I wish...

I have been noticing a lot of stuff lately.  More specifically, I have been noticing a lot of people with a lot of stuff.  PEOPLE with STUFF.  Lots of it.  Lots of people living out their dreams with all of their stuff.  Cars. Boats.  Houses.  Second houses.  Houses on wheels.  Houses with “stuff” rooms. There’s so much of it.  So much fucking stuff!!!! 

I know what you’re thinking, “Really Angela.  Stuff?  That’s the best you’ve got?” Well, it’s a Friday night and I’ve got lots of stuff.  But this is the stuff I’m focusing on today.  (Tune in next week for “The Guy Who Wouldn’t Have Sex With Me” post.) I’m not trying to be a dick or anything.  I mean, c’mon.  I have a new car in my driveway.  It has dried yogurt artistically displayed in symbolic expressionism all over both driver’s side doors.  To be candid though, I would much prefer a Tesla S in butterscotch plum in the driveway. I would also prefer my candy sweet Tesla sit in the garage of my Rockwell-esque country cottage instead of under the carport of a duplex.  But a Tesla isn’t even in the game plan.  Neither is a cottage in the country.  And just to be clear, by “the country,” I mean close enough to the city to avoid inconvenience, yet still maintaining beach and mountain accessibility without the stupidity that comes with having people live near you. 

Anyway, my point is that we all want stuff.  Nobody is immune to it.  I just became more aware of it when I left a life of comfort for a life of subsistence.  That’s when my list of wants became less about luxury and more about survival.  It is in the spirit of survival, that I present you with an up-to-the-minute list (not in list form,) of everything I want out of life right now:  I want people to be honest about how they feel.  I want them to feel comfortable saying they are sad or happy or confused.  I don’t want to hear lies or fallacies or half-truths about how they feel or think.  I want people to be good.  I want people to do right by other people.  I want them to understand what it feels like to do good to people who deserve good.  I want people to be accepting. I don’t want people to understand.  There is too much in this world to understand it all.  What I want is for people to accept and show empathy to those who bear crosses that are too heavy.   I want to not worry about how to pay for physical education and music in school.  I want to not turn on the radio in the morning and have my child ask me what it means to “bomb a hospital.”  I want to live really close to all of the people I love, preferable in a tropical location with lots of weak, fruity drinks.  Because in the tropics, with the people you love, you never need a stiff drink. 

I could go on and on and OONNNN about the things I want.  And I will, for a little while, but we will never be at a place that we get all of what we want.  For example, I want to be able to walk down the hill at work and not have someone remind me that walking in high heels is dangerous.  I want to raise my child in a place that bombs and guns are NOT considered “effective” communication.  I want to never hear about how some people hate my culture so much that they threaten my child with bloodshed.  I want more orgasms.  I want better lovers.  I want fewer fights.  I want lovely young women to see their worth and their potential and live  up to it!  I want to not see my friends post pictures on Facebook with 40 shipping containers full of mustard gas in the background.  I want my son to know that sex is good and violence is bad, not the other way around.  I want for people to understand that addiction and mental illness don’t preclude people from being functional members of society.  I just want to pay the rent and buy a new purse when need too.  I want my mom to come visit so that she can see her grandson.  I want celebrate life more than death.  I just want to us to be happy.  All of us. 

I honestly believe that we ALL want the same things.  But when those things are so seemingly unattainable, we settle for stuff.  We settle for cars and purses and houses.  We settle to fill a void.  Let’s just stop the pretense.  Stuff is shit.  Don’t fill your life with stuff, fill it with substance.  And a Tesla.  And a country cottage. 

-Inner Peas

A Choice?

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If we could just give half a shit about mental health & addiction in a loving and caring way, maybe we wouldn't feel so alone or isolated. Rather, we treat everyone afflicted like a pariah. It's so hard asking for help and it makes it almost impossible to take care of yourself when everything you feel has stigma attached to it. It's unfair and wrong how people feel like there is no way out from under it, when help is out there.

