Escaping the Sea of Tears (and Other Lessons in Making Stuff)

This morning is the kind I would bottle if I could. Before Sunrise playing softly in the background, a grocery delivery on its way, a stick of chamomile incense making my office space smell amazing. I’m in that gentle in-between state where the world hasn’t yet demanded anything of me. 

And I’ve been thinking about part of last night’s conversation with Seth, the kind that runs past dinner and into the hours after the sun goes down. The air cooling around us and filling with drizzle as we sit at our little bistro table, comparing notes on the internet, creativity, and why we’re still here doing this whole “posting things online” dance after all these years.

The short version?

We’re obviously both still doing it, but it’s different now. Very different.

Back in My LiveJournal Days...

When Seth and I first met (over 20 years ago now) we were both living in the wild frontier days of LiveJournal. Back then, blogging didn't have much to do with clout or follower counts yet. You posted because you wanted to make a connection with other people. You wrote something heartfelt, and maybe a stranger in another time zone commented back with something equally heartfelt. 

You built friendships on words alone.

Fast forward to now, and it’s like everyone’s been replaced by a marketing department in human form. So many people seem to be here purely to acquire – followers, customers, attention, anything that can be converted into currency. 

I actually can't believe I know other writers, bloggers, and creators who are “successful” in the modern sense, but have also openly (shamelessly!) admitted they don’t actually enjoy writing. That blows my mind every time. Imagine hating something as magical as personal writing from the heart can be, but still doing it daily because the machine demands it.

I already had a job I hated when I first got online and started writing. The last thing I needed was another one.

Turning Weird Feelings Into Sacred Text

So, I've found myself thinking more about different kinds of stories and all the things they can mean. And not just the wholly fictional ones we invent out of thin air when we feel like being creative, but also the semi-mythologized stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. 

Lately, I've been experimenting here and there as far as what that might mean for me, and that's been an interesting process, to say the least.

Because something very interesting happens when you stop seeing your life as a mundane to-do list you sleepwalk through from day to day and start treating it like a myth instead. You learn to view it as something more – an ongoing narrative, complete with motifs, archetypes, symbols, and a central character (you).

Why Mythologize Your Life?

If you're anything like me, you probably got used to being told to “be realistic” a very long time ago – to “face facts” and “just tell it like it is.” But if life's taught me anything, it's that “realistic” doesn’t always mean “honest.” 

Sometimes, naked facts miss the point entirely. They leave out the emotion, the context, the inner terrain of what you were feeling in the middle of it all, which can be the most important part of certain narratives.

Self-mythologizing gives you a way to tell the truth from a different angle, through symbols. Instead of saying, “I had a hard childhood,” you can say, “I was raised behind glass walls in a kingdom ruled by forgetfulness.” Instead of “I was lost in my twenties,” you might say, “That was the wandering era, when I left the village and walked into the woods with only a lantern and a name I wasn’t sure belonged to me.”

And suddenly… you’re not just surviving certain stories anymore. You’re inhabiting them instead.

What It Can Look Like in Practice

For me, this process has recently materialized into ideas like The Hollow Gospels and The Codex Reversum. They are creative projects that, on the surface, might look like scripture-style writing or dark esoteric worldbuilding. But underneath? They’re ways of encoding personal truths I don’t always want (or need) to share literally.

As I've mentioned in passing, I've been in therapy lately. I've also been exploring more on a spiritual level. Those processes have left me asking a lot of questions about who I am, as well as why I am the way that I am. Mythologizing gives me a way to honor complicated thoughts and feelings without wallowing in them. It helps me shape invisible shifts I'm still figuring out. It's allowed me to extract meaning from memories, fears, and suspicions about the world around me that might otherwise feel intimidating or painful.

David Bowie did something similar with Ziggy Stardust. Leonard Cohen did it with biblical and mystical imagery in his songwriting. Artists, writers, and spiritual seekers of all stripes have done it for centuries. And they weren’t lying about who they were in doing this. They were simply telling the truth mythically.

Normal Is a Lie: Choose Yourself Instead

Life's taught me a lot of hard lessons over the years, but in my case, one of the most important ones was also one of the hardest to learn. It's that people are allowed to be disabled and to have limits. And they shouldn't feel the need to put themselves in the hospital trying to prove otherwise.

I spent an embarrassingly large chunk of my life gaslighting myself –– about my autism, my anxiety, my agoraphobia, my occasional run-ins with depression –– because that’s what I was taught to do growing up. My parents didn't "believe" in disability, especially anything mental. They thought the only thing worse than struggling with your internal wiring, brain chemistry, or mental health was admitting that you were. 

