BHBC: My Life Map

I was recently given the opportunity to review My Life Map for Blogher. Unlike most of the books I've reviewed, this was more of a journal, designed to help you map out your life for the next ten years.

The book begins by walking you through a series of questions about your past and your present designed to help you flesh out what was important to you during various stages of your life. You are then encouraged to fill in these time periods on the "whole life map" provided at the end of the book, visually representing your life up until this point. The map is divided into sections where you can write whatever you felt to be important during each "chapter" of your life in the areas of family, friends, work, learning, service, and playing.

After mapping out your past and present, you are then encouraged to begin to plan the next 10 years of your life. There is a chapter on each of the subjects containing more insightful questions about what you want and value, and a map at the end of each chapter where you can plan out that aspect of your life before adding it to the whole life map.

I found these exercises very interesting. I'm not much of a long term planner, but to begin to think about my hopes and dreams for the next several years (and even moreso maybe for the past 31) was a very useful task. The maps themselves were less helpful to me because I've never been a very visual person, but the questions posed in each chapter really helped to flesh out what is important to me and what I'm hoping to accomplish. I really liked the way it was organized too, and sometimes the very subjects made me think. Having to map out a plan for myself over the next 10 years in terms of service, playing, and learning reminded me how much I have sometimes neglected those aspects of my life lately even though they were very important to me in the past.

Overall, I enjoyed this book (even though I was a little skeptical at first), and really was glad to sit down and feed my reflective side a little bit. The specific questions helped keep even my cluttered and distracted brain focused. That's quite the task these days.

Disclosure: This is a paid review for Blogher. All opinions are my own.

Before I was a mom: My bad teenage poetry

A long time ago, my dear friend and fellow Jersey girl Jaime and I were talking about our bad teenage poems, and she asked me if I'd ever think of posting some on my blog.  At the time, the answer in my head was a resounding NO, but I seem to have lost some of my self consciousness because today I was going through my backup files and found this poem from college and just had to post it.  Why?  I have no idea.  But this is for you Jaime ;)

Ocean City

I like it when the boardwalk
isn’t mine. Pavilions full of locals sit
in the same place every night. Better to be
moving through crowds of mostly strangers
always seeing someone I know, always someone different.
Smells of sand and salt and buttered popcorn
and the faint hope that some perfect summer guy will
approach me with a pick-up line fresher than the popcorn.

Somehow,I tell myself, dragged by friends into the deafening arcade,
It’s still exotic. Iconsent to one game of air hockey
and slide past the “Please No Smoking” sign on
the cigarette machine to change my five dollar bill. I play distracted and the buzzards
who might have gone to high school with me
see me losing and start circling the table.
I yield it to them, and leaving my friends to their shooting games
I slip outside to watch the Shoobies in their
tank tops and black socks moving through the crowds.

Someone drives me home and I sit up for a while.
The smell of boardwalk sticks to my skin
and my hair and my high school sweatshirt and I feel dirty
and alone. The house is quiet but
the arcade rings in my ears. I try to calm myself with
fudge or taffy, and when that fails
I take an hour long cool shower
to wash away the grime and tears
before I sleep.

On blogging and belonging

When I first discovered blogs and blogging I was all alone.  I didn't know a lot of moms in real life, and I was sure I didn't know anyone who felt like I did.  And then suddenly I did.

I read these blogs - mid level blogs, I guess you'd call them, not tiny like me but I never once read Dooce or the Blogesss - and I fell in love.  I wanted to read all their words, leave them meaningful comments, join their lively conversations on twitter.

I wanted to be their friends.

The Internet is a strange place.  It makes you think you know people when you really don't.

Some of them were extremely sweet and patiently answered my emails and tweets.  But not all of them.  And even the ones who did, I quickly realized, were being polite and didn't really care that much what I had to say.

I was crushed.  I was humiliated. I was angry.  I was heart broken that they didn't like me as much as I liked them.  I thought for sure it was because I wasn't good enough, wasn't big enough, was a crazy annoying stalker, didn't deserve their friendship.

But I see now that isn't what it was at all.

You never really know what's going on with someone.  You don't know how busy or overwhelmed she is, how much pain she is, what her limitations are when it comes to socializing and communicating.

And people flock to who and what they know, especially when they're struggling.  You can't fault a person for talking to her best friend instead of to a stranger.

And over time I built up my own community on twitter.  People who I consider some of my best friends in the world.  And I still follow and read and admire some of those bigger bloggers.  But they aren't the first place I look anymore.

But I worry.  I still remember that feeling, of just wanting a place to belong.  I see people who think I'm "big,"  who leave me comments and tweets because there's something they're looking for too.  And I wonder how it is that I come across, whether I make anyone feel more alone than when they started.

