Category: fear

adventure · fear · friends · laughter · sobriety

Both/And.

Molly Daniels Hayes1 Comment

Tonight I go back into Kaiser hospital for my second round
of chemo. According to my current understanding, this is round 2 of 5.
However, I don’t really know. I went to Stanford on Friday
for what the Kaiser folks had told me (I have it in writing!) was a
“consultation” about bone marrow transplant (Can we all pass a moment of
silence for my even having to use the phrase “bone marrow transplant?). But,
when I arrived at Stanford, they seemed raring to go – ready, set, destroy your
immune system & hope the new one takes!
I was not so prepared for that. The doctor spoke for about
an hour and a half about what’s involved, and used the term “mortality rate”
much too often for me to feel at all like this was something I want to do. Then, they want you to talk to a social worker about
relocating down into the Stanford area for anywhere from 3-6 months. That
conversation, they said, would take another hour and a half.
At that point, I was too emotional – I mean, come on, doctors, this isn’t a theory – This is MY
LIFE, and I told them that I wasn’t able to
speak to the social worker then. They seemed all shocked and surprised that
someone couldn’t sit through 3 hours of people telling them how they may die,
and even if they don’t here are all these lovely other side effects, then also sit through someone
telling them how they need to up-end their entire lives to live somewhere alone
and foreign and away from all the trappings of normalcy they’re trying so
desperately to hold on to.
Really? You don’t get
that I need to leave now?
But, leave I did. And have had a few days of overwhelming,
What the Fuck – Now What?
I spoke with my friend who’s an oncology nurse at Kaiser –
actually we met when she started taking care of me last round, and is coming
this afternoon to pick up and foster my cat while I’m inpatient – so, we’re, like, friends
now. 🙂 But, she also knows about all this stuff.
Not all the facts are in, and I emailed my doctor last night
to say, Um, so, Stanford seems to think I need a transplant NOW, and you have
told me that we can wait to see if I have a recurrence of the cancer, and then
do a transplant THEN – so, Uh, what’s the story here? However, my nurse friend
said that with Leukemia, it can simply be a waiting game if you don’t go the
transplant route.
As I was talking to her yesterday, I was waiting for my
friend to come pick me up so we could go to Ocean Beach in SF. I said to her, yes, I have a good chance IF I make it through. She said, Well,
have a good time at Ocean Beach, IF you make it through. …
I got some info in the mail from a cancer society, and they
have a pamphlet about coping. In the back, they have a sort of daily inventory
– how did you feel today, did you laugh today.
With all of this hyper serious stuff happening, it’s hard to
find balance. I hadn’t laughed in days – certainly not after the Stanford
“You’re gonna live if you don’t die” visit.
But, yesterday, I did laugh. My nurse friend ended up coming
with us too. And off we were to Ocean Beach, laughing, silly, poking fun at
ourselves and each other.
And, oh, the beach. I’ve been wanting to go to the beach
since I got out of the hospital. Something about that massive body of water,
this uncontained thing, this thing that is totally out of my control, but is
working anyway – I wanted to witness it. I wanted to splash in it and squish my
toes in the sand of it. To breathe in it. And I did. We did.
We were there for a few hours, walking, sitting on a
towel, poking at things with our toes, crumbling sand in our fists. Laughing at children and dogs; admiring some very Ryan Gosling-esque abs on the surfers. It was a gorgeous day.
There was some cancer talk, but not too much. We went to
Java Beach for coffee re-ups, and I ran into a friend there. I remembered how I
used to spend my Saturday midnights there with a group of people who came to be friends –
What else do you do on a Saturday night at midnight when you’re young and not
at the bar? You drink coffee and eat left-over pastries by candelight and talk
about how awesome it is we’re alive and getting better. And sometimes how hard it is to be alive and getting better.
We went down to the Bayview where a friend of mine was
having an open studios art show. The whole warehouse was sculpture. Each artist
a sculptor. It’s rare that I see so much sculpture – usually the museums I’m at
are paintings or photographs. To see all this metalwork. It was amazing. So creative, and alive. And my
friend’s marble sculptures, as if melted out of the unhewn block.
We walked around out back and took in the Bay from that
angle. We saw the city from West to East, and we came home tiredly satisfied.
I sat for a few minutes, emboldened from my day of levity,
sunshine, the taste of salt on my teeth, and read some of the binder Stanford
gave me the day before. But I didn’t sit long with it.
I went to go meet up with some fellows for an hour, spoke a
little of what’s going on with me, and then had burgers and a movie with a
friend from SF. We saw that Seven Psychopaths movie, and it was really great – startling, gruesome in the
over-the-top meant-to-be-funny way, and just creative tongue-in-cheek
storytelling. For those hours, I didn’t think about myself or my cancer at all.
I laughed, gasped, sat in the dark with strangers doing the
same normal thing on a Saturday night.
I guess it’s going to be like this for now. The pendulum
from normal to not taking some very quick strokes. But last night, I got to note
that I did laugh that day. The reality of my situation was just the same
as the day before, but yesterday, I got to laugh, and reality became just an iota different. 

acceptance · adulthood · family · fear · generosity · recovery · relationships · the middle way · truth