-My Friend, Sara Slagle

Just like every other asshole in the first world with a WiFi connection and an opinion, I’m going to take a time out to talk about the Robin Williams tragedy.  For those of you who have read any of my blog posts, you know that I have no qualms discussing my history of mental illness.  You know that I have no qualms discussing depression, anxiety, panic, fear, sadness, loneliness, hopelessness, self-loathing, worthlessness, and abandonment.  I have felt comfortable discussing those things with the internet, at large, because I would rather you know how crazy I actually am, than have you speculate about my mental and emotional well-being behind my back.  I also discuss these ailments frequently, because the more you think about them, the less frightening they become.  Knowledge and awareness are the first steps to acceptance.  And, of course, acceptance is the first step to healing. 

I know that nobody is asking why I am opening the discussion about mental illness again tonight.  If you grew up in the Western world in the last half a century, you were somehow touched by Robin Williams’ comedic genius.  Mork and Mindy.  Mrs. Doubtfire.  Good Will Hunting.  The standup comedy that revolutionized the laughter industry.  The man who gave the entire world the gift of relatable humor, is now lost to us because of mental illness and addiction.  While we are all mourning the loss of a human being who brought humanity into our lives, there are also a lot of pretentious nay-sayers who are degrading not only the memory of a man who brought us all such pleasure, but also the battles he fought with his own personal demons. 

Yesterday, there were no less than 100 posts in my news feed about the loss of a truly brilliant comedian.  But only one person mentioned how tragic it was that he felt so terribly isolated from the rest of the world by addiction and mental illness.  1 out of 100 people acknowledged that.  Of course, that was just the knee jerk reaction. At first, we were all so devastated by our loss that we didn’t want to acknowledge or reason with it.  But there was one young lady on my news feed who was thinking exactly what I was; who was feeling what I felt.  We weren’t just mourning the loss of a genuine heart and a brilliant mind.  We were also getting really pissed that nobody else saw the pain he had suffered. 

Then, this morning happened.  And suddenly, everyone had an opinion about suicide and addiction and mental illness.  There were some people who acknowledged the pain.  There were some people who acknowledged the mental instability that a brilliant mind has to contend with when it is so much further advanced than its surroundings.  There were even those who opined only the most genuine of hearts suffer from the sort of agony that our fallen hero felt.  But the opinion that stood out most to me was that of a pious douche bag.  The title of his blog read something along the lines of “Depression doesn’t kill.  CHOICE KILLS!!!”  

Ok.  That was a little abrasive, but that’s what I read on the interwebs today when I saw the headline “Robin Williams didn’t die of depression.  He died by Choice.”  I was astonished.  I was taken aback.  I was, to say the very least, repulsed.  After I got done throwing up in my salad bowl at lunch, I then got very angry.  VERY.  FUCKING ANGRY.  Initially, I was mad at the guy who thought himself so experienced and informed as to write such a judgmental piece of shit.  Then I was mad at the 15,000 people who liked it enough to share by way of social media.  Then I got really fucking irate at the culture that perpetuated the idea that suffering from mental illness and addiction is a choice.  Yeah.  We do that. Those people don’t just choose to feel inadequate. They don’t choose to feel alone and isolated.  They don’t love the fact that they have to self-medicate because their brains move too fast.  They don’t remove themselves from the people they love so that people will see them as eccentric loners, at best.  They don’t revel in the fact that they cannot go to parties or picnics or other community functions just to have others speculate about why they don’t participate.  Yeah, it’s a choice. 

NO YOU FUCKING IDITOT!!!  This lifestyle is not a choice.  It’s a corner that some people are backed into when they feel so overwhelmed by the weight they have to carry on a regular basis.  Don’t come at me with the “Your life is your choice” argument.  Robin Williams did not choose to be the comedic genius with a life stunting emotional disability.  Ernest Hemingway did not choose to be a revolutionary in American Literary thought, predisposed to alcoholism.  Albert Einstein didn’t choose to be a socially incompetent, scientific mastermind who required the use of barbiturates to stay, relatively, grounded.  None of those people chose that lifestyle for themselves.  They were simply forced to adapt to a world they were greater than. 

