Introverted Extrovert

Whenever I make a new friend, somewhere innocuous like the soccer sidelines, or a new neighbor, (as opposed to through a recovery, business or internet connection where someone already knows me, or knows of me) there is inevitably that moment.   The one where they say, "and what do you do"?

One of my first-ever blog posts ranted about the awkwardness of this seemingly innocent interrogative.  Back in my single working days this question never gave me pause.  "I'm a Blahbity Blah" I'd rattle off without thinking, my identify safely wrapped up in my Job Title Du Jour.

Becoming a full time Mom added a layer of puzzlement on how to answer this.  I hated how often I felt the question mark at the end of my reply, when I'd mumble out "I'm a Mom?"  Sometimes I'd even say, "I'm just a Mom", as if the merits of raising a child were lacking in some key way.

After I started my jewelry business, the question mark still loomed:  I make jewelry? 

When a person expressed an interest in learning more about this, I struggled.  I didn't own my creativity, refusing to believe I was an artist of any kind.  "Oh, it's no big deal," I'd say.  "It's just a little Etsy shop.  Something to keep me from getting too bored."

Blogging added another layer of complexity, especially five years ago when more than half the people would say, "You're a what?? What's a blogger?"

Again the question mark reared its ugly head. "Um, I write about my life on the internet?"

This was almost always met with a puzzled expression and a "Why?"

Back then I didn't know why.  It was just something I couldn't not do, but that answer seemed ridiculous.  And blogging carried for me more than a whiff of narcissism, of navel gazing.  I couldn't understand why I blogged any more than I could understand why on earth anyone would read it.

The awkwardness factor ratcheted up a notch when, left unsatisfied from my self-deprecating mumbling response to why I blog, the person would inquire, understandably, "well, what do you blog about?"

"Well, er, I'm an alcoholic in recovery, and I write about that," I'd sputter, bracing for the person's head to jerk back, for them to stare into the middle distance and concoct an excuse to walk away.

Most people had this response, because the of the uncomfortable vibe radiating from my pores; if I felt embarrassed about it, they felt embarrassed for me.

Little by little, my jewelry business and blog grew, but my self-deprecating manner did not keep pace with the public response.  I'd frame my answer to the what-do-you-do question with "Well, I'm a Mom and kind of a writer. Oh, and I make jewelry."

I wouldn't hand over the business cards I carried in my purse, feeling that was to pushy. If they asked for a card, I'd give them one with a tentative smile.  "You totally don't need to buy anything," I would say, as if that person possessed no free will.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Then I founded my non-profit, Shining Strong, encompassing all my internet outreach projects that were growing by the day:  The Bubble Hour podcast, Crying Out Now, and my advocacy work with other organizations working in recovery advocacy.  And I started my Arbonne business.

Still - STILL - I stumbled over how to answer the what-do-you-do question.  It all came tumbling out in one vomitous reply: I-run-a-non-profit-and-make-jewelry-and-blog-and-am-an-Arbonne-consultant?  And a Mom of two kids?

The middle-distance stare. The shuffling feet. The poor person wouldn't have the first clue how to respond to my rapid fire and apologetic answer that landed at their feet like a stone.

About a year ago, I wrote about this phenomenon in my post Killing The Question Mark. I was preparing to meet Brene Brown, of Daring Greatly fame, and I was trying to own my successes without apology. I sound all put together-n-shit in that post, but the only reason I gave a copy of my book to Brene Brown was that my Mom brought one. I left mine at home, feeling too sheepish about self-promotion.  To Brene Brown, for crying out loud, the QUEEN of overcoming shame and embracing vulnerability.  The question mark came lurching back like a zombie from a bad B movie.

Now Shining Strong is really growing.  I incorporated as a non-profit. I have a fantastic board of directors, and a gorgeous and informative website, thanks to the talents of my friend Amanda.

Suddenly I find myself standing in front of rooms of people, or being interviewed online, or advocating for The Anonymous People,  a movement all about owning your recovery and speaking unabashedly about your recovery to help others.

The critics are loud in my head, but only I can give them power over me.  Only I can allow them to fuel my Question Mark Syndrome.  They are a minority. Most people are a combination of curious and supportive about Shining Strong's mission.  The question mark is weighing me down, and starting to smack of false modesty.


I have always been an introverted extrovert.  Talking to me you would likely never know that I am cringing inside a lot of the time: do I sound like an egomaniac? Am I making sense? Are you bored? Did you just look at your watch? Do you like me? 

I don't know that the introverted extrovert will ever go away. I am learning to love her, to embrace her and tell her: "It's going to be okay. You're not an egomaniac, and the mission is worthwhile".   Now and again someone in person, or through the grapevine, or on the internet, will criticize my efforts to raise money for Shining Strong. Or even my jewelry business, implying that I'm hawking my recovery to make money.

That hurts, and the question mark gains power.

But in my heart, I know that's not true. I named my non-profit in memory of my Dad (my maiden name is Strong) who gave back to the communities he served his whole life.  My Dad doesn't want me to cringe. My Mom is my biggest cheerleader, carrying the flag for me at every opportunity.  My best friend is now in recovery with me and is as essential to me as oxygen.

It's time to kill the question mark for good.

I will advocate now and again on this blog. I will talk about the mission I believe so strongly in.  I will even, on occasion, ask for financial help if you can spare it. I will often ask for help spreading the word.

And, just recently, when I met my brand-new neighbor at the end of our driveway as we waited for the bus with our kids, and she asked me, "what do you do?"

I smiled and said "I'm a Recovery Advocate and an Entrepreneur, when I'm not Mom-ing, which is most of the time".

She smiled back, and said, "Tell me, what is Recovery Advocacy?"

And so I did.

I even gave her my business card.

All The Things*

The bus rumbles away and I walk into my house and stand there in a daze.

I have so much to do I don't even know where to start.

My life is very full at the moment, brimming over with amazing endeavors, and every minute of every day is jam packed.  I'm loving my new Arbonne business; it is connecting me to old friends and making me new ones at the same time.  My jewelry business is thriving, which in turn raises funds for Shining Strong, the new non-profit I launched last week.  I realized recently that I'm running four websites along with my three businesses.  Add the hectic schedule of two school aged kids, running a household and trying to maintain my self-care regime to the mix, and it gets overwhelming. 

Someone I just met the other day asked me what I do for a living and I just stood there, open mouthed, unsure of where exactly to start.

"I'm a Mom," I said, because it seemed simplest.  As the words left my mouth I felt a tug of guilt in my gut. These days parenting is crammed into my schedule between the cracks of All The Things.

I'm happy - almost deliriously so. This, of course, makes my inner Panic Monkey nervous, waiting for the other shoe to fall.  Another inner tug of guilt: can't you just sit back and enjoy the moment? What is wrong with you? 

There is the undercurrent of anxiety of waiting for the follow-up procedure of removing more tissue around the site of Greta's suspicious mole.  She is an emotional roller coaster these days - up, then down - giddy with happiness and then crying for "no reason". 

I'm leaving tomorrow morning at 3am for a very early flight for a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas for an Arbonne conference, coming back on the red eye Saturday night. Tonight is a Book Club event with a local organization to talk about Let Me Get This Straight.

I'm not packed. I have orders to fill, schedules to button up for the kids and a mountain of laundry to fold.

I feel the stress well up inside me, threaten to burst through at any moment.  I want to curl up in a ball, but instead I find a quiet corner and focus on my breath.

Sitting still, I breathe in and out, and watch my thoughts float by.  All The Things tumble around in my consciousness: logistics, emotions, images of Greta's face crumpled with worry. 

Breathe, I think, even as my diaphragm tightens with anxiety.

My mind reaches back, mulling over where I was this time last year, weak from the cancer treatments that hadn't yet released their grip on me.  The stubborn lump in my neck was still there, more operations were needed.

