn’t think or see, I just felt and that fury immediately translated into action.

"STOP IT!!" I yelled as I launched the two forks in his direction, not with the intention of hurting him, but because I was over his endless tirade. One found his neck, and just as quickly, I was pinned up against the wall. It’s been eight months since that night and I still feel guilt and shame over it. It’s a damned spot I can’t ever wash off.

I don’t know why I didn’t figure out that something else was wrong with this picture, with him and with me. Before he left for work the following morning, we were still arguing and his refusal to consider my position only made me spin even more out of control. God, it hurt. Everything was surging. One moment I was pleading that he stay for a little longer so we could talk things through and the next I’m punching the wall at rapid fire speed with no intention of stopping until he pulled me away. I hurt, I needed attention, I wanted help, but I didn't know why. I just wanted to keep releasing the inner explosions until I finally turned to lean against the wall and slid to the floor while grabbing at my hair and losing my grip. I was hemorrhaging via emotion with no idea I had a wound that needed to be plugged.

Perhaps it was sheer delusion or the fact that we’d been close to the edge before without ever tipping over, but I believed we could fix things when he returned home from work that evening. Except this time was different; it had gone too far. I won’t go into the details of that loud, awful night, but I won’t ever forget how dead and black his eyes looked when he screamed that he was leaving me over and over and over as he packed up his bags and I begged for a conversation. I refused to accept it until he finally managed to yank his backpack from my clutch and stormed out the door.

I didn’t chase after him this time. I might have if I didn’t feel so paralyzed. All I could do was crumple to the floor and reach out to someone for help. I called my sister. I called my dad. I called my best friend who lived out of town because I needed someone’s voice to hold me together until someone arrived. My father found me on the bathroom floor when he walked in, a sobbing incoherent mess, hugging my knees so tight to keep my chest from exploding. Then I’d switch and lash out at him for trying to soothe me into feeling better. He couldn’t possibly understand how much I hurt with his gentle voice and open arms. What the hell could he do for me now? So I’d take it out on the roll of toilet paper hanging in front of me, spinning and spinning and shredding it until I’d collapse onto his lap again, flying back and forth between crying and pure hatred. There was no end to this feeling.

When you’re in the state I was in, there is no concept of transiency. This hole is all you know, all you’ve ever known, and it’s where you will live forever. There is nothing that exists after this. The human mind is an amazing deceiver and I was in too vulnerable of a state to ever consider that what I was thinking and feeling wasn’t permanent. I was sure I was going to die this way. It was just a matter of time.

Creative Constipation

I know the title isn't exactly the loveliest one I could come up with, but I really do believe I need some form of creative laxative. I haven't been able to dive into my art or create anything new for the past six months and the bits that I have done - just to maintain my stationery company - have been mostly business. Receive order, package order, mail out order. A dream I'd put so much money and effort into making a reality crashed when I had to pull out of this May's National Stationery Show at the last minute. I haven't fully recovered from that disappointment yet and I know this because I've been too afraid to face several things since then.

My retreat from social media happened for a few reasons, but the first step I took in that direction was on Instagram right before NSS. I just couldn't handle seeing all my creative peeps getting ready and excited for the show while I was home, depressed and recovering. I felt so embarrassed because after all that hype I'd made about my upcoming debut, I was going to be a no-show. I imagined my booth space sitting empty save for a sheet of paper stating that "Porcupine Hugs" was supposed to be there. I wanted to crawl under the covers for forever and I pretty much did, but when followers started asking me for my booth number and saying they couldn't wait to see me at the Jacob Javits Center, I had to come clean. Everyone was incredibly supportive and I wanted to wish everyone a great time, but I still felt like a loser and some Instagram posts later, I stopped being active on there. It's crazy because I so loved Instagram above all other forms of social media, but it just hurt too much to confront that anxiety.

After I retreated from Twitter and Facebook, I closed down my Etsy shop. Everything was just too much. I wanted to hide and I didn't want people to find me.

