Eleven-year-old Self

“What are you, eleven?”

This was the question posed to my husband after telling someone that he recently got back into hockey card collecting and selling.

To be fair, out of context, I may have asked the same thing.

In the age of the Internet, social media, and digital versions of pretty much everything, I had no idea that trading cards even still existed.

But when we moved last year, my husband discovered a local store that operates several locations in the Pittsburgh area selling cards, autographed jerseys and helmets, as well as panoramic pictures of NHL and NFL stadiums. One day after work he decided to stop by and see what it was all about. Suddenly he was transported back to his childhood.

On “take your child to work” days, or days where his parents’ shifts would bookend each other, J would often spend a few hours with his dad who worked in the parking garage of Children’s Hospital. The bonus to these days would be trips to the hospital gift shop, where J was allowed to buy a pack of hockey trading cards to keep his young mind occupied. J still has many of these cards today. Most of them are not worth much monetarily, but they remind him of a simpler time and serve as a connection to his father who passed away in 2009.

After a few trips to the local card shop in the last year, it didn’t take long for J’s excitement over trading cards to reignite. He spent some time reorganizing his binders, dusting off his 3D collectibles, and researching items online to see if he had any of value. For Christmas, I bought him a wall-mounted case that now hangs in our game room and displays his “best” cards — those of both sentimental and moderate monetary value.

In between purchasing packs of cards and selling some older ones on Ebay, J also began following several YouTubers who actually make a living “unboxing” and discussing hockey trading cards. Much like anything these days, enthusiasts of all types can find a kinship online with people who are just as passionate about a certain item or subject as they are. When you think about it, it’s not unlike what I’m doing as a writer — putting my thoughts out on the world wide web on the off chance that some reader, writer, or self-described anxiety case will identify with me and give a post a “like” or, if I’m lucky, follow my page.

Recently, J decided to throw his hat into the ring of YouTubers. So far he’s posted two of his own “unboxing” videos and plans to do more on a regular basis. He also talked about posting videos where he displays his favorite hockey memorabilia, from trading cards to collectible figurines of his favorite goalie, Patrick Roy.

While hockey is truly the only sport I’ve ever been enthusiastic about, I still don’t quite understand the lure of trading cards — or the “unboxing” videos if I’m being honest. But what I can appreciate is how they’ve given J a spark of passion and joy for someone who is one of the hardest working people I know.

My husband has worked at the same place for eleven years. In that time, he’s worked in three different departments — receiving promotions and raises, being named team-lead, and passing certifications. But over the last few years, he’s struggled to feel as though his work is valued. He feels “stuck” and slightly bored but is not sure what else he’d like to do for a living. Instead of focusing on a career move that he isn’t sure he even wants, I’ve suggested several times that he pursue some sort of passion outside of work to see if that helps his particular case of the blues.

To be fair, he’s given certain things a fair shot — guitar lessons, online gaming communities, and setting up a Twitch account to gain followers who play the same video games. (People can potentially get paid lots of money for this too). Despite his best efforts, none of these ventures filled the void, and none of them really provided any sort of significant financial gain. But he’s been focusing on the hockey card thing for a few months now, and maybe, just maybe, this is the thing that will stick. He recently shared his YouTube channel on Facebook, and since he’s always been so supportive of my writing ventures, I am sharing his link here — https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uinscySOsFs

I’m sure there will be plenty of people who furrow their brows in confusion and even ask the same question that I started this post with — “are you an eleven-year-old boy?”

When you think of trading cards, your mind very well may picture a group of elementary or middle school kids excitedly gathered around a pile of cards at recess. But judging by the multiple locations that my husband’s new favorite store has, it’s obviously still a lucrative business as well. And I’m sure the guys on YouTube who literally make their living in the trading card business would be proud to tell their eleven-year-old selves that they could pursue this hobby as a job as an adult.

My husband’s rekindled fascination with trading cards isn’t much different from my writing endeavors. I realized I wanted to be a writer when I was — you guessed it — eleven years old. I literally remember sitting in sixth grade English class when I had the epiphany that has stuck with me for twenty-six years. Even though I had to claw my way back to it after decades of self-doubt and mental health battles, writing is the singular thing I’ve returned to again and again throughout my life. Since I made writing a priority again back in 2016, I’ve made less than $3000. Zero of those dollars came from this blog. But it’s helped me connect with readers and writers from Canada to Australia, and as long as it gives me a certain amount of kinship and validation in this crazy world, that’s more valuable than a lot of things.

I’m sure the wide-eyed eleven-year-old in my husband’s heart feels the same way about hockey cards.

Confession

I have a confession to make. And it worries me a little.

I think I’m burned out.

Not just from the pandemic. Not just from my 8-5. Not just from the months it took to move.

I think I’m burned out from writing.

What I’m feeling is different from writer’s block though. I still have ideas, but I simply don’t have the drive, discipline, or motivation to focus on it right now. And I have no excuses.

When I got word that I won the Children of Steel Short Fiction Contest back in December, part of me felt like that was IT! That was the moment I’d officially “made it.” I’d won a contest, I’d made money with my writing. This was the first step towards becoming at least a part-time freelance, semi-professional writer.

But to be honest it’s been crickets since then — in my head and in the lack of acceptance emails I’ve received from other publications.

To be fair, I haven’t been submitting as frequently as I once was. It’s not because I worry or fear rejection, but rather I’m just plain exhausted by the whole process. Reading the guidelines. Meeting deadlines. Formatting. Emailing. Uploading. Waiting. Logging my submissions and the results.