I dont' want to let everyone down.  I want to spread kindness to everyone.  And I'm trying, even when I'm struggling, even when I'm overwhelmed.

But the Internet, it really is a tricky thing, isn't it?

Quiet

I've been quiet around here lately.  In fact, Saturday was my blogiversary and I celebrated it by not writing.

That's disappointing.

I don't have an easy answer to why.  There are things in my head that I don't know how to put into words, and there are things that I don't necessarily want to put out into the world, but I don't think that's the whole problem.

I'm an introvert, a serious introvert, and I'm having to remind myself more and more that that isn't a fault.  That not wearing my feelings on my sleeve doesn't make me any less brave than the women and men who do.

But it does make me wonder a little bit what I'm doing here.

There is a way in which writing comes naturally to me, in which writing is what makes me feel like me, heals whatever it is that is wrong in my head.

And there's a way in which this isn't that.

I don't know if that makes any sense.

There's a whole part of blogging that isn't about writing at all, the part that's social and interactive, the part that's about going out into the world and trying to convince people that what you have to say is worth saying.

And I'm not really interested in that.  And I think it's important to me to say that.  Because sometimes I feel like I'm failing, like I'm not where I thought I'd be after a year, like I must not be doing it right.

But it's not that I can't do it.  It's that I'm not interested in doing it.

But at the same time, when I do write something I'm really proud of, I sometimes think, well what's the point?  I mean, I know my friends are reading, and maybe that should be enough.  But sometimes it isn't.

So, I don't know.  This little piece of the web matters.  I know this.  And it isn't going to go viral.  And it's never going to make me a bunch of money.  And it probably isn't going to get me a book deal.  And it probably isn't going to change the world.

But I do want to write. And I do want what I write to be good.  And I want it to be real and true, and I want it to matter.

But lately my head is either too loud or too quiet,

On doubt

So did anyone else notice that I proclaimed I wanted to be a writer and promptly ... stopped writing altogether?

Yeah.

I'm not really sure what to say. My words feel all bound up in my head, and whenever I see a prompt or a topic or a writing opportunity, the three year old who resides in my brain says "I don't wanna."

I get my feelings hurt easily. I don't take rejection well. So I have trained myself so very carefully over the years to just no try too hard at anything because that will make it so much more crushing when I fail.

Because, ultimately, I will fail. I'm sure of it.

But I don't even know what that means. I don't know what it means to fail because I don't even know what it would look like to succeed.

I have these vague platitudes in my head. I want to write something that matters. I want to create something beautiful. I want to be a real writer.

But I don't know what they mean. In reality.

I hate reality.

I sound like a broken record but I need this because I need a purpose. I have needs for meaning and for productivity and for intellectual stimulation that aren't being met by changing diapers and washing dishes. Sometimes that feels like a failure, like I'm wrong to not be fulfilled by my home and family.

But it's not. I know.

I think that to get where my heart wants me to be, I will probably have to do things that are uncomfortable. And I really don't wanna. And I don't know if I'm asking for a shove or for permission not to. And I don't even really know where it is I'm trying to go. I just know that something is missing and that I think it starts here.

And that scares the crap out of me.

The mirror

One day, you look in the mirror and you don't even recognize the person you see there.

Vaguely you remember being a woman who looked kind of like her. Only not like her.

The world was bigger then.

And somewhere in the distance, a stadium full of people tell you to make time for you, to do things you enjoy, to set stricter boundaries. That, they tell you, is the answer.

Only you aren't quite sure who they could be talking to.

And this woman in the mirror, who looks so much older than you think she should, doesn't tell you what she wants.

I want to talk about how I don't want to talk about it

I'm sad today.

And I don't want to talk about it.

....

Well that makes this an awfully strange blog post doesn't it.

People I admire talk about writing dangerously. About writing for yourself. About putting yourself out there and writing the truth, raw as it is.

But I don't wanna.

People tell me I'm wise. They praise me for being self aware. They ask me how I always know the right thing to say.

And I always think, well the answer to that is stupidly simple. I just don't say anything at all until I know.

Do you want to know how I compose a blog post? I walk around my house talking to myself about it. I go over and over it in my head until the words sound right. Until I hear the point. Until I get what it is I really want to say.

Well, maybe not *this* post.

My writing isn't raw. It's cooked. It's burnt to a crisp in fact.

And I don't want to apologize for that. I don't want to write just for me. I want my writing to have a message, to have a purpose, to do something for other people. And I think that's a good thing.