But that's the crazy thing about craving isolation and then getting it...you end up feeling lonely and that depression continues feeding back into the isolation. I had sidelined myself to such a degree that I didn't even know where or how to start integrating. I do have friends, so many of them, and am grateful that they've refused to let me become a perma-hermit, but I also keep thinking of those other people I had connected with via social media. The other small businesses owners, the creatives, the group that would cheer each other on through obstacles and victories. In my mind, I had closed this thriller of a book I hadn't finished reading yet and here I was obsessing over what happened next, but too afraid to flip it back open. Even after re-opening my shop some weeks ago (after the constant nudge and encouragement from a well-meaning friend), I haven't been able to tap back into those circles. I haven't created anything new either. I miss it, but I haven't been craving it as much as I used to. A friend once told me I should be gentler on myself. While art might have served as my therapy in the past, right now my mind is focused on healing itself in other ways. Eventually, I will be hungry for it again.

A few friends of mine have taken to adult coloring books to relieve stress and cater to that inner child. Some books are much more intricate than others, but they're still a fun way to be creative without the added pressure of making something that will sell. Some good choices (and the ones my friends have played with):

1. Adult Coloring Book: Stress Relieving Patterns
2. Creative Haven Creative Cats Coloring Book
3. Secret Paris: Color Your Way to Calm
4. Fantastic Cities: A Coloring Book of Amazing Places Real and Imagined

I bought that last book after falling in love with its wanderlust aspect as I've been dreaming of taking off and traveling the globe for a while. Whether it happens or not, it's been a most welcomed distraction. At first I thought the intricate cityscapes would kick my hyperventilating skills into high gear, but when I started coloring in the teeny houses of Bremen, Germany, I couldn't focus on anything other than painting that particular house in that particular color before moving on to the next tiny building. I hadn't meditated on a regular basis in a long time, but coloring something so detailed came close to it. I imagined this is what it would feel like to build a puzzle of 10,000 pieces. My mind has been going non-stop, obsessing over things said, not said, what I wish I had done or not done, mistakes I wish I could erase, moments when I wish I had stood up for myself over and over. All. Day. Long.

This was a break, a quiet from the negativity clamoring around in my brain. And while my best antidotes have been moments with friends and genuine connections, I can't be around others 24 hours a day, seven days a week. In fact, it was that very neediness and fear of being alone that partly led me to this situation. So here I am, learning to be on my own again and remembering how much I loved to draw.

Two Big and Simple Questions

Sometimes over the course of years and years of sameness, you might lose track of where the hell you're going. The days all blend together into a string of "I work today" and "I don't work today." Mondays are greeted with a groan and we start the race to Friday as soon as the week begins. What the hell are we doing with all those blurred days in between?

A couple weeks ago two different friends asked me 1) what is that one thing that you'd rather die than never do again and 2) when you're by yourself, at home, in the quiet, who are you really?

I've been keeping myself busy, surrounded by friends, and taking on fun hobbies in the process. I took swimming lessons through the summer months and in September, started learning to the play the guitar and how to plié in ballet class. I'm loving my classes and seeing the progress I've made week after week, but I also know these are forms of distraction. And that's okay. I understand that I need that right now and hopefully eventually an evening at home won't be met with loneliness as I look around my new apartment and think, "This place is too big and too empty just for me..."

But this past Friday, I hit pause on my YouTube binge-watching, grabbed a sheet of paper and some colorful markers, and asked myself those questions again. When I was asked the first one, my answer came immediately.

"Write," I told my friend. "I really think that's it for me and can't imagine never being able to write again. That's how I express myself above anything else."

As for the second question, here's the very short list that I came up with:

1. Travel the world.
2. Share (my) stories. [blog/memoir/articles]
3. Inspire and delight youth. [art/Porcupine Hugs/books]
4. Connect with others. [friendships/volunteering]

And that's it. I couldn't think of anything else that truly defined me and would fulfill me without being dependent on somebody else. I've even dreamt of a way tie all four points together, but that's for me to mull over for a bit longer.