And the absolute queen mother of all cardinal sins? Expecting others to help you or otherwise reasonably accommodate you because of a disability, documented or otherwise. 

So, when I’d reach a breaking point — mentally, physically, emotionally — I didn’t rest. I didn’t ask for help. Instead, I doubled down and smiled harder. I forced myself to push through, assuring myself that everyone goes through this. Then I'd fall into a depression (sometimes complete with suicidal ideation) when I couldn’t “just get over it” or magically keep up with everyone else.

But the system applauded. Friends nodded approvingly, telling me I was “so strong” and so “inspiring.” And as long as none of the cracks were showing on the surface, making them look bad, my family approved, as well. Meanwhile, I was falling apart. Quietly, invisibly, and possibly even permanently.

And the worst part of it all was that I thought I was doing something noble –– the "right" thing. I thought keeping myself in a perpetual state of self-destruction was proof that I was tough and capable. That I had value. It took me way too long to understand what was truly happening to me underneath, and I don’t want that for you.

So let’s unpack a few things.

1. Disability isn't a character flaw

Disability — whether it’s physical, mental, neurological, or a complex cocktail of all three — isn’t a personality defect. It’s not a failure of willpower, a failure to try harder, or a sign you’re “less than.” It’s a condition, it's real, and it definitely shapes how you move through the world (sometimes drastically). Trying to pretend it doesn’t exist won’t make it disappear. If anything, it makes it worse, especially over time.

This world is built strictly for people who fit into a very specific box when it comes to functionality. If you don't fit comfortably inside that box, and you won't, the system doesn't adjust to make room for you. It tells you to contort yourself and force yourself to fit instead. It will demand that you hustle harder, be more positive, and “not let it hold you back.” 

It's up to you to advocate for and accommodate yourself however you can.

And accommodating yourself is not the same thing as giving up. It’s how you survive and stay upright while living within a system that was never designed with you in mind. And, in many cases, it’s the only way you’ll have enough energy left to actually live, instead of just perform.

The Things I Believed Because Somebody Told Me To (and How I'm Unlearning Them on Purpose)

"You're lazy." "You're difficult." "You're just trying to cause trouble." 

If I had a nickel for every time some adult told me any of the above (or similar) when I was growing up, I could buy the fancy espresso maker of my dreams and still have enough left over for a year’s supply of beans. 

I heard it at ten when I preferred to stay inside reading or drawing instead of running around shrieking on the playground with other kids. I'd hear it again in my teens when I didn't want to spend my summers taking more classes instead of actually enjoying my vacation. 

And yes, I'd hear it some more (loudly) in my 20s and early 30s when I preferred freelancing or working on commission to the same shitty 9-to-5 hamster wheel everyone else seemed so excited about. 

Eventually, I stopped questioning the verdict. “Lazy” and "troublemaker" were simply stamped on my mental passport in permanent ink, and I carried those labels everywhere I went. For years... decades, in some cases. Then one day, I realized maybe it's not quite as simple as people want to make it. 

No, I'm not willing or able to pull double shifts at some thankless job I never wanted in the first place. But I can write like my life depends on it for 14 hours straight if I'm excited about a project I'm working on for a client or for myself. I finally got that maybe it was simply easier for other people to call me lazy than it was to understand that my motivation system runs on a different type of fuel.

That light-bulb moment sent me down a very worthwhile rabbit hole. And it made me wonder, what else do I still believe simply because someone, somewhere, told me to believe it? Spoiler: a lot. Chances are you're in a similar boat. See if any of the following sounds familiar.

Beliefs About Yourself

Growing up, I was consistently upset by things that didn't seem to bother other kids at all. Like, when characters were awful to each other in movies (or even cartoons), I couldn't handle it. If I found out someone I cared about said something bad about me behind my back, I couldn't handle that either, nor could I simply accept that they "didn't really mean it." (I mean pretty much everything I say about other people, behind their backs or otherwise.)

What Happens When You Outgrow Your Own Mythology

There’s a strange kind of grief that arrives when the story you once told about yourself — your guiding myth — no longer fits. Especially when it wasn’t just any story, but the story. The one you poured into poems or blogs or old journal entries by the bucketful. The one that helped you survive, make sense of the chaos, and eventually form a self that felt real.

It starts the day you finally go back and revisit it, usually through old personal writing or artwork. You re-read the essay, re-open the journal, pull up the old blog post. And it hits you. You don’t live there anymore.

The Myths We Write Ourselves Into

Whether we think we do or not, we all have personal myths. They're the stories we cobble together to explain to others (and sometimes ourselves) who we are, why we are, and what we think we’re made of. And they can be based on memories, emotions, trauma, and whatever scraps of meaning we can find to sew the whole mess together. 