A day like today was unfathomable back then.  A busy day last year at this time entailed mustering the strength to see my kids off on the bus.

I'm hit with the odd sensation that I kind of miss those days of forced rest.  I have such a hard time with enough.  Then, of course, guilt for even thinking this way.

Should I be doing this much? I ponder this thought for a while.  I realize the dreaded "s" word, should, has come back into my life.  Should took a hiatus during my illness, when the center of my universe was Healing.

The answer, I realize, is I don't know.  I don't how much is too much.  Is it because I'm an alcoholic?  Am I overdosing on busy?  Perhaps.  But All The Things are important, and I don't want to let go of a single one.

Just do the next right thing, my Recovery Voice tells me.   But they are all Right Things, my Panic Monkey protests.  Laundry? Orders? Dishes? Email? Meditation? Exercise?  Packing? How on earth do I know what to do?

I sit a while longer and wait for my mind to quiet. Eventually it slows, and I think:  write.

~~~~~~~

*All The Things concept credited to Hyperbole and A Half and her post "This Is Why I'll Never Be An Adult" - one of the funniest and most poignant blog posts ever.

The Sprinter and The Trudger

I blow the steam away from the surface of my coffee, anticipating its creamy roasted goodness with a smile.

It's a rare afternoon with no pressing deadlines, no plans, no structure. Sleet spits against the window, blurring the grey and white landscape outside.

I feel poised on the edge of something. I used to feel this way all the time, like a runner hunched over waiting for the gun to go off.  Lately, though, the forced lazy pace of snow days and sick days has unfurled my inner sprinter, forced her to lay low.

Today, for some reason, she's up and itchy, wanting to move forward, press on towards the Next Thing.

What is that Next Thing going to be? I think, with some trepidation.

Cancer honed my ability to live in the day, the moment, which is mostly a blessing.  Thinking about tomorrow, or next week, or next month, when you're in the throes of cancer feels wrong, like testing the fates unnecessarily.

When is it time to move on?  Is the answer never?  Is the answer now?

I had a good natured disagreement with my friend Courtney a while back, about the expression "trudging the road to happy destiny".  I told her it annoyed me, this expression, because I think of trudging as a negative - something you have to do, not something you want to do.  Trudging connoted, for me, feeling the heavy weight of each burdensome step.

She laughed and said she couldn't disagree more.  "Trudging is walking with purpose," she said.  "It's one of my favorite expressions.  When you don't know what else to do? Walk forward with purpose. It works."

She's like this, Courtney.  A casual conversation with her is peppered with all sorts of profound wisdom. She doesn't seem to notice, which makes me adore her even more.

I've been thinking about trudging differently since then.  I trudged my way though early recovery - twice. I trudged my way through the sudden death of my father and the grieving aftermath. I trudged my way through cancer.  I'm trudging my way through a winter clogged with fierce weather and stuffy noses.  Looking back on the past two years, it was trudging that got me through.  Moving through each moment with only one purpose:  keep going.

When I think of trudging, I picture my head down, keeping my view on just the few feet in front of me. This isn't a bad thing, I've come to understand.  Breaking the pace of life into individual footsteps is so contrary to how I lived my life for so long - eyes squarely fixed on the horizon and missing so much that was right under my nose.

So what's next? my inner sprinter wants to know.  Is it the completion of Shining Strong, the non-profit company I'm building?  Is it growing The Bubble Hour even more?  Is it finally writing that book?  What if my cancer comes back? Now that I know how quickly life can change on a dime, do I dare dream?

I feel the anxiety and impatience willing up inside me.  The antidote?  Trudging. Walk forward with purpose, with my eyes focused only on the next few steps.  The outcome has never been up to me, anyway, it just took the cage-rattling experiences of the past two years to make me understand this.

And so I trudge. Every now and then I indulge in a glance back over my shoulder and I think: wow - one step at a time and I've gotten farther than I thought possible. 

Evey now and then I glace up ahead, and think: I wonder what's up there?

My sprinter stamps her feet impatiently, urging me to get there - wherever there is - faster.   It's harder to trudge than to sprint, I tell her.  But it's worth it.

Blink

The little black cursor line blinks at me; the white page mocks me with its silence.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

I close my eyes and breathe, parsing through the past week and trying to remember one moment or other that stands out.  Nothing.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The fire in the wood stove crackles contentedly, the belly of the stove casts a comforting orange glow.  The dog sighs.

I absentmindedly reach down and scratch her head, thinking over the vet's words on Saturday: She's an old dog. We see problems in her blood work.  Maybe there are things we can do, likely expensive things, but like I said she's an old dog.  So it's up to you.

She flicks her eyes up at me with a grateful look and I marvel for the millionth time over her long white lashes.  Twelve years old.  She's slower moving around, now, but not in pain.  I'll enjoy the time I have with her while she's here, this fluffy white companion who has been with me longer than my children.

The phone rings, and my heart sinks. I don't want to talk to anyone, but realize it might be the school calling, so I reluctantly unfold my body from the soft warmth of my writing chair and pad over to the phone.  Unknown caller.  I use the interruption to top off my coffee cup and cradle my hands around the mug as I make my way back to the chair.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

My email pings and I resist the urge to check.  Whatever it is can wait. I feel an aching in my gut, the source of which I can't quite pinpoint.

I think of the text, about a friend whose cancer has spread.  My mind wanders to my own near future, the series of check-ups I have scheduled over the coming weeks, and I feel a twinge of fear, then guilt, for converting my worries for her into unfounded worries for myself.

My phone beeps.  A text.  Perhaps I'm late for something. Maybe that's the source of the vague sense of uneasiness I feel.

I smile, remembering a phone call with a friend yesterday.  We laughed good naturedly at our futile attempts to figure out the complexities of life, choice and time.  We're either really dumb or really wise, we said.  Or maybe we're wise because we figured out that we know exactly nothing. 

The clock ticks, its steady cadence propelling me towards the next thing, whatever that will be.

The fire crackles, the dog sighs and I sit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



This post is part of Heather's free-writing link-up, Just Write.  Read the details of how to join by clicking here. 

I'm Not Popular

Wikipedia defines popularity this way: a social phenomena that dictates who or what is best liked.

Simple, right?  No so much.

Like so many other concepts - wealthy or good looking are examples - it is essentially impossible to be popular. Why? Because no matter what there is always someone wealthier, better looking or more popular than you.

I've been mulling over popularity recently, after a conversation with a friend about some cliquish, mean behavior she witnessed.  She wasn't the target - just about everyone else not present in the room was - but it made her fearful because she realized that when she isn't in the room she's probably a target, too. She was fearful, hurt, and mulling over what makes a true friend.

I have many friends. I'm really blessed. I no longer think about popularity, ever, and it used to be something that was more important to me than I like to admit.

The irony is that when I thought about popularity a lot I had very few friends. Now that I don't think about it anymore I have many, many friends. And by friends I mean people who are so interwoven into my life they are like oxygen to me, not people I chat with in the supermarket aisle.

Before, I had a mission to be liked, not just by close friends but all the supermarket aisle people, too. And not just liked, but liked best.

When I was drinking, and in early sobriety (which I think of as my whole first year), being liked was the most important thing to me. I would shape-shift to become who you wanted me to be, virtually guarantying you would think I was great, because I would remind you of you.

I realized that what my friend was witnessing with the Mean Girls (and, yes, they are Mean Girls even though they are middle aged women) was the insatiable urge to be liked best.  One way to be sure you're liked best is to make sure other people aren't liked as much as you.  Putting others down to inflate your own ego is the cheap, easy way to perceived popularity.

It's not real popularity, because as I said above real popularity doesn't exist. Stepping on the heads of others to put your place a little higher is a fleeting thing, because you're surrounded by people who are just waiting for their turn to step on you.

As I look around my life today I'm surrounded by friends that not only wouldn't ever step on me, they would do anything to boost me up. I'm the same way with them.

This doesn't mean we don't disagree, or argue, or feel hurt. That happens, not often, but it does happen.  The beauty is that we mend our rifts, soothe our wounds, and in the process strengthen our bond.

I knew I was finally growing out of my need to be popular when, a few years ago, I ran head-first into a wall of criticism.

There were people out there who didn't like me - me! - the person who had bent over backwards to never hurt a fly and to be kind and giving no matter what!  OH, the righteous indignation, the burning hurt and shame.  Were my critics right? Did I need to change what I say - who I am - to be liked?  

Slowly, and with the help of dear friends in recovery, I learned the kind, gentle person I believed myself to be was a fraud. I was no better than the hurtful people, because I wasn't showing my true self to them. Or, as it turns out, to myself.  I was unfailingly polite, friendly and kind, even as I grit my teeth in the face of horrible behavior.

I learned to be okay with people disagreeing with me, with what I stand for. I stopped taking not being liked personally. I realized people can not like me, and that my life goes on.  My critics make me think. I listen to what they have to say, and try to remain teachable.  As long as they aren't being insulting. I stop listening when insults start. 

They can only step on me if I let them.

Being your true self in all matters is hard. Impossible, really. I get caught up in gossip, sometimes. I fall victim to the 'nobody-likes-me's'.  When I'm with a bunch of people who are gossiping, I don't puff out my chest indignantly and tell them to stop, or cover my ears.  Sometimes I'll walk away, but not always.  Sometimes I even participate.  I tell myself I'm not doing it in a hurtful way, but of course it's almost always hurtful.

