Category: Happiness

The Conditions of Desire

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Photo Jan 14, 6 47 43 AM

For a time, I misplaced the meaning of desire.

At my worst, drinking and desire became inextricably linked. Back then, I was certain that being wasted was a sure-fire, all-access pass to the things I most longed for in my life — Love. Acceptance. Meaning. But, it didn’t take very long to discover — I was wrong. And, when everything collapsed, I struggled to begin again. Even with a clear head, I had trouble deciphering what it was I really wanted.

Long after getting sober, I found myself wondering why things continued to fall apart. All my desires, even my most deliberate and cognizant ones, lead me astray. And, later, I would learn that — I had completely missed the point.

Gratitude.

Gratitude is the point. Perhaps the most notable of all my epic lessons is that — no matter where I stand in life — there must be gratitude there. It is the cornerstone. Because if we cannot love, at least in part, what we already have — there is no point desiring more. It’s a lesson that took years to learn. I denied it. I fought it. But, I never outran it. In my ungrateful state, I continued to meet disappointment, regret, and tragedy again and again. — Without gratitude, we become bitter and selfish.

The only way to tap into gratitude’s thick, gooey center is — Love. The unconditional kind. — But to know love unconditionally, you first have to tolerate things that are conditional — and it’s painful. But, every Yin will find its Yang.

Once, at the end of a relationship, I was told that we hadn’t made it because I hadn’t loved unconditionally. At the time, I believed I had given everything. Because, in some way, I had — I had given all I had to give. But, the condition of having given enough won’t save a relationship — or anything else for that matter. If love is truly unconditional, there is always more. There must be reciprocity, because — true love returns to itself. Unconditional love is without breaks or cracks. It’s cyclical. In the end, conditions will only breed resentment. And, where resentment grows — gratitude cannot.

Releasing my own conditions, giving of my heart as it beats today, and allowing that exchange to be enough — was a game changer. It made space where I once had none. I learned to adapt. In rewiring my heart for gratitude, I found joy in what little remained. At my rock bottom — it was meager — but it was a start.

There’s a line from an Elliott Smith song that has stuck with me from the moment I first heard it years ago: “You’ll take advantage ’til you think you’re being used. ‘Cause without an enemy, our anger gets confused.” That line continues to define my inner addict. I have to remember, daily, that nothing has been done to me. We do things and we allow things to happen. And, if we listen to our desires — truly listen — we can walk toward or away from anything with ease. Even the booze.

A grateful heart will treasure the scraps it finds in the soot and ashes. Inside my own guarded heart, love picks all my locks. And, when the latches release — it’s me who pushes the doors wide open.

On the other side, I find my desire again. In gratitude, I am shown the good of all my things — my people. Cyclical. Reciprocal. Gratitude is unconditional.

Today, I throw my love to the wind — without its old conditions. And, love sent out with gratitude returns like a boomerang.

So, throw open the doors to your heart. And when your desire returns — let it love you back.

Unconditionally.

The Same Old Song

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Photo Jan 07, 6 09 27 AM

The New Year looms.

I washed back 2014 and I toasted 2015 with a glass of Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider. It tasted good.

I sometimes wonder if I’m experiencing some strange form of reverse insanity where, somehow, I no longer find myself missing booze. And, as my life starts to settle into some semblance of stability and comfort, I find myself searching for it — not the bottle — a feeling. The thing that’s at the core of what I believe my alcoholism to be — some unnamed emotion that won’t let sleeping dogs lie. I’ve had this feeling before. I know this feeling. And — drinking is the cure. A cure that, in the past, facilitated an allowance of brief moments where I happily let myself be taken off guard. A cure that became a kind of permission I granted myself. And, without it, something feels untapped in me.

I still lace my boots too tight. I still have trouble giving myself away. But, I want to feel it — happiness. I know it’s there. But, it shies away from me like a nervous child, disappearing behind her mother’s knees. And, I don’t blame her. She’s had the rug ripped out from underneath her before. And now, my movements play out like an old song — one where my happiness sings out the melody and my caution keeps the beat.

