Show Yourself

This is me, being 31.

This is also me wearing some makeup for the first time in... three weeks? Maybe longer? Even that was only for a doctors appointment. Before that, who even knows.

Welp. I'm older. What a time to be alive, amiright?

Last year, I referenced my "plans for shattering life the tiniest bit."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahahahahaha *wipes hysterical tears*

via GIPHY

Tiniest bit may be the greatest understatement I've ever made in a semi-understated life.

Things I did while 30:

• Left Seattle
• Moved to Texas (without housing)
• Found a temporary apartment
• Signed Alex up for preschool/daycare
• Started a teaching gig
• Bought a house
• Left my teaching gig
• Spent six months (and counting!) unemployed
• Hosted more visitors in the past six months than I did during seven years in Seattle
• Watched my dad die
• Spoke at my dad's funeral
• The world underwent quarantine for a global pandemic

And here we are.

It seems like every time I took a breath this year—every time I cleared a hurdle, squared my shoulders, and thought now, this is it, this is where I find a routine and things get back to normal—there would be an email, a phone call, a new urgent need sending me scrambling to find some sense of equilibrium.

And yet, despite that cursed list above, despite my constant anxiety and yearning for the world to just settle on down a skosh, there's been deep satisfaction this year.

Alex turned three and became my movie buddy. We've watched endless loops of Totoro, Rango, and Frozen. We've cuddled watching Avatar: the Last Airbender, crunched popcorn while giggling at School of Rock. Afterwards, her rush to act out scenes or continue the story with whatever doll or toy or simply her fingers and thumbs together like a puppet, electrifies me. She's not a baby. I have a goofy, stubborn, sensitive, creative kid in my house. It's a blast. 88% of the time, anyway.

Taylor, forever my partner, has cared for me and my family this year. He's talked to people, handled endless paperwork, held my hand, and comforted me through heartbreak. He's done all that while experiencing these strange events in lockstep, and been a rock through it all. I'm so grateful for all those choices that brought us together.

Texas. So. I love Texas? Believe me, I'm more surprised than anyone. We moved to a suburb, and I so love being part of a cozy neighborhood, one with a grocery and furniture stores and every fast food restaurant I would ever want within a two-mile radius. I love Austin itself, the warm night atmosphere, the patio lights and outdoor seating and omnipresent guitar strums. I love that the sky lives up to each and every giant testament, a limitless scope set off by perfectly scruffy treescapes. I love the wildflowers, the cactus, the river shores surrounded by dimpled rocks. I love seeing lightning again.  

Right now, everyone seems to be baking.* This year I am dough. I've been folded, twisted and turned and stretched. I've had to be elastic, to easily stretch to accommodate and mold into each new situation. I really hope something tasty happens now.

When Alex watches Frozen 2, there's a song that pulls my heartstrings and yes, brings me to suppress sobs. At this point I've heard it so much you'd think I'd be immune, but nope. It feels intensely personal. Almost written for me in this moment.** There's a part where Elsa sings "show yourself, step into your power," and I break into the chin-quivers. That is what I've always wanted. That is what I hope for.

31, let's get some power.

30. 29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*I'm no exception. I've got the mason jar full of freshly established sourdough starter to prove it.
**Does it feel weird that this type of self-recognition comes from a Disney property? Yes. Yes it does. Now let's move past it and never speak of this moment again.

Cat in a Cage

I wrote this two weeks ago, almost to the day, during a staff meeting where I felt no other emotional recourse but writing. I'd already excused myself and sprinted around the parking lot twice. That didn't work. I needed to work out the anger some other way, and writing was that way.

"I've thought for a while that your headaches are anxiety related, and that you might want to get medication for that."

So Taylor told me yesterday, after I mentioned my latest headache. I've suffered with monthly headaches—ranging from one week a month to three weeks a month—for seven years. I've seen three doctors about them. I've self-medicated with caffeine and Excedrin. I know my way around a headache.

I was livid.

I've suffered from anxiety (hi grad school!) and I knew that the way I've felt for the past month, past two, no three years, is not related to it. Maybe depression? Or, what I feel more accurate for these days, extreme frustration?

Taylor and I talked it out. I'm lucky to have a spouse who communicates well.

Then I woke up this morning. I read Anne Helen Petersen's latest newsletter. I read this Medium article. I went to work, straight to sitting through a staff meeting about equity. We watched this video on racial literacy. We reflected on where we were in our own personal cultural competency. We looked at our district's statistics on inordinate amounts of disciplinary action against our black and Latino students. We watched videos with Seattle's parents discussing race, about how students feel about their teachers actions, about redlining and classism and the importance of understanding.

I looked around at my fellow teachers. I knew which ones had voted for Trump. I knew which ones only cared about classroom achievement: getting work done, getting good scores on the test, following class rules to the letter. I sat down for small group discussion, and listened to my assistant principal come right out of the gate with "but what about our troubled white students?"

And all I could feel was white-hot rage.

It hasn't passed yet. It fades in and out, static on my emotional radio, but there underneath the fuzz it stands: RAGE. A constant, streaming burn of anger. Dinner is happening too late? RAGE. I feel snubbed by a co-worker? RAGE. I don't get to workout one day? RAGE. My desk at work is too messy? RAGE. My assistant principal devises a stupid game just so that we all have to change seats at a staff meeting? RAGE. Half of one of my classes doesn't turn in their final project? RAGE. The heads of my church recommend that women stay off the Internet for 10 days, all in the wake of a court-appointment that will harm women? RAGE. I have to commute for two hours every day? RAGE. I don't see my kid enough? RAGE. I miss my family? RAGE. I hate my job/doubt my faith/want to live someplace more affordable? ALL THE RAGE.

