5 Things I Tried This Week (And You Can Too)

I've been trying a lot of new things lately. It's all part of my effort to be a "fun" person. I was a fun person once. It was about 5 years ago. But over the past couple years, I've experienced a steady decline in my mood and outlook, stemming mostly from a growing dissatisfaction with my career choices. Rather than taking positive action, I've allowed fear to take hold and nudge me deeper into depression. In the process, the sphere of my social, professional and even cultural interactions has shrunken. I go out less, I enjoy less, I take fewer risks. As a result, I've become more depressed. And the more depressed I become, the harder it is to do the things that help counteract depression (e.g. leaving the house, calling friends, journaling).

I've managed to maintain a modicum of sanity and a considerable amount of manageability by forcing myself to exercise regularly, eat relatively well, get enough sleep, stay in touch with my support network (albeit with minimal effort), attend counseling, and limiting my time on the couch. From time to time, I've even gathered my energies and directed them toward higher-level goals for the sake of more profound spiritual and emotional growth: meditation, volunteer work, a brief attempt to practice The Artist's Way. These efforts have been sporadic and therefore mostly ineffective, in fact leaving me feeling even more discouraged and down on myself for failing to follow through.

The trouble is, I've been avoiding the root of the problem: the despair with which I view my current career trajectory. I avoid it because I feel trapped, incapable of change, afraid to commit to any course of action lest I discover that all jobs, all careers, lead to the same place (misery). It's not rational, I know. But I recently - finally - saw a career counselor, and I'm feeling something I haven't felt in a long time: hope. I'm seeing possibilities that don't seem completely unattainable. Although maybe sensing is a more accurate description, since I'm wary of optimism and reluctant to examine said possibilities too closely for too long (baby steps). But reticence aside, it's progress in a positive direction.

So I'm leveraging that momentum to do something my therapist recommended after I told her I don't find joy in things, which is to take "opposite action." In other circles, it's called "faking it 'til you make it." If I feel like isolating, I should socialize. If I feel depressed, I should do things that give me (or once gave me) joy. The more I take these opposite actions, the theory is, they will eventually lead to positive feelings.

That's how I decided to be more fun. So for the past week, I've been saying yes to things. And I thought I'd share my experience, because one of the benefits of doing things is having things to write about. Even if I start writing about them by resorting to old habits of sharing my feelings for eight paragraphs (baby steps). So here they are, 5 things I tried this week that you can try, too:

1. Foie gras

I went to dinner with a friend in the industry, who expensed our Michelin-star-rated meal as market research. Because I was just grateful to be there, and because she's a master of the culinary arts and I am merely an enthusiastic consumer of them, I let her do the ordering. Foie gras is not something I would normally pursue, but when in Rome and your friend is paying, do what the French do and eat engorged duck liver with (among other eyebrow-raising accoutrement) chocolate covered cherries. And honestly, I wouldn't order it again.

Maybe it was the ethical qualms I harbored or just my unsophisticated palette - or maybe bittersweet chocolate and fatty liver don't actually go well together - but it was the kind of dish I could only eat by not thinking about what I was eating. Also it just didn't taste good. I think that was the main takeaway, actually. Chocolate foie gras doesn't taste good, even if it's free. Lesson learned. No regrets.

2. Seeing a Play Alone

This initiative was inspired by the aforementioned book, The Artist's Way, which suggests taking yourself on "artist's dates." The idea is to reconnect with one's creativity by spending an hour or two each week doing something fun/creative/spiritual/culturally enriching by yourself. Since I sometimes hesitate to invite people to plays, lest it turns out to be a terrible play (not altogether unlikely, in my experience) and they think I have bad taste or they just don't enjoy themselves, which would obviously result in a catastrophic end to our friendship. Seeing a play solo seemed like the perfect solution. And it was!

I happened to choose an excellent play: This, written by Melissa James Gibson and directed by Carl Menninger and performed at the Windy City Playhouse. The venue was delightful, offering comfortable seating, a full bar that included non-alcoholic options, and clean bathrooms. The acting was good, but it was the writing really stood out. Smart, funny, thoughtful and subtle, it explored the somewhat mundane topics of middle age, infidelity and relationships in general in a way I found honest and interesting.

