Playing Tag

For decades, I have had dreams or nightmares, most that I can’t fully remember, and I wake up terrified, sometimes gasping for air, in a full-blown panic. At times, I can remember the last moments of the dream, the crucial moment when I am about to fall off the edge of a cliff, drive off the road, or be caught by the being pursuing me, which comes in many forms.

The ones I remember the most about are definitely dreams where I am driving a car, but on something like rollercoaster rails, and I keep losing control. I have turn after turn of barely holding the car on the tracks until I finally drive over the edge and begin falling and falling. That’s when I wake up.

It’s no coincidence that the more stressed or worried I am, the more frequent the dreams are. These are all clearly stress dreams, from all the books I have read about their meanings. The worst are honestly the ones I can’t remember at all, I am in a far worse state when I wake from those.  I have seen any and all doctors and looked into holistic options, but these particular dreams aren’t thwarted by much.

I have written before about dealing with my worries or these dreams when I was very young, and lately I have been thinking so much about those nights when I was still living with my parents, probably in the third or fourth grade, and the world felt so overwhelming. I would sneak to the hall closet and grab a blanket, then I would quietly slip down the hallway to the den. I would finally reach the sliding glass door and open and close it slowly, then tiptoe across the porch, down the brick steps and into the grass. I would select a spot somewhere near the middle of our huge back yard, and spread the blanket out. I would lie down and look up, trying to slow my breathing, trying to ease my worrying mind.

I can remember that feeling, looking up, the cool air, and the most beautiful splatter of bright stars against the black sky. I would just look up and lie there, sometimes feeling tears hot on my cheeks. I think that lying there, I was hoping the universe would shift, or the world would tilt, or something would happen to make things better. That somehow, after my midnight stargazing, all the things I felt responsible for (my parent’s fractured marriage, my father’s adultery and alcoholism) would be resolved and our family could be happy.

If only it were that easy.

A few months ago, I was having another bad patch of these dreams, and woke up crying and sobbing several nights. On one of those nights, as quietly as possible, I got out of the bed I share with my husband and two large dogs, and tiptoed to the den, finding my pace quickening as I got near the back door. As soon as I got the latch free, I bolted out on to our deck. I surprised myself by literally running into the railing, the top plank almost hitting my chest as I caught myself with my hands. I was out of breath, crying, and completely confused by this desire to run, to get outside, as if that solved anything. To be clear, I have a husband I love, a house full of rescue animals that are my babies, and finally, a job that I love that doesn’t involve working with horrible bosses. I don’t want to run away from these things, or leave my life. It’s just this desire to run when I wake up from these dreams, or when stress overwhelms me.

I have tried to figure out why me running down the street in the middle of the night feels like a solution for anything. 

Once in college, when I was first really battling deep depression, I had a horrible nightmare and just felt so overcome, that I grabbed my keys and shot out the door, at probably 2:00am. In just my slight little nightgown, I got in my car, rolled down the windows and started driving. I needed the air, I needed distance between me and (what I thought was) failure at the time. It was as if I was trying to go somewhere, leave all my emotional baggage, and return home, renewed. Instead, on this one night, red and blue lights flashed behind me.

After uttering more than a few four letter words, I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw, not only the approaching officer, but myself. Hair wild from the wind, yesterday’s mascara running down my cheeks, and IN MY NIGHTGOWN. Oh, and barefoot.

The officer approached and shined his very bright flashlight in my car. I had already been crying, and this really had pushed the sobbing to a new level. He told me I was driving a little erratically, and asked for my license and registration. Of course, I couldn’t find my registration, but I gave him my driver’s license, and he walked away.

I sat there sobbing, feeling like this was just a confirmation of all the things I believed about myself, and all the words thrown at me from my father that would not leave my mind.

He finally came back and kind of squatted next to me. He gave me back my license and asked, “What’s going on?”

I am sure it was quite the display as I tried to gasp for air and find my words, and mostly came out with, "I am just so overwhelmed. My parents are so disappointed in me, I can’t do anything right. I can’t make things better. Life is just so painful.”