All of these are typical parts of life. They are things I've been living with, and handling, for multiple years. Annoyances that usually I'm able to brush off or push aside as I go my merry way. And at first I made excuses—I'm getting back into the swing of work, oh this is temporary, things will settle down. I keep waiting for the patience to return. It's not. Instead, a boiling baseline of anger permeates every day. 

One Year

Yesterday marked a year since I pointed my beat-up red Dodge Stratus eastward and left Seattle for Boston.

The last time I saw the
Space Needle

Taylor and I shipped out on a Monday morning.  It was overcast, and a haze accompanied us as we drove down Aurora, passing by the Space Needle, the Market, and my terrible nemesis of a Ferris Wheel before getting on the 90.  We wound through rain and mountains.  After a couple of hours, green gave way to desert and sunshine.  It was supposed to be an omen.  It was supposed to signal a similar turning point in my life, a symbolic gesture of leaving behind the cobwebs and clouds of our prior life and bursting into the bright hope of an adult future.  Real life, as it were.

Little did we know that those were the good times.  The salad days.

Boston might have seemed a warmer climate from afar, but up close it's soul felt chilled to the bone.

And yet, after a year of pain and misery, it has thawed.

Yesterday the sun shone.  It glinted off trees, leaves shimmering gold and green, sparkling in the light.  I walked down roads I knew.  Haunted areas that felt, if not like home, at least familiar.  I had my bearings.  I had my place.

My current path

Today that comfort was compounded by a beach trip, something that is interpreted quite differently on the East Coast.  This beach was no Seattle shore, made of small rocks and mud.  Instead, I welcomed warm white sand and blue waters.  Salt-smelling grass and rocky monoliths perfect for scrambling over. It was beautiful.  I talked with people.  I interacted with the world, this once-cold Boston world, and felt at peace.


When the time comes I will not be sad to leave this place.  But now, I can say I will miss it. At least I've got that.

Bird Watching

Hi.

My name's Cat, and I've been pretty depressed lately.

I know.  SHOCKER!  It's not like it's been pretty easy to decipher that fact if you've been following my blog, or are friends with me on Facebook, or if you're one of those near-mythical "real life friends" (seriously, do such things exist anymore, or are they just relegated to icons between ads on Facebook?) (I kid, I kid, you know I love you, people I have actually interacted with in the physical world).

But I've been alluding to it as if it's over, or close to over.  You know, I'm "coming out of a funk."  Or, "the last few months have been hard, but it's getting better," or even the more cynical but no less silver lining-ed "it's tough now, but I still have so much good in my life."

Well, I lied.

I'm not coming out of it.  It's not getting better.  And yeah, there's good in my life, but that just makes this pervasive darkness even more oppressive.  Of course there's good in my life, so where do I get off feeling so crummy?  Seriously.  What an ungrateful little turd I am.  Man, I suck.

My life, as depicted by http://thankyoucorndog.tumblr.com/.

This comic describes my feelings.  When I talk to people about my sorrow, it turns into a laundry list of why I shouldn't be so sad.

"But Cat, you're so smart!"

"But Cat, look at all you're doing!  You're owning grad school!"

"But Cat, look at the opportunities you're getting!"

"But Cat, you have a loving husband and a really good life!"

"But Cat, there are so many people that love you!"

"But Cat, you are really so blessed!  Look at all you have!"

But, dear friends and family. But, while that is all true and well and good, but.  But that doesn't automatically make me happier.

If anything, it makes me worse.

Because those reminders and encouragements only add to the mental tally, and yes it is a constant tally, of things I'm doing wrong.  It becomes another failure.  That Cat, having all these lovely things and yet somehow, selfishly, brokenly, remaining depressed.

I'm trying to pull myself out of this mire.  I'm chasing that freaking bluebird of happiness with a titanium butterfly net, tricked out with rocket launchers and an army of drones in the handle.  And there are times when that lovely little creature will circle around my head, nearly landing on my shoulder but not quite there yet.  It's there on a sunny afternoon when I sit by the Charles and feel my skin tingle under the sun.  It's there when I dance to The Ballad of Mr. Steak with wild abandon during a Kishi Bashi concert, arms flailing underneath colored lights and layered sounds.  It's there while watching Veronica Mars and having good conversation with fine folk that give me hope in humanity and my place therein.

But for each time the bluebird almost lands, there are tenfold moments where it flies into a thorny hedge and refuses to budge.  These are the times where I stare into the void of a growing inbox of requests and freeze.  When my hands linger over a chapter to be edited, or a writer to be researched, or a TV show that I've watched and taken notes on and elucidated my thoughts in outline format, or even just the thought of moving that dang ol' dishrag off the counter and hanging it on the rack, and yet the next step halts.  

It's times like today, where I lie on the couch watching Party of Five* and eating Cheetos Puffs.  The cheese-spun cylinders make me feel marginally better, right before making me feel exponentially and inevitably worse.  You know how it is.  Curse you, sweet sweet snacks!

Today is extreme.  Usually it's just this heart-squeezing, gut-tearing feeling of misery and loneliness and failure that never really goes away.  