I didn't feel awkward being alone, even during intermission. On the contrary, it was refreshing to simply absorb the production without worrying about my guest's experience. I found it relaxing to be in the company of others without any pressure to engage in conversation. The introvert in me found it a much more rewarding way to spend some quality alone time than my typical Netflix-and-overeat routine. I recommend it enthusiastically. 

3. Bollywood Dancing

An acquaintance of mine has written and is directing/producing her own web series, and I've been cast as her roommate. She's from India, and she wanted to have a Bollywood dance in the series. So this past weekend, I went to the first rehearsal to learn a short choreographed routine. Because the dancers are amateur actors and not professional dancers, the routine is simple and the instruction was slow-paced. Which was perfect for me, because despite my relative athleticism, I have the grace of a turkey rather than a swan.

As usual, the difficult part was showing up. Actually leaving my house is always the hard part, and I didn't really know the people who were going to be there very well. In fact, the first 15 minutes of rehearsal were pretty awkward, as we all had to wait for the choreographer and I'm not super into idle chit-chat with near-strangers. But once things got going, I had fun. With a task at hand, I'm much more comfortable and relaxed. I like learning new things and I like using my body and being both active and playful, and it helped that I wasn't out of my league. It helped even more that there were no mirrors. The whole thing lasted about an hour, which is the perfect amount of time for new things to last. I'd give it four stars (out of five).

4. Boxing

I've been taking a break from running lately because it's been so hot, so when a friend asked me on a fitness date, I suggested we try a new class. But since I've been doing this 90-day yoga challenge, I wanted to try something new. She mentioned a boxing club that had a first-one's-free policy, so we signed up. I'd never worn boxing gloves or punched a bag before, and let me tell you, it was amazing.

The class was mostly women, which made it less intimidating. I learned how to wrap my hands, which is a valuable skill that I will probably list on my resume from now on. Then I grabbed a pair of foul-smelling gloves and got laughed at by my friend, who told me that was the "dirty laundry" pile. So then I grabbed a pair of less foul-smelling gloves from the "clean laundry" rack and got to work.

The warmup was a full-on cardio workout, and I was glad I'd been doing so many FitnessBlender workouts so I could keep up and maintain the don't-fuck-with-me vibe I'd been projecting ever since learning to wrap my hands. Then we started punching, and things got real. Fun. Real fun.

To be honest, I couldn't really see the instructor and the audio was kind of terrible, so mostly I was just going to town without any real sense of what I was supposed to be doing. And I loved it! I really don't like witnessing violence, but apparently I'm a big fan of inflicting it on a large inanimate objects. It was invigorating, empowering and fully absorbing. It was the kind of workout that leaves you exhausted without seeming like you're working out anything other than a whole lot of pent-up aggression that you usually channel into embittered social media rants and emotional power-eating. Five stars!

5. Bone Marrow

My friend described it as meat butter, and I think that's a fair analogy as any. You scrape it out of a bone and spread it on toast. Maybe the taste was masked by the accoutrements (I believe one was apply chutney and the other was a pickled vegetable of some kind), but I didn't have any strong feelings about the actual marrow. As someone who isn't an avid eater of animal protein, this wasn't a surprise. I like toast and spreads, though, so I found it enjoyable and far superior to the foie gras.

So there you have it, 5 things to try or not try. If you have any suggestions of things you'd like me to try and then review, leave a comment. Otherwise, I'm just going to go take a nap because being fun is super hard!

"If you needed to write, you'd be doing it."

That's what the career counselor I saw today said to me. It stung. I hurriedly explained to him that not writing made me feel bad, which he dismissed, not knowing that what I meant was that not writing makes me feel awful. Guilty, maybe even ashamed, perhaps worthless. It feels as though I'm wasting my potential and cowardly avoiding a difficult but important task. It feels like I'm not doing the one thing I might be good at, lest I discover I might not be good at it, and therefore good at nothing.

I feel embarrassed about referring to my aptitude for writing as potential. Which is absurd, because it is potential. Even if it's just potential to be a really good personal blogger, which maybe isn't all that grand, but it's what I've got. I don't have aspirations to be a great novelist, but that's probably more a reflection of my fear that I don't have it in me to be a great novelist. Let's be honest, I'd love to be Stephen King-like in my prolificacy and success. But as much as I envy those two aspects of his career, the thing I really envy is the way he describes losing himself in a story. Channeling, rather than writing. Feeling words flow from one's fingertips. I know he also says that in order to write prolifically, one must write prolifically. Not novels, per se, but anything. My problem is not one of talent, but of avoidance. Which can also be called laziness, ambivalence, what the career counselor called "not needing to."

