Brick walls.

A woman I respect greatly quoted this piece of wisdom which somebody had shared with her: "Keep moving forward and when you come to a brick wall, turn."

Sounds easy, right? This is something I rarely do. I curse the wall. I try and climb it. I bang my head on it, kick it, and punch it. Then I camp out at the base and fume and stew and try to convince any passers by to join me.

My divorce is a brick wall. I need to turn and leave it behind me, but I have a hard time letting that shit go. Partially because it's not final yet and we'll still be tied together financially until we sell the house, but also because I keep going over why, why, why things didn't work, as if it matters now.

I'll just have to keep putting it out to the universe to remove my fear, obsession, and tenacious, sick desire to beat myself and ex up.

Here's to turning and walking on.

You're like so funny.

Have you seen this site? Do you have a couple of hours?

But You’re Like Really Talented, Terry Richardson.

 

Still no job.

Archangel Uriel is gonna burn away your bad shit. You feel me?

I found out on Friday that I didn't get the job that was mere blocks from my house at a successful, pre-IPO start up. I was sure the stars and planets were aligned on this. How could it not be God's will? The rejection hit me hard and I've been fermenting a stew of anger, shame, resentment, and guilt for feeling these things. Then ex called to report he hired a lawyer who told him he'd been overpaying support for the last three years and I owed him money. This did not bode well for the stew. In fact, I fell into the old pattern of me doing my Warner Bros. Tasmanian Devil and him clamming up. It would be funny if it weren't happening to me.

I couldn't calm myself enough to pull an Angel card until this evening. Here's what I got:

Archangel Uriel
Your emotions are healing. I will help you release anger and unforgiveness from your heart and mind. I simply and lovingly ask them to be willing to release toxins from their mind and heart. If they are willing to do so, then the release will occur. In this way, the person retains their dignity and control, while choosing to be clear of lower energies.

I have the dignity and control of a tired two-year-old, along with this desperate need to feel secure and, for me, security means a full-time job and money. It's a false sense of security, really, because both of those things are paper and ephemeral, and yet I am beholden to them. I am clinging to them as if they were my lifesavers. I've been down this road before. I know these things, but then I forget.

Then--and here's God at work--a friend forwarded me this piece by one of my sisters in spiritual progress, Anne Lamott, who describes losing it Tasmanian Devil-style like this:

But eventually I am too tired to continue and my head has become too uninhabitable, and I realize I’ve been driving this rickety temperamental old bus of my mind around for too long. I’ve lost all sense of direction and am feeling confused and pissed off and bitter and resentful and nuts; but then finally, finally just tired. I begin to worry that I have had or
am having a complete nervous breakdown, and that I am about to start weeping or barking and won’t be able to stop. Sometimes I still look more or less okay on the outside except for the tics, which can actually be pretty unsightly but inside I’m feeling a little bit more like Ted Kaczynski than I like to. And I realize I’m just crazier than a shithouse rat; and that it’s all hopeless. And that the sun is burning out.

She always makes me feel better about being crazy and this makes it easier for me to forgive myself for feeling scared and acting like a little kid and for picking up that rock of money fear AGAIN. And AGAIN, I am stating that I'm willing to have this fear removed, that I'd like a few angels with bleach and sponges to go to work on my psyche. Thank you. Good night.

Bad ad placement.

I was doing a bit of research and came across this page. Really? Does anybody pay attention to this stuff? I hate to think it might have been purposeful. If you can't read it, it's an ad for guns on a website for suicide prevention.

Dude, we have an agent.

Now I can say things like "I'll have to check that out with my agent" and "I'm having lunch with my agent." She's bi-coastal. She repped Wally Lamb. I know this is her job, but she loves my writing. I sign the contract next week. She asked me what my dream was and I realized I didn't have one. I'm too scared to dream. How pathetic is that? So she helped me out and tossed one out for me: "Would you like to be a bestselling author? To get paid to write novels?" Yes. That's my dream. It was just too out-of-scope for me to ever imagine. This is just the first step. The odds are that dream will stay a dream but, as my friend Tracey puts it:

YIPPEE!

Going down.

I woke up okay. I made coffee, Clooney's antics made me smile, Mario liked the Valentine I gave him, I felt mentally stable. And then that snake of panic and fear that lives in my guts woke up and the ghost of future-tripping started rattling its chains: you'll never get an agent, you'll never get a job, you'll never have healthcare and will die a painful death from a treatable disease. Not even the kitty could pull me out of it.

I think, besides hormones and the fact I don't sleep at night, my problem is that the writer's conference is this weekend, along with the speed dating for an agent business. The closer it gets, the worse I get. Because, in my head, the before is full of hope and anticipation that things will work out. But come Monday...well, it could be bad, day after a bad Christmas bad. I have psychically put all my eggs in one basket. 

Really, God?

Dear God,

I don't hate being a woman. Thanks for the hair, makeup, pedicures, clothes, and vagina. But menopause, really? Let's just go through my menstrual history.

First you made me wait. I was the last of my friends to get the curse. Did you even hear those prayers? They lasted three years. Then came the hemorrahagic years of of anemia, white-pant avoidance, and worry. Next came the amenorrhea caused by starvation, resulting in whole other levels of worry. Things eventually normalized, if you consider normal a week every month of tender breasts, major bloat, insomnia and moodiness, followed by a week of leak worry. (Oh, and tampons cost $8 a box now. That adds up, God.) Haven't I suffered enough? Apparently not.

Two weeks ago I began waking up at night in a puddle of my own sweat. At first, I blamed it on Big Guns. I thought he turned the heat up. I'd throw off my moist covers only to realize it was freezing in my room. Then these hot flashes, more like flash floods of sweat, started happening during the day, all day, over and over again.

The spark begins in my solar plexus, where my pilot light apparently lives, then spreads upward like the Santa Ana winds until I'm sure my hair is on fire. I rip off all my clothes, grab anything to fan myself, and sweat. Even my calves sweat. In minutes, it's over and I start shivering.

You have thrown some compassionate people in my path, I'll give you that. My therapist had plenty of sympathy. She said it gets easier, that the first two to five years are the hardest. Two to five years!! She offered me her industrial size hand fan. She's small and it covers half her body. She told me a story about driving somewhere and having 23 hot flashes in the space of an hour. We laughed and laughed. I still laugh when I think about us jumping off the bridge and opening our t-shirts to enjoy a final, cool burst of air on the way down.

Intelligent design? Fuck that. This is a faulty design. An unnecessary glitch. I wish Eve had told you about it. And she probably would have, but by the time she figured out your error, she'd already eaten that apple and I'm sure her guilt prevented her from saying anything to you.

If I have to go through this, then could you please make it as brief as possible? I'm sure you have some pull in that department.

Thanks,

Eileen, I dress for sweat