Although your mileage may vary, my personal myths always sounded a lot like:

• "I'm the forthright, loyal person who always puts others first."
• "I'm the survivor who's been through a lot and stubbornly survived."
• "I am the misunderstood artist no one ever truly sees."

Those myths can be empowering or limiting. Often, they’re both. Even painful myths can be strangely comforting when they give us structure, identity, or purpose in a world that so often leaves us feeling like we have none. They help us navigate the world. They help us feel known, at least to ourselves.

But what I didn't realize way back when I wrote my personal mythology in the first place is that myths are meant to evolve. And when they don’t, they start to limit us instead of holding us. 

When the Old Archetypes Stop Fitting

I recently re-read something I wrote about four years ago or so –– a Medium essay called All the Dead Darlings I Used to Be. I wrote it for a contest going on at the time, and although it never picked up traction (and certainly didn't win the contest), it remains one of my favorite pieces of writing I've ever shared online.

It was raw and emotional and beautifully true at the time. A kind of tribute to some of the past selves I’d shed over the years –– the Dead Darlings, as I called them. Each one named (after their ages at the time) and carefully laid to rest. Each one a little story I’d carried with me over the years, each one a chapter in the big, moth-eaten bible of me.

7 Things I've Promised Myself (and Sometimes Forget)

I'm realizing that I’ve made a lot of silent promises to myself over the years. Some were whispered in moments of grief, others after quiet triumphs I didn’t care to tell anyone about at the time. They weren't anything serious or formal, but they still mattered. 

They were the small, private agreements I made with myself to survive, stay true to what I believe in, and to become someone I can be proud to be in the future. Some of these I kept without even realizing it. Others I forgot completely until life reminded me, sometimes with a little more force than I'd have liked. 

But lately I’ve been feeling the pull to remember these promises. To sit with them, to look at the shape of the life they’ve helped to build over the years, and maybe recommit to a few that have fallen by the wayside.

1. I promised myself I'd always write, even if no one was reading

Over the years, writing has been so much more than just a hobby or even a profession to me. It's also how I survive, process things, and connect with parts of myself that don’t respond the same way to anything else. 

That's what writing was about for me when I was still just a kid. And although it's not always easy to balance that with client deadlines, it's important to me to stay in touch with why I originally wanted to be a writer in the first place.

2. I promised I wouldn't shrink to make other people more comfortable

Because I’ve done it before. We all have. And it never leads anywhere good. I don't owe other people anything, certainly not the exact type of relationship they'd like to have with me. But I owe myself a few things, especially wholeness. That means making space for the less palatable parts of myself, along with everything else.

What I Share, What I Don't, and Why

Today is one of those days I'm getting to my daily reflection later rather than sooner, but that's OK. Dinner’s done. The last of the light faded away behind the trees for the night some time ago. 

I’m back indoors after a hot mushroom coffee, thinking about what a challenge it can be to balance being open, real, and whole, while also remaining a deeply private person. As always, I'm two different things at once.

The Pressure to Be Transparent

As a writer, especially one who fell in love with words through diary-keeping as a kid, I’m used to using my life as raw material for the things I create. If something hits me hard, I'll probably look for a way to write about it. If I notice a pattern, I use writing to break it down and see what else I can turn it into. 

I write to figure things out and find meaning in things that otherwise wouldn’t make much sense. But there’s a difference between writing from life, because that's what works for me, and handing something vital over on a silver platter for public consumption.

I'm not about completely spilling my guts, but I care about being authentic and helping others around me become more comfortable with their own authenticity. And the older I get, the more I realize it really doesn't have to be one or the other –– either holding it all in or way oversharing. There's definitely a middle ground there, and I'm getting better at staying there.

Not Everything Needs to Be Shared

Since starting my Substack newsletter, The Writer in the Wild, I’ve been thinking more about what it means to write publicly with intention. Especially as I try to shape that new space into something useful, something that helps people reconnect with their creativity and feel at home in their own writing lives.

That being the case, I'm grappling with the usual questions. How personal is too personal? How much do people even want to know about my non-writing life, and how much do I want to tell them in the first place? I know I'll eventually strike a solid balance, because I always do, but there's always a lot of back and forth I go through before I get there.

Writing from the Inside Out

All things considered, being honest doesn't necessarily mean putting every detail of what you want to talk about down on the page. You just have to tell the truth about what you do put there. That’s something I've been working hard at lately — not just as a writer, but as someone trying to show up in public spaces more authentically and intentionally. 

One of the ways I check in with myself is to ask, "Am I sharing this to be understood? Or am I sharing because I want to feel edgy, daring, or just plain validated?" 