Remember, this isn't a to do or a bucket list, but rather the basic essential things that make your life meaningful. The goal is to then have your time, energy, and the jobs and activities you take on feed into those things. Think of it as a compass of sorts; judge your actions and decisions based on whether or not it nurtures one of the points on this list. If it doesn't, that's still okay. No guilt-tripping. I think having a little guide to where you'd like to be heading is a good reminder to have, especially when you feel as if you're just grabbing at straws sometimes. At the very least it's starting to help me think a little deeper about my current ambitions and job pursuits.

What would your short list look like? 

Adele is the Soundtrack of My Relationships

Over the course of my life, there have been few artists who have compelled me to buy every album they’ve released and have me listen to it in its entirety. I usually dabble in singles or enjoy a track I happened to catch on the radio or Shazzam’ed from a coffee shop. For every one song I like, there will be many more that would get the skip from me.

Enter Adele.

For the past seven years, she has been the only one who can string me along from beginning to end and back to the beginning on a never-ending loop. When I first saw the music video for “Chasing Pavements” off her debut album 19, I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. It was so haunting and her voice was absolute heaven. I couldn’t tire of it. That album saw me through my first breakup back in 2008. I spent so many evenings singing to those songs after lighting candles and settling into a hot bath, wondering when my heart would stop hurting and what I was headed towards next. Those moments in that candlelit bathroom were my tiny escapes, tears and all, and I found Adele to be the perfect soundtrack to that phase in my life.

With “First Love,” I thought of him and tried hard to let the relationship float away, but my hope and guilt refused to leave me. I was still so tied to “us.” After wanting to break things off so many times out of the fear that “all things would eventually end anyway,” I’d convinced him that it would not work out between us. And still, I was devastated.

Forgive me first love, but I'm tired
I need to get away to feel again
Try to understand why, don't get so close to change my mind
Please wipe that look out of your eyes, it's bribing me to doubt myself
Simply, it's tiring

“Best for Last” made me wish that he’d remember what we shared instead of settling into the arms of a new girl, the one he would eventually marry. I was unapologetic when I sang “Melt My Heart to Stone,” a song about creating a relationship in your head, stringing bits of promises and delusions to form something that means very little to the other person. Isn’t it so easy to make yourself see something that isn’t there when you want so badly for it to be real? Sometimes you need to float on that cloud for a bit until you're ready for it to gently bring you back to earth so you can stand on your own.

I hear your words you made up
I say your name like there should be an us
I best tidy up my head I'm the only one, in love
I'm the only one in love

By the time I met A., at the tail end of 2009, I was able to listen to “Make You Feel My Love” and not be pained by it. Without realizing it, I had finally started to move on. Hope for something nearly two years passed wasn’t necessary anymore.

Her second album, 21, was released in 2011 and already my second relationship was rocky. We’d kiss and makeup more times than I could count and I found myself swirling deeper and deeper into this confusing mess in my head. One moment we were head-over-heels in passion and adventure and the next we couldn’t stand each other. I’d sing “One and Only” to him, envisioning us dancing to it on our wedding day some autumn in the distant future. When he’d ignore my calls after a fight, my mood would drift from a saddened “Don’t You Remember” to a defiant “Take It All.”

Didn't I give it all?
Tried my best
Gave you everything I had, everything and no less
Didn't I do it right? Did I let you down?
Maybe you got too used to having me 'round
Still how can you walk away
From all my tears
It's gonna be an empty road without me right here
But go on and take it, take it all with you
Don't look back at this crumbling fool
Just take it all with my love, take it all with my love

And then there was my song “Set Fire to the Rain,” which spoke to this growing fury inside me, the one that I tried so hard to contain until it just needed to be released. I found that lashing out the chorus had a sort of soothing effect on me…I just wanted to yell it out…

I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
Where I felt something die, 'cause I knew that
That was the last time, the last time

But it wasn’t the last time. It wasn’t going to be the last time for four more years. Something kept us together, trying over and over. Stubbornness, I used to say, but it had to have been deeper than that. We were invested in one another, we cared. The love was genuinely there, but as he’s said, “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

And in the spring of 2015, A. stormed away.

