Putting friendships to the test...

I always feel like I have to check in with friends from time to time to make sure they still love me. I have tests...sort of like the GMAT, except really annoying and not that hard. Like the "will you drink my spit" test from If Lucy Fell, I like to see how far the limits of a friendship will go.

I can't count how many times I've asked certain close friends, "would you still be my friend if I?" questions. Like "would you still be my friend if I TALKED LIKE THIS?" (imagine cartoony high-pitched voice...or a thick Minnesota accent). Or "would you still be my friend if I weighed 400 lbs.?" (and the ensuing Part B, "would we still go to restaurants together?"). Variations follow, such as "What if I [insert really annoying habit here]?" and "Would you tell me if...?" ("would you tell me if my hair looked like 1999?" and "would you tell me if I was as self absorbed as [THIS PERSON]?").

I know I do it because I'm insecure, because I have trust issues, because I need the occasionally declaration of "this is why I love you." And if I think about it too much, I'm not even sure I'd want to be friends with me.

Lucy: Would you drink my spit?
Joe: Can you take your weird survey somewhere else?
Lucy: Answer.
Joe: I´ll answer your question...but this is the last time I´ll talk about it.
Lucy: The last time.
Joe: You swear?
Lucy: Mother Theresa and the missionaries drink the lepers spit. I wondered if you´d drink mine.
Joe: I wouldn´t be interested.
Lucy: Really? You don´t love me enough?
Joe: Of course I love you. I just don´t want to drink your spit.

Remembering...

I used to think that if I told the real truth, the whole world would burst into flames. Nine years ago it felt like it did. It makes me remember and feel...

...like telling some people what I know that I pretend not to know so they could be just as shocked at the betrayal of others as I was at theirs.

...extraordinary shame when I catch myself wishing that bad things would happen to bad people. It's not up to me to mete out punishment.

...pity at discovering, though years have passed, sometimes people remain in the same emotional place in their lives forever.

...sorrow that, although I would love to put some things behind me and forget about them altogether, one cannot have an elective lobotomy. I tend to worry circumstance like a loose tooth.

...lost. I need an emotional and spiritual GPS.

...hopeful when I am reminded of kindness that came out of nowhere.

...grateful for the love in my life.

Musing on my muse and writing mojo...

I had a period of adjustment after moving to Austin in January during which I couldn't (or wouldn't) write unless it was work-related. I wouldn't even unpack the boxes marked "home office," just set up my home computer on my desk so Time Warner could hook everything up the first week I got here. My notebook from last year lived in my shoulder bag, but I hadn't been able to write anything but "[fill in the blank] suuuucks" for months.

Every time I logged into my blog, I found good reasons not to write anything. I read old blog posts and they either (a) made me sad or (b) reminded me of when I used to be funny. I also read old blog posts that are still up on the site of the magazine I used to work for and they either (a) made me sad or (b) pissed me off. I also read some of my old essays and wondered if I'd ever get my writing mojo back. Did I accidentally kill my muse? Did I drive her away during one of those weeks last year when I repeatedly told her to "fuck off" and wouldn't get off of the couch? Did I forget to bring her with me to Austin? Did she just get sick of me altogether?

It's taken me a few months to realize all of the above is both bullshit and necessary. I needed some "off" time. I just moved halfway across the country, away from my friends and family and the home that I loved. It's been less than four months. What I really needed to do is cut myself some slack. So I did.

I also decided to put away the 2008/2009-barely-written-in Journal-O-Negativity. I went to a great store here in Austin called Wanderland and bought myself a new notebook and some nice pens. Earlier this month, I started from scratch, writing again. Not just writing again, but writing in a notebook. Not just writing in a notebook, but writing every day. I went back to my 15-year-old "inspiration" notebook. I re-read Writing Down the Bones. And I gave my permission to be my 20-something year old writerself, just stepping out into the world of sharing very personal information, understanding that not every sentence I write has to be brilliant, and even if I'm just writing about how I don't feel like writing, just write anyway to get the pen moving.