I’m embarrassed to even admit this, but I’m even finding myself feeling . . . annoyed with writing. I don’t want to read newsletters or blogs. I find that the updates, information, and resources in my inbox from various publications are repeat information to me. I’ve browsed these lists, submitted to these journals, joined these Facebook groups. I feel like I haven’t seen anything new or fresh in quite some time. And I am really, really tired of every. single. event. being. virtual. I get that it’s out of necessity, but I have no desire to stare at a screen for more hours a day than I already do.

Part of me wonders if winning the Children of Steel contest was my peak. What if that’s as good as it gets for me? What if I never get a publisher for Light of the Fire or Rum Buddies? What if I simply don’t excel as a short story or essay writer? What if that thousand-dollar prize is all I ever earn?

Those feelings pushed me to try focusing on something else — querying. I have two novels completed and I’ve sent about a dozen agents my query letter and synopsis for The Month of May. I‘ve had two or three positive, encouraging rejections, but now I’m at the point where I realize I need to change something and/or up part of my game, but how exactly do I determine what that is? I’ve had two other writers look at my query and synopsis for May as a favor — writers I “met” through Facebook groups. Their suggestions were helpful, but different of course. How do I know whose advice to take?
I also have a short list of writers, editors, and agents who will critique queries and synopses for a fee, and while I’m willing to spend some money towards that, I find myself asking the same questions — how do I know which one will give me the best feedback? Who do I trust? Which one do I choose? Obviously I could pay all three of them to critique my submission package, but they’ll inevitably all say something different and I’ll find myself in an even bigger conundrum.

All of these conflicting feelings are exhausting to navigate — and what’s worse, they make me weary of my precious novel, The Month of May. Sometimes I think that May was the first novel that I wrote for myself and that maybe it should never see the light of day. But then I think about how I poured my heart and soul into it and how I rebuilt it from scratch after the great USB crash of 2020. My blood, sweat, and tears is literally in that manuscript and I so desperately want to share it with the world.

Then again maybe May is distracting me from my other finished manuscript, Ocracoke’s Daughter. Ocracoke is on a different level than May. It’s better, sure, but the two are not (and shouldn’t be) in competition with one another. I have a rough query and synopsis written for Ocracoke too, but again, I’m struggling to know how to tell when they’re ready to send out.

And is it a bad idea to query two projects at once?

Whenever I’m overwhelmed by these confusing feelings towards my writing, I find myself wishing I had flesh and blood writer friends. People I could meet up with at the library, at a Starbucks, at a nearby park. People with publishing experience and not just moms and retired teachers who write as a hobby.

I don’t mean to sound condescending towards those writers, but I’ve flitted in and out of groups like that since I was sixteen and I’m ready for something more — I need something more. But every time I think I’ve found a comrade, whether in person or online, it never goes anywhere. I recently signed up for an online writing group and agreed to pay a nominal fee per month to be included in “exclusive” member-only updates and perks. But so far it seems like it’s just an extra newsletter I get every week.

I feel like I’m the new girl in school who is forced to eat lunch by herself every day. I feel like I did back in high school when I didn’t score quite high enough on the AP-English placement test but was bored in basic English class. I feel like Goldilocks searching for that right fit.

I know that most writers go through times like these, and the world is shit right now and I have a lot going on in my personal life, and I’m sure these are all contributing factors. I think I’m most worried that I’ll lose myself as a writer again. I certainly don’t want another ten years to pass me by and realize I’ve not grown at all as a writer. Because all of these complicated feelings aside, writing is still my passion. My heart.

When People Don’t Like Christmas

Halloween has been over for a little under three weeks, and like clockwork, half the population is already decorating trees, shopping for gifts, and singing carols. It’s almost as if Thanksgiving isn’t even a holiday anymore, but rather a mile marker leading up to the alleged “most wonderful day of the year.”

I’m not going to criticize people who love Christmas, especially when these last few years have been incredibly rough for most everyone, and I don’t think it’s right to slam people for whatever brings them joy.

That being said, I’ve realized that whenever I try to explain to someone that I’m not a huge fan of Christmas — or any holiday for that matter — they look at me as if I’m admitting to being a serial killer.

I’ve written about my lukewarm feelings towards Christmas plenty of times in the past, and while I do always manage to conjure up some holiday spirit for a few days, I simply can’t get on board with the weeks upon weeks of Jingle Bells, festive lights, and organizing gifts for everyone from the mail carrier and the dog groomer to your great aunt once removed who lives 1500 miles away and you see once every seven years.

I’ve spent a lot of time dissecting my complicated feelings towards (most all) holidays over the last few years, and while I initially thought that there had to be something deeply wrong with me to not get all wide-eyed over fireworks, huge family meals, and giftwrap, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m certainly not alone in this arena.

Many people struggle with complex emotions when it comes to holiday — whether it’s a birthday, Memorial Day barbecue, or celebrating a parent on Mother’s or Father’s Day. While it’s “normal” (or more socially acceptable) to look forward to these occasions with excitement and love, many people voice their own trepidations about holidays if you really take the time to break down the ins and outs of such occasions.

This topic has been on my mind earlier and perhaps more often than usual, because as I type this, something pretty huge is pending in my life. I don’t want to “jinx” anything right now by giving too many details, but I can definitely tell you that holidays will most certainly be on the back burner in more ways than one this year.