I don't get a feeling of superiority from it. I don't do it to be popular, because I've ridden that roller coaster before and I know it leads nowhere.  My goal is to avoid cliquish, gossipy behavior altogether.

There is no reason not to aim high.

It's funny how the Mean People have such pull, though, you know?  How quickly we can be drawn in by their vitriol.  How easily doing the Right Thing feels prudish, dorky, awkward.

Being in recovery has ruined my ability to be petty, though. Not that I never do it, but I can't do it with impunity anymore. I try to surround myself with people who are secure enough in themselves that they don't step on others to raise their own position. For the most part, I'm successful.  But I live in the world, and Mean Happens.

All I can do is cultivate an awareness of my motives, and strive to be a better person in the future, even as I know I won't ever do it perfectly.

Recovering Chaos Junkie

I used to hate routine.

In early recovery I realized that I was facing two intertwined addictions:  alcohol and chaos.

I didn't know that I loved chaos until it was gone. I have heard others in recovery speak about this, so I know I'm not the only one.  I was talking to a friend about this the other day, how I used to be, in my words, a "chaos junkie".

When I was at the worst of my alcoholism - when denial had a firm grip on me - I used to feel so sorry for people who did things like get up at 6am to jog, or went to bed early so they could tuck into a good book, or who sipped one glass of wine all night and then STILL walked away from it, unfinished.

I would see well-adjusted people and think: they must be so bored, as I clutched my wine glass a little more tightly.

That's what alcoholism did to me; it made me believe my life of scrambling to keep up with the day-to-day obligations of life, the untangling of half-truths and outright lies, the grey or black-out nights, the nursing morning hangovers and the obsessing over my next drink, was exciting.

Of course, looking back on it now I realize my life was empty, shallow - a mile wide and an inch deep.  I had lots of friends, but I didn't let many people get too close for fear they'd find out my horrible secret.

When I finally embraced recovery because I wanted it for myself - this took months - I began to embrace routine, too.  Eventually I began to need routine; I craved predictability like I used to crave alcohol:  without it I became fearful, timid and reclusive.

I discovered that not only did I not love chaos, but that any new situation made me profoundly uncomfortable. I didn't like calling people that I didn't know; a call to my bank, or a store, would make me nervous.  I wanted to know the system of every place I went in to; I didn't try new restaurants or stores for months.

Basically, I realized that at heart I'm an anxious, shy person.  I felt so brave and confident when I drank - I'd walk in anywhere, talk to anyone.  It was a shock to find out that wasn't really me.

This got better, over time.  I am still hesitant to try new things; going to a new conference, for example, makes me anxious.  A new city, a hotel I've never stayed at before, a party at someone's house who I don't know well, a play group or house party where I don't know many people (what if they lost my reservation?  what if I get lost on the train? what if nobody talks to me?) makes me uneasy, but I do it anyway.  I practice stretching my wings - not too far - but enough so that I don't let fear govern my life.

Mostly, though, I cherish routine.

I never thought I'd feel this way.  In early sobriety I complained so much about how bored I was, mourning my old "exciting" way of life, that a friend joked she was going to get me a tee shirt with a big red number 5 on it (as in ... on a scale of 1 to 10, I loved 1 or 10 and hated 5, thinking it was boring, and all I heard from everyone is that to stay sober I had to embrace 5).

The last few weeks have brought some change into our lives.  My husband got a new job, and we're both excited about the new opportunity, but I had become accustomed to him working eight miles away, home predictably at the same time most nights so we could have family dinner or I could go to a meeting.  Now he's commuting into the city - leaving before I'm awake in the morning and coming home half an hour before the kids have to go to bed.   It's a big adjustment.

Someone has been sick in this house for three weeks, knocking me off my routine.  I missed exercise, yoga and meetings (both cancer support groups and recovery meetings) for almost two straight weeks.

I've been having trouble sleeping - lying awake staring at the ceiling until 2 or 3am every night. I had an undercurrent of anxiety that followed me everywhere.  I got sick, and spent the better part of a week in bed - sick enough to feel poorly but not sick enough to sleep.

The anxiety grew, my monkey mind wouldn't leave me alone.  It took me a while to realize what was out of whack:  routine.

We all got better towards the end of last week, (knock wood) and then the kids had a four day weekend (MLK day and a professional day for teacher training) so once again I couldn't go to my normal activities.

My anxiety peaked on Monday night; I couldn't sleep, had lost my appetite and felt near tears.

Yesterday everyone woke up healthy and trotted off to work and school.  I stared at the four walls of my house, simultaneously soaking up the silence and feeling completely out of sorts.  I paced from room to room, sat down to work on jewelry, got up again to pace some more, meditated ineffectively, tried to read and then it hit me:  get back into your routine, Ellie.

I went for a walk, then did some yoga.  My mind quieted immediately.

I slept like a baby last night.

Today I woke up feeling refreshed and grateful.

After the bus rumbled away, I meditated for half an hour, then went to yoga.  I did some work, and then sat down to write this.  The anxiety is gone.  POOF.

My name is Ellie, and I'm a grateful recovering chaos junkie.

Blogging Shame

The other day I was somewhere (won't say where to protect the innocent) with a bunch of people from around town - some I knew, some I didn't know at all.

A woman was taking me around and introducing me to people. I couldn't place this woman's face,  but knew we must have met before in some context because she was so comfortably friendly with me, and was asking after the kids, how I was feeling, etc. I was embarrassed I didn't remember her, so I was hiding that the whole time she was taking me around I was thinking; how on earth do I know this woman? 

We approached one woman I was certain I had never seen before (I would have remembered her stunning beauty) and as we shook hands the 'introducer' said to the other woman, "you know her - she's One Crafty Mother".

"OH!" said the stunning woman. "It's so nice to finally meet you in person!"

Some strange, strangled noise escaped from my throat, and I mumbled some pathetic response, "Um, yeah, yes! That's me."  She proceeded to talk to me about how much one aspect of my blog has helped a family member of hers, and said she was a long-time reader but never had "the guts" to comment.

I never, ever know what to do in these situations.  I instantly feel ashamed - which I find really intriguing. You'd think I'd be flattered, maybe, or grateful that someone likes my blog?  But the first feeling to leap to the surface is a gut-sinking shame.

Who do you think you are, the shame tells me. Here she is saying how much she likes your writing and you don't deserve a word of it.

Why? Why is that? Is it because as women we are all too often programmed to fade into the background, keep our secrets and feelings, even our accomplishments, neatly tucked under our skirts (or yoga pants, as the case may be).  How can I feel so passionately about vulnerability, spreading the word about addiction, recovery and speaking about my cancer journey and then have this strong shame reaction when someone says it helps them?

Usually, when I'm face to face with people who know me as "One Crafty Mother" I'm at a blogging conference, and referring to people as their blog or twitter name is a common, if not bizarre, tactic.  It's how we know each other, and it doesn't feel weird at all.

When I'm around town, though, it feels really odd to be known as "One Crafty Mother".  I know lots of local people read my blog - I want that, and I don't get to pick and choose who reads it.  It's my choice to put myself out there, and when I push past shame of course I'm glad people are reading, of course I'm glad it's helping.  So why do I feel like making myself so small when confronted with it face to face?

It was the same after I lost all the weight - people would tell me I looked great and I'd feel shame.  Like I was showing off or something, instead of pride that I had worked damn hard to shed over 65 lbs.  Instead of saying "thank you", I'd mumble some idiotic lie like 'it's not that big of a deal', or 'I still have a ways to go', just to minimize my accomplishment.

That shameful, embarrassed person resides in me as much as the writer who feels passionately about being open, honest and vulnerable about her journeys - whether through addiction, weight loss, grief, cancer or spirituality.

It's a dichotomy I'm having a hard time getting my mind around.  I wonder if I should have blogged anonymously - kept my identity a secret - but then I realize the fact that people know me, as a real person, makes it easier to identify with my story.

Sometimes I get into a spiral where I think: why are you doing this? why are you out there writing about all this if you feel this shame when you meet someone face to face and they COMPLIMENT you? 

I think, when I'm able to be somewhat objective about it, it's because I never, ever want to appear like I'm grand-standing, showing off, or acting like I've got it all figured out.  When someone compliments me - even though they're not saying "Wow, Ellie, have YOU got it all figured out" - I feel like somehow I am making a bigger deal out of myself than I deserve.  What they are saying, usually, is "I identified with what you wrote; I feel the same way".

And THAT is why I write. To cultivate a sense of togetherness, community, a we're-not-in-it-alone-ness.  Women can be hard on each other.  I hear more gossipy talk putting other people down than I hear people building each other up.  I like the cracks in people, the fragile parts, the human-ness.  We don't usually sit around having coffee and talking about our fragile parts, the ways we feel we don't measure up. To compensate, we either put others down or we brag.

I am so fearful of appearing like a bragger that I don't even know how to take a compliment.

If you live around town and we meet, it's okay to refer to me as One Crafty Mother, or tell me you know me through my blog.  Clearly, I need some practice simply saying "Hello, nice to meet you!" or how about just plain "Thank you!" when you tell me you like my writing?

If you don't like me or my writing, though, please feel free to keep it to yourself, or just gossip about it with others.  I'm not THAT healthy, yet.

Yet.

