Teenaged.

I would rather have a vagina injury than return to high school. That may seem extreme to some, but it is an honest assessment of my true feelings. Though my teenage years had moments of giddiness and a few glory days, overall, I found them to be a dismal experience. So much so, that I would readily choose harm to my hoo-hoo rather than relive a single day of it. There are times in our lives that hold sweet sentiment, and there are eras which conjure such mortification and inadequacy that to reminisce is as inviting as a kick in the crotch. Unsuitably equipped for secondary school, straight away I pounced a pratfall into the cyclonic chagrin which would contaminate my cerebrum for years. Though my self-assurance is somewhat secure and my skin fits well, during this discourse alone I may have a bruise of humiliation boldly pop my frontal lobe. Mere mention of memories may daunt my capability to refrain from blubber and snivel when reprimanded by an authority, in addition to crushing my capacity to talk to a boy. And, unfortunately, no mnemonics are necessary for my recollection of that time period. The mindset and misery of high school emerges sporadically, not unlike a chronic spastic colon: there's no cure, but if you commit to self-care, it only episodically discommodes your time in the crapper.

I, like many others, didn’t believe I “fit in” during high school. Though I was athletic, I didn't excel in sports as I had done in grade school and junior high, relegated from superstar to reliable bellwether. Despite being relatively intelligent, I was bored with class offerings and lacked challenges, thus performed at only a level of mediocrity. And while I could make conversation with those of any clique or subset, I felt more like a hanger-on or a passerby than a member. The absence of belonging fused with banality created my own personal time loop. The routine of school was similar to my family life pattern: I felt plopped into a Sisyphean existence, not knowing why I was there but knowing that I had to exist through it. The best possible method was to be much the same as gossamer: to be barely noticed reduced the likelihood of being scrutinized. Consequently, I didn't excel nor was I delinquent. A good portion of the problem was that I felt incarcerated by the parameters in which I lived. To yearn for freedom is fairly typical for teenagers, a need to bolt from the rules and regulations concerning that age. Additionally, I also longed to distance myself from a difficult family environment. Without suppression, I wondered how much I could experience and achieve; without fear, I speculated whether my feeling of awkwardness and my insecurities would lessen. That certainly contributed to my schooling experience and interactions with classmates; I was secretive and protective about many things, rarely allowing anyone into my emotional realm. I never felt ostracized, but always thought many others viewed me as odd and different than themselves, and I worried that the more others knew about me, the less they would want to spend time with me.

Common insecurities also dominated my psyche, because, like many girls, I had glasses, braces, permed hair, and carried a bit of extra pudge. There was a glimmer of hope provided by my mother, as well as a couple of boys who showed interest, that this ugly duckling would turn into a beautiful swan. But, let's be honest: ducks and swans are different. Cygnets turn into swans; most ugly ducklings turn into fairly average ducks. Now, it is possible for an ugly duckling to turn into a pretty damn good-looking duck; it can happen. It's rare for ugly ducklings to become absolutely loathsome, nauseating ducks, but that, too, can happen. All in all, the results of ugly ducklings are mostly fairly average-looking ducks. Since I owned no crystal ball and lacked prognosticating skills, I assumed that my opinion of my appearance would never alter, and I would continually think of myself as no more noticeable than wallpaper, albeit inoffensive wallpaper. That lack of self-esteem surely played a role in my demeanor, making me more inhibited and self-conscious. Truth be told, I did not attend any homecomings or proms because I wasn't asked. There was a last-minute sort of invite through others by a boy I barely knew, but it felt like more of a convenience date than genuine interest. I was swooning over the cute, popular boys who, of course, were swooning over the cute, popular girls. Come to think of it, I don't think I even had a date during high school except for a fry cook from Golden Bear Restaurant who bumptiously groped me during a theater viewing of “Purple Rain.” That experience left a mark of distress. Most date nights were squandered writing bad poetry by candlelight while drinking Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers and listening to pathetic love songs. I was a wistful youth, full of angst and lassitude.

