You are here October 30, 2009

It’s been unseasonably chilly here in Austin especially at night and I’ve been freezing. I refused to unpack my comforter and I refuse to turn on the heat.

Instead, to warm up I turn on the gas oven in the kitchen to heat up the room. I was furious about the hot room when I moved in August.  I turn on the hot shower ten minutes before I get in to warm up the room. Yes, I know that’s not good for the environment.  I’ve been freezing at night, my cotton blanket, a little wool throw, another little throw, thermal shirt and sweats, thick socks, balled up as small and tight as I can get, not keeping the cold away. So my teeth chatter and skin hurts and I never get warm. The house stays frosty even when the temperature is warm outside.

How did I let turning the heat on become this huge thing? Why am I doing this to myself? The short answer is: I’m insane.  It’s really a handy catchall at this point. A more telling answer is:  I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in this space. I don’t want to admit that time is passing by and seasons are changing. I want to pretend I can put my life in some kind of sci fi stasis until I close on the house and move to that perfect “here”. So I torture myself by freezing myself, not practicing, not cooking, telling myself that it’s just a couple more weeks, like I’m traveling for work. But none of this changes the fact that I’m still in this house.

Last night my friend said to me “Turn the heat on. You used the A/C; it’s the same system. Just turn the heat on.”  Thank god for friends. I’m warm. I am here. Now.

brief wondrous life October 29, 2009

I read this the other day and it made me realize two things:

1. I don’t have the tenacity to stick to anything for 10 months, let alone 10 years, and
2. I’m not really a writer or yogi or meditator, if I’m not doing it, if I’m not practicing.

I haven’t been meditating, I haven’t been practicing yoga (much), and I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been practicing. I’m in limbo, I tell myself, I’m still waiting to close on the house, the house that I want so much, I have to make up excuses not to want it. Instead I’ve just been waiting. Waiting for the house with the perfect rooms to write and meditate and do yoga.

Waiting is the opposite of practice. If I’m not practicing, I’m waiting. And there’s never a good reason to wait.

Limbo October 18, 2009

I don’t close on the house for a month. However I’m about 90% packed and the waiting is torturing me. Especially since I haven’t found a renter yet for the duplex. I don’t feel at home, so I don’t really want to start any new routines here. At the same time this is a month of my life and I don’t want to waste it just waiting.

October is my favorite month. It’s the most beautiful when fall really takes hold and the heat of summer lets go completely. The light is most beautiful the most dramatic, rays of sun hitting everything at the most flattering angle. I want to enjoy it, delight in it. But I wake up every morning waiting, holding my breath, jaw set, tense, trying to convince myself I have to live in the moment and not wait to do anything.

Weekday mornings are fairly easy, getting ready for work involves the same things all the time: brush teeth, water, coffee, wash face, dress, gather various food and bags, leave with keys. The weekends are harder. The duplex has a shared washer/dryer in the detached garage. For me laundry has become a huge once a week thing. Getting up on Saturday or Sunday morning and racing to get it done.  Two loads every week, one clothes, one sheets and towels, washed and dried by noon, with various errands or trips during the two hour-long drying cycles. For some reason I can’t seem be relaxed about it.

Whenever I think about moving into the new house I stop myself, because if I don’t get the house I don’t want my world to end. I keep thinking of The Passion Test. When you list your passions, you add at the bottom “This or something better.” So, this house or something better.  I also don’t think about the house because when I do I start to think, “in 20 years, when I’m 63, I still will not have paid off this house. And I won’t be anywhere near retirement. And I wonder if I’ll have actually survived the apocalypse.”  It’s really not a good way to think.

So it’s a combination of thinking that way about the house and thinking I’ll never find a renter for the duplex. Actually it’s more Purgatory than limbo. I’m really bitter about having to put forth effort to find a renter. But I’ve decided that even if I don’t get the house I’ll still look for a renter for the duplex, and moving out as soon as I’ve found one. I’ll go month to month today and put up flyers, but I really don’t want to. I’d rather go for a long walk in the park. I’d enjoy that.