~~~~


And speaking of vulnerability, if you haven't read Jane's post below for the first installment of "Truthful Tuesday", please do.  And comment if you can - it means so much to get comments when you bare your soul so bravely, like she did.   Thank you. 

On Caterpillars And Not Taking Over The World

Day One.  New beginnings.  Two kids in school full time.

I shuffle my newly minted 4th and 1st graders onto the bus, come inside and wipe a few tears away.  I don't know what the tears are about, exactly.  Nervous anticipation of what comes next?  Gratitude that I'm back, from cancer, that I get to be the one to put them on the bus and meet them at the end of the day?  Fear of the booming silence in my house?  Relief?

Probably all of the above.

As they were waiting for the bus, Greta turned to me and said, "Mom, I have the caterpillars".

Usually they are described as butterflies in the stomach, but Greta calls them caterpillars in her
throat. Much better description, I think.

"I have them, too," I told her.  "And I had them every first day of school, ever."

She gave me a tentative grin.  "They're wiggling.  A LOT," she said, and giggled.

"I'm not nervous at all," Finn chimed in. "At least I don't think I am.  What's my teachah's name again? What's my room numbah?  Oh.  I think I have the catahpillahs, too."

Greta put her arm around him, glad for a little brother to comfort.  "Stick with your friend Tim*", she said. "He's on your bus and in your class. If you stick together you'll be fine."

I watched from my perch on the porch, sipped my coffee, my heart swollen with gratitude as Greta wrapped her arms around Finn.

Of course, as the bus approached, she gently pushed him away and whispered, "Now, don't talk to me."

I always seem to see milestones as endings.  No kid at home to take care of, lots of empty silence where before there was constant noise.  My identity isn't totally wrapped around my kids, I'm grateful for that, and I have jewelry orders to make and the gym to go to and phone calls and emails to return.  I can focus on my other life for a while.

I'm trying to see this as a beginning, not an ending.  But, truthfully, it's both.

And today? I feel their absence in a semi-scary, semi-grateful way.  I'm learning that opposite emotions can co-habitate in my mind.  Scared and grateful.  Nervous and excited. Empty and full.  Closing and opening.

Today begins my regimen of self-care. My promise to myself that I won't try to take over the world in these first few months of two kids at school. That I'll take small bites - do something healthy for myself every morning - write, exercise, meditate, do yoga, read - before I start my day. That I won't go nuts cleaning the house, or spend hours messing about on the computer trying to create a new website for my business (something I have no business trying to do but it would get me out of my head for hours), or exercise like a fiend.

It's my time to spend some time with me. Maybe that's why I have the caterpillars. Spending time with myself can be scary for me, because I get all crazy nutso about what it all means, who I am supposed to be, have existential crises.

I'm dialing back, not up, and that's different for me.  I'm giving my body and mind time to heal from the last year.

I'm all talking smack today - here on Day One.  So call me on it, friends.  Let's see how I'm doing on Day 15, or 21 of my non-world-domination campaign.

Right now, though, I'm off to sip coffee, stare out at the rain and listen to the booming silence.



*not his real name

Navel Gazing for Social Good

Please read to the end of this post. Because it takes me a while to get to my point. That's a head-scratcher, I know...

I have done a fair amount of speculating, sometimes even out loud here on this blog, about what is the point of blogging?  When the sound of my own voice sounds tiresome, even to me, and I wonder if this is all just narcissistic navel gazing.

By now most of you are familiar with the story: I started the blog to promote my jewelry business, wrote exactly two posts about jewelry (actually, art) and then started writing about addiction and recovery.  Within weeks a community had found me -  a community of women (and some men) who identified with my story, were struggling or sober, or just compassionate people who wanted to offer words of encouragement.

Being open about my recovery on this blog brought me many completely unexpected opportunities (like Oprah, USA Today and Redbook) and changed my life in ways I could never have dreamed possible. It also helped me build up a readership (impersonally referred to as a 'platform') that boggles my mind to this day. And the friendships?  OH, the friendships. I have found friends that are like oxygen to me; who fuel my soul.

I was running out of things to write about (at least in my mind) when my Dad died last June.  Writing about losing him, grief and trying to move on after such a staggering loss was so healing for me. And once again, a community of people came out of the woodwork to offer empathy and support.  It blew my mind, how many of you reached out to me, sent flowers, supportive emails, cards, words of hope.

I was this close to shutting the blog down last October. I was struggling personally, I was tired of my own voice, I just didn't feel that spark anymore.  It did feel like narcissistic navel-gazing, and the day I write just to hear my own voice is the day I stop writing.

