a momentary soul crisis

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." I get it. I get being in middle of the see saw, at that point trying to precariously balance as life veers out of control. And right now, in this moment, I'm not handling any of it well.

Not only that, I'm not sure who I am at this moment. And I while I know who I want to be, I'm not sure I'll get there. This is not an easy place.

At this moment I have to fight through the housekeepers downstairs to finish the laundry I started at 8:27 this morning. I have to type up the notes from a middle school PTA meeting from last night. Somehow, I became the designated secretary when the actual one couldn't be there. I have to design a line of merchandise for the school and negotiate the egos and supposed expertise of people who honestly don't know what they're doing but think they do, which makes it all the more challenging. I have to be at Jack's school in 20 minutes to coordinate a holiday art project for his 3rd grade class.

I have to finish my website. Update FLOW's. Write thank you notes for all the gracious hosts/interviewers who talked to/with me. I have to ramp it up and find more people to do the same. I feel so stuck in this moment, wanting more but not knowing how to get there. In yoga today, the teacher talked about being open to the moment. When I open at this point, tears come. Tears of what I don't know, but they keep showing up today. I'm in pain.

Emotional pain and physical pain. I've had a headache since yesterday, piercing my left temple. Nothing helps. I've been getting these before my period on a somewhat regular basis, but this is the first time it appeared right after it was over.

I have plans to go out to dinner with friends tonight, women I love, I planned this but all I want to do is curl up on my bed and be left alone. I know going out will start kid drama "you always leave," "you're never here, "Why do you always leave?"

I want to leave. I want to do bigger things. I want my phone to ring. My email to be bursting with projects, offers, ideas, people who want to collaborate or ask questions, who want to be in touch.

I don't want empty.

I don't want this.

I don't want my husband telling me he's not happy and I have to fix it. I can't do that. I don't want illness and uncertainty for the people I love. I can't make that happen. I don't want the unknown, the scariness, the desperate hoping.

I want to know.

I want more.

I want someone to tell me it will be ok in the end. Because right now I don't feel that and can't find it myself.

cancer

This morning, while standing and chatting in front of Jack's school, huddled with 2 friends under umbrellas in the driving rain, one asked about my book party and said how sorry she was to have missed it. Her husband hadn't been feeling well. After several back and forths she told us he has stomach cancer and is going for surgery next week. There was a palpable shift from imagining flu or a virus to confronting the reality of second opinions, stomach bags, chemo/radiation, long term prognoses. I then found out another friend, who moved out of the city recently and I ran into having lunch in a cafe last week, was in town for chemo. She was diagnosed with breast cancer at the end of the school year. Yet another mom I know, responded to my FLOW invite by saying she wished she could make the party but had inoperable brain cancer and was starting a new round of chemo that day.

It's amazing how in a second, a moment, a breath, everything is fine and then reality crashes into something else entirely. Something too scary and overwhelming and life-changing to absorb. And nothing is the same after that.

I can't begin to imagine what that's like for the person who's been given the diagnosis. Or their family. Cancer is just about the thing in life I'm most afraid of. I think it even trumps skiing (and that's a major fear). My father is an oncologist and I grew up with stories about patients and chemo, living wills, and grieving families. His detachment is how he survived a heart-breaking job. He learned to search out, and create, humor (often cringe-worthy), as a defense against the bleakness. And as a way of bringing a moment or two of joy to his patients. Distraction can be a powerful thing when life is crushing down with brutal force.

I am queen of distraction. I can entertain, tell a story, involve a room, get people laughing, talking, engaging. I can keep people, at least for a little while, from falling into the depths of despair, from spinning in the dark, from letting the terror pull them under.

I am terrified about when I have to confront it myself. For myself, my family. My veneer is so effective, but it's just show. I can pull it all together on the outside, people see me as ever strong and capable, but I know there are some things I can't handle.