Today, Adele released the first single and music video off her upcoming album, 25. After being away for so long, it’s fitting that this first track is titled “Hello.” In a post about her new album, which will be released November 20, Adele explained that her latest creation is a rebirth of sorts. So many have commented on her amazing ability to wrap up a broken heart and release that pain through her vocals, but what would happen if she finally found and maintained her happiness? It seems she might have (the soulful singer gave birth to son Angelo in 2012 with her longtime boyfriend Simon Konecki), but perhaps “this is everything we need” - a beautiful reminder that we need to be gentle with ourselves regardless of who enters or leaves our lives.

“My last record was a break-up record and if I had to label this one I would call it a make-up record,” Adele wrote. “I’m making up with myself. Making up for lost time. Making up for everything I ever did and never did. But I haven’t got time to hold on to the crumbs of my past like I used to. What’s done is done.

“I made the decision to go into becoming who I’m going to be forever without a removal van full of my old junk. I miss everything about my past, the good and the bad, but only because it won’t come back,” she continued. “25 is about getting to know who I’ve become without realising. And I’m sorry it took so long, but you know, life happened.”

In my attempts to please and make so much work, I tore myself apart and absorbed too much blame. I’m still learning how to piece things all together. I’m still in pain, I’m still reeling, but much less than months ago. Perhaps it’s because that “last time” still wasn’t the end of our chapter and after a summer of perhaps giving this more than it deserved, I’m finally closer to taking the training wheels off of this…break up. I've been here before, I know it'll get better eventually. Right now though, it still hurts too much to remember.



Images: en.wikipedia.org, en.wikipedia.org, and herald-review.com

One Year Later...

I’ve spent the last year wanting to blog again (as I always say whenever a chunk of time quietly passes by around here), but, you know, life…

Whenever someone mentioned my blog or introduced me to their friend as a writer/blogger, I’d sheepishly mumble something about how I used to blog, how I used to write all the time, how I missed it, or how I just haven’t found time to get back into it. Weeks turned into months and months into a whole year and all the while my mind kept filling up with writing topics only to be emptied just as quickly by the mere thought of crafting a coherent sentence. After spending all day at the computer creating stories for other people, the last thing I wanted to do was write down my own. Still, I constantly wondered how the blogger community was doing these days. What happened to all those lives I used to follow? Was anybody even blogging anymore?

Last night I happened to pop on over to see if I had made the one year mark yet. I remembered my last post, a video interview for Breast Cancer Awareness Month, was published around the end of October and sure enough today was that day. And so I figured exactly one year later is as good a time as any to revive this old space. I’ve just published a new essay on my experience with breast cancer so at least I’d have that to share and slowly ease into this routine I once loved so much, I told myself.

But just like in 2008, when I first revived the blog because my life was a twisted mess and I had so much to say, I’d been craving this space for much of the same reasons. I initially thought I could saunter on in, dust the desk off, and whip up a few paragraphs about returning to the blogosphere (by the way, please tell me people don’t use that term anymore). Silly me. I should have known it wouldn’t come with its own emotional churning.

Dry As Toast was born out of my wish to write when no magazines were hiring me after I’d graduated journalism school in 2007. I told no one about it (aside from my sister) because it still seemed silly to keep an online journal as an adult. I tried to keep it going under wraps, but when there’s no community or feedback surrounding your words, the enthusiasm can die out fairly quickly. And so mine did. A year later, I found myself jumping right in, writing every single day, telling my friends about it, and eventually settling into a place that served as my virtual therapy. I poured so much of myself into this space - good, bad, confusing, inspiring, and devastating - that I’m sure you can imagine what it feels like to be back. It’s like opening an old diary and realizing that the feelings you had a decade ago have not changed much at all. Even worse is seeing how happy and hopeful the last several blog posts were and how different this year has felt.

