It’s been just about two months (nearly to the day, in fact) since I landed here in Dingle. The first few weeks were a total wash, as I was just so confused, disoriented and in all-around shell shock. Because this wasn’t a vacation for me- not the way I had it planned. This was a lifestyle change- and knowing that- I took it far more seriously than a simple little vacation to “hit the reset button” and return to life at home.  No matter what, there would be no “going back to life at home.” That was (and still remains) the point.

It was even about three weeks until I was able to find a place of my own to live- I had been the company of a good friend of mine here for nearly the first month of my move. A generous gesture on his part, but not necessarily the best thing for me.  I am a person who needs her space, and more importantly, needs to know that I have a place of my own, that is mine, to exist in however I choose. The pressure of being a guest and not having that “place” weighed on me heavily, and I think added to my general sense of feeling as though I was a fish ripped from the water.

It has taken a while. The funny thing is, its been two months but I feel my time here has been so short. To be honest, I haven’t done much of anything. No great sightseeing trips, no galavanting, not even much singing, which is what I really came here to do. At first, I chastised myself for “wasting time.” I questioned whether I was slipping into a depression again and doubted my decision to discontinue my meds. I felt pressured by friends and family to “do stuff.”

The truth is, a lot of my time here in Dingle has been spent in the comfort of my home, in silence, thinking, drinking tea, smoking, looking out the window, playing guitar, listening to music, taking walks. Your general, run-of- the-mill aimlessness (or so it would appear). Don’t get me wrong. In my initial state of confusion (which, I would argue, lasted until about two weeks ago), I manicly alternated these periods of solitude and loneliness with nights where I would go out and drink myself into a stupor,  acting like my liver owed me money, and then spend the next day wishing the sun, noise, air, trees, people- everything would go away, because it all hurt. Physically. To the core.

But, slowly, without me really realizing it, I suppose something was happening. And the reason why it was happening is because rather than fight it, rather than force myself to go out, get out of bed, eat healthy, exercise, live the life I knew I should be living, I just threw my hands up and said, “Ok. You do this. Do whatever YOU feel like doing.” And I stopped being concerned about what my friends would think, stopped trying to “prove” (to whom, I don’t know), that I was healing, that I was moving forward. I stopped trying to find any tangible results of the fact that I was changing, that I had made the right decision. All the right decisions. Because the fact is, I made those decisions. They were done. I was here, now, so why live it all again wondering if it was the right thing to do?

I just decided to be. To exist, however I felt. If I didn’t want to get out of bed all day, I didn’t. If I slept 15 hours a day, I did it. If I felt like going out for a walk, I went. If I felt like going out and pumping my body full of whiskey, I did that, too.

And its been scary. Because of course, when you slip into what resembles a depression, you become afraid that if you indulge it, you’ll never come crawling out of what seems like that endless black hole.

But I lived that reality. With no one checking on me, no one trying to pull me out of it. It was just me. The painful part of fighting depression or any kind of personal trauma is when you compare yourself to others- you think of all the ways you should be handling it, rather than how you, as an individual need to handle it. And the result is, you set yourself up for failure. Because the reality is, you are unlike anyone else, you are simply you, to do with yourself as you please. And your way of healing is like your fingerprint- completely unique from anyone else’s way of doing it.

At first, I admit it, I felt pathetic. I fought the reality of being alone and left to myself like a trooper. I grasped at every straw I could, which for me included trying to attach myself to people- to men- whom I knew I had no business attaching myself to in the state I was in (or at all, at any point in mine or their lives, really). I cycled through every “potential” in the rolodex of my mind, hoping something would work, because I just didn’t want to be left to myself.

And I got lucky. Real lucky. Because if any of those “potentials” had worked, I would have blindly and gladly lived in that denial, and put off even further the impending solitude and loneliness that I knew I needed, but was terrified of.  The Universe did me a big solid there. Because one by one, as I cycled through the possibilities of utterly inappropriate and detrimental associations I would have had with any of these men, they just dropped like flies. It was like a kid reaching for that candy bar, almoooost touching it, feeling the crinkle of the wrapper in their hands and their parents snapping to attention, and going “YOINK! Give me that!”

So after finally getting it, realizing “Okay! Okay- Jeeeezus! I’m supposed to be alone right now- FINE!”, I resolved myself to just be alone. And it was at that same time that I said- come what may, I’m going to allow it. I will not deny myself anything during this time.

And interestingly, it hasn’t been as ugly as I thought. It at least didn’t take the shape I expected it to. I anticipated endless, gut wrenching crying, consuming and overwhelming loneliness, depression, ANGER. But I didn’t get any of those. What I got was a fair amount of inactivity, lethargy- listlessness. I slept A LOT. I got heavy, profound nostalgia. I remembered not only my college and high school days, but even went back in my memory to my junior high school days. I remembered the kind of little girl I was, I remembered me in my purest, most innocent form. Before I started thinking about everything, before life got complicated, well, by life.

And it was at that point I feel I got somewhere. Out of the blue, one evening, in the midst of this nostalgia, I just got this powerful urge to re-read all the literature and philosophy I was made to read in school, but that I know I hadn’t given the right amount of time and attention to. I suspected that there were important messages in this literature that I wasn’t mature enough to discern at that time that would be so relevant to the position I found myself in at that moment.