I keep telling myself that fessing up to it is better than gulping it down and pretending it's not there.  You know, saying outright that yep, I'm basically a champ at the whole self-loathing thing.  I recognize this and want to change, and like any good addict admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

And blast it all, I'm trying to recover.  I'm doing the exercises, eating the healthy foods**, seeing the therapist, making the happy lists.  Pushing myself to get out and socialize.  Forcing myself out of the solitary comfort zone my jerkbrain prescribes.  Doing all the maddening suggestions that well-meaning people give me when they try to help.  I mean, I still find myself crumpling on the ground almost every day, but I'm giving it the college try!  Happy face!  Attempts!

I'm still chasing the bird, but I'm running through quicksand, and for all the leverage I get I still am sliding down, sucked into the depths.

So what, right?  What now?  Why write this?  Why talk about this?

Because somehow, it's making me feel better.  Writing is a great way to figure things out.  It's why English teachers assign essays.  Well that, and the feeling of enjoyment we get from hearing the groans.  Sweet music to the ears! 

"The shortest distance between a human being and the truth is a story."  Anthony de Mello.

Right now, my story is sadness.  And anxiety.  And defeat.  And by writing about it, I hope to see the truth in this experience.  I want to be able to figure out what this means, to see patterns in my malaise.  If all goes well, these words will form a ladder to tug me out of the sand.  They will shape into wings where I can catch that damn bluebird in his own turf.

*What a truly terrible TV show, by the by.  Full House on steroids and with an over-inflated sense of importance.  And yet, there's something about Matthew Fox's hair on this show.  I can't look away.  I want to, believe me I want to, but every time I try stupid Jack is there with his stupid 90's mane waving in the non-existent breeze and whispering Caaaat.....loooook at meeee.....Caaaaat....

**Most of the time, all Cheetos cheats aside.

The Choice

You know, I think that apathy was the only thing that kept me sane.  Through high school.  Through college.  And now the apathy is replaced with actual hard work, and sanity?  Not so much.

So what would you rather have?

Achievement, or happiness?

Out of the Mouth of Swanson

Ron Swanson.  The ultimate wise man.

Right now, I'm doing a piss-poor job of living by this advice.  I've upped this ante by 100 percent, splitting my time and concentration between four things (well, technically seven if you count each individual class).

I might have made some errors in judgment this semester.

Return and Report

Part the First: Reflection

Well, 2013 has been a crap-bucket of a year.

Or so I thought when I initially sat down to write this, my yearly recap.*

Then I realized how much the extreme, soul-crushing suckitude of the past four months has colored my views.  Just because the latter third of the year drained me of all optimism and hope doesn't mean that good ol' 2013 has been a total wash.  In fact, it was a magical year in many ways.

Because this

In 2012, I fell in love with Seattle.  In 2013, Seattle became my home—a sad fact I didn't fully understand until I left it behind for the rocky coldness of the East Coast.  Somewhere along the road, despite the gray skies and the truly horrific traffic, Seattle snuck into my heart and settled down.  It packed up Thai food, Alki beach, the lighthouse at Discovery Park, the house in Queen Anne, the apartment by Silver Platters, the car full of educators starting and stopping down the 90 blasting music along the way.  It smuggled in memories of barbecues on the patio, where my fingers picked charred lamb off the cutting board, where I drank ginger beer and feasted on the best damn guacamole I've ever had.  Thoughts of Menchie's runs and reading on sunny days by Green Lake.  The sunsets—sweet mercy, the sunsets!—viewed from rocky beaches or Pike Place or the top of Cougar Mountain as I finished work and headed out to carpool.

Gorgeous view above the clouds

One of the best parts of having a place you love is sharing it with others, and Taylor and I got to share Seattle with many people this year (Paige, Ryan, James, Jihad, Sarah, Leo, my parents, Lauren).  We had the tour down pat—dinner at Orrapin on Queen Anne or Bengal Tiger down the street from our apartment.  Desserts from Menchie's, Trophy Cupcakes, Top Pot, or one of the many, many incredible bakeries.  One day had to be spent at Pike Place, going to Golden Age Collectables and wandering through secondhand bookstores.  Stopping for soda at the Pear Delicatessen.  If the lines weren't too long, maybe grabbing some Piroshky Piroshky pastries,  Beecher's mac 'n cheese, or the meatball sub at the Pasta Bar (a personal favorite).  Sometimes I would take people to wander around Capitol Hill, stepping into Eliott Bay Book Company or any of the shops on Broadway.  Often, I'd talk someone into visiting my happy place at the EMP and then checking out Seattle Center.  At some point, Taylor would take visitors on a driving loop on Queen Anne, where we'd point out sites from Seattle history and our own personal backstories.

Basically, the first two-thirds of this year were spent soaking up Seattle.  Taylor worked hard to finish school, graduating with his Masters.  I worked hard to save up money for the move to Boston, and despite some bratty kids I mostly enjoyed teaching history and journalism and mythology, going on some great field trips (NCI!) and interacting with six-year-olds for the first time at summer camp.

The North Cascades

That was before we packed up everything and headed out to Boston.  The road trip back was amazing.  In Montana I finally learned the truth of the phrase "purple mountain majesty."  I felt a sacred peace in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  I drove through the Badlands in a lightening storm and was completely alive.  Taylor and I braved the staid cornfields of Iowa to visit Scholte, and in Chicago we met with rain and blues and Gary and Giordano's.  We cozied up in an Eerie bed and breakfast, feeling nervous about the move for the first time and trying desperately to lose ourselves in the beauty of a small town.

And then came Boston.  And grad school.  While we've enjoyed exploring this city, exploring revolutionary history and cemeteries packed with my literary heroes, and while I have loved going to classes and constantly writing and the people I've met through articles and stories, I can't quite talk about Boston without bitterness in my voice.  Because I miss the happiness I left behind.