It worked. A couple of weeks ago, I unpacked my home office boxes. I threw or gave away anything that reminded me of negativity in my past (why did I pack that crap anyway? Bad juju...). I hung up my inspiration board over my desk. I created my writing space. A new writing space, one that makes me happy every morning when I come downstairs and see my little office in the space where most people have a dining room table. I've nearly filled a third of that new notebook I've had for less than three weeks. Is every word brilliant? Absolutely not. Most of it is crap. But I'm writing again, which also means I'm seeing the world in a different way, which also means I know that one's muse never leaves for good. Mine is lurking around here somewhere; I know she's close by.

Public vs. private...

I was lucky enough to attend Sara Benincasa's "Agorafabulous" show at Theatre 99 on Friday night. My friend Jason wrote a great piece about her in last week's City Paper and I got to be his plus one (Thanks, Jason!).


To sum up: Sara has agoraphobia, struggled with it for years, and turned it into a comedy routine. I, being a firm believer in handling most of life's challenges with humor, admire the sh*t out of her. After reading Jason's CP piece and a little more on Sara's blog, I knew I had to see the show. And I wasn't disapppointed. You can see a clip from Friday's show and read more about Sara here.

Why this was important to me: I've written personal narrative for years and have turned some of the most painful episodes in my life into humorous pieces. I'm flippant, irreverent, and capable of laughing at myself in most instances. But there are a few "no touchy" subjects for me and panic disorder is one of them.

Like Sara, I had my first panic attack at the age of 18. I didn't know it was a panic attack, but I spent a lot of time over a three-year period going to emergency rooms trying to convince them that I was having a heart attack. I was called histrionic, dehydrated, hooked up to saline IVs and sent home, and finally diagnosed with Mitral Valve Prolapse, or MVP - a common heart condition that about one in four women have, but tend to grow out of in their 20s (I did). By the time I was 21, I was frustrated, self-medicating, and nearly incapacitated by panic attacks that were becoming more and more frequent. Four MDs, two shrinks, and two years later, I was finally given a diagnosis of PTSD (something else I haven't written about because I haven't been able to remove myself enough to find the humor in it). I began taking medication for panic disorder, but discovered I didn't need it long-term, because once I knew that I was only having a panic attack and that I wasn't going to die, I was able to use some of the coping skills I learned in therapy to talk myself down.

One of the reasons I haven't written very much about this is because there is such a stigma associated with panic disorders. I had too many doctors (and friends and boyfriends and acquaintances) tell me "it's all in your head" or "you're being a hypochondriac" that I just stopped sharing. I also stopped going to therapy and went for almost 8 years without a panic attack - through the latter part of my 20s. There was a part of me that even believed I could overcome it with sheer willpower. I'm not a weak person and one of my biggest fears is having other people think I'm weak.

After years of being panic attack free, I started having them again after 9/11, again after my grandmother passed away in early 2003, again after I lost two of my best friends in 2003. It was right around this time that I began seeing a new therapist who really knew her sh*t - in fact, she gave me some information about new research linking MVP to panic disorder. Even with the mild type I had, the MVP "episodes" can trigger a fight or flight response that in turn triggers panic attacks. We also started working on the overall issue of PTSD, and my anxiety became managable once again.

I can't say at this point in my life that I will never again have a panic attack. The few that I've had in the past year or so have been what my therapist calls "situational," meaning that something bad happens in my life, I stop taking care of myself physically as a result, and end up sitting in my car outside of Harris Teeter, unable to drum up the courage to enter the store because I'm sitting in my car having an anxiety attack. Driving is another trigger for me. I've had to pull over to the side of the road because of an anxiety attack. I've also woken up in the middle of the night with night terrors that trigger an attack. I don't take daily medication because antidepressants really didn't work for me; plus I tend to (luckily) have very long anxiety-free periods of time, so I use Xanax as needed.

Back to the show: I was amazed that someone who experienced panic disorder that was severe enough to manifest as agoraphobia could take her situation and turn it into a routine that literally had the audience cackling for an entire hour like Sara did. I admire her for that, I admire her for sharing her most painful moments, and for being open about the fact that she takes medication and credits it for saving her life. I think if more people spoke openly about it, there wouldn't be such a stigma attached. And it also helped me see that eventually I'll be able to write about my own experiences with humor, because I saw that there is a lot of funny to be mined there.