I’ve jotted down some reasons and observations to help those “Buddy the Elf” people understand why us “Grinch” people might not be super enthusiastic about the Christmas season:

Holidays are Stressful!
No matter how well you plan, budget, or self-care, adding all the gift shopping, present-wrapping, extra spending, extra cooking/cleaning, eating, social gathering, and decorating is enough take over your life. For someone with any kind of anxiety who struggles to stay grounded on a random Thursday in March, throwing holiday madness into the mix can be downright intolerable. Sometimes avoiding the whole song and dance is easier and more enjoyable for a person with mental (or even physical) health issues.
Some People Struggle with Finances
Again, regardless of how well you budget or plan, holidays can be a huge financial strain. Even if you’re not buying everyone on your list brand new iPads, small gifts add up fast. And even the always-popular suggestion of “homemade gifts” like cookies and ornaments can cost plenty of cash — you need supplies to concoct those DIY trinkets.
On a personal level, while I’ve had a steady job over the last several years and don’t have trouble paying my bills or buying food, balancing a budget every December is rather tough for me. Both my mom and husband have birthdays in December, and both of my cars inspections are due. Talk about a juggling act!
Even if you think a person has a nice home, car, and clothes, that doesn’t mean they didn’t just stumble onto some other financial burden that makes gift-giving and charitable donations seem impossible. If someone declines to participate in a secret Santa exchange or a company fundraiser, try to respect their privacy and not make the assumption that they’re selfish or anti-social.
Religion
No matter which holiday you celebrate or which reason you choose to celebrate that particular event/miracle/person, most holidays have religious roots. In a world where religious differences have been the basis of endless violence, wars, and death, it’s understandable why someone might shy away from any association with religion. Even in 2021 people in the United States of America are still criticized for their beliefs or lack thereof on a regular basis. Some people may be embarrassed or even afraid to publicly celebrate their beliefs, and others may be struggling to figure out what exactly they believe or what, if anything, they should celebrate. Whether you’re an Orthodox Jew, devout Christian, optimistic agnostic, or downright atheist, please respect other peoples’ freedoms when it comes to celebrating whatever holiday they choose — or not.
Painful Memories
It’s a terrifying idea to fathom, but sometimes awful things happen on or around holidays. A friend of mine had a house fire a few weeks before Christmas several years ago, and my father-in-law had a fatal heart attack on the night of December 25th, 2008. Needless to say, it took my husband and mother-in-law YEARS before they felt like they could celebrate Christmas again at all.
If I’ve experienced painful memories like these, I’m sure plenty of other people have had similar misfortunes, and unless you’ve been through something similar yourself, it’s hard to understand how someone could feel so awful when everyone else seems so happy.

Family Issues
Not everyone’s family is picture perfect. Not everyone’s relationship with their parents, siblings, or cousins is stress-free and uncomplicated. While the holiday season is typically viewed as a time to put aside past differences, this isn’t always an option. Sometimes family members can be toxic or downright abusive and cruel, and no one should have to tolerate that regardless of the date on the calendar. If someone chooses to skip a holiday meal or get together because a toxic person will be present, respect their boundaries without judgment.
Jobs
Like it or not, there are many companies out there who require their employees to work 24/7 — including through holidays. My husband works at a hospital, and while his newest position gives him the freedom of being off on federal holidays, in the past he’s had to work an occasional Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, etc. My sister also works 3rd shift for a company that never shuts down regardless of the time or day, and she’s missed out on plenty of special occasions. And don’t forget the people doing the thankless work that is the apparent economical backbone of the holiday season — retail employees, bakers, cooks, hotel and banquet staff, etc. Most of these people are working long hours for little money, leaving next to no time for them to enjoy the holidays or see their families.
I personally remember working at Hallmark in the early 2000s after high school and spending 10 and 12 hour days on my feet, moving at a million miles an hour while customers degraded me and my coworkers for running out of an ornament or certain color tissue paper. I remember sitting in the stock room at the end of the night, desperately trying to help my manager balance the registers while the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight — then having to come in early the next morning to do it all again.
If you’ve ever worked retail or customer service during a holiday season, it’s easy to see how quickly someone can become bitter about this time of year.
Mental or Physical Health Disorders
I touched on this briefly in reason number one — and if you’ve been fortunate enough to never experience how an anxiety attack, injury, or chronic health issue can upend any plans, especially big ones like holidays — count your blessings. Many times dealing with any kind of ailment, whether it be physical or mental, can drain all of your energy and make the thought of getting dressed, making a side dish, and arriving with prettily-wrapped gifts overwhelming daunting. If someone ducks out of an event early or sends their regrets at all due to an illness, again please respect their privacy and just send good healing wishes.

As I look back over this comprehensive list, it strikes me as interesting that the hardest part about not being gaga over the holidays is other peoples’ reactions to such an outlook. People seem to take it personally if someone declines an invitation or chooses not to bake 40 dozen cookies for strangers. Over the years I’ve found that most of those people who claim to love the holidays because it celebrates hope and goodwill immediately chastise those who don’t necessarily see this alleged “season of giving” in action.

So is it any wonder that people like me grow weary or even suspicious of the “in your face” celebrations?

Don’t get me wrong. I have absolutely beautiful memories of the holidays from my childhood and teen years — sled riding in an old-fashioned toboggan with my cousins, curling up around the fireplace in my grandparents’ basement, venturing into the country to cut down a fresh Christmas tree, thirty people gathering for dinner. And every year I enjoy decorating, exchanging a few gifts with close relatives, and watching Christmas Vacation, Elf, The Grinch, and Home Alone. For a week or two. Before and after that I’m ready to move on and enjoy normal life.