But sometimes maybe I sound like I'm more finished than I am. Like I'm at the end of it all looking back. Like everything makes sense to me.

Like I don't need a hug.

And I do. I so do.

RemembeRED: My story

I am 16 years old, kneeling by a table in the high school cafeteria, cheerfully checking someone else's English homework. A friend of hers looks at me and says, "Are you ALWAYS happy?"

I tilt my head to the side, smile and shrug one shoulder before bouncing back to my own table. There, algebra homework instead of food is spread in front of my chair. I pick at a plate of french fries someone has thrust in front of me. A friend turns to me and says "Sweetie, are you ever happy?"

I lift my eyes slowly, smile the dark, gentle smile with which she is so familiar, and shrug the same half shrug.

My memoir is a story once removed. Of other people's moments and observations. Of grief that wasn't really mine to own. Of contradictions, half truths, and tales retold so many times I can't remember which version is the Truth. My story is the story of a girl on the inside looking out and the outside looking in.



This week's RemembeRED prompt was to pitch your memoir in 200 words or less. I'm not sure I followed the rules, but it is what it is.

Bored

If you haven't read my blog before? Let me sum it up for you:

My kid is cute.
We don't sleep.
I have trouble making friends.
Depression sucks.
You? As a mom? Are doing fine.

There, now you don't need to read any more of my posts. You're welcome.

There has to be something else to say.

This is not me fishing for compliments. If my blog isn't boring to you, I'm so glad. Really. If it's done you any good at all, my heart is singing right now. And I want to keep doing that. I want to keep saying things that matter.

But it's boring for me.

I know I "should" write about my kid more. I mean I'm a mommy blogger, right? When was the last time I wrote about something cute my kid did?

And I somehow found my way into being a mental health blogger. Except the "real" mental health bloggers, the people who fight this every day and who try to beat off the demons with every stick available in their arsenal, they're the ones who should be talking about that. If I'm being honest, I still struggle, but I'm mostly passed that. My struggle with my brain isn't about surviving anymore, it's about growing. And thriving.

And everything I write (including this!!) sounds so self absorbed and trite. I ramble and I whine. I can't stand to read it let alone write it.

So I'm stuck. I don't know where to go next or what to do.

And I don't know. I don't know, maybe this is just me running and hiding in a corner when it starts to get hard. Maybe this is just me getting in my own way, stomping my feet, and throwing a tantrum.

But it sure feels real to me.

Life's lessons: Big Dreams

1. So that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I've had all week? Those tears I've been fighting? The running around in circles I've been doing?
   
2. I want to be a writer.
   
3. Saying that out loud scares the hell out of me.
   
4. Which is probably why I need to say it.
   
5. And if I'm being honest, I don't even know what it means.
   
6. I don't know what I want to write. Or where. Or when. Or how. Or for who. Or even why.
   
7. All I know is that there is this voice in the back of my head that says "I want to be a writer."
   
8. And that when it does I suddenly become very interested in unloading my dishwasher. Or taking up running. Or catching up on my twitter stream.
   
9. And I'm starting to realize that that resistance? Means I've hit on the right thing.
   
10. The excuses and the ways out: not enough time, no money, can't take attention away from my baby, my husband needs me, my friends need me, there're other things I should be doing, it's a stupid goal, it doesn't mean anything, I don't have anything to write about, no one wants to read what I have to say, I don't know how to do it...
    
11. All of that is just my mind trying to protect me.
    
12. Because what if I try and I fail? What if my whole life I've had this idea in my head that if I just found the right moment and the right thing to write about I could be great, and then I try it and I find out that I'm totally wrong? That I'm no good, that I can't do it.
    
13. But what if I don't?
    

There's a post in my head and it won't come out

I spent some quiet time today thinking about me, and who I am and what I need and what I realized was this.

I need to write.

There's never been a time in my life when writing didn't make things better.

But lately I haven't been writing anything. It's these demons in my head, they tell me I can't do it. They tell me I don't have time. They tell me it's not worth the trouble.

But it is.

Yael threw me for a loop today. She told me that the little voices in my head aren't trying to destroy me. They're trying to protect me. They're doing a bass-ackward job of it, but really they mean well (geez, don't I say that about everyone else? Why didn't I think to say it about myself?).

So why am I not letting me write?

I'm terribly afraid. Afraid of reaching a dark place that I can't handle. Afraid of putting things out there that I can't take back. Afraid of being rejected. Afraid of failing.

So afraid of failing that I'm not doing the one thing in my whole life that I know is guaranteed to make me better.

So here I am. Writing.

And forgive me if I write the worst crap in all the world. Love me anyway okay? Because the only way out is through.