So I began reading again. Quietly, without pressure. Sometimes, just a few pages at a time. And then, I had things to apply to my thoughts. I had an intellectual way of exploring my emotions. Rather than wallowing, pondering without direction, I took these concepts, ideas, philosophies and began using them as tools to explore my own mind.

And one day this week, I woke up and decided I wanted to start exercising more and eating better. It wasn’t a weight loss thing at all. I just woke up wanting to feel better. So I did a detox diet for one day. It was miserable, I had a headache all day. I craved every unhealthy food under the sun. But last night, I went to bed around 1 am and woke up naturally this morning at 9:30. That’s probably the first time that has happened since I’ve been here.

In my “letting it be” attitude, I was going to bed sometimes at 4 or 5 in the morning and sleeping until 12, 1 or even 2. And today, I woke up, made myself a healthy breakfast, and then exercised. Because I felt like it.

And here I am, writing, feeling creative. Feeling clear and articulate enough to write down what I’ve been through these past two months in an objective, calm, sane and relaxed manner. Dare I say, I feel more at peace than I have in a long time. Because I’m doing things on my terms, no one else’s. And what I’m learning is, if I do things on my own terms, after I get the rebellious “jumping on the bed while the parents aren’t home” stuff out of my system- (I definitely have gone through rebelling against all  the conditioning, all of the things everyone else tells you you’re supposed to do- like not  sleeping until 2pm), I will settle into doing the right thing. I can trust myself.

I didn’t know that before.

I suppose I thought if I made my own decisions, did things my way, I would fail at everything- discover I was just wrong all the time, incapable of the things I thought I was. I’m not even sure I knew what “my way” even was.

I feared that maybe if I took some time to focus on me and be selfish, I would discover that I wasn’t really as compassionate, generous and selfless as I thought. And those questions are still out with the jury, although I think I have a small taste of the answer. I don’t know if I’m that girl, and I surely don’t know what I’m going to end up doing for a living, what my “purpose” is. Because I’m nowhere near being able to think of a long-term career, big life goals, relationships, etc.

I just know that in the mornings, I don’t really like to eat a big breakfast, but I will always make myself a cup of coffee with cream and sugar- just the way I like it. I know that I like cloudy days and autumn weather so I can wear sweaters. I know that babies, happy couples in love and people laughing make me smile. I know I like writing letters- old school letters. I know I’m dependable enough to promise someone I’ll write them those letters once a week and stick to it, no matter what I’m doing. And I know that if I let myself go to bed at 5 am and sleep until 2pm for three weeks, eventually, I’ll find a reasonable routine and be healthy.

I’ll do the right thing. I can trust myself.

It’s a small step. Baby step, even. But progress, nonetheless.

But in the best of these times, no one answers. It’s like the universe telling you: “No matter what you’re going to do at this moment, how you’re going to avoid, you are going to be alone. You’re going to think of the things you’ve been avoiding. You’re going to cut through the noise and the busy work you’ve been giving yourself to distract you from getting down to the CORE of all the things you need to face but are too afraid to, because you know it’ll be (if even momentary), your undoing.” 

And that’s where I find myself now. It’s all fun and games until you get to this point.  A new place, new people, a seemingly stupid but spontaneous, courageous and bold decision. You get wrapped up in it and it’s easy to let your innermost thoughts fade to the background, and before you know it, you’re existing, superficially, skating along the surface of a life full of serious implications you just don’t want to deal with. 

You drink. You smoke yourself silly. You eat. Hang out with friends telling yourself you’re building new relationships, “settling in.” But what you’re really doing is avoiding. But on days like this, you can’t escape it. The rain, the weight of your untended to emotional dirty laundry and the profound loneliness pulls at every fiber of your soul until you have no choice but to give a nod to those demons in your own personal Pandora’s box, which with that small acknowledgment flood you to the point you feel like you’re drowning.

And before you know it, you actually are drowning. In tears you’ve been holding back since before you can even remember. You’re a mess of raw emotion, self doubt, uncertainty and frustration at knowing that this isn’t going to get better anytime soon. Sorting out a lifetime of why’s and how’s and what ifs doesn’t fix itself overnight. 

And you remember- that’s what you’re here to do. Sort it all out. Get your head around it all. Figure out not only who you are, but more importantly, what will make you happy.

So why avoid it? Because it’s the natural thing to do. 

Anytime in my life I’ve tried to commit to therapy, I’ve struggled with the commitment, because anyone who has really been through a decent course of psychotherapy knows that its going to get worse before it gets better. A lot worse. Because on a daily basis, we as people, who need to live a life, need to meet certain social norms, have to just keep it together. We are professionals. Friends. Daughters. Partners. Everything. To everyone. And we need to keep it together. 

So we cope. We do what we need to do to get by, which usually means denying ourselves the full gravity of our own thoughts, questions, self-awareness, our pasts. But every now and them the universe doesn’t give us a choice. And every now and then, those of us who are brave enough to do so say ok. We submit. We leave ourselves to the mercy of what might happen if we hit the bottom.