And what’s wrong with that?

Let’s Talk About Guilt

When I started EMDR therapy several years ago, I was shocked to find out just how much guilt I’ve carried around with me for years over things that were completely out of my control. For the most part, I didn’t even realize that those guilty feelings were part of why I had so many anxious thoughts or negative beliefs.

As I worked through those beliefs with my therapist, I slowly began to understand how I associated certain memories with guilt and finally learned how to stop beating myself up for not only things that weren’t my fault, but for my emotional reaction to events and circumstances. One of the other benefits of confronting those beliefs was that I discovered how to finally pursue aspects of life that were priorities to me and not other people.

It took a lot of practice, and standing up for myself, my time, and my mental and physical health certainly raised a few eyebrows for people who were used to treating me like a doormat. But for the most part I’ve been able to adapt to a life where I prioritize my self above anything or anyone else — and since our society has conditioned us to believe that putting yourself first is selfish, I’ve also learned that doing so allows me to be a better wife, daughter, sister, friend, and employee.

So where do those negative beliefs come from? Past experiences and how we grow up definitely plays into it, but it’s only been over the last few years that society as a whole has begun to recognize how harshly we judge those who put themselves first and don’t always cater to others or even to their jobs or side hustles.

This first became evident in the early days of COVID-19. So many social media outlets were touting memes and videos of how to be productive, stay in shape, and tackle projects during quarantine that those people who may have been using the time for a long-needed rest were accused of being unmotivated, undedicated, or even lazy.

It wasn’t until quarantine bled from weeks to months to years that we started to realize how much we truly need to take care of our mental health and our own priorities before worrying about other peoples’ opinions or all the projects on our “to do” lists.

COVID has certainly made peoples thoughts and opinions on such things complicated — there are those who believe we should just get back to living life with no precautions, those who who feel like we should go back on lockdown, and everything in between. I wrestle with finding a happy medium between these two views almost every time I do something outside of work or home. And yes, guilt, on multiple levels, plays into those decisions too.

Though guilt does not burden me as heavily as it once did, I still find it interesting how much it is an accepted or even normal part of our daily lives.

For example, last weekend my husband and I were working in the backyard. We had a few small landscaping projects we wanted to tackle before autumn in our ongoing efforts to ready our house for sale . . . at some point in the future.
After we’d spread some mulch around our air conditioner and filled in the narrow trench left by the workers who’d installed our new solar panels and underground lines, my husband went into the garage to grab a bag of grass seed. I took the opportunity to go grab a sip of water from my bottle on the porch.
But before I could get there, I rolled my ankle on the uneven ground where grass meets sidewalk and I tumbled in an ungraceful heap to the ground. My ankle and foot began throbbing before I even rolled over to assess the damage, and I managed to scrape my knee on the concrete in the process.
Once my husband emerged from the garage to help me up, I limped into the house to clean myself up and apply some ice to my ankle. Even after concluding that I hadn’t broken anything, I still didn’t feel up to helping J finish the outdoor projects. Instead I sat on the couch with a frozen bag of peas on my foot, wallowing in guilt that my husband was out there in the heat finishing the work we should have been doing together.

Even though I was able to put some weight on my ankle and foot, it swelled up rather badly the next two days. I bought an ice pack, elevated my leg at work, and did my best to stay off of it as much as possible. This meant making quick dinners, not taking any walks, and not going to the pool.

At first I didn’t feel guilty about this. My doctor had said to rest my ankle, so rest I did. And for awhile it worked out that I was essentially chair-bound because mandatory overtime at work came into play, and I spent lots of extra hours at a desk that week.

The following weekend I planned on getting more done around the house. Before 11am on Saturday I’d done the dishes, started laundry, vacuumed, worked on a magazine pitch, and prepped the back porch for painting the following day.
But by noon my allergies were raging. My nose wouldn’t stop running, my chest was tight, I had a headache, and felt foggy-headed. I took some pills and laid down for a nap, hoping that an hour’s rest would rectify the situation. I had so much to do!
Unfortunately when I woke up I didn’t feel any better. I literally could not go more than five minutes without blowing my nose, and it didn’t take long for it to get all red and irritated. Suddenly I was forced to slow down and confine myself to the couch and my bed again — and immediately the guilt started rolling in.

I’d wanted to go to a community day even that my cousin and realtor was holding. I wanted to support her business and contribute to the local animal shelter fundraiser they were having. I needed to go to the library to return a book that was due. I wanted to head back to the pool. I wanted to paint the back porch and finish laundry and polish that magazine pitch.

Instead it was back to wallowing. In between blowing my nose and rubbing my red, itchy eyes, I wondered if I had somehow I had contracted COVID again. I thought about how I was letting my husband down by delaying our house projects for another weekend in a row. And even though my last post was about how it’s okay for writers to not write everyday, I started beating myself up for not finishing my magazine pitch. Like an anxiety attack spiraling out of control, so did my guilt.
I felt guilty for not taking my heartworm-positive dog to the park recently, about wanting to sell our starter home. I felt guilty for not helping my sister enough with her upcoming art show, for not taking advantage of the beautiful day.

Although these guilty feelings do not carry the same weight as traumas do, it made me realize just how prevalent guilt still is in our daily lives.

By Sunday I was feeling better — not 100%, but better. I pushed myself to finish laundry and write a bit, and even did an hour of overtime for work. But for the most part I laid low and took it easy. Another weekend would eventually arrive, and with it, hopefully the time and opportunity to make up for the last crappy two.