Surprisingly, I attended my five-year reunion, arriving on a Harley with an enormous biker whom, when asked the semi-question, “And this is your...” I responded, “This is my Dale.” He and I and two of my former classmates danced wildly for awhile before someone ran to find me in the bathroom announcing that my mother was outside because something was wrong with my dog. I hurriedly grabbed my purse and my Dale and sped to the animal hospital. My German Shepherd, Loni, died that evening, an event that I have given the power to portend my lack of presence at another school gathering for fear of more pets teetering in extremis. And yes, of course, there was more to it. After ten years and then after twenty years, I just wasn't sure of the point of reuniting with former classmates. And, following speaking with folks at the five year get-together, I felt somewhat the unconventional freak, running in the opposite direction of normality. Though I didn't feel insufficient, what was I to tell my classmates from long ago? That I hadn't created offspring, I had created art? That though I had no valuables, real estate, or retirement funds, I had never capitulated to the system? My achievements have been quirky and atypical, choices frequently of here and now action rather than prudent preparation. I don't have degrees, certificates, awards, and trophies, but I have marvelous stories; I have not had tremendous career progress, but I did make Lily Tomlin laugh; I have never run a marathon, but I have run full-speed to the bottom of the Grand Canyon (don't do it; it's a bitch climbing back up); I've never been married, but I have had exquisite love affairs; my extended family is splintered and sour, but my circle of friends is lifelong and has proven itself stronger and more resilient than flesh and blood. With all of this, though I don't long to impress others, I prefer not to substantiate my malapropos existence either. I wasn't sure summarizing my life in a few hours could leave an accurate impression. And, one problem with “success” is that its concept is completely subjective. Whatever its interpretation might be, it is not applicable to anyone other than the paraphrast. By construing and rehashing its definition to accommodate our life stance and moral code, we find in it what we deem of ultimate value while in the same breath, render our discovery completely meaningless to every other person. My impression of a rewarding, gratifying life is mine alone, established through my time alive and my interactions. What is meaningful to one could very well be worthless to another.

The entire concept of what is a successful life has become deformed and distorted. I happen to believe that the word “success” is much more profane than the word “fuck”. Since the 16th century, the concept of achieving good fortune and Godspeed was twisted to measure fame, power, and prosperity. To succeed one has to step lively and upward in social status; one has to bloat prestige and rack up triumphs. Though society praises humility, it certainly does not condemn gasconaders. It may be considered obnoxious to boast, but if someone is swinging the world from his balls, what's a peon to say? Either take the high road and stay low or get wise and savvy sycophancy. Whichever, it's a choose and lose scenario, and you're a nonstarter or an underdog in the game of ascendency. Now, let's say none of that matters, opulence is excreta, and your quest in life is enlightenment. Kudos to you and your soulful self! Stay strong and on your path, because if you don't, if your confidence and mission lose momentum, you may find yourself all too frequently bopping the Beck ditty, “I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?” It can happen. We look around us, catch a glimpse of scorn rather than smiles, and question our best intentions. Is it the journey rather than the destination? Are we loving the traffic, appreciative of the car's summertime sputtering, thankful for the lengthy queue amid the swelter, or do we just want the freakin' Peanut Buster Parfait?!

