tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92096761745131140772024-03-12T23:27:58.735-04:00Prozac, Passion, and Poor Decisions: The Story Of MeMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-69618023298591169502019-07-07T13:51:00.000-04:002019-07-07T13:51:15.479-04:00My Night in the Psych Unit Part 2***Trigger Warnings*** This post discusses self-injury, cutting,
suicidal ideation, and time spent in a psychiatric unit, reader beware<br />
<br />
Disclaimer from <a href="https://prozacpassionandpoordecisions.blogspot.com/2019/07/my-night-in-psych-unit-part-1.html" target="_blank">yesterday's post</a>:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">[As mention in previous blog (link here), I had an
experience with my OCD and OCD meds in 2014 that led to my spending one
night in the psych unit at Yale-New Haven Hospital in New Haven, CT.
Before I begin this story, I want to acknowledge that my experience is
personal and I do not intend to generalize the experiences of
individuals who may also have spent time in a locked unit due to mental
illness. I also want to recognize that this post may be triggering to
those who have personal experiences, direct or indirect with mental
illness, psychiatriac hospitals, and involuntary commitments. I want to
make clear that I sought treatment myself and made a conscious decision
to spend the night in the psych unit because I felt I was a threat to
myself. Working in the mental health field for several years, I know
that my experience was more independent and person-driven than others'
experiences and I want to acknowledge how unique my experience was. That
being said, let's start at the beginning.]</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wrote down my uncle's phone number since I knew my phone would be
confiscated and told him I would call when I was discharged. He hugged
me and I held back tears, trying to put on a brave face. I headed to
the locked psych unit, a place I had referred so many clients and
families before and even called EMS for actively suicidal clients in
session. Two officers escorted me to the locked unit and asked if I had
ever been through this before. I answered, sheepishly, "No, but I'm a
therapist, so I think I somewhat know the drill." They confiscated my
phone, hoodie (because of the drawstrings), and my shoes. I was
given hospital slipper socks with grips on the bottom and a stack of
magazines. The psych unit was so crowded that evening, I was sequestered
to a stretcher in the hallway. My leg cuts at this point had dried over the cut up sock I used as a makeshift bandage before I left my grandmother's house. I asked several times for someone to give me supplies to clean my cuts, but it took hours before someone came to cut the blood-dried sock-bandage off my legs and clean me up. I knew I didn't need stitches. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">My cutting was rarely deep, but always sporadic and spastic. I cut fast and non-discriminately, although somewhat discriminate since I only cut places that would be easy to cover up. For me, cutting was more about the pain after. The cutting itself was a means to an end. Cutting was a punishment. Days and sometimes weeks later, my cuts would still ache. I cut myself the most when I was a daycare teacher, because I was in a very abusive and controlling relationship, living hours from my family without a vehicle. When I cut my thighs, days later I would squat down to tend to one of my toddlers and I would feel the sharp, burning sting of the cut stretching over my thigh. It was a painful reminder that I deserved to feel hurt and punished.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">While I waited, the hours ticked by. I estimated I arrived at the hospital around 6pm and by 11pm, I still hadn't been evaluated by a doctor. There was a young man, maybe around 19 or 20 years old, in a bay with a closed curtain. He was talking and laughing and screaming, carrying on whole conversations for which I was only hearing one side-the side being in his mind. A nurse checked on him often and the young man asked to leave. The nurse informed him his family was concerned about him and he was on a mandatory 72 hour hold (in North Carolina we call that an IVC-involuntary commitment). The nurse informed him he had threatened to harm his grandmother and then himself. The nurse spoke with familiarity and I imagined she knew this patient well. Overhearing this encounter made me feel selfish and privileged to have c<i>hosen</i> to come to the hospital. Was this a pathetic excuse to escape my responsibilities? Was I really a threat to myself? Why was I here? The thought <i>You're not crazy if you're afraid you're crazy</i> kept repeating. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hadn't emoted in any way, shape or form for hours. I absentmindedly leafed through magazines. After midnight, a doctor finally spoke to me and asked me why I was there. I told him about the self-injury and the fear of hurting myself again. In a monotonous tone I stated "I'm afraid the children I counsel are going to die and if they do, I'll kill myself." The doctor stated he wanted me to move to the crisis unit for the night and be reevaluated in the morning. Even though there was nothing physically wrong with me, I was transported by wheelchair down several hallways and rode on a number of elevators. I remember laying in the room I shared with another individual in a psych crisis and wondering <i>How did I get here...how did it come to this?</i> My dog, Chrissy, had died the previous year and from time to time I would swear I could feel her physical presence on the bed with me, typically at times I was distraught. I hadn't felt her presence in a while, although looking back it's possible her spirit tried, but I was too numbed with alcohol and food to feel it. That night, I promise you, I felt Chrissy's spirit on the hospital bed with me. I felt her body snuggled against my back in the same way she did when she was alive. I felt her warmth and I felt comforted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I drifted off to sleep and when I woke up, I ate breakfast that was delivered to my room. I hadn't had my medication yet, because, as the nurse reported, "I think the doctor is going to make some changes." Mid-morning I wandered down the hallway to what appeared to be a vacant conference room and found some coloring pages and broken crayons. I busied myself with that for a while until the doctor was ready to speak with me. The mere question, "So, what's going on?" was all I needed to completely break down for the first time not only since I had been in the hospital, but in months. I began sobbing as I explained the unreasonable demands of my job, my anxiety over something happening to my students, my decision to kill myself should something irreparable happen to them. I cried so hard I hyperventilated as if I was remembering how to cry. The doctor was very kind and compassionate, although stated the obvious "You can't keep on like this, you'e too hard on yourself, you're putting too much pressure on yourself" all the things I have heard my entire life. But, for some reason, it resonated with me that morning. I was expecting and hoping for the doctor to write me a letter saying I couldn't return to work-ever. I was looking for someone else to take on the responsibility of making that decision for me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">After I let out everything I had held in for months, I immediately became aware and knew what I needed to do. Being a problem-solver has always come easy to me and in an instant I knew what I had to do. The doctor cleared me to go home and increased my Prozac to 80 mg daily. I called my uncle and he stated he would be able to pick me up after 3pm. I ate lunch in the hospital bed and napped some more until it was time to leave. With a clear head, I asked my uncle if I could spend the next couple nights at his house, understanding part of my depression and anxiety was the living environment I was in. I also called my boss (my mother had called him earlier that morning and told him I was in the hospital with stomach pain at my request) and asked if we could meet on Monday so I could discuss with him what's going on with me. He was supportive and obliging. I took two weeks off and shared with my boss (in so many words) that I was having serious mental health reactions to the work load and I needed to take all the PTO I had saved, effective immediately. I also advocated and stated before I returned to work, I needed to return with help. That the job I was doing was unmanageable for one person. Interestingly enough, it took less than 2 weeks to find additional help, even though I had been asking for 4 months.</span></span></div>
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-52005991329460505752019-07-06T16:59:00.001-04:002019-07-06T16:59:23.660-04:00My Night in the Psych Unit Part 1<br />***Trigger Warnings*** This post discusses self-injury, cutting,
suicidal ideation, and time spent in a psychiatric unit, reader beware<br />
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<div>
As mention in <a href="https://prozacpassionandpoordecisions.blogspot.com/2019/05/old-cranky-douche-ocd.html" target="_blank">previous blog</a>, I had an experience with
my OCD and OCD meds in 2014 that led to my spending one night in the
psych unit at Yale-New Haven Hospital in New Haven, CT. Before I begin
this story, I want to acknowledge that my experience is personal and I
do not intend to generalize the experiences of individuals who may also
have spent time in a locked unit due to mental illness. I also want to
recognize that this post may be triggering to those who have personal
experiences, direct or indirect with mental illness, psychiatriac
hospitals, and involuntary commitments. I want to make clear that I
sought treatment myself and made a conscious decision to spend the night
in the psych unit because I felt I was a threat to myself. Working in
the mental health field for several years, I know that my experience was
more independent and person-driven than others' experiences and I want
to acknowledge how unique my experience was. That being said, let's
start at the beginning. </div>
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I mentioned
in my previous post, that I was officially diagnosed with
OCD in 2012 and was treated with Prozac. By Fall 2013, I was on 60 mg of
Prozac a day, but also going through a break up, moving back in with my
grandmother (with whom I had/have a contentious relationship), and
transitioning to working full time as a school counselor in Bridgeport,
CT for two Catholic schools. By November 2013, I already felt I was
drowning and attempted to be proactive and inform my clinical
supervisor. Because I worked in a depressed area with little funds, I
was informed there wasn't enough money in the budget to hire the extra
counselors I needed to help offset the weekly influx of new students I
was assessing for high risk situations, including domestic violence,
child abuse/neglect, suicidal ideation, and self-injury. Each week, I
was flooded with dozens more students to meet with and assess, all of
whom would qualify as high risk and all of whom I was supposed to be
coordinating with the Catholic Charities clinic for follow up therapy.
Herein lies the problem, the majority of my students were Latinx and
Carribbean, two cultures that historically do not feel comfortable
seeking counseling, especially not for their children for fear of
Department of Children & Families (DCF) involvement, as well as
Immigration. In addition, most of the families did not have the means or
ability to drive their kids to and from counseling several days a week.
It was more convenient and most trusted for the children to see me in
their school. So, that's what I did. To my own demise.</div>
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By
Christmas break, I was more than burnt out. I was drinking a bottle of
wine and binge eating daily all in an effort to fall alseep and escape
reality. I would sleep until 2pm on the weekends, eat "breakfast" and go
back to sleep. I dreaded work, but worse than that, I dreaded not being
at work as I began to feel overly responsible for everyone's well-being
and safety. The Friday before Christmas break, I had barely walked in
my front door when the prinicipal of the school called to say I should
check my work voicemail. An irate parent had left a threatening message in regards to my reporting her actions THAT SHE REPORTED TO ME
to DCF. In this voicemail, she threatened to kill me so I felt
compelled to save the voice message. Somehow, I still felt "okay" and
"in control" of the mounting pressure and debilitating stress. When I
returned from Christmas break, I was met with the same unreasonable
demands, high risks check ins, and no aid from the mental health clinic I
was contracted through. My cancelling weekly supervision with my
clinical director due to the overwhelm of high risk families and
children should have been an indicator I was drowning. That and the fact
that I was actually drowning!</div>
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The following 2
months after returning from Christmas break, things went from bad to
worse. I was often at the school from 6:30am to 5pm facilitating calls
to DCF and STILL making mandated reporter calls on my hour-long commute home. While this didn't
happen everyday, it happened often enough that I was beginning to
unravel mentally. In the past, I had struggled with self-harm and I was
beginning to have thoughts of self-harm again, for the first time in
years. I was on 60 mg a day of Prozac, but often felt emotionally muted
and commented that I was unable to emote appropriately to the stress
that was happening to me. I was numbing myself with medication, food,
and alcohol. </div>
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By February 2014, my only escape
was sleeping. I slept all weekend and my grandmother didn't understand
or approve of my sleeping the weekend away. Even though I was 32 years
old, working full time (and then some), paying rent, and attending to
all my other adult responsibilities, my grandmother would come into my
room (her reason for "barging in" was "it's my house, so this is my
room") and demand I get up. Her reason? "I don't like it. I don't like
that you sleep all day." My response was: "I'm depressed." But, after some time, sleep wasn't an escape any
longer and the tiny "office" I shared with the school nurse, that wasn't
heated (in February...in Connecticut) seemed to be getting smaller and
smaller. My world was closing in around me. Everyday, my kids (students)
were having crises and I was only one person and I couldn't fix
everything. I was constantly afraid of my 8th grade girls killing
themselves or my 6th grade boys assaulting another student and somehow
it would be: ALL MY FAULT. </div>
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"All my fault" is
classic OCD symptomology. Feeling the full weight of real or perceived
responsibility is a crushing obsession to hold onto everyday. Even more
crushing is asking for help and being told "there is none." Thinking
about something traumatic or tragic happening to one of my students
"under my watch" made me so anxious and depressed, I began to concede to
this thought: "If one of my student's kills themselves, I'll kill
myself. I won't be able to live with myself. So I'll go too." Once that
thought became an option, it was somewhat easier to push on. </div>
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On
Wednesday February 26, 2014 I started the day like "normal", binging on
Dunkin Donuts and coffee while listening to NPR on my way into work. I
was still exhausted from the previous day and already exhausted from my
upcoming day. Around 7:30am, one of my 8th grade girls came in with a
crisis. She had been harming herself. More specifically cutting herself.
Instantly I was triggered. I remember thinking "I'm going to cut myself
when I get home today. I want to die." I barely held it together the
remainder of the work day. I wrote my hours and hours of notes (by
hand). I got in my car. I drove home, silent tears streaking my face,
numb and powerless. I walked into the house and cut my legs up. I don't
want to go too into detail about the self-injury itself because it can
still be triggering for me, but I knew I wanted to do more and I knew I
wouldn't be able to stop myself. And I scared myself bad. I called my
uncle and calmly stated "I cut myself and I need to go to the hospital."
He instinctively knew the cut was self-inflicted because when I climbed
into his huge pick up truck, he said "Yale Psych?" and I replied
"Yeah."</div>
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I approached the check in counter and stated "I cut myself. On purpose. And I feel like I'm going to do it again." </div>
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-24370280783158567172019-05-04T18:16:00.002-04:002019-05-04T18:16:34.252-04:00Old, Cranky Douche (OCD)<div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
A central theme to my writing has been discussion of my anxiety disorder, specifically my diagnosis with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). As I explore my anxiety disorder more and see just how far it reaches all aspects of my life, I am reminded that my OCD traits have actually impacted my personality. There is a mental health diagnosis called Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder and while I do not meet the criteria for that, I can see where my OCD traits impact my sense of self, my relationships, and my daily life.</div>
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I cannot recall a time in my life when I didn't feel anxious, obsessive, compulsive, or generally worried at all times. That being said, my childhood was fairly typical. A child of the 80's and 90's, I enjoyed technology-free play including Barbies, bike riding and swimming in our above ground pool. I enjoyed reading and journaling and I remember from very early on that self-soothing and "creature comforts" have always been key in decreasing my anxiety. As a child, things were comforting. I had to have "my things" in order to feel safe, secure, and comfortable. At 37-years-old, I rely on these things the same way and often get teased about how much stuff I pack when on vacation.<br />
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My answer typically revolves around my need to feel comfortable. Knowing I have options and potential back up items for when I don't feel comfortable. These items may include certain articles of clothing, a stuffed animal, a book or journal, music or podcasts that I've listened to before. Repetitive and binging on things has always been a comfort to me. I binge watched TV before that was actually a phrase. I would rewatch TV shows and movies repeatedly because they were familiar and comforting. At a particularly low and lonely time in my life, the cast of the TV show <i>How I Met Your Mother</i> felt like my friends. I counted on them everyday to help me through the pain and obsessions I was enduring at that time.<br />
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I was officially diagnosed with OCD in September 2012. I had watched a disturbing horror movie, <i>V/H/S</i>, and had dealt with a 3 day long panic attack that resulted in me seeking medical attention from my primary care doctor, because I was certain there was something physically wrong with me. I had had anxiety and panic attacks before and had been medicated with Paxil, Wellbutrin, and Klonopin. But, this was different. My doctor promptly told me I was experiencing a panic attack and increased my dose of Wellbutrin as well as my Klonopin. However, after two weeks I began to develop strange mental obsessions and even stranger compulsions. I was so preoccupied with forgetting to lock the door before leaving the house that I would often turn around 3-4 times to check the door before heading out to work, only to still feel uneasy and "not right" about the door. My obsessive train of thought was as follows: "The lock isn't latched, the dogs and cat could get out, we live on a busy street, they will be killed, my girlfriend will never forgive AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT." And it will be all my fault is the end conclusion for every obsessive/compulsive ritual, even to this day.<br />
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What eventually led to my diagnosis of OCD and being put on medication specifically for OCD was an obsession I developed about dying tragically in a car accident. My compulsion to, in theory, calm my obsession was to picture myself dying in a tragic car accident my entire 90 minute roundtrip commute to work. Every. Single. Day. My "OCD logic" being people who die tragically in a car accident never see it coming, so if I am thinking about it, it won't happen. Needless to say, the mental torture my OCD was forcing me to endure was terrible enough and after a few weeks of that I returned to my doctor who informed me the increased dose of Wellbutrin likely exacerbated my OCD symptoms and I was then treated with Prozac. Over the next 2 years, my dose of Prozac would increase to 80mg a day and left me feeling empty, unable to emote, and dead inside. (Stay tuned for an upcoming post about how horribly THAT went...)<br />
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Looking back, I realize I had OCD long before I was diagnosed at the age of 30. As a child, I had rituals that I performed that "made me feel better." I often said goodnight to every single stuffed animal and doll before I went to bed. Most kids do. For me, it was a compulsion aimed to quiet the obsession which was: If I don't say goodnight to every single one, they will come to life and kill me in my sleep. Pretty heavy for a small child, but that obsession is two-fold. 1) OCD can oftentimes be graphic, violent, and sexual for no apparent reason and 2) my tv viewing was generally unsupervised and I exposed myself to edited-for-tv horror movies at a young age. Other rituals included washing my body in the same order and pattern every time I showered (one I keep up with to this day), eating certain foods a certain way, and even playing in a certain way.<br />
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For example, every Saturday morning, I dragged my huge bag full of Barbies and clothes out to the living room and played while my brother and I watched Saturday morning cartoons. I did this every Saturday morning for years. Starting at age 11 (until I moved out at age 22), I spent just about every Friday night cleaning and rearranging the furniture in my room in an attempt to maximize the size of my room. My favorite thing was to stay up as late as possible on Friday night, cleaning, organizing, and arranging, so when I woke up the next morning I could "spend the entire weekend in my new, clean, fresh room."<br />
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My OCD symptoms and traits haven't always been negative. Because my OCD also manifests a compulsive need to please people, my organizational skills coupled with my need to be seen as useful and helpful makes me an amazing employee. I came to learn I would be an amazing employee to the detriment of every other relationship in my life because I was so mentally drained from "being on" all day at work, I had nothing to give to my significant other, family, or friends. This inspired research into self-care before self-care was the hashtag phenomenon it is now. The more my anxiety about being the "perfect employee" increased, the more time I felt compelled to spend caring for myself to avoid burn out. That left little time for anything else and I often felt stretched too thin.<br />
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I'm currently attempting to balance all the things I like about having OCD (the organization, I always know where everything is, I'm rarely late or miss an important day, I'm efficient and productive at work) with all the things I hate (the news scroll of looping thoughts, the random violent images that seem uncontrollable, the inner turmoil of feeling contaminated just by hearing the word "lice" [even typing it just now gave me pause], the mental exhaustion of not forgetting to do something important at work that could directly [or indirectly] impact a patient). It's not easy and it takes effort every single day. I don't ever get a break from my OCD, but sometimes I can filter out the loudest noise and manage what is left. Sometimes, I have no choice but to give in and allow it to consume me (within reason) because I don't have an energy left to fight.<br />
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-77976923719988075862018-11-19T17:22:00.000-05:002019-05-04T17:29:41.501-04:00I Refuse to be the Token Fat Chick to your Basic Bitch<div>
I have perpetuated the same toxic friendship pattern since middle
school, but in my adulthood this cycle has become debilitating. In my 20's, I came out as bisexual and for my straight gal
pals, being in a same sex relationship <i>and</i> chubby made me an easy
target for toxic friendships. Looking back, I now see that it was mainly due
to two things: 1) I was still insatiably trying to become friends with
"the cool girls" and therefore eager to please and 2) I was
non-threatening to these straight girls. I wasn't going to steal their
boyfriends, I was the Rebel Wilson and Melissa McCarthy to their Anna
Kendrick and Sandra Bullock. I was "the funny one", provided comic
relief from the chaos of their lives. Because I was in serious and long
term relationships, I think I was viewed as a non-sexual being. Less
than human. A side kick. Especially since my sex life
typically involved other women, my straight gal pals didn't want to include me in loose talk. There is a formula to these women that I have uncovered and
I apologize in advance if this describes you. This is not a judgment, I
promise, merely an observation. </div>
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The formula looks like this:</div>
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1. Straight Cis Female</div>
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2. Around my age, but maybe 5-7 years younger</div>
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3.
