Last month… and the month before December, and the years before 2006, I got through pretty damned well, in spite of it.
But Tonight — Oh Dear God… I’ve always wondered what a nervous break down felt like…
and since I’m not checked into a mental ward, yet, I might still not know —
but the scream. All I could do was scream.
My kids ran for cover, picked up their crap, ran for cover and I screamed.
To no one.
begging for mercy…
and then tears, followed by all the thoughts of why? and why not? and why the hell am I fighting:
Autism, weak employment, obsessive screenwriting, visions of grandeur, Diabetes and carb counts, single motherhood, poverty, debt, broken vehicles — (as in dead vehicles), friggin’ chickens (Yes Sorine, Friggin’ chickens), contest deadlines, daydreams, school schedules, syllables, class schedules and work that is not mine: papers to write that I sign with my son’s name, university requirements that don’t belong to me. Why am I beating my head against this same, damned, wall? The emails, the phone calls, the waiting lists, the rotation of caseworkers, the letters, the appointments, the conferences, the meetings, the clutter, the cats, the dog, the mess, the colds, the vomit (not mine), the tears (not mine) , the loneliness, (mine, his, theirs), the guilt, (all mine), the shame (mine again) — Why THE HELL did I leave L.A.? Why did I feel like I OWED because I fell in love and had children? Why can’t I be a gambler, a Meth addict, a stoner, a smoker, a thief, a slut, a villain, a Party Girl, a wino, a cheat, a scoundrel, a racist, a lawyer, a politician, work on Wall Street, work in “sales,” be a lousy shit of a mother who doesn’t give a crap? Why am I not those things?
Why am I THIS?
This is no Lion’s Den that will ever be praised, written about or documented. This is no proud moment of achievement in spite of great odds. This is no shining moment that shows Your Awesomeness. (Yet?) Where’s the power? Where’s the strength to get through? Lead me to that pile of ashes — Let me soak in it, bathe in it, roll in it. Give me a bag of marshmallows to roast if I am not a Phoenix. I’ve run out of the ability to keep it up, stay focused, faithful, trusting. I’m down to an 1/8 of a mustard seed. That’s it. I’m tired.
I’m so ineffectual…
Jesus H. Christ — I’m begging you.
believing and having faith in you as always — but please, please I’m waiting for this promise:
Matthew 11:28-30 – Come Unto Me. “Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
Any time at all…
I admit I have knack for digging more tunnel the minute I see a crack of light. Seems it is the way I was crafted…
Not pointing fingers or anything…
I am not quite sure why it took me so long to understand this, but I think I finally understand what confidence is and why it’s important.
Don’t laugh. Seriously. I admit that I’ve been slow to learn this. (Maybe not slow — maybe just in love with the false security of doubt as a form of caution).
Confidence, as I understand it, is the act of doing something that stretches the boundaries of what seems safe and secure. It’s the conscious aim toward one’s vision, goal, or dream, despite warnings and humiliation along the way. Confidence is the baby who bounces off the corner of a coffee table, yet bruises and all, gets back up to give it another go. Some might laugh at the baby. Others might swoop over, pick up the baby and coddle it. (Confidence Destroyers). But the baby knows the desire to walk, that it is worth the effort and won’t be satisfied with pity or put off by laughter. The goal is worth the scratches and knots on the forehead. Confidence is not questioning all the little steps it takes to get there.
And it’s not bragging or moaning about what could or should be. It’s just doing. Everyday. Creating, doing, living and dusting one’s self off and doing it again.
I’ve been told “Be confident” for years now and my non-vocalized response was: “What am I supposed to do? Pretend I’m something I’m not?”
Today’s answer: “Yeah. Pretty much.”
I misunderstood the phrase: “Fake it ’til you make it.” The correct phrase is , “SHAKE it ’til you make it.”
Shake the rattle.
Shake it until you find the job, the home, the love you’ve searched for.
Shake it until you lose the final 10 pounds.
Shake it until what you shake makes music.
Shake it, write and rewrite until you finally have a good story to tell.
Shake it and trust that the borders of safety and security are always present, always there. The failure comes when the sounds of fear and doubt become louder than the sound of your rattle. So shake it harder.
I forget sometimes that I am trying to write something that feels like a movie. Experiencing one from the audience point of view inspires and refreshes me. The test is whether I forget where I am as I watch. If I am conscious of performance, of the deliberate manner of angles, lighting, etc., then I’m not emotionally connected with the characters or the story. Conversely, sometimes a story is so emotionally upsetting I pull back and resist the film’s “good” qualities. I don’t want to be part of it, not even as an audience.
Secondly, I watch to glean an understanding of what sells and why. I look for the catalyst, the “set pieces” — all the best moments used for the trailers and the movie posters that sell to the audience. I look for the character and for the theme that resonates in the end. “The Wolf” and its theme left a nasty taste in my mouth.
I thought I could watch it with my sons — but, uh, no. Not the kind of movie a pre-teen boy wants to watch with his mother sitting nearby. Shoot — I could barely take watching it alone. Though the film’s presumed protagonist, Jordon Belfort, turned my stomach, I tried to look at it from a writer’s perspective. Could I write something like this? Maybe. It was an adaptation, so, yeah — maybe I could. If someone offered to pay me — then definitely, yes. ( I certainly would try). But if it had not been an adaptation, could I create a story like this? No. I don’t think so. I’d hate the characters too much.
The film bothered me. Not because of the writing, directing, the performances — all those things were great, fine — whatever. But the story of a horrible human being — is just so — ick. I’m glad now that Leo DiCaprio didn’t win an Oscar for the role. (Though many of the scenes were fabulous — the “lemmon” quaaludes scene — hysterical, wonderful).