People are Not Projects.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Damnit. There goes my favorite hobby. What will I do with my
afternoons, now?
I’ve heard the phrase before, and it recurred to me this
morning. My mom sent me an email back on Monday, qualifying why she’d replied
so “vehemently” on Friday that she wanted me under NO circumstances to tell her
whether I had the genome for Alzheimer’s, if I were to get the genetic mapping
thing I said I was maybe possibly going to do someday.
Even before she emailed me on Monday, I got the chance to
work through some of my anger at her refusal for clarity, her refusal to do things the
way I’d do them, or the way I’d want her to do them.
I even got to see that there is perhaps a part of me that is
in fear that she will have it. Watching what she went through with her mom, I can’t imagine it. Though I know I’d have the resources internal and external to do the best I could, if she does.
On Monday, she wrote me back and said, as I knew, that her mom was
around the same age my mom is now when she began to show signs of it, and that
she’s “very frightened.” I was amazed that my mother could let herself admit
that.
I wrote her back that, of course, I understand, and will respect
her feelings and wishes around this. Obviously.
And so, I’m reminded that people are not projects. She is
not on this earth, this lifetime, for me to fix her. As I’m also reminded
often, people are not broken, and I don’t need to fix them. She isn’t broken.
She is human, like me, like you. I have faults and assets, she has faults and
assets. Mainly, those faults are just calcified fears and defense mechanisms.
And it’s not up to me to fix them. They
are not “problems.” They just are. They are part of the map that is my mom.
They are part of the challenges and opportunities she has in this lifetime. And
it is part of my own challenge this lifetime to leave her be.
This is new behavior. Not alien, but new. We, I, grew up
enmeshed with her, her feelings were my own, and I tended to and acquiesced to
and modified myself in order to attend to her feelings. It was my own defense
mechanism. And, it was also in some ways what was needed. She was an
undiagnosed manic depressive, self-medicating with prescription and non-prescription tranquilizers
and uppers. Her feelings and mood swings were uncontainable, palpable, and able to wash a small
child overboard the ship of normalcy. So, I learned how to stand by the
rigging. I learned how to read the waves, to anticipate them, to ensure that
things were precisely as they needed to be. I learned to ensure life was easier
for her when she was in her clinical depression by not having or voicing or
owning my needs. I learned to ensure that she not retreat into that state by
allowing her manic times free reign, and stand tensely in the wings of her
life, egging her on – because mania meant some more of her, but not really. It
just meant she moved more quickly in her neuroses. And was hard to be around
then.
That was probably harder. It was like a live wire. Every
vibrantly theatrical gesture and every squeal of delight was like a hammer to my heart, knowing
that it was inauthentic, fleeting, and often, embarrassing. More than the
typical teen angsty, my parents are lame kind. More like, this person isn’t aware of herself and how big she can be, and I’m sorry she’s hijacked your conversation/this movie theather/…our vacation.
I went on a trip with her a few years ago to Sedona. I’d
begun to heal some of my own self-destructive patterns, and this was one of the
first times she and I were getting to spend any significant time together. It
didn’t go well.
Diagnosed, and newly (doctor prescribed) medicated as she
now was, she is/was still my mom. Even today, even though the swings have
lessened, the grooves in the thought patterns and behaviors are still there,
engrained over a lifetime, and I’ll suddenly find myself talking to a weepy child where a minute before stood a fierce New Yorker. But, in Sedona, we decided to do one of those Pink
Jeep tours, where they take you out in a jeep into the gorgeous red rock
landscape.
My mom had to be the entertainment. There were maybe 6 of us
in the back of the jeep, and as my mom continued to make herself more and more
“heard” and “seen” by this group of strangers, as she put on her mask of entertainer
– witty, loud, invasive – I began to feel myself shrinking in her wake. I began
to notice that I was doing what I’d always done, and detach from the dramatic
entrance of my mom’s persona. I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like that I was reacting that way, and so instead,
I began to get sullen and angry. She
picked up on the anger. And she couldn’t understand why – she’d been being who
she’d always been, acting (double meaning intended) as she always had, why was
I mad with her? I didn’t answer her. I didn’t know what was the “right” way to
answer that in my new recovery language – I simply said that it had more to do
with me than with her, and that was about it. She didn’t like this answer; I
knew it was true, but I didn’t like it either. We’re a “processy” – or we had
been – kind of pair. (She is a shrink, after all…) And I wasn’t going to or able to process this with her.
What is there to process? You’re not being the mom I want
you to be? You’re behaving so falsely, and invading these folks’ space? THIS
JEEP TOUR IS NOT ABOUT YOU?
No, I couldn’t say those things. There is and was the truth
that it does have more to do with me
than with her. How able I am to accept and love my mom as and who she is
without trying to change her. Without needing to be right. And without pitying her.
There is the truth that people are not projects, and that
she is not broken. There is also the magnanimous truth that my mother is also
brilliant, witty, stylish, and bold. Yes, she is also desperately scared of
everything, self-defeatest, and paralytically despairing. She is all of these
things. (She’s also a Gemini, if that helps.)
My mother is a human, with places she falls short of the
ideal, like me, like you; places where she excels, like me, like you. And, in
the end, just wants to feel loved, and at peace. Like me. And like you. 
change · fear · friends · fun · money · work

Oh, My Beautiful Wickedness!

