spiritual pedicures

shaky ground

2012-01-26T18:26:00.000-05:00

I'm not in a great place right now. Too many things feel shaky under my feet. Too many unknowns. Too many question marks. Too many situations out of my control.

There's still a mouse in my house. I've gone from being a person who stands screaming on a chair to someone who's been co-habitating with one medium grey mouse (or mice, who knows) for weeks now. I saw one climb through the vent in my stove 2 nights ago. Trust me, no one should ever have to see that. It's hard to cook. It's hard to even go into the kitchen at this point. I'm trying to stay calm about it all, but it's fraying my edges more than a bit. Anxious to be in my house.

I've been sick all week. Fever sick. So tired I've spent much of the past 3 days lying on top of my blankets, half awake, half out of it, waiting for the pressure in my head to subside, worried about all the terrible medical disasters in my future. Anxious about what's wrong.

Middle and high school stuff is moving back to the forefront. Big tests in a week. First results in a month. The tension is starting to bubble below the surface. These are potential ego-bruising, crushes for my kids and there's nothing I can do to protect them or make it better or soften blows. Watching the people you love most in the world hurt and not be able to take it away is a pain I never knew could be so overwhelming. Anxious for what might be.

We're supposed to start splitting the kid's room next month only every single step of the process has been fraught with ineptitude, miscommunication and misinformation. And should the pieces fall into place it means a huge construction project, a vast amount of work and a bigger mess than I've ever had to contend with. Anxious for not knowing what's happening.

I haven't been to yoga since last weekend. Too sore. Too tired. Too sick. But I miss the space and the breathing and the routine. Anxious without my soul's home.

I don't know if tomorrow's going to be any better. I'm floating in this grey mist without much to hold onto and nothing concrete in sight.

I hate this place. But I guess it's part of the journey.

writing: day 3

2012-01-24T10:03:00.002-05:00

Instead of writing here, about my fever and being overcome with mucous at the moment, I'm working on a Huffington Post piece about teen pregnancy and how disappointing/shocking it is at this point in history that girls are so clueless about how their bodies work.

All I can say is my children won't be.

not an auspicious beginning

2012-01-23T12:38:00.000-05:00

I've been feeling tired for a couple of days. Achy. Out of breath after climbing up the very long flights of stairs to yoga. Took a 2 hour nap on Saturday and yesterday was so exhausted it was hard to move.

Took a yoga class anyone and felt/feel aches and pains in my legs I've never felt before.

In spite of being profoundly tired last night I couldn't sleep. I don't think it was the Giants win in the championship game—the reason other people in my house were wide awake. I was on the verge of coughing all night, my head throbbed, not in a headache way but in a skull too tight around my brain way.

And this morning it was hard to move. I managed, not sure how, to take Jack shopping at 8 for a Giants conference champions t-shirt and hat. Got him to school.

Got back in bed. 3 hours later I woke up with 100.7.

I thankfully don't get sick often because with illness comes anxiety that something terrible is wrong. It makes it hard to relax and heal when horrific scenarios dance easily through my head.

Nice though that it's Monday and I'm alone until 3. But as day 2 of my commitment to write, I'm left with very little energy to craft anything.

Back to bed.

Hope tomorrow's better.

Hey, hope this afternoon's better.

not a mid life crisis

2012-01-22T08:47:00.003-05:00

This post is going to be a bit all over the place but it's been awhile since I last wrote here. In fact, it's been awhile since I wrote in general. One of my many new year's resolutions was to write on a consistent, in fact daily basis. Hasn't happened once. And I don't usually make resolutions or intentions as one of my wise yoga teachers suggested. But, after the past year of kidney-mania, I felt like I needed a more concrete structure to get me back on my creative track.

Didn't work.

There's so much I could/should be working on. The story of my donation journey, both in book and play form. The fiction idea my kids swear is what should be next on my to-do list. The initial proposal for a documentary I'm brainstorming with a friend. The intro to yoga book. A bigger arcing memoir (although I'm not sure who would read it). Even blogging, which I used to do just about every single day.

I even gave up writing my morning pages last week after months of scribbling in the dark at 5:30am.

I'd bought myself a new laptop as motivation.

I swore I'd explore new coffee shops every day, to find a comfortable place to write. Only I gave up coffee last year. Hot chocolate too, which limits what I can actually buy if I went to one.

Somehow I'm not anxious about it. Not in the usual way I am when nothing's going on. Not in the dulled, complacent way I was when I was on meds for a year and a half. It's almost like things are starting to bubble slightly below the surface. People have been arriving at my doorstep lately, asking for advice, input, motivation for their own projects. There's karma in this that's nurturing my soul.

I've been designing more than usual—as it's been awhile I forgot the flow I get lost in when working through a job.

There's a purpose coming back that I lost for awhile. I'm connecting more after hiding away in a corner of myself, healing from all I'd been through. I think the kidney thing took much more out of me than I realized. Aside from the actual surgery, the months leading up to it and the recovery afterwards took a toll on my soul that's only now really starting to lighten.

Which leads me to the above photo. My first tattoo. A thank you gift from my brother for my kidney. I wanted it to commemorate what was one of the most important experiences of my life. To remind me that I'm far braver than I think I am, when anxiety pops in for a visit. But I'm realizing it's also a symbol that it's time to move on. Get back to myself. Go forward and create again.

That part of my life is over. It will always be with me but it's not my present.

I'm still not sure what my present will be but I'm making a sadhana, a 40 day commitment to write every day, both here and working towards whichever project feels like it's meant to happen.

Day one feels good. Sometimes I forget how writing has become so much a part of me.

year of the kidney

2011-12-31T08:18:00.000-05:00

I'm big on year end wrap ups. My birthday is in June and I do it then too—looking back at all that's happened in a 12 month arc. A year can be fleeting on one hand but 365 days is a vast amount of time. In that vein, 5 minutes can change your life. As a person to whom life doesn't come easily, who's spent years struggling with self-doubt and anxiety, who questions, worries, has spent way too much time frozen in fear, looking at the bigger picture helps.

I'm often amazing at what my life actually is, as opposed to how it feels from the inside.

This was the year of the kidney. From last Christmas season when I found out I was a match, through 6 months of exhaustive and extensive testing, endless waiting, more postponements than anyone can possibly imagine handling. There was my very first surgery in June—walking into the hospital as a profoundly healthy person, shuffling out swollen, drugged, in pain, my center shaken to the core. Months of recuperation, of moving slowly, of feeling like I'd never feel like myself. More than any of the above there was the emotion of it all. First and foremost, fear it wouldn't work and that my brother wouldn't be ok. Then there was fear I'd fall apart and not be able to handle it. Fear I'd have a breakdown. Fear I'd be that less than 1% of donors who'd die on the table. Fear I wouldn't make it back to where I was. There was also elation—finding out I could donate, getting clean bills of health from all the testing, the quiet joy of the voicemail saying surgery was on, hearing Dave was ok when I was in recovery, seeing him looking so great 2 days later.

In fact every time I see him my heart fills for a moment knowing what I did made how he's doing possible.

My family was amazing throughout. I can't imagine sending a parent or a child off to surgery they don't need. Iz's 1000 paper cranes and Jack's kidney warrior are 2 of the most precious gifts a person could ever hope to receive. Jon offered to be tested if I wasn't a match. I am married to the menschiest of mensches.

The ability to write almost every day about what I was going through, to share the experience, to hear from people who'd been through this before and share insights with those starting the donation path kept me sane.

I doubted my sanity many times this year. I thought I lost my creativity. I've felt (and have been feeling) that the best is behind me and that the next half of my life is just downhill coasting.

But on the last day of this year I have to look back and give myself credit for doing something so important, so substantial, so amazing that it's way bigger than me. And to give myself time and space to heal on all levels.

2011 was the year of the kidney. And it was a game changer. I'm starting to see I just haven't figured it all out yet. As for 2012? I'm hoping for a bit less drama.

reflecting

2011-12-23T15:37:00.000-05:00

A year ago today I found out I was a match for Dave. My life changed. Both our lives changed. Just about every step of this journey wrought major stuff, whether invasive testing, award-winning anxiety, stress that goes with endless waiting, the utter joy when something worked in our favor, epic frustration, the mind-blowing fear of the unknown. Every anniversary makes me stop and pause and remember. And be grateful for how things worked out. But aside from the actual transplant itself, I think this anniversary is the most profound.

The two weeks preceding were a waiting I’d never experienced before, except perhaps when wondering if my amnio for Jack would be ok. But chances were it would be—it was more of a formality because of my age. This was a total crapshoot. We had a better shot than a random person off the street, but there were no guarantees. And I wasn’t completely sure which way I wanted it to go. Of course I wanted to be able to donate but I can’t say that I was 100% committed. I didn’t know what to expect. I’d never had surgery. We didn’t know if his body could handle it. And should all work out, there were no guarantees the kidney would stick. I’m not good with unknowns and this was staring down a chasm of nothing but.

I knew it would be a showdown with anxiety although from that vantage point I had no idea how all-encompassing it would be. But on the other hand, if I wasn’t a match, then what? Someone’s well-being was in my hands. His future, his health, his life depended on me. And that was out of my hands too. It’s not like I could study and do well on a test. It was all about biology—the blood and tissue types I was born with.

I wasn’t sure how I’d handle either outcome. The invasiveness of organ donation. The disappointment of not being able to help.

A year ago today, when I took my phone out of my pocket I saw a voicemail from the transplant coordinator. I didn’t think of her as mine yet. Part of me wasn’t ready to listen so I walked a few blocks, trying to breathe deep and clear my mind for was next. She said, “Good news!” and proceeding to talk about tissue and blood cross matching and next steps. I couldn’t quite process it. My hands were shaking. I started to cry. I was relieved. First. That I’d be able to do something. That Dave could hope. That perhaps he’d find a road to healthy or at least healthier. And then joy washed over me. I was jumping out of my skin excited. I couldn’t wait to tell him only he wasn’t responding to texts or answering his phone.

He was nonchalant when I got ahold of him moments later. It took a long time to truly understand and accept how profoundly different this experience was for the two of us. Throughout the next six months it was rare to find us feeling the same thing at the same time. And that was part of the process too. Acceptance. Understanding. Tolerance.

A year ago today my kidney became my brother’s. I didn’t think of it as mine anymore. It was something I was housing until it got to be where it was supposed to be.

What a gift to look back from this place of knowing it all worked out and that he’s better now than anyone could have imagined. I’m crying as I write this. Sometimes, rarely really, my heart breaks wide open and I know what an amazing thing I did.

a little synchronicity goes a long way

2011-12-09T11:18:00.001-05:00

I'm a big fan of synchronicity. I love order. Making sense of things. The bigger picture. That's my design side—take all sorts of unrelated stuff and finding and/or creating common threads and structure.

I love that the transplant was 6 months to the day I was first tested. I love that the surgery was 6.6.11, a date with a lot of balance. And in the twisted world of Elissa Stein numerology (I assign all sorts of random significance to numbers), the sixes were great as both my and Iz's birthdays are in June (the 6th month). 6 minus 1 equals 5, which equals May, the month Jack and Jon were born in. And 6 plus 1 is seven, which is considered a lucky number, plus Jack was born on the 7th. Good all around.

Logical? No. Except in my head. Which leads me to . . .

Yesterday Dave and I traveled out to Three Kings Tattoo in Brooklyn for a consultation with the one artist I've found (after lots and lots of research) whose work completely blew me away. We went over the too many reference images I'd brought and talked about what it was I'm looking for. Her next available date was January 12. We booked an appointment at 1. It was enough to groove to that:

1.12.12@1 - balance and symmetry all over the place. Then this morning I looked back on my calendar to see what was going on a year ago, that date.

Turns out it was my first visit to the nephrologist after finding out I was a match. My first anxiety attack since I'd started meds the spring before. 4 hours of consults and conversations with my transplant coordinator, nephrologist, social worker, advocate and then time logged at the lab for 9 more vials of blood to be drawn.

It was a day that stretched me into places I hadn't been before, forced to confront issues almost too much to grapple with.

1.12.11 was one of the most intense, challenging, nerve-wracking, soul-searching, terrifying days of my life. I'm thinking getting my thank you tattoo on 1.12.12 will be an awesome way of celebrating all that's gone on in the past year.

Thanks Dave. And Annie.

extremes

2011-12-07T20:18:00.001-05:00

It's been six months and a day since I donated my kidney. I feel healthy, fine, stable, more grounded than I did for a long time even before the whole transplant journey started. I've been off Lexapro for a couple of months and while I'd been terrified to stop, I feel much better now than I did before.

I've been at yoga four days in a row, generally practicing up front instead of hiding in the back. My current haircut's a good one. The drama of NYC high school applications is on the back burner for now. At the moment, except for the last minute pressure of holiday gifts, life is relatively mellow. I gave up coffee—decaf—a few weeks ago and the hot chocolate I'd been substituting every day this week.

I'm writing this on my one day old mini macbook air. And I have any number of creative, intriguing, challenging projects I could dive into and make happen.

So why am I so miserable?

The fatness that ruled my life for so many years is back. Could be the residue of all the half and half and sugared drinks I'd been living on. Could be some serious pms kicking my butt. My period's late and I'm bursting out of my skin. Could be that it's all in my head. I spent years in this place of feeling so badly about myself I'd create reasons to beat myself up.

I'm just not sure why I'm back here.

A significant part is that I'm not accomplishing anything, not in the way I had been for so many years. I started writing books before Iz was born and have had projects in the works on some level from then until FLOW. In the 2 years since that came out? Nothing. Except for parenting and volunteering and sporadic design work and donating an organ. Nothing creative to sink my teeth into, to get lost in, to research and shape and explore.

I could write the graphic novel/movie that Iz is so desperate for me to work on. I could develop the kidney book/one woman show a friend of mine has graciously offered to direct. I could work on the documentary series another wants to partner with me on. I could pull together the advertising book that Iz and I brainstormed the other day. I could delve into the yoga book that so many think is a great idea. I could redo my website. Rebuild my design business. There are so many viable ideas sitting in front of me to choose from.

But, I can't.

I can't do anything. I bought this laptop as an impetus to start again. To make a statement to the universe that I'm ready to have my life back. My creativity back. The part of me that flows, that gets lost in the zone, that has ideas sparking to life day and night.

I don't want to be this person anymore. The one who lives in grey shapeless t-shirts. Who has nothing interesting to say. Who's jealous of other people's apartments, jobs, clothes, vacations, relatives, skin, thinness.

What I should be is proud of all I've done. Instead, I'm feeling like a loser for all that I'm not.

6 months out

2011-12-06T22:43:00.000-05:00

6 months ago today my brother got his new kidney.

To celebrate this auspicious event we met for Vegan Treats in the east village this afternoon—he had cheesecake, I had death by chocolate.

He booked a consultation for my thank you tattoo, with an artist in Brooklyn we both think is terrific.

Our respective kidneys are working hard and doing great.

I was thinking today that I am nothing but grateful that I was able to give Dave a kidney. To be able to help was a tremendous gift.

Thanks bro.

a kidney moment

2011-12-01T09:49:00.000-05:00

Last week I had my 6 month post op visit with my surgeon. Everything looked great. He was super impressed with how my scars are healing, with how my life's gotten back to where it was, that my blood pressure was back down to normal range. I went for blood tests, my first in months, and asked that he let me know my creatinine level - an indicator of kidney function. Healthy for a woman is .5 to 1.1 and I wanted to be under 1. Not that this is something I can control but there you go.

I got an email that it was .9. Perfectly respectable. Higher than it was when I had two kidneys on the job but I'm not in any way complaining. I posted it on Facebook and my brother responded that our levels matched - he was .9 as well.

It was a moment.

Knowing these two kidneys, my current and my former were working at the same level blew me away. Enough time has passed that the transplant and all that we went through is hard to remember. How sick he was. How scared I was. How tenuous the entire situation was. From this place I know many didn't think it would work.

But here we are. With two healthy kidneys chugging along and doing the same job. In different bodies.

Moments like those I believe in miracles.

losing track of thankful

2011-11-23T12:13:00.001-05:00

It is so easy in the chaos of regular life to forget the bigger picture, to be overwhelmed by the daily grind.

To lose track of thankful.

At the moment I'm fraying at the edges. It's been an intense fall and at times I've felt like I'm barely surviving. It's often easier to keep my head down and just skim the insanity. Finding space, opening my eyes to what's beyond feels almost impossible when I'm stretched so incredibly thin.

But, there is so much in my life to be thankful for that a slight shift in perspective brings it into focus.

My life has been usurped by school tours and tutors and testing and unbelievable stress. But we get to live in NYC where there are great options out there and I know, deep down, that wherever Iz and Jack end up will be fine.

I spend more time picking poop up off the street than I every could have imagined but Moo and Gracie are the most remarkable creatures and I can't imagine a life without that pure, delicious love.

I've been dealing with a torn rotator cuff and chronic pain. But, I'm healing and at 47+ am in the best shape I've ever been in.

Not a day goes by without whining or complaining from someone. Drama. Bickering. Full scale battles happen far more often than I wish they would. But it's my family. I would do anything and everything for them.