And here I find myself, getting closer and closer to the bottom. Not the destroy- yourself- with- drugs, alcohol- and- sex bottom. That’s the easy bottom, and I’ve been there. The have- the- balls- to- look -at -the- ugly- parts- of -you, the- shit -of -your -life- and- stop -crying -and- being- afraid- of- it bottom.

A friend said to me the other day, “You can’t bounce back until you hit rock bottom, because you need something to bounce back off of.” 

And now, more than ever, I realize I have to do this alone. And moreover, I want to do this alone. As someone who has spent most of her life expending her energy fixing others, helping them bounce back from their rock bottom, I honestly don’t have the energy right now. And no, I don’t want someone to come along and help fix me either, because all that is is a band aid. I need to do it for me, from the inside out. And when it’s done, it will be mine and mine only. No one else’s but my own strength to credit.

When I get there, I’ll be a force to be reckoned with. Until then, I throw my hands up, admit I don’t have any idea what the fuck I’m doing, or what I want, and will deal with the hot mess that is me day by day. Because at times like these, that’s all we can hope for. Baby steps. Day by day. Little by little. And sooner or later, as long as we keep at it, those baby steps add up to leaps and bounds. Here I am, bracing myself for whatever the bottom is. I’m not afraid anymore.

I think all people experience these emotions, but I think what makes artists unique is the degree to which we feel these things. I haven’t yet worked it out if everyone is equally capable of such intense emotion. Are artists the only ones brave enough to listen to and really live those emotions, or do other people really just have a dulled sense of emotion?

What I do know is that those of us who experience life this way have a really hard time being understood, and an even harder time getting to know people, because we either scare the shit out of them or they just can’t seem to wrap their heads around us. I know that sounds like I’m on some kind of high horse, but that’s not necessarily true. Recognizing how different I am from others (at least with respect to this) is very far from my making a declaration that the way I choose to live and do things is any better than the next person.

And that leads me to another question: Do I really have a choice? Could I really make the choice to live differently, be more desensitized emotionally, take the things I see and connections I make less seriously? Would I actually want to if I could?

Would I? That’s something to chew on. On the one hand, it would make me more like everyone else. My lifelong search for good friends and a solid companion to share my life with would be made a whole lot easier right away because I’d be going from fishing in a pond to fishing in the great big sea that’s wide open. On the other hand, I’d be just like everyone else. To me, that sounds like eating Marmite tastes. Not cool.   

A big part of this little adventure to self- discovery I’m on is to settle in more with myself and accept me for me (and probably figure out who that me really is first). And this truly is a cornerstone of my personality- an extraordinarily intensity, sometimes to a fault- way more so than the average person. Most times this leads to me feeling isolated, alienated and lonely, but despite feeling those things, I hang onto my intensity and passion with a vice grip (sometimes wearing it like a badge of honor), because its what makes my life colorful, gives it purpose, and most importantly, keeps me inspired. Things would be so boring without my feeling this way, not just for me, but for the people around me, too. I see life in Technicolor. The good and the bad.

What I really need to embrace is that yes I’m different. And yes, I will have a hard time finding people to surround myself with who understand me and experience things the way I do. But the real trick will be in accepting that loneliness- realizing that my being alone for the rest of my life is better than surrounding myself with people who are simply space fillers who only give the illusion of companionship, but really don’t understand me at all. There. I wrote it down. I don’t like to be alone. But what I won’t do is settle for a space filler. It’s either up and down companionship, or me, myself and I (and probably some very happy dogs).  I need to believe that, embrace it. I can and will be fine alone. I CAN and WILL be fine ALONE (like a mantra). The more I say it hopefully the more I’ll truly believe it.…. And maybe even find some peace in this raging mess inside of me now.

I did this all through my adolescence, probably even when I was too young to be riding the subway by myself. At first my spot was the World Trade Center, but after that fateful day in September, I’d go to Lincoln Center or the South Street Seaport. I had no purpose, nothing to do, but always felt like I knew where I was going. Sometimes I’d write or read, but most times I would just sit and think. 

There was a time- for probably more than the first year after I moved to Washington- that I missed New York more than I care to even express. The coffee, the bustle, knowing exactly where I was going all the time, the artsines, the knowledge that unlike the vast majority of the people walking the street, I was a CHILD of this city. I missed all that deeply. 

But my longing waned after a while, and I no longer missed being… well, anywhere. I really was without a home now- there was no real “place” in my heart…

And now I find myself back in New York, sitting at what used to be my favorite part of the city (the back end of the South Street Seaport overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge), feeling totally violated, wanting to cry. They’ve turned this place into a bar/shit food shop with a gimmicky beach theme. The place that once comforted me with its silence and secludedness is now swarmed with people who have not the precious memories of this place I once did. Shitty, offensive house techno music cheapens the sound of the water that used to drown out the sound of the cars driving over the bridge. ”What the fuck is this?” I find myself asking, as I become increasingly enraged by the minute. I am tempted to light the wooden planks beneath me on fire at how angry I feel.

But the anger really isn’t because my favorite place is different. Well, partially, it is. But mainly, its because I am now faced with the realization that I don’t have a place in this world (of course I mean that both physically and figuratively). As these fucking tourists bop their heads to this horriffic music and line up one by one to take meaningless photo after meaningless photo in front of the Brooklyn Bridge, I want to scream “GET OUT FUCKERS!!! THIS PLACE IS MINE!!!”

