insanity · prosperity · trying

An Open Letter

6.14.18.jpgSince my now-ex moved out a bit ago, I’ve been composing letters to him in my head.  Things I would normally text throughout the day, the funny or coincidental, the discoveries or challenges.  But, I know these are not to be shared with him right now.

So, I’m going to share them with you!  Ha!  It’s what my “It’s called a Breakup cuz it’s Broken” book would suggest about calling a friend instead, at least for a little while.

All those things you would share throughout and at the end of the day.  The daily download over dinner, how this or that came out… That’s what feels most difficult: the loss of my closest friend.

It has brought to the fore that my dependence upon that relationship has been a bit lopsided to the neglect of my other relationships.  And so I have reached out to several folks, had a few lady dates, and will need to continue to do so.

But in the meantime, since no particular person I know would want to hear about all of the following, I give them to you, the interweb, a diffuse and “It’s your own choice to click this!” readership.  I here allow all my pent-up updating to be relieved without harm, to him, or to me.

So, Dear Friend, who cares about my minutiae:

  • Since J took back the Wusthof knife he brought to the relationship—and I learned what a 4real improvement a good knife can make—I went online and they were having a sale.  I now have THREE(!) new knives, and practically fainted from the ease with which I sliced my daily bread.
  • I went to 4th Street in Berkeley after graduation last Wednesday and bought: those knives, Kiehl’s eye cream (the men’s version bc it’s cheaper and the clerk says it’s just as good!), and two awesome dessert plates at Anthropologie (since the plates I had at home were freebies that don’t go at all and I’m using the new absence of J’s stuff to question what kind of a home I want for myself).
  • I’m doing research for the month + week I’ll be gone this summer (a month at my professional development in Amherst, MA, a week with my mom in Amsterdam and Copenhagen) about reusable items I’ll need (launderable cotton rounds, cloth coffee filters, collapsable silicon coffee maker and travel mug) and using the gift cards from school parents to pay for them.
  • I emailed school to ask about their covering the cost of the night I have to spend in Boston before my PD starts.  They said of course, so I booked the awesomest (&not crazy pricey) boutique hotel in Beacon Hill… and THEY APPROVED IT!  Omigod.  I’m such a fanatic for these cool, boutique hotels now.  Absolutely a result of being with J and going to several with him.
  • Speaking of, did you know there’s one place in Boston where in order to just attempt to get a reservation THEY HAVE TO CONFIRM HOW MANY INSTAGRAM FOLLOWERS YOU HAVE?!?!!?  Dude, I love strong design, but … sheesh.  (And no, I did not fill out their “application” form!)
  • OH!  AND, I was at the library reading “O” magazine and there was a photo spread that took place AT PALIHOUSE… IN THE SAME ROOM I stayed with J.  a month ago.  IN THE SAME BED.  So that didn’t make me sad at all…
  • My best friend from NJ and I confirmed we’ll meet in Boston in July for a girl’s weekend, and I’ve been absolutely bananas about searching for a place for us: how much to spend or not spend to spend or not spend to spe– … and then went to a meeting!
  • Speaking of financial insanity:  I spoke about trying to save for a house right now and a woman approached me with a referral for a real estate agent who works particularly with women, which led to:  a flurry of emails… deranged Redfin stalking… talking to a mortgage broker… learning I’d have to pay HALF my income to pay for a mortgage… running my numbers obsessively… not leaving the house so I could run more numbers… composing texts to my mom and brother about going in together… deleting said texts… talking to a trusted friend… and, finally, being reminded that this chaos is not the droid I’m looking for.  This chaos is something called “avoiding feelings.”  Weird.
  • Then I started meditating again.  >.<

So, yeah, that’s how these 10 days have gone for me!  HOW ARE YOU?!?! BWHAHAHA.

Health and illness, courage and fear, community and isolation, abundance and constriction.

Frankly, it all sounds about right.  For now.

Yours in evolution,  M.

 

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fear · finances · insanity · isolation · recovery · relapse

Without Defense

In the summer, I’d texted friends nearly daily, asking them to help me not quit my desk job. I wrote to them that quitting my job without a plan would be just like an alcoholic taking a drink: Disastrous. Painful. An uncharted trip through hell. 
But. I wasn’t connected to the things I knew to do. Few meetings, no sponsor, stuck in the middle of step work I’d started months before. 
And so, I drank. Metaphorically. 
In the fall, I quit my job, without a plan. I felt elated, relieved, free. Exactly like taking a drink. 
And now, I am living the consequences of that decision. 
Yesterday, as I walked back to my apartment after more than 8 hours on my feet and little to show for it, I catalogued all the things I missed about my old job. 
The short commute, with no bridges or tunnels involved. The normal hours. The flexible hours, when I could take off to go to Trader Joes at lunch, or walk around the gorgeous suburban landscape, or nap at a nearby friend’s before rehearsal. The co-workers I could have conversations with about things that were intelligent or fun or informative.

The kids. The chickens. The pianos.
The sitting. 
For all I wailed about wanting a job that didn’t require me to sit in front of a computer for 40 hours a week (and granted I still don’t) the ability to actually sit at all during the day sounds vastly luxurious. 
And as I walked home, the catalogue ever increasing, I said aloud, “I made a mistake.”
It was a mistake to quit my job the way I had, without a plan. I knew and had catalogued all the ephemeral perks of that job countless times, knowing what a cush place it was. But I was antsy, restless, hopeless and defiant. And I made a decision to leave. 
Now, in the school of life that I’ve come through, I hear much about “not regretting the past,” and true, through the interim period without work, I befriended another unemployed bright person who suggested a crowd funding campaign to pay off my back-rent cancer debt. The campaign was wildly successful, and a check is in the mail this week. In addition, because the goal was quickly reached, a very generous family gave me a donation insisting I spend it on “something fun,” which is how and why I have this fancy new laptop to replace the dinosaur I’d had. 
But… other than that? I mean, couldn’t those goals have been accomplished anyway? A campaign have been suggested another time? 
Look, I know this retail job I’m in now is temporary. I am trying my best to stave off the Stockholm Syndrome that seems to have engulfed everyone who works there, or anywhere in retail, into thinking that the paltry, hiccuping pay-scale, weak health insurance, and unpredictable schedule is acceptable. 
Today, I am trying to forgive the faulty thinking of mine that sent me on this fool’s errand in the first place, comparing it to how I did behave when I was drinking: It’s not cuz I was an awful person that I did what I did, it was because I didn’t know any better, and I didn’t have any tools to combat my insane thinking. 
I have to offer myself compassion for the misguided, instant-gratification seeking decision I made. I was not using the tools I knew to use. I was disconnected from the community that helps me not make insane decisions, financial and otherwise. 
I do feel, however, that admitting that I made a mistake in quitting that job without a plan is a good first step for me. I am not immune to my own thoughts. I am not solved from throwing myself into the abyss because I think my house is on fire. 
I have decades’-driven ruts and habits that I fell over into. And I did not have the diligence or connection to haul me out before I burned my life down instead. 
That’s okay. 

I mean, it has to be. Right?