I couldn't handle the seizures Jack had when he was little. Blood, hospitals, emergencies, I'm fine. But his seizures and the fear he'd have another paralyzed me for years. When he'd get a fever, which was often, I'd panic, barely able to get medicine into him, praying his body would handle it all and I wouldn't have to live through another moment when his eyes would role back into his head and his little body would quake until it fell so silent I'd have to check for a pulse. When he felt warm, I couldn't breathe. It got so bad sometimes I couldn't check on him during the night, even though I needed to know, every 10 minutes, if anything changed. I dreamed of making it to his 6th birthday, the time when febrile seizures apparently stopped. It's only been in the past couple of months, he's now 8, that I've been able to leave him alone in the bathtub. His next to last seizure happened there, as I was running out to get the phone. He was seizing, under water, when I got back, Iz screaming that he was turning blue. I remember the fire department, 13 men in smoky uniforms in my apartment, trying to help as I got him dried and dressed, still unconscious, Iz petrified yet excited to be in the ambulance. Going for food for her and finding out he'd had another seizure in the hospital, after I'd begged them to give him more advil and they'd refused. 2 seizures in 24 hours wasn't typical and so then we had to put him through far more extensive testing. In the end, all was fine. He never had another seizure. But I will never forget the fear that paralyzed me, turned me to stone. Fear that was so powerful I couldn't be present.

I'm afraid of that happening again. Hearing other people, other families, other friends being plunged into that terror, terrifies me. Our souls are so resilient, but I hate how beaten they have to be.

fame and fortune

I found out this morning that my father and his wife are flying out to LA, all expenses paid, for a taping of Tool Academy, a VH1 show about nightmare (that's putting it nicely) boyfriends. Why? Because my half brother is a contestant this season. He and his long-suffering girlfriend could win $100K for a month of living in fancy houses, all expenses paid, being filmed around the clock in various stages of relationship hell. Should they be popular contestants, I'm sure they can parlay this reality TV fame into other shows, paid party appearances, they could be gossip magazine fodder, perhaps spokespeople for relatively obscure advertising campaigns.

To put this in perspective of my life (forgive me, but that's how I so often view the world), their potential financial windfall would be over 4 times more than I earned for FLOW—3 years, on and off of dedicated soul-wrenching work. Months of around the clock researching and writing, and then weeks at a time of editing, fact checking, going over layouts, bibliography, credits and acknowledgments. Hours and hours of scanning (I did all the art in the book). Endless time and energy dedicated to PR and getting the word out. Then there's the matter of thousands of dollars spent out of my pocket for the art in the book, and the time spent amassing the collection. Messenger charges. The cost of the menstrual library I'm now a proud owner of. I'd say, at this point, estimating $2 an hour for time spent on this project would be a generous assumption.

All that's fine. The fact that FLOW's out in the world, that I was given this opportunity for it to be what I imagined, that a publisher embraced my vision and gave it life, that for the most part it's been met with enthusiasm, support, accolades, that it's started conversations, opened people's minds, made people think? Doesn't get better. But, for almost a moment, a glimmer, a slight yearning, I imagine what it would be like to earn serious money, media attention, and a spotlight for just about no work.

That's how it goes these days. The greatest rewards, the most fame, for the least amount of effort. Reality TV stardom. Not that I'd EVER want that. But, the thought of having people pay attention, opening doors, listening to what you have to say is really appealing. Especially when there's something important to say.

But, would I sell my soul to date Flava Flave to share FLOW with the world?

Now that's something to ponder . . .

open and shut

I realized yesterday what my lesson in life is, or at least my lesson to be learned from FLOW. It's not how to work hard, to manage pressure, to stretch myself in ways I had never thought possible. It's not how do let go of insecurities, to put myself out in the world, hawking and spinning and selling to get people to pay attention. It's not how to grow into myself, to own who I am and what I do, to stop hiding behind myself.

It's to learn how to deal with closed people. To be more specific, people who are closed to me. Which, for me is punishment. Once, a fellow co-op board member said I should rethink my life and be a cruise director, as I have this obvious need to be liked. She meant that as an insult. But I didn't take it as one. I ask questions and want to hear answers. I engage whenever possible, say hello, good morning, thank you. I treat people with respect and kindness. Those are two major words in my life. So often, people don't bother to regard either with either these days. It's astounding how many bus doors slam in faces, how many transactions take place without acknowledgement, on either end, how often people walk past each other as if no one was there. While being polite isn't part of a need to be liked, I suppose it's part of a greater whole.

And yet, in spite of manners, respect, basic kindness towards others, people—wait, let me clarify that, women—pass through my life who don't like me. Actually, who can't stand me in varying degrees. Looking back, and in the present, it most often happens when I put new ideas into the world that others don't agree with. Or don't bother listening to. I suppose, in my defense and also, to accept responsibility, I'm not great at strongly putting things out there. If someone doesn't like what I'm doing or have to say, I can take it as a personal insult, and it becomes about me, not the idea, and I shut down. I don't have harshly defined lines. What I think/do/say is what is. Whether it's work, for the PTA, a book project, with friends, this is me. Creative, sensitive, open. It all meshes together. And I can get stuck on being right. Egotistically speaking, I often am. But not everyone wants to jump on the bandwagon. Not everyone's open to change. Not everyone wants someone else's ideas in the forefront.