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

This is one of the last lines delivered by the Wicked Witch
of the West in Wizard of Oz as she’s
melting from the bucket of water that Dorothy just doused her with.
It occurs to me this morning. The dying gasps. Really, I’m not
sure what more I have to say on that.
Last night, I got to babysit for the one family I work with,
up in the hills of Montclair – a quite posh neighborhood of Oakland, if you can
still call it Oakland. I was picked up from work by the mom in downtown SF, and
delivered straight to the ease and comfort of children.
There are two girls, one 7, one almost 3. The older one is mildly manipulative, so I like the little “teaching moments” I get to instill in
her – like, it’s okay to be disappointed (when you land on a chute instead of a
ladder, and are sent backward through the board); like, you can be honest with
me (are you really hungry, or are you trying to stay up later). Some of these,
I recognize are “corrective experiences,” as I once heard it put – places where
we get to “go back” and make minor adjustments to experiences we might have had
in the past, and put some new memories, positive memories there.
I heard this about places, mostly, – i.e. this awful thing
happened at that park one time, now I can go to that park in the light of day
with new eyes and a picnic, or something.
The woman I babysit for said yesterday that the French don’t picnic.
She’d lived there and visited several times, and whenever they went to a lake
or something, completely un-American-like, they didn’t pack a thing to eat or
drink, whereas with us, it’s the first thing that we do.
I recognize this blog is a little discombobulated, but I’m
feeling somewhat worn out from the week of highs and lows, and sleep deprivation. I was on the phone with a friend yesterday, and she said that if I
wanted to get together to do something fun, she was available for that. I said,
in essence, I’m not really available for fun right now.
What kind of a thing is that to say?! Or believe? With the money/job stuff, I am feeling depleted,
but that’s almost more of a
reason to refill the well. I’m reading this book on money stuff, and one of the
signposts toward “not so hot” questions the guy asks is if we feel relief when the calendar switches
to a new month, when the money quotient refills. Absolutely. And yet, with the calendar switch, for me now, also comes fear –
okay, June is covered, What about July. I feel like I’m ticking the days off to
refilling the pot, but also just crossing off the days through the year when there
is so much more joy to be had.
I’m debating whether canceling camping was the “right” thing
to do – but really, I think it is. A friend of mine is an expert at free and low-cost fun. It’s like her sixth sense
– like her super power is finding a way to get to do the things she loves to do
without paying – not like a handout, but like trade, volunteer, etc. For
example, if there’s a musician she likes that’s coming into town, she’ll email
them and ask if she can sell merch for them at the show. This is how I
discovered Ari Hest when he came through San Francisco a few years ago – my
friend was going to sell merch for him, and asked if I could assist. And so, we
got into the show for free, and I fell in love with some new music. Love.
P.s., speaking of, I realized that the title of yesterday’s
blog should have been “Love, and Other Drugs,” while I was on my way walking to
work. D’ah well.
The fun thing is another way of saying I can’t have where
I’m at or not good enough where I’m at – when you’re financially secure, you
can have fun. When you know what you’re doing in your life, you can laugh. Til
then, head down, grindstone needs nosing.
Meh – that’s faulty logic and backwards thinking, and just
plain sucky. There’s too much fun to be had. It’s back to my “quitting hiding”
thing that I’m trying to do. The isolating doesn’t feed me. There’s plenty to
do if I ask for help. Sure, my friend has a sixth sense, but talent for that
can develop. I’d like to learn.
I’d also like to sleep. 😉 So, this weekend, with my
non-camping self, in and amongst my job applicationing (there’s one job I’m
actually really hoping for – cross your fingers), I can get out, and be fun, have fun. Do something
FUN.
Fun is not for people who want it, it’s for people who do
it.
Word. 
acceptance · dating · fantasy · fear · finances · growth · maturity · progress · relationships · romance · sobriety

"Love as Burrito" or "This, or Something Better"

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Grateful to my friends who gave me feedback, I texted the okJew yesterday morning
that I was a fan of getting to know someone before getting physical (I couldn’t
help but hear Olivia Newton-John as I typed it), and if that was something he
was interested in, then I’d love to continue getting to know him, and if not,
no hard feelings. He texted back to say that, in fact, he was looking for
something else, and didn’t know how that fit in with me or not.
So, I got to sit with that. Tall, attractive, well-built
Jew? What’s not to like? Oh, unavailable.
And, I did sit, I questioned, I turned inward for a few minutes to test that
option, and ultimately, gratefully, I said I was looking for something less
tenuous, and good luck.
Then …
I sat and stared at a wall of books.
I was shocked, honestly, at how “air out of a balloon” I
felt, without all that funny noise it makes. It made me realize that I still do
have some work to do. I identified very clearly the feeling of a crash after a
high. I could almost smell the cigarette smog and late 90s radio.
Hm. Love as Drug. Huey Lewis has a song about it. And, duh,
it’s not “love” as in Love. It was intrigue. Oh, Intrigue!! – when’s the next
text, what do I wear, how flirty do I be, funny do I be, do I invite him in,
scheduling plans, etc…etc…etc… Something to think about, and then the plug was
pulled yesterday mid morning, and I sat deflated and comatose for a few minutes
on and off till lunchtime.
When I went and bought a burrito. My friend texted me to say
that it’s normal to feel feelings, and we get to let them pass. I said my feelings now
feel like a burrito in my belly ~ Real feelings TBA. And that much was true. How
much easier it is to feel full, or to
buy something to feel better – not better, to just feel different. My burrito
accomplished both of those. Better to eat, feel full (and mildly grossed out
that I ate a pound of tofu and salsa flesh), and to get the thrill that I spent
money on lunch when I had a perfectly decent one in the fridge at work.
Cuz, what do I feel when I’m not caught up in the nonsense?
Fear. I feel fear about money and work and job applications and
directionlessness. Who the hell wants to feel that?? No one. But, better to feel those feelings, and
thereby get into action around
them, than to stuff them with something else, and continue avoiding the
elephant in my psyche.
There’s another okJew who I’ve been talking to – and I’m not
entirely sure that I want to pursue it at the moment. I met up with some of my
new “relationship/emotional intimacy” folks last night after work, which was a
very good use of my time. I’m so glad
I’ve chosen to fall in with them – and they were talking about dating, and
showing up, and boundaries, and desires, and how to be honest. These are things
I want. I want to have desires –
I have no … desire… to be celibate, or nunnish. I am a hot-blooded woman with
hot-blooded needs, and a great big bag of tools that don’t work.
That said, I obviously do have more tools than I used to (burrito
coma aside) – because I did let this dude know what I was available for, and he
said he was glad we got that worked out early – and it’s true. I know plenty of
times when I’ve let my “fear of looking needy” keep me from speaking up about
my discomfort at the level of murk in a relationship or sexytime companionship.
Once, it took me almost a month, and when I finally broached the subject with
the dude, he said he wasn’t available or looking for more. So, I said, great,
and was glad to know, and left his house feeling better and confident in my
ability to state my needs, and let go of the results.
Sure, I didn’t “get what I want” in that situation – who doesn’t want the person to say, of course, I’d love to
continue to get to know you and see if there’s something substantial that can
come from this. But … as my “sugar crash” yesterday proved to me, there’s more
work to be done. It’s not at all fair to place that amount of expectation on
anyone – because they’re not really being asked to be themselves, they’re being
asked to fill something in me, or distract something in me, or fix something in
me. And, that, my dears, is an inside job.
When I said a few days ago, that if relationships are
Miracle-Gro for your character defects, then surely they are/must be for your
spiritual growth – this is why. My defect here being the desire to run away
from the reality of my professional and financial situation – and when someone
says they can’t be that for me, I’m left simply with my situation all over again, like
the ugly step-sister you lock in the attic. Still here.
So what do I do? Well, firstly, I meet up with folks and I
ask for help. Done, and will continue to do. Secondly, I continue to work on
the job front. I was invited to go camping this weekend, and had accepted, as I
love to camp, and getting out of dodge sounded so very nice. But last night, as
I was compiling job listings into an email draft so I could take a look at them
in my spare moments at work… it occurred to me that perhaps going camping was
not the best use of my time at the moment.
This temp job will likely end in the next week or two, and
after that is a blank horizon. It’s time for me to assist in coloring it in.
Lastly, I offer myself kudos. I made my intentions known,
quickly. I listened honestly to what another person was telling me about their
intentions. Which I didn’t take personally at all (a thought, I recognize, is
also huge progress, but seems so “of course” now). I can try to treat myself
kindly with how I treat my body and not go food coma on myself.
I showed up. I got in the ring. I made out. And, I can be
confident that what’s available for me is “This, or something better.”

adulthood · change · dating · fear · intimacy · Jewish · love · progress · relationships · sex · sobriety