It’s not that I want to go back. I don’t want to go back. Sobriety has offered a liberation that I could never take for granted. And, the freedom I enjoy today, far exceeds the freedom of Jim Beam White Label. But old weight is still weight. It holds me an inch too close to Earth. I find myself wondering how to recreate the trust and untethered hope that years past have stolen. I want to feel without losing too much. I want to let go. I want to learn how to keep my head in the clouds and my feet on the ground.

The more present I become, the more I see how this strange and ambiguous feeling can rule me. Alcohol was the great equalizer, equipped with it’s own system of checks and balances. And, without it, I still struggle to even the scales. Inaction has held me back for as long as I can remember. And now, sober, I am making up for lost time.

I’ve tasted happiness and I know that it’s a cure more potent than any other. I remind myself that it’s attainable. But, more than that, it’s something we are all worthy of — our birthright. So, when I feel it in my stomach — that need to disappear behind my mother’s knees, I decide to step forward instead.

It’s a New Year, and, my song may sound the same, but I am choosing to hear it differently. I focus on my melody while the cautious drummer keeps time. Because, if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that when I adjust my perception my reality adjusts too. So, with some hesitation, I make the decision to let go. And when I do, I find myself where I’d always hoped I’d be.

Head in the clouds. Feet on the  ground.

 

 

 

 

 

A Year Of Beautiful Mistakes

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Photo Dec 30, 8 50 30 PM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow — it will be the New Year. And, traditionally, that has meant absolutely nothing.

As an adult, I’ve never devoted too much time to pondering what the New Year will hold in store. I’ve always returned to my track record: Which is to say — It’s going to be bad.

In years past, it meant fancy dinners, donning little black dresses and the clink-clink-clanking of champagne glasses — almost always followed by blacking out in cabs, or at bars, or on my couch — my black, open-toed heels still strapped to my blistered feet.

To my own credit, I sometimes have made attempts to kick off the New Year with a few, tiny shreds of hope and optimism, only to be thwarted later, and reminded that, no — No-Siree-Bob — this year isn’t going to be my year either.

I’ve never been one to make resolutions or to scribe an epic list of the things I hope to change and improve. That’s never been my style. And, I have always surrounded myself with people who were equally disillusioned. I mean, why bother? A kiss at midnight and a fifth of whiskey always seemed like more than enough. Until — it became too much. And, even in letting the bottle go, I have still managed to get lost in my unrealistic expectations.

In 12-Step meetings they’ll tell you that expectations are future disappointments. And, in some cases, that’s very true. I’ve spent most of my life waiting for something or someone that will never show up. I’ve tried to resurrect things that were cold and dead in the hopes that I could make them breathe again. I’ve wanted to fix everything, picking up the jagged pieces of my life like a broken wine glass from the floor, my fingers bleeding, never thinking to cut my losses and start over. Even in sobriety, I’ve made the same mistakes, over and over, expecting some different outcome. — The very definition of insanity.

But, as much as I’ve lost to my own expectations, in my sober adventures, I’ve also found that there is much to be gained by being present, and expecting good things in the moments for which I am truly there. Sober, I’ve made myself open to possibility — more than ever before. I’ve found gratitude for small things. I’ve learned that, sometimes, the same mistake can take you somewhere new — somewhere magical. But it won’t always happen on the first try. Or the second. Or even the third.

Now — more than ever — I have to be careful without cowardice. I cannot roll in and out with every tide, nor can I plant my feet in the sand. I have to remind myself that I’ve spent too much of my life writing off my own expectations. And as a result, I’ve tolerated the shittiest of situations for far too long and I’ve let myself off the hook when I should have remained accountable. But, this year, something is different.

For the first time in years, it’s looming. — Big change. — Like watching a storm cloud break over the ocean and seeing the sun spill out over the dark waves. Good things — they’re coming. And, for some strange reason, in this new year, 2015, all my dreams seem plausible.

My wish for us — whatever this New Year may bring — is that we be present for all our days. That we live in the moments that raise us up and in those that leave us wanting. Because, like Baba Ram Dass has told us from the very start, to Be Here, Now, is to truly live.