In the past, reviving this blog has symbolized the beginning of a new chapter, and right now I don’t know that I even want to get over this mountain just yet. Even writing this is making my heart race because I know what will come if I start sifting through the things on my mind. I almost have to be in here with blinders on because I know that if I start digging, reading, remembering, longing, it will cause this knot in my throat to grow thicker.

So for now, I’ll just say…hello and that I missed this.

Image: vivala.com

Impermanence

So I'm back from Burning Man, already deep into my regular schedule (blah!) of work work work, and am still trying to sift through all the thoughts I've collected on this trip. A part of me feels overwhelmed by trying to make sense of the sensory overload I've just experienced as well as guilt over not doing "enough" while out in the desert. I'm also trying not to drown in thoughts of all the work that needs to get done this month. My head has been spinning, spinning, and one word holds fast in the center of that mental tornado: impermanence.

It's been a couple weeks now since I set off on this adventure for a second time and I have to admit, there will never be anything to compare to that first time. I went into my second burn knowing full well that every year will be different, that no comparisons should be made, but oh how I slightly envied those who were stepping onto the playa for the very first time. Their eyes were so wide as they struggled to find words to express how incredible this all was. Don't get me wrong, Burning Man is still an amazing city of play, light, and sound, but I did miss the mind-blowing surprise that was my first year. Of course, that had to come to an end, but it'll continuously be replaced with other discoveries both within and outside of ourselves.

I have a hard time accepting how temporary things are and Burning Man is the epitome of impermanence. Not only do 70,000 people congregate on Black Rock Desert to party for a week before the whole city vanishes without a trace on Labor Day, but while you're there you're fed a constant stream of blips on the radar. Art installations are created for Black Rock City residents to enjoy and days later they're burned to the ground. Gone. Forever. Perhaps you make a mental note to check out a cool piece, but constantly find yourself distracted by the hundreds of other cool things going on around you until you're on the car ride home yelling, "Dammit! We never saw SoundPuddle!" I wish I'd made it a point to enter one of the most arresting sights on the playa, Embrace, with its beating hearts and the chance to crawl into the statues' heads to peer out onto the city through their eyes. But before we could get any closer, we were being whisked away to the edge of the dusty city on an art car outfitted with xylophones, banging on a rooftop gong every time a cyclist waved as we drove on by…

We didn't approach Embrace again until it was burned early Friday morning. The opportunity to engage with that piece of art had passed.

This year was better than the last in that I didn't cling to each moment as if that was the happiest I could ever be. I often found myself not wanting to leave an installation because what if the moment that followed wasn't as fun? A. kept reassuring me that while the present was quite good, there will be more joy to follow no matter where we ended up. So I was more willing to let go of moments at this year's burn. I made it a point to hop off my bike if an experience called out to me (spontaneity! participation!), thoroughly enjoyed that moment, and then left it behind in search of more knowing that whatever came next would be just as novel, exciting, and beautiful. I was more social, wanting to collect stories and connections rather than experience it all from the bubble that surrounds me. The issue? A. and I would tuck in early, choosing sweet slumber over partying until dawn and I'd often lay there in our tent wondering if we weren't just wasting time with this sleep business. What were we missing? Are we squeezing every drop out of this amazing place? No, but we continued to burn on our terms.

Sometimes I felt this urgency to rush out and do everything despite my body's limitations, but I also understood that there's no way I could catch every moment going on in the city before it dismantled in a few days' time. Even now as I type, I'm frantically trying to search and grab every thought I have on this because soon they'll be replaced with other concerns. It's much like waking up from a crazy dream and racing to jot down the scenes before your brain realizes it's awake. Nothing lasts. How do I learn to be okay with that?

Earlier this summer, A. suggested I read Nightline anchor Dan Harris' book 10% Happier: How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Actually Works. It's about Harris' journey into meditation and his skepticism that self-help techniques would actually work on someone who works in such a stressful, deadline-driven field. It was in reading this that the concept of "impermanence" piqued my interest and while my gut has yet to come to terms with it, my mind has been turning it over and over like a smooth pebble in its hand.

"As best I could understand it, the Buddha's main thesis was that in a world where everything is constantly changing, we suffer because we cling to things that won't last," Harris wrote.