But its not (and it never really was), and THAT’s the bitter pill to swallow. All the gnashing of my teeth and clenching of my fists will not transform this place back to the comfort it once was to me.

So here I am, about a week from leaving for Dingle, knowing that if Ireland isn’t home, I don’t have one, and I’ll have to keep looking. It’s really just about finding a place I fit- somewhere to belong. To me, home isn’t where the heart is, because my heart isn’t anywhere at this moment…

But over the past few days, I’ve made some big strides. I officially quit my job (which also included my boss making my decision public and an army of coworkers storming over to my desk yelling and screaming how awesome it is I’m doing this), I’ve committed fully to quitting smoking, and I’ve started to connect with the people in my life who are most important to me before I leave. 

Probably the most significant of those three (for my sanity at least), believe it or not, has been quitting smoking. For the few days before I decided to do it, furious couldn’t come close to explaining how I felt toward myself. My throat and voice were hurting, all the time, for days on end. I would stand in a steamy shower (where I do the majority of the stretching of my vocal chords) and feel and HEAR the damage I was doing to my voice. And man did it put me in a mood. For a few days I seesawed between self loathing, pity and outright rage. I was physically and emotionally uncomfortable, and everyone knew it. 

But today (the 5th day free of smoking), I started to see some results. Now that the nicotine headaches, jitters coughing up tar and other lovely symptoms of withdrawal have passed, I can hear and feel a difference. I picked up my guitar and sang for a while, and my voice hasn’t sounded so good in years. It felt so good. 

The truth is, today, I figured out that quitting smoking was really symbolic for me. Monumental, in fact. Having the strength and will to quit shows me that I’m starting to see things as they should be- I’m starting to value the truly important things in my life- including myself.  Smoking is an incredibly self destructive habit, and for a long time, I fully admitted that I knew I was hurting myself, but I didn’t care. I really didn’t see my voice or body as being worth enough to take care of, and in some ways, I feel I was actively punishing myself for something. Singing in Dingle and seeing people respond to my voice (and some incredible encouragement from a special person) made me start to think twice about what I was doing to my body, and cheesy as it sounds, made me value what I had. 

And this has carried over to other things, too. After singing for a while today and having a great talk with a friend, I called my birthmom and brother (it was his 12th birthday today). It has been a while since I talked to them, because I’ve been grappling with some of the issues my birthmom finding me has drudged up for some time now.  I had been avoiding her, scared of loving her, scared of the intense immediate connection I felt with her and still feel, riddled with guilt over my feelings for her versus my feelings toward my adoptive mom.

But today, hearing her voice brought tears to my eyes. In a way, when I talk to her, I revert back to being a little girl- I look at her with the wonderment and adoration that all little girls look at their moms with, except I’m 26.

Today,  I totally surrendered to the connection I feel to her- the intense love and sense of absolute soothing comfort that washes over me every time I hear her voice. We had a great talk, and then I got to talk to my brother over the web and wish him a happy birthday. I got to be a big sister today.  And I realize how important it is that I stay in his life and guide him as best I can, because he is such a good boy, and he deserves to have someone there for him to look up to. And I’m honored it’s me. 

I got to see him over the web cam, and as always, I was bowled over by how alike we look. This is something that unadopted kids TOTALLY take for granted. To be able to see myself in someone else is like another wonder of the world to me. And I joked with him, imparted some of my “sage” advice and told him how much I love him and wished him a happy birthday. Real big sister stuff. Heaven. 

So, here I am, free of tar and smoke in my lungs, really realizing what’s important in my life, and dropping a lot of the fear I have of relationships with people, because I’ve finally realized they’re too valuable and precious to lose over being afraid. 

I’m really starting to be able to breathe now, in more ways than one. And I haven’t even left yet…

On the one hand, I find these kinds of stories so inspiring- both Julia Child and Julie Powell were young women who chose to take a very unconventional path through life that honored their unique spirits and fostered their fierce independence as women. On the other hand, these kinds of stories petrify me and more so fill me with envy, because the more I think about it, the more I realize how together they have it and how all over the place I am.

I think we all dream that one day, we’re going to have this great idea to do something unique and it’s going to pay off with a book deal. Or we write a great short story that turns into a movie script. Or in a moment of serendipity, we are stricken with an idea to make some small, but insanely useful contraption to make life just a little easier, and boom, it becomes an internet sensation and we’re set for life. I seem to hear these stories all the time, but I suspect that the percentage of the population that actually has this happen to them is minuscule. But even knowing that, us restless wanderers still hold out hope that it could happen for us, because the reality is, it’s probably the only shot at happiness people of this ilk really have.