Last October, as I was literally crafting a post saying I was shutting it down - I found the lump in my neck and wrote a post about it.   A few weeks later I was officially diagnosed with what I already knew was true:  I had cancer.

Once again, so many people came forward, offered words of hope, support, encouragement.  You offered your own stories; once again the community of people I needed to know found me.

Then it hit me, what makes my blog special, meaningful:  YOU.

I'm slowly figuring out why I have kept up this blog.  First, because it helps me. YOU help me.  So much. Second, because there are causes close to my heart that I want to bring awareness to - like recovery and cancer.

I worry - because that's what I do - that the people who come here to read about recovery roll their eyes at the cancer posts, and vice-versa.  I'm just going to get out of your heads and back into mine and write about what it meaningful to me.

Now that my youngest is heading into first grade, I'm thinking about what it is I want to "do" with my time. Building up my jewelry business is one.  But finding ways to support the recovery and cancer communities actually tops the list.  So you'll be hearing more about this - especially the cancer community - in the near future.

I'm hoping you'll support me in this.  Even if you haven't been directly touched by cancer in some way - the odds are (sadly) that someday you will.  Spreading the word about resources for those of us impacted by cancer helps everyone.

I had the pleasure of meeting the Executive Director of Friends Of Mel - a vibrant, inspiring woman who has helped so many with this organization. Local people (and, increasingly, across the country) are familiar with the story of the bracelet.  If you're not, please go here to read about it. It's incredible.

What started as one courageous, funny, giving woman making bracelets for friends, family and nurses while she battled cancer turned into a multi-million dollar organization that helps SO many people.  What many people don't know is where that money goes - for example, Friends of Mel is a sponsor of the Cancer Support Community I go to locally for yoga, for group therapy (and it offers SO many more resources than just those) - and it has literally saved my sanity.

There are so many more places like this that have received funds and support from Friends of Mel, and I will be writing more about them in the future, because this story just blows my mind; speaks to the difference just one person can make.

YOU are that just one person.  You've helped me survive the death of my Dad, cancer and the daily struggles of life. You've been there to celebrate the successes, the small victories that keep us going.

I hope you'll come along with me as I endeavor to support some causes that mean a lot to me.  I won't be asking you for money over and over. I'll be asking you to help raise awareness by spreading the word on your own facebook/twitter pages, help use social media for good.

And, of course, I'll still write about whatever is in my brain - kids, motherhood, serious, silly or navel gazing. I've come to terms with that.  I just love to write.

I have noticed that posts like this one don't get a lot of comments. For a while it devastated me (OH, my precious ego) but then I'd see you posting the links on your FB pages, tweeting about it, spreading the word, and that's what matters.  THANK YOU.

One last piece of business for you local people: there is an incredible conference called The Art of Life After Cancer coming up on September 15th at the Marriott, Quincy, in Massachusetts. But it's not just for survivors; if you have cancer, have had cancer, are a caregiver, were a caregiver or have been touched by cancer in some way, I can't recommend this conference enough.  Click here for the link for more info, and to register (only $25).  If this doesn't appeal to you personally will you please share this link on your FB pages? Especially if you're local?  I am finding the challenges of life after cancer to be as difficult in many ways as life fighting cancer.

You are an incredible, supportive community, and I am so grateful for you.  I am not turning this into a cancer blog, or a recovery blog.  It's just evolving into something bigger than me, and I'm grateful for that, too. We all have the opportunity to give back, and as Mel (please go read her story) proved one person can make a HUGE difference.  So please pass the word along.  If you can't go to the conference but want to help in some way, you can always buy a gorgeous bracelet for $20 to help their cause.

Thank you for all your help. Thank you for propping me up when I need it.

Thank you for being an incredible, supportive community with such huge hearts.

-Ellie

I Wasn't Expecting This

I'm sitting at my computer, trying to think, but I'm distracted by the thumping of little feet upstairs.

They are playing some kind of game with their stuffed animals; elaborate skits that involve music and role-playing and can go on for hours.

I can't make out their words, but I can hear Greta's lilting voice, and Finn's lower, scratchier one (is it me, or is it already getting a little deeper?) as they laugh and argue good-naturedly about the rules of the game.

I didn't expect this.

I didn't expect that at almost 10 and almost 7 they would still play with stuffed animals, that they would still enjoy each other's company so much. I know I'm lucky; I know not all 10 and 7 years old get along like mine do. That's not bragging, because it has nothing to do with me.  It's all them, and their sweet souls.

There are changes in the air, though. A twinge of cool air in the evening, sometimes even carrying that distinctive smell of autumn.  Some leaves are changing (changing!) in patches, and some are starting to fall to the ground.

There are other changes, too.  As Greta approaches tween-hood, there is more eye rolling, more "Finn! Leave me alone!", more bursting into tears for no reason.  It's coming, I know it is, and so I'm wallowing in the mostly-sweet of the way things are right  now.  I try to stay in the moment - OH, I try - but a little voice in my brain whispers - is this the last sweet summer?  Is this the last summer of stuffed animals?  

Finn starts first grade, and so for the first time in ten years both my kids will be gone full time - all day, every day, at school.

I spent so many years longing for this day; mired down in diapers or whiny kids who couldn't speak well enough to articulate what they wanted.  Days when I couldn't just go to the gym, or visit with a friend, because my schedule was irrevocably intertwined with theirs.

Now that day is only a couple of weeks away, and I'm surprised by how my gut twists at the thought of them both being away for so long, every week.

I wasn't expecting this.

Again, I try to stay in the moment, not project, not have too many expectations, but I have to acknowledge that twisting.  I'm not great with a lot of unstructured time. My inclination is to start my plan for world domination - make HUGE plans, turn my jewelry business into something big, write that novel, get a full-time job - all to run from too many hours alone with me.

Instead, I'm going to try what I'm thinking of as mini-structure, and it's all about self-care, self-love, and peace of mind.  I'm six months past cancer - I have to keep reminding myself of that - and I need to take this time to take care of me.

Each morning I will do some form of exercise. Not in that over-the-top-train-for-a-marathon-hate-myself-if-I-don't-workout kind of way, but in a move-your-body-Ellie kind of way.  Yoga. A walk in the woods. A trip to the gym.  Low-key, gradual, simple.

Every day I'm going to make jewelry just for the sake of making jewelry, not because I need to make thousands of dollars immediately. I'm going to resist the urge to learn metal-smithing (something I really want to do) just for a while.

I'm going to meditate. Even if can't quiet my mind, I'm going to sit, with no noise, for a while each day.

I'm going to read for at least half an hour. Every day - right smack dab in the middle of the day. Force myself to stop and just read.

I'm going to take time to write - offline, in a notebook - start that journal up again.

I'm going to go to daytime recovery meetings.

The day will come (who knows when, maybe sooner than I think) when I have to either ramp up the jewelry business or get a job.  But not right now, not yet.

I'm going to spend some time with me, who - in the past - has been my least favorite person to hang around with.  I'm going to acknowledge that twist in my gut that will miss my kids.

I know I'll adjust. I know it will take time.  I'm glad that the deepest part of me doesn't want them to go.

That's love.

Push Pull

I'm back on the 7th floor of Massachusetts General Hospital, the Cancer Center.  I haven't been here in a while; it's a six-month post treatment check-up.

I don't want to be here, I think.  I wish cancer was one of those things you could just check off your list and be done with forever.  I'm pushing, pushing the reality of my situation away.

A 93 year old woman I met while receiving chemo is rolled into the reception area in her wheelchair.  She wears her usual beaming smile.  She has been coming here so long she knows all the staff by name:  receptionists, phlebotomists, interns, doctors.  They all beam back at her, loving her spirit - as I do - to fight breast cancer for the fourth time at 93 years old.  I pull her energy towards me, into me.  Pull, pull, pull.