But I argue that I do "need to" write. The fact that I don't - at least not consistently - says more about my mental/emotional/psychological/moral fortitude than about my desire.  Call it depression or call it plain old fear, I don't write because I feel afraid to try. I am afraid to write badly, but in order to write well, I must first write badly. I must also learn to follow through, to write past the point of feeling inspired and through the inevitable ambivalence I start to feel after writing a first draft. Maybe it's not ambivalence. I'm really into labeling today, I feel a need to label the feeling of relief but also immediate avoidance that comes after writing something. I feel better after writing, but I don't want to look at what just came out of my mind. It's like vomiting. And while there's no value in examining one's regurgitated lunch, returning to a piece of writing is an essential part of the process. Or so I've heard.

But I want to say something and be done with it. Words are never easy to get it out, and I fear that examining them more closely will only counteract the positive benefits I got from writing in the first place. That is to say, I want to take the fleeting relief I get from pounding out an unedited blog entry and cling to it as long as possible. But in doing so, I am no doubt denying myself the opportunity to wring even greater satisfaction out of the writing process. By honing a pile of verbal vomit into a thoughtful and concise essay, I will create something instead of merely spewing something. There is real satisfaction in that, and pride. Those feelings are also fleeting, but at least I'll have something substantial to show for it.

Before I go ahead and publish this mostly unedited blog entry, I just want to say that the aforementioned career counselor isn't a jerk. Aside from that stinging comment (which inspired me to write, and thus ended up being productive), he had a lot of helpful things to say. I'm actually feeling hopeful about my career prospects for the first time in recent memory. I hope I didn't jinx it - I'm so wary of positive feelings, always preparing myself to be disillusioned. But it's nice to write something positive. Let's call it an affirmation. An experiment in conscious hoping. And I'll just let this moment, this day, be a hopeful one and let that not be a dangerous thing.

Avoidance and Agitation

Restless. That's how I described my mood to my boyfriend last night. I'm making an effort to use less dramatic speech, or I might have chosen a different word. Like "standing on the precipice of a spiritual and emotional breakdown, the only thing keeping me from plunging headlong into total chaos being the single-minded pursuit of buttery carbs* and Netflix."

While peach scones and Game of Thrones are delicious distractions, they do nothing to address the growing feelings of restlessness and discontent that on good days give me headaches, and on bad days (staring at the final credits, the last crumbs) fill me with an uncanny combination of dread and panic.

I know I need to write more. Scratch that, I need to write, period. When I'm not expressing myself, I feel crazy, trapped inside my own head. Why avoid it, then? It's painful, like working out after a long winter of complete idleness.

This doesn't feel good, this incomplete blog post. But it's something on the page instead of on my chest. Maybe it will help alleviate this morning's headache, or maybe it will make the next post easier. The problem is n absence of passion, and perhaps I'll broach that topic later.

*I cannot recommend Bang Bang Pie's honey pie enough. And Julius Meinl has surprisingly good scones.

Anxiety Marathon! Co-Starring Depression! Is This a Race or a Movie? Let's Just Hope It Ends in Puppies

I'm competitive. A perfectionist, like my Dad. I once got tossed out of a basketball game for spiking the ball at the ref in fifth grade. Another time, a judge gave me a 4.7 at a gymnastics meet and I threw a fit so violent I had to be taken home, and my Mom had to pull over on the way to let me literally kick and scream myself into exhaustion. I've never dealt well with losing, and though I've learned to behave more maturely over the years, the emotional response to under-performing still has the potential to temporarily devastate me.

The thing about those tantrums is that I wasn't just mad that I lost, I felt ashamed of myself. In the moment, the feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness are so intense, I can't see beyond them. Even if I know, in the back of my mind, I'm being dramatic and childish and absolutely absurd, the power of the emotional experience overrides logic. I've learned that I just need to wait it out, and eventually the darkness wanes.

