Wanted: One Hobgoblin. No Navels, Please.

Want to know what happens when you Google "writer's block"? I'll tell you: a whole lot of nothing.

Wikipedia provides this definition: "Writer's block may have many causes. A writer may run out of inspiration. The writer may be greatly distracted and feel they may have something that needs to be done before hand."

I always feel greatly distracted, and I always have something that needs to be done beforehand. So far laundry and the need to pay some attention to my children, on occasion, hasn't prevented me from being able to write.

Is it the other option? Have I run out of inspiration?

Here's what normally happens: I'm going about my day, minding my own business, when ZING! a little germ of a thought, or idea, just pops into my head. It doesn't particularly matter if it is a good idea or not. What matters is what it does to me: I turn it over and over, around and around, it takes on a life of its own and I can't not write about it. Once I've written about it, gotten it out of me, then I decide if it is worth putting out there for general consumption. Since I'm terrible at figuring out what is good, and what isn't, I generally just put it all out there. Lucky you.

Having nothing to say, no little germ of an idea or thought to be found anywhere in the vast wasteland that is my brain, is new to me. It appears the little hobgoblin in my head that produces things to write about has gone on to better endeavors, like navel gazing. It is too generous to call what I have a Muse - Muses are surrounded in light with long flowing white robes and bestow wonderful ideas upon people..... mine kind of snortles around looking for acorns and occasionally chucks me one.

The kids, my other source of seemingly endless material, aren't cooperating. They have been sick and haven't been up to their usual shenanigans. Unless, of course, I were to talk about the half hour conversation I had with my son yesterday about his boy parts, and even my hobgoblin knows that isn't a good idea.

I don't think I appreciated how much writing, for me, is a kind of self-therapy; I am inspired to write when I'm churning with some problem, anxiety or hurdle. And you know what? I'm feeling pretty good these days. Last week was awful - to be sure. Someone has been throwing up in my house for the past seven days (now it's my husband, even the dog had a turn). We've been house-bound, bored and rundown for a long time. But I'm okay. I kept my cool, took care of my kids, let myself off the hook with the housework, and we're getting through it.

Boooooooooring.

So I guess I'll kick back, relax and wait for my hobgoblin to stop looking at her navel. Or for someone to pee in the DVD player, or something.

In desperation, I even Googled "I have nothing to say". You know what I found? A whole bunch of people writing about how they have nothing to write about.

Hmmmmm.. there's an idea.

Postcard from the Petri Dish, and Guest Post at Baby on Bored!

Sometimes it is just hard, and this week is one of those times. For the past five days we have endured the stomach bug, strep throat, sleepless nights and a major case of cabin fever. I have left the house only twice since Monday - once to go to the doctor, and once to get medicine. I haven't been to a meeting in over eight days - that has to be a record for me. Steve was away on a business trip for most of the week, and we are all stretched to our limits. Today the kids are feeling better, but now the dog and I are sick.

I have a tendency to ignore when things are just not going well, to stuff my feelings of frustration, anger and irritability. So I'm venting a bit, airing it out, all while reminding myself that it could be so much worse, and that this, as all things do, shall pass. What is it about my brain that feels like every emotion I have is going to last forever? When I'm happy, I can't imagine how things were ever so hard, and when it's hard I can't imagine that I'll ever feel normal again. It is just the way I'm hardwired, I guess.

Sometimes thinking about things I'm grateful for helps. Even this week there were so many times I felt gratitude - fleeting, but it was there. On Tuesday I was holding Greta's hair as she was sick at 2am, and she choked out "Thanks, Mom. This is what Moms do, right? They hold their kids' hair when they are sick?" I smiled and said a silent prayer of thanks that I could be one of those Moms, that I wasn't passed out on the bed, or irritable from a hangover. On Wednesday night, Finn and I were taking turns being sick all through the night. We were lying awake at about 4am, feeling miserable, when he put his hand on my forehead and said "I sorry you're sick, Momma. Dat's just not fair."

And, of course, when Mom is sick she still has to rally. The resentments well up, and I think "When is it my turn? When do I get to fall apart?"