My design career stalled and I can't seem to get it started again. But, I'm working on my first monologue, to perform in public, and am taking on a producer role in new projects.

Not everyone I know is in a good healthy place. But, they're still here.

And while I went through voluntary surgery, have 4 new scars on my abdomen, can't take Advil anymore, gave up salt, am down a kidney, I radically, amazingly changed my brother's life. I still hold onto that being a true miracle.

I am thankful beyond thankful for that opportunity, for that transplant, for being able to help. For the remarkable people in my life. For the city I live in. For the time to volunteer. For the opportunity to reinvent myself yet again.

For the ability to step back. And to be thankful.

living by committee

2011-11-21T18:00:00.000-05:00

Right now just about every single aspect of my life is ruled by someone else.

From the dogs needing to be walked in the morning to timing Jack at night while he reads, there is barely a moment when someone else's needs aren't coming first.

This morning even my car managed to usurp work time—I got downstairs to do alternate side parking and found the battery completely dead. Instead of working I spent hours dealing with roadside assistance. Even that was a challenge as ATT has dead spots on my street so I couldn't even get help while sitting in my car.

I just spent the last 10 minutes searching for missing yoyo accessories that the dogs thought were toys, much to Jack's utter frustration. And now, I've got to write with my legs up on my desk so Gracie can lie across them, frantically chewing a bone. At least I'm hoping it's a bone.

Last night I was a slave to apple support as for some unknown reason iTunes can't play the Wizard of Oz.

Before that the emotionally careening teen in my house was having a day.

My surgeon's office just called asking if I could come in early tomorrow which means I can't make the knitting club meeting that I organized and can't take Jack to school.

This morning someone asked me about ads for the yearbook and I didn't even know what school they were talking about.

I turned on my laptop and found a desktop littered with someone else's files and a calendar issue I can't resolve.

Jack's yoyo is broken and my new unexpected project is to research how it can be fixed.

My life is all about everyone else at the moment but rarely about me.

Most of the time I can handle it but right now my edges are fraying. But, instead of curling up in the corner with a book, which is what I'd really like to do I have to feed the dogs, make sure homework's done, complete the NYC high school application with Iz, fix that yoyo, find dinner for kids, finish an invitation and review a postcard for work, pick up shipping supplies at the stationery store. I'm sure there's plenty more I'm blocking and even more than will come up. Like ordering shoes for Iz, which I did while I was writing this and dealing with amazon about her kindle that arrived 2 days ago and already broke.

Usually I find some light at the end of the tunnel with these, but that's not happening today.

late blooming

2011-11-20T14:59:00.001-05:00

Last week were auditions for Jack's 5th grade play, which is a huge event for all involved. We've been through this before. Iz had decided from the time she saw her first PS41 in kindergarten that she wanted to be a lead when she had her chance. So did just about every other girl in her class. Much to my surprise (shock), she won the role of Lina Lamont in "Singin' in the Rain." I'd never really heard her sing before and had absolutely no idea she had spot on comedic timing. She was brilliant in her part—watching her sparkle on stage, the audience drowning her out with laughter, her face glowing at the impromptu standing ovation she got when she walked out to take a bow? Priceless moments from a Mastercard commercial.

Jack, on the other hand, decided he wanted to go the crew route. He was fine, excited in fact, about participating backstage and keeping a low profile. But it seems every single student has to do a dance audition and he rocked his. So much so that he's reconsidering being in the cast.

For many reasons, I'm blown away.

When Jack was younger he couldn't balance on one foot. Couldn't catch a ball. Couldn't run well. His coordination was, well, it wasn't. He'd been diagnosed with sensory integration issues and started OT and PT before he was 4. He'd had speech issues as well and was in therapy for that too. It was almost like systems in his body didn't really understand what they were supposed to do and he had to work so damn hard to master things most little boys took for granted. Along with the above he had a host of strange health issues, none of which were permanent, but often took ages to get to the bottom of. Digestive problems, febrile seizures, severe allergic reactions—we spent much of his childhood at doctor appointments, evaluations, therapy.

And so as he mastered riding on his rip stick, snowboarding, reading above grade level, becoming a leader amongst his friends, I appreciated all the more what it took for him to get to those places.

Someone recently called him a late-bloomer.

He's ten.

I think, these days, we have such ridiculously high expectations of what our children should be doing that we forget that they're kids. Just kids. When I was ten I rode my bike to visit friends, made pom pom animals and painted on rocks. Read like crazy and played with stuffed animals. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt there is no way at that age I could have done the things he's doing now, with the confidence and sense of ownership he's discovered.

It's different to be a kid these days. While part of me wonders if all the pressure to accomplish so much is a healthy thing, another part watches in awe at what he can do.

As for the play, whether he's opening a curtain or dancing in front of one, I'll be watching with tears in my eyes at the experience he's having.

me, from different points of view

2011-11-17T10:23:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, after wearing my PTA president hat at a school tour I got a compliment so thoughtful my heart swelled. I'd spoken in front of a large group of prospective parents and students and someone in the administration noted that not only am I a great speaker: poised, confident, able to make the audience feel both comfortable and welcome, I am a great mother. She hoped she be as good a mom when she has kids one day. That I am engaged, present, a remarkable role model. I said I happen to have great kids. She said they were great because of me.

I then met a friend for coffee who called me a needy drama queen.

And that was not an inaccurate observation. At times, rarely these days but it still comes out, I can be.

Later that night, at dinner with friends, we were talking family angst. It's rare that someone can top me when it comes to dysfunction and this was no exception. I know, as I openly shared how I can now separate and let go that I was being judged as heartless, cold. Detached. I can be that too. My life has taught me that lesson.

I also spent part of the day working on my kidney project. That one act changed the way many see me. While I'm the same person I was before, I chose to save a life and that's an amazingly brave, selfless thing to do. I still have trouble owning that about myself but those 4 red incisions on my abdomen are a constant reminder.

All these disparate pieces. All these experiences. All these scars have made me into someone I never could have imagined I'd be. And yet, sometimes I'm still wracked with insecurity, with feeling like a failure, a loser, that I haven't accomplished enough, done enough, am good enough. If only I'd followed a more conventional path. Had greater professional success. Tried harder, dug deeper, pushed more.

As I'm standing on the edge of reinventing myself into what I don't know, I wonder if I'll be able to do it again.

Or maybe, worrying about it is just the drama queen desperate to be heard.

saying no to drugs

2011-11-11T10:01:00.001-05:00

(actually, it's saying no to meds, but that wasn't as catchy a title)

It's been just about a month since I swallowed my last dose of Lexapro, after a year and a half of taking it religiously every single morning. And stopping was almost as terrifying as starting. But, much to my surprise, I'm finding myself stronger, more cohesive, more integrated, more capable than I've been in longer than I can remember.

Medication always terrified me. It was about losing control in any way. Having a chemical alter how I felt, what I thought, how I acted was a far worse thought than the benefits that might be achieved. Even nighttime cold medicine made me nervous—drifting off into a Benadryl haze I'd consciously try to fight the effects so that I wouldn't fall asleep to never wake up, an irrational but real fear. Whenever prescribed something for pain, after childbirth, after an exposed nerve in a tooth, after kidney surgery, I'd never take a full dose. The hurt was almost easier to handle than the fears that went along with meds.

But a year and a half ago I started cracking. Both my brother and sister were spiraling downward, not nearly to the rock bottoms they'd both hit over the summer and into that fall, but things for both of them were getting out of control. Both were struggling with issues beyond my help, one physical, one psychological, and for long stretches of time I wasn't sure either would survive. It was getting hard for me to get out of bed, to accomplish anything beyond the bare minimum, to be in my normally glass half full mindset. I started to panic. I was afraid to pick Jack up at school, that I'd fall apart in the yard and not be able to get it together. Sitting in my car during alternate side parking mornings, I'd feel so trapped I couldn't breathe. Anxiety is my kryptonite. More terrifying and destructive than anything else out there.

I couldn't talk to anyone about what I was feeling. As if putting it into the world I'd crack faster.

Finally, I opened up to a friend and started sobbing. At a table in the window of a busy restaurant on 6th Avenue. Just saying it out loud, once, made me realize how fragile I'd become. I knew I couldn't live like that anymore. I knew I needed help.

The idea of help though was as scary as the panic that was now a constant companion.

I started taking Lexapro, in spite of scanning every single rant about how life destroying it could be posted on message boards and in online forums. I could quote side effects of strangers. I intimately knew how people reacted, gained weight, felt more anxious than less, lost interest in sex. I couldn't stop reading, for hours on end, even though it did nothing but make me feel worse.

In the end, the meds worked. It wasn't as if all bad feelings were washed away but I wasn't panicking all the time. Life got brighter. I started taking subways again. Talking to people. Being social. Eventually I realized the constant fear of a breakdown had quietly slipped away. And I was able to cope with all the life threatening illness surrounding me.

As I was settling into this new, medicated mindset, my kidney donor journey began. I know that without meds I never would've been able to handle the stress, the fears, the pressure, the unknowns. It's not that I wasn't freaking out on a regular basis, but that leveling off of emotions kept me from completely losing my mind.

I was vaguely aware, as I was going through tests and exams and the endless waiting that the meds also shut down my creativity, my drive, my energy that sometimes borders on frenetic. That was my fuel but that wasn't the person I needed to be then.

Turns out I couldn't maintain that forever. After surgery, after healing, after settling back into myself, I knew more and more I wasn't myself. That a vital part of me was being kept in check. But, I was terrified, petrified, to let go of this medical crutch. What if I stopped taking drugs and I was worse than before. Anxiety ramped up. I started panicking again and that was a new rock bottom. If I was freaking on meds, what would happen when, if, I went off? But, at the same time, I was subconsciously weaning myself, often forgetting to take them when I first woke up.

I made the decision at the end of the summer to cut down. So slowly it must have been almost imperceptible to my body.

I survived.

The less I took the more drive I had. Ideas started popping into my head. I'd forgotten that's how I used to be all the time. I started crying more. It was almost impossible to cry on meds, but as they left my system, I'd tear up more quickly than I ever had.

I started putting ideas together for a kidney book. And sobbed as I read through the blog I'd written almost daily through the experience.

All the while still unnerved about the breakdown I'd thought was imminent.

Turns out I'm stronger on the other side of this tunnel. Anxiety will always be a part of me, but I have tools to handle it better. I don't want to be that person anymore, crippled by the thoughts in my head that are nothing but that, made up mindsets that have the power to paralyze but aren't real.

Life without Lexapro is a different kind of living, feeling, experiencing. And I'm finally ready to jump back in.

riding the waves

2011-11-06T16:04:00.000-05:00

At the moment I'm sitting in a public atrium on Wall Street. Right in front of me is the weekly NYC yoyo club meet up. Behind the spinning discs and neon strings are extras for the final battle scene in the new Batman movie, waiting for their scene to start shooting. Across the way is an Occupy Wall Street organizational meeting with 20 or 30 people in a circle sharing information and ideas.

15 minutes ago, in search of snacks for a hungry child (and me) I was wondering streets that alternated between deserted and preparing for a cinematic battle. Skyscrapers cutting off almost all sun, patches of blue glancing off mirrored facades.

25 minutes ago a random text to an old friend led to passes to the 9/11 Memorial.

An hour and a half ago I walked down subway steps only to find I'd forgotten my wallet.

3 hours ago every network in my apartment failed and I fought back absolute frustration and tears staring down tech problems I don't know how to solve. Hey, I don't even know what the problems are.

4 hours ago my brother and I spent far too much time on speakerphone with Daisy at TiVo and managed to accomplish nothing. Except drive ourselves crazy.

5 hours ago I was just finishing a yoga class.

7 or so hours ago I was writing out morning pages as the puppies wrestled on top of me.

So far this day has been utterly frustrating, completely inspirational, filled with urban beauty, parental pride, personal exasperation, apartment angst, exploring new neighborhoods, boundless love, technology hell, embarrassing hair, and a quiet satisfaction.

I have to give that last one a shout out. The transplant was 5 months ago today. Iz asked me if that was a memorable anniversary and I realized that every single day my brother is out in the world with a healthy kidney is memorable. Of course the time we spent together today was aggregating to no end. But, that is incomparable to what the alternative could've been.

I'm learning, slowly, to ride the waves, to hold it together when they're crashing over my head, to appreciate the moments of calm, to revel in streams of sun reflecting off the water and not let go when storms are ripping me apart.

After all this I'm thinking an Arrested Development marathon will be a great way to end this day.

a fork in the creative road

2011-11-04T10:22:00.002-04:00

Ideas are smacking me so hard in the head, I'm feeling dizzy at times. I've had 4 or 5 flashes of what to write today and at this point I'm curious as to what trajectory this blog post will take and where it'll end up. I kind of love these pieces - they unfold and lead me somewhere unexpected.

Last night I was struck by yet more synchronicity and signs about where I should be focusing. While checking blog stats (yes I do this) I saw someone had check out a post from just over a year ago, a post about my brother and sister, who were both just out of the hospital and how I was feeling helpless, hopeless, frustrated watching them suffer. I desperately wanted to make them better, to radically change things, but I was powerless to do anything but be a support system.

The post ended with me knowing that should there ever be anything I could do, of course I'd do it.

A month later my brother asked me to be tested. 6 months after that I drastically, dramatically, positively changed his life. I've been wondering if a book about our kidney would be worth exploring and then I realized what a truly profound story it is. To choose to save someone's life. And have it work? Inspiration is a great launch pad.

Which led me to my next potential blog post: for the love of drama. As soon as positive wraps its warm arms around me and holds me tight, doubt comes creeping softly in. I start spinning negative and last night, as my dad and stepmother, whom I haven't spoken to in almost a year, took hold of my thoughts, I was able to more clearly see just what my destructive process is. It doesn't have to be new drama. It doesn't have to be in the moment. I can dredge up pain and angst from years back to beat myself up with. And, I've learned, the most debilitating kind is focusing on not being wanted. Rejection, for whatever reason, is my kryptonite.

I have to say that again: rejection is my kryptonite. Or, to push it even farther, fear of rejection. Of not being important, acknowledged, of being pushed out, ignored, marginalized.

Whew. I can spend copious amounts of time and energy blaming other people. And then blaming myself. That place isn't easy for me to get out of. It's comfortable - as I've often said, there's comfort in the discomfort.

And then, this morning as I was blasting my stereo in the car, listening through a genius playlist based on my new anthem, I heard this:

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
'Cause I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing a piano

And what it all comes down to my dear friends, yeah
Is that everything is just fine fine fine
'Cause I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailing a taxi cab - Alanis Morissette

Yup. No one's figured it out just yet. But everything is fine.

Everything is fine.

As I'm getting back to myself, post book mania/Lexapro/kidney anxiety, these swings, these bursts, these flashes are feeling more and more comfortable. Intense yes but damn, to feel like myself again is awe inspiring. For a long time I forgot what that felt like. For a long time I was afraid that feeling like me meant falling apart. But maybe, I'm finally learning, that to be me is to accept all there is - the creativity, the drama, the anxiety, the fear of rejection - and to treat myself with acceptance and kindness regardless of where my thoughts and feelings are spinning.

Hmmm. This feels like a good place to stop for today. Love Shack just came on.

I have a theme

2011-11-03T16:39:00.001-04:00

Nope, not a dream (although I'm sure I could conjure some interesting things up here), but a theme. A theme, as in theme song. I'm trying it on, trying it out, as I start this new road back to myself. After starting The Artist's Way last week, I've been looking for synchronicity, potential pathways, changing my point of view.

One of the exercises is to list 20 things you like to do and when you last did them. Listening to music was one of mine. Throughout my life I've always had anthems, or songs that powerfully resonated with what I was living through at that moment. I can't think of how many times I listened to Like a Rolling Stone while my parents were splitting up. Muddy Waters was the soundtrack of my art school portfolio. Traffic got me through FLOW.

But, I don't get to listen very much anymore. Living in an apartment where everyone is always in the same room, my background noise is reruns of The Office mixed with Jon Stewart, Assasin's Creed and an occasional Abba interlude. But lately, I keep coming back to this one song: Praise You, by Fat Boy Slim. Its positive power washes over me every single time I hear it..

Here's the synchronicity part: last night in a mind-blowing, thought-provoking, inside-looking yoga class, the teacher challenged everyone to let go of their stuff. The blame. The shame. To go deeper and appreciate and accept.

Which is what The Artist's Way is saying.

Which is how I'm starting to feel when I look at all I've accomplished and where I am.

"We've come a long long way together,
through the hard times and the good.
I have to celebrate you baby.
I have to praise you like I should."

Damn. Those words are ringing really true right now. For me. About me. I am proud of who I am. Of what I've done. Of all I've overcome. Of the person I've become. The writer, the mother, the volunteer, the donor, the designer, the friend, the partner, the support system, the motivator, the organizer, the inspiration.

We all deserve some of this. Some appreciation and acknowledgment of who we are. Of how we handle these crazy lives, the stresses we'd never imagined, the challenges that continue to show up.