Serial dater, but falls in love with every man they date no matter how
little they know him or how much time they have spent with him</div>
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4. Has had a few long term relationships, but routinely cheats on them all in the name of finding love</div>
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5.
BUT is constantly worried she is being cheated on and checking his
emails and texts are commonplace, even accepted as "this is
what it's like to date me"</div>
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6. Is above average on the
attractiveness scale and puts a lot of time into looks; spending money they
don't have on blow outs, make up, clothes, but can barely pay rent or
buy groceries...</div>
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7. Which leads to their beau of the moment
being a semi-sugar daddy, picking up the rent because she spent $150 on a
mani/pedi (further justifying the cheating "You know I don't LOVE Tom,
but he's paying my car insurance right now so I can't break up with him
yet, plus I'm pretty sure Derek is the one...")</div>
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8. She
tolerates (and I use that word loosely) my lack of style, even though
she secretly wishes she had the confidence to go to a bar in flannel pj
pants and a ripped tank top</div>
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9. She attempts to "make me over"
at first casually suggesting "Wouldn't it be fun if we straightened
your hair?!" to less subtle "That shirt is fucking hideous!" (justifying
the last statement as "The Cosmo talking!")</div>
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10.
She uses me as her wing woman in bars because she believes I am too
gay, too chubby, or too fucking hideous to attract attention for myself</div>
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11. And last, but absolutely not the least, she uses me as her own personal therapist. I am who she calls for every
drama, from small to catastrophic (which are one in the same to her).
She insists on my feedback for every decision she makes. She consults
with me on matters of career choice, boyfriend, mom drama. And this-THIS-is where she gets me. That teenage girl who still lives inside me, the one who wore Enya tee shirts in middle school and mismatched
socks on purpose, is thrilled at the idea of one of the beautiful people
giving me attention. One of the beautiful people calling for<i> my </i>advice. I seem important to her. I get nicknames and labeled "best friend." I spend vacations with her and have the sleepovers in my 20's I
always wanted as a kid. I get to escape my life through her drama.
It's like watching a live version of <i>Scandal</i>, I seemingly
get all the benefits without any of the risks. </div>
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This
woman is not as superficial as she may sound. She is
typically college educated with career aspirations, BUT her main goal
*right now* is to find a man and have kids. There is absolutely nothing
wrong with that goal. I am all about choice and following your heart and
if your dream is to be married and have a family-go for it. No shade,
honest. What this post is addressing is the way these women have treated
me and I'm going to guess many of you. Treated like we are commodities. Like we
have nothing better in our lives than to help them navigate their every decision. And this is where the revelation comes in, usually
about 6 months to 1 year into the friendship: This woman could not give
two fucking shits about my life. These thoughts start occurring to me: <i>She
never asks how I'm doing and when she does, there's no follow up the
next time we talk. She spends HOURS on the phone talking about her
relationship, but when I get to talk about mine, she has to hang up
within 10 minutes. She asks me for my advice an awful lot but doesn't
seem to heed any of it. She continues to ask me to join her for things
she knows I'm not interested in (hot yoga, getting our hair styled,
clothes shopping) but won't even consider doing things I enjoy. We used
to talk all the time, now she only texts when she's having boy drama.
Where is this friendship going? Why do I feel worse after being around
her instead of better?</i></div>
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Why indeed.</div>
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Friendships
should be re-energizing and empowering, not depleting and exhausting.
You should feel lifted up being around your "best friends" not feeling
fat or unworthy. You shouldn't feel honored to be graced with a phone
call from her, you should feel like you are on an equal playing field.</div>
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Now,
this is where I acknowledge my role and responsibility in the
friendship dynamic. I perpetuated this pattern because I began the
friendship feeling less than and I put that energy out there. I didn't
set boundaries or assert myself, because I felt "lucky" to even have one
of the beautiful people paying attention to me. Because my self-esteem
was so low, I didn't feel I deserved to be treated as an equal in a
friendship. I also form bonds fairly quickly with people and most times
these friendships are spawned from a working relationship. If you spend 8+
hours a day with someone, you tend to have a connection with her. You "get"
each other's daily struggles and plights. You bond over the
inconsistencies of your work environment, the annoying and boring staff
meetings. But, once that work relationship ceases to exist, there is little common ground to keep the friendship
going. I end up realizing fairly quickly how little I had in common with
this individual. Aside from work, what did we have? Not a whole lot. </div>
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It's a hard pill to swallow coming to terms with your "best friend" essentially being a stranger, someone who doesn't really understand or know you. It's hard realizing the amount of time, effort, and energy you put into the friendship wasn't reciprocated and you begin to question your own judgment and ask yourself <i>How did I get myself into this?</i> And once you have these insights, it's never as easy as ending the friendship. Female friendships and their complex dynamic have been written about ad nauseum. It's expected, almost, to keep up the image of a friendship even when you're heart's not in it anymore. And social media keeps up appearances far longer than the friend feelings. So how do we make peace with the assumption that girl friends are supposed to exist indefinitely even when the friend feelings have faded? How does one confront the end of friend feelings and break up with a friend in a kind and honest way?</div>
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-12607798498299638082018-11-18T15:10:00.000-05:002018-11-20T13:53:32.903-05:00The Anatomy of a Holiday As Told By a Highly Sensitive & Anxious Empath"You ruin every holiday and special day, Melissa."<br />
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This is a sentiment I have heard repeatedly since I was a child and something I have, unfortunately, decided to take into adulthood and namely into every relationship. "The Holidays"-that time between Halloween and New Year's Day-are my favorite time of year. I have always loved spooky things and scary movies, my birthday is the day after Halloween. Thanksgiving has always been an opportunity for my binge eating disorder to shine full force without having to hide and Christmas-well shit, Christmas is just magical. I hated school as a child and looking back I can clearly see it was due to my raging anxiety disorder and people pleasing that didn't work on 3rd graders who thought I was teacher's pet (I was) and trying too hard to be their friend (I was). So, having more than a week off was a bonus to the already magical time of year. And even as a child I made New Year's resolutions. I was 8-years-old and vowed "to lose weight and be a better friend." Not much has changed in 30 years...<br />
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It's not an accident this post comes the week of Thanksgiving, because I am burdened with dread that I will ruin the day. To be clear, I'm not <i>planning</i> to, I never do. It's not premeditated. It's not for attention (despite what some family members and ex-lovers think), it is a direct result of my own pressure and outrageous expectations, people pleasing, <a href="https://prozacpassionandpoordecisions.blogspot.com/2015/09/dont-be-so-sensitive.html" target="_blank">over-stimulation, and over-peopling</a>. I want to be perfect-the perfect girlfriend, the perfect host, the perfect example of "The Holidays." It makes sense that most of my favorite holiday movies center around everything going wrong (National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation; Home for the Holidays), because they make me feel less alone.<br />
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The overwhelm of the upcoming week is creating a pressure cooker in my mind, shoulders, and chest. My breathing shallows and I realize I have been hunching my back for hours. I'm exhausted and shutting down emotionally. I'm in isolation mode which doesn't make for a gracious hostess. So I will likely overcompensate on the day in the hopes no one can see I'm a shell of a human and just trying to "get through." Then the guilt about all of this self-focus comes into play like a professional athlete who never gets the ball. The guilt will be my demise as it renders me useless and incompetent. The guilt will cause me to second guess simple tasks, leaving my partner to either pick up my slack or explain to me how to measure flour, with the patience of a goddamn saint. There's even the guilt of me writing this, acknowledging how self-absorbed my mental illness makes me. The irony of having mental illness and being a therapist is I am constantly aware of what my mental illness is doing to me a<i>nd</i> the people around me. It's a hell I can rarely escape, save for sleeping and binge eating.<br />
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I have been working on being less self-focused, attempting to unburden myself from hanging onto disappointment and resentment that perpetuates a victim mentality that is ugly and characteristic of people in my life I don't respect. But my mental illness demands constant vigilance and awareness or I risk having a savage meltdown, complete with tears and hyperventilating. Thus proving the theory right: Melissa ruins every special day.<br />
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My questions: how do I acknowledge and care for my mental illness without letting it dictate my life and the lives around me? How do I know when I need a break or when I'm being rude and anti-social? How do I know when I've pushed myself too far before it's too late? And most importantly, how do I survive the holidays without "ruining them" but while also being authentic and honest and real?<br />
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For now, all I have to say is:<br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-27871954935866483552017-01-15T14:56:00.003-05:002017-01-15T14:56:52.389-05:00Three Sentence StoriesThese are TRUE stories from my life I have reduced to three lines. Names have not been mentioned to protect...those in need of protection. No ill will is meant, just a fun peek into some random experiences in my life. I was inspired by the infamous two-lined horror stories my co-workers and I read on break. Nothing but love.<br />
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1. As I was walking to work one morning, a woman called to me from her porch and asked if I could give her some money. I called back, "Sorry! I'm poor, too, that's why I'm <b>walking</b> to work." The woman answered, "Damn. Good point. Have a good day."<br />
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2. I pulled up to a car wash one night to get quarters from the change machine to do laundry. A woman approached my car and proceeded to tell me what she described as a "very sad story" about her and her children being hungry and did I have any money to spare? When I said I spent my last $10 on quarters for laundry and had nothing to spare, she then asked if I had (or if I knew anyone who had) Percocets...I drove away.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/AcBPEnZubYQWafX6sYkEKoAt9r7190p_XgzZSAiAcHxTdUxKDJRgjGg/" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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3. After having lost 10 lbs on my new anti-anxiety medication, I decided to walk downtown and treat myself to ice cream. It was a beautiful summer day as I walked, enjoying my ice cream, with my headphones on yet no music playing because my iPod had died. A man at a bus stop shouted to me (probably thinking I couldn't hear), "Hey! Better watch those pounds eating that ice cream!" to which EVERYONE at the bus stop laughed...I was 20 lbs. lighter than I am now.<br />
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4. I once fell in and out of love in one evening when a friend of mine and I decided to go clubbing and he brought his absolutely beautiful best friend with him. Our bodies immediately connected on the dance floor, both of us instinctively moving to the music in perfect harmony, as Rihanna's "Please Don't Stop The Music" played-a song that flawlessly described our meeting. We ended the evening with an intense kiss and I never saw him again. (This happened on the same day as #3)<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-btsGTl4sqpk/WHvRH1S__tI/AAAAAAAABFQ/dnvl_ZSvKcclr64WoV9mUQ-Upgs6GRJ3ACLcB/s1600/img-thing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-btsGTl4sqpk/WHvRH1S__tI/AAAAAAAABFQ/dnvl_ZSvKcclr64WoV9mUQ-Upgs6GRJ3ACLcB/s1600/img-thing.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=please+don%27t+stop+the+music+lyrics&biw=1172&bih=619&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiFtIOv9MTRAhUKMSYKHRfHDn8Q_AUICSgE#imgrc=oU8ZcxWvGpy2DM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>) </span></div>
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5. I once offered to give back some of my Christmas gifts to a significant other to make up for the fact that she didn't get everything on her Christmas list from me. My gifts from her were paid for with my credit card. She did not hesitant to take back some of my gifts.<br />
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6. In one night, I consumed 15 (I'm not exaggerating, this might actually be a conservative estimate) white Russians after being inspired by The Big Lebowski. The parts I remember after the drinking include participating in a human pyramid in a bar, getting kicked out of said bar, cartwheeling (unsuccessfully) down the street and landing on my ass SEVERAL times. The last thing I remember is a friend finding me blacked out next to the toilet, him undressing me and putting me in the shower while slapping my face and screaming not to fall back to sleep...the next morning he told me never to do that again.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MENC5bHlUY4/WHvRilCV0LI/AAAAAAAABFY/tiE3Zf2CUlIUxsNYD840PUbpdK_6sVLWQCLcB/s1600/lebowski-white-russian.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MENC5bHlUY4/WHvRilCV0LI/AAAAAAAABFY/tiE3Zf2CUlIUxsNYD840PUbpdK_6sVLWQCLcB/s320/lebowski-white-russian.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://img1.steemit.com/0x0/https://bevvy.co/articles/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/lebowski-white-russian.jpeg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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7. One night, one of my best friends and I went to New York City to see OneRepublic play at Bowery Ballroom right before their hit single "Stop and Stare" went mainstream. We got extremely drunk and decided to hang out with the opening band, who wanted to eat Chinese food in Chinatown. After ordering a shit ton of food and leaving the band with the bill, we drunkenly attempted to find our way back to Grand Central by foot and subway (literally the beginning of a Law & Order episode), but made it back to New Haven by 5am when I had an all day Saturday graduate class at 8am.<br />
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8. One day, another best friend and I decided to spend the day in New York City-she meeting a guy friend she had become interested in, I there for moral support and to keep the guy friend's male bestie company. The four of us had such an amazing day together we didn't want it to end, so the guys paid for us to get hotel rooms-my friend and her love interest in one room, male bestie and I in another. We went out to dinner and ended the night as the only white people in a reggae bar, afterwards we took a cab back to the hotel where I have a clear memory of me singing every word to "Dick in a Box." (The male bestie did not take advantage of me, even though I awoke with regret that we hadn't hooked up...see #9)<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ucmjqsRhyy8/WHvR3Iw2i6I/AAAAAAAABFc/lnNdaTvB0MIR_LVjkH0FXx5OPTLh8Rf3ACLcB/s1600/dick-in-a-box-lg.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ucmjqsRhyy8/WHvR3Iw2i6I/AAAAAAAABFc/lnNdaTvB0MIR_LVjkH0FXx5OPTLh8Rf3ACLcB/s320/dick-in-a-box-lg.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://img1.steemit.com/0x0/https://bevvy.co/articles/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/lebowski-white-russian.jpeg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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9. A few weeks later, the previously mentioned male bestie was passing through town and needed a place to crash. Without hesitation, I offered him my humble New Haven apartment and he showed up a little past midnight. I chattered nervously for an hour straight until he grabbed me and kissed me...and that was the first time I had sex with a man.<br />
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10. In 2007, I wanted to participate in the New York City Gay Pride Parade and when I couldn't find anyone to go with me, I decided at the last minute to go by myself. I spent my last $30 on a round trip train ticket to NYC and assumed I could show up the morning of and march in the parade, but found out I had to be registered with an organization. I, then, found a group of people not dressed in uniforms and stood with them until someone handed me a sign and I had been marching with the organization for 10 minutes before I realized I was with the New York City Council and Mayor Bloomberg was an arm's reach away from me. (I got to ride the subway for free all day because of my participation in the parade.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://media.timeout.com/images/101625043/image.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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~MelissaMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-31881187722345392342017-01-07T16:57:00.000-05:002017-01-07T16:57:24.629-05:00I Need Noise...I am an "aholic". An addict. A Junkie. I have often mused (as un-funny as it is) if I ever tried heroin, I would be dead in a week. My compulsions are epic and beautiful and amazing. Also terrible and frightening and isolating. I've abused and over-used alcohol, food, sex, people, TV, love, sleep, and exercise. But I'm MOST addicted to beginnings and endings. I love starting over-the fresh, new page of a new day, month, year, job, move, relationship. I love the promise of tomorrow and the adrenaline rush list making, goal setting, and vision boards trigger. But, I also love endings.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/104919866299374046/" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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I love cleaning house and cutting ties. I love trimming the fat from my emotional diet and creating a minimalist state for me to exist in. I love deleting old contacts from my phone and ripping old pages out of my journals. I love to feel cleansed, purged. This obsession has created in me a binge-purge cycle in my emotional life. I get <i>really</i> into something (or someONE) and I'm all about it. I proselytize and attempt to convert any and everyone I meet to agree with me on this amazing new find. I distract myself with this binge for as long as it takes before reality sets in and the purge compulsion surfaces.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O1JXADIwE1M/WHFSEBYp8gI/AAAAAAAABDc/WG0LG51ir9M59oa2fY3Ua0Ui-KT1DHFMACLcB/s1600/to3unm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O1JXADIwE1M/WHFSEBYp8gI/AAAAAAAABDc/WG0LG51ir9M59oa2fY3Ua0Ui-KT1DHFMACLcB/s320/to3unm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="http://m.memegen.com/to3unm.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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Some striking examples in my life are my 7 month stint in a cult when I was 18, many of my relationships, some friendships, diet and exercise fads, songs, TV shows, and most recently the search for a place to call home.<br />
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The common thread is the need to be doing, evolving, achieving, and progressing at all times. Which is not, in its purest form, a bad thing. But, I fear, I often get involved in these projects to distract me from the thing that most needs purging: the obsessive, overthinking, highly sensitive thought patterns I have called normal my entire life.<br />
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The static that is buzzing at all hours of the day, despite exhaustion and need for mental rest. The humming in the back of my brain akin to an electronic device left on all night. I believe that is why I am shamelessly obsessed with the song "Blood in the Cut" by K. Flay, because the lyrics "take my car and paint it black/take my arm, break it in half/say something, do it soon/it's too quiet in this room/I need noise" speak to a deep and (let's call a spade a spade) troubling part of my psyche.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zQXLeQwiMeI/WHFS2--W-sI/AAAAAAAABDo/BFKlj5j7lUIiQToxHJBE_w5pOCULXG3sQCLcB/s1600/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zQXLeQwiMeI/WHFS2--W-sI/AAAAAAAABDo/BFKlj5j7lUIiQToxHJBE_w5pOCULXG3sQCLcB/s320/0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/DMA4vDwP7n4/0.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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As I recently texted a friend, I have beginnings and endings down pat, it's the middle-the maintenance-that is difficult. Her response was apt: "Maintenance is boring." And it is. That is probably why I have been spectacular at beginning and ending relationships-maintaining a fun, exciting, sincere, and serious relationship with one person seems daunting and unattainable. Especially with all the distractions we have now. TV, movies, texting, every form of social media known to personkind, including dating apps where a dissatisfied partner could potentially spend less than 15 minutes creating an online profile and start talking to a newer and (hopefully) better person. There is even a fellow blogger devoted to revealing what cheating partners are up to on <a href="http://cheatinghusbandapps.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Cheating Husband Apps</a>. <br />