And as I sat on the couch, folding socks and sipping ginger ale, watching reruns of America’s Next Top Model on Hulu, I reminded myself again that exactly what I was doing at that moment was perfectly okay.

25th Anniversary

I met my two best friends in sixth grade — Twenty. Five. Years. Ago.

In an effort to not feel obscenely old and to kick some excitement into the current world-situation, I reached out to both girls, KP & KF, to see if they wanted to go somewhere to celebrate this anniversary of our friendship with a girls’ weekend.

They readily agreed, and we began scouring the internet for road-trip accessible destinations that we’d be able to visit once we all received our COVID vaccines. Finally settling on a cozy cottage adjacent to a small winery in Ripley, NY, we made the three hour drive on the first weekend in June to relax and enjoy a few days away from our husbands, pets, jobs . . . and the nightmare that was 2020.

The drive north was impeded only by nearly three straight hours of an absolute DOWNPOUR. It rained so hard we could barely see the road at times and had to stop twice to settle our nerves. Still, we made it to the winery without incident, checked in, received our complimentary bottle of wine, and set about to explore the charming little cabin that would be our home for three days.

The place was perfect — the kitchen was well-equipped and the living room was cozy, complete with plush chairs and an entire wall of built-in bookshelves that made all three of us drool. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms gave us plenty of space, and while everything was comfortable and reasonably modern, there were also old fashioned charms like uneven, squeaky floors, sloped ceilings, and soft, faded area rugs that gave it a turn-of-the-century vibe.

On that first night, we chose our rooms, unpacked, and headed to the grocery store to stock up on snacks, coffee, and alcohol to last throughout our stay. We sat up late, talking and laughing about work, family drama, and sex, reminiscing about each other’s weddings and hilarious or painful middle and high school memories. We discovered at some point that we were only about ninety miles from Niagara Falls, New York, and decided that the state park would be our destination the following day.

The drive north was relatively pleasant, and we had no trouble finding a place to park so we could wander through the blocks of restaurants and gift shops before hearing the rush of the rapids and the falls that made up Niagara Falls State Park. We spent hours gazing at the water, walking through the pretty, lush grounds, and taking in the beautiful summer day. What started as a chilly, gray morning eventually gave way to a sunny, humid afternoon, and by the time we’d had our fill of the falls we were grateful to sit in an air-conditioned restaurant and enjoy a late lunch. On the way home we stopped at a massive indoor outlet mall, where we spent lots of time and money ducking in and out of a variety of stores — my favorite of which was the Lindt Chocolate Outlet store. Drool. We also stopped to get drinks at Tim Horton’s (my first time)!

Our plans for day two took us to Erie Beach, about 45 minutes from where we stayed. We found Presque Isle easily enough, and I took the time to climb the tiny Presque Isle Lighthouse, where I very nearly had a panic attack when I realized how tiny the damn thing was and became claustrophobic while scaling the steep stairs and gazing out over the narrow observation deck. I’d been in lighthouses before, and always enjoyed the climb and the view, but this teensy tower was not like the hulking giants found in my frequent jaunts to the Outer Banks. Glad I had the experience, but just as glad to never climb those particular stairs again.

For the rest of the day, the three of us lounged on the beach. It was sunny and warm, and my Aquarius-self absolutely had to get in the water. After applying sunscreen and baking for awhile, I headed to the water’s edge — and nearly peed myself.

The water was ICE COLD. Looking back, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that water this far north hadn’t had a chance to warm up yet so early in the summer, but I was so looking forward to splashing in the waves that I couldn’t bear to stay on dry land. So I gritted my teeth and plunged in as far as I could manage before my skin puckered and my teeth chattered and I hurried back onto the sand to warm up.

And warm up I did. Over the course of five hours, I alternated between sunning myself and wading in the frigid lake. I noticed that my skin was taking on a slight pink tint, but I wasn’t concerned. My body hadn’t seen the sun like this in over a year, and besides, I was wearing sunscreen. We talked and laughed and munched on our PB&Js and veggies with hummus as the sun moved across the sky.

It wasn’t until we left, and I ducked into one of the bath houses to use the facilities that I realized how red my skin actually was. Still, I felt fine on the ride home, and was excited to get cleaned up and head to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I showered and shaved my legs, looking forward to an evening of chips and salsa, margaritas and memories.

Then I tried to get dressed. All of a sudden, my skin was absolutely burning. Not pinching like normal sunburn. Burning like I’d laid myself in a frying pain of hot oil. Denim shorts were not an option. Neither were leggings. I managed a bra only by loosening the straps. Frantically, I thought about the bottle of aloe sitting in my chest of drawers back home. Instead I grabbed the bottle of sunscreen I’d taken to the beach and double checked the SPF strength — 50. What had gone wrong? Then my thumb felt the raised numbers on the seam of the bottle — it had expired six months prior. And I hadn’t reapplied it after my icy dip.

Jesus.

Luckily KP had brought a sundress with her. I delicately pulled it over my head and breathed a sigh of relief to have the loose garment flowing around my legs instead of clinging to them. We headed to the Mexican restaurant and placed our orders, and I promptly began fishing ice out of my water glass to apply to my thighs that were still on fire.

“Note to self — don’t shave overtop of sunburn,” I muttered to my friends.

“Why would you shave?!”

“What were you thinking?!”

“It didn’t hurt when I was in the shower,” I answered. “I didn’t even think about it. I shaved out of habit.”