A little praise goes a long way folks.

Try it.

(this post would not have been possible without Ashleigh Beyer and Emily Stone)

just do it already

2011-11-02T16:58:00.000-04:00

When I mentioned to Jack the other day that I was happy I'd started writing here again, he said: yeah, but if you took all the time you spent blogging and worked on a new book, you'd be done already. And it would be a good one.

Words of wisdom from a 10 year old - at least about the getting it done part.

And yet, I can't start. I'm not sure why. I know how to write a book. I've done it plenty of times before. Then again, every single other project I've worked on has had a subject that I could research, find images for, background about. I've spent countless hours scouring ebay for vintage ads and ephemera, trolling online for obscure facts to share with the world.

I'm not thinking about that kind of book this time.

Perhaps that's why I'm stuck here.

I want to write my kidney book. Or, I feel like I should. Even more honestly, I feel like I should feel like I should. It's now a part of my past. Would anyone be interested reading it? Would I be interested writing it? And if not, what? There are plenty of other ideas I could grasp onto and delve into, but nothing is calling to me. Compelling me. Screaming my name and making me make it real.

At least not today.

But just thinking about it is a really good first step.

someone else's story

2011-10-29T20:58:00.003-04:00

Today thousands and thousands of kids took the NYC specialized high school test.

Mine was one of them. After a morning of anime (emotional comfort food) followed by chocolate chip pancakes paired with a chocolate egg cream (actual comfort food), Iz and I headed downtown in a rare October storm. Sleeting as we headed down into the subway, hail pelting us on the other end, we slogged through slushy streets, past countless black umbrellas towards the test site. Shivering, she agreed to wear my purple scarf, soaking wet, she walked behind me as I tried to shelter her from the driving rain. We slowly walked up the slick steps to the footpath across the west side highway and that was it.

No adults allowed any further.

It was chaos, crowded, steamy and freezing at the same time. She moved ahead, quickly getting lost in the crush and suddenly she wasn't mine anymore. I couldn't help her,support her, protect her. She was heading into the most challenging test of her life completely on her own.

For specialized high schools this test is everything. These scores are the only entrance into these esteemed establishments. One test. 100 questions. 2 and a half hours on a snowy afternoon. GPA's don't count. There are no teacher recommendations, or extra curricular extra credit. Colds or hormones or broken bones don't matter either. Just this one score.

That's what I watched my child dive into, having no idea what to expect on the other side.

The crowd after the test was brutal. Parents crushed together in the freezing rain,umbrellas painfully poking into and backs shoulders as we waited. And waited.

And waited.

As the first couple of kids came out it was like watching celebrities navigating unexpected packs of paparazzi. They looked shell shocked, dazed, after having their brains stretched for hours, suddenly finding themselves thrust into a sea of anxious parents.

Finally, I saw her at the top of the stairs, looking pale and shaken.

I pushed through the crowd, shouting until she saw me. She'd forgotten her umbrella, her favorite black and white houndstooth, and was upset they wouldn't let her back in to get it.

It didn't matter. We could get another. And it didn't matter how she thought she did on the test. It didn't cross my mind to even ask. I was so proud of her, her strength, her poise, her self confidence. Her independence.

It doesn't matter where she goes to school. What does matter is the kind of person she is.

And she is remarkable.

She blew me away today.

But that's nothing new.

getting back

2011-10-28T15:18:00.000-04:00

It's been almost 5 months since I donated a kidney. Almost 2 weeks since my final dose of Lexapro. Almost 2 years since my last book was published. And more time than I can remember since I've felt creativity wanting, or rather needing in my case, to take a front seat.

Even writing here isn't the walk in the park it had been for so long. Writing my kidney journey had purpose, meaning, a chronology—events to summarize and feelings to explore. Before that, it had been FLOW, and before that, fears of being a writer, or finding out I was just playing one on TV. I was almost never at a loss of what to say and every day, for almost two and a half years, I wrote here.

It's not that I'm empty. Maybe I'm not as willing to share as I'd been in the past. Maybe, for me, it's an event that spurs the exploration and baring of my soul in writing. Maybe it's because right now life is about everyone else and while there's plenty of stress and angst and unknowns, they're not really mine. I'm just herding others along their own burgeoning paths.

But, I want a path of mine own. Again. I know it's there. I'm just not sure which direction it will go in. I've never had a linear one. No clear direction, no clean cut next steps. I'm at a loss as to what to even think about doing next.

I started The Artist's Way this week - a 12 week book/course/set of exercises about discovering creativity. I'd done the program once before. 15 years ago. I did morning pages (writing 3 pages long hand as soon as you wake up in the morning) for more than 2 years. It was amazing, as I cracked open my new copy last Sunday night, at how much I've accomplished since then. I last read it before I'd written a book, before I had kids, as I was just beginning to be a designer. I was someone else back then. Scared. Timid. Fearful. Terrified I'd never amount to anything. That I'd never make an impact. That I'd never make things happen.

Years later, I have. I know how. I've created far more than I'd ever dreamed of. Had experiences that back then I never would have even contemplated.

I know how to get things done. Make things happen. Put ideas and projects out into the world.

But for me it's not ever about what I've done. Or what I'm going to do.

It's about what I'm doing. Now.

And I think I'm finally ready to start figuring that out.

a drama filled yet delicious mother's day

2011-05-08T11:34:00.001-04:00

"He broke my glasses!"

That was the scream that startled me awake at 7:20 this morning, by a child, not my own, as he burst into my bedroom.

That wasn't the first time I was woken up, abruptly, this Mother's Day. At 1:30am three boys came storming into my room, again with no knocks, all sopping wet from a very full glass of water inadvertently tipped over. That accident required a stack of towels and a batch of dry blankets to cover the spillage.

At 2, there was the gasping rasp of, "I can't breathe," coming from the edge of my bed. What I thought was an allergy attack - again, not one of my own kids - turned out to be pure anxiety. As he feared his imminent death, I talked this child down through super hero chatter mixed with deep breathing exercises. His father arrived 20 minutes later. Amazingly, most of the other kids at Jack's first ever sleepover, slept through the melee.

"He did it on purpose!" and "He's paying for a new pair!" were the second and third lines that pierced my now shattered REM cycle.

The early morning wrestle had taken a turn for the worst. Of course it was an accident. Of course it was one of those unfortunate things that just happen. Of course it was all worked out and smoothed over, by Izzy no less, but not until after this poor boy's mom was woken up on Mother's Day with a shout-filled ranting phone call.

I threw on clothes and ran downstairs with the dogs for an early morning walk. And that was my first gift - getting out of that pre-testosterone insanity. My second gift is sitting in the coffee shop across the street and writing this, while Jon went upstairs to deal.

And here I sit, hair something out of a Flock of Seagulls video, clad in old jeans and the shirt I slept in, drinking Brazilian coffee that borders on heaven, grateful that I am a mother.

Yesterday, as Jack told me repeatedly, he had the best birthday of his life. On a day that generally has at least one sobfest, he was happy from 6:20am, when he woke up to open gifts, to 12 at night when I shut down the lights. It was 10 years ago yesterday that he arrived on the planet and changed me forever.

It was a week of moments I was so grateful for my children. Looking back there was not a single fight or meltdown. From either one. I don't know that that's ever happened. I met Iz on her post play rehearsal walks home from school so we could spend extra time together. Jack and I headed to Chinatown one afternoon, on a spontaneous search for a game he wanted. We survived their first week of rigorous testing at school that they handled with maturity and relative ease.

Man do I love my children. And how I appreciate and enjoy (most of the time) watching them grow into themselves. I bask in the love they lavish on the two puppies who are now a part of our family. And I am proud of their empathy and concern for me and my brother as we go through these months of kidney confusion and unease. They are supportive and understanding and kind.

I am beyond grateful for the remarkable man I've been married to for more than half my life. Without him this amazing life I have wouldn't be. And the people who call me mom wouldn't exist.

I am grateful for my own mom, who has so much on her plate but is still here for me to call every day. She is far braver and stronger than she ever gives herself credit for.

And I am grateful beyond for the people in my life who love and nurture, who support and teach. As one of my wise yoga goddesses Ali said in class the other day - you don't have to have children to be a mother.

And so, love and blessings and heartfelt thanks to the many mothers in my life.

creativity versus anxiety

2011-04-04T20:47:00.000-04:00

I've been feeling that familiar clench in my jaw lately, that slight skin tingle, that too-much-going-on-in-my-head-at-the-same-time sensation.

I know this.

It's pre-anxiety attack anxiety.

Or, maybe, it's the need to create.

For the past year plus I haven't been immersed in a project. I haven't been compelled, driven, lost in something that's me but separate from my life.

I haven't had that place to go to escape from reality.

I haven't had deadlines and research and photos to search for.

Ideas to sell. Stories to tell.

Instead, that energy's gone to the dark side, mostly banished by medication, but cropping up as something evil, to be avoided at all costs.

Maybe, though, it's quietly shouting from the edges of my mind that it needs to be nurtured, not ignored, celebrated, not censured.

The problem is, I don't know how to dive in again. My last book burned me to a crisp, left me empty and beaten. I lost faith in the system. And faith in myself.

But there are glimmers, now that I'm recognizing them for what they are, that I need to jump back off the cliff.

I'm gasping for air here. No wonder I'm having trouble breathing.

My soul is disintegrating without that part of me being front and center. Or at least present and accounted for.

Part of me is ready to let go again. I feel it simmering.

It's time.

when anxiety is an unwelcome houseguest

2011-02-27T19:50:00.002-05:00

Anxiety has moved in. Without an invitation. It showed up yesterday and I'm thinking we'll be together, nonstop, for the next 3 weeks.

I know anxiety well. We've spent much of my life together. But now that I know what life is like without its constant presence, it's more intense when it shows up.

The clenched teeth, pit in my stomach, shaking hands. The jittery feeling that I'm going to crack at any moment.

The hyper-awareness.

The fear.

The dread.

I rationally know these are just feelings. Intellectually I'm sure that they can't destroy me. The realistic part of me is holding on to the fact I've come out on top of just about every anxiety smack down. But facing surgery in 3 weeks, with the host of unknowns this experience comes with, is fuel for anxiety's fire.

It's hard not to plunge deep into the dark side. To worry about freak accidents, about things going wrong. About blood clots, about never seeing my kids again. About kidney failure in my future.

About getting my period during surgery.

About death.

Anxiety is throwing everything it has at me. And it has quite the extensive arsenal.

It's even got other forces cooperating with it. The drive home from Vermont in a snowstorm. The news that someone in my family was just in the emergency room. That another one is sick and I'm blood test support.

It's almost impossible to breathe deep, to stay focused, to grasp on to calm as it skitters out of my range.

Anxiety used to be my creative fuel. I used to channel it to accomplish what I couldn't on my own. But I don't want that anymore.

I don't need that anymore.

Anxiety isn't welcome.

Now I just have to figure out how to kick it out.

defining success

2011-02-20T12:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, as I was telling someone about yogavotion, my newest project, they gave me a half-hearted thumb's up and said, "yeah, but what about WRINKLE?"

Good question. That was my go-to, post-FLOW, no-brainer project. I have hundreds of questionnaires stored on my hard drive. Great art. A substantial table of contents. A proposal would be a breeze to whip out—I used to thrive on that. And I know how to do this book, how to combine text, concepts, art to tell a visual story about a specific aspect of society and culture.

But, it didn't happen. Perhaps if FLOW had been more successful. Perhaps if that experience had been positive instead of fraught with hostility, anxiety, self-doubt.

Or, perhaps, I've moved on.

I had thought FLOW would make me a writer, a writer of a certain genre of books. I'd gain a reputation. I'd tackle new projects in the series with support of a publisher, an agent, an audience. The first part came true:

I am a writer.

I own it. I live it. What used to be close to impossible less than 2 years ago, now feels almost as effortless as design. Words flow now almost as easily as layouts do—they're just a different means of expression and communicating to me.

But the rest?

I'm far more grounded in reality than I've ever been about my path, my story, my success. And, what success really is.

I will never make huge amounts of money. In fact, it might not be likely that I'll even make good money again. The world is changing and what I'm good at isn't valued at the moment. I will never be a best-selling author. I don't see any sort of successful series in my future. I will never be an expert in a field, called on for talk show appearances and quotes in national publications.

I will never be high-powered.

I will never have a corner office, an assistant, a secretary.

I don't see royalty checks in my future. Or guest speaking. Or a summer house bought by the proceeds of the above.

I will never be a household name.

I could keep going here and mention I'll never be a rockstar or a painter or an astronaut, but none of those were ever even under consideration.

But, I have more love in my life than I would have ever imagined possible. There are times, watching my puppies play, my kids groove together, that there isn't a smile big enough to express all that's in my heart.

At times I am transformed by gratitude. I cannot think of a single thing I want that I don't already have in abundance.

I can be present and am learning to let go of the past and the future. That's something I would have thought impossible but, here I am.

I am comfortable in my skin. Cellulite, wrinkled elbows, slightly drooping eyelids, now more than the rare grey hair, a solid size 8—it's truly fine.

I am healthy. I don't just think it, I've gone through extensive testing and so I know it. I'm physically healthy enough to contemplate elective surgery and give an organ away. And mentally healthy enough to be good with that decision.

I can knit a scarf that stops people in the street. I have friends who are happy to see me. I have family that accepts who I am and loves me for that, and sometimes in spite of that. I can finally do a head stand in the middle of a room.

By society's standards I don't know that people would label me a success. But by mine? I'm not doing too badly.

february slump

2011-02-19T08:42:00.000-05:00

Usually I hit the wall in February. The cold has worn me down. My neck is tired of being encased in sweaters. My skin is papery and dry. My poor sinuses have just about had enough.

I generally shut down and have often sunk into that dark tunnel of depression. For me, it's easiest to be pulled under when darkness runs things, when the light is thin and brittle, when it's easier to be home than anywhere else.

This February it's not as bad as usual. I'm not immersed in any major projects which keep me from sinking (that's been an effective way of holding myself together against an inevitable slump).

Could be the meds. Could be the kidney donation. Could be that my new business cards, the first thing I've created in far too long, are stunning and make me super happy. Could be that I started yet another blog that I want to turn into something more.

Could be that I'm not as closed off as I used to be. Writing has changed my life. Having a place to explore, to express, to process has been far more powerful than I ever could have imagined. A little over a year ago, writing was more stressful than just about anything I'd undertake. I did it, but struggled over every idea, every sentence, every phrase.

Now it flows.

Ideas. Words. Concepts. I don't know when I start, where I'll end up but when I get there, I'm there. And I generally feel an ease in my soul that wasn't there before.

What a gift. Today I am grateful for myself—for showing up instead of shutting down.

For living instead of existing.

For making the effort instead of hiding in the tunnel the way I did for far too long.

how to pee in a cup

2011-02-10T10:35:00.000-05:00

Turns out, I had no idea how much was involved to do it properly. Ladies out there, I'm hoping you know more than I did, but if there's even a smidge of doubt in your head, read on:

how to pee in a cup

how my kidney journey started

2011-02-03T23:18:00.002-05:00

This was published today on HuffPo:

a different kind of giving

when stars align . . .

2011-02-02T18:07:00.000-05:00

I'm starting a new project.

It's an idea I had years ago but was never sure quite how to put it all together. It seems though, that the stars were lining up behind the soggy NYC skies to hand me the way to make it all happen.

I've been empty for so long I'd almost forgotten what it's like to have ideas flow through me—words, images, concepts arrive for me to ponder. Examine. Explore.

I'm rusty. Out of practice. Scared that I won't be able to do it again.

But, I know how to do this.

And I'm thinking the universe is helping me out on this one by giving me a support system that is boundless.

THANK YOU UNIVERSE.

I can't stop smiling.

I am in awe of how things can work because even if this project goes no further, the graciousness and love and belief that's been extended to me is profound. Beautiful.

I am lucky.

I am blessed.

I am grateful.

And that's what this project will be. The road I found, or that found me, and helped me get here—here being somewhere on my ongoing path.

And how to share this with people who are curious but don't know what the next step is.

exceedingly grateful

2011-01-31T22:44:00.002-05:00

Yet again, my big post today is about the kidney thing. I mentioned, quickly, that there are glimmers of creativity slowly creeping back.

They are.

I'm feeling the flow revving up.

IT FEELS SO DAMN GOOD!

For more that I'm grateful about, please read on:

kidney adventures

advice from unlikely places

2011-01-30T07:43:00.000-05:00

These days folks - so much is about, because of, inspired by my kidney story. And so, I'm love for you to read more:

the adventures of my kidney

when the past meets the present

2011-01-25T21:47:00.001-05:00

(this post is up on my kidney blog but it's about far more than that experience so I thought a double post was worthwhile)

Yesterday I spent time talking to the 3 psychiatrists at the nephrologist's office about my eating disorder. I'd say we spent 8-10 minutes out of 45 on the topic. I gave them a brief timeline, an overview, insights on why I thought I developed anorexia, treatment I received, and how I recovered to this point.

Cramming more than a decade of pain, self-flagellation, disgust and frustration into mini-monologues was close to impossible.