It's embarrassing, to be this kind of person. I would love to be eternally gracious, even-keel and brimming with positivity and perspective. (I'd also love to have a longer torso, thicker hair and a brain that works without chemical assistance, in case anyone with magical powers is reading this) But I'm not a chill lady, and I have to deal with the cards I've been dealt.

Sometimes it's easy to focus on the qualities for which I'm grateful, but honestly, that hasn't been easy lately. Because my brain does not function correctly on its own, and evidently it's not working that great with the current support system in place. So until I get that fixed - a frustrating and slow process - I'm going to be living in the shadows a bit.

Here's what that looks like, in terms of the past 24 hours:

I've been training diligently for 12 weeks to run a half marathon. Two weeks ago, I ran 12.75 miles by myself at the fastest pace I've ever maintained for more than 8 miles. I felt proud. Today, I ran/walked 13.1 and felt terrible, not only after the race, not only during the race, but for 18 hours leading up to the race. Because no matter how much I tell myself, "it's just another run, there's no pressure, just enjoy the day," my body refuses to cooperate.

At about 1:00pm yesterday, a visit to the dentist spiked my adrenaline and sparked an anxious episode that lasted six and a half hours. I used the resources available to me: I meditated, I did yoga, I listened to relaxing music and distracted myself with chores. And the anxiety just wouldn't quit. It's a physical experience as much as it is emotional, dilated eyes, shallow breaths, rapid heart rate, unconscious muscle tension and a nervous stomach. Nothing makes it go away until the event I'm anticipating is over. So I slept fitfully, and woke up to find the anxiety still there, like a kid on Christmas morning, impatient and eager and too excited to sleep.

Usually the nerves last about a mile, and then my body starts to loosen up and I feel normal again. But the numbness in my legs, the racing pulse I'm just barely containing via racing thoughts (I'm going to die. No, you're not. My heart will explode. It's just nerves, you'll be fine in a few minutes. I'M GOING TO DIE. etc.), they don't go away. This time they assault me for 8 miles, long after I've told my friend to go on ahead of me, and though I manage to keep a very decent pace for 10 miles, I'm out of my mind with panic and dread and there's not a moment of enjoyment in it. I made an agreement with myself, that I would make it to 10 and then call it a day. I powered through until the anxiety started to wane, and exhaustion and depression picked right up where panic left off, like a demonic relay team. I kept chanting to myself things about outrunning the devil, that if I just kept running long enough, the devils would fall behind me. I told myself, it doesn't matter how fast you go, just keep going and the devils won't last.

The devils must have trained harder than me, because they had stamina. They ran like ... well, like the devil, and the only thing that kept me moving was the knowledge that I had to get to the finish line somehow and the race route was the fastest way there. So I walked some, and my heart rate finally got back to normal. So I jogged some, and the devils told me I was pathetic, I'd never make it and even if I did I'd already embarrassed myself and why can't I be more like my friend, oh that's right because I'm worthless and fail at everything and everyone knows it. So I chant some more and walk and run and eventually cross the finish line, and there's a small window of time in which the relief is louder than the devils.

I feel something like calm until I'm back in the car on the way home, my friend and her boyfriend happily chatting in the backseat, my boyfriend at the wheel knowing I'm holding in a real doozy. We drop them off and I let it out, all the misery and exhaustion and humiliation and anger and sick-and-tiredness that follow any good prolonged anxiety attack. My boyfriend comforts me, rubbing my back and letting me cry until I'm ready to hear that he loves me, that he's proud of me, that I'm brave not because I can run 13 miles, but because not matter how awful it feels, I keep trying and showing up and doing my best.

And even though my best didn't mean a personal record, it got me to the finish line. So maybe the devils didn't win. Maybe we tied. And maybe that's a win for today.

But next time I think about signing up for a race, someone please remind me that I have now run three half marathons and not a single has made me feel good. Hand me a just-for-the-hell-of-it training calendar and tell me to go for a run without anyone watching, without clocks or bibs or pressure to do anything but work out my body and get some endorphins. And then, if you're up to it, maybe give me a puppy.

The Privilege Thing

"Lena Dunham talked about that in her book - " I said, during a recent conversation about with a coworker. Before I could continue, I noticed her flinch.