Sadly my margarita didn’t do much to dull the pain, so we stopped at the store on our way back to the cabin so I could buy aloe. I also purchased another cotton sundress to get through the next day, and went to bed covered in green slime and only managed to sleep after downing a couple of Advil.

The ride home was pretty rough — it was ninety degrees and sunny, and I couldn’t escape the sun’s harsh rays beating down on my legs through the car windows. To add insult to injury, at one of our rest stops, I stubbed my toe on a huge, metal door, splitting it open and bleeding all over my sandal. Great, I thought, limping through the parking lot. If I don’t die of skin cancer in a few years, I’ll die of gangrene. Good thing I got a tetanus shot last summer!

At long last, I arrived home to be greeted by my over-enthusiastic doggos and husband, who could only shake his head at my bright red skin. It was certainly the absolute worst sunburn I’d ever had. The only plus side was that I had the following day off work — good thing, too, because I could barely manage to get dressed. I also discovered Sun Bum Cool Down lotion, which feels like magic, even when your skin isn’t on fire, and immediately purchased their sunscreen, lip balm, and dry shampoo. At the risk of sounding like a lifestyle blogger, this is one very satisfied customer.

Despite the horrendous sunburn, I’m really glad my friends and I got together for a much-needed getaway, as quick as it was. KF asked why it had taken us so long to take a trip together, and all of us agreed that it was something we’d definitely have to do on a more regular basis.

Fine by me!

Please Continue to Hold

I know, I know — I’ve been a bad writer.

I’ve been inconsistent. Undisciplined. Unfocused. Lazy even. Instead of tearing myself away from Netflix or reading to focus on writing for even half an hour a day, I’ve allowed myself to be lax. Or maybe relax?

I can’t believe it’s been four months since I’ve posted a blog. Sometimes it feels like it’s been a year. And while I haven’t been doing nearly as much writing as I did during the height of COVID (round 1?) in 2020, I’ve still been puttering about here and there.

Short projects have kind of been at a stand still, but I did work up the nerve to send my latest manuscript, Ocracoke’s Daughter, to its first beta reader, and the feedback was both helpful and incredibly positive. I’m up to four rejections from agents on The Month of May, but two of them included personal messages which were quite encouraging.

I have a few ideas floating around in my mind, but I’m finding it hard to form complete storylines and my attention span has recently become similar to that of a 12 week old puppy. At first I was beating myself up, thinking about all those writer message boards and Facebook groups where it talked about what a terrible person/writer you are if you go twelve hours without writing 5000 words — namely, that you’re clearly not devoted enough to your craft.

But enough with that bull shit. While I completely understand the mindset behind discipline and dedication, I also understand that those of us who are not full time writers yet — and even those of us who are — need to make concessions for ourselves. We are only recently learning the effects of “burn out culture,” and in addition to acknowledging the need to rest and reset, we also need to be cognizant of the fact that the world is (still) experiencing unprecedented circumstances right now. It’s no wonder so many of us are struggling on different levels.

A year and a half into the pandemic, everything is still uncertain. How much longer will this last? Are we wearing masks or not? Do we send our children to school or maintain virtual learning? Is it okay to require vaccines or ask if one is vaccinated? What are my chances of contracting the Delta variant if I’ve been vaccinated? Is it okay to hug people? Shake hands? Is it okay that I traveled out of state in June? Will I ever get to visit my friends in Holland? Is COVID going to haunt me for the rest of my life?

Among all of these internal struggles, we can’t escape the very real controversies that each of these questions evoke online, on social media, in person, and on the news. It is exhausting to say the least, and I’m sure I’m not the only one to be absolutely, 100% OVER IT on every level.

I was talking to my therapist about this a few weeks ago — I’m so completely tired of waiting for things to get back to some semblance of normalcy. I’m so tired of waiting for it to be okay to travel, to have a party, to not panic every time I have a scratchy throat. I’m tired of the judgement, the arguments, the insults, the uncertainty. I’m tired of how this is effecting people, our hospitals, our economy, employment, our government. I’m tired of not going anywhere further than work and my own backyard. I’m tired of dreaming about “some day.”

Yet I cannot summon the energy to do much of anything. I get short bursts of inspiration to write, and that burst may last a few days, but it putters out as quickly as it came on. J and I have started half a dozen projects in an effort to ready our house for sale . . . at some point . . . but most of them are half finished. We can’t even take our dogs to the park or on day trips right now because Kitty was diagnosed with heart worm back in May and excessive exercise is absolutely no bueno. (She’s doing well so far, and I’m grateful that Heart Guard is paying for her treatment considering she’s been on their preventative the entire time we’ve had her, but I’m nervous about her wellbeing all the time and I am not looking forward to the second round of injections she has to endure at the end of August. Positive vibes for us and our sweet girl are greatly appreciated).

J and I talk about moving all the time. We desperately need a change and more space. We are beyond annoyed with our irresponsible, inconsiderate neighbors and we’re on the same page when it comes to wanting to sell. But the market is so unstable and unpredictable right now. Some days we want to take advantage of the seller’s market and get as much as we possibly can for our current house while there’s this much equity in it. But on the other hand, we don’t want to pay too much for any new house, regardless of how perfect it may be. And I can’t help but worry that the housing market bubble is going to burst at some point like it did back in 2009.

So here we are. Still waiting. Still holding. Still unsure. Itching to make a move, to feel safe, to feel confident, to feel normal . . . and still waiting.