I remember this part vividly, he stood up and said, with a lot of weight in his voice, “Yes, yes it is.”

He spoke to me a little about the fact that I wasn’t alone in feeling this way, and college was hard, and some other nice things. He said he had a daughter my age, and he would be worried if she went out driving as I was. He asked me to promise not to do this again, added on a few warnings about the dangers of the world, and then told me he was going to follow me home to make sure I got there safe. But before that, he wrote a name on a piece of note paper, telling me it was the name of a therapist he knew and recommended. He handed it to me and assured me he was in the phone book, and I could find his number.

He followed me home, and waved from his car and told me to be safe, as I turned the key in the lock.

I was mortified, touched, and glad I was living alone at the time. Most of my friends knew I struggled with depression, and I felt like it would be one more story to add to all of my others.

Once again, last night, I woke up, panicked, gulping for air and trying to hold tears back, and that same feeling hit me—run. Or get in the car—go. I shut my eyes and held my head in frustration, wanting this feeling to leave me. 

Then, for some reason, I remembered running at recess in the park at our elementary school. I remembered tag and “home base”, the place of safety—usually a tree. I thought of fun with friends, being out of breath as we all huffed and puffed our way back to the classroom when it was time to return. 

Later, I remembered truly scary moments with my father when I felt the need to get out of my house for my own safety, to really run, or get to my car, and sometimes couldn’t. Those were the worst times. Feeling trapped and scared.

Somehow, I like to think that all this got twisted together.

I know it’s easy to say that the urge to run means I just want to run away from my problems. I am sure that’s part of it. But somewhere in my mind, I am running fast, ahead of whatever or whomever is chasing me, ahead of my worries, my hair behind me in the wind.

I am looking for home base, wherever that is, so I can race up, grab on, and say “Safe”. No… I’ll yell it, scream it, feel it deep in my bones. 

Then I'll relax, the dreams will subside, and I will let go of all the worries, all the things I feel chasing me, and all the things I want to leave behind. 

Until then, some nights will still find me running, even if it is only in my mind. Hopefully the universe can shift and light the pathway for me to home base. 

So for now universe, Tag, You’re It.

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Unfinished

Behind.

If I had to describe one word for how I feel right now, that would be it.

Overall, in general—career, personal, just life.

In reality, I am not. Well, in some ways, I guess it is true.

I hate this feeling.

This past November, I started a new job that I am so well suited for. I have felt needed, respected, and know that I am in a place where I can make a difference and do good work. I am old enough now to know that this doesn’t come along every day. I have worked in some places over the past decade that made me so miserable, where I felt so horrible—where almost everyone felt horrible. Toxicity was almost applauded. Those workplaces are more common than you think. It’s scary how accepted that kind of atmosphere is in a lot of offices. Nowhere is perfect, but I finally landed somewhere that feels…right.

So, there’s one check mark for the areas of my life that I worry about. Career/Job—check.

My marriage just passed the four year mark, and we still love and support each other. I honestly worried for so long that I would never have that kind of love in my life. So, there’s another big area I can add to the list—personal/love life—check.

There’s this stupid thing I do all the time—it’s a habit I started so long ago that I can’t remember when it began. I know it was borne out of me making promises to my depressed, worried younger self. I was really struggling with my self-esteem when I was younger, with everything that was going on with my parents, my father in particular, and just the overall cloud of worry that hung over me a good bit of the time. So, I have this bit of an imaginary check-in with my younger self. I ask myself, what would 10-year-old Kim think of where I am now? Have I lived up to the dreams she wanted? Have I lived up to the things I promised myself?

When I was battling really serious depression as an adult, this little game was horrific. I knew I was letting my younger self down. I was barely surviving every day, and knowing I had blown every promise I had made to myself—in such spectacular fashion—was feeding the depression’s flame.

Then, I got the right help, the right therapist, and took on everything, and after a few years, my life turned around. Things started falling into place, and when I did my check-in, I realized the 10-year-old me would be proud—not only for where I landed—but for how much I had endured to get there.