"The Buddha embraced an often overlooked truism: nothing lasts – including us. We and everyone we love will die. Fame fizzles, beauty fades, continents shift. Pharaohs are swallowed by emperors, who fall to sultans, kings, kaisers, and presidents – and it all plays out against the backdrop of an infinite universe in which our bodies are made up of atoms from the very first exploding stars. We may know this intellectually, but on an emotional level we seem to be hardwired for denial. We comport ourselves as if we had control."

But we don't and so we have to learn to be at peace with uncertainty and every single moment fading into oblivion.

Do you also have a hard time letting go of moments, people, or possessions?

Commitments Are Not My Strong Suit

It's a wonder that I've been able to maintain a relationship for 4+ years because it seems that I don't take too well to commitments. Among the new habits I've tried to take on this year alone and failed to permanently incorporate into my life are:

Yoga. It was beautiful while it lasted. For all of four weeks, A. and I would wake up at 6:30/7pm, bang out a workout and I'd make us breakfast while he got ready for work. It was a good way to start the day.

#dorkysdraws. In an attempt to get the old gears moving again, I took on the mission of drawing a doodle every day and sharing it on Instagram. Nothing too involved, just a little something to force me to stop and be creative for a few minutes each day. Real work seems to keep yanking on my attention, but after a month-long break I've picked up my Micron pens once again.

Dry As Toast. Oh poor little blog. Once I gave myself a chance to relax so I could focus on my health last year, I let the whole thing go. Now it seems to take such an effort to share my thoughts with you. Sometimes I feel like I've got nothing left to say…and sometimes what I want to say feels way too personal now. Is it growing older that's left me reluctant to bare my feelings for all to read? Would anyone still care? Or maybe I just feel tapped with Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram all vying for a piece of me.

Creativity. In this I'm lumping in Porcupine Hugs, calligraphy, photography, DIY projects, pen palling, and all the arts I enjoyed. They all fall under Things I Need Another 24 Hours To Do, But Spend The First 24 Hours Thinking About.

Every now and then I'll raise the following question to A.: What does success mean to you? Is it more important to be happy or to be ambitious? In that last question I'm not insinuating that the two qualities are mutually exclusive as I know you can be both happy and ambitious, but in my case ambition feeds this restlessness. If I'm not being productive or chasing some goal, I can't relax. I feel like I'm wasting time. It could be 6 in the freaking morning and as soon as I regain consciousness my mind is turning. "What should I do today? Should I get up? I'm still tired, but maybe I should be making better use of my time..." Oh what I wouldn't give to have a lazy Sunday without the guilt. I'm sure A. would be thankful, too, since my "Let's do something!" mentality tends to spill over onto his plate when he wants none of it. So I wonder, if I let go of all these goals on the list, things I keep thinking I need to accomplish in order to be Successful, and stop holding myself to a high standard, would I be happier? Or would the thought of settling into a calm mediocrity always leave me feeling unfulfilled?

In June, I attended a Creative Mornings session in which Squarespace founder and CEO Anthony Casalena gave a talk minimalism. In it, Casalena explained how to do lists can lock us into a path of short-term priorities making it hard to step back and focus on the true essence of the project. A point of his that really resonated with me is the idea of letting go of good ideas and his coming to the painful realization that he only has so much creative energy to devote to goals. How often don't we guilt-trip ourselves into chasing all these different leads, thinking we have to grab them all in order to feel good about ourselves? Well Casalena advised the audience to keep their key goal in mind and then use that to discard the things around it - good or bad. Letting go will feel liberating, he said.

"It feels very good in a way to close the chapter on something and it just frees your mind to do so many other things. I think too often people try to leave too many doors open at once in their life and they're just afraid of losing optionality," Casalena said.