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As a married friend and I have discussed, our generation (1981 babies) and younger seem enamored with the illusion and appearance of happy relationships via social media, movies, TV, etc. I can relate-I am often STILL moved to major life decisions based on movies and songs. It's not an easy thing to admit, but being a 90's kid where cable TV was available and romantic comedies ran on a loop every weekend, it makes sense that is how I established my core values in relationships.<br />
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My go-to movies are divided into two categories: teen romances and the "damsel in distress." I'm still a sucker for both. As much as it pains me, as a feminist, to admit this: I love and loved the classic story of a woman being swept off her feet by some beautiful, charming, and (of course) sensitive man and "rescued." My body is recoiling at me even writing these words, but truth is truth. I'm less gullible now, but in my formative years? Holy fucking shit. 💖<br />
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I thought that's how life and love worked. You suffered, you met some incredible human being, they fixed every problem in your life (down to wardrobe), and you lived happily ever after. No discussion on what happens in the absence of conflict, how one maintains a relationship through the everyday monotony of life. So, in my naive mind, conflict that tested love was essential in relationships. Therefore, in the absence of said conflict, I felt the need to create some to prove to myself and my partner just how much we could overcome. And boy did I!<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SJM_5N5-FQI/WHFfogOEBvI/AAAAAAAABEc/6LwshBQRCbMLou1RFsyn3rp0D6fgc_32gCLcB/s1600/d07d5b68327694335a000aad581f02ac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SJM_5N5-FQI/WHFfogOEBvI/AAAAAAAABEc/6LwshBQRCbMLou1RFsyn3rp0D6fgc_32gCLcB/s1600/d07d5b68327694335a000aad581f02ac.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d0/7d/5b/d07d5b68327694335a000aad581f02ac.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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Luckily, I have outgrown c<i>reating</i> drama, but the craving for it still pervades. The absence of it suggesting there is *something missing* when really it's just life being life. Most of it is uneventful bullshit we have to muck through to get to the fun stuff, which (hopefully) does not get thwarted by someone else's drama addiction.<br />
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So, instead of longing for a person or relationship to fix this merry-go-round I have been on for 20+ years, I am creating my own happiness, fun, and excitement and hoping to find someone who thinks outside the box enough to want to jump on, instead of expecting me to jump off.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2SYrxTEjNsQ/WHFj03SJDVI/AAAAAAAABEw/uOB7igH8JOUHvSk9qXocs7xATFKkYoQsACLcB/s1600/9962d11a50f46df7fa9907f184131553.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2SYrxTEjNsQ/WHFj03SJDVI/AAAAAAAABEw/uOB7igH8JOUHvSk9qXocs7xATFKkYoQsACLcB/s320/9962d11a50f46df7fa9907f184131553.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/99/62/d1/9962d11a50f46df7fa9907f184131553.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
~Melissa<br />
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*Title credit song "Blood In The Cut" by K. Flay in 2016 (Because I'm <b>STILL </b>obsessed with it!)Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-74652261709614962512017-01-02T21:16:00.005-05:002017-01-02T21:17:47.978-05:00Guess I'm Contagious It'd Be Safest If You RanRelationships. Fuck me. I can't, in good conscience, go into 2017 without addressing them. I am an unlikely (and not at all proud) heart breaker. I have collected quite a few hearts over the years and I hate myself for it. There's not much else that haunts me the way my relationship history does. I oscillate between deep, unrelenting shame and indifference-the latter I'm certain is only there as a reprieve from the former. But, like an abuser is often a victim of abuse, this heart breaker is a highly sensitive empath whose heart was broken one too many times and has resigned to her fate.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uzoQtaCkhOE/WGrqqTv41AI/AAAAAAAABBk/rdMffS41W68CrcwMbhQxtnUwCuC650P4gCLcB/s1600/images.jpg%257Ec200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uzoQtaCkhOE/WGrqqTv41AI/AAAAAAAABBk/rdMffS41W68CrcwMbhQxtnUwCuC650P4gCLcB/s1600/images.jpg%257Ec200.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=heartbreaker&biw=1170&bih=619&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi8r6OI1KTRAhXEwiYKHT2BCNwQ_AUIBygC#tbm=isch&q=broken+heart&imgdii=0Tt4yS85CaqOYM%3A%3B0Tt4yS85CaqOYM%3A%3BjsEZgJsBiWuEKM%3A&imgrc=0Tt4yS85CaqOYM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
At least that was my thought in 2016 and now I'm like FUCK THAT. Maybe my relationship style is unique, but I want to fall in love and I plan to. As many times as it takes. I want to find someone I connect with on every level and know them intimately, beyond bed sheets and candles. A kind of harmony I have yet to experience fully. I've come awful close and then one (or both) of us feels rejected or hurt (life) and builds walls. I'm usually so aggressive I end up banging on said walls, only making them harder to perforate. I'm like a goddamn Miley Cyrus.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iAkx8_HnrG0/WGr8phTYp-I/AAAAAAAABB8/AQs32OJ9OEcJHk1nY3wyvdQNbmbYG0JWwCLcB/s1600/large.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iAkx8_HnrG0/WGr8phTYp-I/AAAAAAAABB8/AQs32OJ9OEcJHk1nY3wyvdQNbmbYG0JWwCLcB/s320/large.png" width="237" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=wrecking+ball+miley&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjVl4yv56TRAhUCWCYKHUsGCo0Q_AUICCgB&biw=1170&bih=619#tbm=isch&q=wrecking+ball+lyrics&imgrc=P9LFDo7IwE21WM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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Then, I graduate to passive aggression, sometimes within the course of the relationship, sometimes it's just my MO out of the gate. Passive aggression is bad. It's one step up from giving up. At least, that's been my experience. If you catch me being passive aggressive...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f1QNs1owr2w/WGr9kfD3roI/AAAAAAAABCA/1hdj8LxOQLw3TiJiRDo_afSjt2pz8BmRgCLcB/s1600/persons-0016_large.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f1QNs1owr2w/WGr9kfD3roI/AAAAAAAABCA/1hdj8LxOQLw3TiJiRDo_afSjt2pz8BmRgCLcB/s320/persons-0016_large.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=emoji&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj9vo_J6KTRAhUESiYKHfE0CckQ_AUICCgB&biw=1170&bih=619#imgrc=2zZijjzHkRsVZM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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No good. I'm starting to mentally shut down when that happens. I'm now just appeasing you and quietly planning the inevitable: leaving. Because I seem to be addicted to changing myself, relationships become unfortunate collateral damage. Some relationships, unbeknownst to me, are only transitory and those are the hardest on me. Because I have usually been "working on myself" and feel healthy in ways I hadn't before, I feel confident in starting a relationship. But, very soon in I find myself restless, dissatisfied, and itching to leave-through zero fault of my counterpart. In fact, this person may be "perfect" and have done everything right. It's just timing. And it fucking sucks. These break-ups are the most inexplicable. Leaving both (definitely me) reeling and confused. <i>I thought I was better than this. I thought I was a grown up now. I thought this is what I wanted!</i> my mind would scream. That may be true, but it doesn't mean it was right.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TRRIZdE9rNg/WGsApwW3cPI/AAAAAAAABCM/O3xVgGNNqEcr4jF_TKuUOSwylSEsbrAaACLcB/s1600/25bda0cc5bf70c4ce39825d69f9c5dc5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TRRIZdE9rNg/WGsApwW3cPI/AAAAAAAABCM/O3xVgGNNqEcr4jF_TKuUOSwylSEsbrAaACLcB/s320/25bda0cc5bf70c4ce39825d69f9c5dc5.jpg" width="313" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/77827899782118954/" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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<br />
I am a master self-saboteur because I have been gutted and demolished by relationships-romantic and otherwise. My high sensitivity makes it hard to bear the thought of that happening again. Therefore, at the smallest sign of a problem I freak out. Inwardly and quietly...at first. It doesn't take long for my inner world to seep out of my mouth and alert friends and partners of my insecurities. And NOTHING is hotter or sexier than insecurity...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B1s1tV5iYRo/WGsDPfCtXOI/AAAAAAAABCY/dByOwB1x35cig20NnRqMnxfAMAyriLmoQCLcB/s1600/a0f372d9e8de7629fe83ad2a4c34a3ba1b3d8d35bc7ea848bbfeac4b4beb93ef.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B1s1tV5iYRo/WGsDPfCtXOI/AAAAAAAABCY/dByOwB1x35cig20NnRqMnxfAMAyriLmoQCLcB/s320/a0f372d9e8de7629fe83ad2a4c34a3ba1b3d8d35bc7ea848bbfeac4b4beb93ef.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="http://s2.quickmeme.com/img/a0/a0f372d9e8de7629fe83ad2a4c34a3ba1b3d8d35bc7ea848bbfeac4b4beb93ef.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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Once I start to feel insecure, it's hard to reign it in and the very things I fear (my partner falling out of love with me, finding someone else, and cheating on me) happen. And it's happened enough to where I almost expect it...eventually. Which is why I have considered (and still do from time to time) polyamory. But another blog for another time...<br />
<br />
So, to avoid the unsexy insecurities and seemingly inevitable broken heart, I jump ship. I find a reason to leave and I do. And, truth be told, at first it's empowering. Probably because I have felt so disempowered in relationships, either from my loads of baggage I'm bringing in, the way I'm treated in the relationship, or a beautiful disaster called all the above. As time wears on, I feel regret, disgust, loss, grief; sometimes months or years after the fact, since I have become a ninja at suppressing my feelings.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GqoBEu--7Wc/WGsGH1dMklI/AAAAAAAABCk/_k_cH8Jh0swwp-TFyX4ijpPinH9cNsYhwCLcB/s1600/image_by_rogerdodger2020-d89r60s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GqoBEu--7Wc/WGsGH1dMklI/AAAAAAAABCk/_k_cH8Jh0swwp-TFyX4ijpPinH9cNsYhwCLcB/s320/image_by_rogerdodger2020-d89r60s.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="http://orig03.deviantart.net/d24d/f/2014/347/7/e/image_by_rogerdodger2020-d89r60s.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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Alas, this is my record, my history, my narrative. It's ugly and beautiful, all at once. Same goes for relationships and, for that matter, life. I've seen the ugly, caused a lot of it myself, but I've seen the beautiful as well. And fuck if the beautiful isn't worth all the ugly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oqSlQWZWEEI/WGsJOQIYFII/AAAAAAAABCw/iOJjKyIWaVA0EpMqBVRcvVLjGBwyak3UwCLcB/s1600/8937bd31ced63bd7aa95c7176d88834b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oqSlQWZWEEI/WGsJOQIYFII/AAAAAAAABCw/iOJjKyIWaVA0EpMqBVRcvVLjGBwyak3UwCLcB/s320/8937bd31ced63bd7aa95c7176d88834b.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=I+have+met+many+people+I+can+picture+living+with,+but+very+few+I+cant+imagine+living+without.&tbm=isch&imgil=DvcN5MgpwjYIDM%253A%253Bg3_wj4Ae0zoh1M%253Bhttps%25253A%25252F%25252Fwww.pinterest.com%25252Fpin%25252F301459768791285530%25252F&source=iu&pf=m&fir=DvcN5MgpwjYIDM%253A%252Cg3_wj4Ae0zoh1M%252C_&usg=__clds51vVO-DtQ9axZ4ZjG9TnJFE%3D&biw=1170&bih=619&ved=0ahUKEwjG-q7T86TRAhWCJCYKHX4cBxkQyjcIKw&ei=BQlrWIbkLILJmAH-uJzIAQ#imgrc=DvcN5MgpwjYIDM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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<br />
~Melissa<br />
<br />
*Title credit song "Blood In The Cut" by K. Flay in 2016 (Because I'm obsessed with it!)<br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-22495043817826097282017-01-01T19:23:00.000-05:002017-01-01T19:23:36.853-05:00It's Too Quiet In This Room...So, I spent today just as planned. I bought and prepared all my healthy food for the week (even though the lying liars at Whole Foods were NOT open at 9:00!). I put my laptop away and set my timer when playing online games. I went for a walk in the rain. I started reading a new book. Even though 2017 started as planned and I am in good spirits, there is a sadness. A sadness at another year ending. It makes me think about mortality, endings, regrets. It's inevitable to go down that road, the difference is instead of fighting it I am embracing these feelings and labeling them as appropriate. Rarely in my life have I allowed myself to believe my feelings are appropriate. Nice job, Melissa.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pz5cuvlecrU/WGmR_9-ft5I/AAAAAAAABAw/S24zfWyyjkcFbuZ2wlGOtuqvR_JpUfYJwCLcB/s1600/awesome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pz5cuvlecrU/WGmR_9-ft5I/AAAAAAAABAw/S24zfWyyjkcFbuZ2wlGOtuqvR_JpUfYJwCLcB/s320/awesome.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=i%27m+awesome&biw=1170&bih=619&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjytdLijaLRAhWGSSYKHbjYBlYQ_AUIBigB#imgrc=viAM5YTfvoCJmM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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2016 was far better, for me, than 2015. I achieved what I set out to: regroup, build my self-confidence, and gain a better understanding of my self-worth. I met some amazing people many of whom I suspect will be lifelong friends. I've also unintentionally hurt some people and those are some of the regrets I woefully carry with me into 2017. Because that's how life works. You leave as much of the past as you can, but baggage is what it is. You can't realistically leave everything behind, unless you want to forfeit the beautiful memories, too. I want all of them-even the painful ones.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LoOqA24MUmU/WGmTrQXiNKI/AAAAAAAABA8/dIyfSvGzFMcp8-TEgygW_3nBKyNQZcQNQCLcB/s1600/41684c44354ae0c1d6fb5d2fd55e763dc2c0f81e4802cf3ce12d49a0e604a58a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LoOqA24MUmU/WGmTrQXiNKI/AAAAAAAABA8/dIyfSvGzFMcp8-TEgygW_3nBKyNQZcQNQCLcB/s320/41684c44354ae0c1d6fb5d2fd55e763dc2c0f81e4802cf3ce12d49a0e604a58a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=i%27m+awesome&biw=1170&bih=619&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjytdLijaLRAhWGSSYKHbjYBlYQ_AUIBigB#tbm=isch&q=baggage+meme&imgrc=weBKNURMaEGm2M%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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I'm also ready to take 2017 by the balls and tell him to follow my lead. I'm on fire-the Alicia Keys way not red, hot, burning ouchies way. I am motivated, focused, determined, and downright fucking zen, man. I don't know where this pizzazz is coming from but I'm not arguing. I'm not going to do what I have done in the past in a New Year's post and bullet point all the things I learned in 2016 and all the things I plan to do in 2017. You'll find out soon enough and there aren't enough surprises left in this world. I'm holding onto this for a bit. But suffice it to say, it's epic. This year will be no different than any other year unless I (or you) <b>make</b> it different. That is a fact. Wtf, my new <a href="https://www.fitbit.com/charge2" target="_blank">Fitbit</a> talks to me?! Gives me directives?? I love this! It just "told" me to walk 244 steps in the next 10 min. Amazing...<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UzWEv2m_kV0/WGmXTdE_JqI/AAAAAAAABBI/xXNd0Q8Re4Qga0ow7ATWajeOqJRUtqEngCLcB/s1600/img-aliciakeys01jpg_163219466243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UzWEv2m_kV0/WGmXTdE_JqI/AAAAAAAABBI/xXNd0Q8Re4Qga0ow7ATWajeOqJRUtqEngCLcB/s320/img-aliciakeys01jpg_163219466243.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=i%27m+awesome&biw=1170&bih=619&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjytdLijaLRAhWGSSYKHbjYBlYQ_AUIBigB#tbm=isch&q=this+girl+is+on+fire+alicia+keys&imgrc=v6iswZ0EjF8DMM%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
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But I digress...<br />
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I am embracing my weird and letting my freak flag fly. Some of you must be thinking how much more "freak" do I have to wave, but I hold back more than people think. I feel myself becoming hyper and I quiet myself. I feel myself become emotional and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from crying. I feel myself start to worry and outwardly portray someone who is cool, calm, and collected. I have pride in those moments when I am <i>genuinely</i> cool, calm, and collected; sensitive; or spazzy, but I don't want to fabricate these feelings any longer and, more importantly, I don't want to dull them either. I have felt the light in my eyes go out and it's a horrifying feeling. To feel yourself becoming numb, succumbing to the dissatisfaction as a normal part of living is the antithesis of <b><i>living</i></b>. So, to that light in my eye that wavers and considers going out completely, I say:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R2BorgRCn3w/WGmbYiZd3mI/AAAAAAAABBU/syGLbjQ4T58LGWJTVP-mBHtPUk8LuKG5QCLcB/s1600/ea86007690475.56029e863e872.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R2BorgRCn3w/WGmbYiZd3mI/AAAAAAAABBU/syGLbjQ4T58LGWJTVP-mBHtPUk8LuKG5QCLcB/s320/ea86007690475.56029e863e872.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=i%27m+awesome&biw=1170&bih=619&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjytdLijaLRAhWGSSYKHbjYBlYQ_AUIBigB#q=i%27m+not+done+yet&tbm=isch&tbs=rimg:CZOO4FIzoeSTIjjLYvXLgniGeirXdBKeyCVU0SHqfzXTG7u4VtcPxPxPa-3VexSuFfhHXhg1_1d5If00_16Yy7y1IpgyoSCcti9cuCeIZ6EadEtQNGxB32KhIJKtd0Ep7IJVQR-BSZd1RaWYYqEgnRIep_1NdMbuxFVkgHTxSeVrioSCbhW1w_1E_1E9rEVzeCLkoysBwKhIJ7dV7FK4V-EcRretHVNI6WWwqEgleGDX93kh_1TRHEcMB7YYO6PCoSCT_1pjLvLUimDEU9IZPkDiXSV&imgrc=k47gUjOh5JOl7M%3A" target="_blank">Source</a>)</span></div>
I'm intrigued and hopeful as 2017 commences. We shall see what this sexy beast has in store for us. I, for one, am ready. Are you?<br />
<br />
~Melissa<br />