I haven’t had any weak moments again in this check-in scenario, until now. In comparison to where I have been before, it doesn’t make sense. Things have been worse. Things have been catastrophically worse. Am I just peering over some ridiculous fence dreaming of perfect green pastures that don’t exist for anyone? Or do I know that if I don’t push myself, I won’t have a chance at making my dreams come true? 

Or, am I losing my freaking mind?

All I know is, when I had a frustrating moment at work this past week—nothing too crazy—just something that made me sit and take a few beats alone at my desk. I asked myself the check-in question—and I had to head to the restroom in the office for a few minutes. I paced and stared at myself in the mirror and paced a little more.

An important note here, that I am all too aware of: I think too much.

But, anyway, I got outside and walked around the block.

This city, on a clear day, is nothing short of breathtaking. I have to pinch myself—even after riding the cramped, sometimes unpleasant BART train to work each morning—I get off the train and see the tops of the buildings cutting into the clouds and fog and wonder how in the hell I got so lucky to be here, walking  to work in this amazing place.

When I walked outside on this particular day, it was later in the afternoon, the fog long gone, the clouds cleared, the sky was crystal blue. I just walked and wondered what in my head was making me feel this way.

I tried to force myself to think clearly. I remembered one of the tactics I loved that my therapist used to get me to cut to the core of how I was really feeling. She would ask me to be raw and real. I would say something about how I felt, and she would tell me to tell her the truth—what I was really feeling—be raw, be real. To not think about what was appropriate or what sounded good. It wasn’t always pretty. But it kept me from fooling myself. It also helped me heal faster. For instance, in one of my sessions, I was talking about someone in my life that was honestly being toxic. I started off my saying, “she makes me uneasy sometimes”, but when I got to the raw and real moment, I finally said, “She isn’t kind to me--I really don’t want her in my life anymore”. It was hard for me to get to that point, but I needed to learn to put myself first—something I don’t always do.

So, when I was walking around the block, I reminded myself to be raw and real. The first thing that popped into my head was –“I am so tired”. I know this. Anyone looking at me probably knows this. The fact that I have had a migraine for over two weeks means my body probably knows this. As I am writing this now, I am tearing up. I need a break. It’s no one’s fault, but I have had a lot of financial responsibility for myself and then for our family for awhile now, and the weight sometimes seems so huge. Even though we are in a good place now, I haven’t had a real break in between jobs, without stress, to just relax, disconnect, and breathe for literally years. In truth, I don’t know how long that break would need to be though, for me to recharge.

The fatigue goes back further than that, though. I have been working since I was 16, and in college, I worked up to 3 jobs at a time to barely survive. Once out, I have only rarely and in spurts felt financially strong. It wasn’t for lack of working hard or long hours—or having great jobs. It was just timing, being single, life, living in the Bay Area during the last dot com bust, layoffs, etc, etc. It feels like a long, long marathon that is never going to end. I know that my journey is no different than anyone else’s, and in many ways, I am incredibly fortunate. I am making a good salary, and now have a love with a growing company in a strong market. I just ache for a time, a decent span of time, when I feel like things are more solid financially, that I don't feel so pressured, and that I can breathe. I feel like I have been holding my breath now for about 20 some odd years waiting for that to happen, and I need to be able to let go, to get some relief. When I think about worse struggles others have, I feel ridiculous in even thinking these things. But, I can’t help feeling tired. I just can’t.

The other part of this, is, of course, my dream of writing and making that the focus of who I am and what I do. Every day, the writers I follow on Twitter share similar struggles, even though many of them have known success—at least success in my eyes—having published a book or books, and working on the next one. Many of these writers work another day job, as I do. Somehow, they find a way to do both. I haven’t been able to do that. Especially lately, I have felt this huge setback. It has felt more like a loss, a death. I haven’t been able to feel the true inspiration and hope in months now. For a long time, I had this glimmer that might fade now and again, but it was always there. Then, it went dark. It just feels like I am never going to get this dream accomplished, and more than anything, I don’t know if I have the energy anymore to keep trying.