-Inner Peas

Milestones and Mountains

This February past, I embarked on a pretty epic 89 mile journey up US 101.  I left my home on the outskirts of Petaluma, about 10:AM.  I got on the freeway heading north.  I drove through Cotati, Rohnert Park, and Santa Rosa.  All places I frequent regularly since my return to Northern California, more than four years ago.  The only difference is this time, I drove past the Guerneville exit.  I kept going.  Past Windsor.  Past Healdsburg.  It started raining as I drove through Hopland. I was convinced that it was a sign and I should probably turn around.  Something inside me forced me through it.   I finally stopped in Ukiah.  Because I had to pee.  Really bad.  In case you were wondering, gas stations in Ukiah don’t have public restrooms.  So, I found a Jack in the Box that had one.  Turned out they only had one if you bought food.  So, I bought a monster taco and a diet coke.  I peed, grabbed my food and got back on the 101.  For another six miles.  Then I finally exited the freeway at the “HWY 20/Upper Lake” off ramp. 

I drove past Lake Mendocino.  As the lake passed me on the right, I noticed that it was lower than I had ever remembered seeing it.   Then I drove the stretch of road I learned to drive on.  I passed the buffalo ranch. I drove past the Potter Valley turn off.  Passed Blue Lakes Lodge.  I thought of making the right on to Scotts Valley Road, just to see if it felt as liberating as it did when I was shifting gears in the Karmann Ghia at seventeen, with my girlfriends riding with me, singing along to Fleetwood Mac.  I didn’t do it.  I don’t know if it was because I didn’t want to be disappointed to realize that it isn’t as cool as it used to be or if it was because I needed to see the streets of Small Town America that I grew up on. 

Whatever it was, I didn’t make that sharp right off HWY 20.  I continued down the road.  As I approached Upper Lake, I saw that the miles of Walnut and Pear trees had been replaced with acres, upon acres, of wine grapes.  I was upset that the deep forests of antiquated nut farms were so quickly turned into “vineyards.”  The road looked the same, but the landscape told a different of my adolescence.  When I finally reached the junction of CA-20 and CA-29, that little crossroad right outside of Upper Lake, I saw something so foreign, so unimaginable that it literally made me panic.  Right there where 20 meets 29, was a Chevron/Carl’s Jr. franchise. 

I thought that I wanted to turn around back in Hopland when the rain started coming down.  When I saw that violation of my childhood by corporate America, I wanted to find my way back to 101 south even more. 

I didn’t go back, though.  I did decide against perusing the streets of Upper Lake and made a very deliberate right onto the road into Lakeport.  I got off at 11^th street.  As I pulled into the Safeway parking lot, I realized it was like any other strip mall in the bay area.  I sat in the car for a few minutes, then decided to go to the local grocery store instead.  When I pulled up to Bruno’s, I had to take a minute to compose myself.  I felt like I was walking into a memory.  I was sitting in a Ford Focus with a purple CoExist sticker on the bumper.  The car wore Alaska plates and I was listening to Bruce Springsteen, crying like a baby.  The whole situation made the good people of Lakeport very uncomfortable.  I know because I got a lot of really hateful looks from drivers of mini vans and the moms who veered their children out of my path as I walked into the store, red faced and mascara running down my face. 

At that point, I had gone too far to leave.  But the hostile looks I received from the first few faced I had encountered in my hometown, made me want to take the quickest road out of there. Instead, I walked across the parking lot, grabbled a cart and headed to the produce section.  I bought avocados, tomatoes and onions.  I cruised down the wine aisle and picked up a couple of “good” bottles.  I went and got cheese and bread.  I checked out.  Still, with mascara running down my face, the lady at the checkout said “You aren’t from here, I guess?”  As she gave me the receipt, I said “No.  I’m not from here.  I only grew up here.” 