I know, now, that I can lose myself in feeling obligated to other people, that I can happily sacrifice of my own emotional and physical health. It feels good, somehow, to martyr myself for the cause of my family. I'll take the kids to the doctor, get them on medicine, and ignore my own symptoms. I'll allow myself to get run down, resentful, tired, and won't put my hand out to ask for help. It feels right, somehow, to put myself at the bottom of the list. I'm comfortable there.

So I tell on myself. I don't allow myself to shuffle me to the bottom of the deck. I talk to other people about how I'm feeling, and I allow myself to be comforted. Most of the time.

I'm off to take a nap, I hope. Before I go I wanted to let you know I'm guest posting today over at Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's fabulous blog, Baby on Bored, so head on over there, if you want, and check it out. Stefanie is one funny, kick-ass woman and a terrific writer. She also happens to be in recovery, and she has helped so many, many people by sharing her story and putting herself out there. Check her out - you won't be disappointed.

A Must-See Link about Addiction

We've been hit with "the bugs". When Greta was three she got the stomach flu, and we explained to her that it's called a "tummy bug". From then on, whenever she was sick she'd say "I got the bugs, Momma". And the bugs are back.

It has been a long week, but we seem to be coming out of it. I don't have anything insightful or interesting kicking around in my aching and sleep deprived head, but I wanted to share a link with you. It is an interview with Jeff VanVonderen, one of the interventionists on A&E's show Intervention. He talks about how the cycle of addiction works, how everyone around an addict gets sick, and gives an answer to the question "why can't they just STOP?". It's about seventeen minutes long, but it's good. The interview is a follow-up to a show Oprah is doing today about addictions (food, alcohol, drugs); she will be interviewing three people who went through an intervention themselves. To see the interview with Jeff, click here.

Because Its All About Me

I love me some Celebrity Rehab. I need to make that clear up front. It's voyeuristic reality TV at its worst: watching people play out their lowest moments while I'm sitting comfortably on my couch munching popcorn. What is the fascination with watching train wrecks? Am I the only one who finds this compulsively entertaining? And it is a stretch to call these people Celebrities - okay, maybe Dennis Rodman and Heidi Fleiss were once household names, but I've never heard of most of these people .. Joey Kovar? Lisa D'Amato? I guess I don't watch enough reality TV, which is where several of these people get their dubious starts in the public eye.

Perhaps it is because I've been a train wreck, too, that I can't peel my eyes away from this show. And when the dramatic soundtracks and replays are stripped away, they are just regular people caught up in the web of addiction. The cast members (just the fact that they are considered a cast should be a tip off that there is something askew here) are at various stages with their ability to look objectively at their addictive behavior - some are firmly in Denial, while others are praying they are at Rock Bottom.

My own brief experience on camera was enough to convince me that it is very, very difficult to be yourself with cameramen and producers hovering about. Five complete strangers came to my house, the week before we taped the Oprah show, to interview me in my 'natural' environment. A sound guy, three camera men and one producer followed me around for hours, asking me question after question about some of the most painful moments of my life. "Act natural," the producer kept suggesting. "Pretend we aren't here," she says, while there is a camera lens eight inches from my face and a large microphone dangling in front of my nose. It was terrifying and alluring at the same time. I didn't feel anything like myself, not even close. The urge to edit my life, to project the right image (am I interesting enough? entertaining enough?) was nearly overwhelming. I told my truth, as best I could, and if I hadn't been talking about things that already happened to me, I don't know that I could have done it. If they were asking me about how I feel right now, in this moment, I wouldn't have known how to be truthful. My mind would have been casting about for the most interesting thing to say.

Celebrity Rehab is damaging, I think, to the public's perception of recovery, because it isn't really real. Heidi Fleiss asks a nurse, on the first show, whether or not this is "pretend rehab". The fact that the question has to be asked provides the answer. We, the public, may have become somewhat anesthetized to Reality TV, to watching people play out their lives on camera, thinking the subjects of our voyeurism are barely aware that we're there. But I know the subjects we're watching aren't anesthetized to it - quite the contrary, in fact. I know from my own experience it is impossible to ride out in front on a white horse and think objectively about yourself.

I'm reminded of how my 4 year old seems to view the world: any attention is good attention. It doesn't matter to him that he's behaving badly; he just wants me to Look. At. Him. Better that people are watching, than that nobody seems to care. And, just like with my 4 year old, it works.

I look.

Twice Monthly Giveaway - New Item!