I hate the part of me that is so envious of people, in particular people I don’t know, that have the luxury of a life where they can concentrate on nothing but their writing. I follow these writers on Twitter and catch myself scowling when they complain about anything. How dare you! I think.You are living a dream.

So, back to my walk. I asked myself what I really want. What would make it better? Real and raw.

Winning lottery ticket.

Very funny.

I can't control the financial part any more than I am now. I am doing my best, working sometimes insane hours, always working hard. So, that's all I can do.

The other part, the writing...I have to somehow find a balance in my life, where my writing is the focus, where I am on a set course to making this happen. Otherwise I am not going to feel fulfilled or even at peace. It may be crazy, but that is my truth--real and raw.

It may just mean that I start making myself go to the library one day every weekend and devote that time to writing. I don’t know yet.

I could also be having a stupid mid-life crisis and this could all mean nothing. But, for whatever reason, this keeps gnawing at me. I honestly don’t think you necessarily choose to be a writer. It is tortuous—and not hugely profitable, especially now in the digital age, when a lot of writers are expected to simply be thankful to be published in a popular online forum—even without payment—or for nearly nothing. Only a few writers really make it big, really make a huge splash and can live comfortably. So, to want to write, there has to be this drive, this other thing in you that won’t let go. I certainly don’t have to write a book. It won’t help our bank account. There is just a story in me that needs to told. There is just  a yearning to do that, to feel I am a writer in that sense.

I wish more than anything I had gone after this dream earlier, set out to be an editor and work in the publishing world long ago. Right now, my life feels so much like a zig-zag maze that is being built as I go, and has no clear path and no clear destination. It is well-built, the structure is fine, there just wasn’t any pre-planning or design. Some would say, “that is life”. Right now, it just feels like lost time, confusion, and poor planning.

Who knows? If I had started down that path, maybe I would be unhappy now. I know that 10 years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to write the way I am now, I didn’t have the experiences behind me, I hadn’t gone through the right therapy to resolve things I needed to. It’s pointless to ask all of these questions—it’s probably just as pointless to play the little game I play—asking if my 10-year old self would be happy with where I am now.

I can’t stop though. It’s become part of my life’s pattern. I think it is also what has helped drive me, and even when it’s made things painful, helped me to survive. Even when I believed I was disappointing my former self so deeply, and a part of me felt it might be better to give up—there were times when there was just enough fire to say—I owe it to her, to that little girl in me, to make this right.

When I finally got into therapy and really started digging into things and being honest, one of the very first things my therapist had me do was write a letter to my younger self. I remember bursting into tears as she described the process. At the time, I had truly hit rock bottom, and I was slowly realizing that I had found the right therapist to help pull me out. When she talked about the specific things she wanted me to address in the letter, I realized I had been writing these letters for years, in my head, over and over.

I am waiting to write that one last one. The one where I say, finally, it’s done. I finished. I did this thing I have wanted to do for so long, that I felt I was meant to do. You can be proud of me.

I can be proud of me.

Fulfilled life's dream--check.

The beautiful artwork featured in the post is entitled "October Wind at the Beach" by the artist Fanny Nushka Moreaux. To see more of her work, visit this site.

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Permission, Courage, and Telling My Story

There have been so many changes in my life in the last year, really in the last six months, especially on the career front. This year alone, I have worked for three different employers, with an end of the year scramble that made me dizzy with a mixture of fear, excitement, and hope. But it was mid-October when things really got interesting.

I was at my desk at job #2 for the year, when I was just beginning to figure out that this particular job wasn’t going to be the long haul, career home job I had hoped it would be. I was already job searching, miserable with a boss that knew nothing about marketing, management, or people skills, and watching people quit by the dozens around me every day. I had started only three months earlier, and I had never seen a workplace go downhill so fast.