But that's OK.  Because now, on to 2014.  The year of endurance.

This is the year I put my head down and work.  Where I take Boston and feast on all it offers me.  And then next year, once I have sucked out all the education and experiences possible, I can leave this withered husk behind me and move on to real life.

*Previous recaps: 2012, 2011, 2010

Part the Second: Reporting

Last year, I set a few goals.  Here's how they went.

1. Get published.

Well, not so much.  Not officially.  BUT!  This year I started the television review site Lightbox Heroes with dear friends Mary and Rosemary.  It has been the single most beneficial thing I could have done for my writing, and it is several steps closer to what I want to be doing.  I feel pretty good about this one.

2. Get into grad school.

Done.  Masters of Journalism at Boston University, scheduled to be finished January 2015.

3. Stop eating food in the faculty room.

Ha. That's cute.

4. Keep track of the media I consumed.  Consume more media.

Done and done, and reported below.  While I don't know for certain that I consumed more media than last year, it certainly felt like I did.  And I was much more conscious of actively working to watch more movies and read more books.

One huge milestone I overcame was being comfortable with mass media consumption.  For many people, these types of activities are methods for release or ways to laze about, and so I would always be self-conscious about how frequently I would partake in these activities.  But considering that this is what I want to do—write about pop culture—this is precisely what I should be doing with my time.  So this year was a time for throwing off the shackles of what other people thought and growing my portfolio of expertise.  Making up for lost time, if you will.

5. Write reviews for every book I read.

Another negative.  But I recorded all the books I read, and I am working on slowly making up for lost time.  Writing for Lightbox Heroes showed me how easy it can be to write reviews, I just have to do them immediately and not let them pile up.  So with that in mind, I should be much more reliable this year.

Now without further ado, the media stats. 

MOVIES

-Jurassic Park                                                          -Justice League: Doom

-Spiderman                                                              -The Untouchables

-Django Unchained                                                  -The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

-Inglourious Basterds                                                -Escape From Alcatraz

-Two Mules for Sister Sara                                       -Pale Rider

-National Geographic Explorer: 25 Years                    -The Fountain

-Good Will Hunting                                                   -Naked Gun 2 1/2 

-Objectified                                                              -T2

-Serenity                                                                  -Safety Not Guaranteed

-Raising Arizona                                                       -Last of the Mohicans

-The Departed                                                          -The Godfather 2

-Side by Side                                                            -Batman Beyond: The Return of the Joker

-Capote                                                                    -Into the Wild

-Note by Note: The Making of Steinway L1037          -Zero Dark Thirty

-Reality Bites                                                            -Once

-NFFTY Opening Night                                            -Slacker

-Legends of the Fall                                                  -V for Vendetta

-Ironman 3                                                               -The Great Gatsby

-Watchmen                                                               -Bachelorette

-Willow                                                                    -Reservoir Dogs

-Akira                                                                      -Psycho

-The Town                                                                -Snatch

-Mystery Men                                                           -The Iceman Tapes

-Clerks                                                                     -Training Day

-Ronin                                                                       -Ninja Scroll

-Pitch Perfect                                                            -13 Assassins

-James and the Giant Peach                                       -Let it Be

-The Bling Ring                                                         -Chinatown

-Paranorman                                                             -Tucker and Dale vs. Evil

-Chasing Amy                                                           -Oldboy

-Pacific Rim                                                              -Butter

-Goldfinger                                                                -Johnny Carson: King of Late Night

-The Way Way Back                                                 -Cloud Atlas

-The Breakfast Club                                                   -Shaolin Soccer

-Rifftrax: Titanic                                                         -Wristcutters

-Hang 'Em High                                                          -SLC Punk

-Paranoid: Black Sabbath                                            -Rifftrax: Starship Troopers

-The World's End                                                       -The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

-Hero                                                                         -The Elephant Man

-Dr. Strangelove                                                         -East of Eden

-Who Framed Roger Rabbit                                         -The Other F Word

-Before Sunrise                                                           -Before Sunset

-In a World                                                                 -Tombstone

-My Kid Could Paint That                                           -Escape From Tomorrow

-Hocus Pocus                                                             -Boondock Saints

-Dances With Wolves                                                 -Muscle Shoals

-Shattered Glass                                                         -Baraka

-Hitchcock                                                                 -Se7en

-Inside Llewyn Davis                                                  -Absence of Malice

-No Country for Old Men                                           -Night of the Living Dead

-Rifftrax: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians               -Star Trek: First Contact

-The Master                                                              -Justice League: Flashpoint Paradox

-A Brady Bunch Movie                                              -White House Down

-The Patriot                                                               -Fargo

-Brave                                                                       -Brick

TOTAL: 110

Favorite Discoveries: The Fountain. The Departed. Snatch. Paranorman. The World's End. The Elephant Man. Dr. Strangelove.

Most Uncomfortable Movies: Oldboy. The Master. Bachelorette. Escape from Tomorrow.

Movies That Made Me Angry: Watchmen. Pacific Rim.

Movies Whose Popularity Flummoxed Me: Ronin. The Boondock Saints.

Movies That Were An Unexpected Delight: 13 Assassins. White House Down. Justice League: Flashpoint Paradox.

Clint Eastwood Movies: Escape From Alcatraz. Pale Rider. Two Mules for Sister Sara. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Hang 'Em High.