I don’t want to use writing as a mirror, or at least not anymore. I'd much rather use it as a window — something I can look through and through which others can look back without losing their own reflection in the process. The work already knows what to say. I just have to trust it.

So, if you’re in the process of writing your own truth — whether it’s on a blog, in a notebook, or maybe even just in your imagination while doing the dishes after dinner — I hope you know you don’t owe anyone the whole story. Just focus on the part that feels ready and wants to be known. And if all you write today is one honest sentence to yourself, that’s more than enough.

* Another brick in the wall for the Feast of the Wandering Pen, a movable celebration all about showing up no matter what.

A Soft Thing Worth Protecting: Reflections on the Value of Empathy

As a relatively private person, there's a lot of myself I don't openly share. Not because those parts are shameful or broken, but because they’re delicate and too often misunderstood.

One of those parts has always been my sense of empathy. That's the part of me that has always listened too closely, noticed too much, and felt absolutely everything all the way down to the bone. It’s also the part I’ve learned to hide, shield, and sometimes even deny to survive in a world that increasingly treats gentleness as a liability.

But here’s what no one tells you. Kindness and justice aren’t actually opposites. Neither are softness and strength. 

The Myth of "Too Sensitive"

From an early age, I've been the kind of person who cries over movies and senses shifts in people’s moods long before they actually open their mouths and speak. Sometimes I deeply felt guilt or grief that weren't even my own, but I was also astute enough to realize that other people didn't have these intense reactions to things. 

For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me. I believed people when they told me I was “too sensitive" and took things “too personally.” I didn't yet understand that what they were really saying was, "Your softness makes me uncomfortable, and your empathy holds up a mirror I’m not ready to look into." 

And sometimes what they meant was closer to, "Your brand of softness makes it harder for me to control you, and I don't like that." Narcissists and opportunists have always been drawn to my openness and kindness. But when they tried to take advantage of me, I saw through it. If they hurt me, there were consequences instead of a truly clean slate, especially as I got older and more self-aware. 

Narcissists, abusers, and opportunists make life hard, so I eventually did what so many empathetic people do. I buried my empathy and built walls around my kindness. I learned to present something sharper, more prickly, and harder to reach — a version of me people were less likely to exploit, manipulate, or test.

But I never truly lost my softness. I just hid it behind the door until I figured out what to do with it. And I eventually came to understand that it was never the problem or even a shortcoming. It was actually the part of me most worth protecting all along.

When Time Stops Pretending It Was Gentle

The funny thing about aging is that you never actually feel time pass. You feel the things that occupy your consciousness for the most part, instead –– love, frustration, desire, and fatigue. You feel small but important details, like your favorite meals, the way your hair still won't behave in the humidity, and the weight of your favorite jacket on your shoulders. 

Then one day, you open a photo album or an old digital folder. You're instantly given pause. If you were a character in a movie, this is totally the moment where you'd hear that record scratch noise. 

Because a photo does a lot more than just show you what you looked like at a particular point in time. It shows you what you used to be... and it shows you what you no longer are, as well. You may see shades of who you’ve grown into and what you’ve had to let go of to get where you are. You remember the hopes you had in that moment that didn’t quite play out. The joy you didn’t realize you radiated. The pain you masked with a smile you now recognize as a little too careful.

That’s the strange power of still images in action. In a way, they actually collapse time. You go from experiencing subtle, unnoticeable change on a day-to-day basis to staring straight into the unfiltered truth of who you once were. And suddenly, all that change feels immediate. It's sharp, and sometimes even a little cruel.

My mother reminded me of an old photo from my 20s a while ago

It was from when I first got together with my partner 20 years ago, and just the experience of looking at it felt weird. It made me realize that while I reflect on my 20s a lot, I rarely actually see them with total clarity.

But there she was in the picture –– a completely different version of me, even though I would have told you five minutes before that moment that I hadn't changed that much. 

The hair I've always dyed red was five shades darker, because the hair underneath hadn't gone white yet. I hadn't truly noticed it getting lighter over the years because of the dye, but it really had. My skin was smoother, and my eyes were brighter. I definitely wished I were still as "fat" now as I know I thought I was back then. 

But what struck me most wasn’t what was different physically. It was more the emotional differences I knew were there by looking at things like my posture and my facial expression.

There was a kind of unearned certainty in Other Shannon's face. An undamaged expectation that life would be fair, and decent, and good from then on, because that's what the movies tell you is supposed to happen when you're young, smart, and pretty. She was totally confident that some big, beautiful future was not only possible, but inevitable. 