The check-up goes well.  My voice is getting scratchier, which causes my oncologist's eyebrows to briefly furrow (scary - push, push away) but a quick scope of my throat reveals nothing unusual.  We set the date for my first set of CT scans, and I take a deep breath and vow not to allow myself to think about it until I get there.

He smiles at me, compliments me on my humor and strength. I tell him I'm a good actress.  He tells me he doesn't believe me.  I beam inside.  Pull, pull.

~~~

I haven't seen my kids much in the past two weeks, what with the trip to NYC and then Kentucky.  Monday they had play dates all day so I could clear my decks.  Yesterday was mostly used up with doctor's appointments, so as I drove home I couldn't wait to see them, to have an afternoon just for us.  Pull, pull.

Within twenty minutes of my arrival home, they were whiny, hot, tired, and didn't want to do anything.  The sitter said they were "perfectly behaved" and I grumbled inside about how they save the icky stuff for me.  Push, push.

Finally, I suggested mini-golf (LAST on my list of fun things to do) and their eyes lit up, they jumped up and down and hugged me. Pull, pull.

Twenty minutes into mini-golf they were arguing and calling each other names I didn't know they knew. Finn whacked his ball into the parking lot and it went down the sewer drain.  Greta had a headache.  I just wanted to do something fun together and it's already unraveling, I thought.  I daydreamed about being alone in a hotel room with a book, and then felt a twinge of mother guilt.  Push, push.

We ended up at the local ice cream shop, the kids full of creamy smiles and giggles.  Pull.

~~~~~

Several times this summer I found myself saying, kind of tongue-in-cheek, with another mother, "Is summer done yet?" as we did an exaggerated eye roll and laughed about how we're fantasizing about the big yellow school bus.  Push.

But then the next day I'm talking with a friend about how much I'm looking forward to the final few weeks of summer, where I don't have any trips, the kids don't have any camps or activities, just us and some wide-open days.  Pull.

~~~~

Yesterday I was hit with an idea for a post and I settled into my chair to write.  Within seconds they were at my side (when for the past half hour they had been playing quietly, and nicely, together) saying they are bored.  Is it the sound of my keyboard?  Do they have some sixth sense that knows when my Muse (such as she is) shows up?  PUSH.

I raised my fingers from the keyboard, reluctantly, turned and asked them what they wanted to do. They blinked at me ... blink, blink... and said "We dunno".  I ignored (mostly) the flash of irritation and suggested a walk.  They jumped up and down and said "HOORAY" and I felt like mother of the year.  PULL.

Last night, I snuggled in with them and read books, gave back scratches.  Thoughts of the hotel room, alone with  a book, were far, far away.  They nestled into me, smelling of summer; a sour/sweet kid scent.  My mind flashed to the 7th floor cancer center, of the 93 year old woman with a big smile on her face, of the man wrapped in bandages and speaking through a hole in his throat, of the small, bald child holding her mother's hand, and I gave thanks, from the deepest part of me, that I'm here. Now.

PULL.

~~~~~~

**This post was inspired by my friend Heather's post today, called (hopefully).   It's awesome. Go read it. 

What Can I Say

This past weekend Heather and I went to Lexington, Kentucky to do our keynote speech to help raise funds for St. Agnes House.  I've talked a lot here about their mission - to provide a comfortable and affordable place for patients and their caregivers to stay while undergoing treatments of all kinds, but mainly cancer - but to see it firsthand was very moving for me.  Each room appointed like a bedroom in a home, not in a clinical, medicinal way.  Lovely, inviting common areas, where people can connect, console and share their journey together.  

The doors each have a dry-erase board with the name of the person staying there. I couldn't help but notice several of them had drawn smiley faces under their name.

It is a hopeful place. I wanted more than ever to do it justice, raise funds and awareness for such a worthy cause.

~~~~

I'm not sure what to say about the keynote itself.  I'm still processing it all, really. 

The Ego is a fragile thing, oh so easily cracked and bruised. Heather and I wrote the keynote not from our heads, but from our hearts, infusing it with humor, truth and faith and not holding back. I won't speak for her, but I'm proud of it. 

So when we realized the turnout for the event itself would be lower - a lot lower - than expected, my Ego threw a major toddlery tantrum, and then curled into the fetal position and felt sorry for itself.  Heather and I sat on a bench outside the hall looking at each other with a kind of glazed expression - did we fail?

We hadn't even started, hadn't uttered a word, and I was grappling with the voice in my head that tells me I'm small, insignificant, that I'm not interesting/talented/compelling enough to draw a crowd.

Thankfully, Heather and I were there together, and we took a deep breath, reminded each other it was God's event - not ours - and that sometimes the Universe has plans you can't see.  Maybe there was one person in there who really needed to hear our message.  Maybe that one person was me.  

By the time we got rolling, I was fine.  I put my Ego into a time-out, and reached into my heart, my soul, with abandon.  We shared our truths, got the audience members to share some of theirs, made some new friendships. 

After, as I was thinking it all through, I realized that it didn't matter if we were talking to one person or one thousand.  Just the privilege of being there to speak our truths, to deepen my connection with Heather and meet new and interesting people was enough.  More than enough.  

A part of me still felt sheepish, small, in that insecure place in my brain - that mad, drunken monkey that I can never really get rid of and who cackles at me, makes me feel badly.  I've stopped pretending I'll ever make that monkey completely go away.

The Ego is a fragile thing.

Holli, Me and Heather

Thankfully, we were going to a Brandi Carlile concert that night -Heather, Holli and me.  Holli is someone who was a complete stranger to me (other than tweets and emails to plan this event) before Kentucky.  Over the course of three days we became friends - had a soul-clink that resonates right through me and makes me smile.  She is a rabid Brandi Carlile fan, and emailed us beforehand to say she could get us tickets.  I remember thinking:  I think I like Brandi Carlile?  I kept meaning to go to You Tube and listen to her songs before I left, but never got around to it.

It didn't take long into the concert (first song, in fact) for me to realize exactly who she is, and marvel at her extraordinary talent.  

It was a stunning, clear night, and we were sitting in an amphitheater under the stars. I took deep breaths of the of cool evening air, felt the music pulse through my chest, and felt such gratitude to be in the company of such soulful, funny, lovely women.  

Brandi Carlile Concert

It wasn't until she played her third song 'What Can I Say' that I felt my chest crack wide open, and the tears came pouring down my face. Pent up tears of two weeks of stress, fun, missing my family, going on adventures.  But also? This song makes me think of my Dad and how much I miss him.  What a blessing to be with safe people to hug.  

Look to the clock on the wall,

Hands hardly moving at all.
Can't stand the state that I'm in 
Sometimes it feels like the walls closing in

Oh lord what can I say
I am so sad since you went away
time, time ticking on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord, what can I say?

I cried and I let it all go, at least for that moment.  I wallowed in the gifts of friendship, of souls clinking together under a starry Kentucky sky. 

~~~~

If you haven't already done so, will you please consider donating to St. Agnes House?  Not to preserve my precious ego, or make me feel less sheepish, but because it's a very worthy cause.  I promise - this will be the last time I ask. But after having met these incredible people in person - Holli, Laurie, Susan and so many others - I want more than ever to help them keep St. Agnes House going.  

OH - and please go read Laurie's post about the evening.  Laurie is the Priest at St. Michael's - the church that hosted the event - and she is a wise, insightful and oh-so-funny woman.  Hers is one of the most powerful posts I've ever read on Beautiful Messiness (the theme of the evening), truth, and God.  

Bright Lights, Backyards and Blogher12

The train to NYC is clacking along, and I press my forehead to the window to watch the scenery fly by.

I'm on my way to BlogHer12, in New York City.  I love traveling by train.  

In an airplane, from the sky, the world below seems too organized, parceled out in neat sections of houses, roads, buildings.  You can't see any of the nitty gritty of life; from the air the world looks scrubbed clean.