And so, it is with some relief and a twinge of sadness that I bid farewell to 2014. My year of beautiful mistakes. Not the least of which has brought me to this moment — one where I stand most presently.

On this New Year’s Eve, I hope that you find yourself as I do — In love.

For, where there is love — all things are possible.

 

Happy New Year.

 

 

 

The Ghosts Of Christmas Past

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Photo Dec 16, 7 29 02 PM

“Spirit!” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.”

“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “That they are what they are, do not blame me!”

December 20, 2011 — My phone rang, waking me with a start. It was my mother, which I found odd because she knew to never to call me before noon. And, in that off moment of sleepy confusion — I knew — she had bad news. At the end of the line, a coast away, my mother choked out the words: My cousin had been killed the night before in a tragic accident. She had bought me a plane ticket home. I was going back East.

I had been drunk, almost constantly, for several months prior to his death. And, in the truly sobering moments that followed my mother’s phone call, I struggled to locate my emotion. I had rendered myself dull and numb. Tears dammed up behind my eyes. Words got caught in my larynx. Nothing in the room moved — except my arm — which swung out to my right side, off the bed, and grabbed for the open bottle of gin sitting on my bedside table. 7:43AM. I remember. I took a swig.

At work, my gracious coworkers had rallied for me. The skeleton crew that remained for the Christmas holiday had all divvied up my waitressing shifts without complaint. The bartender slipped me shots of whiskey during dinner service. It was the first time I ever drank on the job. After my shift, I sat at the pub around the corner from my apartment and I drank more. Bourbon. I left at last call and I only slept for a few hours before waking up and tossing my clothing into a suitcase haphazardly between swigs from my bottle of bedroom gin.

I arrived at the airport early and I sat at the bar while I waited to board my flight. As I slurped up the last, red sip of my 4th Bloody Mary through a long black straw, the man next to me asked me if he could buy me another. “I’m guessing you’re not having such a Merry Christmas,” he said. The bartender put my 5th drink down in front of me as the man got up. “Happy Holidays,” he said, wheeling his bag toward the gate. When I asked the bartender for my tab, she told me that the man had taken care of my entire bill.

I have never been so drunk on a plane. I ordered two 2 vodkas — the flight attendant handed me the 4 little minis like a vendor at a sporting event. I didn’t bother to mix them with my club soda. I remember holding each blue bottle up to my lips — one, then another, then another. I woke up from a blackout as we hit the runway at JFK International Airport. My head felt like it had been slammed between two bricks. My cousin met me at the baggage claim, where we collapsed into each other’s arms and cried. As we walked to the car she said, “Jesus Christ, Sarah. You reek of vodka.”

It has never been necessary to hide my drinking from my family. This behavior was routine — my routine — our routine. And, given the circumstance of my return, I wasn’t the only one taking nips on the sly. We shuttled from my childhood home, to my aunt and uncle’s house in New Jersey, and back again. We all wept and drank. We sat perfectly still between embraces, and we were silent between sobs. The Christmas decorations only noted the season. We’d all forgotten what day is was — the clocks had stopped and the calendar was just a piece of paper on the wall.

Christmas Day, just days after the funeral, I flew home to Portland. I drank more vodka on the plane. And, when we landed, I had my cabbie drive me directly to the pub. I didn’t bother to stop at home and drop off my bags. For last call, the bartender turned off the juke box and played Elvis’ Blue Christmas and I got up to vomit in the women’s room.

*           *           *

This will be my third sober Christmas. And, when I arrive at PDX to fly East, I will sit and wait for my plane at the gate — not the bar. I will sip my complimentary cranberry cocktail and I will page through a fashion magazine and listen to Frank Sinatra’s Christmas albums on my headphones. I will lay my head on the folding tray and try to sleep until the captain illuminates the “Fasten Seat Belt Sign” and announces our descent.

At JFK, I will walk past the baggage carousel and see the same spot where my cousin and I fell into each other’s arms before she drove me home, stinking of vodka. And, while I wait in the taxi line, the dam will break and I will cry again for my cousin who is gone.