The hardest part though, and the summary I didn't pull off so well was how I got better.

I am better. So much better. Better to the point that when the head inquisitor observed that I'm no longer thin and how did I handle that, I handled it.

I had a fat moment or two this morning but was able to let it quickly go and enjoy my decaf mocha with whipped cream.

I now know my body is my home. It's my responsibility to take care of it, respect it, cherish it, not punish it. I accept who and where I am (for the most part). It is what is.

But how did I get here? To this reasonably healthy, sane place?

If I had hours to talk I don't know that's a question I have an answer to.

Being a mother made me let go of so much. The illusion of control. The concept that my issues were all important and should take precedent over everything else. Anorexia is quite the selfish, egotistical disease.

Going to art school and finding my voice after too many years of not having one.

There's yoga. Finding space in my mind and learning I don't always have to spin out of control. Not to mention being stronger than I've ever been. Who would ever have thought that neurotic me would ever be able to float into a headstand in the middle of a room.

Getting older. I'm finding age brings wisdom and acceptance. There are downsides but with this too, I'm learning to accept what is.

But I think the biggest thing is that I'm grateful. Grateful I'm here. Grateful for my family, for where we live, for the life we've created. For the opportunities I've had and the ones I made happen. For the many amazing people in my life. For my delicious puppy.

Grateful that I have a sense of humor that keeps me sane in the insanity.

Grateful that I can give.

Giving my kidney is a way to pay forward all I've been blessed with in my life. A thank you to the universe. A tip of the hat to the forces that be.

overcoming Jewish superstitions

2011-01-21T22:01:00.003-05:00

you can read about it on my kidney blog (where I'm trying to let go of old habits):

adventures of my kidney

rejecting rejection

2011-01-18T09:30:00.003-05:00

As I was just walking to yoga, on this icy, wet, slush-filled morning, I was thinking about what to write about. I was thinking about how easy it is to say you're going to let go of what you know, how you (I'm talking me here) can understand, conceptualize, "get" it, but the reality of letting go is just about impossible. While contemplating this I was also pondering the negative spaces that take over me. How lost I can get in being angry, feeling slighted, ignored, hurt - whether it was intentional or not. I trend sensitive for those here who haven't noticed. I can spin things that happened or might possibly happen over and over. And over. As if there's a replay button in my brain that can select out my most painful moments and put them on high rotation.

I'm really good at making myself feel really bad.

As I wandered the aisles of the Container Store, gazing at tiny boxes and packs of tissue paper this deep, way deep, so deep realization hit me.

Perceived rejection has to be one of my first feelings.

Whoa. Perceived rejection.

Growing up healthy in a house with a very ill sibling meant I got less attention. Not maliciously. Not with awareness. But I was ok and he wasn't. Reasonable, rational, logical. But not really when you're less than three.

From that, from there I think I internalized not being important enough and became comfortable with, accepting of people treating me with a certain sense of disregard.

I seek out those relationships.

To be put at the bottom of someone's list of priorities is where I know I'm supposed to be.

SHIT.

Damn.

Fuck.

This is a huge one for me.

Awareness is the first step.

Maybe this slight shift will help me to fight those ingrained tendencies and I can start letting go of something I never even thought of as a thing.

It is what is.

But I want it to be what was.

letting go of what you know

2011-01-16T10:18:00.002-05:00

Lately, this blog and my kidney adventures definitely mix and mingle.

Today was one of those days, should you care to pop over and read:

kidney adventures

surviving an anxiety attack

2011-01-14T21:09:00.000-05:00

I just survived an anxiety attack, although, the way I'm feeling it could start back up at any moment. My hands are still shaking. There's a strange heat, tingling in my head. My jaw is clenched tight. My stomach is knotted.

Yup, it's still here. But I'm still not giving in.

It started in the supermarket. Standing on line with Jack I got dizzy for no reason. Scared. Panicky. I made it home, barely holding it together. And then, as I stood in the kitchen, the unease started. The knowing that I wouldn't be ok, that I was about to lose it, that I would fall apart at any moment.

I didn't.

But I thought I would.

I grabbed ice cubes out of the freezer and held them so tightly I could hear them cracking. That didn't stop anything (I'd heard that holding ice cubes would stop a panic attack). I held them up to my checks until it felt they were numb. That helped slightly.

I remembered what the transplant social worker had said the other day—that I had to look at my history and know that I always survive in the end. That, and that anxiety was a learned response from my earliest years.

I don't want to react to stress with anxiety attacks anymore. I hate this.

HATE this.

So much unknown, so much stress, so many things I've never dealt with are in my near future and I want to find a healthier way of dealing than this.

I will not fall apart. I'm stronger than this. I have to find a way to know that at my very center and not fall back into this dark place.

Or, maybe I've been having a hot flash.

All I can say is oy.

the fringier part of me

2011-01-12T10:04:00.001-05:00

Last night I was the first to arrive for dinner. It was my monthly book club which rarely talks books but manages to cover a vast range of other topics. I arrived at the restaurant, an old neighborhood standby that had recently relocated to a deserted stretch of 8th street. Not feeling like waiting outside in the cold, about to snow dark, I looked around to see if anything was open where I could browse for a few minutes.

Right next door was a piercing shop. Glancing in the window I recognized almost none of the shining bits and pieces but I ventured in. The man behind the counter took one look at middle aged me and looked back to his magazine. Apparently a funky vintage coat and cool boots don't make much of an impression.

Still, I walked the dimly lit gauntlet to the back of the store and asked if they had any nose jewelry. He glanced at me again, spotted the gold glimmer in my nostril, and pulled out a black velvet display studded with the tiniest of jewels.

He got friendlier as I asked about different options and which were easiest to change and why. I then screwed up courage to ask if he could explain how to get my own piercing out. There's a mysterious labyrinth living inside my nose that's a puzzle I afraid to attempt.

Excitedly he explained how to remove the u-shaped stud, even drawing a diagram to refer to. I then learned that should I buy something there, the salesperson would help me remove the old and insert the new.

I gave a secret moment of silence to those whose job it is to stick their fingers up other people's noses all day.

I saw what I want. A bezel cut tiny diamond set in white gold. Simple. Clean. Sparkly.

I'm thinking that should all my kidney testing go as planned, I'm treating myself to some new nose bling on the way home.

It's a kidney kind of day

2011-01-10T11:27:00.000-05:00

Last night I had a sizable kidney freakout—you can share it with me here:

adventures of my kidney

life changing change

2011-01-07T06:45:00.001-05:00

Yesterday morning, while having coffee with a friend, we spent a lot of time talking about potential change. Going back to a conventional job versus staying home with kids, what that juggle might be like, how we felt about where we are, where we could be, where we should be. And then, as we were walking home, we ran into another friend who looked stricken as we said hello. On the verge of tears. She'd found out the day before that her best friend had breast cancer.

Boom.

The trajectory of that woman's life changed in one sentence. Nothing would ever be the same. Out of nowhere she, her husband, her kids, her parents, her support system were plunged into the unexpected, the unknown, a dark, scary place where there were no guarantees everything would be ok in the end.

To be honest, no one can ever know all will work out but we live (or at least I do) in this place where we can pretend to have control.

We don't. Not really.

Not at all.

Another friend of mine lost his apartment this week. The recession hit him hard and he can't afford to keep his home. After years he's starting completely over. He'd tried, for too long, to maintain that everything was fine while his foundation was being worn out from under him.

I too, am standing on a precipice. It's not coming out of nowhere—I'm choosing this road instead of it choosing me. No, actually, it's not that black and white. I'm not choosing this out of nowhere. I'm choosing it because I have no choice. There's no way I couldn't give my brother a kidney. Put more plainly, of course my kidney is his.

Of course.

But this road is fraught with unknowns. My first physical is next week. It could be that I'm a relatively healthy 46 year old. It also could be that there's all sorts of stuff going on in my body I don't know about. Yet. But soon I will. And after all that gets sorted out, once I have the green light to move forward, once we're tested and matched and tested again, once we're in the hospital and prepped for surgery, I still won't know. I won't know until I wake up whether I'll have one kidney or two. My brother's body is so compromised they won't know until they open him up whether he'll have room for a new organ.

All this could lead to nothing. Or a life, two lives, could be drastically, dramatically changed.

Whew.

Life smacks you in the head sometimes and leaves you reeling. But, still, it's better than the alternative.

2011-01-05T18:44:00.006-05:00

Today was an old-fashioned, juggling, various pieces of my life colliding kind of morning.

After walking the dog, getting 2 kids out and to school, and having a super quick coffee and even quicker conversations with various friends I hadn't seen since before the winter break, I had a FLOW documentary brainstorming session with several writers and producers, one of whom is an old friend, someone I adore but hadn't seen in awhile. After the meeting we spent time catching each other up and in a matter of minutes we touched on cancer, breakups, breakdowns, death, parenting, work, and kidney donations.

There's been a lot going on.

Head-shaking, daunting, soul-shattering stuff going on.

We sighed. We empathized. We nodded our heads like 2 little old ladies sitting out on a stoop in the Bronx, wearing babushkas, sharing the drama and illnesses and challenges we'd be living with.

In spite of everything we're both relatively ok. Dealing with what is. Appreciating where we are. Hoping the worst is over.

It's life and it's not always easy. Sometimes it's impossibly, painfully, heart-crushingly hard.

then went yoga where the theme was all about letting of of expectations and the challenges of being. Just being. After a lovely class that ended with a heavenly shivasana I had a remarkable conversation with my teacher about being present and letting go of trying so hard/too hard to get there.

From there I headed home where my puppy was waiting for me. I scratched her belly until we were both blissed.

Yes, it was quite the morning. Full of connection, movement, emotion, thoughtfulness, creativity, love, enlightenment, sympathy, pain.

My life is so extraordinarily full. Sometimes all I can do is step back and take it all in. Sometimes I'm swimming in it, drowning in it, barely able to stay on top of the water. Sometimes I'm so overwhelmed by it all, all I can do is sleep more than usual to keep from losing it.

I'm feeling anxiety creep in.

I'm scared of the road I'm on. There are times I can hold onto being in the moment and letting go of expectations, of the future, of control, but the truth is that more often I want to, need to know everything will be ok. That I'll be ok. That all will be fine in the end.

I once wrote something called "The Everything is Fine Book" and that's the mantra I need to hear when life gets to be too much.

Everything is fine.

And truly, everything is fine. Or at least it is the way it is and one can fight it or be fine with it.

I'm working on the being fine part.

reality setting in

2011-01-04T11:47:00.004-05:00

Today's a kidney kind of day:

kidneyadventures.blogspot.com

Home is where the hot water bottle is

2011-01-03T18:10:00.001-05:00

Last night, after a mind and body numbing day of travel, of cars and buses and planes, of endless sitting in cramped spaces, I slid into bed at 10, too exhausted to do anything but gratefully lie there.

I had a moment. A delicious, blissful moment. My sheets were soft and smooth from countless washings. I was surrounded by fuzzy pillows and blankets (both something my family can't live without). And as I burrowed down my toes hit my almost burning hot hot water bottle.

I intended to read for a bit but I was so happy, so cozy, so comfortable I laid there letting the warmth seep in.

I was home.

No matter how lovely a vacation is, I'm always so happy to be back home. To drive through NYC in the twilight, street lights reflecting on the wet sidewalks. To breathe the crisp, fresh air. This time, for the first time, to open the door and see a super happy puppy literally vibrating with excitement. To walk crowded sidewalks knowing I'd find a good cup of coffee. To hear the noises of the street as I fall asleep.

Dorothy was right about this one.

Vacation take aways

2011-01-02T06:58:00.000-05:00

I wrote this yesterday but had no Internet connection to post with. And so, while I'm sitting in the dark, docked at port, not yet ready to gear up for a big travel day, I'm happy to relive yesterday for a moment or two:

I'm lying here, on a heated chaise, water from the fountains trickling quietly, nothing but ocean and clouds and blue sky and warm sunshine beyond the floor to celling windows.

I was drifting in and out of empty, a gratifying place to be for me Vacation take aways

I'm lying here, on a heated chaise, water from the fountains trickling quietly, nothing but ocean and clouds and blue sky and warm sunshine beyond the floor to celling windows.

I was drifting in and out of empty, a gratifying place to be for me as it can so often be so hard to get to. But thoughts kept cropping up at the edges. More actually appreciations and I wanted to make them more concrete before they slipped away.

My parents are remarkable. I am so grateful for them and I don't tell them that enough. They love me so whole-heartedly, they make things possible that otherwise wouldn't be, they are accepting and supportive and thoughtful.

I'm better at doing nothing than I thought I was.

The older I get, the less things bother me.

My kids have remarkable manners.

My clothes will soon be shared with a child of mine who already looks better in them than I do.

I can still pull off a bikini.

My body lets me know when it's had enough.

I finally learned all I need on a cruise are comfy pants and a long sleeved t shirt.

Whipped cream in coffee is heavenly.

I can survive without technology.

I'm getting better at letting go of the illusion of control.

Zeppoles stuffed with raisins are far more delicious than one could possibly imagine.

And I'm starting 2011 with no concrete resolutions except to walk up 10 flights of stairs once a day.

Heaven

2010-12-31T13:05:00.001-05:00

I'm lying in a hammock that's strung between 2 palm trees, coconuts ripening overhead, sunlight breaking through the heavy fronds. Waves are breaking onshore, the water varying shades of turquoise, cobalt, teal. The sky is dappled with marshmallow clouds. Peacocks, with their own range of brilliant blues and greens, are wandering so close by I could reach out and touch one (not that I ever would).

The sand is white. The shells are plentiful.

There's a sense of relative emptiness compared to the overcrowding we've found on other places.

After days of not getting into our groove today more than makes up for it.

I will go home warm with Mexican beaches and sun and the raw beauty of shells adorning trees mired in the surf.

I am happy.

Smiling.

Grateful.

Moments

2010-12-30T15:20:00.001-05:00

As Jack and I were heading back from the beach we had this pretty remarkable chat about expectations.

A little background: this was our 4th cruise day, 3rd trip off the ship, first completely sunny, blue-skied, white sanded, turquoise watered Caribbean day. Unlike our usual adventurous selves, needing to discover the unbeaten path wherever we are, we stayed close to the ship and headed to a beach just past the tourist shops. So, it seemed, did just about everyone else from the 2 shipped in port. At 10:30am there wasn't a beach chair to be found, with only minute patches of sand to claim as our own.

But, the water was delicious, the view of the mountains, clouds lightly dipping down, was delightful. A breeze occasionally blew through, cooling us off as we lazed in the sun.

Jack had been looking for more - more fun, more adventure, more options. And I told him that expectations get you into trouble every time. When you hope, wish, wait for something spectacular, or even better than what is, most likely you'll be disappointed. On the other hand, if you take time to appreciate where you are, it can often be better than you realize.

We walked back to the ship, along the sparkling water, magenta and orange flowers dotting the path, skin pink from the sun, heads drowsy from the heat. Me and my boy. Me relishing the beauty of the moment, him dreaming of ice cream.

It took me years to learn to live in a moment. I'm hoping he got a glimpse of that today.

Judgement

2010-12-28T17:21:00.000-05:00

Right before heading out to sea I had a super strange, turn-me-on-my-head experience. We were in Florida, out to dinner with relatives we hadn't seen in some time. I was shocked, truly shocked to find that not only do they read what I write, but that they're interested and empathetic. As if that wasn't enough, they think I'm a terrific writer.

I was speechless. Touched. Through my writing they've gotten to know me in a way that never seemed possible in the real world.

What's even more fascinating is that other people in my life have taken the same thing, my writing, and judged me as a loser, a time waster, a narcissist for thinking anyone might possibly have interest in what have to say.

Someone to admire. Someone to admonish. Someone to be proud of. Someone to look down on. Opposite ends of the spectrum points of view based on exactly the same thing.

The thing is, I'm being myself. As much as one can be in a sterile, faceless environment. I write my truth, or, more likely, I figure out my truth by writing. This has been my therapy, my solace, my place to explore and find comfort. And often, a way to vent when I need to be have no other place or time.

That people share this journey with me is gratifying. Strange. Different. I'm always a bit taken aback when someone knows details of my life I know we never discussed. But I'm also honored that they took the time.

The world and how we share is changing. I'm figuring it out as I go along. For those who need to judge, what can I say. For those who've changed how they think about me, wow. For those who share, thank you.

what I can't live without

2010-12-26T12:06:00.000-05:00

I was thinking this morning, as I wandered around my mom's house repacking all that we unpacked since last night plus the many things we accumulated at Target this morning, what were the things I couldn't live without. I thought this because the last minute shopping trip was to get a fuzzy pillow for one of my children who neglected to bring hers but can't sleep without one.

In the craziness, the stuffing, the organizing, I discovered what I can't live without.

My sunglasses were missing.

MY PRESCRIPTION SUNGLASSES WERE MISSING.

I took them off when I came into the house, put them on top of my bag and when I went back later to put them on, they were gone.

THEY DISAPPEARED.

FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I can't handle sun. I often wear sunglasses in my apartment when it gets too bright. The thought of spending a week in the sun, in the carribean, on a boat, at the BEACH with no shaded?

I lost it. After frantically tearing apart every bag I'd just repacked, I burst into tears, shaking, and curled up in the corner of a bedroom, incapable of pulling myself together.

It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was embarrassing. Everyone in my family now knows, as I shouted it over and over, that the last time I lost a pair of glasses was sophomore year of college.

There wasn't time to stop anywhere and have a quick pair made. Iz offered me her faux Coach pair which make me look like a Real Housewives reject. A quick stop at Walgreens found me a clip on shade that doesn't quite fit but creates turquoise and blue verticle stripes wherever I look. A quick real time note: Jack just looked at me and smiled a pity smile at how ridiculous I look.

And so, I've confronted and dealt with what I can't live without. And found that I can survive. Not fashionably, but I can still function.

Trip photos won't be featuring me.

And I'm going to think first, before thinking.

a gift that can't be wrapped

2010-12-25T09:29:00.000-05:00

this one's on my other blog:

adventures of my kidney

my kidney could be moving to a new home!

2010-12-23T16:11:00.002-05:00

Test results came back today - I'm a match!

adventures of my kidney

the end of year recap begins

2010-12-21T22:44:00.000-05:00

At the close of most years I take time to ponder. To look back at what happened. How I grew. Or stayed stuck. What worked. What didn't. I'm generally amazed at how much has taken place but this year more than most. It doesn't seem possible that 2010 could possibly have been so much, in so many ways.

And so . . .

Biggest life changer: we found our puppy and she changed me in such great ways

Thing I thought might be a life changer but wasn't: speaking on national tv in front of millions of people

Most thrilling moment: watching Jack "get" column addition

Most challenging juggle: having my brother and sister in the hospital at the same time

Most unexpected decision: cutting my hair off

Biggest decision that was unexpectedly a no-brainer: going for kidney match testing

Thing I never imagined happening: taking Lexapro

Thing that I always imagined would happen but dreaded like hell: having a mini breakdown

Thing that threw me the most: falling off my bike and the crazy long recovery

Thing I'm most proud of: taking a month off from yoga to heal and handling it

Thing I'm most surprised about: that my body stayed just about the same

Biggest thing I gave up: sugar

Biggest thing I've taken on: PTA presidency

Thing I couldn't possibly imagine: that I'd be happy not being in the midst of a project

Most spur of the moment moment: getting my nose pierced

Best vacation ever: the end of August on the Jersey shore

Most grateful for: Jon, Iz, Jack and Gracie

a mini gratitude shout out

2010-12-20T22:27:00.000-05:00

My kids are in bed, not sleeping, but not out here.

There was not a single argument between them or with me.

Jon's making a delicious dinner.

My puppy is sitting in my lap.

I finished knitting two gifts today.

The weather warmed up to not frigid.

My PTA work was super appreciated this morning.

My hand doesn't hurt anymore. My shoulder is so much better.

My anxiety's been controllable.

I didn't hear a single Christmas song anywhere today.

My apartment is toasty and pretty neat.

Not a drop of drama has crossed my path and I'm going to bed soon.

I'm content, appreciative, mellow and happy at the moment.

This is one to savor.

yay life!

2010-12-19T12:26:00.000-05:00

I had a couple of things I had been thinking about writing today:

fat me: peeking in on feeling fat when stress gets too intense and how that negativity's been creeping back in lately

being dumped is hard to do: thoughts about letting go when you're not the one who wanted out of something

But, this morning, as I was chatting in the elevator with a woman I'd never seen before and her dog (I wasn't talking to the dog, just admiring him), about the exuberance of puppyhood, she said puppies are all: yay life.

Yay life.

I love that. LOVE.

Puppies are so yay life - at least mine is. Gracie radiates enthusiasm. She sees me and her tail starts wagging, whether it's the energetic almost wiggling out of her skin when I come home or the sleeping under the chair, just waking up flutter back and forth. She loves nothing more than sitting on my lap, chewing furiously on a toy. In fact, she's here right now which makes typing on my laptop ultra challenging. But, I wouldn't change it for the world.

She's been with us for 5 months and I can barely remember life without her. She brings a sweetness to sitting still. A warmth to doing nothing because being together in that nothing is love and comfort and ease.

She melts me. And yet her presence is a powerful force, not just for me but for all of us.

For someone who never really wanted a dog I fell hard. Puppy love is a delicious thing.

the practice

2010-12-17T10:06:00.000-05:00

So far this week I went to 3 yoga classes. 3 days in a row.

I'm sore. Aching in some spots. But, it's been the first time in the 3 months since I fell off my bike that my body is getting close to what it used to be able to do. My knee is still wonky - child's pose is still more uncomfortable than relaxing. My handle can only handle so many planks and then I'm done. And my shoulder still is unhappy twisting in certain ways. Having said that, I can move. Pain isn't present all the time. I'm having moments of getting lost in the moment. Moving. Grooving. Flowing.

And so, I've been thinking about what yoga means to me. It's been almost 6 years since I found my studio and quit the gym the next day, after years of countless reps and miles logged on the stairmaster. I didn't know that I was looking. I had no expectations of what yoga would do for me, how it would shape me, change me.

I wasn't looking for a path.

Or maybe I was.

This week, in every class, teachers talked about coming to the mat. Coming to the mat is a commitment. To me. To my body. To my mind. It's a place to make space. To put everything else aside, as much as is possible, and be present. To twist, to balance, to be challenged. To move, to be still, to laugh which I do in every class.

Some days I can let go. Most of the time I can't. At least that'd what I think when I'm there but the truth is I'm letting go by letting myself be there.

Breathing.

Being.

medicated me

2010-12-16T09:57:00.000-05:00

It's been 7 plus months since I started taking Lexapro. I actually had to wait to complete that sentence so I could check my calendar - I wasn't quite sure. Yesterday, after writing about being frozen and stuck, complacent and ambivalent, I realized it could be the meds.

When I first started in them a friend, a successful writer, said she'd known plenty of creative types who lost their creativity to meds.

I'm thinking I could be one.

Which leads me to this:

anxiety = productivity

+ chemicals = stability - creativity

Anxiety has always been my fuel, my drive, my gasoline. Even while frozen by anorexia for all those years I knew, as just about the deepest truth there is, that should I be able to channel all that energy into something constructive, I could accomplish great things. It took years to thaw but, that thought came true. I have accomplished some truly great things.

But it got to be too much.

My soul needed a time out. Maybe, and here's a thought, this particular respite is the first chance in I can't think of how long for me to get to know me. Not driven me, frenetic me, accomplishing me, busy me. The me that's underneath all that.

Now I have to figure out if I want to leave here and plunge back into freneticism. I could stop taking meds and see what happens. It all could be fine - I'm taking a very low dose. But, the teeth-gritting, soul-haunting, reality-shifting anxiety could flood back and that terrifies me.

I just answered my own question.

I'm not ready.

Yet.

frozen, stuck and scared. oh my.

2010-12-15T10:42:00.001-05:00

So.

Maybe not creating, not being smack in the middle of an all-encompassing project, not juggling far too much isn't really that I'm ok with it.

Maybe I'm scared.

Maybe, after FLOW, after putting myself more out there than I ever have, of hitting heights I'd never dreamed of, of being profoundly proud, thrilled, anxious, disappointed, hurt, overwhelmed, even lost at times, I'm afraid of jumping back in.

Or even getting my feet wet at this point.

Maybe I'm afraid I can't do it again.

Maybe I'm feeling that no one will say yes this time.

I had a remarkable run. But nothing I did caught on fire. Even when I believed deep in my heart they would. It would. FLOW would.

In the end, it's heartbreaking, when I let myself think about it. What a conversation I got to start. What a message I put into the world. What important, relevant topics I had people talking about.

But not enough. And I got to the point where I couldn't swim upstream anymore.

It was so fucking hard for so long.

I'm trying to be ok with where I am. But deep inside, hidden so far down at this point I can pretend it's not there, I'm missing it. I miss meetings, phone calls, due dates. Learning, researching, exploring. Searching for art. Making sense of the mess it all starts out as. The anticipation. Excitement.

The crafting of something from a vague idea into a tangible reality.

Having an end result. A book on my shelf.

Something to talk about.

But missing it isn't enough to make me start again.

I've never been in this place before—complacent. Ambivalent. Unable to get myself going.

It's usually been the opposite. I couldn't stop.

Now I can't start.

Knitting is the new nothing

2010-12-14T09:37:00.002-05:00

She who must not be named (the family member who recently cut me out of her life) was actually right.

I do nothing.

Yup, right now I do nothing.

Well, not quite nothing. I raise 2 kids, run a PTA, take care of a puppy. I make dinner, make beds, do laundry and multiplication tables. I go to physical therapy and yoga. Doctor's appointments for the potential kidney thing. Alternate side parking.

I shop for holiday gifts, for the right kind of pasta, for flowers for my mom's birthday/hospital visit. I plan school dances, weekend play dates, middle school merchandise lines.

But I don't have a "job" job and there are no money making related ventures in my future.

I've been here before. Many times. The last office job I had was in 1995. As a freelancer there are times I'm overwhelmed with work and times when I can barely pay my bills.

This is one of the latter.

To add to the mix, I'm not out there trying to sell anything and that's new too. It's not that I don't have viable ideas I believe in - I do - but at least for right now, doing nothing seems to what I'm supposed to be doing.

Last night I had a long talk with a dear old friend whose life is literally shape shifting in real time. It must be terrifying to live but it's beautiful to watch. This person, in a very short span of time, is discovering who he is, not just being who he thinks he's supposed to be.

Lightbulb.

Perhaps this relative emptiness in my life right now is so that I can do the same. Maybe letting go of (although I did not choose to) all the busyness is making space for me to grow into what's next.

I have NO idea what that could be. Hopefully something fabulous. Hoping even more it's helping my kidney get to a new home.

But in the meantime, many I know are getting lovely hand knit gifts.

Knitting is the new nothing until I find my new something.

writing

2010-12-13T16:03:00.000-05:00

I'm still holding tight to my 40 day commitment.

Only today I'm not writing here—I'm working on a Huffington Post piece about bullying, about how impossible it's going to be to change things when kids so often learn unacceptable behavior at home.

At the moment though, I'm stuck. I have no solutions, no ideas, not even an inkling of what can be done.

And so, perhaps, knitting will clear my head for a bit.

Lock down

2010-12-11T17:07:00.000-05:00

It's been a week. The kidney tests. The family drama. The winter chill outside. Scrambling to pull together a Hanukkah that didn't suck.

And then yesterday, on her birthday, someone I love dearly ended up in the hospital. All will be fine but it was more than I could handle.

And so I didn't.

I didn't process it think about it deal with it.

I made it through the day, and then had a night filled with nightmares of knitting projects I screwed up, of dinner parties I was hosting that I hadn't prepared dinner for, of my period not ending long after it should have.

Today I woke up, but not really. I dragged myself through a yoga class, came home and fell asleep. I think this is one day thay will be over without my ever really being fully in it.

Sleep seems to be my new coping strategy. And I'm ok with that for now.

compartmentalizing

2010-12-09T09:25:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, while having coffee with one of my dearest friends, I finally got to talk about all that's been going on lately. She observed that compartmentalizing is a powerful coping strategy for me.

Yes it is.

I don't know how I'd survive the many situations and emotions pulling me in such diverse directions if I couldn't lock things behind doors and not be constantly overwhelmed.

It's been like this for as long as I can remember.

My brother has been ill since a tumor was discovered in his 9 month old kidney. I was just over two—that's too young to remember but I've been told of out of state treatments, of my mother staying in the hospital with him for days on end, of having her parents keep me up late at night so we could spend time together when she finally got a break. In the ensuing years we never talked about what he'd had, all that had and was going on, but there was always an undercurrent of something tragic and huge below the surface.

There was my sister's stroke, when I was a freshman in college. 3 months maybe after my father left. He'd told me the previous December, two weeks before he told my mom. And then he moved out the day after my high school graduation. I think my mom might have gone into the hospital for surgery that day too. Memories get fuzzy sometimes. From that point on, he's disappeared from my life for significant stretches. Years would go with no contact. His wife? Let's just last week and they both told me never to contact them again.

This latest blow out as my brother and I face major surgery. He's living with a catheter in his chest for dialysis, at best a short term solution until something better comes along. We're all hoping my kidney is his good news. But, should we be matches, and I pass all the testing, they won't know until he's on the operating table and open whether his scarred body can fit a new organ.

Yet another box I have to manage.

I write here often (and I've been called out for incessant whining) about the many struggles I face. Most are things many of us deal with: aging, body, parents, kids, school, work, relationships—it's a long list. There are some that are more specific to me: anxiety, fear of breaking down, living a creative life and the inherent ups and downs that go with it. The precarious balance of being a mother who works, at other things, at home.

What to make for dinner.

How to read the knitting pattern I'm struggling with.

Laundry.

Holiday gifts.

Multiplication tables.

Blackheads.

And so, for me, if I didn't have all my boxes, my closets, the ability to shut out, close off, turn the volume down on the above, I'd never make it through the day. A day. Any day.

Perhaps assimilating it all, processing, dealing, talking, working through would be healthier.

But the thought of that terrifies me.

double duty

2010-12-08T15:30:00.000-05:00

Today I had wanted to write about family. About volunteering to have myself cut open to help my brother while, at the same time, people in my family have cut me out of their lives, forever so they say.

The disparity is almost too overwhelming to comprehend.

Stress and fear can bring people together. Or tear them apart.

I'm smack in the middle of both situations. And all I can do at the moment is shut down. Not completely - I'm knitting my very first dog sweater and it's taking serious concentration to figure out this pattern. But I can't process any of the rest of it.

And so, I'm sharing my kidney post here.

Hopefully tomorrow I'll be back to working my way through.

something old, something new

2010-12-07T06:04:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I started a new blog (yes, she-who-must-not-be-named, another blog).

This one will chronicle my journey as a potential kidney donor.

I've never done anything like this before. It's a road of nothing but unknowns.

There's far more involved than I would have thought. But, should all the many puzzle pieces fit together, my brother could end up in a far better place than he is now.

I hope you'll follow me here:

adventures of my kidney

Being me again

2010-12-06T06:40:00.000-05:00

For the past week or so I've been waking up earlier than I need to. The sun hasn't come up yet. Aside from the garbage truck outside the streets are remarkably quiet. I could still be in bed, wrapped up in fuzzy blankets, my hot water bottle holding on to its last bit or warmth keeping my toes from freezing.

At 7 it'll get crazy. Kids need to get to school. Lunches has to be made. The dog needs to be walked. Things will be missing. People will be cranky, especially on a Monday morning. This calm will disappear like a balloon floating silently away against the blue sky until it'll be hard to remember if it was real or I imagined it.

Back to my point . . .

I'm waking up early to write. I don't plan this. No alarms are set. I'd really rather be in my cozy bed. But it's time. I've been shut down for so long. Too long. I've been grappling with life changing issues and situations. I shut myself in a box and for all this time that was ok.

I've learned that I can survive without being lost I'm a project. How to be me instead of what I'm working on. That I can handle extraordinary stress and still be relatively ok.

That I can take care of myself and that often means with compassion and kindness. I've never been very good at giving myself a break. Guilt and berating were the two usual standbys.

I'm learning. I'm growing.

And I'm writing again. Before the sun comes up. Before thoughts are fully formed. Before the day gets away from me and excuses take over.

And now I have 20 more minutes to hop back in bed before the insanity starts.

mothers who don't work

2010-12-05T08:05:00.000-05:00

I was accused the other day of not working. It was intended as a scathing insult. The accuser? Let's just leave it as she-who-must-not-be-named, the family member who's now officially cut me out of her life completely.

This particular missive spent much time comparing us, with, of course, her being far more favorably represented. We're both mothers, she said, but an intrinsic difference is that she's
always worked while I stay at home doing nothing.

In my book though, being a full time stay-at-home mom is just about the most challenging job that exists on this planet. You're on call 24/7. At any moment the nurse could call, an argument breaks out, someone throws up and boom - you have to drop whatever you might have been doing on move yourself to the bottom of the priority list. You soothe after nightmares. You mediate fights, you spend hours cutting 1/2 inch cubes out of styrofoam for an igloo project.

You listen. You nurture. You discipline. You are the CEO of an company that doesn't give sick days. You can't roll over vacation time. There is no vacation time.

Sometimes, when motherhood particularly overwhelms me, I fantasize about getting a conventional job. Just the thought of sitting on the bus and commuting sounds like heaven. Being in a meeting and not being able to take a call? Heaven. Arriving home with dinner and homework and baths and walking te dog and cleaning up a thing of the past? Bliss.

While I know my fantasy isn't quite true - it's more a grass is greener outlook I would never slam mothers who have a job outside the home. I can't imagine the juggle and stress that must go along with that particular double duty.

If I'm not wearig those shoes, I don't judge. Which makes the denigration of stay at home moms all the more infuriating. I chose this life. I am grateful I can be here. It's the most demanding job I've ever had. And yet to many, motherhood doesn't count as work.