Mind your own music stand.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Several years ago, about 5 or so, I was dating a wonderful
man. I was also in therapy. These things were and were not related 😉
One day, my therapist and I stumbled across a metaphor that I’m reminded of
today – when I get into relationships, it’s as if I’ve been the conductor of my
own orchestra, and ultimately, the highest ideal and intention is that my
partner, boyfriend in this case, have his own orchestra, and that the two sounds mix
and meld in a way that increases the beauty of both, without losing the
integrity of either.
Surely, you may have your own metaphor for this, as there
are many, but that’s what came to me then.
The “problem,” as it were, is that I was noticing my
tendency to want to begin to conduct his orchestra. That if his oboe were a
little more resonant, or his triangle more tingy, we’d sound better together.
The result of this peeking over onto his side, was that I began to neglect my
own. In beginning to mind someone else’s business, I forgot to mind my own.
When this happens, things like self-care, integrity, and reason
begin to go out the window. I become more interested in making sure you’re
doing things “right,” and that we “sound good together,” that my whole balance
of living gets thrown off.
That was then. This is now. Will it be the same?
When, before I began dating that man, I asked a trusted
friend if she thought I were ready to date – as he would become the first
person I’d date while sober – she said that if I was ready to handle the
emotional twists of a relationship without drinking, then go for it.
And so I did. I learned a lot, and ultimately, it didn’t
work out, but I learned so fucking much.
I learned how to try to love, how to try to be loved. I learned how to be
honest with another person. I learned to look at the clouds and see shapes and
animals again. I learned how to relax a little.
Yes, these are things I can learn “on my own,” they are. And
I get more of that now than I did then. But, too, there are some things that
can only be learned in communion with
someone else.
I notice that that big hunk of manic-depressive wild-haired
meat that I call my inner manifestation of Love is “up” right now. As when I
met her on one of my shamanic journeys, and she threw herself on me after I
gave her one bit of kindness, she is not yet one who knows balance. When I
pushed her off of me, she got rageful and went Neanderthal.
This is part of my pattern. Show me some kindness, and
suddenly, I light up like Times Square and drape myself on you, my needs,
expectations. Show me that you can’t possibly meet those demands, and I will
turn to ice quicker than an eskimo’s piss.
There’s more to this. As there usually is. If you’re not
meeting my demands, and I’ve turned cold, you won’t really know it. It’s subtle
closing off and shutting down, this Elvis leaving the building. We’ll have sex,
but I won’t be present. I’ll still try to use it as a way, the main way, to
connect, but it doesn’t really work when I’m not there.
Also, as I recognized last night on my surprise-last-minute okJewpid date, before I know more or better or have a peg on the situation,
sure I’ll be outwardly as gregarious and charming as always, but… I felt it – I
felt my shell.
Perhaps this is “normal.” You’re meeting someone for the
first time – you of course have some guards, maybe. But, I’m just so much more
acutely aware of how scared I am. How scared I am to allow that shell to melt,
because inevitably, in my past, it has meant a descent right into that enormous sigh of relief that you are here, that I can now
relax, depend on you – and make a few adjustments to you while we’re at it.
When I let go of this shell, I start a pattern that leaves
me alone, sad, and feeling pretty childlike. Not womanly. Not adult.
So, I keep the shell. I’ve kept it for years now. Better to
avoid the whole game than to try to play it differently, acknowledging and
using the new skills for living and being that I have. I could have garnered a
whole fleet of new tools and attitudes, but fuck if I let them out of the gate.
They’re like a trained – well, I was going to write “army,” but I’d rather
leave the military out of my love life, thank you – they’re like a well-trained
dance company. Having rehearsed for years, perfected, practiced, fallen, and
learned – but … me, their manager, I will never and have never let them perform. They
are a lost art. They are a lost gift, because I’m too scared of how they’ll be
received, or of if they’re really ready for the big show.
I think I’ve mentioned this before, but with the Cousin, I
said at one point (not to him) that I felt like I wanted to put him up on a
shelf, and “fix” myself, or get better, and then, only then, when I were
better, then I could take him down, and we could have a wonderful life
together. Life.Does.Not.Work.In.Darkness. It does not work in absence, and it
does not work without my active participation.
I may be the world’s best anything, but I’d never know it.
And so, it’s time to see if my conductor skills, my dance
company, my emotions have learned things that I may not know they’ve learned.
Because my date was awesome. And, likely, I may want to date
again. 

adulthood · authenticity · fear · honesty · progress · San Francisco · self-support · work