My close friends know about my own history. And the few others I've shared it with are always amazed - I usually simplify it by just saying "I'm slightly socially phobic" - because they've read my essays for years and that Kelly Love Johnson is fearless. I'm a lot more comfortable now than I was 10 years ago explaining that the Kelly who writes those essays is my public persona, like a costume I can put on when I want to, and she is fearless. But the private Kelly is just as screwed up as everyone else. She has self-esteem issues. She doesn't like to make small talk. She is not a fan of crowds. She's had insomnia since high school that is entirely anxiety-based. She's afraid of flying, travel, highway construction, frogs, the ocean, hurricanes, the extreme Christian Right, aging, showing weakness, and homelessness. She also hates writing about herself in the third person.

I think what Sara did with her show is merge the two - her public and private Saras. And I hope to be able to do that myself someday, without judgment, without fear, and hopefully with a few laughs.

And one last thing: When I got a note via Facebook from Sara herself telling me she was a fangirl of mine and has been reading my essays for years, I almost fell out of my chair. It's the most flattered I've been in months and I think I'm going to spend the entire weekend riding that high.

Manufactured productivity...

After spending four months in a high-pressure, 24/7, getting-up-at-5am-to-read-the-news-online job, I clearly had adrenaline withdrawal. Which looks something like the following:

*Wake up at 8am. Roll over. Go back to sleep.
*Wake up again at 10am. Spend 30 minutes deciding whether or not to get out of bed.
*Get out of bed and make coffee (no need for auto brew now that I don't set alarm for 6am).
*Halfheartedly drink coffee, check email, and end up playing umpteen games of spider solitaire.
*Cold. Make a fire in fireplace. Try to do some writing, but it's so waaarrrrrrm now.
*Shut down computer before noon and nap.
*Wake up around 3. Hate daytime television. If no food in house, go to store. If lazy, call for chinese takeout.
*Consider taking a second nap around 6pm. So. Tired.
*Eat, don't eat, don't care.
*TV is boring, try to read. Reading is boring. Watch TV.
*Phone rings. Don't even get up to answer...they'll leave a message.
*Remember back in college when you used to get high and watch cartoons. Feel nostalgic. Do that.
*Adult Swim is on Cartoon Network until at least 2am.
Repeat.

OK, so there's been a holiday in between and I actually have done a good job of keeping up with dishes and laundry, but none of that takes as much time as a 12-hour day working on a political campaign. And since four months is enough time to develop a habit, you know it's really over when political news on CNN or MSNBC just sounds like noise. Boring noise.

I was supposed to "take it easy" between now and the end of the year. That was the plan. But "taking it easy" shouldn't mean "sleep all effing day long." I think that's a symptom of depression, or in my case, adrenaline withdrawal. I need something else- a deadline, a crisis (not wishing, Universe, hear?), or a $750 bill for 30,000-mile maintenance on my Honda - to get my ass off the couch and start working again.

This week I started getting it together. I made an appointment for my car (see above "maintenance on my Honda." I committed to having lunch with a friend next week. I called my sister just to talk. I've had several conversations with friends and family about whether or not I should get a puppy (working from home again = perfect opportunity, no?). I paid all of my bills early. I bought stamps. I did some "real" grocery shopping (meaning not just dinner, but a week or more of meals), I updated my resume, I called Earthlink for the umpteenth time about my slow-ass "fast-access DSL" that I pay $65 a month for (finally got a straight answer on that one instead of them selling me another modem: slowdown is from "additional customers in broadband area and they are going to expand my line." Hello, could you have told me this a YEAR ago when I first starting calling about it? Pissed off.), updated Netflix queue, wrote a couple of blog posts, had lunch with mom and sister and nephew, downloaded Hemingway short stories on audio vols 1, 2 and 3 and listen while cleaning house, and once this week I made my bed.

There is still much to do. I have a guest room that needs cleaning, holiday shopping, puppy shopping, and need to start writing again regularly - even if only in the form of blog posts here.

Sometimes my notes from the Universe are so spot on I worry that the Universe can read my mind...

Today's Note from the Universe:

Always keep in mind, Kelly Love, that no matter what has happened, you did the very best you could.

And so did those who may have let you down.