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*Title credit song: "Blood In The Cut" by K. Flay in 2016Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-25715312238546192672016-06-26T17:08:00.000-04:002016-06-26T17:08:07.765-04:00NYC Pride Flashback circa 2007<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Pride Weekend!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know June is LGBTQIA+ Pride Month for most of the country, but being a Northeasterner at heart, the last weekend in June has always been reserved for "The Pride Event": New York City Pride Parade.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EAJk4yUIEeY/V3AvUC2mymI/AAAAAAAAA80/APudFIBxzlEMLE3LiLME3iywAVatDhKLwCLcB/s1600/equality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EAJk4yUIEeY/V3AvUC2mymI/AAAAAAAAA80/APudFIBxzlEMLE3LiLME3iywAVatDhKLwCLcB/s320/equality.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://gaycities-featured-images-production.s3.amazonaws.com/events/originals/fb_12672063_10153986934308112_7694252376640232573_o.jpg" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Source)</span></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Being out since 2004, I had always imagined myself walking in the NYC Pride Parade. My fantasy revolved around images I had accumulated from movies, books, and music videos. You know the ones-stereotypical depictions of butch lesbians on motorcycles and scantily clad gay men waving rainbow flags-I wanted to be in the thick of it!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GaQehv7Eftc/V3AxLBHMMoI/AAAAAAAAA9E/MVK6lJx4UwsUPBOVOXTHayGLiP3QENragCLcB/s1600/gay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GaQehv7Eftc/V3AxLBHMMoI/AAAAAAAAA9E/MVK6lJx4UwsUPBOVOXTHayGLiP3QENragCLcB/s320/gay.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1101833.1340635967!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/gallery_1200/2012-new-york-city-gay-pride-parade.jpg" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Source)</span></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dJLINsa3_jQ/V3Axyxucp5I/AAAAAAAAA9U/QH1zWQXxPiUTEAyOluUGuwF1wYQfxPtuQCLcB/s1600/dykes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dJLINsa3_jQ/V3Axyxucp5I/AAAAAAAAA9U/QH1zWQXxPiUTEAyOluUGuwF1wYQfxPtuQCLcB/s320/dykes.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://cdn3.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_asset/file/6704223/birdy206.jpg" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Source)</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, I could not manage to scoop up any willing participants on this excursion, so come Sunday morning I headed to the New Haven train station by my lonesome. Destination: Grand Central. I am definitely someone who can "pass" and my attire reflected that as well. En route to NYC, I looked like a typical college student heading to The City for the day. I was equipped with a bagel and coffee, very little money (in fact JUST enough for my round trip train ticket and a $5 meal in New York), and a spunky attitude!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Being cognizant of the mayhem that would soon ensue, I arrived VERY early. So early, in fact, the volunteers were still setting up the event. That is when I first noticed the traffic barricades blocking off the sidewalk...and when it dawned on me that most people don't assume they can just show up to one of the largest pride events in the world and expect to just simply MARCH with the parade. But, then again, I'm not most people. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I casually usurped the barricades and starting walking up 7th Ave, in the street. It took approximately 27 seconds before a very militant lesbian approached me with a clipboard and asked if I needed help. In my youthful arrogance I simply responded I was there to march in the parade. She scoffed and asked if I was registered with a group. I slowly took a sip of coffee and explained I was not registered with a group. She all but laughed at me and said I could not march if I was not registered, before marching away herself. I smiled and affirmed: <i>I </i>am<i> marching in this parade.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I peered across 7th Ave and saw a group of 20-somethings in a vibrant and excited huddle. Unlike most of the other groups that were forming, these individuals were not dressed alike and, therefore, made it easier for me to sneak in and pretend I was with them. In a matter of minutes, a woman shouted, "Who wants to carry a sign?!" </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought, <i>Here's my chance! If I'm carrying a sign, I can't be told I can't march!</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I do!" I exclaimed and hurried over. I cannot for the life of me remember what my sign said and unfortunately<span style="font-family: inherit;"> it</span> did not survive the many moves I've had since 2007.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> But, that sign was my ticket to my very gay f<span style="font-family: inherit;">antasy<span style="font-family: inherit;">, so I held on for dear life. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At precisely noon, we kicked off from 36th and 7th towards<span style="font-family: inherit;"> The Village and the excitement pulsed immediately. I had no idea <span style="font-family: inherit;">who I was marching with, but I was overwhelmed by the p<span style="font-family: inherit;">roud energy pounding from the onlookers and march<span style="font-family: inherit;">ers alike. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We hadn<span style="font-family: inherit;">'t walked very far, when <span style="font-family: inherit;">we stopped and I heard a man speak from <span style="font-family: inherit;">one </span>row ahead of me. I<span style="font-family: inherit;">n a dizzying moment of re<span style="font-family: inherit;">alization, the pieces start to connect and I rea<span style="font-family: inherit;">lized who, exactly, I was marching with. I was marching with the New York City Council and <span style="font-family: inherit;">quite literally one person separated me and Mayor Bloomberg!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=mayor+bloomberg+gay+pride+2007&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjS25fFxMbNAhVLaD4KHfGDCtIQ_AUICSgC&biw=1172&bih=619#imgrc=L6iYRoCiquucpM%3A" target="_blank">(Source)</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=mayor+bloomberg+gay+pride+2007&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjS25fFxMbNAhVLaD4KHfGDCtIQ_AUICSgC&biw=1172&bih=619#imgrc=L6iYRoCiquucpM%3A" target="_blank">(Source)</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">These are pictures from NYC Pride 2007. I was one of the many people holding signs announcing important political and legal dates in gay history. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My head was spinning. It was surreal to know I was actually participating in this event and I had done it with nearly no preparation. As the march continued, my casual attire became more "Gay-a-fied" as I collected rainbow Mardi Gras beads, buttons, stickers, and flags. By the time we ended at Christopher Street, I was covered in rainbow goodness from head to toe-never mind my sign. Having spent hours marching in the heat, I was in need of a subway pronto. I stopped and asked a cop where I could find the nearest subway station and was informed that all participants of the parade got to ride for free!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I lived off that Pride high for weeks after, telling anyone who would listen about my adventure! The train ride back to CT was entertaining to say the least as I garnered looks from everyone from elderly couples to children to other queer 20-somethings who smiled with solidarity.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">So while I was not able to participate in today's Pride events, my flashback holds special significance for not only the queer in me, but the activist in me.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rau5zJhdlyg/V3BCyPbLiUI/AAAAAAAAA_E/fPETP47veLM1MVv63-_kfFQK6nobgyyDwCLcB/s1600/gayrights22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rau5zJhdlyg/V3BCyPbLiUI/AAAAAAAAA_E/fPETP47veLM1MVv63-_kfFQK6nobgyyDwCLcB/s1600/gayrights22.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> ~Melissa</span> </span></div>
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-15446444661344587572016-01-01T09:26:00.000-05:002016-01-01T09:26:35.932-05:00An Open Letter to 2015As the new year begins, I find myself caught up in the typical end-of-the-year reflections, mostly thanking the fuck out of the Universe that 2015 is over. Please trust I am everyday grateful that I am alive and able to live each day to it's fullest, that I have an abundance of family and friends who know me better than I know myself, and that I am (finally) employed at a job I do not vehemently hate every second of. That being said, this past year certainly gave 2014 a run for its money.<br />
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<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=i+hate+2015&biw=1366&bih=635&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjOv-bYlPXJAhUJGx4KHeIjBdoQ_AUIBigB#tbm=isch&q=fuck+you+2015&imgrc=01K3MFmKzl7ytM%3A" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Source)</span></a></div>
It's natural, then, to look back and bid adieu to all the fucked up shit that happened in 2015. Taking this reflection a step further, I have decided to address the main source of my discontent in 2015: <b>my bad attitude</b>. Because, basically, it all comes down to that. After 2014 proved to be misstep after misstep, I <i>expected</i> the Universe to grant me a break, without even considering my role in the equation. I assumed 32 essentially good (at worst decent) years + 1 tough year = I deserve all the things. But that, my darlings, is not how Life works. Life just is-it gives and it takes in a cycle that most of us pay little attention to. And when Life takes, the outcome depends almost entirely on our reaction to it. Pissing and moaning, blaming others, exclaiming "I'm cursed!" (something I am ashamed to admit I have said more than once in 2015), and throwing hissy fits is not going to force Life to give back, it's just going to make the situation that much harder to accept. <br />
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I have even gone so far as to declare: "In the past two years, I can't seem to have more than 2 or 3 days of peace without the rug being pulled out from under me." Now, as extreme as that may seem, it's actually fairly accurate situation-wise, BUT it didn't have to accurately describe my attitude. Instead, I let each situation puncture me, seep into my veins, and (worse of all) <b>define</b> me. I'm going to say that again: <b>I let those bad days, awful situations, and heartbreaking moments DEFINE me.</b> <b>For two fucking years. </b>Me! The person who always thought of herself as spiritual, positive, affirming, compassionate, understanding, open, "silver lining" adjacent.<br />
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I had become cynical, sardonic, skeptical, smug, bitter, jaded. All these alarming adjectives I <i>never</i> could have imagined associated with myself. And not because I've never felt these feelings in my life, of course I have, but never for so long, unrelenting to the point of attempting to forge itself into my core, my very soul. And I was afraid there was no way back. As scary and dark as these feelings were, I experienced a sense of superiority. Equivalent to the moment I asked my mother (at age 9) if there was really a Santa Claus and she confirmed there wasn't. The magic was gone, but I felt eerily superior, enlightened, "better." That is precisely the feeling I have held onto for two years, each day growing stronger: <b>The magic was gone, but I felt eerily superior. </b>Like I knew the "real" meaning of Life and everyone who was positive and happy was being duped. Trust, I recognize how absolutely miserable that sounds.<br />
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The magic I am referring to is the<i> wonder</i> of Life. The fascination of connecting with people, sharing common goals, allowing your heart to love, being open to hurt, putting yourself "out there." Everything I had come to love about Life, I was now belittling and demeaning. And it has affected my psyche, my heart, my well-being, and, most tragically, my soul.<br />
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Sure, I could blame dysfunctional relationships (I've had my fair share!), a crazy family (check!), unsupportive partners (yep!), career burn-out (yes, ma'am!), or a strong case of wanderlust (Lord, yes!) <b>OR</b> I could look at the preceding reasons and conclude my poor attitude likely played a large part in each of those areas, as well. Had I been more confident, comfortable in my skin, and trusting I wouldn't have sought out partners, careers, and locations that would eventually disappoint, most through no fault of their own. (Especially since I am not the only human on this planet who has ever experienced the previous.)<br />
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So, 2015, you have given me many opportunities to face who I really am, even when it hurt. You have given me reasons to cry and scream and shut down from the people closest to me. You have given me grief and struggle, but also resilience and hope. In truth, last year was never about you and Life conspiring against me, it has always been about you giving me reasons to trust Life loves me and gives me exactly what I need, exactly when I need it. I can't promise my attitude will magically alter today, I can't even promise to go back to the wide-eyed optimist I was in my 20's, but I can promise not to give up, not to succumb to the bitterness, not to expect the worst from people. I can promise to try harder, laugh more, take Life (and everything!) less seriously while I am blessed enough to be here on this planet. In closing, 2015, you gave much more than you took, because you gave me a purpose, you pushed me to my breaking point and trusted I would find my way back. And I am beginning to. Thank you. <br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">~Melissa</span></div>
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-80923684841660116662015-11-08T18:03:00.004-05:002015-11-08T18:03:35.873-05:00I Get Into All The Don'tsIt always seems like we're just "getting through" things. You get through school to get through college to get through work to get through to the weekend, vacation, retirement. As an anxious person, this has colored my entire world and my perspective on most things, unfortunately leaving me with a general sense of misery I typically cannot pinpoint. I am in a constant state of anticipation (good or bad) and it wreaks havoc on the here and now.<br />
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I've tried changing my attitude and outlook to "be present" in the moment-employing mindfulness techniques while at work or suffering through a long line at the DMV. This has been about 50% effective, which is not a bad statistic overall, but for someone who feels "born anxious", maintaining mindfulness for extended periods can feel time consuming, exhausting, and (in the end) more anxiety-producing.<br />
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I've tried making the most of my "free time" to the point of estimating I have approximately 64 "free" hours a week I'm not at work, sleeping, or getting ready for work. This, of course, does not count errands, phone calls, paying bills, and the myriad other "adult" things we are required to accomplish everyday to be considered "grown up." (It also carries on the aforementioned "getting through" dilemma.)<br />
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I've tried militant list making and planning-an escape route of sorts-to give me meaning and purpose in current stressful situations. That works more often than mindfulness, but perpetuates the anticipatory anxiety I am trying to avoid altogether. Never mind all of these avenues typically have the shelf-life of a gallon of milk.<br />
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Each time I consider this quandary, I come out feeling more defective. It appears most people have it down. "It" being <b>LIFE</b>. These guys and gals seem to know who they are, what they want, and how to get it. Not only that, but they seem to know how to convert that self-awareness into financial success. On the other hand, there are just as many people who do "get through the week" at a job they don't particularly enjoy, but find satisfaction in family, friends, hobbies, and clubs.<br />
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I can't relate to either. Depression has tricked me more times than I can count into believing this universal dissatisfaction I have felt <i>definitely</i> in the past 2 years, <i>probably</i> since I graduated college, <i>possibly</i> since birth is me just being a lazy, bored, miserable bitch. Unhappy, unsatisfied, unappeasable.<br />
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The kicker is...I'm <i>not</i> miserable. I'm truly not. Sure, I have significant mood, food, and booze issues. True, I have untreated OCD (Thanks, South Carolina!). Yes, I feel lost and alone almost all the time. Those are things I have dealt with my entire life in one form or another, yet only in recent years has this growing dissatisfaction, disillusionment, and disinterest in remaining an automaton reached levels I can no longer ignore. Levels where it physically hurts to ignore them.<br />
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I'm also not lazy. I thrive on hard work, deadlines, and productivity. I was unemployed from June to the end of October and it made little difference in my mood or anxiety. I still worried about the future and had epic mood changes, trouble sleeping, and obsessive thoughts. The irony is routine works both for and against me. My mental health craves it for stability and security, but my spirit feels bound and strangled. Which has led some noteworthy revelations about myself.<br />
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In recent months three things have become evident:<br />
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<li>I am a very sensitive person, an empath who absorbs mine and others' experiences and feelings to the point of mental, physical, and spiritual unrest. </li>
<li>I am a gypsy soul with a serious case of wanderlust and a side of free spirit syndrome. I love new beginnings, moving, having a "fresh slate", but find myself restless soon after arriving at these new adventures.</li>
<li>I consistently set myself up to fail. I put pressure on myself to mold to the "norm" and when I do, immediately feel stifled, robotic, and (quite possibly the most disturbing) ordinary.</li>
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I believe the restlessness lies in expecting geography to change my worldview so much so that my creative/wanderer/activist self will be satiated. The fact of the matter is Greenville is Corning is Meriden in the sense that I (like every single responsible adult on this planet) have to earn a living to support myself. Just being a living human being costs money-a lot of money. Never mind the stacks of various kinds of debt accrued when my former self was transitioning to this newest place on earth.<br />
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In terms of conformity, we have maintained a love-hate relationship since adolescence. I was fortunate enough to come of age in the grunge era. I say this not only because the music, movie, and art scenes were on point, but as a body-conscious teen, having baggy cords and oversized tee shirts in vogue was a godsend. I assert had fate decided I adolesce in the present, I would have pulled a Martha Dunnstock. I wanted to fit in as badly as any teen girl does, yet at the same time I had a non-conformity death wish of sorts, wanting to be as far from the trends as possible and uncertain how to marry the two. Twenty years later and I'm just as lost.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fyjjl2EJE-A/Vj_M8xpiM3I/AAAAAAAAA6c/cfOE5YlV_YA/s1600/heathers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fyjjl2EJE-A/Vj_M8xpiM3I/AAAAAAAAA6c/cfOE5YlV_YA/s320/heathers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lastly, feeling ordinary and normal seems so far from the person I am inside-in my mind, in my spirit. I don't say this in a superior way, far from it. Instead, I am saying it from an outcast's perspective. I feel like a fraud and have in just about every job and career I have held. Even when I write there is a sense of chicanery, however minute, I feel I have to overcome. Perhaps that is due to society's fixation with talent=money=success and because I have never been published nor achieved massive blog readership, I am, therefore, an unsuccesful/untalented writer.<br />
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I wish this post held more answers, but I fear the deeper I dive into this arena, every answer spawns several more questions. <i>What needs to change? Will I ever feel satisfied? How can I be both authentic and a productive member of society when my authenticity so badly wants to give 9-5 jobs the middle finger?</i><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9_qVCqi1wno/Vj_NccchPBI/AAAAAAAAA6g/-OFAPrn2ftQ/s1600/culture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9_qVCqi1wno/Vj_NccchPBI/AAAAAAAAA6g/-OFAPrn2ftQ/s1600/culture.jpg" /></a></div>
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I think the best I can hope for is connection with others who feel the same and remain optimistic that time will reveal how I can achieve my goals-personal and professional-in a way that is legitimate, satisfying, spiritual, and meaningful. To be clear, my mission is not a complete lack of disillusion in life. It is in disappointment that my creativity is born. To be without it entirely would leave me without conflict, too satisfied to rebel and speak my mind. And this gypsy soul has a rebel heart.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FgQdZeXhzxs/Vj_Tm9Fon7I/AAAAAAAAA7M/NUo6G1HYBN0/s1600/reb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FgQdZeXhzxs/Vj_Tm9Fon7I/AAAAAAAAA7M/NUo6G1HYBN0/s1600/reb.jpg" /></a></div>
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~Melissa<br />
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*Title credit: Song: "Moments" by Tove Lo in 2014<i> </i><br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-39773532446077460932015-09-14T10:57:00.001-04:002015-09-20T18:21:02.451-04:00Sweet (Inner) Child o' Mine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">***WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST INCLUDES IMAGES THAT MAY BE EMOTIONALL<span style="font-family: inherit;">Y </span>TRIGGERING***</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is fair to say the image below largely impacted me and had a direct influence on my writing this post. An art installation from this year's <a href="http://burningman.org/" target="_blank">Burning Man</a> was shared on the World Wide Web by many and made it's way to a friend's Facebook page (thank you, Cherie!) where I spotted it for the first time a few days ago. This piece, <a href="http://www.collective-evolution.com/2015/09/12/one-of-the-most-powerful-art-pieces-at-burning-man-this-year/" target="_blank">titled "LOVE" by Ukrainian artist Alexandr Milov</a>, depicts two adults (a man and a woman), backs turned and posing in a display of despair while their encaged inner children reach out to one another.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3vWlPkvNTdw/VfWXHWMatQI/AAAAAAAAA3g/1Hc9V-nqQGA/s1600/inner%2Bchild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3vWlPkvNTdw/VfWXHWMatQI/AAAAAAAAA3g/1Hc9V-nqQGA/s320/inner%2Bchild.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=834810830366&set=a.714631765176.1073741829.12501882&type=1&theater" target="_blank">(Source)</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm certain this piece struck me in the same way it did most people: as a commentary on the way adults are often quick to turn inward during times of struggle, so enmeshed in their own suffering they cannot see they are not alone. In addition, this piece spoke to me, personally. It asked the questions: <i>Is </i>my<i> inner child trying to tell me something? And if so, what?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The answer was painful to face: I haven't the foggiest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kyVSItQLkpU/VfYd-Pk4c9I/AAAAAAAAA34/bqmQ1Y6VAv8/s1600/shrug.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kyVSItQLkpU/VfYd-Pk4c9I/AAAAAAAAA34/bqmQ1Y6VAv8/s320/shrug.gif" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a student of psychology, counseling, and spirituality, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inner_child" target="_blank">inner child concept</a> was familiar, if not somewhat elusive. Wikipedia describes the inner child as:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"...our childlike aspect. It includes all that we learned and
experienced as children, before puberty. The inner child denotes a