I am one of the (fortunate some days, unfortunate other days) young souls who have been blessed with the ability to learn quickly and develop a knack for many skills in life (mostly which have to do with the creative/intellectual/human aspects of society). For example, I can sing, play instruments, write, I make a pretty good photographer, I can make just about anything with my hands if given the chance to figure out how it works. But I can also be intensely intellectual (a la my now former job as a research analyst for a non-profit), analyzing information, developing projects, synthesizing research reports, your basic run of the mill dork stuff. And then, I can interact with people in truly deep ways- my patience, sense of compassion and need to connect with people on an emotional level make me an ideal candidate for any number of the so-called “helping professions.” I’m not saying that if you asked me to build an airplane or figure out some complex math equation I could do it (I decidedly could NOT), but the skills I’ve developed over the years make it a possibility for me to do a variety of things.

Problem A with this is that as a result of being exposed to and having a basic knowledge and understanding in many areas, I am what the subject of this post states: Jack of all trades, master of none. I can fiddle around all over the place, write the occasional article, take the passing spectacular photograph, serve as a counselor for a while, post a self-absorbed, meaningless blog online. But none of these things are “my thing,” and that’s what scares me.

Problem B is that as a result of being a jack of all trades, I have a taste of, but am not entirely satisfied by any one individual skill I possess. At this point in my life, this means I bounce around from career to career, getting bored of each one if I do it for too long. It’s the ultimate form of professional schizophrenia, and it can be maddening. Because I’ll tell you the one thing I refuse to do (at least at this point in my life): I refuse to do something that I detest. I am committed right now to doing what I love. I just have to find it first- and that’s what makes me envy those lucky entrepreneurs who have a momentary stroke of brilliance and have it made- they didn’t have to find what they love, what they love found them.

This idea of “doing what you love” has got to be a generational thing, because my mother’s generation has no idea what we’re talking about when we say this, and they tend to look down their noses at us quite a bit for even toying with the idea of trying to make life just a little less miserable on ourselves. I was raised by a mother who absolutely hated her job. Day in and day out, she did the same thing for 35 years (she’s still at it as I write this.) She wears her bitterness like a badge of honor and answers my desire to find my passion with disdain, telling me dismissively that I don’t live in the “real world.” To people of her generation, we seem like self-indulgent, irresponsible, pie-in-the-sky adolescents.

And that may be so. But the fact still remains that I am a product of my times, and unlike many of my peers around me, I can’t suck it up and follow in the example of my parents. So where that leaves me is in limbo. Completely aware of the skills I possess but entirely clueless to which one of those skills I choose to hone and turn into my real life’s work and passion. I’ve tried the academic/intellectual. I’ve done the “helping.” The only thing I really haven’t given a fair shot to is the creative/artistic parts of me. So I’m holding out hope that the third time will be a charm, because after this, I have nothing left, really. I’ve run the mill if this doesn’t work out, and unless I can think of some crazy twisted hybrid of all three personality traits, I’ll be flipping burgers at McDonald’s or even worse- someone’s secretary. Yikes.

What I mean to say is, although I fully realize I’m still young, I’m not that young, and I am aware of the fact that my time to figure out what exactly my “thing” is is running out quickly. And of course I’m afraid I’ll never get that stroke of brilliance like all these ordinary people who now lead fulfilling and glamorous lives and never look back at their mundane, ordinary past selves. My greatest fear is I, with my restless and creative personality, get stuck in an ordinary, boring life. That would be the vision of my own personal hell.

Which is why I’m taking this trip, making this jump and moving, without really being able to see the ground beneath me where I’ll land. Because the risk is both worth it and necessary. Ending up bored and ordinary is not an option. Not for me.

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I am a compulsive over-thinker. There, I said it. Guilty as charged. I will take a situation that to most people is no big deal at all, dissect it into 15 million pieces, and analyze every last one of them until my eyelids are hanging heavy and my brain cannot process another single thought.

I bring this up for several reasons:

1. If i am going to do this; pick myself up and move to a new place, leaving almost all of my worldly possessions behind and hardly knowing anyone at all, I am just going to have to chill the hell out, because I cannot be consuming all this new stimuli and analyzing the greater meaning of every little bit of it, or I am likely to end up in a straight jacket.

2. It scares the crap out of people.

3.  The more I think about it writ large, the more I realize this really is no way to live. I think I’ve made the mistake of believing that if I don’t find meaning in everything, get to the bottom of things, understand people and situations with depth, I am living a shallow life, which I unequivocally refuse to do. In fact, there is nothing more I detest than shallowness.

But I ask the question: Just because I choose to live in the moment, and take things day by day, not over-think and release the urge I have to defend myself and control everything (which is where all of this stems from), does that mean my experiences will be shallow? Does letting go of the what if’s and all the analysis and attaching a greater significance to things take away from the meaningfulness of any one particular moment, person or experience?

I used to think the answer was yes, but as I learn from those around me, the more I realize it is my analysis and tearing  apart something that could (and should) have been truly meaningful in its pure form that diminishes its meaning…

The reason I do this isn’t because I’m bored or enjoy messing with the minds of those around me. In fact, it stems from fear and insecurity (as so many of our little quirks do). I’ve been let down and profoundly hurt by some of the people in my life who were supposed to love and care for me the most (who hasn’t, I know) and trust is a HUGE issue for me in close relationships (what else is new).  But I’ve become so accustomed to avoiding that same kind of hurt and disappointment in my other relationships that I try desperately to control the situation so I can know what will happen next…  At all costs, I try to avoid ending up with that familiar feeling of fear and vulnerability that has chiseled away at my confidence and self worth for my life as a young woman.