Sans Cape

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

For an unemployed person, I’m mighty busy, and double
booking, or booking right after another.
So, I was honest with the painter yesterday and simply
emailed her to tell her that I was feeling a little daunted at the thought of
modeling for 3 hours after working a full day – I’ve been so tired, guys,
normal people hours are weird – I almost
wrote “wired,” which I suppose they are too. My caffeine reduction experiment
tanked last week at the temp job with a return to 3 cups a day, but I’m trying
again, and yesterday was only two.
A friend of mine said, when I told her on Monday night that
I was thinking of canceling Tuesday’s modeling gig, that there was no way that
I could cancel with this woman, the artist, that I had made my commitment, and
that it was less than 24 hours notice, and that it would affect my
“reputation,” and that if I didn’t want to model ever again than it was fine for
me to cancel.
Whoa.
So, considering that this woman is someone I go to for
council in other matters, I took what she said, not to heart, but to left
ventricle maybe. But it didn’t sit well in my left ventricle. I am/was tired, and was not really going to be emotionally or
physically available to do what needed to be done. This date was set up over a
month ago, when I had no idea I’d be working 9-5 in SF. I went to sleep on
Monday night contemplating lying to the artist, and telling her that I had a
stomach issue, and couldn’t make it. Then, I let it go, and went to sleep.
I woke up, and decided to just be honest. So, I wrote the
artist an email, said obviously I made my commitment to her and would be there,
but was there another way.
You know what she said (of course you do), she said, NO
PROBLEM. “I’ll paint instead.” And we rescheduled for a weekend evening next
month. “No Problem.” Once again, I’m shown that when I’m 100% honest, it
usually goes better than I could have imagined. I tried my very best to let go of the results after I sent the email
yesterday morning – I brought all my modeling gear with me, and said to myself,
if I have to, I have to, and I will – … then I habitually, compulsively,
checked my inbox to see if there was a response. Then… I remembered that I was
“turning it over,” letting it go, and I was actually at another job that was
needing my attention.
And so it went for about 4 hours. I even left for
lunch. Ha! I even let myself take my little breaks and walk around downtown, to
relieve my poor spine of compression for a few non-sitting minutes. I let
myself take care of myself, basically, even though I didn’t know what “the
future held.” That’s sort of new. Usually, I’ll clamp down – I don’t know
what’s going on, what’s happening, what will happen, I better stay here, worry,
consume, agitate.
Nope. I took a walk. I wore a dress yesterday even, I think
I’ve worn it once since I bought it, and I looked nice. I looked presentable. I
looked Molly. Only nicer 😉
I come back from lunch, there’s an email from the artist,
and, I guess I spoiled the surprise already, but, NO PROBLEM. I can’t stress
enough what a relief that was. I was able to leave work and go to meet up with
some of my peeps for an hour, we even sat in some 15 minute meditation, which was
unexpected. I was able to come home, play with my cat, … attempt to get to bed
at a decent hour.
I haven’t told my friend who chastised me for considering
canceling that it all went well. I know that she’s human, and as another friend
said to me recently, We can only see as far for others as we can see for
ourselves. And, I “get” what she meant, that it’s not okay to cancel last
minute – or rather, it’s not ideal, but it had to be asked. So, I will have to
tell her – and maybe when I’m done with this set of work I’m doing with her,
I’ll move on – she is helpful in a lot of other ways, and again, she is human.
She has her own history, and beliefs and patterns. Whatever it meant to her to
arise such a virulent reaction, really doesn’t have much to do with me,
honestly. I’m glad I’m able to see what was mine, what was right for me, and do
what was right for “Human Molly,” not “Super Molly.” I may look good in tights,
but the cape is a little much.
One of the reasons I didn’t want to do the gig yesterday was
that I wanted to continue to apply for work in the evening. I didn’t do that yesterday – I sat
on my couch and read this book I’m reading. Man Seeks God. It’s actually hilarious, and informative. But one
thing that came up at my workshop on this past Saturday was my answer to my
question for the group – What, honestly, is your favorite creative block – or
put another way, what is your favorite thing to do instead of being creative?
In the past, I’ve written facebook, or t.v., but this time,
I think I got a little closer to the heart of it: Reading about other people’s
lives instead of living my own.
Yep, that pretty much fits about all the manifestations of
what I do instead of living my own – that’s what facebook provides, this book
I’m reading offers, it’s what t.v. or movies do. Let me witness someone else’s
life, instead of participating in mine.
Sure, there’s a time and place for it all – I’m not going
Luddite. But I’m glad to be more focusedly aware of what it is I’m doing when I
decide to read for 3 hours, instead of send out one resume.
That said, today, I commit to creating a teaching resume,
and sending out one job application.
I also commit to taking a spinal decompression walk. 😉 

adulthood · courage · fear · finances · recovery · relationships · sex · the middle way · willingness

Romance & Finance

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

The Third Thing. That’s what a woman told me yesterday,
after I met up with this new group of folks who, apparently, talk about
intimacy, relationships, and habitual avoidance of (or indulgence in) such things.
I was telling her that for years, I’ve been trying to find a
balance between Betty Crocker and the Vixen, to find the middle way between
them. And she said something I’d never heard before – that likely, whatever it
or I turn out to be, it’s probably neither of these – it’s a Third Thing.
I’ve said sometimes, that I don’t like the analogy of
“living in the gray,” you know, the balance between black and white – between
black and white thinking, all or nothing. Some people call this middle, attempting
to live in the gray area. But to me, that sounds pretty awful, like living in a
fog bank (looking at you, San Francsico!). And so, I’ve said that instead of
the middle of black and white being gray, I call it color. That something other
than black, or white, is color. And so, “the third thing” thing makes sense to
me (she said it’s a Bill Clinton quote, and g-d love Bill – I’ll have to look
it up).
Romance and Finance. I hear so often that these are the
things which so often plague, worry, or motivate all of humanity. I’m reading
this book on the art and history of Europe (“for the traveler”), trying to get
some more info, things I slept through or didn’t care about or was too worried
about the aforementioned “ance”s to listen. I have a few books on European
travel on my desk, and this one is giving me the history, the why and wherefore
of how come art and architecture look like they do. And here’s what I’ve
learned: people, throughout history, have fought and been motivated by romance
and finance. Kings marriages, new religions, revolutions. Many have been about
who has what, who doesn’t have what, and how they can get more.
So, I’m not alone, apparently, in the grand scheme of these
issues. Of working on them, and my own grating relationship with each.
This is good. And there is a solution, but as Jung said, (I
think I’ve mis/quoted him here recently!), You can’t solve a problem on the
level of the problem. And the problem here is that I have only my well-worn
resources, patterns, and behavior to help me “solve” these problems of romance
and finance. So it’s time to look for help.
My romantic life as having fallen in either Betty Crocker or
Vixen territory is very much like my relationship with money. I’m either
restricting, meagerly existing, and isolating – or I’m burning money to quench
and balm the pain of all that restriction. Binge, remorse, restrict. Repeat.
Many people can notice these traits in anorexics or bulimics, and so far in my
life, knock on every piece of wood and mock-wood in the vicinity, that has not
been an issue for me in that particular way. My binge and restrict is with
emotions, money, and sexuality.
And if the middle way is not indeed the “middle,” then I
have to keep coming back to those who know a different way, and can help me to
get there.
This morning, I queried in my Morning Pages about this desert
I go to in meditation. How was that desert, I asked. I hadn’t been there in a
long time, and it was a place that I’ve gone to occasionally in my meditations
for years, and one which I was encouraged to solidify in myself and my brain
while I was doing some EMDR work with my therapist earlier this year.
She said it was interesting that I chose a desert as my
“safe place,” that many people choose cozy small place, places where they feel
protected. But, no, for me, I want a wide wide field of vision. There are no
surprises, no sneak attacks, I have full view of every single thing for miles
and miles. It’s a desert like those you see in the southwest, with ocher
colored mesas in the distance. And the flat, flat, cracked earth expanse of
dirt and dust and a hawk flying lazy circles in the bright, expertly clear
sunlight.
This, is safe to me.
I suppose I’m reminded of it today, as I am going to be
needing to touch into places like this – safe, calm, where I feel almost in
charge. There is nothing hidden, nothing freaky, nothing to shake me or scare
me or surprise me. I have a feeling there are going to be a lot of surprises
and shakes and scares as I begin to dive into this romance stuff. This
emotional intimacy, undoing this very deep pattern of all or nothing. And so,
it’s time for me to strengthen my base, root within my safe places, and get the
hell out of the way.
This is like a geyser, this work. Or maybe it’s not, what do
I know. What I do know is that I am grateful for the help I have available to me,
internally and externally. I was asked in my meditation from my Feminine, as I
reported the other day, if I was ready – I guess I was being asked if I was
ready to work on this stuff – because she/I have reawakened, and is powerful as
fuck. It is no wonder to me, then, that it’s taken me as long as it has to come
to this place of beginning to integrate and work on my
sex/relationship/intimacy stuff – I’m going to need all the resources I’ve
acquired, and many I have yet to discover.
Here’s to an assault on old ideas, however that looks as it
is coupled with a cosmic cease-fire. 
courage · fear · growth · loss · maturity