I will pull my bags out of the back seat of a yellow cab and I will hug my mother on the stoop of our house in Brooklyn. When I walk in our front door, I will smell the perfume of the Douglas Fir. And when I see that Christmas tree, lit, in the corner of our living room — nostalgia will stop my heart for a just a few beats. My father will come down the squeaky steps and fold me in his arms before he kisses my forehead and says, “It’s good to have you home Monkeybird.” And, in my eyes, he’ll see — It’s good to be home.

It’s also good to be sober. So, I won’t think about drinking until I open the cabinet to the left of the microwave. I always find my old bottle of Jim Beam while I’m looking for something else in my mother’s kitchen. I poured my cousin a secret drink from that same bottle on Thanksgiving Day, 2011, just a month before his death. It seems fitting that the bottle should remain unfinished. And so, I honor his memory with every drink I do not take.

These were shadows of things that have been. — That they are what they are, do not blame me.

So, I leave my bottle on the shelf for ghosts. Because, my parents never cared for bourbon.

Which is crazy. — I know.

 

 

[Italicized Prose Excerpt: Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol; Artwork (before edits): Sol Eytinge, Jr.]

Angels We Have Heard, Are High

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xmas

Angels, if they show up at all, will show up in varying states of sobriety.

I learned this over the weekend while helping out a friend who is laid up at home, recovering from ankle surgery. If you decide to show up for someone who takes prescription drugs like a normal person — you may end up getting more than you bargained for.

Being of service to an immobile, normal drinker meant that I got to pour whiskey. Because, as the best of us addicts know, the fastest way to kick start your pain relief is to chase your pills with liquor — straight, strong, and brown. So, I did what any good alkie does — I employed my somewhat questionable nursing techniques and administered the good stuff.

When I pulled the cork from that bottle, it made the squeak-pop-ah! sound I remember a little too well. That spicy perfume — it burst into the air under my nose like a vapor firework. BOOM. Happy Fucking Holidays! Glorious whiskey. It’s been years. Years. But, it comes back to me like an old lover  — that wood, fire, and sweetness. I poured 2 fingers into a small glass and carried it out to my friend — feeling like I was one of the 3 fucking kings.

There aren’t many people that will remind you of who you are while they are miserable and writhing in pain. And, there aren’t many angels that will show up when you actually need them. But, somewhere between episodes of various HBO series and cheesy holiday movies, something happened to me. I went from trying to be someone else’s savior to being saved.

Since getting sober, showing up for people means something different. It means owning the woman I am when I walk into the room and offering what I actually have to give — knowing it’s enough. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to do that. And, apparently, it took a hopped-up Christmas angel to remind me that the person I am is a helluva lot better than the person I’ve been forcing myself to be.

So, it turns out, I did get the angel I’ve been praying for —  but even better — I got a totally badass angel with a bionic ankle that has a steel plate, 2 pins, and, like, 10 metal screws. And, even after 5 rounds of Oxycodone and 4 fingers of whiskey, he still managed to find kind things to say to me, even though it was me who was supposed to be the moral support. I guess I forgot that the broken bits inside our hearts need just as much care as our shattered bones. And, as fate would have it, that winged Christmas junkie with an elevated leg and a taste for Stumptown cold brew, he did all the fixing — my fixing — all from his horizontal position.

So this year, I’m ringing as many bells as I possibly can in hopes that my crack-baby angel gets his ankle back soon, and you should too.

This holiday season, lose the bows and the little black dresses. Show up to the Christmas party in worn out jeans with a stack of rom com DVDs.  Because, sometimes, pouring the whiskey is far better than drinking it. And, if you find yourself bar tending for the right angel, you may be reminded that — you were always enough.

Gloria, In Excelsis Deo.

 

 

Wanderlust

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Photo Nov 26, 6 25 14 AM

The need to flee. Maybe you know the feeling.

That sudden and visceral desire to reinvent yourself — become something new. Someone new. Somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

In 12-Step meetings, it’s called a “Geographic.” But, for me, it’s simply: “Get me the fuck outta here.”