BOOKS

-Moon Over Manifest                                               -Y the Last Man: Girl on Girl
-Y the Last Man: Paper Dolls                                    -Y the Last Man: Kimono Dragons
-Y the Last Man: Motherland                                    -Y the Last Man: Whys and Wherefores
-Perks of Being a Wallflower                                     -That Summer
-Confessions of a Serial Kisser                                   -The Running Diaries
-Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway                     -Chew: Flambe
-Astonishing X-men: Dangerous                                 -Serenity: The Shepherd's Tale
-I,Q: Independence Hall                                            -One Crazy Summer
-Watchmen                                                               -Anna Karenina
-The Road                                                                -A Gathering of Days
-The Paris Wife                                                        -A Girl of the Limberlost
-Think Tank, Vol. 1                                                  -Good Omens
-Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore                         -Habibi
-Me, the Missing, and the Dead                                 -Court of Owls
-East of Eden                                                            -1602
-Cloud Atlas                                                             -Island in the Sea of Time
-Covering America                                                    -American Vampire, Vol. 5
-Gods Like Us                                                          -Z: a novel of Zelda Fitzgerald
-Attachments                                                            -Eleanor and Park
-Black Hole                                                              -Wanted
-Relish                                                                      -Court of Owls (2nd time)
-The Game of Thrones                                              -The Black Mirror
-A Clash of Kings                                                      -Ex Machina: the First Hundred Days
-Ex Machina: Tag                                                      -Ex Machina: Fact v. Fiction
-Ex Machina: March to War                                       -Ex Machina: Smoke Smoke
-Ex Machina: Power Down                                        -All-Star Superman
-Joker: Death in the Family                                        -A Storm of Swords
-Hawkeye 1                                                               -Fangirl
-Such a Pretty Fat                                                      -The Elements of Journalism

TOTAL: 58

New Favorite Books: Perks of Being a Wallflower.  Anna Karenina.  East of Eden.

What I'd Recommend: The Paris Wife.  Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore.  Attachments.  Good Omens.  The Y the Last Man series.  Relish.

Favorite Discovery: Rainbow Rowell, the author of Attachments, Eleanor and Park, and Fangirl.

Biggest Surprise: How addicting the Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones) books are.

TELEVISION

Completed series watched in entirety: 

-Bunheads                                                                 -Firefly
-Stephen Fry in America                                             -Terriers
-Breaking Bad                                                            -30 Rock
-Welcome to the Family**

Ongoing series watched faithfully:
-Mad Men                                                                  -Parks and Recreation
-Community                                                              -Nashville
-Sleepy Hollow**                                                        -Brooklyn Nine-Nine**
-The Crazy Ones**                                                     -Dracula**
-The Goldbergs**                                                       -The Millers**
-Reign**                                                                     -Arrested Development

Series with a significant portion of episodes watched:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer                                           -Friday Night Lights
-Don't Trust the B in Apt. 23                                       -The Carrie Diaries
-The IT Crowd                                                           -It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
-Futurama                                                                   -Saturday Night Live
-The Walking Dead                                                     -Felicity
-How I Met Your Mother                                            -Robot Chicken
-Full Metal Alchemist                                                   -Greg the Bunny
-The Following                                                            -Batman Beyond
-Fringe                                                                        -The Vicar of Dibley
-Gossip Girl                                                                -The Michael J. Fox Show
-Game of Thrones                                                       -Avatar: the Last Airbender

Series with one or two episodes watched:
-Ben and Kate                                                             -Hannibal
-Workaholics                                                               -MythQuest
-The Black Donnelly's                                                  -Orange is the New Black
-Freaks and Geeks                                                       -Boy Meets World
-The Simpsons

**signifies a show watched for Lightbox Heroes 

Same As It Ever Was

So, yesterday was fun.  If the looming terror and guilt about this wretched place and my wretched reasons for being here hitting me in one fell swoop can be termed as fun.

The worst of it happened right before church, and I felt so bad for the Primary class I teach.  I wonder if those five-year-old boys noticed their teacher staring out the window in a catatonic state.   I can imagine it now: "Hey, Sister McCarrey, are you going to teach us about not taking the name of the Lord in vain?"  "There is no hope or justice in this world, little ones.  Only darkness and loneliness forever.  So give up now, because nothing good will ever happen to you, and the more you work for something the worse your life will be.  Leave me to my solitude, small creatures."

But in all honesty, I hit a wall yesterday.  I've basically decided where I want to end up, and what I want to be doing, and how to get there.  And now that I see a clearer picture of my future, a picture un-tinged by romanticized filters, I just want it NOW.  Don't care how.  Just now.  Except that's impossible.  The soonest I can get what I want is in a year.  That makes the youngest child in me want to scream and kick my feet (acceptable behavior?  I'm still weighing my options...).

But last night, after the weight of it all had dissolved into exhaustion and a tears-induced headache, I remembered something.  I remembered David Byrne.




I have listened to this song an embarrassing amount of times since last night.

It struck something.  This knot of frustration and anger that had been twisting inside of me just snapped.  TWANG.  Gone.

There's this moment, when Byrne is questioning different things, when he throws his fists in the air, shouting:

"You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 

You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?

Chills.  It's as if my entire experience was wrapped up in twenty-one words.  And suddenly, I was not alone.  This experience was not unique. Logically, I knew that.  I mean, it makes sense.  Everyone has difficulties, everyone has doubts. People have done this before.  And so will I.  And I know that.

But it felt good to have Talking Heads remind me of that.  It felt good to listen to David Byrne describing the slip underwater.  Joining the current, not to drown but to enter the constant stream and flow of humanity.  To know that this too will pass.