Congratulations to ncrinehart, who won the Hydrangea Pendant Necklace! Thanks to everyone who entered!

The next item is one of my favorite winter rings - the Firelight Ring:

Made from anti-tarnish, permanently dyed gold colored wire and a sparkling tangerine crystal, this ring reminds me of cozy times by a flickering fire. Also available in sterling silver, but the winner will be sent the gold ring unless you indicate otherwise. Click on any picture to see the listing in my Etsy shop.

To enter, please comment below that you would like to enter, and include your email. If you are more comfortable emailing me directly, please do so at: ellieandsteve@verizon.net.

The winner will be chosen at random (my daughter draws a name from a hat) on February 1st.

This giveaway is open internationally.

Thanks so much!

Gorilla Training, 101

I hate Expectations.

I'm not talking about hopes and dreams - those are great. They live somewhere out in the ether where they don't interfere with my day-to-day life.

I'm talking about the Expectations that live in my head. The ones that superimpose themselves over my real life - and without my permission, I might add. I do this unconsciously, most of the time. I didn't even notice that the Expectations were sitting at the breakfast table with me yesterday morning, as my kids ate sugary cereals and Greta scrambled to finish her homework only minutes before the bus comes.

"Tsk, tsk," they said. "Empty calories and carbs for breakfast. Why don't you just feed them crack cocaine? What happened to doing homework the night before? Oh, right. You were too busy keeping them up past their bedtime watching TV."

As we search madly for boots, hats & mittens the Expectations have a good laugh at my expense. "I thought you were going to have them hang up their coats so we don't do this everyone morning?" they whisper savagely in my ear.

Greta makes her bus, her homework completed, just as she does every morning. This doesn't appease the Expectations, though. They just find another target. Finn has a potty accident as we're walking out the door, and they tell me it's my fault. "It's because you aren't consistent," they hiss. "Other Moms remember to reward their kid every time he uses the potty. You forgot twice yesterday."

I have a mental picture of the Headmistress of Expectations: she is me, dressed in an uncomfortable tweed suit, wagging her finger and shaking her head in disappointment. I wish she would go away and leave me alone.

It is hard to resist her siren call. I seem to be hardwired to be tough on myself. Even when I do things well, the Headmistress can always find an example of how I could have done better. She hangs out with Low Self-Esteem and Addiction, and together they make a hell of a team.

I'm learning, though, how to tell her to shut up. Meet the Headmistress' laid back twin sister: Aunt Content. She is like a beloved substitute teacher; she shows up unpredictably, and we all breathe a little easier when she's around. She knows how to live in the moment and appreciate the smaller victories. Aunt Content pals around with Acceptance and Surrender. They remind me that I really don't control much, it's just that the Expectations make me think I do. She knows how to have a good laugh at my own expense, without losing my sense of self-worth in the process. She is my recovery.

When I was newly sober, someone said: "You aren't a bad person, you're a sick person. Hate the Addict, don't hate yourself." Right then, a little fissure appeared in my mind; I had always thought of my disease as a kind of out-of-control mental gorilla that raged in my head, beyond my control. I felt a seedling of hope: a gorilla can be contained, but only if I acknowledge that it's there.

I understand, now, that the Headmistress feeds my gorilla. She is my disease talking to me, telling me I don't measure up, that I'm not worth it. Now that I recognize her voice, she frightens me less and less. Before, hers was the only voice I heard. Now I have me a Gorilla Trainer.

This is what Aunt Content would have said to me yesterday morning, had I been listening:

"Take a deep breath, kiddo. We'll get there. What's the worst that could happen? That you drive her to school? That she has to make up the homework tomorrow? Is the world going to stop revolving if she isn't wearing mittens? If her hands are cold, maybe next time she'll remember to put them where they belong so she can find them easily. So what if Finn had an accident - he won't go off to high school in pull-ups. It will all be okay. And you know what? The world isn't watching. They aren't judging you. It's that Headmistress Bitch getting to you. So RELAX."

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em

The witching hour. Parents have dreaded the hours of 5-7pm for eons. The sun goes down, Mom is tired, dinner needs to be fixed, homework done..... and the kids turn into little werewolves. Good times.

It is a time to buckle down, grit your teeth, and crack the whip.

Or, play Freeze Dance:

Untitled from Ellie S on Vimeo.