Austin October 4, 2009

I’ve lived in Austin 7 years, October 2nd was my anniversary.  I’ve never been to ACL. I always say I’ve never heard of any of the bands, but then co-workers hum a few bars of a song and I realize I know it well.  It’s usually so hot and dusty this time of year (yes I know it’s September but this is Austin). The idea of standing out in a huge field all day, dirty and sweaty, with porta potties for relief never really appeals to me for some reason. And this year it’s raining, so, No.  South by Southwest in the spring is a total mystery to me too.  It’s o.k. though. I didn’t move to Austin for the music. I’m still not sure why I moved here. Austin called to me, some siren song that drove me mad as long as I resisted it.

And now it’s asking me to stay, to make a long-term commitment, in the guise of buying a home. Now. I made the decision to buy the Tuesday morning after Labor Day. That wasn’t even four weeks ago. I knew the house I wanted to buy by that Friday. I think this is the equivalent of meeting someone and then a month into the relationship flying to Vegas to get married (which by the way I’m sure is how I’ll get married, although honestly I hope it’s Paris instead. Paris, France not The Paris in Vegas).

This is all very unexpected because less than a year ago I’d made up my mind to move back to Florida. Looking back at that decision, I think I just wanted to call someplace home, but I was still afraid to call Austin home.  My whole family is in Florida and after so many years I still have so few friends in Austin. Who do I call if my car breaks down and I need a ride? What if I have to go to the hospital? I’m not comfortable asking friends to do that for me. I’m not comfortable asking for anything really.

I didn’t celebrate my anniversary. I spent most of Friday trying to let go of wishful thinking, like a renter would suddenly appear and want to move in immediately, so I could rid myself of the burden of this apartment and have money to spend decorating my new house, PleaseGod PleaseGod PleaseGod PleaseGod PleaseGod. By days end I was accepting the fact (or was that just resignation?) that I might have to carry a huge debt from the rent, but I was pretty confident that I could pick up some extra jobs even in this economy. Who needs sleep, right?

Yesterday I wallowed in self pity. Wo is me!  Although I have to admit I haven’t slept well in weeks and I had an awful headache, still, I knew it was mostly self pity and I realized it had been resignation the day before. I was still hoping someone would come by and fall in love with apartment and want to move in immediately!  But it’s not the right time of year; it’s a slow market in general; it’s a fairly expensive rental. It’s (probably) not going to happen. I put “probably” in there because there’s a fine line between being realistic and calling in negative stuff. So let me be clear:

I want to rent this apartment before November 11th, the closing date for buying my house.

But I also want to be realistic and prepare for the worst, like no one renting it before then. Or at all. Ever. O.k. now I’ve gone too far.

tragedy of the anxious October 2, 2009

Understanding the Anxious Mind examines scientific studies on anxiety, especially the studies of Jerome Kagan, and his former students, who’re seeing a lot of evidence that anxious adults were probably anxious babies.

The article suggests some “are just born worriers, their brains forever anticipating the dropping of some dreaded other shoe.”  That’s totally me. IF something really good happens to me, something really bad has to happen. It’s like the universe insists that my life balance out into some sort of mediocre stasis.

One of my favorite lines in the article comes when they’re describing anxiety disorders. These studies aren’t talking about “garden-variety worriers”, those “who are sure that a phone call in the middle of the night means someone is dead.”  First of all, are there really people who don’t immediately think someone’s dead when the phone rings at 3am? I can’t imagine. Who are these people?!!!?

I’ve always considered myself a really anxious person, but maybe I’m not.  Like right now I don’t think I have Swine Flu even though it’s raging through Austin.  I usually don’t think I have cancer unless I find a lump or blood where it shouldn’t be. Then of course I freak out, but then so do the doctors… but I digress.