To raise compassionate, thoughtful, motivated, well-rounded, grounded kids is just about the most valuable job I can think of. They are our future. They will make an impact in the world. They could save the planet. Cure cancer. Invent new synthetic gemstones or develop gaming systems that will revolutionize the way we play (the current aspirations of my two).

More importantly, if I do my job well, they will be there for each other, no matter what. They will treat others with repect and kindness. They will find their individual roads and move through their lives with hopefully not overwhelming stress or pain.

At this point in my life I am many things. I am a public school PTA president. A graphic designer. A writer. A hoster of every family holiday. A class parent. A potential kidney donor. A partner. A daughter. A sister. A friend.

A stay at home mother.

That's not an insult. It's a gift.

letting go of toxic

2010-12-04T12:48:00.000-05:00

We all have things in our lives that aren't good for us: habits, relationships, situations. And they can be close to impossible to let go of.

Right now, in my life, it's time to let go. This week, in particular, the conversation keeps appearing—with friends, in yoga, in what I'm reading, talking, thinking about.

There are small things, like relying on chocolate in moments of frustration or spending money at etsy for things I really don't need. I've actually been doing far too much shopping lately. It's an old old habit that resurfaces when life gets to be a bit much. At this point my goal is to get rid of more than I take in, yet I've got enough yarn for at least 5 more projects and did I really need to order two more of the exact same umbrella?

That's not toxic though.

Toxic is when these things make you doubt yourself, make you hate yourself, make you feel so badly you're not sure exactly who you are anymore.

That's what I'm trying to let go of.

This week I went back to yoga. In spite of the pain and the healing that's still going on. I had to let go of being angry at myself—angry at what I can't do. Frustration at needing to take it easy. Embarrassment and discomfort at people watching me not participate. Most likely they barely notice but I feel (felt) like a loser for standing instead of moving. It was almost impossible to be there and be ok. Every class though is getting easier. I can do what I do and I'm learning to accept and be grateful for that. It's more than I could do 2 months ago, or even last week.

I'm letting go.

This week I also let go of relationships that caused pain and disappointment for years. By the end of a day or increasingly insulting and hurtful emails in which I was called, along with many other things, a has-been-want-to-be-who-never-was crazy bitch (those are actually from 2 different emails but I'm using creative license here), I finally was able to open my eyes and see the truth. Not what I hoped would happen. Not what used to be. What is.

The what is, the truth, is so often hard to accept. It's not what you want. It's not what you deserve. It's not what you'd wish for your worst enemy. But, sitting with reality and coming to terms with it is far healthier than holding on to illusions that are just that. Yearning for the past or the different or somewhare else than wherever you are.

And in those moments of clarity, sometimes there's acceptance. And letting go is far easier than you think it would be.

I feel freer right now. Lighter. Less burdened. Reality may not be what I wanted, but it's better than living where I was.

why do I write

2010-12-03T07:13:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, in the midst of an increasingly heated email exchange, someone asked me why I write. Here. Actually, it was more an accusation that I crave attention, that I'm having an emotional crisis, that I'm insecure and need people to pay attention to me but why would anyone be interested in the problems of a want-to-be-who-never-was. It ended with the suggestion that I double my medication or figure out what dire things are truly wrong with me.

But that's another story.

In that fragile, painful, charged moment I wasn't sure. Why did I write here? Was she right? Was it all because I'm needy, need to bring other people down to build myself up, am a loser who does nothing so I need to share my angst with the world? So, I mentioned the slam on twitter last night and got this response:

because you touch my heart, teach me new things, & allow me to see the world differently

And I realized I knew the answer all along. I write because I'm a writer.

I am a writer.

And how can one write without baring their souls, even a bit?

To have a creative soul isn't easy. The ups and downs are dramatic, at times exhilarating, others terrifying. It can be lonely. It can be scary. Sometimes you (I) can teeter on the edge wondering if what you do/who you are is worthy, worthwhile, sane. But to write is to frame things, to explore, to express.

Do I share too much? Sometimes. Do I regret things I've written? Occasionally. But where would I be if I bottled this up and locked my soul in a box. I know people like that. People who are so shut down, closed off, tightly wound that everything needs to remain a deeply hidden secret. I lived that life for too long. It almost killed me.

But—and this took years and years—I found my voice.

And I will never, ever let it get shut down again.

Should someone not want to share my journey, no worries. Should others want to judge me, ok. I can take it. Should anyone need to bring me down to make themselves feel better, it's your life and you have to live with yourself. I will never know the suffering inside you that makes you inflict pain.

I can only be myself, live my life, and share the way that works for me.

I am a writer.

I write.

And I am grateful, beyond grateful, for that.

The potential adventures of my kidney

2010-12-02T09:51:00.000-05:00

Neither of my kidneys actually has a story. Yet. But one of them might embark on a life changing journey which we're at the very beginning of.

Monday, I go for blood tests to see if my kidney could be a potential match for my brother. If blood and tissue types are compatible, we move to the next step.

Now that I'm writing I realize this isn't really the beginning of the story. I've known for my whole life I might be in this place. And I've always graciously offered up an organ should it be needed, in a light-hearted, breaking difficult conversation sort of way. There was never any real thought behind the bequest.

Now it's really on the table. And still, there's not any thought behind the decision. It's not a decision. If my brother can use my kidney, it's his. End of story.

And beginning of story.

The transplant coordinator told me yesterday that should things move forward I'll have the most thorough physical of my life. That's both cool and scary. I'm sure this 46 year old body has all sorts of issues I don't know about that might not ever garner attention. But, I could soon be minutely scrutinized.

I'll have to deal with my subway anxiety, as the hospital is way uptown. My surgery fears. I'm not a fan of losing control and the thought of being knocked out fills me with dread. The reality of living with one kidney instead of two.

But, and this feels crazy and right at the same time - I'm excited. That maybe this will help. That all the years of eating well and exercising has kept my body in good shape to handle this. Maybe, on some level, it was even for this. To know there's something I might be able to do, instead of merely observing, is a gift.

And my gift when it's done? A tattoo of Japanese cherry blossoms around my left ankle. A true symbol for me of life and beauty and rebirth (sorry mom - I know the nose piercing was hard - hope you can handle this).

distracted

2010-12-01T14:21:00.000-05:00

I started 4 or 5 posts today. Here. On my phone. In my head.

One was about being stuck.

Another was the death of my hot pink and orange umbrella—a long time fave—in a huge wind gust on the way to yoga.

There's the initial blood tests on Monday for possible kidney donation that I set up this morning.

Life after perfect hair.

The fallback of what do I want to be when I grow up.

A variation of colors and moods based on my class today.

But I can't stick with any of them. In fact, I can't stick with any one thing at the moment. I'm floating aimlessly, or being thrown around in rough seas, without something to moor me. Not that I don't have wonderful stability in my life. I do. But at the moment I've lost the stability, the drive, the centering in me.

That's been ok for the past few months. I've learned to live without being lost in a project. How to be just me instead of what I do (that's another topic that glimmered for a moment or two). I am smack in the middle of so many other people's struggles, my own just aren't very important and that's ok.

But, writing every day will help focus me. It's good to have a goal. Annoying too. There's something freeing in having lowered expectations of myself.

But I'm more than this. And it will come back. I just have to stand up and fight instead of lie on the couch and play word games on my phone.

Day 2 is shifting.

40 more days

2010-11-30T12:59:00.000-05:00

I haven't been writing lately. I haven't been doing much of anything lately. At least nothing creative. My day to day has left me empty at this point.

That's not ok. Not anymore.

And so, I'm dedicating myself, again, to 40 straight days of writing.

Part of my problem is that there's been so much I've been grappling with it's been easier to shut down and not think. Not feel. But the anxiety is coming back and I know, I KNOW, that it's my inner self's way of saying why the fuck are you doing?! Not dealing is not helping. And writing has been, for the past year, a constructive way to process all that's swirling around me - both inside and out.

So. Here I go. For those not interested in the struggle and angst and occasional whine, consider yourselves forewarned.

For the rest of you, not to mention me, I've got Hannukah starting tomorrow. A call in to a transplant coordinator about donating my kidney. A line of middle school merchandise to get produced. Work to find in a market where people are desperate and there's no work to be found. There's the continued lack of a creative project - those constructive distractions kept me sane during insane times. The ever present what's next. The challenge of knitting my first dog sweater, contemplating my first tattoo, fighting off my underlying fear that I won't be able to handle things and will break down. Relatives who aren't well. Kids who are growing and grappling to find their paths. Hurting and healing from my own stuff both physical and in the head drama.

Redefining who I want to be.

Curious to see what te next 39 days bring.

bullying where you least expect it

2010-11-29T11:17:00.002-05:00

As a general rule I don't write about people without their permission. I am respectful of privacy, of other's stories and situations. I never mean to hurt, to expose, to cause pain or concern. I write openly and honestly about myself - my experiences. My joy. My pain. My life. And should I write about anyone else, I clear it with them first.

Today though, I'm breaking, or at least bending, my rule. Someone in my life has been needlessly cruel to me for over 25 years and I've had enough. I realized yesterday that I've been bullied since my early 20s and the intensity and venom hasn't eased up since then. There have been respites, periods I'd thought we'd moved past the enmity only to find myself body slammed by hate. Again.

It started with this person calling me at work, at my first job at Fred the Furrier, telling me that someone in my life, someone I adored more than anyone, actually hated me and asked her to let me know he wanted to sever all contact. Forever.

This came out of the blue. From a person I'd known for a long time and liked.

It was a shock. And it was a lie.

I've lived with that intense hatred, sometimes simmering below the surface, at others spewing all over me, for my entire adult life.

I've never done anything to this person except be. But it seems like that's excuse enough for decades of appalling behavior.

And yet, with every attack, every slam, every poisonous barb launched at me, I was expected to let it role off and move on. This was just a bad temper, stress, hormones. It wasn't really about me per se, I just was the unfortunate target. She didn't really mean it. She was just blowing off steam and all would be fine eventually.

And so, I let it go. I welcomed her into my family, into my home. I listened, I supported. I forgave.

Over and over and over.

And yet, it hurt every time. For someone who spends so much time and energy on relationships and family, the fact that my own was so often ripped apart has been brutal.

I've been threatened in person. Over the phone. Through email and facebook messages. I've been forbidden to call certain people, certain locations. For as long as I can remember, hearing her voice unexpectedly started my heart racing, terrified I'd be reamed or screamed at.

Which brings me to Thanksgiving. On one hand, I don't know that I've ever been so grateful for the people sitting at our table. My brother and sister were here, both of whom had summers and falls that pushed them to the edges of what people should ever have to handle. And yet, both are fighting, hard, to get to better, healthier places. My own little family? Ever challenging but I am thankful beyond words that this is my life. But, for the first time ever, I didn't invite everyone I usually do. The internal battle over that, the guilt I felt, shredded my insides. Life at the moment though, is so extraordinarily challenging I couldn't bear the thought of adding any drama to the mix.

This last rift has been going on for almost a year. It started, as far as I know, last January. Huge blow outs. Accusations. Blames. Finger pointing at I'm not sure what. One strained visit since then that left me shaking my head with confusion.

I realized, as I stared down the invitation decision, that I'm not angry. I'm not vindictive. I'm not harboring resentment. But I'm not a victim anymore.

I treat people with kindness and respect. And I expect the same in return.

That's my story. And I'm honoring myself by sticking to it this time.

a thank you to my body

2010-11-23T12:13:00.000-05:00

Today I feel pretty good. My shoulder aches a bit. My hand is a little sore. Manageable sensations that aren't quite pain, more just something that something isn't quite right. The cool part is that this is after 3 days of yoga. In a row. Granted, it was abbreviated yoga - no planks, down or up dogs. No poses perching on my palms as my legs careen out to the side. But still, yesterday was 3 eagles per side (while standing, wrapping one leg over and then behind the other, squatting down on one foot whole bending forward). Lots of balances, twists, moving.

My body held on. Kept up. The familiar poses took over and I moved. Stretched. Expanded.

Breathed.

That, in itself, was amazing.

But what truly blew me away was how I feel today.

Fine. A little tired. The backs of my legs are slightly sore. After a month of no yoga at all.

My body, my home, my casing, didn't give up on me even when I did. It didn't fall apart, turn to mush, let flab in the front door with a big hello. It kept the candles burning until I was ready to come back.

And here I am. Thankful.

filler

2010-11-23T10:16:00.001-05:00

It's getting to the end of the day and I never found the chance to write. I meant to. I had a class parent meeting first thing. Worked on my fiction project, met a friend for coffee, got caught in the rain which made my bad hair even worse. That prompted a hair cut appointment during which much of my hair ended up on the floor. I'm still telling myself it's only hair. We'll see how tomorrow goes. I then went to yoga to take my mind off my modified head but couldn't do at least a third of the poses. Then it was a houseful of people for GLEE after dinner and homework.

I still haven't eaten.

I'm troubleshooting a new Lego video game.

My hair still doesn't look or feel like me.

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

After getting kicked in the head

2010-11-22T16:08:00.000-05:00

Today, for a moment, I flowed.

I was graceful. Strong. Powerful.

It's been months since I felt that way. Injuries, both chronic and sudden, brought me to a place where I was practicing in tears. Not from pain, but from frustration at my body not doing what I wanted it to.

A month ago I gave up. I stopped going to class, as every pose I couldn't do, every twinge, every spasm made me feel more and more like a failure. I knew I shouldn't have been pushing myself but I kept trying. And hurting.

I took meds, rested, and got smaller and smaller, more and more lost.

But, once I knew what I was recovering from (a fracture in my hand, torn cartilage in my wrist and knee, plus a torn rotator cuff and labrum), something clicked and I took healing back into my own hands. I'm taking three different homeopathic remedies. I went to an accupuncturist. The anti-inflammatories I'm on are herbal. I'm icing my shoulder while holding hot chunks of ginger in my aching palm. Tomorrow I start physical therapy.

Saturday I went back to yoga. It was ok. Yesterday was better. Today, I was smack in the middle of it for that glimmering shimmering moment.

I still can't do much. No weight on my palm wipes out down dogs and planks and all arm balances. My sore shoulder changes how I get from pose to pose. Someone kicked me in the head when I wasn't doing what the rest of the class was. I felt that negative spiral grab me. I started sinking into failure.

But this time I fought it off. And I got it. The profound, enlightened difference between then and now. This is my practice. My way. My path. It doesn't matter what anyone else is doing. It doesn't matter what I can't do.

I'm doing what I can. I'm honoring where I am. I'm accepting limitations and parameters.

And I'm grateful for what is possible.

letting go of pain

2010-11-21T15:12:00.000-05:00

I don't know about you, but I find it's easier to live in the negative. Feeling bad about myself, doubting other people, regretting where I'm not, groaning about where I am. I hold on to negative relationships, behaviors that hurt in the end, I find comfort in that familiar discomfort.

I've gotten much better. I used to live deep in a dark tunnel and would get spooked by the occasional glimpses of light that would flash by, choosing to hide in the blackness rather than let go and see what might take its place.

I've gotten better at letting go. I work hard at not letting myself get bogged down in unworkable situations, I stay away from toxic people whenever I can. '

When I'm in a good place I can pull that off. I can rise above, slough it off, be a light for myself, and even for others sometimes.

I'm not in a good place.

This is trivial, but my hair's a train wreck. I need to get it cut but can't find it in me to book an appointment.

I've lost my voice. I have such interesting, vibrant projects I could be, should be working on, but I don't have anything in me.

I can't practice yoga. I've gone to class for the past 2 days and am sitting here with an ice pack on my shoulder, popping advil every 4 hours.

I have no work. NO WORK. This is the first time in my adult life I'm not earning money and I feel like I'm failing. It's been so long since I've had to go out and find clients I don't even know how to start.

I'm grumpy. Short-tempered. Anxious.

I'm dreading the upcoming 4 day weekend. Hosting yet another holiday. Hannukah looming fast on the horizon.

I don't want to be thoughtful, find presents, entertain. I don't want to be accepting or forgiving or nice.

Man, this has turned into a rant I didn't know I was feeling.

Or maybe I did.

I'm not starving myself—that's one way I'm healthier. I'm not sinking back into the sugar addiction that started last spring. I'm not drinking or doing drugs (not that I ever did either as a means of escape).

What's worse though, more insidious, harder to combat, is I'm hating myself. Well, not hating, but definitely not liking. And from this sad, heavy place it's hard to move anywhere else.

I'm stumped about how to move forward. How to not feel this, be this, live this.

How to let go of the pain I cause myself.

naming names

2010-11-17T10:05:00.000-05:00

In Harry Potter one is never supposed to say Voldemort out loud, as it will give the dark lord more power. In the Lighting Thief books (one of my favorite series ever), same thing—uttering the gods' names is a major no.

There's power in naming. Acknowledging. Identifying.

Fractured hamate bone. Torn rotator cuff.

My injuries have been outed.

And they hurt even more.

Crazy?

Yes. But that's what's going on.