Tell the Truth, Tell the Truth, Tell the Truth.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

This was the inscription in someone’s book I read once,
quoting someone else. I’ll have to look up who. But it occurs to me this
morning.
So, it is true that by vomiting out my thesis and the
actions therein that I have opened up lines to things that I didn’t have access
to before. This morning, I got to see one of them.
A while back, I’d written here about an “individuation meditation” I’d done regarding my mom. It was an exercise
out of that Calling in The One book, and
it was helpful and powerful and sad, but freeing, then.
This morning as I went in to meditation, I thought to go one
place, and instead was drawn to go elsewhere. So, I did. I ended up at Ocean
Beach, basically the end of the continent hemmed in and eroded and maleated by
the wide Pacific Ocean. There stood a large figure. It was my dad.
I’ve written some here about his ability to throw me off
course, with his demands that I live according to his ideas of what is right,
or with his pure denial of facts about his life and our mutual familial past.
Maybe I’ve even glanced at some of the violence that occurred when my brother
and I were young. But I don’t really talk about it. Hence, the title.
The truth is, it wasn’t nearly as bad as what I hear in others’ lives, and I
discount and play down the ability that man had to scare the … nearly scare the
life out of me. He is a large man, at 6’3”, with a larger voice, fiercer eyes,
and my brother and I would tense at the sound of his car pulling into
the driveway, as if getting ready for battle defenses.
There is a story that I’ve been told, that when I was about 7 or
so, in the middle of an altercation, I turned to my dad and said we were too old to be hit anymore. – No seven
year old should ever have to say or feel that. And my brother at 4, then, shouldn’t
either.
These are, granted, my own interpretations. But, my father,
abandoning physical violence, started in simply using his voice to holler. And
his hollering shook the foundation of the house. — Although there are some
poignant moments in my past when he took up that old tool of intimidation again. …
He was not a pleasant man – though you may not know that in public. You
probably sense you don’t want to cross him, but he’s like that Scorpion in that
legend – it’s in his nature to bite.
And then, too, it’s not in his nature to bite. He’s scared.
He never had proper fathering, never knew how, had his own shame about being a
bastard child, and then hated his step-father. He grew up in the army. Learned
how to make beds and keep time and everything in a row and in order.
Children are not on time or in a row or ever in order. This
frightened him. I know that now.
But, in my meditation, the phrase that I repeated several
times, as I sobbed a bit in real life, was, You don’t have the power to kill me
any more.
…
See, because, last night, I wrote a mini G-d letter, and
asked for some guidance on earning income, what I should do. And the letter
back asked, What do you want to do? I
cannot produce vagueness.
What a novel question: what do I want to do?
And so when I went in this morning in meditation to find
some answers within myself to this question, I found myself face to face with
my dad. My dad who has wanted me to live life to his rules for a very long
time, even though it’s years since I’m out of his house. I still feel the
stamping thumb of a demand for “normalcy” or whatever his idea of the “right”
kind of life is for me.
So, that’s what this morning was about. Of course I haven’t
really been able to consider what it is I
want to do in my life, if I’m continuing to struggle against what his ideas are for my life. My therapist has tried to
instill this in me over several years – Molly, this is your life. It hasn’t made sense to me. I haven’t known
what that’s meant. When I’m trying to struggle against the idea that I might be
swatted or, as the fear puts it, killed, of course I don’t have the time or
wherewithall to consider what I
want to do with my life. First things first, right? Survival.
To move from the stance of survival to the stance of growth
means to move out from under the fear of elimination. It’s a “fancied” fear at this point –
but it makes my heart flutter and tells me to stay hidden and to stay safe.
Which is what I’ve done for a while, and doesn’t fucking work for me.
I invited him to leave. I told him, as the exercise in the
book suggested, that I was sorry I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be, and
that I forgive him for not being what I want him to be. That without his anger,
he’s just a scared old man, and a scared little boy. I have compassion for the
little boy. And I need to learn some right-sizedness around the man. To begin
to step into my own britches is to believe that they belong to me. In the face
of anyone else – good or bad decision, right or wrong, lost or found — this is
my life.
I don’t know how to do that yet, but inviting him to stop
throttling me is a good start. 
faith · fear · spirituality · surrender