The other reason I think, after reading this article, I may be garden-variety is because I was not an anxious baby.  As I hear it I was abnormally calm as a baby.  My mom is always saying my sister was a typical baby, cried all night, blah blah blah. But I slept through the night from infancy (not knowing any better, my mom says she would wake me up in the middle of the night to feed me until my grandfather, a doctor, said Don’t do that!); I wasn’t all fussy and was perfectly calm unless something major happened, like my aunt biting my cheeks too much because they were just so adorably fat.

Jezebel has a great post about the article.  Anna N. (the poster) is wary of good things too.  “I tend to become especially anxious after something good happens to me, as though I deserve something bad to even it out.”   But Anna feels comforted that there might be some physiological reason for her anxiety.  I don’t.  Now more than ever I’m convinced that I do this all to myself.  Where is that calm I had as a completely helpless baby?

Don’t forget to read the comments on Jezebel.  Some of the best points are there. I can’t seem to find it online now (taken down?) but one commenter thinks that her anxiety comes from being told “ridiculous scenarios to scare me into compliance and it manifests as me constantly worrying about ‘what if…’”

I know that feeling well. Much of my anxiety is social. I’m constantly aware that people are judging me. And don’t try to tell me no one’s paying attention or it doesn’t matter, because they are and it does. To an extent. I think getting over this kind of anxiety is a matter of knowing people are judging but not letting it stop you from living your life as you want to live it.

risking it all October 1, 2009

How do you know when to risk it all?

Or at least some of it? Last night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for the, oh I don’t know, 14th night in a row, I tried to apply some self help stuff to my current situation. My current situation is: I’ve found a house to buy, but I just started a fairly expensive lease on a house ( let’s call it an “apartment” for clarity’s sake). The ideal of course would be to get the apartment leased to some other sucker someone else, which is exactly what I’m trying to do. But to no avail. The leasing market seems to have collapsed and there’s a glut of overpriced product. So I’m faced with either pulling out of buying my dream house, or buying it and being up to about $15,000 in debt for rest of the lease which has 10 months left on it.

I knew I was taking a risk when I put the offer on the house.  And I would not be in this situation if the apartment had not been cleaned properly and painted and baby roaches hadn’t been crawling on my towel after a shower. I would not have looked.  I did not expect to want a house as badly as I seem to now.  Maybe it’s misplaced anger about the apartment and my desire to escape it that compels me to take this risk. But as I was thinking about how I could escape this apartment it occurred to me that I didn’t want to move anymore, that the weird little city of Austin was home.

I’ve been running away from home for 25 years, the idea of home more accurately. The idea of being stuck with rules and fears of doing anything that might bring any negative attention, which is everything by the way.  I was not beaten, I wasn’t abused. It just stifling.  And it was my goal to get out, and not live by those rules and fears.

So I’ve found the perfect house to buy in Austin, but I’m stuck in an apartment, with no renters in sight. These two things are driving me insane. Actually it’s not those things driving me insane. It’s me driving me insane. When I think about buying the house I assume, naturally, that the second I buy it, there will be another housing crash and it will be worth half as much as when I bought it. Or I think, logically, what if the neighborhood goes down and I have to barricade myself in my home because of the violence and lawlessness outside my door. How would I survive, alone. In my head it’s all very Mad Max, with gang members in mohawked plumage (Is there anything scarier than an angry person with a mohawk running toward you?  As soon as you see them, you have to know they’re used to making bad decisions). I could easily have thought of any inner city in decline in the Crack 80s, but no. The images my mind came up with are Mel Gibson raging across the Australian desert fighting off crazed survivors of the apocalypse.

