A Hard Place

Early this afternoon, I found myself in the dressing room at a White House : Black Market boutique.  White House : Black Market isn’t a high end boutique, but it’s higher end than, say Kohl’s.  Where I usually shop.   They do things there that don’t necessarily happen at Kohl’s.  They ask you if you need any help.  They learn your name.  They start a dressing room for you.  I was at WHBM because I was determined to buy myself something nice.  Not REALLY nice, but nice enough to make me feel better about myself. 

As I was getting ready to walk into the dressing room with 12 garments that cost more than I pay for rent, my “shopper,” Holly, asked me if she could get me “a little heel” to try on with my skirts.  “What size do you wear?”  She asked me.  I looked down at her size 6 shoe and said “a TEN.”  Holly came back with the most magnificent pair of plum-colored peep toes I had ever seen.  She took them out of the box and as she handed them to me, she said “these will compliment everything you are trying on.” 

I looked at the shoes and was immediately overwhelmed with both guilt and infatuation.  I felt guilty because I coveted that pair of shoes with more desire than I had ever had to keep myself fed.  Everyone knows I love shoes, but I have no shame wearing flipflops either.  But those shoes set the tone for the entire dressing room visit.  I knew I couldn’t afford to leave with them, so when I sat down and buckled the straps, I was going to spend the next 15 minutes with them on my feet.  I sat for a few minutes, admiring how the color accentuated the fading tan on my legs.  I noted that 3 ½ inch heels gave a little more dimension to my figure than my standard 3 inches did.  And of course, I also acknowledged how much sturdier these $300 shoes were than the $50 pumps I usually buy, due to budget restraints.  I knew I couldn’t afford those shoes, but I also knew they were mine for the next 15 minutes. 

With the conservative-but-still-super-sexy strappy heels on, Holly knocked on the door of my dressing room and asked if she could get me something in a different size.  I whispered through the slated door “No, everything is perfect.”  But I got the message, so I started trying on the ensembles that would make my current wardrobe very jealous.  First I tried on a wine-colored chiffon skirt.  Just below the knee.  It was beautiful; but not really my style.  As I took off the skirt, I heard someone ask the girl in the next dressing room “Ashley.  How are you doing?”  To which Ashley responded with “I tried on the other size and it worked!”  From the other side of the wall, I heard her “shopper” ask if Ashley needed anything else in a size ZERO.  It was at that exact moment I reached over my shoulder to zip up the sleeveless, ruched-front dress in size 10, that I lost my balance in those magical shoes and hit my cheek on the mirror.  Still trying to save face, I clawed at the wall of the dressing room, until I was reduced to a twisted heap on the floor of WHBM.  Seconds later, I heard a knock on the door:  “Angela? Can I get you a glass of water?”  Uh…”no thank you, Holly.” 

As I picked myself up, I gathered the garments that I had intended to purchase and reflected back to a late night conversation I had recently had with a friend who is, quite literally, on the other side of the planet.  He asked what I was writing about.  I had nothing.  So,  I had asked him how his travels were going.  He said “traveling was easier when I was younger.”  To which I responded “We would be nothing if everything we did was easy.”  He said, “You should write about hard places and easy places.”  I’m sure neither one of us imagined that I would relate that to boutique shopping. 

But I did.  And after I paid for the two skirts and a beautiful blouse, I walked out of White House : Black Market.  I got in the car, with my bootie.  I got back on the highway, still with the “hard places” on my mind.  I had a bruise taking ownership of the right side of my face from the fall and I just didn’t see any need to take 101 South home.  So, I stayed on 12 West until it became a two lane road.  I drove over the river and drove through Guerneville.  As I was driving through the Redwoods, listening to all the song that make me think and make me smile, I came to the fork in the road.  16 miles to Bodega Bay or 93 miles to Fort Bragg? 

Immediately, I veered left.  Then there was a stop sign that I totally forgot about at the junction.  I hit the breaks with more authority than I ever had before.  As I was obeying traffic laws and catching my breath as a result of near collision, I realized that the Jetta sat more than half way over the stop line.  I looked forward, at the redwoods up ahead. Then I looked to the right.  I didn’t have to think about it for very long.  I cranked the wheel to the right and headed up the coast. 

I drove through Jenner.  That wasn’t my destination.  The tourists and the fun arts made me want to stop.  But just as I passed the sign that declared this roadside stand was home to the “best oysters.”  It didn’t give any explanation, but the “best oysters,” probably deserve a stop.  As I was looking for a place to turn around,  I heard Stevie Nicks singing about being a “gypsy.”  That was when I knew that I had to complete my journey.  I knew that I had to go further.  I couldn’t stop for oysters or heirloom tomatoes or apple pie.  I had to get to where I was going.  Only I didn’t know where I was going. 