"Ugghh. I HATE Lena Dunham," said my coworker. My heart sank, and I coached myself to stay calm and try to learn more instead of crying. Then I casually asked her why.

She immediately listed a litany of complaints: she's pretentious, she's over-privileged, she grew up in Brooklyn, her parents were rich artists, and what could she know about the real world. It also annoyed her that Lena claimed to be the voice of her generation.*

I'd heard similar arguments from others. I had an evening with a friend ruined when she literally recoiled at the mention of Lena Dunham. When I asked why, she said something to the effect that the only reason Lena is successful is because her parents were wealthy artists.

Another of my closest friends is uncomfortable with Lena's propensity to be naked on screen, to discuss matters of sexuality frankly and to "over-share" in general. I can sympathize with this position more easily. Despite being an over-sharer myself (I once delivered a monologue about my history of eating disorders while stripping down to my ugliest underwear), I understand that most people aren't eager to be confronted by the less glamorous aspects of the human experience. Not that it's going to stop me from compulsively revealing the flaws that others try to hide.

Before these relatively recent conversations, I had been blissfully unaware of the Lena controversy. The intensity of my friends' reactions to her came as somewhat of a shock to me. I might have expected it from men, who have been hand-fed the illusion that women should only look and act in accordance to their world view. But I didn't expect my fellow (liberal, feminist, ambitious and intelligent) women to respond to Lena with the kind of vehement disgust that I typically reserve for pants, bigots and other forces of evil.

And because I'm ridiculously sensitive when it comes to my personal heroes, I haven't delved too deeply into the world of online opinion-sharing to learn more. I believe that she creates art that is important, brave, original, thought-provoking, emotionally challenging, empowering and sometimes just downright entertaining, and I don't need to convince you that I'm right about that. Her art makes me feel less crazy and less alone in my craziness, and that's really all that matters. She's a grown up with a ton of fans and friends, and she doesn't need me to defend her.

But it bothers me enough that I feel I have to write about it. Because it's not just that I consider Lena a hero. It's that people hate her for circumstances and personality traits that I also share.

If you know me at all or have read anything I've written, you know that self-revelation is like a religion to me. Ask me how I'm doing, and I'll tell you. Tell me how you're doing, and I'll tell you an embarrassing story about myself to make you feel more comfortable and safe. Invite me to perform in your variety show, and just make sure you tell me if the venue has a strict policy on wearing pants and cursing.

So I get the impulse to "transform the energy life throws at you into the folded bows of art," as Lena's father's admonished her. I don't mind the criticism that this tendency inspires nearly as much as the other argument against Lena. The privilege thing. The topic I avoid at all cost, because I don't want people to dismiss me or envy me or resent me. But I've been recently inspired to confront my privilege, so here we go.

I'm a white girl with wealthy parents. I grew up in an affluent suburb, sheltered from violence, excluded from racism, untouched by poverty or hunger. I always had food on my plate, clothes on my body and a roof over my head, but worst of all, I had parents that loved me and supported me and instilled morals and values in me. They also bought me a car when I was sixteen and paid for my college education and helped me buy my home.

If you're not hating me by now, probably you're at least resenting me. If you're not, you're a bigger person than I am. Because the resentment my privilege (and Lena's) provokes is the same kind of resentment I feel for people who had friends in high school, who genuinely enjoyed their college years, who have old friends they've known forever in lieu of a decade-long void in their social and psychological well-being. We think, "if only I'd had [insert advantage], things wouldn't be so hard for me." It's especially hard when we see someone with advantages we lacked succeeding in something we'd like to be doing.

I somehow doubt that Lena's parents, as fine artists, got her a show on HBO. It's easy to assume that wealth can afford you anything, because it does make life easier in a lot of ways. But it can't give you ambition or talent or a strong work ethic or a reprieve from incurable illnesses. It can't guarantee you a stable home life or meaningful relationships. I'm not saying it's hard to have money available to you. I'm just saying it doesn't make everything easy.

Lena had plenty of advantages, but I suspect that her greatest advantage had less to do with the financial status of her parents than with the emotional support they provided. Since I can't speculate about the nature of their relationship, I'll explain this in terms of my upbringing.

I had parents who taught me the difference between right and wrong. Money was never something my siblings and I felt entitled to. "Get a job" was one of my mom's favorite refrains. If we weren't on a team or in a club after school, we were expected to work (which is how I ended up at manning the register of a butcher shop for my first non-babysitting job).