Not so on a train.  On a train you see the back sides of things; backyards, junkyards, objects and people who live outside the scrutiny of the public eye.

We travel so close to some houses that I feel I could reach out  and touch their back porches.  I see a tired looking mother, hair disheveled, smoking a cigarette on her back porch while her toddler screams in fear as the train rushes by.  

Two homeless women pass a bottle back and forth behind an auto-parts store, and I take a moment to give thanks and remember: there but for the Grace of God go I.

Amazingly, there is a dirty tent pitched in some scrub bushes between the rushing highway and the train tracks; it couldn't be more than 15 feet from either one.  A threadbare American flag flies from a stick in the ground outside the tent.  This is somebody's home.

As we pass through a residential district, I watch, enthralled, as on the far side of the street we pass neat row houses: hedges trimmed, lawns mowed, toys put neatly away.  But on the near side of the street the passengers on the train are privy to the backside of these houses: backyards piled with rotting junk, moldy old toys, dogs chained to posts, looking despondent.  A mother pushes her kid on an ancient metal swing set, looking bored.  The child wears a beaming smile.  Next to her is a rotting picnic table and a rusted out car.  The detritus of life we don't want people to see.

Someone posted this on their Facebook page this week, and I loved it:

On this blog I'm all about behind-the-scenes.  I have no patience or inclination to talk about highlight reels (not that they are numerous).  I don't share everything here, of course I don't, but I love to write about the tucked-away places, the backyards and hidden closets of the mind.  The things most of us don't want to talk about, because we're too busy trying to people-please or impress.

As a recovering people-pleaser, I know how hard it is to resist these comparisons.  Every time I get my college alumni magazine (I went to an ivy league school - see? that's a highlight reel, I've never mentioned it here before) and reading about all the impressive things my fellow alumni are doing I want to curl up into the fetal position, or start brainstorming about what it is exactly I'm going to do to take over the world.

The people, and the writing, I'm drawn to are all about the vulnerable places, the tender spots, the thoughts we tuck away because we wonder if we're the only ones who think them.

I'm contemplating all this as I head to my third BlogHer conference.  The first one, three years ago, was also in New York, and I spent the whole time comparing my behind the scenes to everyone else's highlight reel.  

I don't do that anymore.

It helps that I have an incredible group of very real, very back-yardish friends with whom I feel as safe as I do anywhere in the world.  Some of them have impressive highlight reels, too, and I love to bask in their light, cheer them on, knowing that if they can do it, I can do it, too, someday.

If I decide that's what I want to do, that is.  I used to want to shine my light brightly from center stage.

Now I'm happier sitting in the backyard, soaking up the sun, sipping coffee and exploring the tender places of the mind.

It's pleasant back here.  Come on in. 

Repost - How To Attend a Blogging Conference in 44 Easy Steps. AND info about the Serenity Suite!

NOTE: I'm resurrecting this old chestnut from last year, because - for better or for worse, all of this still applies...   

I have been to a grand total of four blogging conferences now - this one makes my fifth- and I'm starting to notice a trend in my pre-conference weirdness preparations.  For any of you attending your first conference, I thought it may be helpful to share them with you:

THREE WEEKS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Make a well organized and lucid checklist of everything to bring to the conference.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THREE WEEKS BEFORE AND TWO DAYS BEFORE:

1) Lose checklist.

TWO DAYS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Gaze thoughtfully into mirror and notice self for the first time since the last conference.
2) Frantically call every hairdresser in town to schedule an appointment to foil hair.
3) Buy expensive wrinkle cream.
4) Open cosmetic travel bag and find exact same cream purchased for last conference.
5) Stare into closet with glazed expression. Search for perfect outfit to present sleek, put-together look.
6) Realize you do not own one single "outfit".
7) Drag unhappy children to trendy boutique.  Pay too much for sexy top.
8) Hang sexy top next to last year's sexy top, which was never worn because it didn't feel like you.
9) Remember you are recovering people-pleaser and tell self people will have to accept you for who you are.  You are YOU.  You are authentic.
10) Notice wardrobe contains only black pants, black Capris, black shorts and earth tone tops. Wonder if you really have to be that authentic.
11) Apply wrinkle cream before bed.

ONE DAY BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Wake up and generously apply wrinkle cream.
2) Stare into closet with glazed expression.
3) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
4) Drag unhappy kids back to boutique to purchase trendy, uncomfortable shoes to draw attention away from black pants and earth tone tops.
5) Engage in pre-flying obsessive/compulsive thinking.
6) Kiss the kids goodnight and attempt to ignore thoughts of a fiery plane crash death.
7) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
8) Try on pointy uncomfortable shoes.
9) Fall down.
10) Stay up too late writing a blog post about going to blogging conferences.
11) Apply wrinkle cream.

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Open empty suitcase.
2) Remember all the laundry is dirty.
3) Start laundry.
4) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
5) Take clean clothes from dryer and stuff into suitcase.
6) Pack enough shoes for a one month stay.
7) Ponder luggage weight limit.  Shrug and leave everything in suitcase.
8) Apply wrinkle cream generously.
9) Get into bed and lie with eyes open until alarm goes off.

DAY OF CONFERENCE:

1) Apply wrinkle cream.
2) Fend off flying jitters with thoughts of how much more talented/funny/popular everyone else is than you.
3) Totter off plane in trendy, uncomfortable shoes.
4) Purchase band-aids for blisters.
5) Enter hotel wearing mask of bored self-confidence.
6) Flee to room and apply wrinkle cream.
7) Stare with glazed expression at clothes in suitcase.
8) Try on sexy top.
9) Discard sexy top and pointy shoes.
10) Wear black pants, earth tone top and sensible shoes.
11) Take deep breath.
12) Enter conference with mask of bored self-confidence.
13) See a friend.
14) Realize it is all going to be okay.

ALSO - I want to remind everyone about the Serenity Suite - the brainchild of Maggie and Heather and a sanctuary for anyone looking for a quiet, safe, relaxing respite from the craziness of the conference.  As always, the Suite will be an alcohol-free zone, and I will be spending a LOT of time there, (along with several other hosts who are all talented, lovely engaging women); please come by and say hi if you're going to be at BlogHer12.  I'll tweet when I'm there!

Don't be shy about stopping by - whether this is your first conference or your millionth.. the Serenity Suite is a great place to kick back, relax and make a new friend or two.

An Update and A Question For You

I'm sitting in my room, enjoying a book.  Sunbeams stream in through the window and warm my feet.

Outside I can hear the kids playing some elaborate make-believe game involving just about every stuffed animal we have in the house and the swing  set.  Their giggles ride the wind up through my window and they make me smile.

Listening to my kids' laughter makes my heart soar, when only a week ago in made me cringe with fear and desperate hope that I would be around to listen to them laugh for a long time.

Life is good.

It's hard to find words for how I have felt the past six days, since we got the news that I am in remission.

I feel as light as air on the inside.

I'm making plans for the summer with a sense of excited anticipation in my heart.

I know we did a good job concealing our stress and fear from the kids, because when we told them the good news, that the cancer was gone and I am in remission, they both smiled and said, simply, "Oh. Good!" before running off to do the next thing.

That's how it should be, for kids. They had faith in their heart this whole time that I would be okay, and they got that faith from us.  I'm proud of that.

My husband and I share secret smiles across the dinner table, and tender touches as we pass each other in the hallway.

Everything feels brand new.

Because of the weight loss, I went out and bought a tankini (is that what they are called?).  And it looks good.  I kept trying on smaller and smaller sizes and giggling like a lunatic in the dressing room.