To those who are shaking their heads to and fro, thinking that this assessment of 21st century mores is callous, c'mon folks. What are the chances that when daughters introduce their fiancés, who lack college degrees, strong investments, job security and advancement, but possess close families, good health, and inner peace, have parents who are jumping for joy? I don't care what new age gurus, life coaches, and those asserting edification say about true success, society is still inclined to be more impressed by what ya got than what you give. Sad, but true. This does not mean I believe an avaricious stronghold is wangling the populace to become grabby mercenaries; however, there is a certain level of societal conditioning to which people react with Pavlovian psychic secretions upon seeing a Rolls Royce or Tiffany diamonds or a fatty bankroll. Those individuals who are not dazzled by well-to-do luxuries hold tight to the bastion of sensibility, criticizing the boorish booming of loaded philistines. It's the simple things in life, they proclaim, that determine success. “In any event, you have a close family,” they say. Uh, nope. “Well, at least you have your health.” Au contraire, dear well-meaning folks of mankind. With virtually every definition, idea, or concept of success, I appear to have wretchedly failed. So then, am I an abject, good-for-naught ne'er-do-well? Maybe, certainly by some standards. But, I have sculpted my own mode of prosperous well-being. My benchmarking system is configured by my waking mood: upon rising, do I want to blow my brains out OR do I pose and strut with a resounding “Doot-dootle-loo!” to hail the daylight? The former means failure, a complete balls-up flop; the latter typifies, “Rock on, Deb,” with an illustrious showing to make a go, make good, even while making do. It's not a jimdandy humdinger existence, but it serves me well, this life of nonpareil absurdity. After my formal salute, I give the day a kiss, maybe slip a little tongue if I'm feeling tarty, never petrified or panicky about upcoming escapades and ramifications from past events. There is a comfort in my adulthood that I never anticipated. It is self-acceptance, not only of my personality and my appearance, but also of where I'm at in life and how I spend my time. It's an inconsistent self-acceptance, to be sure; just check in with me when I'm dreadfully ill, experiencing brutal PMS, or haven't been shagged in some time. Completely different take on things, I assure you. The comfort is more a sense of belonging no matter where I am--- includable to humanity, an understanding that I serve a purpose within my family, the knowledge that I can produce significant work, a secure sense of self-efficacy, and an appropriate level of self-respect, hopefully, without insufferable hubris. Additionally, my life need not have chaos to be exhilarating and thrilling. Just because something is ordinary does not mean it is tedious; daily commonness is the calm between calamities. Every day offers its own rousing rocket ride in reality; awareness of that alone is an achievement.

Another of my high school reunions will occur this decade. Today, probably tomorrow, too, I'm undecided about attending. Whenever I envision conversations, there is trepidation, wondering how I will answer the question, “So, what have you been up to all these years?” Now and then, I dread that chatting with adults I thought back then were way cool kids would include them attesting the gospel of Bill O'Reilly, Glenn Beck, George Bush, et al., in which case I would politely turn my head from the buffet table during my emesis. Sometimes I envision notes compared about cruise lines and Disney World and when asked for my opinion, I would almost finish chomping a handful of Cheez Doodles and offer, “Naw, I don't like boats or people dressed as animals with enormous heads... I just don't. I get edgy.” As blank stares surrounded me, I would remember too late the indispensable quality of complaisance. This would immediately hurl me into the helix of high school humiliation. See how quickly that happens? Decades later and I still freakin' end up in the crapper. I swear, if another pet snuffs it, that's it, dammit, I shall never again revisit the bane of my beingness. All the “doot-dootle-loos” in the world wouldn't be able to salvage my arse running aground with that one. I knew it: mere memories. I'm going to my safe, happy place now.

Energy. (Archive)

This was originally published in March of 2009. Soon to come are two new essays: "Teenaged" and "Worry".


I made my cat sick. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Delaney (the Cougar), a stunning orange-striped 8-lb. beauty, laid calm on my chest for hours on end, days in a row. I was remarkably ill, unable to function in any other capacity than keeping myself alive. She stayed still as did I. I studied her hue because there wasn’t much else to do. Orange, though a wonderful word and exciting color, didn’t do justice. Parts of her fur are the color of marmalade, fading into what matches the bark of sequoias. Maybe some sorrel, threads of caramel, and a rich brown, not like chocolate, but more like truck-stop coffee. The white on her chin and around her eyes has a depth to it, more matte than gloss, kind of like chalk. Near-sighted and without glasses or contacts, I studied strands of fur while she was trying to heal me.

Here’s the deal: for a very long time, my method of overcoming sickness was a trough of hooch and an internal bawl out--- my bloodthirsty, jackhammer-voiced drill instructor thrashing my yellow-bellied, sniffling pansy. Pill-popping was rare; doctor appointments never happened; health ailments equaled weakness and weakness equaled vulnerability. I was determined to never be assailable, thus I could not admit that I didn’t feel well. If I wouldn’t admit that I was sick, then the concept of treatment, whether conventional or alternative, was wasted time. What changed all of that was serious illness, debilitating illness, life-threatening illness. Facing the prospect of premature death, I found the appeal in all possibilities of wellness. My attitude changed from thinking they were looped-up wah-hoo to thinking, “Hey, let’s give this a whirl.” Suddenly, therapies I may have previously sneered at took on the aura of miraculous. My closest friend, Lara, has always been open to the mystical possibilities of healing. She is a massage therapist, a maker of essential oil ointments, and a witch. She is a good witch, but unlike Glenda from “The Wizard of Oz” she isn’t creepy sweet and swathed in light and white. Her pagan rituals and appreciation of ancient healing arts have in the past made me smile; I found them cute. But then, I hadn’t needed additional methods to provide relief from pain, stress, and a physical downward spiral. Desperation is an excellent eye-opener.