So that's what I've been somewhat doing this summer. Instead of chasing down every creative whim, I'm accepting that right now my focus is on work and finances. I'm still writing for BET.com and helping a large law firm prepare its new website for launch next month, but on top of that I've taken on a new freelance writing gig with MamásLatinas.com. I've gone from struggling financially with a part-time job in 2013 to tackling three different jobs a day. It's a blessing; I'm finally getting a taste of financial security and love the flexibility in my schedule. It's also a curse because sometimes all I want to do is run off to an island for a breather. I don't think I've taken more than two or three consecutive days off all year (and even then WiFi availability = Dorkys working), but starting this weekend I'm taking a whole week to unplug in the Nevada desert and dive into that "feeling of liberation" in other ways.

Because I'm returning to Burning Man.

I admit that in the flurry of all the changes that's entered my life at the end of 2013 (new job, new apartment, moving in with the boyfriend, work, work, work, another new job), I'd forgotten just how amazing I felt out there on the playa. This year has been about putting my head down and crawling out of the hole that was 2013. Even if it's meant putting some things aside and even if I'm not on here sharing every detail of my life, I feel good knowing that I'm alive and doing just fine.

So tell me: what have you been up to this summer? Is there anything you'd love to let go of or are you hacking away at your key goal?

Image: David Stewart for the Lost and Found Show

Let People Change Without Bringing Up The Past

Changing is hard enough on its own without also having to deal with those who want to keep reminding you of who you were. How can we expect people to improve and be better if we keep digging up their past?

It's not an easy thing for me to change. Not only do I have to contend with 30+ years of conditioning and neuroses, but also my insecurities of how it would seem to others if I started acting differently. I like to seem like a smooth ride so even if I'm spiraling downward in the middle of some social situation and want desperately to snap out of it, I won't because I don't want to come out of left field with my sudden mood change. Yes, even if it's for the better.

This also goes for my personality in general. I've always felt like I've had these roles to play and continue do so even after I've grown out of them because I feel it's expected of me. With family, I'm the quiet, sensitive, brooding type who could get sad and/or frustrated at any moment. I hold things inside only to unleash it all when it finally bubbles over the edge. With friends, I'm the snarky, sarcastic one with a mean streak with grad school classmates going so far as to say that I was the girl without a soul. I laughed along because at least I was being noticed for something instead of sticking to the shadows.

Over the years I've realized that I'm happiest when I'm none of those things, but rather when I'm confident, silly, loving and carefree. Yes, I still have a mouth on me, but I'm also a mush ball. And it all feels quite nice.

The trouble comes when I hang out with people who met me during a certain phase and want to hold me to that Dorkys. How hard it is when I muster up the guts to let my new traits through - the one that now likes affection, experimenting and being open to new adventures - only to be met with incredulousness and teasing. No matter how playful the comments, my knee jerk reaction is to retreat, defend and hide that piece of my personality I dared let out. And immediately after I think, "Why the hell am I so defensive when I'm just trying to be myself?"

So instead of reminding someone of how they used to be back in the day, rehashing a past offense they committed or pointing out a time when they were so opposed to whatever it is they're loving now, just let them be. Encourage them, ask questions, be curious, nurture their exploration, be kind. Don't be a hindrance to someone's personal development or try to trap them in a bubble simply because you can't handle a tweak to your dynamic. We're all just trying to figure ourselves out because who honestly expects someone to grow older without their personality, habits and interests also changing over time?

A Calm Life

When 2013 ended, A. wrote a Facebook status pointing out how his year wasn't incredibly interesting: he enjoyed working at his job, hardly traveled save for Los Angeles and a second trip to Burning Man, and then he moved into a new apartment with me.

"I'm settling down. Holy crap. I was never very interesting before, but now I am downright boring," he joked.

Now I don't think he's boring at all, but I understand where he's coming from. In fact, just days after we moved in together I started worrying that we'd become domesticated, get tired of each other, and lose the spark in our relationship, or that we'd start to see each other as roomies rather than boyfriend and girlfriend. I envisioned us doing the same things every day, cooking, cleaning, and tucking into bed early, you know, being Responsible Adults. It's crazy because I'd been wanting this for a long time and now that we had finally achieved it, I was suffering through a case of Fear of Missing Out, FOMO if you will. While I knew I'd enjoy this next phase, I was also thinking that our carefree days were behind us.