I'm still mostly eating through the feeding tube, but trying valiantly to change that.   I discovered I can eat pancakes (YUM), as well as oatmeal, yogurt and blueberry muffins.   If I can keep adding to that list, the feeding tube should come out in a few weeks.   I still have a fair amount of pain in my mouth/throat, but it's slooooooowly getting better.  And dealing with just the pain, and not the additional stress of wondering what's going to happen to me, is so much easier.

One last thing- shortly I'll announce a fun thing I'll be doing with Heather this summer.  As part of that, I'm curious where you live?  Even if you've never commented before, can you leave a comment with where you are?  Make up a pseudonym if you want to - no need to use your real name - but I'm really curious where you all are from.   Will you do that for me?   Explanation to follow in another post.

In the meantime, I'm just going to keep on floating.....

Love, Fear, Courage and Faith - What Cancer Does to a Family

I never intended this to become a cancer blog, any more than I intended it to become a recovery blog when I first started it to be a jewelry blog four years ago.

It won't always be a cancer blog, but cancer - like active alcoholism - is a totally absorbing, all consuming thing.  Everything in my world - literally everything - revolves around having cancer.  The kids' schedules, my husband's schedule, my schedule - nothing can be set in stone until my treatment logistics are pinned down.

And that's just the practical part of having cancer.

The emotional part is the real all consuming thing - for all of us.  The kids having to make adjustments to my weakened state, learning to be more self-sufficient, being brave about new sitters and going on play dates at school friends' houses they have never been to before.  Getting rides from Mommy friends of mine that they know, but haven't driven with before.  Any one of these things would have been a big deal Before Cancer.   After Cancer they are learning to adjust on the fly, because they don't really have a choice.  I am so proud of both of them, bravely extending their horizons, stepping almost daily outside of their comfort zones, managing their fear of my illness along with all these new things.

My husband is working so hard - both at his job and here at home - he is parenting the kids most of the time, and being a care-taker for me, all while managing the regular day-to-day business of full time job.   He amazes me every day at the patience he shows the kids, even when I know he is stretched to his limits.  He asks me over and over, what do you need?  What can I get you?   He is a strong shoulder for me to cry on when I need to, even as he tucks his own worries away he strokes my back and tells me everything will be okay. He looks out for ways to make my life easier - a laptop table next to my bed, cleaning out cabinets to make things more accessible, finding just the right thing to cheer me up.

Cancer impacts the whole family, on every level.

I struggle to come up with things to write about that aren't cancer related -- but those thing don't exist in my world at the moment.  My thoughts are consumed with managing symptoms, pain, sleep, medications and trying to keep fear at a healthy arms' length away.

I have been stripped down, emotionally, to an almost child-like state.

I think back to where I was a year ago - preparing to fly to the Blissdom Conference in Nashville, meet up with friends, speak on a panel, network and try to spread the word about Crying Out Now.  I had recently met my weight loss goal of 65 lbs, and was generally feeling on top of the world.

These days there is no room for dreams, for ego, for thinking about building my business or networking.  Those days will come again, I believe, but at the moment they feel long gone.

These days it is all about "what did you eat today, hon? Anything?"  "How is the pain?" "When did you last take such-and-such medicine?"

And then my least favorite: "Have you, you know, gone today yet?" (like with children, bowel movements, or lack thereof, are a hot topic.  Sorry if that is over sharing, but the doctors are concerned and I'm concerned, so the whole family is involved in finding foods that will help Momma GO.)

So maybe I'm more like a potty-training toddler.

My thoughts are so centered around me, not in an egotistical way at all, it's just there isn't room for anything else.  I go into the kids' bedrooms at night to kiss their foreheads while they sleep and my heart aches; there is so much I don't know about their day-to-day life right now.  Their worlds are held safely in the hands of my Mom, my friends, and sitters.

I'm still grappling with fear, too, although it is so much better than it was.  Stripping my life down to its barest essentials meant that a lot of my former day-to-day fears were stripped away, too. They almost make me laugh, the things that I worried about Before Cancer. Things like not measuring up, trying to fit in, neuroses about why so-and-so seems upset with me, or so-and-so hasn't called in while.  Those petty concerns about keeping up with the other Moms, being successful in business and raising kids - doing it all, and doing it all well - they seem very, very far away.

These days I live in a nearly constant state of deprivation.

I can't eat, I can't drive anymore, I can't talk easily on the phone (or at all, because of the pain), I don't have the energy to do much of anything.  Deprivation does funny things to your mind. First it drove me nearly insane, as I struggled against it. I fantasized about my old life: about exercising, about biting into a cheeseburger, about going to the grocery store and piling food into my cart, about meeting up with friends for breakfast, or a night out.

Slowly, slowly, I am adjusting to my new normal, and now I don't think much about those things anymore. There isn't any point; it only brings misery.  I have tucked myself into my little nest of a world, and I'm waiting it out.  I know there are things - important life lessons - I will learn through this experience, especially coming on the heels of another tough life change: losing my Dad so suddenly in June.  I had barely begun to process his death when the cancer came along.  I've decided to put all the Major Life Lessons on a shelf, though, for a while. I don't have to figure this all out now. I just have to put one foot in front of the other, keep my heart and mind as open as I can, and get from one end of the day to the other.

And then I have to get up and do it again the next day.  But I'll think about that tomorrow.

And, of course, my "what if I get cancer someday" obsession -- a fear I carried with me my whole life like a nasty, heavy piece of baggage -- now that it's part of my daily world, it isn't nearly as scary as I imagined as I cultivated my fear-fueled obsession with disease.  Because we adapt, we do, in astonishing ways.

There is an issue with the lump on my neck; the one that holds the tumor inside. Last week it got bigger, and then a LOT bigger, and the doctors and nurses tried to downplay it, but I speak fluent non-verbal communication among doctors and nurses now and I knew they were concerned.  There was talk of doing a CT Scan to see what is up, but that wouldn't change the treatment protocol at all, so it was decided to stay the course.  And the lump is getting smaller again, slowly.  Hopefully it will continue in this direction.  The doctor yesterday basically (again, in doctor-speak) prepared me for the idea that I will very likely need surgery to remove the lump after chemo and radiation are done.

"And if we find there are active cancer cells in the lump after we remove it?" I asked.  I am not afraid of answers anymore. I do not stick my head in the sand.  I want to know. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself when I hear myself speak to doctors

"Well, then we celebrate that we took it out and didn't wait to see if it would shrink," was his guarded reply.

I decided not to press it, because I know he doesn't have a crystal ball, he doesn't know why tumors behave the way they do.   He did tell me he had one other case like this, where the tumor just wouldn't shrink, but when they removed it after treatment was done it was just "rubble" - no cancer.

Steve heard "rubble"; I heard "only one other case."   So the fear thing is a work in progress, but I've come a long way.

Tomorrow (thankfully) the feeding tube goes in - I don't know if it will be overnight procedure or not, but they will have to put me under general anesthesia to place it in.  My throat is too far gone for me to be awake, even under conscious sedation.

I am hoping the feeding tube helps me get some strength back - I'm lucky if I get 800 calories (all liquids like Ensure or Carnation Instant Breakfast) into me during the day.  I should be having, in my compromised state, closer to 1800 calories.  So I hope the tube helps with the healing and the energy.

The kids are calling it my "belly button straw", which makes me laugh even as I dread having one at all.

This print can be found in the Etsy shop RococcoLA
I wasn't paid or compensated in any way to promote it. I just love it.

Thank you for being here, reading.  Your comments and support help me SO MUCH.  Being able to write through this has been healing for me.  As hard as they are, I want to remember these cancer days, too, because there are so many moments of breathless beauty and bravery, and I want to capture those, along with the pain and the fear.

It's bringing my family closer, even as I feel like I'm drifting away. Writing helps me not lose sight of how my kids, my husband, my Mom, and my friends - OH my friends - are carrying me when I don't always feel like carrying myself.

So thank you.  Thank you so very much.