Love,
The Universe

Weeeeeired.

Incongruities...

Sometimes entire weeks feel like a battle between Me and Me. I constantly fight not to turn inward, inward, inward. It's self-obsession to the nth degree, as if that level of scrutiny could possibly make me better, smarter, or happier. I must get something out of it, or I wouldn't do it, right?

I often wonder if I have some kind of mental illness that makes me incapable of communicating with others on a deep and lasting level (because it occurs to me every now and then that even my family and closest friends don't know the "real" me). But I communicate for a living.

I surprise myself by occasionally dreaming about people I've only met once or twice or people who are under my invisi-square radar. That must mean I pay more attention to others than I think I do.

I hate cherry-flavored things (they taste like cough syrup to me), but I love fresh cherries and will eat them by the bagful in the summertime.

I wish I could just write books and not have to worry about the other part, like actually marketing and selling them.

I'd like to be in a committed relationship, but I'm not willing to work at it.

I judge people most harshly for things I am guilty of myself.

I wear shoes that I love even though they hurt me.

What matters is saying yes...

When people ask me how to get their articles/essays/books published, how they can get a job like mine, how I get my ideas, or how they can write for a living, I never know what to say. I spent a long time not working on my own projects and resenting and being jealous of the creativity of others. A couple of years ago, I read the following quote:

"Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a f***load of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but, Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes."
~Dave Eggers, The Harvard Advocate

Now every time I hear that little voice in my head telling me I can't do something as well as this person or that person, or that it's going to be a long time before I'm the next Joan Didion, I respond with a simple "yes." Forget everyone else and focus on your own. Eggers is right; it is a lot of work. But it's worth it.

I eat caution for breakfast…

A friend recently told me that I should stop putting warning labels on myself. He said I enter new relationships with clauses, footnotes, and sidebars full of messages that all seem to say, “Enter at your own risk.”

This is what I do now:
I am not easy to get along with. I am not a morning person. I have a quick temper. I sometimes say spiteful things to people I really care about. I do not suffer fools gladly. Sometimes I feel like I’m held together with filament and wax and all it takes is hearing Verve Pipe song on the radio and I’m guilt stricken sobbing with my head on the floor. I end relationships for no reason. A lot of people think I’m a bitch. I don’t want to change. In short: If this doesn’t work, you can’t say you didn’t know what you’re getting into. Be afraid.

What I should say:
I laugh a lot. I am smart. I am kind. I am generous to a fault. None of my friends think I’m a bitch. I’m fun and I like to stay up late. I make up words and catch phrases. I am open to new things. I move on easily. I have a poor short-term memory, therefore I seldom hold grudges. I do not own a dishwasher because I like to sing while washing dishes. I am quick. I don’t cry a lot. I am financially independent. In short: I’m a catch.

It’s all in the way we think about ourselves, isn’t it?

The best metaphor for being a writer...

“The best metaphor I know of for being a writer...is in Don DeLillo’s Mao II, where he describes the book-in-progress as a kind of hideously damaged infant that follows the writer around, forever crawling after the writer (i.e. dragging itself across the floor of restaurants where the writer is trying to eat, appearing at the foot of the writer’s bed first thing in the morning, etc.), hideously defective, hydrocephalic and noseless and flipper-armed and incontinent and retarded and dribbling cerebro-spinal fluid out of its mouth as it mewls and blurbles and cries out to the writer, wanting love, wanting the very thing its hideousness guarantees it’ll get: the writer’s complete attention.”
~David Foster Wallace talks about writing Infinite Jest, 1997.

Foster says that the damaged infant metaphor is perfect because “it captures the mix of repulsion and love the fiction writer feels for something he’s working on.” You do not have the same level of freedom as other people, yet you seldom resent the responsibility you must carry because of the love you feel for the child/writing. When you do resent it, Foster says, “you hate it - hate it...because its deformity is your deformity.”
I understand feeling like the work is always in progress. I understand feeling that there are not enough hours in a day to make the work stand up and do its own thing. You want other people to see/read your child/writing and see the beauty and perfection, not the deformity. You spend more time taking ugliness and imperfection and dressing it so that it flows and is beautiful than you do actually writing.

This I understand.