Through my studies of Taoism, I have an understanding of Chi, the flowing energy circulating through the universe, inherent in all things. Motion and heat and coolness undetected by vision, balanced or imbalanced, powerful yet calm. A side note: for those golf enthusiasts who haven’t read about Taoism, Chi is entirely different than Chi Chi Rodriguez. Wanted to clarify that. Onward. Lao Tzu wrote frequently about water; indeed, it is an excellent example of Chi. A prime example of its energy is the Grand Canyon, formed by the Colorado River over a period of six million years, continual flow of channels working their way through solid rock formations eventually creating a gorge a mile deep. Now, that there is some powerful energy. Water, something we can effortlessly step into and through when it is in its liquid form, used its flowing touch against the atoms of the rocks, reshaping minerals to create one of the most magnificent natural wonders of the world. Well done.

When I am ill, my energy doesn’t flow with the power and grace of water. Mine seems to have more of a slime essence. There is no efflux through my body, but rather a sticky mucous leaching around nonsensically. I trust Lara implicitly, and when she suggests energy work, I am more than ready. She can explain polarity and Therapeutic Touch to me time and time again. I will listen dutifully, but my head is thinking, ‘Make me better. Make me well.’ That’s a tremendous amount of pressure to put upon someone, thus my thinking as opposed to talking. Whether she is rebalancing my essential energies or meditating upon my energy field to remove blockages, I stay still and await her magic. Lara has magic. People sometimes mention others who have an aura about them, those who radiate a distinct power, those who emanate some intangible striking quality; she is one of those people. I consider her a healer. As a registered massage therapist and student of naturopathy, she has studied many methods of sanative remedy. She’s not a flaky nutter, though, summoning snake gods, spinning round like a Stevie Nicks record, and chanting humpback whale ditties. Once she took a class on reiki, thought it was screwy bullshit, and stopped. Not everything works for everyone; we all know this to be true. And, some things are just plain frightening, such as Rolfing which scares the crap out of me. I’ve seen those pictures in alternative health magazines, that little boy in his saggy BVD’s, first all twisted and weird and contorted and then straight as a board. I always think something really not right happened. Plus, it’s a stupid name that I can’t take seriously. One website actually has a link that reads, “Become a Rolfer.” Um… no. Icky.

Days after Delaney tried to heal me, Lara visited. I mentioned that my dear feline friend was lethargic, eating very little, and just didn’t appear to feel well. Lara held her for an hour, performing energy work on this small wonder. Shortly thereafter, she was up and about, spunky and back to playing with her favorite toy, a squishy stress plaything shaped like a politician. It seemed a marvel, the quick transformation, the power of touch from the right hands. Through therapy from Lara, Western medicine, rest, nutrition, friendship, prayers, well wishes, and most significantly, time, I overpowered my illness, too. My body stopped attacking itself and reverted to its natural state of repairing itself. I have continued on the road to wellness: exercising, resting, eating, resting, regular follow-ups with my doctors, resting. I still have the continuous battle with MS, but no longer have to wearily fend off viral and bacterial invaders.

Delaney and I had a talk recently; I informed her she can no longer attempt to extract disease from my being, that it was under control and she could go back to continually grooming herself. She took the role of nursemaid seriously, though, and still watches over me. When I rest, she purposefully touches my pulse points. Her paws, the size of quarters, seek out my arteries, delicately monitoring my blood flow, making sure I have one. The radial arteries and aortic arch are of comfort to her. Mostly though, she reaches her forepaw to my carotid arteries, nails retracted, never leaving a mark, her digital pads performing a feline effleurage. That’s the thing about energy, it’s always there, flowing from one being to another, unbroken continuity, smooth and graceful, the intense force of vitality.