So I try to stay one step ahead: What do the words he’s saying to me really mean? Why did she choose to say it that way? What does it mean that he didn’t kiss me? What does it mean that he did? Where will this all go? Can I handle where it’s going to go? Does she genuinely want to be my friend, or are there ulterior motives? And on and on.

Honestly, I don’t think I have trusted a word anyone has said to me without putting it through my meat grinder of a brain first since I was a little girl. I never just hear things from others and accept them as they are given to me. There always has to be more, because it can’t be true, genuine or straightforward- I have to know what comes next so I don’t get hurt, and if I have to rip it apart and take the fun, enjoyment and excitement out of it to know that, so be it.

But  until now, I’ve never stopped to think that I might actually be altering what happens next because of how ruthlessly I scrutinize what is happening.

Really, it’s a bit sad, and it certainly adds a TON to the stress I feel in my life. Who can relax when they’re doubting that they’re being told the truth by everyone around them?

So, I’m making myself a promise. I am going to try my hardest, my utmost best to live in the moment, and take things as they come to me. If someone says something nice to me, I will appreciate it and value it for the nice gesture that it is, rather than contemplate why they’re saying it, what they mean by it. It just is, and its meaning will hold that way. No more twisting and torturing happy thoughts, special experiences and important people who mean well.

I will learn to take things one day at a time, live in each moment and try to let go of the fear we all have of getting hurt. Just because we all have that fear doesn’t mean we all handle it the same way. I’ve chosen to let it hold me back, stress me out, make me sick. No more. If i get hurt, I will deal with it in that moment. No use fighting something that hasn’t happened yet. I can be so brave in other parts of my life, but people have always scared the shit of me. Time to be brave here too.

This is classic. “ME FIRST!?!” we ask ourselves in horror. “You MUST be joking.” Every mental health professional in the United States will tell women that we’re over-stressed, over-worked and that we try to be too many things to too many people. “Take care of yourself,” they say. “You can’t love anyone else until you love yourself.”  “Slow down and try to relax.” All of these things are true, and the story of a new breed of superwomen in this country who have booming careers whilst they juggle a marriage and family is becoming a reality for more and more of us.

Not to go on a feminist rant (although that’s exactly what I’m fixing to do), but being a woman is certainly not easy in this country, and those of us who do try the sometimes impossible balancing act- juggling our urge to be successful with our urge to have a family and a life of our own in which we can actually recognize ourselves as ourselves- make sacrifices in ways that those before us never had to.

Now before all you old school feministas get all hot and bothered about my lack of appreciation for second wave feminism and admonish me for my horrific ingratitude, when I say being a woman today is hard, it is. That does NOT mean that y’all had it easy by ANY stretch of the imagination. But there have been some quite serious unintended effects of the second wave of feminism that have resulted in new kinds of pressure on women.

The new, sort of twisted, fire breathing monster some strains of modern feminism have morphed into have caused many of us to sacrifice our health, our well being, our happiness, our truest selves in order to fit the mold of this super hero we’re led to believe we can and should be. One might argue that housewives in the 1950′s made those same sacrifices, just under different circumstances (a la June Cleaver). So what does that say about where we have gotten really? It might be a different poison, but it’s still poison…

The question here is who is defining success and what does it mean? I can tell you what I was raised to believe success to be, starting from the beginning, and with all the women I’ve known in my life, there are more than a handful of us who came from this school of thought.

First, I am to graduate at the top of my class- EVERY class. No matter what grade, I am to stand out and shine. And what is school without a battery of “extra curricular activities” to compliment my spectacular grades? I have to be the best, of course. Best at reading, writing, singing, baseball, art, (notice I didn’t mention math as we realized very early on that this was a lost cause for me)- everything. Be the best because I can be, I am told. You CAN do it, everyone cheers.

Now that school’s all done and I can sport my 4.0 and summa cum laude, I’ve got to get into a good graduate school. Never mind what I actually would like to study; I just have to keep trucking and get that Master’s degree, because if god forbid I slow down, I might never go back to school! Jesus Christ what a travesty, we simply cannot have that. I mean, a Master’s is the new Bachelor’s degree, anyway, Right? So don’t think, just do. Rrrright… well, ok, I suppose I’ll continue what I was studying in college…

At the SAME time that I am getting my Master’s degree, I have to get a job and start my career. None of this waitress bullshit either, I need a “REAL” job. One that will help me build my resume. Aaah, the resume. The bain of so many of our existences. But I digress (as I fantasize about lighting a pile of resumes on fire in a garbage can and scattering the ashes all over the spit-spot clean desks of corporate and professional America).

So, the job. No ordinary job will do… Noooo. I have to have a job that is FULL of pressure and stress, oh and don’t forget that will gain me some kind of notoriety, so it will “look good on my resume.” Ok. Good. Got it.

Now that I’ve had my first ulcer, an absolute rite of passage for professional women in America, I have to find me a man! And not just any man (notice a pattern here) will do! A SUCCESSFUL man, just like ME, the “successful” woman. And me and this man, if we happen to love eachother, great, but if not, his bank account will surely love me enough.