G-d Letter.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Hi folks, I share this today with vulnerability, and the knowledge it may turn some people off. But, it’s the truth, so here goes.


There’s a spiritual tool I sometimes use called a “G-d letter.” In essence, I write a letter to G-d, all my fears and questions and … fears. Then I turn the page, take a breath, and write a letter back – from G-d. I was skeptical of this tool – *very* skeptical – and then I tried it. I’ve been using it at moments of extreme emotional distress since then. 


With the hope you may get something from it too, here’s today’s “letter back.”




Dear Child,

I’m glad you’re here with me. I see your despair and I have compassion. You are on your path. There is no other road to go or seek. I have dotted your path with synchronicity and it will make itself evident, if it hasn’t already — just look around. You are carried and cared for. You are loved and lovable. There is nowhere else to be. Can you trust me? Can you trust my angels here on earth?

Will you let them guide and chisel for you a path? What is the next footprint, Molly? The very next thing to do? Just do that.

I love you, and I cherish WHO YOU ARE, not just who you will become. Because you are already who you will become, you just need to see it. I am here. I am loving. I am listening and I am guiding.

Be still and know that I am G-d, and that joy is here, right here for your taking.

My everything, Your Creator,
G-d. ❤

action · authenticity · fear · growth · jealousy

Just Dessert.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So I literally don’t know if I came up with this, or read or
heard it recently. I’ve tried going through the last few pages of the books I’m
reading, and can’t find it – but, no matter.
“It’s like putting our gifts up on a shelf, and then saying,
alright G-d, what’s your will for me?”
That’s what’s occurred to me. No no no, not those old things – they couldn’t possibly have anything to do with what I’m supposed to do
with my life. Those are just, well, hobbies, or qualities I have, or secret
things I like to do – they certainly aren’t Worth While. They certainly don’t
mean anything with regard to a Life Purpose.
Hmm. I like it – the simplicity of it. I’m a fan of
believing I can pause things till I get a handle on them. I’m also a fan of
half-finished projects, trouncing from one interest to another, so as to not
get too invested – and therefore (fear)
disappointed by the end result.
The problem with any of the things I consider as gifts or
interests is that I do abandon them, and
then have very plausible reason for saying I can’t pursue them, or that they’re
not a viable option. Of course I
can’t sing in a band – I quit taking voice lessons. Of course I can’t play in a band – I quit taking guitar
lessons. Of course I can’t use my
writing as a stream of income – I haven’t submitted anything.
Oh, clarity. How my fears hate the light of day. And,
granted, it’s just the light of today – likely, I’ll forget all this sometime
later today or tomorrow – until I’m once again presented with the pang of
jealousy toward people who are doing the
things I want to do.
You sing in a band? You edited a published book? You sold a
painting? You went on a vacation? You traveled in Europe? You live in a warm
climate? ;P
That last one – well, we’ll leave that alone for now. Although
I will tell you, my Magic 8 ball tells me that I won’t be here in the Bay Area
at the end of the year. … Truth be told.
One of the great things about some of the folks I’m now in
with is that I watch and hear how they turn jealousy into action. That’s the
thing about jealousy for me, at least. If I say to myself, “I could do that
[better, is implied],” then what I’m really saying is I want to do that.
I remember back in college, I would feel visceral pangs of
resentment and jealousy when I would walk into an open mic night to watch other people play. Sometimes I
had to in fact leave because I was so pissed that I (as I understand it now)
couldn’t let myself try.
So the phrase sparks something new – a new awareness of the
patterns of my dream abandonment. I have these nudges, but I discount them and the qualities they could bring to my life as not valid. I thereby stand at the
smorgasbord of life and say nothing looks good. Basically, I say that the cake
and cookies are for other people – not for me. I need the limp kale to get
along in life.
As a metaphor, I would like the cake and cookies. I would
like to understand that anything that I consider “play” is actually a way in
which I’m informing myself of where I’d like to go and what I’d like to do.
Instead of discounting my interests, maybe I should follow them. Instead of
turning back, or judging others, or dismissing my desire for the fun – maybe I
should let myself sink into the gifts and interests that I have.
After all, as they say: Life is short – Eat dessert first.