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down 

Letting the days go by, water flowing underground 

Into the blue again, after the money's gone 

Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground 

Into the blue again, into silent water 

Under the rocks and stones, there is water underground 

Letting the days go by, into silent water 

Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground 

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was 

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was 

Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us 

Time isn't holding us, time doesn't hold you back 

Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us 

Time isn't holding us... 

Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, once in a lifetime  

Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, once in a lifetime

2007 Freshman

I recently wrote a personal essay for one of my classes.  What originally started as a glimpse into strange way the LDS church views chastity (launching from an awkward canoe metaphor my first college bishop gave me) soon morphed into a short examination of how I first started to accept my body.  My body, which I actively hated throughout jr. high and high school.  It made me wonder if there really is any way to talk about body hate, body acceptance, and the role that romantic attention  plays in that without sounding like an angsty teenage girl.  Though I suppose, considering the name of this blog, angst would be appropriate.

Anyway, here it is.  I'm considering making this a series.  As Taylor rightly pointed out when he read this, there is so much more between that moment and the place I am now.  I actually do want to explore that in the future.  We'll see if I ever have time (or the lack of pride) to talk about those things.

                

Freshman year my roommate Allison, the adorable one with silky golden curls, attracted guys like butterflies over a corpse.  That summer she chose to date David, a ballroom dancer five years her senior.  At 23, he was almost disgustingly ancient.  He smelled too nice, dressed too well, and spiked his hair too perfectly.  I didn’t trust him.  One night Allison burst in to proudly show us the five finger-shaped bruises on her arm, trophies of a vigorous make-out session in the bushes below our apartment door.  I gaped at the marks, half-fascinated, half-confused.

As for me, I went on one date that summer, with my friend Derek.  It was a set-up, a scheme to help our friend Charlene, who had never been on a date.  We all went bowling.  We ate pizza.  I hugged him at the door—a step up from the high school dances of yore, where guys were lucky to get a high-five.  Other than that, I stayed aloof from boys.  I took the freedom of the summer for granted, playing with these roommates who were the first girls to accept me, wearing sweatpants to class and staying up late.

               

I started wearing T-shirts.

My button-up blouses were donated to thrift shops.  Gone were those shapeless bags meant to hide away my curves.  The bulge of my stomach and the more obvious bulges of my breasts had been covered by pastel sacks bought at mom-stores like Lane Bryant and Ann Taylor.  I could not be as pure and unsexed as the sticks I went to high school with, so my only choice was to mask my disgustingly womanly body.  But that mindset disappeared in college, where my roommates were tall, big-boned, short, fat, muscular, and yet still had gentlemen callers.  If they could show themselves, so could I.

That fall, after the girl group of summer had left me in the dust, I sat in a lonely apartment with two strangers.  They were Idaho beauty queens, the type that kept tiaras in their closet and left the apartment shrouded in the stink of cheap hair spray.  Sometimes they would don their sashes and model in the living room, parading about for the slew of boys that plagued our couches, man-children with popped collars, too much cologne, and pillows placed oh-so-precisely over their crotches.

I needed to get away from the loneliness, and found myself escaping home.  I would beg rides back to Davis County, or take the two-hour bus ride to my front door.  Weekends would be spent with my best friend Andy, driving around listening to music and talking.  I still wore T-shirts.  He wore them too.

               

One October night we sat on the lawn outside the church building by Main Street, looking up at my old friend Orion, debating about the movies that meant something to us.  The stars were bright.  I shivered.  The grass was a dusky silver in the midnight light.

               

“It might be warmer if we were closer together,” Andy said.

               

I looked at him, my lovely friend with the red afro and the freckled arms. My friend, whose typed-out words through desolate college nights had kept me going.  He looked at me.  Not my clothes, not my skin, not the carefully hidden curves.  I scooted towards him.  I was still shivering, but this time from excitement, from disbelief.  He merely took that as a cue to hold me tighter.

               

Two weeks later, we sat on his parent’s couch, tracing each other’s arms with our fingertips.  He encircled my wrist with his fingers, the middle and thumb over-lapping.  His hands were a mass of white skin and brown freckles, giant, rough, and warm.

               

“Your wrists.  They’re so small.”

               

He hesitantly lifted my wrist and kissed it.

               

I looked at my wrist.  It was bare.  It was warm and white, bisected with the thinnest blue lines of veins.  For the first time, I thought my body was beautiful.

Floating in the Dark, Temporary Scars

Clearly, I'm not always full of sunshine and rainbows about my move back east.

But Boston has one thing.

Nearly every night when I walk home in the oppressive dark, I look up.

And there, beyond the tree-lined edges of my view, are stars.

After almost two years without, stars are a welcome presence.  I've missed my friend Orion, and Cassiopeia's regal throne.  I see the chained Andromeda, and I feel free.

More than a Feeling

When Taylor and I were preparing to come to Boston, it was with the giddy excitement of children waiting for Christmas.  Look at all those brick buildings!  Look at how palpable the history is!  Look at the leaves, the seasons, the air, that crisp East Coast feeling we've created from books and songs and movies!

When we got to Boston, that blown-glass image shattered fairly quickly.  The apartment full of light and hope wasn't ready for us when we got there, and instead we were greeted with paint cans and drop cloths and an infestation of crickets.  We slept on an air mattress, dying in the heat, lost and confused in a city that was much further from our dream than we had realized.