I left Bruno’s and drove to Deanna’s.  We had a lovely day together talking and drinking and cooking.  Later, Sara and Katie came over.  We drank and ate some more.  We all sat on the porch and listened to the rain fall down around us.  As the dark of night met the yellow glow of the front porch light, I forgot all of the anxiety that had kept me from visiting this place, those people, for more than ten years.  It finally occurred to me that the place I was so afraid of visiting, was closer and more accepting than I had realized.  Those women who came to sit and talk and visit over drinks and tacos and guacamole where the same people I didn’t want to face for fear of retribution. 

So, maybe you are wondering what milestones and mountains have to do with this story?  There is a very simple answer:  milestones are marked when you are learning who you are and where you are going.  Mountains are climbed when you go back to where you came from and who you will be be when you get there.  

-Inner Peas

The Breakup

Remember that movie The Breakup?  The very stock, very one dimensional, early 2000’s film about a couple who lost interest in their relationship because of personality differences?  Remember that movie?  It was marginal, at best.  But we still watched it anyway.  After all Jennifer Aniston is really likable and Vince Vaughn is hilarious.  Not particularly in this movie.  But overall, who didn’t want to see a movie with two of Hollywood’s most desirable darlings?  Anyway, the premise of the movie, obviously, was a breakup.  As you watched the story unfold, you couldn’t help but like each of the characters less and less.  They both acted like children.  They both acted like assholes.  There was no “side” to choose.  Both Gary and Brooke were jerks.  The movie was a bust.  They weren’t funny.  They had no chemistry.  They didn’t get back together, but the end, when they passed each other on the street, we had some hope that they would reconcile and live happily ever after…

There were so many flaws in the movie.  Just as there are in real life relationships.  They aren’t always funny.  They aren’t always romantic.  There isn’t always a definitive outcome.  Maybe that’s why we watched The Breakup.  Maybe we watched it because we all know how breakups shake up your world and shift your direction.   We probably watched it because we feel overwhelmingly connected to people and relationships that will never meet societal expectations.  We want our own fairy tales to validate our existence.  Unfortunately, fairy tales do not exist.  Neither do perfect relationships. 

After I started writing, I would sit at the wine table with my girlfriends and talk about our lives and our loves.  I always giggled and said “When I publish my memoir, it’s going to be titled WHAT HAPPENED TO MY PANTIES!?!?!?”  They would laugh and say:  “Oh Angela.  Whatever did happen to your panties?”  I would tell the stories about cute boys and late nights and really relatable moments that, for all intents and purposes, should have led to the most remarkable love stories in the history of humanity.  But instead of love stories, I only got breakups.  Not only could I not find my panties, expensive panties, but I couldn’t find a lover worth a damn, either. 

There were men.  Many men.  The bar guy.  The boat guy.  The emotionally damaged guy.  The borderline personality guy.  That one guy who was a marginal lover, but was psychologically unamendable.   The guy who wanted me to have all of his 19 unborn children.  I lost a lot of panties. Good panties.   I had a lot of breakups.  Weird and unexplainable breakups.  Each one sent me to a darker, more unmanageable place. 

Because of these breakups, I felt dismal and insignificant.  I felt lost and lonely.  I felt sad and empty and I knew it was all my fault.  I just knew that losing men (and panties) was going to be my lot in life.  And that’s how I’ve been feeling. That’s how I’ve been living.  Feeling less than adequate; living in mediocrity.  Until recently.  Recently, I experienced the most influential breakup of my entire life. 

I just broke up with myself.  I broke up with the girl who really like damaged men.  I broke up with the woman who never felt secure or empowered or worthy.  I am broke up with the idea that a man or a job or a house will define me.  Because I am smart and funny and pretty and I have really great shoes.  More than that I love more than I should.  I laugh at any expense, appropriate or not.  When it comes to the heart, BIGGER is always BETTER.  Always.  So, I will not regret the men I have loved who haven’t loved me back.  I won’t be shamed by remaining stagnant when I should be growing and moving.  I will no longer punish myself for laughing and smiling.  I have a life to raise and a child to enjoy. 

So, yeah.  I’m breaking up with myself. I’m letting go of bad sex and low self-worth.   Life is more than lost panties and hurt feelings. 

-Inner Peas