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In essence, the inner child represents our innermost desires and feelings, often screaming to be heard over the everyday humdrum of life we, as adults, face. In more dire circumstances, the inner child may be suffering along with the "waking conscious mind" of its adult counterpart, due to pain, suffering, and/or trauma experienced in childhood. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Having attended many <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Overeaters_Anonymous" target="_blank">Overeaters Anonymous</a> meetings, I learned many twelve-step programs also adhere to this school of thought, suggesting healing the inner child is an essential part of addiction recovery. The implication is if our inner child represents our purest selves, our most independent and carefree parts of our being, when s/he is damaged in some way, it can (and in many cases) will affect our everyday lives. The idea being, as adults, we find ways to drown out the inner child's pleas through overworking, addiction, eating disorders, self-harm, distractions, escapism, anything really.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X0gRbjr3PP0/VfYiXdSP2XI/AAAAAAAAA4I/mN2BbGT58n4/s1600/inner3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X0gRbjr3PP0/VfYiXdSP2XI/AAAAAAAAA4I/mN2BbGT58n4/s320/inner3.jpg" width="305" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i>Having some knowledge of the inner child concept and viewing the Burning Man image opened my mind in a way I was not prepared. While the above image of the woman viewing herself and her inner child in the mirror can, upon first glance, appear to be nothing more than an animated horror movie scene, this is precisely how I felt after viewing "LOVE": alarmed and afraid. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was/am frightened of what I might have done to my inner child with my addictions and disorders, depression and anxiety, self-loathing, self-injury, and self-deprecation. I was afraid she was angry with me after yelling at her for not being smart enough, skinny enough, strong enough, or just plain ENOUGH. I imagined her cowering in the darkest corners of my mind and body, crying and feeling hopeless, longing to hear anything close to praise. But worse still, I was most frightened she was gone-given up on me the way I had given up on her. I feared she wouldn't trust me again, for all my failed attempts to nurture her in the past. And, in all honesty, she had every right not to. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LVLkqx1QNhY/VfYtQ1I_RaI/AAAAAAAAA4c/vUqmP5LDRCM/s1600/inner2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LVLkqx1QNhY/VfYtQ1I_RaI/AAAAAAAAA4c/vUqmP5LDRCM/s1600/inner2.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The twist is, when I went looking for her she was eager to connect with me again. She trusts me implicitly and expects no explanations for my failures. She welcomes me with open arms, as if she were there all along, waiting for me. Because that is <i>exactly</i> where she has been. She didn't leave <b>me</b>, I had left <b>her</b>. She waited, patiently, knowing I would return, understanding that my journey may involve letting her go for a time, but always confident I would someday reappear. She didn't scold or pout, she didn't cry or scream, instead she danced and sang and played with my comeback. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She became radiant, glowing as if from within, as she laughed and joked, prompting me to do the same. I felt my insides begin to heal, both symbolically and literally. It was as if her glow of rejoice was beginning to consume me. The air felt lighter and easier to breathe, my feet carried me with ease and purpose, I straightened my back and adjusted my smile. I felt honest, sincere, genuine...I felt like <b><i>me</i></b>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jMQTZPLBpSA/VfYxqS8hvSI/AAAAAAAAA4s/R2iLn2AvpSs/s1600/IMG_0984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jMQTZPLBpSA/VfYxqS8hvSI/AAAAAAAAA4s/R2iLn2AvpSs/s320/IMG_0984.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Me, age 3</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As if this epiphany wasn't enough, in true Melissa fashion, I found a song to encapsulate this very feeling of "coming home" to my inner child-to acknowledging her and freeing her from the emotional traps I had kept her in. Interestingly, in the past I had tried to make this song fit with lovers and a couple months ago I heard it again and decided it was a love song to myself. Saturday night, this song happened to play on my iPod and I was paralyzed for 2 hours as this song repeated and the realization unfolded that this was me singing to my inner child. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The song is "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri. The lyrics suggest that not only have I known and loved my inner child seemingly forever, but also that I have always known I would reconnect with her-seeing her alone in the shadows of my mind, wiping away all doubt of her existence. The opening line: <i>"Heart beats fast, colors and promises, how to be brave, how can I love when I'm afraid to fall?"</i> reminds me of the feeling I had (and continue to have) once rediscovering my inner child and inner spirit: reckless abandon, colors seem brighter, bravery reignited after being long forgotten and yet the oh-so-human response of "what if I fall?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Granted, this song can hold some negative connotations for its association with the <i>Twilight</i> movie <i>and</i>
it has been used by many as their wedding march. But, if you are
willing to look past that, listen to the lyrics, and imagine what I
do, I believe you may experience the same goosebump-y feeling I had
Saturday night, when each time the song ended I silently said, <i>"One more time..."</i></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I suppose this means I am, indeed, "one step closer" to reconnecting with the me I haven't seen in some time. The me that loves to color and joke, makes up songs and poems, and dances around the house. The me that laughs uproariously at nothing in particular, has dreams and chases them, sets goals and is hopeful they will pan out. The me that plays. The me that leaps. The me that <i>lives</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Me, 8 hours after my "A Thousand Years" reverie</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rumi sa<span style="font-family: inherit;">id</span>: "When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy." I think he was right.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">~Melissa</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">*Title credit: Song: "Sweet Child o' Mine" by Guns N' Roses in 1987</span></span></div>
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-56843520158835191802015-09-06T18:45:00.002-04:002015-09-06T18:46:02.230-04:00Silence is the New Black<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am guilty of what many of us do: fill quiet moments with unnecessary (often mundane) chatter to avoid silence. I call this "jibber jabber," (taken from the indisputably hilarious relationship of "Penny" and "Sheldon" on <i>The Big Bang Theory</i>).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yEjTaWIkdQo/VeyJq1HOBNI/AAAAAAAAAzA/qs9eddpJe-I/s1600/sheldon.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yEjTaWIkdQo/VeyJq1HOBNI/AAAAAAAAAzA/qs9eddpJe-I/s320/sheldon.gif" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/265782815479523016/" target="_blank">(Source)</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To me, jibber jabber and small talk has become mind-numbing. It appears the more change our world sees (socially, politically, environmentally), the more obsessed with monotony some become. For example, on a day when marriage equality is achieved for the entire country AND the President of the United States attends funerals for some of the Charleston 9, I may hear two neighbors discussing, at length, how the time the mail arrives has changed over the past few months. This is just one of <b>many</b> examples. I have never before heard so much discussion about mail arrival, lawns that need mowing, why this restaurant opens at 11:00 versus 12:00, and so it goes. I don't mean to sound judge-y, but for real? In the words of one of my favorite comediennes and podcasters, Jen Kirkman: "I don't want to do small talk anymore, I want big talk." I am beginning to reach a point where I am interested in one of two things: big/ "medium" talk or silence. Larry David has similiar sentiments.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/258112622368246336/" target="_blank">(Source)</a></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">In this post, I am hoping to encourage all of us, myself included, to enjoy, accept, and embrace the silence, when big talk isn't possible and small talk is irritating. In graduate school for counseling, we learned silence is not only a good idea, it is essential to growth. It gives both the client and clinician the room and space to process what has already been said. In a world where it is easy, most times unavoidable, to fill every silent moment with media static and white noise, this concept may seem unconventional. I am positing that it IS unconventional and that can be good.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I, for one, am constantly inundating myself with noise. If it's not TV, it's my iPod. Or I'm watching videos on YouTube, answering e-mails and texts, while also balancing my checkbook. In fact, as I write this post it is the only silent moment I will likely have today and yet my mind is still quite stimulated. As someone who struggles daily with mental hygiene, I speculate my avoidance of silence is due to fear of the places my mind wanders when there is no stimulation. The far reaches of my mind where dark thoughts, sad memories, and fear of the future reside. On days I am particularly motivated to embrace silence, I often achieve this by still distracting my mind, just in a less noisy way-reading. While it is a much needed break from screens (unless I'm using my Kindle...), it is still distraction from silence in its truest form.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It may be obvious to some what I am suggesting: less time online, more time outside, put your phones done. And that is all true, but I am also challenging us to go a bit deeper than that. Instead of <b>only</b> leaving 5 minutes before bed for meditation or 10 minutes in the morning for solitude, I am advocating a Lifestyle of Active Quietude or LAQ, as in <i>lack</i> of distractions, <i>lack</i> of noise, <i>lack</i> of disturbance. We can all use LESS in our lives. In fact, I have designed a second blog to devote especially to this idea. New blog <a href="http://activequietude.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I am suggesting may seem radical: how does one build a lifestyle around quietude? Like any change in perspective, it will surely take time and patience. It will involve yielding to other disciplines as well, such as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mindfulness" target="_blank">mindfulness</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Choiceless_awareness" target="_blank">choiceless awareness</a>, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compassionate_love" target="_blank">compassionate love</a> (all topics that will be discussed at length in my additional blog). It will also involve actively setting boundaries with myself (limit game time, limit the number of times I check Facebook, designating certain times for texting), as well as boundaries with others. Admittedly, I have a tendency to become rigid and obsessive any time I implement a plan, no matter how beneficial it is or how good my intentions are. Something I need to be <i>mindful</i> about. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Some ways I hope to spend my quietude:</span></span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Reconnecting with a spiritual path</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Spending more time in nature</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Reviving new creative interests</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Finding new hobbies </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Enhancing meditation practices</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Journaling </span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Some things I hope to learn from my quietude:</span></span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Patience</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mindfulness</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Non-judgment</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Compassion</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Gratitude </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">How to let go of all "The Stuff"</span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am eager to begin my journey and grateful to have the time and space to explore my solitude to its fullest. While I am hesitant to see what lies in the quiet moments I so desperately try to drown out, I am hopeful that taking time throughout the day to be quiet, mindful, and aware will only calm my chaotic mind. </span></span></span></div>
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~Melissa <br />
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-67458833124569441942015-09-01T11:10:00.000-04:002015-09-01T11:10:47.663-04:00Don't Be So Sensitive!I am an empath or HSP (Highly Sensitive Person). Some of you may have suspected, based on personal interaction with me or previous blog posts. Some of you may be perplexed as to what an empath or HSP is. That is understandable. Let<span style="font-size: small;">'</span>s begin with some definitions. As described on <a href="http://hsperson.com/" target="_blank">Dr. Elaine Aron's website</a>, someone who is an HSP experiences most or all of these traits:<br />
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<li>Easily overwhelmed by bright lights, strong smells, coarse fabrics, or sirens</li>
<li>Rattled when you have to do a lot in a short amount of time</li>
<li>Makes a point to avoid violent movies and TV shows</li>
<li>Needs to withdraw during busy days, into bed or a darkened room (or some
other refuge where you can have privacy and relief from the situation)</li>
<li>Make it a high priority to arrange your life to avoid upsetting or overwhelming situations</li>
<li>Notices or enjoys delicate or fine scents, tastes, sounds, or works of art</li>
<li>Has a rich and complex inner life</li>
<li>When you were a child, your parents or teachers saw you as sensitive or shy </li>
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Dr. Aron's website goes on to espouse that not only is being an HSP normal (15-20% of the population are reported to be highly sensitive), but also innate.<br />
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<i>"In fact, biologists have found it in over 100 species (and probably
there are many more) from fruit flies, birds, and fish to dogs, cats,
horses, and primates. This trait reflects a certain type of survival
strategy, being observant before acting. The brains of highly sensitive
persons (HSPs) actually work a little differently than others’."</i></blockquote>
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I adamantly agree and relate to every single bullet point listed on Dr. Aron's webiste, as well as previously written <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/30/understanding-highly-sensitive-people_n_7164286.html?ncid=edlinkushpmg00000055" target="_blank">blogs</a> or <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/26/highly-sensitive-people-signs-habits_n_4810794.html" target="_blank">articles</a> on HSPs. The two pieces I linked include some <b>super</b> relatable quips such as: <br />
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<li>"That annoying sound is probably significantly <i>more</i> annoying to a highly sensitive person."</li>
<li>"The effects of criticism are especially amplified in highly sensitive people."</li>
<li>"They're probably used to hearing, 'Don't take things so personally' and 'Why are you so sensitive?'"</li>
<li>"We notice that subtle change in your tone."</li>
<li><b></b>"We're always willing to hear you vent."</li>
<li>"They're more prone to anxiety or depression (but only if they've had a lot of past negative experiences)." </li>
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Sounds pretty exhausting, doesn't it? It IS. Being highly sensitive, coupled with my <a href="http://prozacpassionandpoordecisions.blogspot.com/2014/08/i-put-pro-in-prozac-part-one.html" target="_blank">OCD</a>, is quite literally the definition of mental exhaustion. My mind is constantly thinking, rethinking, thinking again, and thinking from the other person's perspective. Then, my brain does the ever-so-awesome analyzing of facial expressions, sighs, tone of voice, and body language. In addition to all that activity I am juggling just having a typical conversation, I'm also on sensory overload. Fluorescent lighting, dings from my phone and yours, TV blaring, the tag in my shirt, and food smells. And probably the most prevalent sensory disturbance (for me) is loud talking. Which, admittedly, is ironic considering I am also a loud talker. However, when I am already in sensory overload and my systems are ready to abort, loud talking is the living worst.</div>
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Keeping in mind this is an example of a typical conversation, void of conflict or subtext, it is easy to see how I would often have a hard time asserting myself, setting boundaries, and saying "No." Unfortunately, this had made me extremely vulnerable to abusive and toxic relationships, as well as bottling up my feelings which leads to resentment which leads two things: uncorking every negative thought or feeling in a frightening and unexpected manner <b>or </b>subconsciously creating a conflict that validates my reason for cutting the person out of my life. I have more often than not done the latter.</div>
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Knowing I am an HSP has helped me feel FAR less crazy. It has also helped me recognize and accept my limits. Unfortunately, I am still not fully comfortable asserting my boundaries and limits with others and have a <b>very</b> small group of people I explicitly trust, who understand and respect me. But, no one is perfect and even my most trusted confidantes may struggle to understand me all day, everyday. And I don't expect them to. I've accepted that there will be moments of emotional exhaustion and compassion fatigue where I have nothing left to give or receive, needing only the sanctuary of a dark room and a movie I have seen 18 times.<br />
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Even as I finish this blog, sights and sounds that didn't register hours ago (it's 7:00pm) are beginning to grate on me. The sound of the keys as I type, cars speeding past the house, the way my bed sheet is bunching in the middle of my futon in couch-position, my bedroom light glaring onto my glasses. Harmless annoyances, yet all signs I am hitting my limit. I hope to follow up, someday, with a post about how I manage my HSP-ness in a relationship, as that opportunity has not yet presented. Soon enough, I suspect. </div>
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~Melissa</div>
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-40866479868935781562015-08-31T10:08:00.000-04:002015-08-31T10:08:56.388-04:00Misery Loves CompanyWe all know people who seem miserable for miserable's sake. Meaning, they seemingly have most everything they want or need, yet still find reason to (at the very least) complain or (more often) attempt to drag others' to their level. For those of us who aren't equipped with the insight, knowledge, and/or mental energy to fight it often succumb. In fact, most people who get caught in this relationship are joyful, happy, and at peace-feelings miserable people realize are missing in their lives. Those who surrender can become miserable themselves, perhaps not only perpetuating this pattern with the original miserable person, but also other people in their lives.<br />
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It is a vicious cycle that most understand as "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Faustus_%28play%29" target="_blank">m</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">isery loves company</a>." I think it's safe to assume everyone is familiar with this person. This is the friend who only has negative comments when you share good news. This is the family member who monopolizes entire evenings with "woe is me"-type anecdotes that are decades old. This is the co-worker who consistently shatters your good vibe by implying your job isn't secure.<br />
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This is <b><i>not</i></b> the person currently going through a tough time <i><b>or</b></i> the person attempting to cope with mental illness <i><b>or</b></i> the person who has a random vent session. Sometimes, those lines are blurry and the understandable reaction to grief, anger, frustration, or anxiety is considered misery. I am suggesting that is dreadfully incorrect.<br />
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As someone who wears my feelings as an armband, proudly and openly, when I am upset, it is usually <i>very</i> clear. I often worry that I come across as negative or miserable when I am having a tough time. I will obsess (out loud) if given the opportunity, if I feel safe and understood. I will cry and scream to release my tension, again if the opportunity arises and I feel safe and understood. Admittedly, I am too trusting with these emotions and when I am faced with opposition, I feel not only hurt, but betrayed. It is a bit dramatic, I agree. But dramatic or not, it's how I feel.<br />
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Having grown up with a large family (half of whom keep every unpleasant feeling inside until they snap, half of whom will tell you exactly how they feel-who, what, where, and why), I sometimes couldn't make heads or tails of how I was <i>supposed</i> <i>to</i> cope with my feelings. So, I learned by trial and error (what upset people, what got their attention), as well as a profound interest in psychology. I'm sad to report I also picked up <b>several</b> negative coping skills along the way, BUT I'm certain every human on this planet has at least one of those.<br />
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Being so open with my feelings has led to many disappointments, particularly from miserable people themselves. In turn, I have experienced most conflict with such people, usually after finding myself in a most frustrating dynamic of negativity, pessimism, and (of course) misery. Sometimes, when the cycle reaches epic proportions, an onlooker cannot distinguish one miserable people from another. And THAT continues to be a wake-up call for me when I feel myself slipping back into that relationship.<br />
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Sadly, this means I have had to adopt a new attitude of loving indifference to said individuals. To protect myself from being another casualty of the "misery loves company" war. Loving indifference (I have no idea if this is actually a term-I literally just made it up-but if it is please don't sue me!) means I love this person. They are my [fill in the blank] and of course I want nothing bad to happen to them. I want them to be happy and joyous. Sadly...they are anything but and therefore I need to limit my interactions, reactions, and (most sad of all) expectations of change.<br />
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Having spent years studying psychology, counseling, and then putting those studies into practice as a therapist, it is beyond disheartening to concede that some people will not change. Ever. Like, EVER ever. And sometimes miserable people are not individuals you can simply cut out of your life. They may be your boss or co-worker, your child or parent, even grandmothers can be miserable people. And let me take this moment in time to assure you, I acknowledge that many miserable people are unaware they are, in fact, miserable. They may just believe they have a few "difficult" people in their lives who "don't understand" them and they move onto the people who don't challenge their miserable behavior. That being said, when a miserable person has been told numerous TIMES by numerous PEOPLE they are miserable, it might be time to take inventory of your life. Or, as some may do, keep living in blissful ignorance.<br />
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So, when all else fails and you've come face to face with a miserable person-one who will not acknowledge they are, in fact, miserable and consistently attempts to drag you into their web of negativity-just remember...<br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-17638118500141350982015-08-30T19:43:00.002-04:002015-08-31T10:43:09.833-04:00Have Gun Will TravelMy mother and I have never made the train trip to Connecticut from South Carolina together. Separately, our trips have been fine, albeit long. We decided the course of events that occurred during our trek happened ONLY because there were two of us, therefore better equipped for the shitshow (as my brother would call it) that took place. For your reading pleasure...<br />
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We arrived at the train station in our fair city of Greenville late one Saturday night to find out the train was an hour late. Not entirely unusual for Amtrak, so we didn't sweat it and found some seats to hurry up and wait. We watched families enter and do the same. The hour dragged, but I had a good book to keep me entertained (<a href="http://www.neilgaiman.com/works/Books/" target="_blank">American Gods by Neil Gaiman</a>). As it neared the new departure time, Mom and I got our belongings together as the Amtrak worker came out to make a new announcement:<br />
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<i>"I just received news that a couple committed suicide on the tracks in Spartanburg. They laid their heads on the track and died. So, there is a longer delay and I have no idea how much longer. The train is coming, it wasn't your train that hit the couple, but you can board the train and we will just sit and wait."</i><br />
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Okay. Absolutely horrifying for ME, as a full grown adult, I can't imagine how horrifying it was for the children who heard, never mind the adults with them who were likely bombarded with questions after that announcement. Once we boarded the train, Mom and I discovered we were privy to not one, not two, but THREE screaming children while we parked at the Greenville station for another 90 minutes. After everyone boarded, the conductor came to the newly inhabited train car and, again, explained the situation. Thankfully, he was less descriptive than his colleague, but telling us coroners and police would be spending some time "cleaning up the tracks" was more than I needed to know.</div>
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I, hopped up on my nightly doses of Melatonin and Benadryl, attempted to get some shut-eye amidst the (literally) screaming children. I did okay, but woke up <b>super</b> grumpy. To avoid casting myself in the best light possible, I had some choice words for my mother who was trying to hold a quiet phone conversation with my grandmother. I believe the words "Are you fucking kidding me with this?" exited my mouth. Not a proud moment. Mom informed me the dining car had opened a couple hours earlier for breakfast, so I made the voyage down five bumpy train cars and back, only to have spent a small fortune on aspartame-flavored yogurt and a bag of pretzels. All other breakfast foods were gone. To say I was pissed would be an understatement. Grateful we had packed some of our own snacks, I carb-loaded and took a small nap, hoping I would wake up happier. (I'm certain my mother was hoping the same!)<br />
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I did. Our train was still 2.5 hours behind, but Mom and I were confident we would come up with a Plan B since it was likely we would miss our connecting train from New York City to New Haven. We had stopped in DC for a bit, to refuel, and I was eager to be one of the first people in line to get lunch as it was now approaching 1:00pm and all I'd eaten since 8:00pm, the night before, was orange juice, a Luna bar, and half a bag of pretzels. I needed *food*. When the train started rolling again, I hopped up and rushed to the dining car. I was not the only one who had the same idea, but I was confident with my place of third in line.</div>
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Finally! My turn to order! I smiled and ordered two turkey sandwiches, a bag of pretzels, a Starbucks Frappucino and a bottle of water. The woman (who did not return my smile) held the sandwiches up and said, "Hot or cold?" Confused, I said cold, as I wasn't expecting a turkey pannini. She handed it to me and said, "Well it's frozen, so..." I laughed as I handed it back and said, "Well, then yes, please heat them up." I didn't realized the "cold" in that suggestion meant frozen. Let's use our heads, people. C'mon. We're in this together!<br />
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I gleefully returned to my seat and began telling the "frozen sandwich ordeal" to Mom, as I unwrapped my sandwich. And (why I was surprised is still a mystery...) my sandwich was <i>still </i>frozen with the saddest little ice crystals on top of the shadiest looking "turkey" I have ever seen. It was so pitiful, I didn't even bother to eat it. Mom, convinced her sandwich looked less shady, was brave enough to give it a bite. The poor woman couldn't even swallow it! Thank the baby Jesus for my Frappucino, because it gave me insincere energy and made it easy not to eat for a few more hours.</div>
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I had now reached sleep-deprived, hungry moodiness of epic proportions. I would be giggling and giddy one minute and the next nearly in tears that my sleep mask had fallen on the floor-therefore by my OCD standards it essentially became garbage and was thrown away with the turkey sandwich. I was also becoming increasingly anxious about bringing my over-sized luggage onto the train in New York, where checked baggage was not an option and I would be forced to wheel my ginormous bag (packed for 6 weeks) down the aisle and attempt to find a "standing room only" area to put it, preferably in the same train car with empty seats. To say I was spiraling would be an understatement.<br />
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<a href="http://mashable.com/2013/06/18/panic-gifs/#m!6cdf" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Source)</span></a></div>
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But ever the planners, Mom and I had a Plan B-get on the next soonest Amtrak train to New Haven. We knew exactly what to do as soon as we pulled into Penn Station:<br />
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<li>Get checked baggage</li>
<li>Get new train ticket</li>
<li>EAT!</li>
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In that order. That's exactly what we did. It went seamlessly. We were scheduled to get on the 6:00pm Amtrak (instead of our original 3:30pm) to New Haven. We ate dinner as fast as humanly possible and anxiously got to The Board, where everyone is crowding around, ready to take off the moment they see their track number. </div>
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5:40pm...waiting</div>
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5:50pm...still no track number</div>
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5:55pm...nothing</div>
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6:00pm...we should be departing, but still not track number</div>
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6:04pm...<b>DELAYED</b><br />
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(Meanwhile the entire time, I was in full obsession about my bag being too big and had reverted to pre-breakfast disaster attitude...)<b> </b></div>
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The announcements explains: <i>Due to power outages and difficulties, some Amtrak trains are being delayed indefinitely.</i><br />
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Mom and I looked at each other, panicked. </div>
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<i>"What are we going to do???"</i></div>
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Then Mom said, <i>"What about a limobus?"</i></div>
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To which I patiently answered, <i>"What the FUCK is a limobus???"</i></div>
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Then, a notion struck me. Something I had done years prior when I attempted this same trip ON BUS. I shrieked, <i>"Let's take the MetroNorth! Let's take the motherfucking subway to Grand Central!"</i></div>
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Mom, being nervous about the subway, was a good sport and agreed. We followed the signs, I went to the information desk about which subway to take to Grand Central and through her choppy answer, I felt confident. Hell, I had been to NYC many times by myself. I raced over to the MetroCard Machine, got two single ride tickets. </div>
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Then, I realized my over-sized bag (what was becoming the bane of my existence on this trip) might not fit through the turnstile. Mom suggested picking it up over the turnstile, but I was convinced it would go through just fine with both our cards. I think we all know where this is leading...<br />
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End my confidence and begin complete and utter panic for the next 30 minutes (although it seemed like an eternity). My bag was stuck. Like STUCK stuck. And it was <b>RUSH HOUR. </b>In New Motherfucking York! I basically wanted to die. I felt I already was-of panic, of heat exhaustion, of sheer humiliation. Mom went to tell the information desk lady, who instructed my mom to go through the emergency exit. Mom was a vision as she appeared on the other side of the turnstile, but that relief lasted mere moments, because she was alone.</div>
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Mom: <i>"No one is coming, I don't think the woman understood that you were stuck!"</i><br />
Me: <i>"Well someone needs to come help! This is a NIGHTMARE!"</i><br />
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Mom later told me the woman originally asked if Mom needed the police! We watch enough <i>Law & Order: SVU</i> to know the NYPD has bigger fish to fry than my stupid suitcase. Finally, someone came to help and I was free! We hustled to the subway platform, where I had a sinking feeling we were going in the wrong direction and the random stranger my mother asked confirmed it. So down subway steps with The Bag From Hell...up subway steps...down...up...finally we are on the right platform, going the right direction when...<b>TRAIN DELAYED</b>. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.<br />
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I'm completely drenched in sweat at this point, my mother is literally throwing bottles of water and OJ at me to keep from passing out. I scream, <i>"Let's just take a cab to Grand Central!"</i> Up more stairs...<br />
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Except, instead of being in front of Penn Station where one can find a lines of taxis waiting, we were on some random street. During rush hour. In New York City. (I feel it's important to keep reminding you of those facts.) We were wandering aimlessly and directionless down streets and I was weeping. Just openly sobbing in the streets of New York and, of course, no one batted an eye.<br />
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At one point, Mom asked if I told my friend, who we had asked to pick us up from the train station at 7:45pm (it's now after 7:00pm), that we weren't on the train and not to bother. I hadn't. FUUUUCK. By sheer luck or cosmic intervention, Mom reminded me and I called my friend just as she was getting into her car to pick us up. The us walking aimlessly around New York City, nowhere near New Haven! The us frantic and panicked! The us keeping things together (Mom) and falling apart (me). I was barely coherent when she answered the phone as I cried, <i>"We're still in New York! This is a nightmare!" </i><br />
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Finally, we get directions from a passerby on how to get to the front of Penn Station and our mecca of taxis awaits us. We walked up to one and the driver says (I kid you not...), <i>"Your bag is over-sized."</i> Neurons in my brain were popping and firing and it took everything in my body and soul not to flip the fuck out. <b>ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??? YOU ARE A TAXI DRIVER. YOU HAVE NO NARROW AISLES FOR MY BAG TO GET DOWN. YOU DON'T HAVE A WEIGHT MAXIMUM. I DON'T HAVE TO LIFT MY BAG UP OVER MY HEAD TO STOW. </b>That's what happened in my head. In reality, I said nothing but my face said it all.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X6QIdUZ0PsI/VeMQb96Gq-I/AAAAAAAAAuM/1m3mRJFIZTE/s1600/confused-look.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X6QIdUZ0PsI/VeMQb96Gq-I/AAAAAAAAAuM/1m3mRJFIZTE/s1600/confused-look.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=disgusted+look&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0CAcQ_AUoAWoVChMIk8Ph9v7QxwIVgriACh3jUQyp&biw=1366&bih=631#tbm=isch&q=confused+look&imgrc=6Xejg71yd4GBBM%3A" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Source)</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thankfully, he must have taken pity on us, because he (effortlessly, I might add) packed my suitcase in the trunk and drove us to Grand Central. We made it with enough time to get on the 7:34pm train to New Haven. As soon as Mom and I sat down, we looked at each other (her looking perfect, me resembling Nick Nolte's mugshot) and started laughing hysterically.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Needless to say, before making the (gratefully uneventful) trip back to South Carolina, I bought two smaller bags and left the big one to be brought home in Dad's truck in October. #overit</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">~Melissa</span></span></div>
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*Title credit: Song: "The Ballad of Paladin" written by Johnny Western, Richard Boone, and Sam Rolfe in 1962</div>
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-82206158608739347192015-07-19T19:51:00.002-04:002015-07-19T19:57:10.474-04:00SemicolonsLife is messy sometimes. You feel helpless and useless and confused a lot of the time. Problems and challenges arise you never imagined would, then strength and resiliency appear you had no idea existed. You find yourself thinking you are weak, small, insignificant, and unworthy. Then something way bigger than you happens and you think to yourself, <i>Wow, everything I have worried about until now has been in vain or due to possible inconvenience. I haven't really known pain or worry on such an absolutely real level before.</i><br />
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What I'm learning is strength doesn't have to be something you know you possess and carry with you at all times. It doesn't have to be something you flaunt or something you prove yourself with. Strength can (and usually is) subtle, quiet, unassuming. It's sort of like vanilla extract in your cupboard; there when you need it, but usually reserved for special occasions. <br />
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Strength and resiliency is something most of us don't think we have enough of, but yet we are here-fighting the good fight, pushing through pain, and coming out on the other side. We don't stop to give ourselves enough credit, nor do we acknowledge our healthy coping skills. We chalk it up to many variations of "I had no choice, but to push through" and don't stop to say, "I really showed my strength, my resiliency, my will in that situation."<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/14496030026609729/</span><br />
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At a time where we are constantly told we aren't "enough" (by media, employers, our own inner dialogue...), there is no better time to embrace our strength than when we see it working in full swing. Embrace it. Appreciate it. Love it. Honor it.<br />
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There is an interesting and empowering movement happening right now which some may already be familiar. "<a href="http://www.projectsemicolon.com/" target="_blank">Project Semicolon</a> is a faith-based non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and love to those who are struggling with depression, suicide, addiction and self-injury. Project Semicolon exists to encourage, love and inspire" as their website states. <a href="http://www.projectsemicolon.com/our-vision.html" target="_blank">Their vision</a> is powerful and reminds me just how important it is to embrace strength and resiliency, even when you feel you have little to give. Little is still some. <u><b>Little is still someTHING</b></u>. Little is more than nothing. <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/153263193544721547/</span><br />
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I know this post is short and about 2 weeks late, but there are important reasons why. I will be back in full swing soon. I leave you with this quote from one of my favorite poems by one of my eternal spirit guides: "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou.<br />
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~Melissa~Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-31286777580197964262015-07-05T19:04:00.002-04:002015-07-05T19:04:11.780-04:00Always the Ex-Girlfriend, Never the BrideHi. My name is Melissa and I am a love addict.<br />
<i>Hi Melissa.</i><br />
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I have been intentionally uninvolved in romantic relationships for about a year. This is the longest I have gone-in adulthood-so it was very new...and strange..and lonely. <b><i>Very</i></b> lonely. The idea of being intentionally uninvolved arose after I realized my relationship-jumping was leaving visible marks on the people I was with. I was tornado-ing into their lives, turning things upside down, and then hurricane-ing back out just as quickly. I wasn't being practical, instead I was allowing my "hopeless romantic" side get the best of me, even when there were red flags nearly popping out and punching me in the face!<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.signprintables.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/Danger-sign-B.jpg</span><br />
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My self-esteem (which I think we can all agree is fairly critical when dating) has always been somewhere on the scale between low and medium, making it easy to accept things I don't want to accept, later breeding resentment and bitterness. I essentially have the perfect recipe for relationship disaster, if anyone wants it. Pens ready?<br />
<ul>
<li>15 Cups unrealistic expectations</li>
<li>5 Cups of "love can conquer all" attitude</li>
<li>10 Cups martyrdom </li>
<li>9 Cups seething resentment gone unchecked</li>
<li>5 Cups of jealousy, insecurity, and anxiety mixture (pre-made from previous relationships)</li>
<li>2 Cups of each (optional): financial issues, location issues, living environment differences, and scheduling conflicts.</li>
<li>Pour into bag, make sure bag is open on one end, and twirl around until everything in your sight is covered. </li>
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You're welcome.<br />
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So, to say I needed some time to reflect and reevaluate is an understatement. I didn't want to do any more harm to myself, or anyone else for that matter. I instituted a year of celibacy. No dates, no hook-ups, no sex, no friends with benefits. Nothing. And it was wonderful...at first.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/104990235039003179/</span><br />
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After a few months of loneliness, the thrill was gone. And I began creating scenarios in my head of a future life with former crushes, high school sweethearts, anybody really. I'm not proud of this, but it deserves its place, because that is what popped the balloon I have carried with me since my first date at age 15: <u><b>The Fantasy Balloon.</b></u><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HWnukm53rnk/VZg9jpg4gTI/AAAAAAAAAi4/hkGJJNSOVM8/s1600/popped-balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HWnukm53rnk/VZg9jpg4gTI/AAAAAAAAAi4/hkGJJNSOVM8/s320/popped-balloon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://dramaticallyhip.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/popped-balloon.jpg</span><br />
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The Fantasy Balloon is something, I believe, we all carry with us. And it doesn't necessarily have to be about romantic relationships. Some might view this balloon as the answers to their problems with parents, siblings, career, addiction, ANYTHING. It's that certain something that keeps us denying the truth about ourselves. Denying there is an quick fix or perfect person to make everything better. For me, my Fantasy Balloon was filled with ideas about "The One."<br />
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This harken back to my high school days spent writing pages upon pages of criteria my "dream boyfriend" would fulfill. They would be kind and smart (but not pretentious) and funny (but the right kind of funny) and attractive and compassionate and...the list goes on...literally for-fucking-ever. It's unrealistic, yet I held on tighter with each relationship ending. A few months into my celibacy, it popped and after dragging the remains around for a few more weeks, I let go.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0AfT8UKEVdw/VZhCI-TY4yI/AAAAAAAAAjI/mfD0PdSDRaY/s1600/let%2Bgo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0AfT8UKEVdw/VZhCI-TY4yI/AAAAAAAAAjI/mfD0PdSDRaY/s320/let%2Bgo.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/241224123764742000/</span><br />
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You may be asking: <i>What exactly does this mean? Are you through with dating? Do you no longer believe in "The One"? WHAT IS HAPPENING, MELISSA?! TELL US!!</i><br />
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My answer is I don't know. And I'm okay with that. Uncertainty is becoming my friend and I am embracing her winning charm and his incomparable humor.<i> </i>What I <u>do</u> know is I am no longer bogged down by the idea that I have to search for "The One." I know plenty of people who have "The One" in their lives and are incredibly (if not annoyingly so...kidding!) happy. I also know plenty of people who believe they are with "The One" and face nothing but shit-storms of constant unhappiness. This leads me to believe that it really comes down to individual belief and, therefore, I need to come up with my own definition of love, dating, "The One", marriage, etc. I am not ready to do that.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mMbfwPBFaHQ/VZhRwOtDZoI/AAAAAAAAAjs/vKqKB1mNkdw/s1600/datinf3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mMbfwPBFaHQ/VZhRwOtDZoI/AAAAAAAAAjs/vKqKB1mNkdw/s320/datinf3.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.lolsotrue.com/rules/2281.png</span><br />
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What I am ready to do is begin dating again and I intend to do that Alanis-style. I recently watched an <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsnSabdHWtw" target="_blank">interview with Alanis Morissette and Oprah on Super Soul Sunday</a> where Alanis discussed her own love addiction and how she finally broke that cycle by taking one year off from dating (check!) and one year to date casually. Well don't mind if I do. I have never dated casually, not even in high school. Everyone I ever went on a date with turned into a relationship. I would love to know what it's like to have dates without expectations. I imagine my Fantasy Balloon will try to re-inflate itself very quickly and I suspect many learning experiences to abound, maybe even some face plants, before I get it right. Thankfully my self-esteem is slowly rising from medium to high-adjacent...stay tuned, as I anticipate this next phase to be quite blog-worthy!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IzQq_YyuL2Q/VZhRY-slgMI/AAAAAAAAAjk/VlOLpvqM370/s1600/dating2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IzQq_YyuL2Q/VZhRY-slgMI/AAAAAAAAAjk/VlOLpvqM370/s320/dating2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.seecrazy.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/best-funny-advice-about-dating.jpg</span></div>
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~Melissa~<br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-2739752880382145132015-07-02T13:08:00.002-04:002015-07-02T13:08:18.607-04:00I Am Exactly The Person That I Want To Be<b>I am fat.</b><br />
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Many of you may be experiencing a knee-jerk reaction to say:<br />
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<li>"No, you're not!" </li>
<li>"You're perfect the way you are!" <b> </b> </li>
<li>"It's only temporary!" </li>
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And many other well-intentioned things my mother has said when I'm in a shame spiral about my body image. (But maybe some of you are thinking, "Yeah, you are.") Either way, I am not saying the words "I am fat" to gain attention, fish for compliments, or drag myself through a fitting room meltdown. I am stating it as fact. I am neutral about this statement. I see these three words as describing <i>part</i> of my being, not <i>defining </i>it. To understand how I came to accept this seemingly simple fact, one must have some understanding of my journey. <br />
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<span style="color: red;"><u><b>***TRIGGER WARNING: DETAILED DISCUSSION OF BINGE-EATING DISORDER AND BULIMIA***</b></u></span></div>
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This is new for me. I have hidden (or at least attempted to) my weight and weight issues as long as I can remember. In middle and high school, I wore baggy jeans and large tops to hide my stomach-the <b>FORMER </b>bane of my existence. Thank goodness I came of age in the grunge era! <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/156218680797719585/</span><br />
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It was in middle school I unknowingly started what would become a lifelong battle of eating disorders, namely <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulimia_nervosa" target="_blank">Non-purging Bulimia</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binge_eating_disorder" target="_blank">Binge-Eating Disorder (BED)</a>. My first "paycheck" from babysitting at age 12 was eagerly spent on three packages of Pepperidge Farm cookies and crackers. I excitedly raced home on foot, the anticipatory high fueling me, making a 20-minute walk fly by. I closed and locked my bedroom door and spread the packages out in front of me before ravenously attacking, shoving handfuls of carbs into my mouth. The immediate sugar rush and excitement of doing something "taboo" was enough to sell me. Proving, to me, that food addiction is as serious as any other. Needless to say, I was hooked for life.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/53480314297701534/</span></div>
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From that pivotal moment, my dysfunctional relationship with food took many forms:<br />
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<li>Ages 12-17; compulsive overeating/excessive exercise (i.e. Non-purging Bulimia) interspersed with just plain compulsive overeating (i.e. BED).</li>
<li>Ages 17-21; compulsive overeating; weight fluctuates between 135 lbs and 200 lbs/size 6-18.</li>
<li>Ages 21-28; very little compulsive overeating; weight settles between 145 lbs and 160 lbs/size 8-12.</li>
<li>Ages 28-present; spike in compulsive overeating; weight steadily increasing from 140 lbs/size 8 to 200 lbs/size 18.</li>
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At age 21, I experienced a turning point in my disorder, one that I've lost track of in recent years. The turning point came upon me by accident. I was perusing Amazon.com for books on diets and the latest fads, when I came across a book that offered me insight to my disease, but more importantly insight to something called self-empowerment.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/220324606739752323/</span></div>
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I am not a paid sponsor for Amazon.com or the authors of this book, BUT if you want to purchase this gem, you can do so <a href="http://www.amazon.com/When-Women-Hating-Their-Bodies-ebook/dp/B004FEG2X6/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1435795002&sr=1-1&keywords=when+women+stop+hating+their+bodies" target="_blank">here</a>. This book encourages those who suffer from Binge-Eating Disorder, to say a big "Fuck You" to the insatiable diet industry and reclaim our bodies. It was revolutionary to me. This book <i>allowed me</i> to eat again. The authors gave me the <i>permission</i> I was so desperately craving (pun intended). These women were telling me to eat <b>WHATEVER I WANTED</b> and assured me, in time, my body would naturally find its way back to its original and comfortable state. And it did.</div>
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This book, coupled with the slew of women's and media studies courses I took my last year of college, made me recognize my inner feminist. That fat <i>was</i> a feminist issue. Thank you, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susie_Orbach" target="_blank">Susie Orbach</a>! </div>
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Taking control back reminded me that I was in charge of my body image and what it said about and to me. But, like everyone, I hit tough times in my late 20's and my disease is an opportunistic bitch. She is cunning, permitting me one pint of Ben & Jerry's to ease the pain of heartache or quiet the anxiety of career uncertainty. She held on through failed attempts to "diet myself" into a jump-start. To trick my body into remembering how free it was not thinking about food constantly. To encourage my excessive exercising in an effort to compensate for my binges.</div>
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This setback was a blow to the progress I had made as a feminist and "ex-dieter." I was shocked at how quickly I could revert old habits, thinking I was somehow "above that." It was humbling, to say the least. My body image took a plunge, my self-esteem nose-dived, and I was practically back where I had started. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L5Fb1FKw5Jk/VZVV3eGtzpI/AAAAAAAAAh8/UAy2yQb2_Ek/s1600/riots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L5Fb1FKw5Jk/VZVV3eGtzpI/AAAAAAAAAh8/UAy2yQb2_Ek/s320/riots.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Having the past month to reflect, has granted me time to take stock of the things that matter most. Family, friends, travel, adventure, love, kissing, books, water, strawberries, cook-outs, parades, hugs. And guess what? It doesn't matter if I am a size 6 or 26, I can (and will!) enjoy life. It's not easy getting out of the "I'll do that when I lose 20 lbs" mindset. It's not easy, BUT it's not impossible. I am reclaiming my body, my voice, and my feminism (with a side of wit and sarcasm!). </div>
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While this has been my journey, I realize many others have successfully come to the same conclusion while choosing diet or lifestyle changes, whether it be a food or fitness plan. I commend and applaud those who are able to travel that road and maintain their sense of self and positive body image along the way. Though there are many roads to empowering ourselves, the end result is essentially the same: self-love, self-care, and self-respect. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/60657926201540177/</span></div>
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Unfortunately, my brain (from experience) has permanently enmeshed dieting/weight loss plans with immediate rebellion and binging. I am even super careful not to use the empowering self idea as a way to "trick" my brain into losing weight. I am 12 years older from the first time I chose body acceptance and I may not garner the same physical results. Truthfully, I don't really care! If I never lose another pound, but I can face myself in the mirror everyday and say I love who I am, I love how I treat myself (my WHOLE self), then that is fucking fabulous.</div>
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I leave you with a song I listen to every single day. It is my anthem. It is my support group. It is my therapy. This song reminds me that NOW is the time I should be concerned with and that "20 lbs from now" is not a date I can circle on the calendar. </div>
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~Melissa~</div>
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*Title creditL: Song "In My Mind" released by Amanda Palmer feat. Brian Viglione in 2011</div>
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-15296541739937156292015-06-28T19:31:00.001-04:002015-06-28T19:33:07.056-04:00Music Me a RevolutionFor as long as I can remember, music has always provided a soundtrack for my life. Whether I am going through tough times (Sarah McLachlan and India.Arie work as my personal spirit guides), good times (Lady GaGa and Rihanna are staples in that department), or sad times (usually anything blues- or country-related. Think Susan Tedeschi, Johnny Cash, anything by George Strait). <br />
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So, of course, I have soundtracks for transformations, whether they be personal or universal. And what better time to discuss my transformation soundtrack than now. A time of constitutionally-ordered marriage equality, a time when states are asking themselves if flying the Confederate flag is the best way to honor the South, a time when sexism, racism, homophobia, and transphobia are being discussed, debated, and confronted on a daily basis. <br />
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For your listening and viewing pleasure, here are my <u>Six Ways to Music Your Way into a Rebellion (Personal or Otherwise):</u><br />
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<u><b>1. Fall Out Boy; "The Phoenix" released 2013.</b></u><br />
I fell in love with this song as soon as it came out. I was counseling a 14-year-old girl, at the time, who was OBSESSED with Fall Out Boy and this song was a way for us to connect. While the video itself seems to reflect a bank-job-gone-wrong scenario, the lyrics are very empowering and leave me reflecting on the social changes happening:<br />
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<i>Put on your war paint!</i><br />
<i>So we can take the world back from a heart attack, one maniac at a time we will take it back.</i><br />
<i>Hey young blood! Doesn't it feel like our time is running out?</i><br />
<i>I'm gonna change you like a remix, then I'll raise you like a phoenix.</i><br />
<i>Wearing our vintage misery, no I think it looked a little better on me!</i><br />
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<u><b>2. Angel Haze ft. Sia; "Battle Cry" released 2014.</b></u><br />
***TRIGGER WARNING!!! Video shows depictions of abuse and self-injury***<br />
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I love love LOVE Sia and equally LOVE female rappers. And Angel Haze is spot on! This song is emotional, strong, soft, and hard all at once. It leaves me reflecting personal struggles, but also empowers me to "keep fighting the good fight." Words of wisdom include: <br />
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<i>Money cannot buy all the love that's here tonight.</i><br />
<i>It's just you and I, so lift your hands towards the sky.</i><br />
<i>"Bitch you can't tell me nothing!"</i><br />
<i>I'm trying to outrun my past, but still trying to defeat my limits.</i><br />
<i>You're the only person alive who holds the keys to your healing.</i><br />
<i>We don't wanna fight, so sing with me a battle cry.</i><br />
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<b><u>3. Little Mix; "Salute" released 2014.</u></b><br />
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I first heard this song in ZUMBA class and it quickly became my favorite! This song is fun, fierce, and pro-woman, EVERY kind of woman, as the lyrics suggest: <br />
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<i>It's who we are, we don't need no camouflage.</i><br />
<i>Get your killer heels, sneakers, pumps, or lace up your boots</i>.<br />
<i>Representin' all the woman! Salute! Salute!</i><br />
<i>If you think we're just pretty things, you couldn't be more wrong.</i><br />
<i>Ladies: the time has come...let us stand together!</i><br />
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<u><b>4. The Dollyrots; "Because I'm Awesome" released 2007.</b></u><br />
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I am a firm believer everyone should start and end their day with this satirical, "go me!" anthem. Complete with empowering lyrics and a shout-out to "Smells Like Teen Spirit"-style cheerleaders:<br />
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<i>Just look at me!</i><br />
<i>I'm a leader, I'm a winner, and I'm cleaner 'cause I'm awesome!</i><br />
<i>I don't need you, 'cause I'm neat-o, and I beat you 'cause I'm awesome!</i><br />
<i><b><u> </u></b>They say I'm gifted, well I'm a certified prodigy!</i><br />
<i>I'm gonna own you, I'm gonna bring you to your knees!</i><br />
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<u><b>5. Beyoncé; "Run The World (Girls)" released 2011.</b></u><br />
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The reason for this song is simple: Beyoncé.<br />
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<i>Who run the world? Girls!</i><br />
<i>I'm repping for the girls who taking over the world, have me raise a glass for the college grads!</i><br />
<i>To the other men that respect what I do, please accept my shine.</i><br />
<i>Boy you know you love it how we're smart enough to make these millions, strong enough to bear the children, then get back to business.</i><br />
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<b><u>6. 4 Non-Blondes; "What's Up" released 1993.</u></b><br />
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My last pick is more introspective, while also touting the discrepancies we continue to battle in society. We have come so far from 1993, yet still have many roads left to travel. Plus the lead singer, Linda Perry, is married to "Darlene" from <i>Roseanne</i> and that makes me happy:<br />
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<i>I'm trying to get up that great big hill of hope for a destination.</i><br />
<i>And I take a deep breath and I get real and I scream from the tops of my lungs 'What's going on?!'</i><br />
<i>And I try, oh my God, do I try, I try all the time in this institution! </i><br />
<i>And I pray, oh my God, do I pray, I pray every single day for a revolution!</i><br />
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<u><b>***BONUS TRACK***</b></u><br />
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Just because I am such a fan of Riot Grrrl anthems and this is easily one of my most played tracks on my iPod. I am always looking to add music to my collection, so feel free to share any transformation/revolution suggestions that get your inner-protestor going in the comments! I leave you with "Rebel Girl" by the incomparable Bikini Kill. (And yes this IS the second time I have referenced this song on my blog. You're welcome, world. You are welcome. #kathleenhannaforlife)<br />
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<i> </i>~Melissa~Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-724759416610998842015-06-26T21:00:00.001-04:002015-07-02T13:08:40.726-04:00Not Crying on SundaysToday, my world was changed. Moments after I awoke at 11am (sorry not sorry), I turned the TV on, with the intention of watching another episode of "How I Met Your Mother" on Netflix. Then I saw these words flashing on the bottom of Headline News:<br />
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<b>Breaking News: Obama to Speak Momentarily on Same-Sex Marriage Equality</b></div>
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Of course, this caught my attention. I anxiously awaited President<b> </b>Obama's address and like a child listening to a story, I sat cross-legged, hands under my chin, leaning in with anticipation. I have always enjoyed listening to President Obama speak and today was no different. His words were sincere and compassionate, as well as booming since I had the volume turned up louder than usual. My mother entered the living room and asked what was going on. </div>
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I looked up at her, eyes glistening, and said, "Same-sex marriage is legal. In all 50 states!" She exclaimed, "Oh my god! Really???" as she sat next to me and held my hand. She asked if I would mind rewinding the address so she could see it from the beginning. Of course I didn't mind. We sat next to each other, tears streaming down my face, as my mother hugged me and said, "Congratulations! And it's about fucking time!" </div>
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I sniffled as President Obama declared, "love is love" and crowds cheered. My world was changed. I never thought, in my lifetime, I would see this day. I honestly thought the state-by-state "patchwork", as President Obama called it, would continue indefinitely, fearing more <a href="http://ballotpedia.org/California_Proposition_8,_the_%22Eliminates_Right_of_Same-Sex_Couples_to_Marry%22_Initiative_%282008%29" target="_blank">Proposition 8</a>'s or <a href="http://www.glaad.org/marriage/doma" target="_blank">DOMA</a>s. To know that I, as a bisexual woman, could potentially marry a woman and live ANYWHERE in the country without fear of my marriage not being recognized, is beyond validating. It's EMPOWERING. It's LIBERATING. It's FAIR. </div>
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In my reverie, I was aware that many people were feeling as defeated as I did elated. And I respect that. I understand that many people view marriage as a religious sacrament and do not agree with not only gays and lesbians partaking in the institution, but anyone not respecting the religious and spiritual aspects of the ritual. I have held many intelligent conversations with such people and understand that train of thought. The idea that any union joined together, outside a religious ceremony, should not be called a marriage. Therefore, involving the government in such decisions invalidates the spiritual union. </div>
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That being said, ALL opposite-sex marriages WERE recognized in every state, despite where the couple was joined in matrimony. It could have been a church or synagogue or court house or Graceland Wedding Chapel in Vegas. The couple could have known each other for 50 years or 50 minutes and it made no difference in the eyes of the law. The fact of the matter is, you need more than a church and a religion to marry legally in this country. You need a state-appointed marriage license. And that is not spiritual or religious. So, while I understand and empathize with those who oppose same-sex marriage, based on their spiritual definition of the institution, I respectfully disagree, with every fiber of my being, that the <a href="http://lgbtqiainfo.weebly.com/acronym-letters-explained.html" target="_blank">LGBTQIA+</a> community should continue to suffer inequality.</div>
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For those who disagree with marriage equality based solely on bigotry, hate, fear, intolerance, misogyny, and homophobia: </div>
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That's really what this fight has been about all along. Love. Not right or wrong. In fact, the Bible speaks boldly that love "always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:7. I, along with my LGBTQIA+ community, have done all four: protected ourselves and our families through and during this fight, trusted and hoped that this day would come, and persevered each time we took one step forward and two steps back. That is love. Our community makes me proud, as divided as we might be at times, and this is a time of joy and celebration, of what's to come in the future. A time of reflection and remembrance, for what we've accomplished and how far we've come. </div>
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Do we have more to do? Absolutely. <a href="http://everydayfeminism.com/2015/06/future-of-lgbtqia-movement/" target="_blank">(Find out how here)</a> Fighting for equality is never-ending and always changing. We are always striving to be more educated, more inclusive, less divisive, and less judgmental. This is a marker in the LGBTQIA+ history books. A day where hope outweighed grief, and love outweighed hate. I imagine in ten years, I will look back on this blog post and think, <i>Wow, I cannot believe this was even an issue.</i> And then I'll blink myself from my living room to my bedroom, <i>I Dream of Jeannie-</i>style. (We're THIS close, I can feel it!) </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/169096160981978382/</span><br />
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~Melissa~<br />
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*Title credit: Song: "She Keeps Me Warm" released by Mary Lambert in 2013 <br />
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Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-83911385432231971052015-06-23T21:26:00.001-04:002015-06-23T21:26:43.369-04:00Has Anyone Seen My Biological Clock?I have had to come out in several different ways, to many people, over the years. The first (and arguably most important) was coming out to myself. That took years and years of journal entries, tears, and online searches (before I was smart enough to erase search history!). Once I accepted, to myself, that I had an undeniable attraction to the ladies, I had to resolve what that meant. My coming out journey in 5 bullet points looks like this:<br />
<ul>
<li>Told my parents I was bisexual in a note. They took said note to IHOP and my mother anxiously read the note ALOUD to my father over eggs and pancakes. They were both relieved to find out: "That was it? We thought you were pregnant or sick!" *BEST PARENTS EVER.*</li>
<li>Told my brother (He actually beat me to the punch as I nervously beat around the bush and this is why we are soul mates) and friends.</li>
<li>Started dated a woman and followed my New Year's Resolution for 2004 which was: "I will come out to my family before the end of 2004 or if I start dating a woman, whichever comes first." Only New Year's Res I ever kept.</li>
<li>Told my entire family. Some one-by-one (I received a ravioli dinner and margaritas from one thrilled family member-shout out to Auntie!), some as a group (think post-Easter Sunday dinner...) </li>
<li>Commence lifelong decisions about what to share and with whom, but always facing the risk of exposure to ignorance, intolerance, anger, rage, confusion, and disgust. </li>
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After 11 years of coming out to every friend and family member, most employers and co-workers, and select friends of friends it has gotten, somewhat (<a href="http://prozacpassionandpoordecisions.blogspot.com/2015/06/charleston-queers-and-me.html" target="_blank">see previous post</a>), easier. That being said, I never thought about other ways I might find myself "coming out" that could create equal parts denial and confusion.Which leads me to...<br />
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<u><b><span style="font-size: large;">I do not want to have children.</span></b></u></div>
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I know. I. KNOW.<br />
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Seeing as I am unattached, romantically, this revelation has not become much of a topic of conversation. (Especially since I have failed to concretely espouse this statement until now.) But I imagine I am speed skating on paper-thin ice. I have thrown this statement out willy-nilly at various points in my life, with little commitment or fervor. And even with my lack of sincerity, there has been a bit of a backlash.<br />
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Well-meaning family and friends have made assumptive statements, even when their advice was unsolicited. I have heard many versions of the "You'll change your mind" persuasion:<br />
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<li>When you meet the right person</li>
<li>When you get a little older (this was in my 20's...I think by now, the idea is almost inconceivable...see what I did there? You're welcome.)</li>
<li>When everyone around you starts having babies</li>
<li>When you get settled in your career</li>
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I've also heard what I lovingly refer to as "the classics" from people who barely know me:<br />
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<li>"But you love kids!"</li>
<li>"You would make a great mom!"</li>
<li>"There's <i>nothing</i> like having children." And my personal favorite...</li>
<li>"Being a mother is the most important/magnificent/wonderful thing a woman can do." </li>
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Now, I am well-aware the <a href="http://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Childfree_movement" target="_blank">Child-free Movement</a> is nothing new. I am also aware this blog post is a drop in the bucket of literally hundreds of others like it: <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/helene-tragos-stelian/women-without-children_b_7300970.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://persephonemagazine.com/2011/03/childfree-or-die-hard-snappy-comebacks-to-inappropriate-questions/" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/06/19/perks-of-being-childfree_n_5438754.html" target="_blank">here</a>. But this is my blog and my story. Considering most of my jobs have involved taking care of other people's children, coming out as child-free by choice has been challenging. It ends up sounding like: <i>I</i> so<i> wanted children, until I took care of yours.</i><br />
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Quite the contrary. Being a babysitter, camp counselor, daycare teacher, and nanny has illuminated me to the extreme responsibility and dedication it takes to be a parent. Let me be clear, my reasons for remaining child-free are personal, carefully considered, and (for the most part) set in stone. I say that last piece, because it IS possible I could change my mind. But, to put it in clear terms, I am 98% sure I will not have children.<br />
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I'm no statistician, but my reason for landing on that number seems simple: there is a 1% chance birth control could fail and and a 1% chance I will change my mind. To go "big picture" on you, when the weather reports calls for 98% chance of rain-you're bringing your umbrella, expecting rain, and <i>shocked</i> if it doesn't. That's how one should go forward with me and procreation. <br />
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As also mentioned, my reasons are personal (read: private) and, in my opinion, irrelevant to this conversation. While it's understandable a typical segue from such a proclamation would be "Why not?", the connotation reads that my reasons are up for discussion or debate. And they are not.<br />
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For example, the thought of asking why my brother and sister-in-law are having a baby seems bonkers to me. That's a personal decision, made within the confines of their marriage, dealing with private topics such as fertility, finances, career, etc. So, when they revealed they were expecting, I wasn't struck with dozens of questions, trying to "understand" why they would make that decision. I was <i>overjoyed</i> for them and was consumed with emotion and tears when I found out. <b>I am going to be one hell of an auntie and couldn't be happier. </b><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/453456256207161506/</span><br />
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So, why then, should my decision NOT to have children permit people to make assumptions, share opinions, and throw judgments? It shouldn't and that's the point. Sure, I have felt that desire to get married and have children. Hell, I was in a state of near panic for months leading up to my little brother's wedding, questioning why my life had strayed so far from what I pictured at age 29. Then I realized the expectations I carried with me were so heavy, I wasn't even sure I wanted them anymore. <br />
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So, I tabled my expectations and got very zen about the process. I trusted in my mother's mantra that "everything happens for a reason" and decided not to worry about it, until it was time to worry about it. And I haven't worried about it since. It's a non-issue for me, a no-brainer. Maybe when I decided to stop freaking out about societal expectations, I hit the snooze button on my biological clock for infinity. Maybe at age 38, I'll marry someone with children and become a stepmom. Maybe at age 43, it will go off again and I will adopt "hard to place" children. Maybe at age 48, I'll <i>still</i> be content with a decision I made 15 years earlier and be living my life the best way I know how: with love, compassion, and authenticity. And isn't that what it's all about, anyway?<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/Actkei_AS-OVqVo40IKo9W3ALS_YclxRwTh6VNSEMZye1PVyx20Dbik/</span><br />
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~Melissa~<br />
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<br />Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-41615262558077755182015-06-22T12:53:00.000-04:002015-06-22T13:00:14.755-04:00Charleston, Queers, and Me<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
moved to South Carolina 3 weeks ago. I am already thinking about leaving. Maybe
I was too naïve, assuming there would be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some</i>
homophobia, racism, and sexism, quietly tucked away like in my native state of
Connecticut, because what I have experienced in the past three weeks way
surpasses s<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ome</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
should begin by explaining I moved in with my parents, after a particularly
trying 2 years of mental anguish and hopping from job to job, hoping to relieve
my rampant Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Living with my parents, again, felt
like a good place to “clear my head” and get a “fresh start.” And it has been…from
inside the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
have ventured out with my mother and her neighbor-friend on occasion and in the
sixty minutes spent in her presence was met with all three. To be fair, my
neighbor is ten years my mother’s senior and has lived in this town her entire
life. I tried to remind myself of that when my anger began to bubble up in my
throat and mouth. And maybe that is why I have failed to speak up. Something that
is profoundly foreign to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yqbun9W33R8/VYg8nSfBFII/AAAAAAAAAZY/FdrYtDiTjn0/s1600/homo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yqbun9W33R8/VYg8nSfBFII/AAAAAAAAAZY/FdrYtDiTjn0/s1600/homo.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/96897829454687805/</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
33, I feel less inclined to rally for my rights than I did at 23. Why is that?
Is it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">easier</i>? Is it all to “protect
my parents”? Is it really to avoid making them pariahs in the neighborhood,
long after I’m gone? Or is there a deeper issue here?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
possible I’ve put my own needs (calming my mental unrest, figuring out my next
move…) above my previously innate desire to fight for human rights in a “loud
and proud” way. And if that is the case, I am supremely unhappy with my
decision. In doing that, I am rejecting the very reason I left everything in
the northeast in the first place: to become a more authentic person. By
shunning that part of myself, in the name of “being a good neighbor” and
“making things easier for my parents”, I am setting myself back at least 15 years…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://america.aljazeera.com/opinions/2015/6/charleston-shooting-is-domestic-terrorism.html" target="_blank">And then Charleston happened.</a> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Residing
in the very state that still flies a Confederate flag, where racism is as
common as a Waffle House, woke me up to the damage I was undeniably doing.
Denying my sexual identity as queer, bisexual, pansexual (insert whichever term
fits someone who has no bias on the gender, gender identity, or sexual identity
of the person she wishes to date…), enduring racist comments, and accepting
sexist assumptions not only quietly concedes to such ways of thinking, it
actually speaks for me stating: “I agree.” AND I VERY DON’T.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_s-dyxPOttY/VYg9kZJ7r1I/AAAAAAAAAZw/qwlrefdMZk0/s1600/hate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_s-dyxPOttY/VYg9kZJ7r1I/AAAAAAAAAZw/qwlrefdMZk0/s1600/hate.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/370913719286502958/</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">So,
what to do? I have weeks and weeks of self-exploration left before I feel
willing and able to obtain a job and resume contributing to society. The answer
is not simple, as it rarely is. I’m unsure what to do in the large sense, but
in the micro sense I need to continue my journey to authenticity. I need to
reconnect with the woman who marched in the New York City Gay Pride parade, not
two feet behind the mayor, and proudly smiled as she walked, alone, through the
subways decorated head-to-toe in rainbows. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman who participated in the
National Day of Silence on her college campus and watched as passersby took our
flyers, promptly crumpled them, and threw them at us, when they realized what
we were standing for. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman who was verbally assaulted by the word “Dyke!”
while walking down her street, holding her girlfriend’s hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman who
challenged Pro-Life protestors outside Planned Parenthood. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman who for 2
years hung an enormous rainbow flag in her living room window. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman who
felt secure in her spirituality when countless churches told her “once you
repent, God will forgive you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That woman is still inside me. She is screaming
to get out, shouting to be heard, despite acceptance from the world. She wants
to make a difference, again, no matter the cost. I think it’s time I let her
freely roam this globe again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-df9wKg1x4TU/VYg-WUgNlMI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/kgaBs9FpSv4/s1600/fight%2Bsong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-df9wKg1x4TU/VYg-WUgNlMI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/kgaBs9FpSv4/s320/fight%2Bsong.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">~Melissa~ </span></div>
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9209676174513114077.post-63867268822486834682015-04-07T20:40:00.000-04:002015-04-07T22:59:08.121-04:00Black Girls DO Rock!<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">On Easter Sunday, an annual event called <a href="http://www.blackgirlsrockinc.com/" target="_blank">Black Girls Rock!</a> aired on BET. Each year, some string of controversy has emerged, claiming "reverse racism" and declaring some version of <a href="http://madworldnews.com/michelle-obama-white-girls/" target="_blank">"A 'White Girls Rock!' event wouldn't even last five minutes without Al Sharpton outside the venue, shutting it down."</a> But, this year the controversy was particularly more troubling, because it was aimed at First Lady Michelle Obama. Many bloggers, and Tweeters alike, ranted about the <a href="http://madworldnews.com/michelle-obama-white-girls/" target="_blank">"racial bias"</a> the First Lady showed toward <a href="http://madworldnews.com/michelle-obama-white-girls/" target="_blank">"her own race."</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Wow. Sounds APPALLING. Let's see what horrible, racist, biased, derogatory things the First Lady said...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">“No matter who you are, no matter where you come
from, you are beautiful.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">“I am so proud of you. My husband,
your president, is so proud of you. We have so much hope and dreams for
you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">“There is nothing more important than being serious about your
education, that’s why I am able to stand here
tonight."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">“I want every one of our black girls do to the same, and our
black boys.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">“I know there are voices that [are telling] you are not good enough. Each of
those doubts was like a test that I either shrink away from or rise to
meet. And I decided to rise.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.msnbc.com/msnbc/michelle-obama-rocks-black-girls-rock" target="_blank">(Whole article here) </a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Oh. Wait. So...wait. What's the problem? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">The problem, some white women are complaining, is that it excludes them. That because this event was aimed at promoting education, awareness, and encouragement for women and girls of color, the First Lady couldn't give two shits about the welfare and outcome of any of the other women in her country. Really?? Really, white ladies?? Is that REALLY what you think? Or were you just mad you weren't invited? I mean, get a grip on life already.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">I can sum this all up in a lesson I learned when I five-years-old. I asked my parents why there was a Mother's Day and Father's Day, but no Kid's Day. My father looked me dead in the eye and said, "Everyday is Kid's Day." White people: EVERY BLESSED DAY IS WHITE GIRLS ROCK! DAY. Are you kidding me with this? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Now, before I continue let me be clear on my intention in writing this post. It is not because I think the black community needs some chubby white girl fighting their battles, it's because when I started this blog I resolved to write about anything that inspires or incenses me and THIS incenses me. For weeks, I have been excited watching the build up of Black Girls Rock! as I follow Regina King and Tracee Ellis Ross (the hosts of the event) on Instagram and while I don't have cable, I was excited to see the Instagram photos roll in Sunday night and watch YouTube clips yesterday morning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">I was unaware of the controversy until I listened to last week's episode of <a href="http://thisistheread.com/" target="_blank">The Read</a> (#TIDALforSOMEOFYALL feat. Dormtainment) this evening while strolling around town and my mouth literally dropped open as co-host Crissle broached the topic. (The event was taped a week prior to airing). That was when I knew I needed to write about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">The fact that it is 2015 and we, as a society, are still ignorant to the fact that minorities are still treated as such and events and movements like Black Girls Rock! and <a href="http://blacklivesmatter.com/" target="_blank">Black Lives Matter</a> are not about exclusion, but about recognition, awareness, education, community. These are things the white community have at birth. These are privileges I was born with and don't have to think twice about, so of course I don't expect a White Girls Rock! event and OF COURSE women of color DO. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Seeing the faces of the young girls in the audience as the First Lady spoke was humbling in a way that is beyond words. It was empowering and inspiring, but also disheartening to know I live in a time and a place where young black girls would need a speech like that to feel worthy and beautiful and accepted. But, I do and they do. So, why white women want to continue with <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-cole/this-is-why-we-still-dont-need-whitegirlsrock_b_6999318.html?utm_hp_ref=tw" target="_blank">#whitegirlsrock</a> and perpetuate the division of race further by creating drama where they doesn't need to be any, is beyond me. But, I declare here and now: I want no friggin' part of it. And as the blogger <a href="http://madworldnews.com/michelle-obama-white-girls/" target="_blank">Amanda Shea</a> wrote, yes "Everybody rocks!" but we white girls hear it a hell of a lot more than black girls do. And that's just a sad fact, sweetie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">~Melissa~ </span> </span>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14623332204339129728noreply@blogger.com0