Or, it could be that I stopped taking anti-inflammatories and now am feeling what's been there all along.

Sigh.

The pain isn't major. It doesn't stop me in my tracks, take my breath away, bend me over double.

I know that pain. Childbirth without drugs. A burst ear drum. An exposed nerve in my tooth. That was pain. PAIN. Intense, seeing red, losing sight of reality pain.

This is more annoying. Slightly incapacitating most of the time, more in certain situations. I can't open windows, lift heavy pots or pans, open a jar that's too tight. I can't reach around to the back seat of the car, to the top shelf, carry overloaded bags anymore. I can't practice yoga with freedom.

I'm cautious. Nervous. Afraid I'll make things worse.

Afraid I won't get better.

But, I started 3 homeopathic remedies the day before yesterday. Boiled ginger chunks and held them in my palm until they cooled. Am seeing an acupuncturist along with my orthopedist tomorrow. Next on my to-do list is physical therapy and finding someone who can do serious hand massage.

I'm not giving up without a fight. I'm not signing on for surgery unless nothing else works.

But the fall of being in the best shape of my life has crumbled around me. And with it, optimism has taken a back seat.

Kids are not French Fries

2010-11-16T07:10:00.000-05:00

This is sort of cheating as I'm not writing this live—I wrote this last Friday and it was posted at HuffPo today, but it's something I feel strongly about that I want to share:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elissa-stein/kids-are-not-french-fries_b_783015.html

Tomorrow we'll be back to the usual whine and complain show.

my own personal crankfest

2010-11-15T11:03:00.000-05:00

I was going to write about yesterday's temper tantrum (mine, and it was big) but Jack discouraged me from posting my negative stuff up for anyone and everyone to read. I assured him that I'd done it plenty of times before and it was ok but for today at least I'm heeding his advice.

I could write about my upcoming appointment with the hand surgeon. How pain's increased in both my wrist and shoulder since I dropped the anti-inflammatories. And about how I'm nervous.

I could write about having seen both my brother and sister this weekend and the tremendous relief in them both seeming better than they have for awhile. And about how I'm ready to be tested to be a kidney donor.

I could write about needing to find paying work. All my regular clients don't have design budgets anymore and I need to make money. And how I just don't know how to start over.

I could write about not writing. About having viable projects staring me in the face that I have no interest in working on.

I could write about how much I'm appreciating the quiet of this moment—everyone's out of the house and it's just me and Gracie with no whining or demanding or complaining. And about how challenging it is with 2 kids getting older who seem to enjoy nothing more than making each other crazy.

I could write about how exhausted I am—it's been a fall more intense than most I've experience. Except for last year when FLOW was coming out. Or the couple of years before that when I was in the midst of writing it. But somehow, this has been far more draining.

I could write about taking my first yoga class yesterday in a month and being able to do maybe half of what everyone else did. In a basics class. And about how part of me was ok with that and part of me was utterly pissed off and frustrated.

I could write about my changing period. About how it started days ago with almost nothing and now it's so heavy I just want to curl up in bed.

I could write about needing a haircut. A pedicure. Something to eat.

Or perhaps, I could write tomorrow and just be today.

broken and torn

2010-11-11T22:46:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I was at Iz's school at 8:15 distributing fliers to classrooms. From there I went to MRI number 3. After that it was straight to the dentist, home to walk the dog, out for a meeting and follow up care on my nose piercing, downtown to pick Jack up at after school and then back to middle school to run a PTA meeting. Long, long day.

I figured the MRIs, which took weeks to have approved, scheduled, get authorization codes and prescriptions for would show that all was fine. That the pain I was still feeling was nothing but that I'm healing slower because I'm not so young anymore. I felt like I needed confirmation of that and then I'd take a deep sigh, knowing eventually all would be ok.

Turns out I'm still in pain because there's a broken bone in my hand. It's actually the hook of the hamate bone that's fractured. There's torn cartilage in there too. And the reason my right shoulder still hurts, after all the icing and anti-inflammatories and the cortisone shot is because rotator cuff and labrum are torn as well.

I'm seeing a hand surgeon on Monday. My orthopedist on Wednesday for next steps on everything. Oh, and I need a crown—bad news at the dentist.

I came home and cried.

I've had so much on my shoulders lately with no breaks and no space and nothing letting up. The kids were off from school today so I didn't have a moment alone. There's just tomorrow and then the weekend when it'll be 2 more days of taking care of other people.

I want someone to take care of me.

Or, at least, I wish I could take care of myself. I wanted to sit and watch TV tonight, but no one could agree on a show. I wanted to eat my pad thai in peace, but apparently I'm the only one who can cook things the way that makes people happy and I couldn't sit down until everyone else was set. I wanted to take a bath but it's 10:42 and if I don't go to bed soon I won't make it through tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the kids are still arguing.

The kitchen still needs to be cleaned.

The dog still needs to be put in bed.

I never even made my bed today.

I'm hoping tomorrow will be better but the way things have been going, that's unlikely.

One year after FLOW

2010-11-10T11:45:00.001-05:00

A year ago today FLOW went on sale.

My life changed.

A year ago right now was all about amazon rank, media mentions, interviews, hype. It was anticipation, mind-blowing thrills, bone-crushing disappointment. It was staring into the unknown, teetering on the edge, never knowing if or when the next great thing would happen.

And there were great things. I met Dr. Oz, chatting for almost an hour for his radio show. But that was boiled down to 7 minutes that were never broadcast. We did an entire segment on THe View. Whoopi thanked me for putting this book out into the world. Millions watched. I had high def make up done. My outfit, after much angst, was a big hit. But that translated into less than 300 book sales. There was the mention of the launch party in The New Yorker. But they didn't review the book.

Then there were the straight out disappointments. The NPR interview that was booked, then cancelled due to a snowstorm after which they lost interest. The interest from the NY Times that never panned out. The Marthat Stewart cancellation, the major media interviews that never materialized, the speaking gigs that were impossible to find.

The sales the never happened.

I thought FLOW would change me. I thought I'd become a go-to person, an expert in the field, a fixture for interviews and quotes. I thought publishers would be interested in what I had to say next, that agents would seek me out, that publications would want my words.

That I would be a name, an entity, that I'd having staying power.

Nope.

Not in the least.

Here I am, a year later, no agent, no publisher, back to square one.

In terms of publishing the changes were minimal.

But in terms of me?

I now introduce myself as a writer. I believe in my words. I honor my thoughts. I explore my opinions and share then with whomever cares to listen. I don't make excuses for what I do anymore. I don't denigrate my projects.

I found my voice. My confidence. I have a comfort in my skin I've never had before. I can stand up in front of a room full of people with ease. I can be ok about not being in the middle of a project. Being myself is enough for me now when it used to be my projects that defined me.

I made my dream project a reality. The process was excruciating. The sales were disappointing. The recognition negligible.

But because of FLOW I know what I can accomplish. What I'm capable of.

Who I am. And who I can be.

lunch with my dentist

2010-11-08T13:07:00.000-05:00

Last week, while browsing in Barnes and Noble with Jack, I got a phone call from my dentist. I assumed it was the office confirming my cleaning appointment for this Wednesday. But no, it was my dentist, inviting me to lunch. Actually, she invited me to Lunch. A lunch cooked by chefs from Tabla, the Danny Meyer restaurant her son works at. He'd be the sommelier for the event. She was inviting 9 women she found inspirational, creative, interesting. I was honored to be part of her list and said of course I would come.

She emailed me the next day with specifics, asking for a short bio.

I was sorry I said yes. I'm not feeling very inspirational lately. I haven't been creative in months, not the way I usually am. I couldn't imagine what I'd have to contribute to a gathering about mentoring and staying connected and vital as we get older.

I wavered. I didn't want to go but, in the end, I threw on slightly dressier clothes than I usually wear and headed to her apartment downtown.

Turns out it wasn't a Lunch. It was a LUNCH. 5 courses, each inspired by a famous woman from history. Eve, Joan of Arc, Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Bette Davis. Each course was paired with at least 2 wines, sometimes 3. Three chefs spent days preparing. There were flambees, reductions, chutneys and sauces, foods and flavors I'd never experienced before. I'm not a foodie. I'm not a wine expert. I often felt like I was on Iron Chef America, throwing out words like "sublime" and "delectable" and my favorite of the day "extraordinary."

We spent 6 hours at different tables, talking and toasting, drinking and thinking.

By the end, I was thrilled to have gone. But it took me a long time to feel like I should have been there.

Until the end of the second course I was trying to figure out how to leave. Each of these other women had a career. Degrees. Fields of expertise. Worked in the corporate world. As they touched on literature, politics, film, education, mentoring, each had a wealth of experience and knowledge. They talked about how important it was to have women who inspired them and women they nurtured.

I've never had that.

I've been doing this, by myself, for as long as I can remember. And I feel funny even using the word career to describe myself—my path has been circuitous, murky, changeable. There's been no roadmap, no guideposts, no road to follow. I don't have any benchmarks, any awards I can win, any achievements that would acknowledge what I've done.

I felt like an imposter, wondering how long it would be until they all realized my invitation was a mistake.

Man, internally I was an insecure mess. But, as we settled in it turns out I had plenty to contribute. Just because my experiences aren't conventional, it doesn't make them less valid. And perhaps, important even. People sought me out to talk to, marveling at how I've accomplished all I have.

I have trouble acknowledging all I've done. Feeling like it's been important. That what I do and put out into the world means anything.

The purpose of this get together was exploring ways to make a difference, to inspire, to be relevant.

They did just that for me.

my personal death of publishing

2010-11-04T10:21:00.000-04:00

I walked into Barnes and Noble Tuesday afternoon, on a fruitless yoga mat quest, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I had no emotional reaction. No frustration that none of my books were there, that none were successful enough to be a perennial shelf selection. No anticipation about something I'm working on being on display one day. No glimmers of new ideas. No interest in what was there. No appreciation of cover designs, of innovation, of intrepid authors breaking new ground.

I didn't care.

And I wondered why. Have I become so jaded I've given up a significant part of me? I truly believed FLOW would change things for me. It's not that the experience didn't. I never worked harder in more adverse circumstances. I never fought so bitterly with people, was so misunderstood. I never poured every ounce of who I am into a project. And, except for bein a parent, I've never grown so much.

Or maybe it's this: I used to define myself by my projects. I was them. They described me.

Now I'm me. A me that doesn't need the crutch of an outside entity for confidence, for a sense of self-worth. I do what I do, I who I am, from the inside. My comfort, my confidence, my ease in my skin are all pretty new. But they're powerful.

I don't need that outside thing anymore, at least not in the same way. So, basically, being less productive is the direct result of growing into myself.

I think that's remarkably healthy. But perhaps I'll get to a place where I can balance me and be constructive at the same time.

Home

2010-11-03T12:04:00.001-04:00

I'm a home-body. I love being home. I love being in my space, surrounded by my stuff. Even when the chaos gets too much it's still manageable when I set my mind to it.

But, I don't have anything that's just mine: a room, a chair, a corner. A comfortable place to read. A door to close. Every inch of space is shared by everyone else. Sometimes, just to talk on the phone I hide in my bathroom or up on one of the kid's beds. I wish that I could find that space that was only for me sometimes - the thought of it dangles in front of me as if somehow having it would make everything better.

But what I do have, most of the time, is me. I'm my space, my haven, my escape. That's why this never-ending injury is harder than it should be. My body can't help me disappear right now. That's why too much anxiety was unbearable - I wasn't safe for myself anymore.

Right now I'm feeling too on edge. Too tired yet wired. Too overwrought with no coping mechanisms. I lie in bed exhausted but can't sleep. My muscles are cramped and aching but I can't stretch. My mind is starting to spin again and I dread being back in that place.

I keep thinking if I had time alone with no responsibilities, if I had a place to escape to, if I could just get out of all I'm in right now, even for a little while, it would only get better.

The old escape fantasy. It's a lovely place to visit. I know better though.

Grey

2010-11-02T09:08:00.000-04:00

I've been indulging in some retail therapy lately. It's helping while things are so stressful. While my family is struggling. While my body is aching. While I can't practice yoga.

I realized this morning, as I threw on the shapeless overcoat that arrived last week from ebay, that everything I'm buying is grey. I have never been drawn to grey as a fashion option and yet that's what I'm drawn to right now.

There's this shapeless new coat, 1970s wool, double breasted, chunky silver buttons that swims on me. I can't think of the last time I knowingly went out onto the street looking this drab. There's the boiled wool cardigan, the ruffled tank top, the large hounds tooth jacket, the satin trimmed long sleeved t-shirt. All grey.

So I have to wonder . . . what is it I'm hiding from?

Why, after so many years of outrageous, colorful fashion options, am I digging myself into this grey abyss? Bland, boring, lost, empty, living in shadow, hiding from the light.

Whew. This is more intense than I thought it would be.

I want my magenta back.

quiet

2010-11-01T10:03:00.000-04:00

This morning?

Quiet.

I don't really have anything I have to do. I have many things I could do/should do, but nothing so immediate that I can't just sit for a bit and recuperate from that craziness that's been.

I could wade through the mounds of paperwork that's piled up on my desk and bring order to the chaos.

I could finish cleaning my sister's apartment. We painted it this weekend and everything's starting to come together.

I could put together a merchandise line for Iz's school, get files to the printer, and start a school store.

I could call my orthopedist and straighten out the nightmare that's scheduling multiple MRI's.

I could fold everything neatly in my drawers.

I could go to the supermarket and restock our empty fridge.

What I really want to do is wrap myself in a fuzzy blanket, read a good book and escape for awhile. That's what Iz does when things get too much and I have to say, she's a wise child. I'm thinking that and a cup of hot chocolate to combat the chill of the day could make a huge difference.

46 versus 45

2010-10-30T09:46:00.001-04:00

45 was a particularly banner year. My dream book was published. Whoopi Goldberg and Dr. Oz both thanked me for what we put out into the world. I was on national TV, did countless interviews, successfully navigated social media, had an amazing book launch party, was written about in the New Yorker. I did my first film projects, built websites and blogs, had thoughts and words flowing through me all the time.

46? My brother is struggling with dialysis. My sister's struggling with a bipolar diagnosis and getting the right meds to get her back to comfortable. Almost 2 months out I'm still struggling with injuries from my bike fall. It's shocking how slowly I'm healing. I can't practice yoga anymore. I've lost almost all my design clients. I've been dealing with school issues and growing up issues and more family stuff than I thought I could handle. I started taking meds when I couldn't cope anymore.

My creativity's gone missing.

The things I've identified myself as for so long have disappeared, been taken away, are on hiatus.

What's basically impossible to comprehend is that I'm happier now. More grounded. Better able to handle all that's thrown at me.

I got a puppy who's changed all of us. I'm a PTA president and, with the most amazing people, have accomplished great things just since September.

I'm a more open friend. I'm a more involved parent. I'm a better partner.

Most of all, I'm nicer to myself.

I'm accepting where I am instead of beating myself up about where I'm not. I gave up exercising in pain and am giving my body time to heal. I've learned to recognize when it all gets to be too much and not to push past that.

I take naps when I need to.

I stare off into space when I'm too exhausted to do anything else.

I eat chocolate (organic dark) when I have the urge.

I got my hair cut off, my nose pierced. I'm thinking about tattoos.

I'm indulging in retail therapy. Apparently this is the fall of grey and ruffles, both things I've never even considered before.

I'm changing. I'm growing. I'm learning to let go and find strength in weakness.

The wisdom that comes with getting older is priceless. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

strength

2010-10-29T22:42:00.000-04:00

I am strong.

Yup.

I am strong.

Stronger than I ever imagined I could be. Stronger I'd bet than most people gave or give me credit for.

I can handle all that's going on around me and not fall to pieces.

That's not to say I don't crack sometimes.

But in the midst of insanity I'm still grateful, still having fun, still loving, still finding silver linings and bright spots and hope.

This is sounding embarrassingly like a Hallmark card but even that's ok. I guess I'm sending an I'm-proud-of-you card to myself right now.

Someone today called me a strong woman and said I'm not a kid, that I've lived and survived. Age is my badge of honor, the wisdom I've acquired, the common sense and grounded-ness, that helps me hold it all together. I wouldn't trade this age for any other in my past.

Damn. What an amazing thing to feel.

And to own.

46. Who'd have thought I'd be here so remarkably proud of how far I've come and how excited about how far I still have to go?

today is hard

2010-10-27T11:25:00.000-04:00

That's it.

Today is hard.

I'm having trouble putting on a happy face, acting like all is/will be fine, being a cheerleader.

I want to crawl into a corner and fall asleep until tomorrow.

I want a guarantee that all will work out so I can muster up energy to go on.

But, there's no such thing.

Maybe things will get better. Maybe they won't.

I hate (HATE) not knowing. I hate things being out of my control. I hate waiting and trying so hard not to spin, not to wonder, not to live in what ifs.

But, that's what today is.

my tipping point

2010-10-26T19:55:00.000-04:00

Today was a breaking the camel's back kind of day. I found out what too much was. I stared it down and then shut it out.