Buying my (now) dream house is the smaller of the two fears. Getting the apartment leased is really the Big Fear. What happens if I don’t get it leased by the time I buy the house? I can’t afford the mortgage and the rent. What will happen? I imagine police coming to my new house to arrest me for breaking the lease, theft really, robbing my landlord of thousands of dollars; the once beautiful house falling almost immediately into disrepair because every extra cent I have is spent paying the rent; working multiple, low wage jobs to pay for the apartment years after I bought the still unfurnished house; and years, nay, decades later I still have credit card debt from this one lone, perhaps impulsive decision.

You can not top me when it comes to thinking the worst! I’m willing to bet money on that. It’s this constant turning over of ideas about the worst case scenario that drives me nuts, each repetition containing more ruin and humiliation. I’m aware of these thoughts, don’t get me wrong. I stop them. I breath. I even laugh at them because they’re so completely ridiculous. Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome. Seriously? For crying out loud Tina Turner was in that.

But then I come back to the choices I’m making and I start to question them. Why do I want this house? Why now? There will be other houses for sale in a year, maybe even a $8000 tax credit as well. Why can’t I just wait?

And here’s what I answer: For the first time in my life I want to call a place home. That’s groundbreaking. And on the last day of my 10 Day Option Period, that’s what’s making me go forward with buying my dream house.

home, finally September 15, 2009

25 days ago I moved into this house, a rental in the perfect location, lots of space and windows and hardwood floors, a place to practice. It was exactly what I wanted.

25 days later I’ve found a house I want to buy, nowhere near here, with smallish rooms but a righteous kitchen. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I wanted.

The house I’m in now is an old house with great bones, but I can’t make it mine. I kept thinking if I owned this place there’s so much I could do with it. I could turn it into something great. I’ve been carrying a paint color card (soothing green tea) for weeks, even though I know I can’t paint. It’s in the lease.

This move never felt right. I saved every box and piece of bubble wrap and I didn’t unpack everything. And what I did unpack I didn’t necessarily put up. I kept waiting. I’ll wait until I’ve cleaned everything. I’ll wait until I’ve lined all the shelves. I’ll wait until pest control comes. I’ll wait until the weekend, no not that one, the holiday weekend, the next one, yeah, that one.  I knew I wasn’t staying.

This house needs someone to love it.  The back room, where I’m writing this, is spacious with windows on three sides. It’s the perfect place for practice: meditation, yoga, writing. But it’s not for me.

I’m not buying because it’s a good investment or a buyer’s market. I’m buying because I want a home of my own. Because that place I can make mine. No in-between place. Something to paint any color I want, even soothing green tea. I think I’ve found home, finally.

Asking permission September 6, 2009

Right now, in this moment, my life seems full of things I don’t want to deal with. That’s been the past couple of weeks. In a new place, still putting away the pieces of my life, but not seeing a whole, never seeing the whole. Each piece I put up still has a thin coating of regret and disappointment I can’t seem to wipe off:  I know this won’t bring me the life I want, I wish I had the life to use this more, I think I made a mistake.

The other day at the end of the yoga class I teach at work, my young colleague asked if I was teaching anywhere else. I’m not. I talked in circles about how I just hadn’t gotten around to it, blah blah blah. And then she said this: “Well if you really wanted to do this you’d be doing it. Right?”  I nodded my head because the affirmative was the only logical response to that question.

Let’s discover a passion! And then do everything to hide that passion, make it contingent on some other factor, make it a footnote in life instead of the major text. That’s the type of person I am. My desire for something automatically makes it off limits, unattainable.

I should at least ask, right? Honestly, what’s the worse that can happen?  “No. Who do you think you are? You can’t have this. What made you even ask? You’re so obviously not good enough!” All said in a look, or the avoidance of a look, thus confirming my lifelong suspicions.  Yes, I know this is insane. I know I can’t possibly know all of that. I know I can’t read minds. And I know I’m making assumptions, but… I am a self help addict after all and this is how we think. If I didn’t think like this I probably wouldn’t need to read all these books.

So how should I think instead? So I can step away from the fully loaded Kindle? I think I may have the whole asking-for-what-I-want thing backwards. I think I need to ask others to give me something, a job, love, joy. Instead I need to ask myself for more, ask myself for what I want, give myself permission.