And of course, now the piece de resistance- the BABIES!! We are to have only the MOST beautiful, smart, capable little mini-me’s so we can start this whole fucked up maddening cycle all over again.

Don’t forget- ALL of this is in ADDITION to being a good daughter (caring for our elderly parents), friend (picking up the pieces when boys, work and life just throw us curveballs as it inevitably will), sister (role model, support, sometimes stand-in mother or father), wife (keeping our men happy, fulfilled, interested, staying young and beautiful), mother (there are too many pieces to this puzzle- you all know what your mothers did for you).

Yyyyep…Here’s the thing. I will preface this by saying I know that at the moment I probably sound like a trite, spoiled little tart who has no idea what hardship really is. Let me disarm those of you right here. I grew up in a lower middle class family, in a shitty neighborhood in the middle of Queens. Everything I have had in my life I have worked for, and of all of the things I listed above, none of them were handed to me- not even close. I worked through high school, college and the bit of grad school I’ve been through, and will be paying off those debts until I am at least 80 years old. I never had lots of material things as a child, didn’t even really ask for things, and in the cases I did, I was made to earn them. There are little girls in America who are handed all of these things. Right into their laps the degrees, toys, dance lessons, what have you go. But they don’t get burnt out, because for them, getting these things is easy, no work involved. “Keeping up with the Jones’” doesn’t apply to them, because they are the Jones’.

It’s those of us who are scrambling our whole lives to catch up to them and live up to what we’re told we CAN be ,who are really screwed. Because while YES, I CAN get a Master’s degree who the hell says I WANT one? I can do lots of things. I can climb a mountain. I can bake cookies. I can bang my head against a wall. That doesn’t mean I WANT to do any of those things.

So I have a proposal: Why doesn’t everyone stop projecting their unrealized ambitions onto us unfortunate souls who were born with a vagina and an innate strength that allows us to run ourselves ragged until we achieve everything everyone else wants us to…  PEOPLE!: Please, do us (and our tired egos) a favor and shut the hell up about what we CAN do, and nurture and encourage in us the things we WANT to do. When little boys are growing up, they’re told they CAN be a doctor, lawyer. No one ever says, “You know, Johnny, you CAN be a construction worker if you want to, if it would make you happy.”

Little girls: “You CAN be a nurse.”"You CAN be a doctor. ” Shit nowadays we women are told we can be anything we want to be. And that is a lovely sentiment if the people saying it really meant it. But what they really mean is “You can achieve the highest, most ridiculous goals we (or you) set.” But there is an inherent pressure in that that no one ever really says, but that as a young woman in America presses on you like a pinched nerve in your neck. Telling me I can be a doctor is great if I actually WANTED to be a doctor. But what if I said I WANT to be a singer? A bartender? A florist for crying out loud. Would our parents and role models tell us “if that’s really what you want, then go for it- you CAN do anything you want?”

Unlikely.

Some of us are fortunate to have people to support us in ideas like that, in taking the road less traveled and following our intuitions, so we are spared some of the pressure. But those wonderful souls tend to come along a little later in life when much of the damage has already been done.

That’s where this all came from, and I bring this very long and angry (but hopefully entertaining) post back to the beginning: I have to be self absorbed right now. It is weird and uncomfortable for sure. For 25 years, the decisions made in my life haven’t been entirely mine. By getting caught up in being a good daughter, student, girlfriend, etc., or what I thought being a “good” girl meant, and trying to meet everyone else’s expectations of me, I never really got to fully tune into what I want. I know what I can do. Just not sure what I want.

This is a time when I have to listen to myself and filter out all the rest of the noise. And right now, I am experiencing a horrid amount of guilt over having to put myself first. I feel like a self-indulgent, self absorbed prize idiot. But I’m burnt out. I’m saying “no” to the definition of “success” that’s been crammed down my throat since I was old enough to shout my first “I can do it!”

What I now know I can do is do what I want to do. And I am scared shitless, because as much as I have battled against all those voices around me pushing me to do more, be more, telling me it’s not enough- I’m not enough- they are the only voices I’ve known. I’m only just beginning to hear myself over the din and chaos.

Being alone in my head with my own thoughts feels good and is empowering in its own right. It is also daunting as hell. But I owe it to me to do this, to stick my finger in this socket and see if I get shocked or not.

I just have to breathe deep and try my best not to let being afraid hold me back…

I had decided to take a much needed vacation after a VERY long and demanding period of my life (both personally and professionally). In the course of one year, I got engaged, was found by my birthmother I never knew (I’m adopted), got a huge promotion at work, and got un-engaged and moved out, all while trying my hand at a master’s degree. So, to reward myself for having the balls to break off an engagement I knew wasn’t right (and surviving a year of utterly ridiculous personal and professional drama), and to try and get myself back in touch with, well, myself, I decided to go to Ireland for two weeks alone. Badass.