Some mornings, I wake up an Oregonian. I breathe in damp, green air and when I get home from work I kick my soggy, brown, cowboy boots off at the door. I take long walks at 4:45AM where I feel like I might be the last human alive on Earth. I stand under impossibly tall pine trees and feel, actually feel — real as any human touch — my own smallness. This place makes me right sized. I have lost everything here. And, I have picked up all my broken pieces and assembled a mosaic that even I can admire. In Oregon, my alone-ness crowns me a true pioneer woman.

Other mornings, I wake up, and I’m still a wild New Yorker. Blood pumps hot and fast through my veins, all of which wind through my Brooklyn-girl-body like Subway tracks. Most days, I swear, my car starts to drive toward the airport without any help from my hands. I’m ready to max out, not one — but all, of my credit cards. I’m ready to fly. To disappear into some vast unknown — one that I’m sure will envelop me, cradle me, shower me with all the love and fulfillment that seems to elude me here. I write imaginary letters to all my friends living abroad: “Do you need a butler? I’m available.”

Please. Someone. Anyone. — Get me the fuck outta here.

I’m pretty certain that, in some ways, sobriety has made me loonier than I’d been at the onset. Now that I’m free of the drugs and the booze — I want to be free of everything else too. I want to start over where no one knows me. I want to leave behind all these conceptions of myself that have been fostered for too many years. I want to call my mother from somewhere in Bumblefuck, France and tell her that everything was worth it. — The taxing phone calls. The pain. The tears. The broken hearts. The unrealized dreams. I want to tell her that the foreign skies have washed me with their rain. I want to tell her that I’m standing, soaked, in front of some ancient monument — smiling. Everything smells different. Everything feels different. I am young again in a place that’s too old to care. I yearn to choke on some other language, only to wake up one morning, breathing big, clean breaths — erupting — singing a song I barely understand to a sun I’ve never seen before.

But, instead, I text message my mother from the floor of my apartment in SE Portland, where I sit cross-legged in front of the tall, white heater. I wipe tears from the corners of my American eyes. And I think, maybe, it is better to run toward something than it is to run away from it.

“Mom, can I come home for Christmas?”

 

 

 

 

 

You Crazy Diamond

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Photo Nov 11, 11 14 12 AM

Light is a sort of magic to which I will be forever drawn.

I long to capture the intricate details of light’s dance with my darkness. But, the beauty there is one that my own words fail to express. I still take comfort in spelling it out on a blank page: L-I-G-H-T. The kind that’s too bright be ignored. — It’s a part of my make up. I know where to look for it.

I always end up losing my light — only to find it in the most obvious of places. Haven’t I learned? Everything remains the same. I go back to the beginning. People come and people go. The illusion is created that, maybe, this time, it’ll all be very different. I battle and find peace in my continual “same-ness.” It’s like being stuck and moving simultaneously.

The cure for a case of chronic same-ness is to attach yourself to a great adventurer. I’ve been known to love the type before. The person that can’t sit in the same chair twice. The one who isn’t happy unless they are doing something wild. They travel incessantly. They change their minds mid-sentence. They show up late. They forget to breathe. They find no comfort in space. They have no attachment to home. They need something different. Something uncharted. And soon, they’ll be gone. Because, if you can say it’s yours — you’ve stayed too long.

Me, I find beauty in the nuance of my same-ness. I see where little things have changed. I note the sky’s movements. How clouds morph and disappear. I watch as the sun cloaks itself, then undresses — yellow light spilling over the trees outside my apartment window. And, when the windows black out, my perfect sky fading to black, and sinister clouds move in — I seek it out. My L-I-G-H-T . After standing in the dark too long, my branches arch toward the sun. My bones know the way, even if my eyes cannot see.

I stand still again. I listen to Pink Floyd albums while I’m in the shower. I know all the words, but, I’m singing to myself. The same song plays. — Only this time, it sounds different.

Remember when you were young? You shone like the sun.