One thing I've learned is to recognize how much I can handle and to refuse to take on more when I can't.

Today I couldn't. And it was big. Life changing. It had/has the potential to change much of the foundation of my life. It's something that isn't mine but indirectly affects me profoundly. Everything could change drastically, dramatically, permanently.

And that's all I can say.

Honestly, that's all I can feel. I can't absorb it, think about it, process it. I can only detach and watch, with my eyes squeezed tight, just peeking furtive glances when a lull flows by.

This is when my anorexic past comes in super handy. I'm can compartmentalize so efficiently, so effectively, that in spite of the chaos and confusion I'm surrounded by, I'm functioning. I'm holding on. I'm dealing.

But, at the moment, I'm not feeling. And for now that's ok.

what to write

2010-10-25T20:45:00.000-04:00

I'm finding right now that I'm drawing many blanks. I stare down things on my to-do list and just can't do them.

It's not that I'm not getting lots done. I am. I'm always busy. I never stop working. It's 8:40, I haven't eaten dinner yet and it's the first moment I've had to write—it's been a day of nonstop stuff.

None of it for me.

Writing is for me but I can't seem to do that lately. An errant thought floats by but I lose it before it turns into something. I'm planning meetings well into November but can't think of what to do in the next 5 minutes.

I've got a middle school party to plan decorations for and I've got nothing.

I know I have a whole list of these but I'm too lost to even get them out of my head and onto the keyboard.

Right now the Giants are on, Gracie's sitting on my lap with the squeakiest football ever produced, Jack' obsessing about spy cameras and I can't think.

But that's ok.

Perhaps I'll try having thoughts tomorrow.

culture clash

2010-10-24T15:22:00.001-04:00

We had relatives visiting from out of town this weekend. In the middle of all the absurdity and chaos.

It could have been overwhelming. It could have been a disaster. It could have been the extra piece that put me over the edge. Instead, it was lovely. They were delightful. It was nothing short of therapeutic to look at our lives from a different point of view and appreciate all that we have, when it's so easy to take it all for granted.

Things like having 2 bagel shops within a block to choose from. That should we need gluten free food, funky clothes in atypical sizes, fresh fruit, crepes, a farmer's market, a happening park, japanese, thai, mexican, middle eastern, korean, chinese, italian food, it's all within walking distance. That there are almost more people on the streets late at night than during the day. How lovely it is to have a doorman to open doors for you. The thrill you get when you snag a cab when too many other people are trying to do the same thing. Pushing elevator buttons every time you come home. Seeing the Empire State Building looming north when you're out for a stroll.

The beauty of the city at dusk.

The joy of people watching.

How lovely it is to crash after a long day wandering through neighborhood after neighborhood.

Their amazement made stop for a moment and be amazed too.

There was still craziness. Getting Iz to a movie with friends while Jack was at a Halloween party that I volunteered for clean up duty on, while feeding and walking the dog and overseeing countless loads of laundry being done for my sister. I logged in hours of extra-curricular cleaning, spent more time in excel hell, played tour guide and shopping companion and plan organizer.

But having people around who aren't usually here shined a light on remarkable things in my life that too easily get forgotten in the every day crush.

Right now Jon and Jack are playing ping pong on our makeshift ping pong table. Iz is reading (as always). Gracie is happily chewing a bone. And I'm about to take a nap, full of gratitude for the little things in my life.

saving someone

2010-10-23T09:17:00.000-04:00

I've sort of hit the wall. At least I felt that way at 8:06 after an iffy night's sleep, horrendous dreams, and both a shoulder and knee that ached no matter which way I turned.

But, at 9:06 my energy's flooding back. Today I've got to make an impromptu costume for a dog parade which is happening this afternoon. It's the big halloween bash for Jack at his school. I volunteered for clean up duty after that. We've got guests in town who've never been to NYC before. Oh, and I have an apartment cleaning (not mine) to mastermind. Someone's coming in less than an hour to do loads and loads of laundry.

That's not what I want to write about though. I want to write about saving someone. Someone I know, a good friend, is about to lose his apartment. $4000 would fix everything. In the general scheme of things it's not that much money to some, it's astronomical to others, to him it's the difference between having a home and being out on the streets.

He's a music teacher and when the recession hit half his students disappeared. Lessons didn't rank up there as a necessity when money got tight and jobs were lost. It's been more than a year of struggling, hard, to keep up but this is basically the end of the line.

I want to help.

I need to help.

I'm compelled in a crazy way to do something.

I think, actually I know, it's because I'm surrounded by people I can't help, not in a life-changing way. I can be supportive, but I can't fix things. Can't.

This week my brother is having surgery. Again. My sister's coming home from the hospital. Again. I'll be there for both. I'll be a support system, a cheerleader, a snack-bringer. An advocate, a chauffeur, an annoying extra jewish mother. I'll do everything I can which will probably help in the moment. Not life changing stuff though.

And so, back to my friend who's teetering on the edge. That's a situation that can be fixed. FIXED. Rectified. Improved.

And I can feel powerful instead of powerless by helping.

Ah. That's it.

I don't want to feel powerless to the people I love. I wish I could make things better.

And so, when I can, I think I have no choice but to do it.

responsibility in chaos

2010-10-22T11:53:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I met a twitter friend of mine for breakfast. It's the second time we've seen each other in person but I feel like I've known her for far longer—a very kindred spirit. She told me the last time we'd met something I'd said stayed with her. And I have to say, I was thrilled she mentioned it because it's a wise thought I have no memory of having uttered. And it's the common thread running through my life at the moment:

responsibility in chaos

I have no idea to what I was referring. When we first met my life was in a completely different place than it is now. I don't know that on a significant level, I was taking that much responsibility for things. Or that all that much chaos was going on.

But here I am. Responsible for too much in full-scale, hard to believe it's really happening chaos.

People wonder how I'm functioning. How I'm holding it together. How I'm making it through every day.

I think it's by being responsible and taking charge of the things I can and letting go of the very many things I can't. It's not easy. I've had a couple of major meltdowns of my own. I've been paralyzed by fear, by anger, by frustration. I'm overwhelmed and scared. But doing something, anything helps. And accomplishments, no matter how small, in the face of all this insanity, feels huge.

Having said that, some things (many things I'm sure) are slipping through the cracks. I still haven't made a halloween costume for Gracie and the dog parade is tomorrow. We're having people come stay with us for the weekend and I'm sure my apartment could be much cleaner. I've got a parking ticket to pay, paperwork to take care of, an endless database of 1000 families plod through. I've got a line of middle school merchandise to design. An apartment, not my own, to clean and countless loads of laundry to get done. Homework issues to buckle down and contend with. Doctor appointments and tests to schedule. Iz needs to be checked for glasses. She's been needing an orthodontist follow up visit for so long it's embarrassing. Oh, I need to schedule dentist appointments. A mammogram. My teeth need cleaning.

Oy.

But, I ran a really successful PTA meeting this week. We're making a difference and both parents and the administration have been nothing but grateful and supportive. I'm setting up a communication system from nothing and reached 718 email addresses yesterday. That's huge. My 4 loads of laundry from yesterday is already folded and put away (I'm terrible at that part). My apartment is actually pretty neat. I replaced the jacket Jack lost last week this morning, got a new hoodie for Iz and long sleeved shirts for me.

I put all my shoes away.

The pup's been walked. Twice.

I'm eating and that alone is super positive when I'm stressed. Not only that, I haven't been to yoga in more than a week. Not going is far better for me right now than practicing in pain.

I found a pretty fabulous new old coat on ebay this week. 1960s grey wool, double breasted, patch pockets, sort of slouchy and comfy while being obviously retro.

I've got next week organized with stuff both for me and everyone else. At the moment, it seems almost manageable.

I'm doing what I can to keep me in a place that's sort of sane and reasonable, able to cope when everything else isn't.

dipping back into the gratitude pool

2010-10-20T08:28:00.000-04:00

In the midst of all this craziness, this pressure and uncertainty and endless juggling (I cracked, badly, last night), I am grateful.

Seriously, deeply grateful.

I am so ridiculously thankful that I'm married to someone who is still my rock after all these years, who knows me so well he can help me get back on track when I lose my way, who I'm still happy to see every day. And if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have time to do all the things I want to/need to/have to do.

I appreciate my family tremendously. My mom and stepfather, who are always there, who love me and support me and make things easier in whatever ways they can. They have so much on their collective plate and yet always have time for me.

I am grateful for my brother and sister who are both struggling with lifelong issues. I would do anything for either one of them and know, if the situation reversed, they'd be there for me.

I'm finding that as I open up more in the real world, my friends have caring, thoughtful, honest, there. And I'm learning that talking it out instead of keeping it in really does help.

And then there's Gracie, who bubbles with glee every time she sees me. And the love and happiness that bubbles back is keeping me sane these days.

Love and gratitude go a long, long way when life feels bleaker than it should.

right now

2010-10-19T18:34:00.000-04:00

I was in the middle of a lovely post about how wonderful it is to have my delicious, happy, enthusiastic puppy to come home to in the middle of all this craziness. About how she's helping me to stay sane in the insanity. About how much I appreciate being in those moments with her as my days slip away from me.

But, I can't right now.

It's been a day that still has hours to go, that started hours before the sun came up.

Jack woke me with a bad dream at 4 after which we both had trouble falling asleep.

I got up late. Late to get ready and head out for a meeting with the District 2 chancellor for a quality review of Izzy's middle school.

After that was an impromptu PTA meeting.

A hike through the east village looking for fabric for a dog Halloween costume.

A meeting with a cleaning specialist about an apartment job that's too big for me.

An appointment at the orthopedist with a result of 3 MRIs to have instead of one.

Scream-fests about homework.

And still I have:

dinner to make, a mattress to order, a bat-mitzvah paper I have to oversee revisions on, a nightmare excel project I have hours more of, more phone calls with more relatives, more fights between more children, 3 design projects, writing that was due last week, more laundry to tackle than I can bare to think about.

There are still people screaming at me.

Phone calls to return.

Guilt to try to shrug off but I can't.

I can't.

is there hope?

2010-10-18T15:02:00.000-04:00

It seems like I'm spending so much time and energy these days on hope. Giving hope. Sharing hope. Supporting hope.

Hoping.

Hoping beyond hope that everything will be ok.

But it won't be. It can't be. There is no place we get to, take a deep breath and sigh that we've arrive.

It's all a journey filled with joy and pain, love and fear.

I get so scared sometimes that I'll be swept away by the negatives parts. I'm terrified of not just of what will go wrong but will I be able to cope.

And here I am. Coping but teetering on the edge.

I started to panic before my MRI even started yesterday. Bathed in sweat, blood rushing to my face, I apologized politely and went home. I couldn't handle it.

Today, visiting my sister, I had glimmers of coming undone, of not being able to handle the present.

I'm pretty lost at the moment.

And feeling like I have no right to be.

This has always been my place in my family. I'm the healthy one, the care-taker, the go-to person to get things done. I've always done it because I'm so grateful not to be the one in crisis. I'm so guilty that people I love have to suffer so intensely.

There's no other way that I can help.

And so I do what I can until I can't anymore and my own fraying starts.

My edges are ungluing.

I have an endless list of all I need to do, much/most for other people. And I can't get my head or heart or energy around any of it.

I don't know how to get me out of this place.

It's getting harder to help everyone else when I can't help myself.

I am not healing

2010-10-17T10:16:00.000-04:00

There's almost never a moment I'm pain free. And I feel terrible even saying that because the pain I'm in is nothing compared to what people around me are going through.

But it makes it hard getting through the day.

I had a dream last night that I was trying to get up into firefly (a super challenging yoga arm balance) which I can sort of kind of do for a second or two and in my dream I would have been flying only pain was shooting through my hand. I woke up wondering if I had actually tried the pose in my sleep my palm was throbbing so tenderly.

I figured something out, lying there one of the many times I woke up last night, my head throbbing, my back aching, my arm immobilized, my knee frozen, unable to find a sliver of space that I was comfortable in, that perhaps I'm not healing as my subconscious way of dealing with all that I have to deal with.

One of the worst parts of all this is my way of dealing is yoga and I can't do it anymore. I keep trying. I keep injuring myself. I pulled something in my shoulder blade last week because of all the extra weight I was putting on my right side because my left hand can't handle pressure.

Anxiety is coming back. Slowly creeping in. I'm getting nervous in elevators. I don't want to go anywhere, be social, put myself out into the world. I'm barely getting through every day doing the barest of essentials.

I want to curl up in a ball, find a relatively pain free position, and stare off into space for awhile.

But, instead, I have to deal with 2 kids who have too much homework to do. An apartment that needs some serious straightening. Tons of PTA paperwork I took on when I shouldn't have. Halloween costumes to figure out. Breakfasts to make. I have to find a writer's notebook, stamps, envelopes, all for other people, nothing for me.

My head is still pounding.

My shoulder is still aching.

My knee is getting worse every day.

I want today to be over and it hasn't even started yet.

ranking struggle

2010-10-15T16:07:00.000-04:00

Right now, people near and dear to me are struggling with very different issues.

One's got a physical body that's failing.

Another's got psychological challenges that aren't under control yet.

A third is in complete financial crisis, with basically no way out of all the debt.

I can't help any of them, not really, no matter how much I want to.

When things are that intense, at that level, my chatter and ability to distract doesn't really help. I have no solutions. I have no answers. I can't guarantee that things will get better. I can believe with all my heart they will but in the scheme of things, that isn't anything but me trying to find a way to cope with it all.

And so, all I can do is be here. To listen. To love. To hope.

body fail

2010-10-14T10:28:00.001-04:00

When I was in high school I inherited my mom's old Plymouth Valiant. A 1972 olive car I dubbed The Green Machine. It was a well-constructed steel tank that could withstand just about everything.

Until it died. Or at least stopped starting.

I sat in my driveway, turning the key, listing that that awful grinding noise, waiting for the engine to catch but it didn't.

Turns out I was supposed to have the oil checked on a regular basis and have it refilled when it was running low.

I didn't know.

My poor car was literally running on empty until its last gasp.

Bodies are like that too. Unless we maintain them, Care for them, take care of them, eventually something will go wrong

Yes, I know that even when you take fantastic care of yourself it's no guarantee, but giving your body all the support you can, can only help.

Or so I'd like to believe.

My brother's body is failing right now. It can't be fixed. It'll never be better. At best it'll get to a manageable place where there aren't ER visits and infections and dizziness and a host of other unexpected problems.

It's scaring the shit out of me.

There are no absolutes. No guarantees. No assurances that you'll avoid pain and suffering and illness along with basic wear and tear.

But you can take responsibility as much as possible.

Maybe that's sort of pie in the sky.

But it's helping me get through my day to day.

Outerwear

2010-10-13T12:51:00.000-04:00

It's fall. The air is cool and crisp. The light has a sharp edge. Deep breaths both chill and tickle going down.

And I don't know what to wear.

I stand, stumped, in front of my overpacked closet, overwhelmed by options.

There is such a thing as too many choices.

I tend to find a favorite each season - my go to coat and scarf combo that always works.

Last year's isn't working anymore. The 1970s faux suede, whip stitched, chunky half-belt with brass buttons. I lived in this jacket last spring. But today it didn't feel right.

I paired it with this möbius loop scarf I knit in shades of pinks and browns with some oranges thrown in. I'm not sure I really like the look - the scarf itself is lovely but it all doesn't feel like it's working together.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm different. Maybe I'm trying to fit into who I was not who I am.

Whew. That's something to think about.

empty

2010-10-12T12:33:00.000-04:00

I don't have much to say today. The past week has pretty much wiped me out.

But . . .

I'm grateful to be alone.

I'm grateful there's not an emergency to deal with, phone calls to make, information to relay.

I'm grateful that it's cool and cloudy and I don't have anywhere I have to be.

I'm grateful my apartment is cozy and warm and relatively neat. That I did all the laundry yesterday. That there's enough food keep me out of the supermarket for a couple of days.

I'm grateful that I'm healing, slowly, but it's happening little by little, every day.

I'm grateful I didn't have a breakdown in the middle of everyone else's stress (although I did almost faint during my brother's crisis which he'll never let me forget).

I'm grateful to have the time and space to sit still. That's a luxury I'm seriously appreciating right now.

It's important to remember life is good even when chaos threatens to overtake you.

This is me complaining

2010-10-11T15:37:00.002-04:00

I'm tired. Fucking tired.

Overwhelmed.

At wit's end.

Discombobulated.

Wiped out.

Unnerved.

My brother and sister are in different hospitals and there's not much I can do for either one. My own family is showing ever deepening cracks. They're scared too and perhaps my full disclosure stance is too much for everyone.

There are hurt feelings. People not talking. Crazy behavior. Miscommunication. As if the illnesses weren't enough.

I've taken on more than I can handle but I can't imagine handling it any differently.

Having said all that, it's a beautiful day. I'm taking a break from it all and stopped off for a pedicure. Sitting still with someone draping hot towels across my sore legs is delightful. My kids are upstairs, exploring a new game together. My nose is starting to heal from the piercing. And GLEE is on tomorrow.

Sent from my iPhone

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