Let me just say off the bat that this theory is wrong. Why?  The whole idea of asking for permission, for approval, is based on someone else – who knows more, has more, frankly is just better – giving it. That’s not me. Or is it? Maybe I know more, have more and am better than I believe. Maybe the first step is asking myself for permission – and giving it – before I go into the world and ask for anything.

That’s an interesting idea.

the old place September 2, 2009

I’m in a new place now, a new house, duplex, apartment whatever you want to call it.  It’s been two weeks of limbo, settled no where, when the new place still feels foreign and unknown, but the old place is missing every major element except the feeling that it’s home.

I loved my old place. It was a perfect apartment. Bright, shiny, new. Every convenience. Fireplace, balcony with a view of sky, ridiculous bathroom and closets. When I moved there I was coming off some of the best years of my life, the most fun years maybe I should say, finally in my late 30s having fun, and I thought that apartment would be the icing on the cake. But almost as soon as I moved in all the fun ended. I was sick while I lived there. Symptoms and surgeries and procedures and worrying. Allergies causing true illness instead of just annoyance or discomfort. How many times did my mother come from Florida to take care of me? But I was never sick in a way that truly threatened my life. I was sick in a way that woke me up.

I could never hate the old place, that onetime home of mine, because that’s where I lived when I found yoga. After all those self help books, all those years of reading one after another, feeling the fear and still not doing it anyway, focusing on the second chakra when it was the third all along, not loving anything that is and taking everything personally, becoming aware of some things but not others, and doing mostly nothing about either, yoga brought it all together.

In the bright, shiny, new, old place I listened to my own voice more than at any other time in my life. Listened to the truth of it no matter what it said, no matter the consequences. That doesn’t always mean I always did the right thing or the best thing or the brave thing, but at least I could listen even though I was afraid, terrified.  I heard what I am, not what I’m becoming or what I want to be, but what I am. Now I just have to admit it, say it, be honest about it.  Maybe I can do that in the new place.

Morning Person August 14, 2009

Why am I not writing? Well obviously I’m writing; I’m writing this. But why am I not writing the self help addicts book? I haven’t been working on it lately; the work i’s sporadic and I can’t for the life of me seem to post the reviews of the three books I’ve chosen for the sample chapter. I don’t know why. Well… maybe I do. Fear is probably in the mix. Writing then taking it apart and re-writing. Again and again. The idea of it is daunting, but I don’t want to get this far and then put it down again, and wait another two years to work on it, again.

About six months ago I started to get up at 5:30 to write a novel because I read Walter Mosley’s book, This Year You Write Your Novel. Have you ever read a book that made something seem imminently doable? This is the book. I’ve read writing books before, most of them self help books, but this one was so slim, so direct, that each sentence seemed undeniable. Write every day. Every Day. At least an hour and a half.

When I read that I knew that the only way I could do it was to get up at 5:30am, get some coffee and set a timer for 90 minutes. And that’s what I did. At first it seemed incredibly early, I had to drag myself out of bed. But then the coffee would taste good, and I would write something, the shitty first draft stuff, just basically venting about whatever, but giving people different names and changing their hair color.  I got up every morning without fail and wrote.

A couple of months ago the writing changed so I could finish up the self help addicts book that I had abandoned for two years, but I figured the same rules applied: get up every morning and write.  Now, I’ve let the writing go.

But I still get up early, my eyes still open at about 5:20 in anticipation of starting a new day, even when my mind just wants to hunker down and stay in bed for whatever reason it can think of. Then I make promises to myself. Well I’ll get up now, but I have to meditate and practice yoga or I have to write a post for the blog. This morning I stayed in bed but I clearly wanted to write because I grabbed my journal, leaning on my left, using my arm as a pillow and writing parts of what you just read, writing like I did for years without editing, just the shitty first drafts.