Now a month and a half in, I'm learning that it's okay if things have calmed down for a bit. It's nice to have the stability and less stress in my life. We might not be out and about every evening, but we're slowly creating our home and saving up for future adventures. We make time to hang out with friends both together and apart from each other and give each other space to breathe at home. I'm discovering new activities that bring me joy including those domestic chores that I always fought against. Just writing that sounded perfectly boring, but you know what? I'm content. I like getting my work done, keeping the house nice and tidy, and then tending to A. when he gets in from work. I'm not expected to do that last bit, but it just feels nice and he takes good care of me, too.

We're still navigating all this newness and how to nurture the relationship in this new light. I admit I was getting so consumed with fixing the apartment, holiday to dos with Porcupine Hugs, and my two jobs, that I was neglecting my boyfriend for a while. When you work from home, it's really easy to just work through the entire day, but last week we started powering down earlier to give each other time and affection before falling asleep. We'll cuddle, chat, play a game, or listen to music together, just something to reconnect at the end of each day. Besides, work will always be there ready to rile you up in the morning so it's nice to relish the calm whenever you can catch it.

How do you make sure to keep the spark alive while living with your significant other?

Image: etsy.com

{Monday Inspiration} Lesson Learned

The past year was a crazy one, there's no denying that. I found myself fighting battles I never even dreamed about and in spite of it all I managed to not only survive 2013, but accomplish some really wonderful things. Being diagnosed with breast cancer and then managing treatment, the emotions, and just life was more than I could handle sometimes. If I was complaining about juggling work and a social life before, this year turned made that struggle sound like a vacation. I was constantly exhausted and still, a year later, haven't fully recovered from surgery and radiation. Sharp shooting pains and sensitivity still occur and my medication gives me hot flashes that makes it hard to get a good night's rest.

I could have driven myself into a hole, but I had a life to continue living. It's funny, I handled cancer so much more calmly than I handled my breakup with Mr. First nearly six years ago. Maybe you do learn a thing or two as you grow older. Maybe I realized how silly it was to spend so much energy focusing on what went wrong rather than throw my hands up and reach for the next rung.

In the beginning, I was dead set against crediting my cancer to any good in my life. I didn't want to justify it or have anyone calling it a "blessing in disguise." I was too stubborn to let it change me even if it would be for my own good. In fact, a part of me would deliberately refuse to make changes (say to my diet, fitness, stress levels, etc.) just so that no one could say that cancer made my life better. Cancer sucks through and through, but it did turn out to be a giant lesson for me. I might have accomplished the things I did regardless of what my health was this past year, but the fact that I did the things I did while fighting cancer just proved that I can handle much more than I thought I could. I'm not really the sensitive weakling I keep portraying nor will every bump in the road throw me out of the race. I launched and grew Porcupine Hugs; traveled to the Dominican Republic, Burning Man, Cameroon; confronted the negative relationships in my life; had my income slashed in half just as the medical bills started piling up; struggled financially all year until I landed a new gig; worked on a struggling relationship over and over until we finally learned to live, let go, and love. It's an amazing realization to discover that you have this big capability to thrive in disaster when you've no other choice.

This past year might have been full of tears, but I think I still laughed more than I cried. I experienced some powerful moments, ones made all the more important to me because of the cloud looming over my head. I think it's because of that darkness poking about my life that I relished those rays of light even more. That's something I hope I never forget. And now when someone finds themselves in the same shoes I wore a year ago, my heart hurts in a way it couldn't before because it's a familiar terror.

In the next months, I want to keep carving new paths in my brain, ones that reinforce that I am strong, that I am capable of doing so much, that I don't have to succumb to the fears and the doubts that try to creep into my mind. I want to continue creating joyful moments for others and at the same time be okay with creating them for just myself. I'm important, I'm deserving, and I need to remind myself of that every day until it's no longer met with hesitance.

Image: thefreshexchangeblog.com