That was two months ago, and while we've gotten our bearings a little, it's come at a cost.  The autumnal spirit here is as beautiful as we imagined, but we can't enjoy it.  School started quickly and fiercely, and my life has become a long line of T rides to the COM building and back to the little house in the suburbs, removed from the bustling, shining city of promise.  Taylor's life I can only imagine, after spending a month in a ridiculously oppressive work environment, and now returned to long, empty days in a long, empty apartment.

There are days where I love Boston.  Where I look at my "Why I Like it Here" list and feel calm, remembering the large rocks at my T station, the smushed, Irish-looking faces of Southies on the street, the bookstores and cobblestones and abundance of graveyards Downtown and in Cambridge, the trees that create tunnels of orange and red.

But far more often are the days when I think I won't ever stop hating myself for bringing us here.

Education is a terribly selfish thing.  When I was doing my undergrad, I used my selfishness like a badge of honor.  I would look at all those poor little engaged girls I knew with pity.  They were squandering a prime opportunity in their life. When else would you have an excuse to just be concerned with yourself?  When else can a person be wholly self-absorbed in their own learning and growth?

When I decided to go back to school, it was after I'd gotten married and had halfway tried on a career for size.  It seemed like the time to do this.  I had always wanted a masters, I felt like I had to give this writing thing a try, and it was now or never.  Taylor was more supportive than I could imagine, pushing me to make this decision for me and for me alone, assuring me that he would follow me anywhere and that our family would flourish wherever I chose to go.

I don't think he knew what that was implying.  I don't think either of us did.

He couldn't have seen the gut-wrenching loneliness that would occur.  While we knew moving was hard--the first time we moved to Seattle almost destroyed us--I think we thought we had grown.  We had each other now.  We knew how to work as a team.  We had qualifications and life would happen quickly.   Ha.  How naive.

Instead, I found myself regressing into the selfishness of schooling.  This grad school experience was a chance to redeem myself as a student.  It was a chance to finally push myself, to stop being lazy and see what happens when I exhaust all my potential.  Even though I'm studenting better than ever, the extreme soul-crushing guilt that I inflict upon myself when I don't live up to the impossible standard I'm aiming for is incredibly destructive.  It leads to a weariness and disappointment I couldn't have foreseen. And while I'm concentrating on how to school better, I can't ignore the fact that the house is in disarray, that I'm cooking dinner less, that I'm not being as caring and tender with Taylor's emotional needs.

Which makes me feel even worse.  Thinking about what I've done to Taylor.  I can't help but think about what life would be like if we stayed in Seattle.  Seattle, the gloomy, wonderful jewel of a city that we idiotically couldn't get away from fast enough.  If we were in Seattle right now, I would be teaching.  And I would probably be loving it.  If we were in Seattle, Taylor would have a job.  He'd be able to practice, he'd have spent the past two months making money and ticking off licensure hours, each week coming closer to the dream he's harbored.

Instead, I took us away from financial and job security, and dragged us across the country, to a place that might be breaking us.  That's a whole ton of guilt to be living with.  The dream of Boston has shattered, and now I'm wondering how to make the pieces fit together again.

But Seriously, This Week

This Onion article* has it right.  This week is yet another time where my country has been put through the wringer.  Boston, my future town, in fear and upheaval.  A city-wide lockdown.  Rumors flying around, unsubstantiated claims.  Talking to twenty sixth-graders about current events has proven the existence of mob mentality, has been the face of the vulture media, desperate to feed on the flesh of sensationalism.  Might sound like overkill, but the amount of enjoyment these kids get out of telling a story that their uncle told them where this dark-skinned, accented guy was seen walking on rooftops and was taken into custody, well.  That kind of makes me ill.

And it's not just the kids.  It's the journalism this morning, the masses of people hankering for sound clips from estranged uncles and random classmates, touting high school students (who willingly say that they didn't know the suspects well!) as "friends of the suspects."  Networks bringing in terrorism experts--experts who, to their credit, have been trying to diffuse any shocking Al Qaeda and jihadist claims--just so that they can dedicate hours to discussing this intense Islamic plot.  It's more than depressing, it's frustrating.

Add that on top of events like the explosion at Waco, and the failure of the Senate to vote on gun control (not so much a because of the legislation not passing [even though come on], but because it exhibited the extent of our corrupt government, especially when you factor in quotes like this one from Richard Feldman), and you could say my faith in this nation has been shaken.  Suddenly, this world isn't a complex sphere full of sorrow and happiness, it's just a straight up scary place.

So yeah.  I spent most of this week feeling sad, and then indescribably angry, and now I'm just exhausted.

Just like the first article said, this week is done.  I'm done.

As a collective, can we agree to sit on the couch, cry, and watch happy videos until the world goes away?

Sounds good to me.

*Incredibly strong language.  Be ye warned, sensitive souls.  But if you like, the Onion has rocked it with their coverage this week.  Find all the Boston articles HERE.

Over the Whelm

While carpooling to work today, I became embroiled in one of those retrospective conversations.  The topic on today's menu?  College.  As my carpooling compatriot and I swapped stories from the underbelly of our undergraduate years, told stories of nightmare professors and all-nighters, something happened.  My heart gained weight, became a grenade with the pin half-pulled, ready to either explode or lie dormant.

I'm pretty sure this image is from Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life, the first book in the series.

The wheels are in motion for me to go to grad school.  Applications are in order or almost in order. I've detached from Seattle and allowed myself to experience the sweet taste of wanderlust, my feet and possessions becoming eager to see a new location.  I've made my intentions clear at work, gently side-stepping possible/likely job advancements.  And I'm ready.  I'm ready to push my life further.