So, I just drove.  There is a lot of nothing on CA 1 north.  Occasionally, I’d pass a craft stand or a farm house.  But for the most part, it’s a lonely drive from Jenner to Sea Ranch.  It’s the kind of empty that makes you grateful for the scenery and 1000 hours’ worth of your musical history on iTunes.  As I approached Sea Ranch, I was already two hours deep in thoughts about hard places. I had been from the horrifying scene in the dressing room to living alone for the first time without a friend in the world.  From there I went to the place I grew up, and often felt as alone as I did when I actually lived by myself.  I thought about college.  When I lived in the basement of a three story townhouse, and I would email my roommates to tell them I was going to be making dinner.  Do the psychology on that. I had been thinking for hours about all the hard places I had been.  So, Sea Ranch seemed like a good time to turn around, but Gualala was so close.  So, I kept driving. 

I drove through Gualala and into Point Arena.  I’d finally had enough of my thoughts by then.  I drove down to the pier and parked.  I walked out to the pier that I used to frequent as a little girl, at the insistence of my dad.  When I was young, we would walk out to the pier and he would tell me, firmly, to stay out of the way of the fishermen.  I was always fascinated and intimidated to walk out on that pier.  So much was happening there.  Offloading fish.  On loading supplies.  There were young men with filthy mouths and old men missing teeth.  But yesterday, it was a lot quieter than I remembered from my childhood.  There were no fishing boats tied up.  Nobody was throwing fish into buckets on the concrete pier.  Yesterday, it was only me and a handful of tourists, wondering what the fuss was about. 

I took one last look out at the ocean, the vast charcoal abyss blanketed with a creamy grey sky that only a native of the Pacific Northwest could understand.  I looked.  I took it in.  I got back in the car and made the left out of Pt. Arena down south, Eve 6 out of the speakers.  I was already tired of my thoughts about hard places, and as I retraced my afternoon journey on the opposite side of the road, I let my imagination take me to an easier place. 

By the time I made it to that place in the road that I had earlier decided to make the sharp right north, I was so tired of myself.  I was tired of the guy selling smoked salmon out of the back of his truck.  I was tired of the kites and trinkets.  I was tired of the fruit and fish stands.  I just wanted to be somewhere easier.  I wanted to be somewhere with no memories; somewhere with no decisions.  Then I remembered what I said to my friend, half a world away, when we talked about hard and easy.  I said “People like us don’t choose to live where it’s easy.  If it’s easy, it isn’t worth living.

-Inner Peas 

Fear

I had a panic attack this morning.  It was the first time I had been paralyzed with anxiety in more than a month and a half.  It has been 49 days since the last time I was so consumed with fear and self-loathing.  But this morning, I woke up and my demons owned me.  As I laid in bed, trembling, I recited the serenity prayer.  Over and over and over. 

Even though it has been 49 days since the last episode, panic has become a very practical means of self-deprivation for me.  While I have suffered from anxiety my entire adult life, until three years ago, it was sporadic at best.  But over the last few years, it has become a constant.  Dismal outlooks and paranoia have replaced optimism and rationality.  For nearly three years, I was captive to my personal doomsday prophecies.  They consumed me on a daily basis.  So, when they became less frequent, I found a way to worry about that, too.   Until something unseen forced me let go of it.  For 49 days. 

Now, to be clear, the 49 days didn’t come without hardship or ambiguity.  They didn’t come without frustration or concern.  It’s not that I spent 49 days free of worry, dancing through sunny meadows and singing show tunes.  It was more that I got to spend 49 days without suffering the hopeless and relentless monologue I had repeated to myself for so long.  Kind of like how people who aren’t suffocated by their own fears live.  And I am not going to lie to you.  That month and a half was magnificent.  It was liberating.  It was like being on an all-expenses paid vacation.  Then, I was returned to reality by riding in the luggage compartment of the plane, then strapped to the grill of a dump truck for the 80 mile trip from the airport.  It was just another reminder, that you don’t get anything for free. 

When I woke up this morning, the sun hadn’t even risen.  I laid in bed until I saw darkness transition to first light.  I knew what was happening, so I got up and I walked outside and watched the morning sun announce itself.  I had no coffee; no cigarettes.  I just sat and listened to the Matt Nathanson channel for a few minutes. I walked back in the house, got in bed, and stayed there for the next four hours.  I tried to sleep.  I couldn’t.  Every time I felt the calming pull of slumber, I woke with a new fear.  I tried to read.  Every time I found myself caught up in the story, I stopped myself from divulging any further in the escape.  I was afraid that any distraction I could find was cause for punishment.  So, finally, I succumbed to simply lying in bed, reciting the Serenity Prayer, and hoping for the worst. 

When I finally got up and was forced to face responsibility, I realized what was happening.  The panic had returned.  It had consumed me, once again.  I was scared.  I wasn’t scared that it was back.  I was afraid of how easily the slippery slope cascades in my mind.  One minute I’m thinking about protecting my child, the next minute, I’m convinced that I will lose my job, house, and custody.  Fear shows no reason.  It only perpetuates more fear.  And when you let fear into your thoughts, rationality is the first thing it consumes. 

-Inner Peas