Notes from the Wolf: A Survivor's Guide to Manipulators

They say a wolf in sheep’s clothing is someone dangerous pretending to be harmless. But here’s the truth you won’t hear in Sunday school or in any of the pop culture clichés littering the digital landscape these days. 

Some wolves wear sheep suits not to deceive, but to survive.

I’ve done it. (Maybe you have, too.) Not because I was a predator who was hiding bad intentions, but because I was surrounded by people who only tolerated softness, compliance, and silence. 

These were people who recoiled from the sharp glint of instinct. Those people didn’t want to love me as they should have. They wanted to train me, so maybe I'd be useful to them later.

So I learned to blend in, because that's what you do when you're still just a kid who's still wholly reliant on others for literally everything. But blending in never made me forget who I was. Here are a few things I learned during my anxiety-ridden formative years zipped inside the fleece.

1. Decent people don't associate healthy boundaries with cruelty

If you know someone who does this, you're likely already nodding along. They're the type who respond to even the most polite “no” like you just ran over their grandmother without even stopping to apologize. Then they cry, sulk, lash out, guilt-trip. That's emotional manipulation at its finest, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. 

People who pull this hot nonsense aren't doing it because they're truly hurt or confused. They’re carefully testing the waters to see just how much guilt it will take to get you to give them their way.

2. No amount of softness will change a narcissist

Narcissists respond to empathy the way sharks respond to blood in the water. They don't smell your kindness and see someone worth loving, admiring, or appreciating. They see a potential energy cache to be taken advantage of at will.

So they play the victim and plead for grace. Then they bite the very hand that offered it the second they think they can get away with it. I used to think I could "nice" my way to a better relationship with people like these and maybe teach them a better way to be.

Spoiler alert. They're simply not capable of it, but they'll happily take as much "nice" as you're willing to dish out before you finally see the light.

She Sees Everything: A Reflection Inspired by Beau Is Afraid

Some horror –– if that is indeed the right word –– doesn’t explode through your front door with knives, blood, or jump scares. It lives in the invisible corners of a person’s living, breathing life. It is the horror that comes along with being watched, judged, and found lacking by someone who was supposed to love you completely and unconditionally. 

Beau Is Afraid, Ari Aster’s epic absurdist plunge into one man’s terrified psyche, doesn’t just address that horror. It dissects it.

What strikes me the most when I watch Beau Is Afraid is not the feverish chaos of Beau's world. It is the ominous presence of Mona, his mother. Mona is a woman whose love is weaponized, whose legacy is surveillance, and whose gaze never rests or shifts away from Beau. This remains the case even after her alleged death.

If you yourself have ever lived under the shadow of maternal control, then you know what it's like. Even when mother isn't in the room, she's present in uncomfortable and invasive ways. 

Beau Is Afraid doesn’t flinch from showing how love can become a trap –– how being raised to please someone else can result in a kind of emotional paralysis. And it absolutely nails how surveillance, even subtle, turns us into reluctant performers who are forever trying to get it "right."

The Devouring Mother

If you've read much mythology, then the devouring mother is a familiar figure. She appears to offer everything, but she also demands everything in return. Her love consumes. She defines herself by her children, defining them in the process, as well. When they inevitably try to leave or become people of their own, she takes it as the most profound betrayal.

Mona Wasserman is a modern version of this archetype turned all the way up to 150 percent. She is not merely overbearing. She is omnipotent. Godlike, even. A business empire bears her name. Her portrait looms, sucking the air out of the room. Her voice follows Beau through every nuanced layer of his myth-like journey. Even when he tries to escape, she is there, or maybe especially then.

What I Found at the Edge of the Map

One of the biggest myths we're sold when we're all still young and stupid is that life is a straight-shot journey from Point A to Point B. All you have to do is follow the totally real life map we're presented with, and everything will turn out just peachy.

Do this, then that. Be this, then become that. Follow the signs. Never stray. And if you do everything exactly right, you’ll reach your destination right on time. Oh, and there will be a trophy and a pizza party waiting for you when you arrive, of course.

But what no one tells you is this. The destination point keeps moving, which hardly matters, because no one ever clarifies where you're supposed to be going in the first place. The map spontaneously redraws itself the moment you think you understand it. 

And the edges? You eventually find out that they don’t mark the end of anything. They mark another big, fat, blank beginning you didn’t know to expect, and it's even more ambiguous and vague than the last.

I spent an embarrassingly large chunk of my one life chasing the idea of “arriving.” At what, I don't exactly know, although I assume it had something to do with success, love, healing, wholeness –– the four horsemen of the well-adjusted. I thought that if I just kept going, I’d eventually reach a place where things made sense. But that never happened. 