I'm here again. Amazing news today coupled with accusations and drama. So, what do I do? My feelings get crushed in these situations. When someone, anyone, doesn't accept what I put out there, I fold. And I put good stuff out there. My ideas resonate, have passion, conviction. I work so hard on what I share. I don't take anything I take on lightly. And still, in spite of professionalism, dedication, strong, solid, occasionally visionary ideas, there are women out there who just want me to shut up. I've literally been told to shut up. Instead of being able to see that these are their issues, that I need to be who I am and let it slide, I take it in until it eats away at my self-esteem, my confidence. I'm finding myself back here, again, so wrapped and wracked I can't see straight.

I know this is my lesson. To stand up for myself, not necessarily to get my way, but to nurture my soul, protect my feelings, even if I don't say so on the outside, to love and heal on the inside. To accept other people's closed minds, not as something directed at me, but just as who they are. I say this hoping beyond hope I can actually do it. Because I can't live through another finger-pointing, back-stabbing, accusation filled experience.

To accept that while many love me, and for that I am exceedingly grateful, there are those who don't get me, can't stand me, truly, actively dislike me. And I can't change that. Or them.

holiday angst

This year Jack (8) has discovered the joy of gift giving. Rather, he felt the joy for one evening as he flipped through a couple of cool catalogs (Think Geek and Uncommon Goods), marking off with post its what he thought would be the best gifts for everyone. I loved the present ideas he had for his sister, my sister, her new boyfriend. Even loved that he didn't think gifts for me or Jon were necessary. I was delighted watching his thoughtfulness for others blossom.

All kids come into their own so differently, it's a miracle to watch and can be frustrating as all hell. And Jack's had challenges that have keep pieces from falling into place when I thought they should have. Or maybe that's just me comparing him to his older sister, other people's kids, my own expectations. All places to get into trouble. Anyway, thoughtfulness isn't his strong suit. Empathy? It's in there, but in a very perfunctory way. Sort of like his day. Maybe it's a guy thing. Not being one, I am all soothing and hugs and kisses and listening. Again, back to the story at hand. This is the first time he's spent time and energy thinking about gifts for others, to the point of more thought than about his own. For Jack, that's remarkable. I think for most kids it would be. I love catalogs too, so we pored over the pages, marveling at creativity, laughing at ridiculousless, drooling over a Yoda backpack (actually, that was me).

Then. Reality. How to come up with the $180 for the lovely gifts he picked out. That's not a reality. Jack chose some games to sell on ebay and while that's viable in the long term, it's not a given. Who knows when, or if, they'll sell. I suggested less expensive options. He blew. He's was so wrapped up in his dream of perfect gifts, was knocked off his feet by the prices, and got stuck in this place of frustration.

I get it. That happens to me. I always wish I'd started planning earlier. My friend Heather has a gift pile going in August. I make endless fun of her (and the fact her Christmas cards are at the printer in the summer), but she's got the right idea. Hannukah's less than a week away and my frantic scramble's just beginning. I have a kinda/sorta list in my head, but it's vague and fuzzy. Maybe this is why I haven't been able to sleep at night—my subconscious is in full pre-holiday freak out mode. I worry about finding the right things, getting enough stuff, making people happy, not spending too much money . . . I tend to wrap the night before, not enough tape, losing track of scissors while trying to coordinating paper colors.

In the end, it should be about being with family. Celebrating that we're together. Appreciating all we have. But that's hard to put in a box and wrap with a bow. So instead, we spend frantic energy and time finding ways to show those feelings that are sometimes hard to say.

And now, I'm off to catalog shop with Jack. He's got some love to share.