But then.  The memories of being a student.  The apathetic lethargy that came with my university experience. The feelings of being drained, being frustrated, being uninspired.  One of the things that encouraged me to return to school was a recent burst of inspiration, a desire to investigate things, to create things.  I'm starting to worry that school will once again sap me of passion.

So yeah.  Tl;dr (which means too long; didn't read for all you non-Reddit initiated folk)(I learned Reddit abbreviations recently and I'm really excited about it, that's all)(no judgement)?  Blah blah blah nervous fear blah.

Luckily I've found solace by looking at pictures of deserts, listening to this ad nauseum, and watching a whole ton of this:

Those Who Don't Try

It's amazing how quickly negativity can get me down.

I decided I'm going to grad school.  Next fall.  I want to get a Masters in Journalism.  No, not education.  And no, I haven't had any journalism experience since high school.  Why do you ask?

I haven't tried to accomplish anything since high school.  No competitions, no real application or challenges.  The last time I went out on the line and tried working for something I wanted was when I was a senior, and I applied to be the English Sterling Scholar for my high school (something I achieved, by the way, even though in hindsight I think it was because only one other person applied).  I didn't put any effort into college applications, I never worked to get published or entered contests while in college, and now that I'm past university I thought I'd just ride out that life of mediocrity.

Too bad I don't want that.

I want a spectacular life, I want to work hard and feel pride in what I'm doing.  I want to be able to point to something and say, "There.  I did that.  And it was hard.  BUT I DID IT."

There are two things impeding me in this goal.

1) I am lazy.  Every time I want to work on something, there's this little part of my brain that starts talking about all the shows now available on Netflix, and how hard I've already worked that day, and how I need just a little break to restore my creative juices.  Next thing I know, I'm two hours deep into Mad Men and yelling about how Jon Hamm deserves all the things in the world.  All the things.

2) I am a defeatist.  As much as I try to think positively, and to constantly be reassuring (after all, I am freaking awesome), when the pedal hits the metal there's only one thing going through my head.  And that's how much I suck.  How big of a failure I am.  I can't write.  I can't sell myself.  I have no impressive qualifications or character traits that set me ahead of the curve.  When I look at the requirements for applications, and then look at myself, it's ridiculous.  I just see a person with a giant average sticker.

Oh, I see you have a B+ average.  That's adorable.  Oh, I see you wrote a term paper on Dracula and Feminine Sexuality.  That's a subject that's been heavily examined before.  You want to write articles?  The last thing you wrote for a newspaper was about your favorite pair of shoes?  Oh, that's just the cutest thing ever.  Now excuse me while I talk to this intern who has been ghostwriting for the New York Times, working in an inner-city school and has published several articles about the potential cure for AIDS.

I know that I have something to offer schools.  People.  Life.  But I have a serious problem noticing all the positives when I'm paralyzed by every downfall, frozen in place by my own inadequacies.  It's so much more comforting to never try and never fail.  

High and Dry

I was watching The Newsroom today when an interesting thought hit me... oh, you haven't seen The Newsroom yet?  Really?  That delightful new concoction from Aaron Sorkin that mixes cynicism with wild, patriotic optimism?  The TV show about a news show that wants to be fair, and thorough, and actually return to the state of honest journalism that has been sadly nonexistent in recent years?  That show starring Jeff Daniels and Sam Waterson and Emily Mortimer and Alison Pill (who was my favorite part of Scott Pilgrim) and Dev Patel (who I've hoped would do something to redeem his last appearance in the worst movie ever).  You know.  That show.*

Anyway.  Back to my evening and the inevitable exciting-ness therein.  As I was watching the second episode of The Newsroom, this aching started.  This slow burn spread from my sternum, burrowed though ribs and lungs and settled into a white hot point of despair right between ventricles and arteries and whatever necessary tubes lead to the heart.

I want to have a job I care about.  I so, so desperately want to have a job I care about.

There's a reason I haven't been writing a lot lately,either here or privately.  It's because while life is going great, and while I love being in Seattle and adjusting to being married (surprisingly easy, actually) and having new friends and new experiences, there is this constant drag on my spirit.  My job has been the greatest source of strife for me over the past few months.  Every day, I wake up soulsick, knowing that I have to drive and drive and then sit and sit, trying to fight apathetic teens and over-zealous parents, teaching a test I believe is fundamentally flawed, all while struggling against a broken system.  I hate it.  I HATE IT SO MUCH.

It's not a difficult job.  It's just mindless, and soul-sucking, and my branch is run by people who have absolutely no business being in charge of anything.  I'm lucky that I have an out soon, and that come August I start an excellent job at an excellent school.  But right now I'm stuck in the middle of this disaster.  It's a strange experience, witnessing a workplace fall apart.  I feel like I'm watching the tail-end of a year-long decline at my company, watching the students and teachers abandon ship one by one, and anxiously waiting for the time when I can put on my life preserver and jump off.
  
That's why it's difficult for me to view people that feel so strongly about the importance of what they are doing.  I am self-aware enough to know that I'm driven by passion, that I studied a field that could feed that need and that I'm quite skilled at to boot, yet here I am.  Drowning in the after tow of life-progression blues.  Trying my best to survive these two months until maybe, just maybe I can feel some drive and inspiration again.  Until I can float atop the waters, soaking in sunlight, rather than being sucked into the riptide.

*It's also that show that has some salty language, so if you have sensitive ears maybe it's not quite the show for you.  But may I recommend the first four seasons of The West Wing?