What did happen were curveballs. Detours. Periods of standing still so long that I forgot I was even on a journey in the first place. Eventually, I thought I'd reached the end of the map. But it didn't look or feel anything like fulfillment, and there sure as shit wasn't a pizza party waiting for me. It looked like a blank, white page with nothing else on it. 

I sat with that blankness for a very long time, because I didn't know what else to do. And I think that's when I realized the map wasn't ever meant to be the whole plan. It was a set of training wheels made of inherited ideas, social constructs that really never fit me, and a hefty pinch of generational trauma thrown in for good measure. If you're dealing with something similar right now, this is what I want you to know.

1. The end is rarely the literal end

Certain life events –– divorces, job losses, etc. –– can feel like the end of the world, because they're just that devastating. But they're also the endings of chapters in your life story, not the whole damn book, regardless of how they may feel at the time. In some cases, they might also mark the end of how you pictured your life playing out. 

Realizing that absolutely sucks, so it's understandable if you need to mourn for a while. Let yourself be angry or sad. But know that life also has a way of sneaking in new possibilities when we’re not looking. Releasing the idea of what should have happened (but couldn't for whatever reason) makes space for what can happen now.

On Happiness, Sour Grapes, and Other Discoveries

Flowers of Happiness - Eric Bruni

I've been noticing an interesting trend among some of my readers lately. More than a couple of them have read my things and commented on the fact that I sound happy or that I seem like a happy, centered person, in general. At first, I thought, "No, if you knew me, you'd know that's not true." But then I actually thought about it for a second and considered the possibility that they might be right. 

I'm definitely still capable of getting white-knuckle-level angry about things -- like all the stupidity going on out there in the world. For instance, I'm inwardly livid at all of these people who refuse to go get a COVID vaccine or take even the tiniest steps to take better care of the environment and make this shithole of a world a better place to be. 

And I actually feel comfortable using the word "furious" to describe how I feel about certain aspects of my personal life that truly aren't fair. I'm 45 years old and am, in many ways, still waiting to see what feels like a reasonable return on all the labor I put into my work and many of my personal relationships. I also fully get that I'm probably fighting a losing battle in at least a few of those cases. But those are situations (and in some cases people) that make me feel momentarily angry.

I realize I don't feel angry the rest of the time, so it's definitely not my default state anymore (if it ever was). I sometimes wonder how much of my tendency to self-identify as an angry, bitchy person over the years has indeed come from me at all. That's something I've usually been told by others, usually after I've just finished setting or reinforcing a boundary that should have been there all along. 

But yeah, maybe I am happy. I see too much beauty in the world around me these days not to be. This is especially the case since I've stopped drinking. I feel like my mind's reached this whole other level of clarity and sharpness that I've really been liking, especially when it comes to all my creative pursuits. 

On How Holidays Evolve Over the Years

Declaration of Independence (1818) - John Trumbull

I think I've realized a little something about Independence Day over the past week or so, planning for it and all. It's just not the same holiday to me that it used to be when I was a little girl. The majority of the reasons why are a mixture of personal and general. The rest may just be about having grown up a little bit over the years. It doesn't seem like anything much is exactly the same to me at 45 as it was when I was little or even just still young. 

To begin with, a lot of what made the 4th special is just plain off the table for us at this point for reasons beyond our control. With the way climate change has made wildfires such a massive issue in the summers here, the city doesn't do fireworks displays anymore. It's been decades since I actually went anywhere specifically to watch the fireworks, but sometimes I could still see them in the sky over the back fence. I didn't mind sitting outside with Seth a while when I was in the mood, trying to catch a glimpse of the pretty colors, smelling the cordite, and reminiscing about how magical the 4th of July seemed when I was a kid.

We almost always used to grill, but we don't even do that anymore -- also because of the fires. I used to love the smell of a barbecue grill, a wood-burning fireplace, or things burning in general. Now when I smell something -- anything -- burning, it no longer signals thoughts of coziness, fun, safety, and good times. It means danger. It makes me scared I'm going to have to spend the next week or two checking for evacuation alerts every two seconds and barely being able to see without the lights on because the sky is weird and orange in the middle of the day.

Meditations on Family and Other Conundra

Loss of Identity - Daniella Krtsch

A little while back, someone contacted me through 23andMe's relatives' network wanting to connect. According to the site's records, we are second cousins, which I've since learned means you have a set of great-grandparents in common. He really wanted to figure out how we might share such a close relationship and was hoping I could shed some light on the situation. At first, I wasn't sure I could help him, as I know so very little about my own family. But after wracking my brain a little, I realized that I probably did have a few useful tidbits to share, so I did that. 

