From the Untitled Archives

I found this post the other day and realized I'd never actually put it out there...or maybe I put parts of it out there, or a different version or something, but, reading over it, I liked it, and wanted to share. I'm currently working on another time-line piece, but it's taking a minute to process through MY SOUL. So, forgive me. I spend about 20% of my time trying to figure out what I want to write about, 77% agonizing over actually writing, and maybe 3% actually writing. It’s a shame the way this writing messes around with my heart. Ya know?

So....this is back in the fall of 2016....a different time indeed.

Summer is almost over, and as the cooler air floats in and settles on the concrete, grass and astroturf of Chicago’s myriad of front stoops, I feel an all too familiar looming sense of terror. Winter is coming. And winter is going to hurt. It has me questioning every choice I’ve ever made as I spin out of control down the tunnel of sugary marketing ploys painted orange and yellow. It’s beautiful, but it’s also unsettling (and way too sugary), to say the least.

I am unsettled, and I know exactly why, for the most part. My therapist keeps telling me I’m more together than I’ve ever been since she’s been working with me, but I can’t get behind it. Of course, that’s always been my biggest problem: getting behind myself. I play a good game, but I really don’t trust my own instincts in that fiercely confident way that I want to. I haven’t given enough merit to my own accomplishments.

Sure, I like repeating that I have a master’s degree, especially when people ask if I can do things like, “hold this.” I can toss in a good multi-cultural factoid when the conversation turns to travel and world view. Heck, I can give you relationship advice as I’ve spent a gooooooood looooooooooong time analyzing my past relationships and doing my damnedest to see the whole picture, but I certainly can’t take my own advice, and I wouldn’t bet on my answer with a quiz team, and I’ve rarely relished in my own innumerable memories.

I maybe give myself credit once every….3 or 4 years?

So, I’m due for a “me” party, time to reflect on all the choices I’ve made and where they’ve led me. It’s natural for me to want to reconsider my choice of settlement during this time, as I’m more open to the time it will take to make the right decision. I’m not desperate….but again, winter is coming.

As I compose my list of pros and cons for going back south, I keep getting sabotaged by those old demons I've been fighting off for a while now. That's natural, I bet. When I lived in The South, home, I was always a little frustrated. I felt stifled, held under water as I kicked and fought my way to the surface of whatever I needed to learn about myself. Everywhere I went, I was followed, at my heels, by these memories, this PTSD, the beasts.

Describing the beasts, using literal terms, makes them seem ridiculous, even to me. Par exemple, A friend in a rocky, at best, relationship found an article about gaslighting and shared it with me a few years ago. Gaslighting is basically manipulating someone into questioning their own sanity. It's been popping up a lot lately, I think, in the media, part of the whole carnival ride paradigm shift. I had never heard the term before she shared the article, but it made sense to me.

I was awash in memories of old boyfriends turning on me suddenly, telling me I was yelling, I was out of control, crazy, when I didn't feel like that, like I was yelling. I didn't feel rage. I didn't feel out of control, but they said I was. They told me I was losing it. Instead, I saw myself as the little girl I used to be, with dirty knees and wide eyes feeling like she was being ignored, feeling like she was not being heard. It was confusion, desperation to understand. A little girl asking, "please help me understand. How can I help? What can I do? What am I supposed to do?" It was empowering to finally have a word for something that affected me so deeply, helped me recognize that little girl.

Not two days after my friend had shared the article with me and her boyfriend, I remember sitting in one of the classrooms of the old theater where I spent the first solid years of my thirties. It was after the usual Saturday night show, and we were drinking beers and trying to make each other laugh. I remember her boyfriend mentioning the article around the time all the mens' voices had raised at least a few volume levels. Everyone laughed.

"Gaslighting? Like I'm actually making her think she's crazy?! How crazy is that?!"

And everyone laughed. The whole room roared with laughter.

I waited for the noise to die down so that I could point out the irony, but it didn't. He kept going, harping on what an idiot notion it was to even think of complaining about being made to think you're crazy, and how crazy she was. She was so crazy. They're all crazy. Crazy. Crazy. CRAZY CRAZY CRAZYCRAZY.

And I just sat there, expressionless...the beasts nipping at my heals. But I didn't turn around.

If I had been strong enough to turn around and face them, I would have said to him, in as non-threatening a voice as humanly possible, "Well, why do you think she feels that way? What's going on in her life that is maybe causing her to feel like she's losing it...if it's not you?" It seems like it should be easy, but as I ask the questions, I begin to feel the tension. He bristles, worried that I'm about to get angry, "crazy."