People always get it wrong. Light. Dark. It’s never one versus the other — It’s the balance. The Dance. The Yin. The Yang. The Lost. The Found. Cyclical things. Intricately linked in the space time continuum. Weighted in eternity. Ancient and unchangeable. Every day, the sun remains our flare. It shoots up the signal in ever-changing same-ness. It announces a new day. One where everything is unwritten.

L-I-G-H-T.

Shine On, You Crazy Diamond.

Haunted

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blondes

Ghosts. Some will stay with you. Some will leave you.

It goes far beyond trick or treat. Many of my ghosts still go “Boo!” in the night, but, most of them haunt me from afar. Actually, some of my ghosts aren’t dead at all — they’re very much alive.

I still find it difficult to believe that this is my third, sober Halloween. The first was euphoric. My first holiday after getting clean, I sat on a chilly porch in a big, grey hoodie. I wore a knit animal hat with my best friend, who had one too. We laughed, passed out candy, and I felt like — for the first time — I had finally discovered what I wanted in life and that I had it — sitting there on that porch — sober. My second Halloween, I was completely lost. This time last year, I was more haunted than ever. I was flanked by ghosts — most of which, weren’t even mine. I wore a blonde wig. I sat, with over a year of sobriety, wishing I were somewhere else — someone else. I wanted to change a situation that wasn’t mine to change. I ignored my own fear. I hid from it. I took a smug selfie, which I posted on Facebook with the caption: “So, blondes really do have more fun.” I thought that if I typed it out, maybe I would believe it were true — It wasn’t. Even my smirk lied.

This year, I don’t know what to expect. I feel a ghost walking next to me. Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to offer up my skeleton-hand. Sometimes the only way to chase away spooks is to face them. Look them in the eye. And, sometimes, it’s best to realize that ghosts are ghosts, and to leave them, where they belong, in the ground.

Sobriety makes choices like these, easier. I know what’s practical, rational, and even wise. But, knowing has no bearing on my impulse. When I feel, I feel big. My heart opens like a flower, or it seizes up like the breaks on a runaway train. I’ve lived in my own extremes. My first and second Halloween in sobriety were my typical modus operandi — High/Low. Utopia/The Underworld. So, what’s next? What follows up the two, opposite ends of the spectrum? Normalcy? Mediocrity? Boredom? Stability? Do I want those things?

I think of that first year, my friend, smiling, in his blue-cat-hat. How I shoved Reece’s Peanut Butter cups into my face and thought: This is what it’s really about — Joy. Laughter. Freedom. Love. — That porch was cold, but heat radiated from a new place in my heart and I felt a warmth I hadn’t realized I had inside myself. I think how,  a year later, that same warmth had burned out. How even warm rooms felt cold. How ghosts filed in and took what wasn’t theirs to take. How I hid inside myself and kept smiling. I didn’t know — A blonde wig wouldn’t fool anyone. Even  myself.

I wish I had some crumb of wisdom for you in this post. I wish I could offer something honest and true that would carry some weight. A bit of hope. A story where all the costumes fit. A story where the candy doesn’t rot your teeth. But, all I can think about is how it feels — being haunted. Quiet, secretive, and dark. I suppose it’s only appropriate that as All Hallows’ Eve nears, all the undead and invisible spirits have come to pay me a visit. My own heart-hinges are creaky and they echo here in my haunted-house-head.

I offer up a prayer for the dead. For the ghosts that still haunt me and for those that have gone their own way. It’s the best I can do. I pray that, this year, things fall on even ground. That there is happiness and reverence. That, whether my wig is on or off, I am who I am — without fear.

As for the ghost at my side — there’s no escaping it — I reach out my skeleton-hand.

 

Strangers With Candy

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stranger

Sometimes, I don’t know myself.

Getting sober has been a crazy evolution.  I’ve glided, then bounced, through various stages of metamorphosis. But, despite charting my own movements, I’m still a stranger.

What’s even scarier than not knowing the person I’ve become — is liking her. She sees things in a new, easy-going way. She’s funny. She doesn’t care about crap that doesn’t matter — for the most part anyway. She’s more and more consistent with every month that passes. And, sometimes, that means she’s a consistent mess, but there’s a stability in her clutter that feels like some kind of Darwinian progress.