To make a long story short, each of us had a biological grandfather whom we never knew, and we eventually figured out that they would have been brothers. My "new" cousin had really been wanting to learn more about the portion of his family he'd never met or gotten to know, and I feel good about having been able to help. Thinking about the concept of family is always a bizarre, somewhat uncomfortable activity for me, though, and I've been doing more of that than usual these past few days. My brain feels weird as a result.

At this point, I'm just used to answering casual questions people ask me about my origins by mentioning all the estrangement and leaving it at that. "No, I'm not that close with my parents." "No, I don't see my siblings. We're estranged." "No, I don't visit extended family for the holidays. I didn't grow up in a close-knit environment and don't know most of my relatives." And so forth. I don't worry as much about how that reflects on me as I used to when I was younger, but it still feels strange to get to know a new person and have to repeat that stuff all over again. 

Most of my family members seem disturbingly normal -- or at least they do on the outside. They look normal, they have normal jobs, and they seem like well-adjusted citizens for the most part. And then there is me -- Miss Eccentric Recluse Writer 2021. Compared to the rest of my family, I look and seem like the kind of person who was probably left on someone's doorstep in a basket by aliens who were just passing through. I'm also the relative on the outskirts who doesn't really vibe with everyone else, making it seem like my oddness must be the reason. But really, I'm just more comfortable with my eccentricity and wear it right out there on my sleeve.

I've Realized I'm a Happy Person at Heart

That's not something I would have been able to say about myself for most of my life. I spent years of my life thinking about what was wrong with the world, judging people who didn't live the way I thought they should and obsessing over the ways I didn't think my own life measured up to the status quo. But I've noticed things have been different for me lately.

It's not that my life changed. I still have the vast majority of the problems I had before and could well be stuck with some of them for the foreseeable future. I just have a better attitude than I used to. Some of that seemed to come with age, but the rest really was about a simple perspective change. It's a change I'm grateful for, as life is just better this way. After all, I only get one of those... a life. I don't really want to waste mine griping, complaining, and judging. 

Life's never going to be fucking perfect.

I used to think that I couldn't be happy until I got specific details of my life in line. When I was an awkward teenager, I thought being prettier would do it. Later on, I thought meeting someone would be the answer. Or finding a way to run a business out of my home so I wouldn't have to spend so much of my time at an office or behind a cash register somewhere. Then I met someone, got married, and still wasn't happy with my love life, so I got a divorce and started daydreaming about the day I'd meet someone better. Once I had a business, I wanted a better one doing more exciting work. 

There's always going to be something else -- some other part of your life that downright sucks or something monumental you finally achieve only to realize your life still isn't the way you want it. And the vast majority of those solutions you thought were going to solve all your problems come with brand new issues of their own. If you wait to allow yourself any measure of happiness or contentment until everything's perfect, you're going to be waiting until you drop dead.

On Writing About the Tough Stuff

I seem to have reached a turning point with some of my writing lately that I thought was still a few years down the line -- the point where I'm no longer just thinking about telling my more challenging stories, but actually sitting down and writing them. And then I've been going and posting them in front of actual people instead of just pouring my soul out into my journal and calling it a day. The topics are all over the place, but they include things to do with my upbringing, my complicated relationships with my parents, some of the abuse I experienced while married to my ex, and so forth. 

I've been at it here and there for a few months now, and it's been a strange experience, especially when it comes to things I'm talking about for the first time. I often wind up feeling like I picked at a freshly-formed scab or lanced an infected boil -- sort of gross at first, with a lingering feeling of just having done something I shouldn't have, but then much better afterward when the pain is gone. I think doing this has made some of these things easier to bear and continue healing from.

I feel like I need to cheer up a little bit soon, though. I don't want to develop a reputation for being someone who complains all the time and never seems to have anything positive to say. I'm a much more joyful, grateful person than I let on a lot of the time -- even on days when I'm not feeling my emotional best. But sometimes, I find it valuable and worthwhile to look at some of the more challenging aspects of my existence through my writing. Here are a few insights for those of you who may be trying to do something similar.

Start by journaling in private first.

I'm not sure exactly what I expected when I started keeping a private journal again a little over a year ago. I thought it would be fun -- a throwback to my younger years when I journaled ferociously, and I knew it would be helpful in working through things without having to bother other people for a shoulder all the time. I didn't really expect it to change much about the rest of my writing, but that's exactly what wound up happening. 

On Fiction Writing and Beauty in Middle Age

I can't believe I'm once again over here staring at the tail end of another month. I genuinely don't understand where the time goes or why it goes so quickly. Maybe it really is just something that comes along with being older. This hasn't been my most productive month for various reasons, but I'm hanging in there regardless. 