We had dinner as a family pretty much every night, and I can't remember playing a basketball game or performing in a dance recital without my parents in the audience. When I got sidelined by depression at 15, my mom took me to doctors and made sure I got to school and took me to my dad's hockey games to get me out of the house. Eventually, they took me to treatment, too, and did everything in their power to keep me from destroying myself. I didn't make it easy. But they loved me at my sickest and supported me as I got well, and I never have to fear being abandoned because of them.

From what I've read and heard in interviews and podcasts, Lena had the same advantage. She also had something that is even more valuable to an aspiring artist: two living examples of people who made their living as artists. She had proof that it was possible to succeed in art and parents who nurtured and validated her creative ambitions. Maybe that's where her audacity comes from. Maybe that's what the haters resent. And I couldn't argue with that kind of anger. Everyone deserves to have parents who love, nurture and support them, and it's absolute bullshit that so many are deprived of that experience.

So if you're going to hate Lena Dunham, that's fine. I'm not writing to convince you that she's great.** But I would challenge you to re-examine your position. Dislike what she creates. Disagree with what she says. But work harder to have a more thoughtful answer to "why do you hate her?" than "her parents were rich." That's lazy, and you're better than that.

For my part, I'll work on forgiving you for having fond memories of high school.***

*Lena did not say that she is the voice of her generation. Her character said that. Her character says a lot of egotistical and self-involved things that reveal, through the power of hyperbole, the egotistical and self-involved thoughts anyone with ambition or human frailty sometimes harbors. It's uncomfortable to watch her and listen to her if you lack the ability to laugh and roll your eyes at yourself for having unflattering features. But if you watch and listen with a sense of humor and a willingness to endure discomfort for the sake of provoking thought, it's pretty interesting.

*Of course I really, really want you to love her. I'm trying to not care, but I can't help it. So maybe just keep your opinion to yourself, and I'll do the same, and we'll continue walking and talking about anything else until I calm down enough to remember that Lena is not your surrogate for everything I represent. And everything will be okay.

**You bastard.

On (everything but) feminism

That title alone will alienate a lot of readers. Fortunately for me, I don't have a lot of readers anyway. But the people-pleaser in me still worries about losing my audience. It's not just people pleasing (a trait the feminist in me is not proud to possess). It's also that I don't want to be like Michael Moore, preaching to the choir and alienating the very people whose opinions I'm hoping to change. I'm wary of self-righteousness in political discourse because there's nothing more off-putting, condescending or indicative of a closed mind. Progress necessitates open minds.

I'm trying to be more open-minded. I consider myself an open-minded person, just as I consider myself a feminist. But the more I read and learn about other people's perspectives, the more I question whether I truly make an effort to understand arguments I don't immediately agree with.

I'll admit to being a lazy thinker. In the age of information, it's easy to skim the surface of the issues. To my chagrin, I've discovered great difficulty in completing any article that isn't boiled down to a Buzzfeed list with snarky bullets and plenty of gifs. I've never enjoyed reading on a screen, and my predisposition to anxiety only makes matters worse.

My struggle to focus, to maintain a train of thought, is evident in this post itself. It's frustrating to meander when you're as high-strung as I am. This is no lazy river. I am no falling leaf. This, my mental process, requires the kind of persistent effort that herding cats requires. And it often feels as futile.

The other day, I walked past the room where my boyfriend was writing. He's been working on a novel for a few months now, with a dedication that both impresses me and fills me with envy. As I walked past, I noticed how calm his face looked, his brow unfurrowed and his lips in a slight upward curl, a hint of a smile. It was the face of someone who was enjoying the writing process.

The outrage that welled up inside me in response to his serenity surprised and shamed me. What kind of monster am I that my first reaction to my boyfriend's contentment is anger and jealousy? An angry, jealous monster, obviously. Or, if we want to be all enlightened and healthy about it, a person in the grip of anger and jealousy.

I can't remember the last time writing made me feel happy or peaceful or pleased or amused. I know I've felt those things. I've certainly been pleased with myself, mostly when I'm writing something comedic and frivolous. But the vast majority of my writing leaves me drained, dubious and, at best, relieved to have it finished. I approach the page like a poor swimmer approaches a stormy sea. Unwillingly and by necessity only. What is the danger in writing? Existing in my mind for any length of time. Confronting the self-doubt, the jealousy, the chaos and the judgment is an unpleasant task, to say the least.