My cell phone rang, and an out of town number popped up, and I answered a little excitedly, hoping it was a response to one of the dozens of jobs I had applied for. Instead, a voice I vaguely recognized responded to my hello, almost in mid-sentence before I could put two and two together. It was a vendor calling me, but she thought I was still behind the desk at my last job, a failing startup in San Francisco that I had been relieved to escape. I had spent months there watching several wealthy men fight and break promises (and do little else) for months. I finally got in a few words edgewise and was able to explain to her that I was no longer with the startup and couldn’t help her with the event she was calling about. She paused, and expressed disappointment.

“I so enjoyed working with you Kim,” she said, “you did a great job.”

I thanked her and prepared to hang up, but she continued.

“I really hope you are doing something you love and have always dreamed of doing.”

I was almost stunned by her words. First, they were so genuine, she really meant what she was saying, and secondly, it hit me like a punch to the stomach. Even if things at my current company weren’t unstable, even if I was in the perfect marketing job—was this what I dreamed of doing when I was little? Was this what I dreamed of doing every night when my thoughts were racing and I couldn’t sleep? No. All I ever wanted to be was a writer. When I can’t sleep, I am thinking about my book that still isn’t written, and about my blog that is gathering dust. 

I thanked this vendor who will likely never know the events she helped inspire, and then hung up the phone. I was in tears at my desk. I felt hopeless. I felt like every job I was taking was a mistake, every decision I was making was taking me further away from what I wanted more than anything. Most of all, I had made the decision to move us across the country, far away from everything, to this place of opportunity—California, and what had it gotten us?

I made my way to the office restroom and spent a good half hour crying. I reminded myself that very few people I know are doing what they always dreamed of doing. We all have to earn a living. I told myself that, as a recruiter recently reminded me, there are more f-cked up workplaces out there than there are normal ones, and you just don’t know how it truly is until you are there, until you are inside and working there. I took a lot of deep breaths and tried to give myself a break about everything.

I got back to my desk, and as I working on some social media posts for work, I clicked over to Facebook to find a link I needed. I was on my personal page and scrolled down, and stopped on a posting on an author’s page that I followed.

One spot left for my One-Day Writing Workshop.

I was frozen. For a minute, work was forgotten, everything was forgotten. The words stared back at me. This wasn’t just any writer, it was Joyce Maynard, a writer I had long admired. I had always toyed with the idea of going to a workshop like this, but didn’t have the confidence, or usually, the money.

I clicked the link to check out the details, whispering to myself, please don’t be too expensive, please don’t be too expensive. The page came up. It was expensive for us, for this time in our lives. But, it was local. It was 18 miles away. When would I ever have a chance like this again? I needed this right now. I needed to go and find out if this dream I had was crazy or if I should keep plugging away. The only way I would ever know was to go somewhere and get honest feedback from a writer I trusted and believed in.

I called my husband, and through tears explained that I needed to do this, I knew we couldn’t really afford it. He was alarmed that I was so emotional, and agreed immediately that if I needed to do this, to do it, we would figure out the money somehow.

The date of the workshop was November 3^rd, and we had to submit our essays beforehand. To say I was a nervous wreck didn’t even begin to cover it. There were six other women attending the workshop. I was so afraid to put my words out there, to have Joyce and these other women read them and think I was a horrible writer. I was afraid I would read their words and compare mine and know immediately that I was not cut out to do this.

To be honest, over the past year, I had been asking myself why I was putting myself through this torture. No one said I HAD to write. It was just me doing this to myself. It would be a lot easier to let this dream go. I had to work- that was a have to. If I was supposed to be a writer, I would have been discovered or I would have figured out a way to make a living doing that by now, right? I had started thinking that maybe it was time to just let go.

What I wanted from this workshop was some kind of answer for myself. I felt stuck. And if I got a positive answer, I hoped to find a group of women that I could connect and continue with after that one day. I prepared myself for the worst. I wasn’t prepared at all for what I got instead.

I turned in my essay at the last possible moment. A few days later, all the essays were posted online so we could all read each other’s work before the actual workshop. I did feel humbled by the other women’s work, and I didn’t know what to think about how my work would be perceived. The workshop was memoir-focused, but Joyce had also encouraged writers of fiction to attend. Many of the other women had submitted works of fiction.