Luckily, I haven't wholly spaced Camp NaNoWriMo after deciding on a whim to give it a try at the end of last month. I really enjoyed my little journey back into the wide, wonderful world of creative writing back in November. Still, I'd been feeling pretty guilty about not having gotten around to editing any of my work yet. Camp NaNo's been great for that, though, so I'm super glad I went ahead and participated. 

Say what you will about any of the NaNo events, but I've learned not to knock them at this point in my growth as a writer. Not only are they fun and challenging, but they help you cut right through your usual collection of excuses as to why you're not making time for writing projects you say you want to complete. They've shown me what's possible when I put my mind to making it happen, even if I'm genuinely busy.

On that note, I can't seem to stop thinking of even more ideas for wonderful stories I'm sure would be a blast to write. Like NaNo, I thought creative writing was something I'd outgrown over the years and no longer truly enjoyed. This is quite simply not true, and I can tell I'm going to want to start doing it more regularly. I just wish I had somewhere to publish some of these where I could be sure they'd be read and enjoyed. 

At present, I'm playing with the idea of floating a couple out there on Medium here and there just to see how they do. I know P.S. I Love You has a Fiction Friday thing they do, so there must be someone over there who enjoys reading the occasional story along with their daily dose of self-help articles and personal essays. I'm just very excited about rediscovering this side of myself as a writer, and I'm dying to share it with the tiny handful of people who like my things. I suppose it can't hurt. You never know when something will unexpectedly find a larger audience.

On Lana Del Rey and the Beauty of Melancholy

So, Lana Del Rey dropped a new album a few days ago -- Chemtrails Over the Country Club. I've been listening to it quite a lot since, as well as revisiting some of Lana's other music. I've also been having some interesting thoughts about music in general, the role it's played throughout my life, and the effects it has on me still. 

Lana Del Rey's music occupies a strange category for me. It evokes strong feelings of nostalgia and reminds me of all kinds of things despite not also being music I grew up listening to. 

She wasn't even around as an artist when I was still growing up, as she would have been just a child herself. However, her style as an artist and much of the imagery in her music reminds me of how I felt, thought, and took up space in the world way back then. The fact that the beach and many references to life in California come up often in her music underscores all this even further.

When I was young, I had so many strong emotions. Many of them were difficult, dark, and consuming -- like longing, melancholy, and restlessness. Life was difficult for me as a young person, and it took me until I was in my 20s to start coming into my own. But I had an incredibly rich fantasy life at that age, as well. I was always obsessed with some boy I knew, or occasionally I'd construct elaborate fantasies around actors (and even fictional characters) I found objectively attractive. I'd daydream about what I'd be like when I was older -- painfully, sorrowfully beautiful and, of course, so very deep -- as well as all the tumultuous, passionate romances I was sure I would one day have. 

One of my favorite things to do was indulge in these fantasies and wonder what my life would eventually be like while listening to music. If I could be outside taking up space in some beautiful setting while I did it, so much the better. I especially loved going on long nature walks, hanging out on the beach while watching the waves, and spacing out in the passenger seat on long road trips while watching the world go by. I never felt very connected to my family, my friends, or most of the men I dated when I was in my teens and early-mid 20s, so maintaining this sort of rich inner life seemed to fulfill some of the needs those relationships didn't. 

On Independence and Self-Discovery

"Are you happy, or are you pretending to be happy?"

We watched this movie a few days ago -- Swallow. It's about a young, pregnant housewife named Hunter (Haley Bennett) who's struggling with certain feelings. This is a life she once thought she wanted, and that would make her happy, but -- as can often be the case -- the reality isn't quite measuring up to expectations. Her husband doesn't take her at all seriously and barely sees her as a person. Hunter especially doesn't seem all that thrilled to be pregnant. It's clear she feels like the walls are closing in on her and that something's got to give soon.

One day, Hunter gives in to an odd, sudden urge she has to swallow a marble. For reasons she can't quite understand, the act makes her feel empowered, possibly for the first time in her life. She eventually swallows other objects, some of them quite dangerous. Before she knows it, she has a full-fledged habit on her hands, her husband and in-laws find out, and strife ensues. From there, the film becomes about Hunter's struggle to feel like an important player in her own life and chronicles her attempts to get there. The film was really very good and gives you lots to think about.

Much about Hunter's situation reminds me of how it felt to be married to my first husband, Greg. I was very young at the time -- much younger than Greg -- and I didn't have the luxury of being a housewife (although that is something I thought I wanted.) I definitely didn't develop the urge to swallow marbles and thumbtacks. However, Hunter's feelings of inadequacy were very familiar to me. Like Hunter, I was surrounded by people who considered my feelings and needs to be unimportant compared to everyone else's. I disagreed.