Weak me gives into the accusations. She buckles and cries out, flies off the handle. "I'm not crazy! I'm not yelling! I'm just....please let me finish!" She tumbles into her own trap and ends up in the fetal position, weeping the tears of defeat whilst listening to country music, the music of pain.

Strong me. Stops. Listens. Takes a deep breath, and says calmly how she feels, how she sees the world regardless of who is listening. She explains that she understands his point of view, that it's hard for everyone, for all of us, but we have to be able to have a dialogue, to ask questions, to be questioned without getting defensive, to give answers. We all get defensive. We all put up a wall.

And then, she is done, regardless of what is said after. She has said what she wanted to say. The rage of the subject before her, behind her, is noted, but not adopted. She turns inward to the little girl with the sticky tears on her face born of the confusion that comes from miscommunication, from being ignored, from being told to shut up, to sit down, to be different, to be different, to be different, and she embraces her.

I will dry her tears and hold her in my arms. Then I'll make a lot of cookies, and regardless of what the CDC says about cookie dough, I'll eat the hell out of it.

I think of other girls and women that face the same dance as society urges them to be a partner instead of a person. Relationships are a choice, after all, not a requirement. I think of men that face the same quandaries, the same unimpeachable ideals of how they should look and think and act. We are all in this together. Let's admit our fears. Let's be honest. For once.

If I can do this. If I can really trust myself. I can begin to trust others. I can begin to trust other women and men, young and old. I can carry my own suffering, not as a wound, but as a badge, tell the stories of my journey, lean in, leave my house...I can help, and that's all I've ever wanted to do.

He likes Righteous Babes. What can I say. 

*If you have never seen Beasts of the Southern Wild, stop everything and change that.

Good Morning!

There is nothing in this world that compares to a day like today in Chicago. I say that, at mid-morning, sipping coffee and gazing out the window at the sun and the bright blue sky. It is the first message from the gods of winter that this too shall pass.

Winter never fails to defeat me, to an extent. I could say that this town is good for me, that it forces me to be vigilant. I’m always digging around in my dark corners, like a good glutton, but the strength and the duration of a midwestern winter challenges even my most quixotic ventures beyond the pale.

Yesterday I threw very old apple cores out of my moonroof at a Toyota 4Runner that let a SUIT driving an Infinity into the traffic jam I’d been sitting in for almost an hour on my way to shove fancy sticks into some pots outside of a hotel downtown. It was almost 60 degrees at one point, but the wind blew an average of 50 miles per hour, making it literally life threatening to be outside. It blew people over, and I threw moldy apple cores at a nice guy who was, without judgement, trying to help...while debris tumbled from the ledges of skyscrapers, and windows, glistening in the intermittent sunlight, bowed and flexed to the thrashing of the furious winds.

Winter: 1

Caroline: 0

Then, I woke up this morning at 8:00, without an alarm, sore from the miles I’ve walked and the gallons upon gallons of water I’ve tipped over the edges of gun-metal grow pots overlooking the sprawling city of Chicago, my hands still throbbing from the gripping and wiping and twisting and spraying, and the sun is out, and the wind is calm (for the moment).

It’s an abusive relationship, tough love. The winter knocks me off my feet, then extends a hand to help me up, saying, “It won’t always be like this, like tomorrow, but it won’t always be excruciating.”

So take a deep breath. You’ve earned this. You’ve worked hard. You have been as tenacious as the month of February. You are a lion, and March is coming.

You are the moon. 

Hi, Anxiety

It seems people are speaking more openly about mental health these days, and I am, of course, a devoted proponent of that, but sometimes I don't fully connect with everyone's talking. I know. It's because I am a unique individual with a life that is all my own, full of riDICulous baggage that is all my own.

I've said before, via this forum, that I have been diagnosed with moderate major depressive disorder...which I think is hiLARious (I'm experimenting with using caps lock as a grammatical tool to help you read my work as it sounds in my head, let me know what you think). However, it has recently, yes...only very recently, come to my attention that I may be just another ol' anxiety disorder sufferer. I had a doctor once tell me that he thought I was borderline personality disorder. YEAH. ME?

The truth is, everyone has anxiety about anything and everything. Life is anxiety. The difference with me is, and don't misunderstand me, I AM THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE.

How do I know? Well, my dad told me, and my mom told me, and they didn't tell that to anyone else...especially not each other (loveyouguys!). Then my teachers told me, and other people told me, and one day I realized: everyone is paying attention to me all the time and everyone will be mad at me if I fail.

I feel like that's normal for everyone...right?

And then I failed. And I failed again, and again, and again, and again, until suddenly everyone in the entire world hated me, and I lived like that, for a long time.

There are things I like to do a certain way, the exact same way all the time. It gives me a sense of calm, ok? I wouldn't call myself OCD, but my anxiety levels do require a bit of coping. I like having a schedule that's fairly similar from day to day. I like making plans to have fun, rather than flying by the seat of my pants, and I need a good balance of alone AND social time.

Sound familiar? Yeah. I basically just described a grown up. 

And there it is friends, the plight of every human: we grow up sometimes, and it's usually, forgive me, a mind fuck. 

One day you realize that everything you've been told has been...kind of...basically....a little bit...bullshit. Some people catch on really quick, and settle into being an adult a little bit more easily. I was not such an easy case. 

I was weird in high school. I was weird in junior high school. I was weird in every school, but at some point I got a glimpse of what life could be like if I were "normal," and for some reason, I wanted it...so bad. 

I wanted it all. I wanted marriage, family, church, babies, puppies, back yard, SUV (yep). The only thing I didn't want was a job I hated and a republican in the white house. That's pretty much all from my real brain that I held onto. 

I can tell you now, as someone that craved the "good life," for a good chunk of her own life, I am so happy that I failed at that. In fact, I might even go so far as to call that the biggest failure of my life. I failed at escaping my true nature. I failed to break the bonds of being the sole inhabitant of my own incredible planet. 

When I'm not on my planet, I'm traveling through space and time with this guy. 

You can't escape who you are (and with The Doctor's help, you realize you don't want to). You can't escape what you want in life. You can't make it something else. The only real way to move forward is to move forward...

...and seek out the truth.

My truth is that I'm afraid people hate me most of the time, but I've recently learned that I am not the center of the universe, so that truth is changing. Why? Because I'm free now.

Do I still fail? OH YES. I just failed in a big way recently. And it sucks. But I have friends, and arms, and legs, and eyes, and a nose, and the ability to taste and enjoy the flavor of ice cream. I also have wine. So, if anyone wants to come over...and watch Doctor Who. The new season just started.

End of Part One

Every time I start to think that life makes any kind of sense, I'm reminded of that time I saw that Hobbit movie...two?...years ago. I was arguing with my dad before seeing it about whether or not it was going to be one movie or three movies. "There's no way that book fits three really long movies," I laughed at my dad's obvious naiveté. I mean, it's the smallest book in the series.

I graduated from the conservatory at Second City a little over a week ago, and holy hell has this year been a year. I moved to Chicago the day of new student orientation on June 23, 2013, and I finished my last show in the conservatory on July 21, 2014.

The year was long (I'm still suffering from PTSD because of the polar vortex), but not nearly as long as the years leading up to this exact moment. My road to my...life...has taken more twists and turns than I ever thought possible...when I graduated from college. That's a good thing, you know, because I've really been striving for a while to live the life of an autobiographer.

I used to tell my college boyfriend how I dreamed of going to Second City. The mere notion that people like Gilda Radner (who taught me that I wasn't the only weirdo), Mike Myers (who basically wrote my 90s experience), and the Ghostbusters (the Ghostbusters!) had studied at this institution in Chicago, made it essential on my list of places to be, if only for a moment, before I die.

He bought me a coffee table book about Second City from the bargain book table at Barnes and Noble. My first teacher at the conservatory is in that book.

Skip ahead to another chapter. I was a few weeks away from defending my Master's thesis and moving to England indefinitely (and what a fun turn that was), when my mom asked me, "what would you do if you weren't moving to England?" "I guess I would go to Second City and audition for the conservatory."

That was 2007.

Those seven years between then and now were just as earth shattering. In fact, every minute of my life I spend moving forward tends to crush it. How weird is that?

I don't know when I decided that I wanted to stop waiting to arrive, but it was in between all these places and spaces.

My favorite book as a kid was The Monster at the End of this Book, starring Grover. If you're familiar, you know that the fun is in the title. As a kid, you can't wait to turn the page because every turn gets you one hilarious page closer to seeing the monster. Even though Grover is so cute and does such a silly fun job of trying to keep you from doing so, you eventually get to the end. Don't worry. I don't do spoilers.

GUYS! We know that there is a monster at the end of our book, and it's a scary monster. Nobody wants to die, but most of us turn the pages so damn fast, it seems like we have a death wish.

Who the hell invented "settling down?" It's a crock. Settling down is something I want to do when I'm six feet under.

As scary as it is to know that we are all moving as one towards a similar fate, the thought of stopping, or slowing down, is more terrifying than any inevitable outcome.

So I checked off a bucket on my list..or something, but I'm not anywhere near done, and coming to that realization is terrifying and wonderful.

My only problem now, is making my opening metaphor match my final message. You see, I was NOT happy when I came to the end of the first Hobbit movie to find that there were TWO more movies that were just as long to be released over the next two years. There's a monster at the end of that book too, but I know what it looks like, and I know how it all goes down. Maybe it's the fact that this installment in the Peter Jackson wheelhouse feels less like art and more like watching a bunch of nerds masturbate (and, friends, masturbation is a sin) that makes it tiresome, or, perhaps I just don't like having to wait to pee for that long multiple times in a series.

I'm excited about the end of this chapter of my life, however, because I know that it only means the beginning of another chapter, and I can only speculate about the outcome of this one. I've read the Hobbit and the other books. They're old news. The books are better, anyway...as is this guy's version of the book in question.

In my case, however, as a future autobiographer, my actual book will just make the (billions of) readers jealous. Take that little bit of advice for what it's worth. *wink

Totally unrelated side-note: If you are a fan of Sesame Street literature, may I also suggest this book:

She's Got Cabin Fever

Sometimes the mere act of admitting that something is horrible helps to ease the pain of the horribleness if only just a little bit. I've been having a number of conversations with locals, Chicago natives, about the severity of this particular winter, my first winter in the Windy City. Everyone agrees, this is worst than most, but nothing they haven't experienced before.

A few things happen to your perception when you experience sub-zero temperatures on a regular basis. First of all, you gain perspective. I've spoken of this before. The difference between minus twenty and twenty degrees fahrenheit is a whopping forty degrees. Your body can tell. We went from minus fifteen on a Monday night to twenty-five on a Friday, and I sweat all day long. Everywhere I went, I felt like a swamp walking around. I walked from train station to destination with no hat or scarf and breathed easy. I kept my hair up off of my neck while working to avoid oceans of sweat. Twenty-five degrees is a walk in the park after the bitter cold of an early February midnight in Chicago. I welcome them to become more frequent.

Please note that this is not the wind-chill. This is the current actual temperature, and we are looking forward to dropping another nine degrees before the sun comes up. 

Secondly, you begin to value your heater, your blankets, your layers, and your GLOVES above all else. I can't tell you how grateful I am to have a heater that works, hot water that runs, long underwear that warms, and gloves that I haven't lost yet. I always get into a bit of a panic when I'm trying to leave and haven't found my gloves. You, nor I, can do a damn thing without something to warm our hands. Never think, "Oh, I'll just keep my hands in my pockets," because you won't. You won't. I would love to be able to wear my converse right now, but the snow banks are too high, and they won't warm my toes to save my life. I'm looking forward to sporting them again someday. I really am.

Finally, you get a bit of the "fever." How do you know you have it? Let's see. I find myself laughing hysterically as I fling my body across my car to shovel yet another foot of snow from the windshield. The banks of snow kicked back by the moving cars become ice enclosed spaces for the parked cars. I have learned to expertly parallel park by flinging my car blindly over an ice dune into a small pocket left behind by the car previously inhabiting that space. My wheels get a little whiny at times, but with a little love, and a lot of insane laughing/fogging up my windshield so that it also freezes on the inside, my car nestles comfortably into its new space.

A "dibs" chair. If you take the time to shovel your parking space, you get to call "dibs" by using a chair, a table, a manger, or really anything that lets the rest of the block know: DIBS. 

When I take Linus out for walks, he climbs the giant snow banks from the constant shoveling to do his business, and I climb in after him, the snow pouring over the tops of my snow boots, to dispose of it. Once he can tell that I've had enough, and I do believe he can tell, we both run wildly back to the front door.

Linus rushes out for a quick bathroom break after about twelve hours of new snow. 

I can't imagine how crazy one has to be to go running on days when the air not only hurts my face but my throat and my lungs. Shallow breaths help keep the feeling that a million knives are stabbing my throat and lungs to a minimum.

I have had my moment of break down...I think. I found myself furiously stirring chocolate pudding to satiate my chocolate hunger on a day when I couldn't bring myself to leave the house. Linus stood and stared at me as I stirred and babbled to myself about the necessity of meeting myself head-on in my darkest moments instead of running away from it all. He was just hoping he would get some chocolate. Instead, I gave him a little peanut butter just for sticking around while I mumbled.

A lovely walk in the snow turned sour because the wind would not stop blowing the snow into my eyes. Linus hated it too. 

The good news is I noticed yesterday that the official time of sunset was 5:15 when two weeks ago it had been around 5:00. That means we are gaining about a minute of sunlight a day, which means that eventually, the sun will be much closer to this part of the country, which means that the snow will HAVE to melt at some point. The snow will have to melt, and the temperature will have to stop settling on sub-zero and get a little closer to above freezing. I'll take 35. Heck, I'll take 33. I'd even settle for 30.