One of my biggest struggles with my writing is also what to write. I have avoided my story (as in writing a memoir) because I just didn’t know who would want to read it. I am not famous, I don’t feel I have accomplished that much, although at times, I do feel I have a story to tell. I have started a novel, but I have struggled. That’s the other part of me feeling stuck with my writing, and the other answer I wanted out of this workshop.

November 3^rd came and as nervous as I was, I made it to Joyce’s house in one piece. She was incredibly warm and inviting, and as the other women arrived, my nerves eased a little bit. Regardless of the answers I got about my writing, I at least began to feel I was among friends. 

We began by going around the room and introducing ourselves and talking about why we were attending the workshop. Joyce let us all do this, and just listened carefully and said very little and took notes. When we had all finished, she went carefully around to each one of us and responded.

When I introduced myself, I talked about feeling stuck, about not knowing if this is what I was supposed to do. I told everyone about the day at my desk, and being the person who took the last spot at the workshop, and how I had dreamed of being a writer. I explained that there was a book my mother had kept for me that chronicled every year of school, with my school photo pasted in it, and a few memories jotted down below it. And every year, underneath that photo where the book asked, What does Kim want to be when she grows up? The answer was always: writer. Every year, from kindergarten on up. I explained about my hesitation to write a memoir, and my biggest hesitation of all—my mother. I didn’t want to put her through any more pain, she had been through enough. I remember Joyce hesitating for a moment when I said those words. But I had continued and soon it was time for the next person to talk.

When Joyce got around to responding to me, she got out of her chair. She hadn’t done this with anyone else, so I was a little taken a back. But she got in front of me, on her knees, and she told me she was doing this because she wanted to make sure that I heard her and remembered what she was about to say.

She told me there were so many things that held us back in life—money, work, everything else—but this was MY STORY and that I had every right in the world to tell it and not to let anyone or anything stop me. She told me I didn’t have to protect anyone, especially someone who did not protect me. She said that if my mother was in the room, she was sure she would be touched and moved by her story, but that would be her story. This was mine. 

I can’t repeat her exact words, and I can’t ever express the passion with which she said them, because I was crying. This release of permission she gave me, I can’t explain it. I felt I had part of my answer. A huge part of it. 

As I got to know the other women that day through their work and their own personal journeys, it amazes me how we all travel through such hard places to get where we are. I felt so fortunate that I had landed in this particular group of such compassionate, giving women. Everyone was so supportive and thoughtful.

Joyce worked through each woman’s piece, one by one. With each piece of work, I was learning more and more, and I was nervously awaiting my turn. My essay was the last one Joyce reviewed. Her critiques and the input from the other women at the workshop gave me my other answer. I need to keep writing.  The positive feedback I got from Joyce and these women was a huge turning point for me. I was so emotional, and it was almost hard to leave Joyce’s house that night. I didn’t want that connected, creative feeling to end.

The good news is, it hasn’t. The women from that workshop have been amazing, and we all stay in touch and have met once and have another meeting in January. I feel so fortunate to have this group of supportive, positive, amazing, talented women to share and grow with. We are all each other’s biggest fans, and can openly share anything and everything about our writing with each other.

I am forever grateful to Joyce for opening a door for me that I very nearly let shut. It is still a battle to carve out time for writing, but I am making myself do it, especially with my writing group’s encouragement. But I wouldn’t feel the confidence and I wouldn’t have the direction I do without Joyce kneeling in front of me that day, passionately making sure I heard her words.

And really, how many times in our lives does someone do that for us? Really make sure we hear the words that make all the difference—that can change our lives?

If it happens, be grateful. Listen. Don’t take that moment for granted. Take the words to heart. Do what you are meant to do.

I plan to do just that.

It might take a long time, it might not work out like I’ve planned, and I am sure it will be ten times harder than I can even imagine.

But, this is my life. 

I am a writer. It is what I was meant to do.

I will tell my story.

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