It doesn't help that, after spending over an hour there, I find myself eight paragraphs in and nowhere near the topic I set out to tackle.

I meant to write about feminism. That will have to be for another post. I will publish this anyway, because it helps me feel like I accomplished something. I need to validate even my sloppiest attempts at creative self-expression, lest I give up trying.

An afterthought: I only got angry at my boyfriend because I want to be a good writer, a prolific writer, a confident writer. Because I fear that I will never be. And because his success, his discipline, his creative output reminded me of my insecurities as a writer. So I've got that to work on. Little monsters in a field of static.

Holiday cheer

It's difficult to title a blog that's as aimless as this one. I think I started with the idea that I would combine elements of comedy (cheer) with the more serious subject matters to which I am drawn (philosophy, though tbh nothing bores me more than philosophy, at least in the academic sense of the word). The result has been more of a verbal and emotional vomit, an expression of the inconsistency of my mind and mood. Sometimes ironic, silly, superficial and light-hearted, but more often earnest, angry, indignant, pleading and above all, inconsistent. I write when I need to bleed; when the guilt of not creating makes sitting still an impossibility. Perhaps this is why so much of my writing feels angry.

It's the day after Thanksgiving, a decidedly gray Black Friday. It's dreary outside, wet and cold and bleak. I woke with an entire day stretched out before me, which sounds like the beginning of an exciting adventure, if my life were a children's story. But since my life is not a children's story, it was just the beginning of a long battle between opposing impulses. My body wants to sleep, but my mind reels with noise that is more sensing than articulating. A sense of dread that is linked to the things I ought to be doing today (writing for work, writing for art, cleaning the oven, working out, organizing the stack of papers in my office). An impulse towards mutiny against the inherent lack of fun there is in behaving an adult. An awareness of social commitments and an instinctive formulation of excuses that will allow me to avoid wearing pants, leaving the house and interacting with some fun and interesting people. A physical discomfort that I can now, upon reflection, identify as the unconscious muffling of the urge to eat myself into oblivion.

Being a sober person, free from drugs and alcohol, is in many ways easier than being a recovering anxious-depressive-bulimic. Not that any of it's easy, especially during this festive time of year, but if I had to rank my destructive tendencies in terms of how difficult they are to resist, I'd say drugs are the easiest, followed by alcohol, followed by bulimia.

Here's a thing you should know about bulimia, because as soon as I say the word, I cringe knowing you are probably stereotyping me as the privileged white girl who is obsessed with being skinny. And while that's not altogether false, it's hardly a holistic description of who I am. Binging on food is just a way of reaching oblivion. It's a drug, in other words. And to someone who suffers from anxiety, or at least to me, oblivion is an ideal state of mind. One which I never reach unless I am sleeping. The trouble with being abstinent from all mind and mood altering drugs is that there is no reprieve from my mind or mood. And my mind, which dictates my moods, often tortures me.

Drugs would take considerable effort (for an introvert) to obtain. Alcohol less so, but that drug still easier to avoid than food. And I can avoid food more easily than I can avoid anxiety and depression. But that's a different animal. You'd think by now I'd have learned that I can't avoid these things, be them impulses, obsessions, desires, cravings or tendencies. But somewhere behind the noise of my mind there exists a belief that not only can I control my urges to behave badly, but that I have to. When the truth is, I can't and don't. I can only account for my actions, and that erroneous belief reveals another belief: that I am incapable of resisting urges.

Understanding that doesn't make it easier. I dated a guy who loved the cliche, "knowledge is power" and used it to justify his obsession with diet fads and nutrition advice. But he was overweight. None of that so-called knowledge empowered him to stop overeating. In Nichiren Buddhism, there is a saying that a sword is useless in the hand of a coward. What I need is not a better understanding of why I'm so stressed out and irritable when I have a day off and all should be well, but the courage to act in a way that will relieve that stress.

So let's call this entry a courageous thrust of the sword. Mostly ineffectual, sure, but a valiant attempt. And I do feel a bit better. Happy holidays!