The world keeps on turning. The fire of life keeps burning. It's good to know that we didn't start it, though. It's been burning since the world's been turning, Billy Joel. The snow will go just as surely as it came, and the leaves will return to the trees. A life without hope is no life at all. I'm grateful I can still find it even after sliding wildly down an ice bank whilst trying to get back into my car after a long night at work. I'm even more grateful that I can laugh about it.

In two weeks, I'll begin my inside seed starters for the spring. IN TWO WEEKS.

Should We Talk About the Weather?

Currently, Pinterest is of no use to me in the style department. They aren't offering enough examples of fashionable ways to cover every inch of my skin. I now live in a city where, on occasion, the weatherman will remind the troops that any exposed skin is subject to possible frostbite...and he's not kidding.

It seems since I've moved to Chicago, there isn't a single person that will allow me to escape the weather question. It was the only thing holding me back while I sat on the idea of moving here for years. Can I handle the weather? Can my southern disposition take the harshest of winds?

During the initial polar vortex onslaught, it was reported that Chicago was colder than the arctic. I saw a man walking backwards into the wind on the first day that wind chills were predicted to reach - 40. He was wearing a light jacket and a small scarf. I was sitting in a car with the heat blasting, wearing a semi-sleeping bag with thick mittens, wool socks, wool pants, and snow boots. My feet and nose were still cold. The man made eye contact with me. His face was red, and his eyelashes were white with frost.

Linus likes the ice...unless there's salt on it. Then it hurts. :(

When I walk from my house to the gym with a bottle of water, my water is deliciously ice cold when I get to my destination. Chocolate is rock hard after a walk from Walgreens to the train. If I happen to be running late for something (usually), and my hair is wet from a shower, my hair will freeze into stiff sections, but, sadly, it does not create an edgy style.

Those of us who choose to live in the windy city are, for all intents and purposes, living in a freezer; although, my freezer usually feels warm when I first get home.

BUT: It's not unbearable.

I KNOW. I sound insane. However, I'm speaking the truth. If it were unbearable, Chicago wouldn't be such a booming metropolis. It's a global city, a living city. It breathes, has a pulse.

A shaky view from the top of Willis Tower

I remember talking with some former Chicago residents at the winery at Montaluce in Dahlonega a few years ago. We were sitting on the patio that overlooked the breathtaking vineyards, sipping prosecco and eating cheese. It was early fall, and it was warm. If you've ever been in a situation like that, you might have found it hard to say anything negative about anything. My new friends were bubbling over about their time in Chicago, missing it whilst enjoying their current situation. The only thing I could think to say, you can probably guess, was, "but it gets so cold there." Their response was immediate and closed ended: You acclimate. They weren't trying to convince me to move here. They weren't trying to defend their love of a city that, frankly, needs no defense. It was a matter of fact response, and it was the truth.

If the only thing holding you back from living in a place like Chicago is the weather, let it go. The reality of...I don't know...EVERYTHING....is that weather is inconsequential. The real adversity we face is inside, and if we can't stand up to our own demons, even Hawaii wouldn't be enough to make us happy...although it would be freaking awesome.

From the winds, the arctic winds, and the blustery snow storms that I've now witnessed AND survived, I have gained much. For one, I have gained a little perspective. You have no idea how awesome 34 degrees feels after forty below. Everyone in this glorious city sees a weather forecast slightly above freezing with sunshine and starts planning a picnic.

The sun and the snow make a lovely combination.

And that's a life lesson, my friends. The harder it is and the lower you get, the better it feels on the other side. No one that lives here really talks much about the weather. We may laugh to each other when the cold gets ridiculous. We may part ways by exchanging the words, "stay warm." We may walk down the streets grimacing with our heads down, but we know that there's a bottle of wine at the other end of that walk and, hopefully, a warm body to greet us.

The adorable warm body that greets me. 

Talking about the weather, historically, has been a way to avoid talking about the things that really matter. When you talk to your friends about what's really going on in your life, you have to be vulnerable, and you have to open yourself up to the possibility that some people may be able to see you for what you really are: a human being. Here, the weather speaks for itself and allows the rest of us to focus on the things that really matter. What really matters?

I met a girl last weekend from Aruba...ARUBA. It's the first place the Beach Boys mention in the 80's hit "Kokomo." She loves living in Chicago. We briefly touched on the subject of the extreme cold, and her only words were, "I'm from Aruba, and I'm fine here."

I'm from the south, the deep south, and I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I also have a greater appreciation for wine...especially the warm, full-bodied redsmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.