But if DiCaprio had won, it would have also been a reward for Jordon Belfort. And for what? For being the biggest drug and sex addicted, greedy dick ever? Who would want to do that? If he is an example of how the uber rich live and act — then I understand why Jesus said it would be so hard for them to get into heaven. Even if you don’t believe in heaven and hell, this guy illustrated Christ’s point.
But here’s the part that really bugged me about the film: Halfway through it I found myself agreeing with Belfort as he revved up his room of salespeople. I caught myself feeling pumped and inspired by his sales pitch. That pissed me off. Brilliant stuff. (Similar to Alec Baldwin’s speech in Glengary, Glenn Ross.)
If the film has truth to it, then I admire Belfort’s hutzpah, his drive, his will, his complete confidence. Other than that — what a scumbag. (The film’s dialogue describes him as such, too.) A scum sucking low life. A total piece of shit for a human being. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to slap the women in his life, too. (Women — why do we allow ourselves to be bought and sold? WHY?)
After I finished watching the 180 minute long film, I did a bit of research about Belfort. He has sobered up and straightened up his life, that’s what his and other websites say; that’s what the movie said, too. And no surprise, he is selling his brand new “ethical” self. My father has a saying, “if you can’t grow vertically, grow horizontally.” Belfort has switched directions and knows how to sell it. I admire his ability to adapt. But would I trust this guy for advice? Would I PAY this guy for advice? No.
His message is the same new age message offered in The Secret, Notes From the Universe, and by Wayne Dyer, Tony Robbins, and countless other Gurus out there. There is no shortage of tips and platitudes. Clean, straight and sober or drunk, wasted and filthy rich, it’s not necessary to pay some guy like Belfort. Besides, good advice is only good if practiced daily. Transformation takes time and determination. The time is shortened if cut in half by determination. Speaking of one’s philosophy isn’t enough. Accept the challenge of a dream or don’t. Believe or don’t. Sit or stand. Walk or run. Faith or doubt. The choices are daily.
I confess I do have a favorite Belfort quote: “The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can’t achieve it.” He is absolutely right. But other than that, integrity matters more than money. I’m glad the Academy voters felt the same way.
The kids have been out of school for two days because of the weather. Snow and ice too heavy and thick to clear away so that folks may travel to school safely.
They’ve built snow forts, dragged out the X- country skis, plowed out tunnels like hamsters in a cage – and yeah — it’s starting to feel like a cage.
Spring will be welcome. I suppose I will tolerate the time change eventually if it means the sun will shine again and I’ll be able to ride my bike to the grocery store.
Too much time indoors is not a good thing. I spend most of my time on the computer — it’s not healthy. Something about it makes me start to feel foreign to myself. Panic attacks happen often — It’s my mind pinging back to myself. It makes for a shallow existence. I can feel it – the need to connect with another human. You would think my kids would count in this aspect, but they are looking up to me for answers. It’s a horrid feeling to realize you simply don’t have any except my favorite: Don’t quit.
3 a.m. I wake up scared.
There is absolutely no reason for my fear. The house is quiet. I find my glasses and look outside. It’s still snowing. Kind of like seeing the sunrise around here — all is well as long as we have snow.
I check the locks. All good. I find the dog in the dark. It is too early for breakfast so he didn’t get up to greet me. I pet him. Yes, he breathes. Good. Cats? Ah, forget the cats. I know they’re fine. Besides, if Tigger — the kids named him, not me — had an epileptic fit, I’d recognize the thumping sound.
I can hear the kitchen clock. I had no idea it was that loud.
The bathroom light is on, so someone has been up. Everyone is asleep now. Everyone except me. It was nothing. Nothing scared me. (Or should I write, nothing scares me… If nothing was a someone then, maybe I’d be onto something. O geez-uz. I’m tired. Quit talking to myself).
Water. Maybe I need some H2O. Done. I’ll go back to sleep, but of course I can’t. I lay there, turn on my usual podcasts to help calm me to sleep. I listen to two, 31 minute podcasts. They must have eventually worked because when the alarm rings at 5:50 a.m. I wake again and feel like crap. There is a fresh kink in my neck. I must have slept wrong.
5:51 a.m. Think: What am I doing? And why? Eyes open, I command thee! Stretch! Think something “Happy!” Force thyself! Feet on floor! (I can talk to myself with thee, thou and thy because no one actually witnesses my ridiculousness.) I check the phone; no messages from the school. Give it another hour, maybe they’ll call. Snow days are rare around here, but we hope for them. But then I hear a snow plow pass through our street. Hope fades…
Groggy, I turn on Spotify and crank up my WAKEUP AND WRITE list. My fears are gone. I brew coffee and rock out to “Work Bitch.” My kids, like zombies, stumble out of their rooms, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. Ha. They are wising up to me. Finally.
Here’s the playlist:
Macklemore & Ryan Lewis – Can’t Hold Us – feat. Ray Dalton
will.i.am – Scream & Shout
Imagine Dragons – On Top Of The World
Bastille – Pompeii
Caro Emerald – Back It Up
Ke$ha – Warrior
Jake Bugg – Lightning Bolt
MGMT – Time to Pretend
Lorde – Royals
Rogue Wave – Bird On A Wire
Night Beds – Ramona
James – Laid
Guaranteed to get you up and moving. Good Morning.
Each Wednesday I look forward to reading Steven Pressfield’s: Writing Wednesdays. I share his post today, My First Three Novels, because it helps (sometimes) to know I am not alone in this strange little world I’ve chosen. Maybe, regardless of your preferred art form, it will help you, too. Discouragement and growth seem to go hand-in-hand. I was a proud member of the Loser’s Club yesterday. I am a proud member of the Other 99% Club today.
Secondly, since I borrowed my blog post title from one of my favorite songs written and performed by Elvis Costello, I felt it necessary to include it here: