Friday, July 21, 2017


Everyone seems to have an opinion on my dating life these days – things you should and shouldn't do on a first date, or second date. What to wear. How long to wait afterwards to text or call. Whether or not no news is good news, or simply another loose end. My readiness, in general.

It's too much.

And so it appears I'm becoming an anthropologist of dating, a psychoanalyst of one.

I'm learning so very much about myself through this – first, that I'm an adult. Second, that adulthood is not in any way correlated with competency. That's the lie of the driving age, the voting age, the drinking age. The idea that time in service equates some level of proficiency in making decisions.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

The Greek Chorus of my friends and fellow wanderers seem to think I've got a few things going for me – that I'm smart and witty. Funny. Attractive. I've tried not to be – dumbed myself down, chopped off my hair. It's easier to accept rejection when you're not playing at full volume – accept the outcome when it's just the flip of a coin.

Harder when you're real, full force. Because then the rejection is real, fully earned.

The biggest challenge is not believing it's deserved. That the rejection is more about cosmic forces in slightly – but significantly – different orbits. See you again next life.

Or not.

My therapist is trying to help me embrace the idea that I have needs that must be met by other people – that I'm not entirely self-sufficient, and that this is not, in fact, a sign of weakness. This is a sign of human-ness. Humans are social, and even with my best cyborg impersonation, I am resigned to the fact that I am one. That part of being human is asking for help, and asking again and again at different doorsteps, at different feet.

The biggest lesson to date, in the field of dating, is that it takes a village. That my anxiety requires the assistance of 15 friends, a gallon of paint, a few yoga classes, a tribe of Al-Anon-ers to make sense of my disoriented position in the galaxy. And this is the gift – the realization that I have fifteen friends. A yoga community. A room of people as twisted and as human as I am in their preoccupation with calibrating off of the misguided signals of other people rather than their own screwed up and perfect molten cores.

I feel about twenty years behind at this, and pop culture is of no service. But neither are the opinions of a dozen people who are equally lost on this path. My solution – my resolution – is just to be me, fully, no holds barred. Less consideration for the shoulds and the thou shalt nots, more respect for the inner compass. More willingness to say, “help me!” when I need it, and “thanks for your opinion” when I don't.

Perhaps this is the mark of adulting.

Sunday, July 16, 2017


I've been lost for the last 24 hours or so. There are caverns in my mind... long, winding hallways filled with darkness and secret dripping sounds. Echoes and things that slither. The first time I held a human brain in my hands, I remember thinking that the labyrinthian folds and corners looked rather familiar... and I'm in there now, somewhere left of the lingual gyrus in a place that is deeply patterned.

Anxiety city.

I can't go into the details – they're irrelevant anyway – but the basic premise is that I'm looking for some external validation. I'd like to buy an ego-boost for $500, please.

I mean, welcome to America, right? I can hear you thinking that this is simply how we roll here – we buy the validation, the ladder out of the lost places in our mind. Or we ride the chute of addiction out. Have you seen my postings on social media? Mine, like yours, are cries for attention – validation – support of me as good enough. Right enough. Well enough.

Someone please tell me I'm pretty.

It's exhausting. Because I know I'm smart, and funny, and I do actually think I'm pretty (on a good day, with the right lighting...) It's hard to create my own light and shine it out, but that is the work. Especially on days when I am looking for someone else to light me up, to reflect my light back at me, these are the days when I need to put my hand on my chest and BELT, “I AM BEAUTIFUL – I AM BOUNTIFUL – I AM BLISS GAWDDAMMNIT.”

The yogis say that your thoughts become your words, and your words actions, and if that is the case then I believe we are royally fucked, my friends, because my thoughts are not yielding fields of blueberries and decent foster parents for all. My thoughts have a way of scampering into the dark places, of luring me down the hole, of clouding over the sun of my self-confidence.

After yoga, and coffee, and confession, and more yoga, I drove home ready to do the home-improvement work that I'm sure Jung would find particularly meaningful - rebirthing my guest room in Santa Fe colors. It's a work in progress, like my social life. And now I've retreated to the joy room – my life-raft of safety and security, containing only the things that spark joy and literally nothing else.

So here I am – on time out. Surrounded by things that spark joy, seeking the internal light switch. Recharging the crystal I wear over my heart, which took the place of the phoenix whose job was to remind me to lead with the heart, always.