I was supposed to ride horses through the picturesque Dingle peninsula, but that ended up a wash after I hurt my ankle on the second day. So here I found myself, in this little town on the water full of art galleries, colorful storefronts and pubs, with even more colorful people, with not a thing to do. Quiet. Slow. Mellow. Strange…

Not having snapped completely out of hectic DC workaholic mode,  I was in a bit of an odd mindspace . I could hear myself think. I had no phone, no computer, no bullshit distractions. This was bizarre. I even felt a little naked. Relaxation and true peace have always eluded me, and I think I had become slightly addicted to stress… Instead of my morning cup of coffee, I’d make sure I placed myself under the most intense pressure possible, so that I’d do a good job and make sure I kept going full speed through the day. A smart and capable young lady can’t go letting anyone down now, can she? (Boy am I happy that THAT voice in my head has begun to fade away).

Since I didn’t know what to do with myself, I decided to do what I do best. Wander. Definition: Meander about with no particular purpose or direction until I find something (or someone) interesting, or become tired enough to take me home and lay my head down.

Serendipity. I met a group of people through a friend I had made who are all musicians, and after having denied the creative, whimsical, spontaneous, brave half of me since I graduated high school (god, that was far too long), the stars aligned, personalities clicked, energies became intertwined and I somehow managed to open up enough to sing. And sing. And sing… And shine.

Those moments- when I opened myself up to a room full of people and laid my soul on the table through a thoughtful song, through a crack in my voice, a slight breath placed between lines, a closing of the eyes, a touch of the mic- those moments of my most raw emotions and extreme vulnerability have been the happiest moments of my life in recent years.

Because that’s what I struggle with every day. For people to see the “true” me; to feel understood, like I’m not being looked at as though I have ten heads. And let me tell you- put an artist at heart in the midst of rigid, ordinary (but brilliant nonetheless) researchers, and you get looked at like you’ve got your knickers showing quite often.

Day after day in the grind, we all get so used to and hung up on having our defenses up, not trusting, questioning, doubting ourselves, criticizing ourselves, trying to measure up, that we so often lose sight of what’s at the core of us; who we are in our most pure form. And if you do that long enough, it takes a long time to find the center of you again, if you can find it at all. I dangled off of the edge of that cliff, and I felt it.

I’m too rusty at writing to describe entirely how I felt singing again, and I don’t want to force it. It will come. But in a word, I felt whole. Right. Rich. There it is… rich. Not wealthy rich. I felt rich in who I am; when I sang in Ireland I could feel every fiber of my being so intensely, passionately; it was like I was running a feather along every nerve ending in my body from the inside.

And the signs. As I’ve matured, I’ve very much tempered my reliance on and belief in signs and “fate” to serve as a guide through life, but its hard to argue with an entire community of people telling me to rip my return ticket into shreds and stay. And I made up my mind to do it. Done. Not negotiable.

At the airport in Dublin, amid the sneaking suspicion I might think twice when I got home and get sucked back into “the life”  and back down from the decision I was “certain” I had made (funny how things you think are certain have a way of becoming uncertain when a little thing called reality sets in), I bought myself a ring that says “promise” in Irish… Geall. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it- to remind me, to hold my resolve (which I was afraid could get shaky), to keep me in touch with my true self and what I want.

And I’ve looked at that ring every day, and haven’t had a doubt since. I fully realize the consequences this might have. Conceivably, I could end up back in the States in November with no job, no apartment, no car. Blank slate. Nothing. Start over. From scratch. And I know that should scare me. But it doesn’t. I’m capable. However things shake out, I’m strong. God knows I’ve gotten through far worse than a little unemployment and poverty.

I booked my return ticket yesterday. My wonderful bosses (and I mean that with the utmost sincerity) at my job are trying quite hard to get me not to go. And it is tempting- the lure of success, a path, establishing myself as a real bonafide “intellectual” is enticing. But not for the right reasons. It’s not enticing because I love what I do, it’s enticing because its nice to know people value my thoughts, my work- it’s affirming to know my work shapes the reputation that precedes me. It’s good for the ego. But that’s ambition, and not the constructive kind. That’s narcissism, selfishness, conceit. We all have it in us, and I won’t deny that I do too. But I have the wherewithal to realize it, and know that it’s not what will make me happy and it’s not the kind of ambition I want in my life.

I just realized this is generally the time that I’d apologize for such a long post. But I’m not going to. At this moment, I am mine, and it feels good to write.

So far, so good…. geall.

Enter wanderlust, creativity, passion, the possibility of true happiness, what have you. Those “little” things that we become so good at ignoring in our day to day mantras (dare I say trances, even?); the one thing that makes you feel alive; the place you feel you can breathe again; the people that make you excited to wake up every morning to see what the day will bring because in their company, you feel an unparalleled sense of belonging. These little things creep in on the best of us now and then. But it is only a select few who will actually be brave (and stupid) enough to actually listen to these things when they call us.

I’m not so self absorbed as to presume that anyone will be affected by, or is even moderately interested in whether I make the decision to leave it all behind and choose uncertainty and passion over stability and the ordinary. But I know that no matter what I do, I have something to learn here, and I’m posting this for those who feel they have something to learn, too. This is a journey I’m on that I owe to myself, come what may, and in taking up my own little dark corner of the savage world that is the internet, I can at least feel like I’m not on this road entirely alone. This is where I find myself today, on June 16th 2009. About to do something extraordinary. Crazy. Passionate. Stupid. Brave. Irresponsible. Follow my intuition. Here I am. On the Verge.