She’s shown me that when I let myself cave and make some room,  I have the ability to develop into a different, better version of myself. For a time, I kept things as small as possible — contained them. I used to think that if any one thing got too big — it would all go to shit. Back then, I was set on taking things. Now, the space I inhabit is given to me. There isn’t an internal struggle for territory any longer. I’m kinder to myself. I respect my own wisdom. And, while I will still break my own rules, my own promises, and occasionally my own heart — I know that I can trust myself to see things as they are.

A fog has lifted. My mind no longer talks in a desperate, panicked voice. I’m less apologetic: Life’s too short for desperation. — Take me or leave me.

This stranger I’ve allowed to inhabit my space — I listen to her — even if I choose to ignore her advice. Like me, she is sensitive and pragmatic, but, she knows where a bit of tough love and recklessness will serve her — and us. She has good ideas. Sometimes, I even think I trust her.

So I do this thing — this dancing with myself. And, it’s not so bad. We cut a rug almost as well as my father and I do at family weddings. This woman suit I wear — it fits better than when I first tried it on. I’m almost comfortable. Maybe the older, more rigid version of myself has finally softened. And, suddenly, this person I never intended to be — the one I avoided — has become the best version of me yet. Go figure.

Sometimes strangers will offer you candy — let yourself be tempted. This other version of me — She was patient. She was kind. She moved slowly, allowing me to change without seeing or feeling it. She snuck into my day to day being. And, just like that — I was someone new.

Like a chameleon, I shed that skin — old feelings and people — it feels good. I discover that those things we hold on to so desperately are the things that we need to let go of most. Discarding the older version of yourself, the one that no longer fits, is liberating — like tossing out your “fat jeans.” It’s more than a costume change. It’s a declaration.

Give in. Go without a fight. Evolve.

Take the candy.

 

 

 

 

Just For Laughs

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Photo Oct 07, 7 05 36 PM

My giggle has snowballed.

What started off as a thin curve in the corner of my mouth, now parts my teeth and lips. Old, stale air busts out of my lungs, exhaling dust, like a door being pulled off an ancient, sealed tomb. It’s more than just a breath — I let everything go. I once sat, tight-lipped and quiet, but now — wild noises erupt from my face.

Laughter. It’s happening.

At unpredictable times, with unpredictable rhythms, and in unpredictable places. It’s disconcerting — and glorious.

Up until recently, laughter was something I used with caution — I guarded it. I covered my mouth with my hands. Laughter seldom passed these lips that, for a long while, only spoke solemn words. Back then, I let all the jesters in my life perform without reward. I held on tightly to a pain that, I was sure, laughter would invalidate. So, it leaked it out in small spurts, like little coughs, that barely sounded.

I have since learned to let things escape.

Now, I hold my knees together while my stomach shakes. I laugh — tears streaming from the corners of my eyes, running over my cheekbones — which are sore from smiling. Sometimes, I think I need to be sedated. But, instead of quieting the squeals of my sweet abandon — I let them loose. It frees me up. It makes space for the things that need the room. It allows others to do the same. The word “infectious” is not an appropriate one here. This thing — this audible joy — is not a disease. It’s the cure.

Laughter is its own form of permission. The first time I set it free — along with the ancient air that sat trapped in my gut — I felt like I might be sick. I didn’t know what I was letting go of. I have learned to embrace the vacancy. There is just an empty space now, but, it’s not a void that needs filling. So, I leave it — happily unoccupied.

Today, I snort out my pleasure like a pig in shit. I sit in front of the TV screen and let it hit the chords I cannot hit myself. I let a friend’s sarcasm rub me the right way. I feel it — my own fresh air — rushing up the sides of my chest. I belt out chuckles that travel from the couch to the kitchen.

Laughter is the great necromancer. Something in me is alive again.

I feel it rise in my throat. I throw my head back. I let it escape me.

Now, who’s got a good joke?