Twitter vs. The Real World

Months and months ago, anticipating the publication of my new book, I asked a friend in PR what I should be doing to get the word out. His word? Twitter. Establishing a presence on twitter would help tremendously in forming an advance fan base and a means to share information and updates about FLOW (as in FLOW: the Cultural Story of Menstruation). His synopsis: facebook without pages. 140 characters a post (or tweet) from millions of people all over the world posting literally every second on a constantly updating cyber wall. I didn't completely understand how it worked, how you'd find people, why you'd follow anyone or how on earth someone might follow you, but, I signed up. And stared at the quickly moving wall, too overwhelmed and freaked out, to be honest, to do anything. It took a couple of days to screw up the courage to answer anyone. And another day after that to understand if you didn't include their name, and the "@" symbol, they weren't getting your message. And retweet, as in forwarding along someone else's tweet? A concept I didn't get for a month or so.

After a few days I made my first twitter friend. Or twitter BFF by day three. A fellow writer, who was engaging, funny, always answered. He wanted an agent/book deal and was impressed to find I had both. We tweeted, emailed, friended each other on facebook. And then, day five. He wrote that he'd be drinking, that he'd never say this otherwise, but he had a crush on me and needed to let me know. Hours later, when I didn't reply, his missives got increasingly angry, accusatory, bordering on rage. By the next morning, I got the "I get this way when I'm drinking," "this is how I ruin all relationships," "please forgive me" email. I quickly blocked and unfollowed everywhere, and moved on.

I found endless social media experts, publishing gurus, inspirational life coaches—and those weren't the spammers, just intrepid souls who were hawking their expertise and points of view, for free or for a specially reduced rate for webinars or workshops. Spammers are more about making easy money at home, or porn. Honestly, sometimes it's hard to differentiate. So, slowly, I learned to pick and chose who I followed. And I wasn't always right. Let's be honest, sometimes I found people, sometimes robo-generated accounts that were trying to sell me a fabulous vacation or an amazing phone deals. But, after endless hours staring at my computer (or laptop or iphone), I began to find interesting, thought-provoking, funny souls.

And then, they're gone. Which is what inspired this post in the first place. The transient-ness of twitter. For a month, a day, an hour, 5 minutes you can have the most intriguing dialog with someone. There are moments of connection, of kindred souls, of flirting, exchanging ideas, empathy, support, anger. Admiration, jealousy, twisted humor, appreciation, emotion. And then, it's over. They disappear. Sometimes for awhile, sometimes forever.

Here's my question: how real is any of it? Can you establish a relationship with a tiny square photo and names that range from real life (@elissastein for example) to combos of numbers and letters that make no sense? I've had run-ins with people I think might be bordering on the edge of a breakdown. And have established relationships that mean the world to me. There are times lately, when it feels like people on twitter are more involved in my life than people actually in my life.

Is that preposterous or the wave of the future?

ebb and flow

I just got off the phone with a friend of mine, the author of a fascinating book called Finding Oz (among others), a friend from elementary school who I remember most from a school picture he was wearing a red turtle neck in. We reconnected, after many years, on facebook—it's hard to think of him as a grown up. In my mind, he's still Evan, in third grade.

We talked books. He's written several and was hoping, as honestly, we all do, that this Oz book would be a bestseller. And that didn't happen. We talked about the ups and downs, the thrill of possibilities (he was asked to be on the Colbert Report), and the devastation when that doesn't work out. The obsessive need to check amazon stats ALL THE TIME. The pouring your soul, your energy, your hopes and dreams into something and then putting it out into the world with the greatest of expectations.

It was both a supportive and sobering conversation. He said that a big advance is indicative of belief that a book will be a big seller. That if a publisher is putting in big bucks at the beginning, they'll support it once it's out. That a high print run means they'll make sure it's out on front tables and in tons of stores.

We talked about the need for major media to pay attention to make something a big hit. And that main streams media pays attention to big hits. A true chicken/egg conundrum. How do you get people to pay attention, no matter how fantastic your book is, no matter how much you believe in it, when you're nobody? Not that I'm calling myself a nobody, but I haven't been on a reality TV show or had my number discovered in a politician's cell phone.

We talked about devoting your life to promote it for sixth months, setting up talks, traveling wherever people would have you. And then, at the end, declaring victory.

Honestly, FLOW so far *has* been a victory. Just that it exists is amazing. That it's as beautiful as it is. That it's been so exceedingly well received. That I've done interviews, that people are reading and writing and thinking about it. I've become a far better writer. My confidence in myself, my comfort in my voice, how I fit in my skin so much better—all a result of this life-changing experience that's broken me down and built me back up. Leaner and meaner.

All good. SO good. I'm so proud of myself and thrilled with all that's happened. But still, the crashes come.