I’m going to try to be more disciplined about my writing, including blogging. There are a few things on my mind that I’ve got to get out, even if it’s just to the handful of readers on Word Press. And since it doesn’t seem like in person conferences or writing events are going to return any time soon, it might be the best option for connecting with other writers. At the very least, I suppose it’s a place where I can unload my thoughts and worries.

When I started this post, I was hoping to have some sort of revelation about my mindset and the state of things in our world, but instead I’m just pausing every few sentences, picking at my cuticles and stare out the window at the hazy, humid day. Out of the corner of my eye I spot my empty curio cabinet, the one now void of Wizard of Oz treasures that I sold in an effort to clear out clutter in preparation for moving. Across the room is a cluster of plants I just watered this morning — an aloe plant sprawling from its yellow pot, situated peacefully behind an unidentified vine that has succeeded in crawling all the way across the floor to the other side of the dining room. There are two tiny succulent plants next to a tall, spindly tree whose leaves shadow a mason jar decorated in colorful letters. The thick glass shelters a dozen or so multi-colored notecards, each one folded to hide the word scrawled across it — Alaska, Chicago, Toronto, Ireland, San Francisco, Maine, — places J & and I want to see someday.

Someday.

What Dogs Can Teach Us About Resilience

As you may know, J & I are proud fur parents of Miss Kitty & Ghost, as well as the dearly departed Comet.

All of our dogs have been rescues, and while I’m no stranger to the love and comfort they offer, or the lessons they can teach, I continue to be amazed at how these four-legged creatures have repeatedly, unknowingly, offered me insights on life.

The other day, I took Ghost to a vet appointment for some redness that suddenly appeared around his left eye. When it didn’t go away with Benadryl, I took him to get checked out. I also asked if the vet could take a look at his other eye because J & I had noticed that something about his vision wasn’t quite right. During obedience classes, when using hand signals, we had to move rather close to his right eye before he’d react. And sometimes when the light caught the eye in a certain way, we’d see an unusual fogginess.

The vet prescribed us some ointment for the redness around his left eye, and then addressed our concerns with the right one. He wasn’t blind, and all of his neurological functions were intact, but he did have a scar on both his cornea and his lens. These were almost certainly caused by some type of penetrating injury from when he was quite young. By the time we adopted him, the injury was healed, but he does still have limited vision in that eye. Still, the vet isn’t concerned. He doesn’t squint or compensate for the lack of vision, and it certainly doesn’t slow him down. Ghost has learned to live with his injury in his young life, and although I feel horribly about whatever must have happened to our “little due,” I now look at him with a new perspective.

When Ghost first came to us, he was only nervous for a couple of minutes. He seemed to instantly make himself at home and wasted no time in harassing his older sister. His behavior has been frustratingly challenging at times, and we still have a lot of work to do, but I have a new respect for what he must have gone through with this eye injury. Since he was only about 8-10 months old when we adopted him, and anything but shy, we figured he’d had a pretty cushy start in life. But the new information about his eye tells us that he’s overcome his own struggles and pain, whether the injury was from an accident or abusive human.

Suddenly Ghost’s resilient and sometimes defiant behavior makes a little more sense. He’s had to adapt to his eye injury in order to keep thriving, and perhaps he tends to be defiant because someone didn’t treat him properly when he was a puppy. Maybe that person was cruel when trying to train him, and instead of cowering like most dogs with trauma, Ghost copes with it by running away and not obeying orders.

So while his personality is nearly the polar opposite of Miss Kitty’s, my eyes have recently been opened to how dogs deal with trauma differently — just like people. While Kitty was (and still is) wary and cautious, she’s learning to trust more and more each day. Ghost’s outgoing personality is bringing her out of her shell, and we hope that Kitty’s relatively good behavior will eventually rub off on Ghost.

But the most important thing I learned that night at the vet’s office was that we all have our traumas, our scars, our struggles. We all deal with them in different ways. And sometimes we don’t want to share those stories with others, or like animals, we can’t do it in a verbal way. Still, if we’re lucky, we find people (or pets) who are patient and kind and help us work through and overcome these obstacles that tried to hurt us or hold us back. And while ideally everyone would like to crush each hurdle easily like taking a hammer to an egg, sometimes we simply have to live with the scars life has given us.

Even if we never fully recover from a negative experience, injury, or trauma, there’s hope that we can adapt to it and work through it as best we know how. We may never be perfect, but that doesn’t mean that we’re unlovable or incapable of living our lives and pursuing our dreams. Sometimes the reality of things is completely different from how you imagined it or how you wanted it. But that’s okay too.

My fur babies — Ghost is the little one and Miss Kitty is the bigger one with the black ear

Mental Health VS Physical Health

In tenth grade English, I wrote a persuasive essay on the subject of making gym class an elective.

For ten years I had endured the humiliation of being naturally uncoordinated and completely un-athletic — I was picked last for kickball, taunted for being afraid of a volleyball flying at my head, and repeatedly endured the time honored tradition of having my glasses smashed against my face during each rousing game of dodge ball.

As if the physical and emotional mortification weren’t enough, my class mates and teachers assumed that I was unmotivated, out of shape, and not a team player. Never mind the fact that I got good grades, loved to read and write, and was active in band, orchestra, and the arts. Never mind that I marched around a football field and along miles-long parade routes every other weekend. Never mind that I lost 43 lbs. between the ages of 16 and 18. Never mind that I wore a size 7. If I couldn’t put a basketball through a hoop or score a soccer goal, I was a loser. I was lazy. I wasn’t good enough.

Even during that time period when I was at my thinnest, physical activity wasn’t something I excelled at. One particularly painful memory took place during my senior year – where, at age 17 or 18, wearing a size 7, and in probably the best shape of my life – I had to “make up” a few missed gym classes. It must have been winter, because instead of doing a few leisurely laps around the track, I begrudgingly found myself in the musty-smelling weight room, surrounded by football and basketball players, cheerleaders, and soccer girls, all talking about their drunken weekends while admiring themselves in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on three of the four walls. The only thing making the afternoon remotely tolerable was that the guy I was dating had come with me. We climbed onto side-by-side elliptical machines, where I set a moderate pace and planned on flirting and laughing for the entire allotted time period. He, on the other hand, being active in cross country and track, set out on a more aggressive pace and quickly encouraged me to do the same. I gave it a good effort, but despite being thin, despite being in shape, and despite my attempt to impress him, I was never be able to catch the frantic pace he was used to when competing. I knew he was only trying to encourage me, but when I couldn’t measure up I was left with the familiar feeling of inadequacy.

After a lifetime of these and similar instances, it’s no wonder that exercise and physical activity trigger negative feelings in my brain, and I’m surprised that it’s taken me this long to recognize how these feelings have negatively impacted my mental health.

I’ve written in the past about how I simply do not enjoy working out, aside from swimming, kayaking, and walking or hiking. But it wasn’t until COVID that I realized why I gravitate away from competitive sports, aerobics classes, or exercise equipment with harsh, glowing numbers measuring every step, every breath, and every second.

Six to eight months before COVID shut everything down, I had finally found an activity I enjoyed – I swam laps at a nearby pool 2-3 times a week and had even begun to attend an aqua Zumba class. This pool was housed in a small, local library/community center. There were no glaring bright lights, no buff super athletes, and no judgmental competitors. Zumba class included women of all ages, shapes, and sizes, and I felt as comfortable there as I did with my friends. This was the way I preferred to stay active – in a welcoming, judgment free zone with no intimidation and no clock or scale measuring what I had accomplished. Still, I left the pool each time feeling cleansed, clear-headed, energetic and limber. And yes, my jeans had started to sag just a little bit, which was an added bonus.

But when the country went into lock down, I could no longer rely on the pool – for exercise or something that made me feel good about my mental health. Like everyone else adjusting to unprecedented restrictions, I did my best to stay active by walking my dogs and doing simple exercises at home. But I quickly lost interest and motivation. I was bored, I was lonely, and I was only doing these things because I felt obligated. Experts on TV, doctors on the Internet, and society as a whole soon began talking about how important it was to stay active even though gyms were closed and classes and group sports were cancelled. Not only did it help us stay healthy, but it would keep our mental state positive, they claimed.

So I pressed on. I walked when it was 90 degrees and humid. I strapped our new, 60-lb. dog into her harness and took her through our neighborhood, struggling to contain her strong, sixty-pound frame when she pulled and darted and startled as she adjusted to her new home. And it didn’t take long for exercise to become a stressful, negative notion again.

When the weather turned chilly, J set up an old elliptical in our basement. I hopped on it a few times a week for maybe a month. It didn’t take long for my legs to start burning and for me to be soaked in sweat. But I kept pushing. I obsessively watched the glowing numbers on the display tell me how much I had accomplished – or how much I had failed. Within a matter of weeks I had given up on the elliptical completely. It wasn’t because I wasn’t seeing results – I was, however small. But aside from the small positive change it was making on my body, the elliptical represented nothing but negativity in my mind. When it came to getting on the elliptical, I felt like a child who was being forced to take piano lessons because it supposedly taught them discipline and made them well-rounded. Even when I did complete a session, regardless of how many miles I covered or how long it took me to cover them, it was never enough. At first I thought this mindset was simply a matter of changing my perspective – that I should be proud of myself for doing 5 minutes or 50, 1 mile or 10. But then I realized that it wasn’t about the numbers. I simply did not care about measurements. I didn’t feel accomplished regardless of what the stupid display said, and I didn’t feel good or refreshed when I finished. I hated the elliptical and was angry at myself because I’d grown up hearing that all exercise should make you feel accomplished and refreshed. But this simply was not the case.

So yes – most exercises and physical activities trigger negative responses in my brain and uncomfortable feelings in my body. This means that sometimes what may be good for my physical health may be bad for my mental health. What am I supposed to do with that? Is this normal? Why does society judge people who don’t find joy in exercise? What am I supposed to choose when something that is good for my physical health (the elliptical) makes me hate myself? And what do I do when something that is good for my mental health (Netflix & chocolate) makes me inactive?
Why don’t you just ask me which leg I prefer to amputate – the left and right have equal value!

When I started this post, I was hoping that I’d come up with some sort of answer by the end. But I think this is one of those subjects that’s going to constantly be up for debate – and the answer will change depending on each individual.

I leave you with a quote from a book I recently read while doing research on sexual suppression in conservative religious communities. I found that many of the themes in this work that focused on sex were relevant to the constant push and pull between mental health and physical health:

Maybe rhythm, not balance, is the key to not falling off the too-much-or-too-little pleasure plank. Maybe here is where grace can enter. Allowing ourselves a bit of time in each place rather than continuously monitoring moderation. A rhythm of feasting and fasting. Of indulgence and denial. Lent and Easter. Based on attention for who we are, how we are wired, what we can and cannot handle, what brings harm, what brings joy … rhythm – Finding one that is danceable, livable, maintainable. A time for work, a time for sex, a time for service,
a time for cake ~
Shameless by Nadia Bolz-Weber