Tag Archives: writing

small wins

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My best friend has been absolutely pivotal in my development as an adult. There were things I told Kells that I had never said out lout before, and to this day, that remains one of the absolute best things about my relationship with her. I don’t even have to preface them with “I’m going to sound like an asshole, but…” or “I probably shouldn’t say this…”

She gets me, and my gratitude for that knows no bounds. So, naturally, in the last month or so, I’ve leaned pretty hard on Kells to remind me of what I know, enlighten me on what she knows, and to point out things that maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention to.

Last week, during our weekly WhatsApp hangout, I was—once again—talking about things I could focus on to help me stay in an overall good mindset. It’s been a little unpredictable, and I notice that I’ll have an okay day where things in my head feel better, and then, the next day is a slip back down toward the bottom of that hole I’m always trying to climb out of.

“Did I ever tell you about my small-wins blog?” Kells asked me. Another thing to note about my bestie is that she’s a little bit of an internet sensation. She’s massively talented at many things, and her writing has garnered her bouts of very-well-deserved attention and praise. For a long time, she regularly updated her own blog, and some posts were dedicated simply to her “small wins.” Small victories in any day. They took off in popularity, and for someone who is trying to focus on what’s working instead of what’s not, I’m taking inspiration. So, thank you Kells.

We’ll kick off with a big one: My new nephew was born on Friday. I’d been waiting for an update, and while I was on my way out, my brother texted me the first picture of him. Those weird, unsettling feelings in the pit of my stomach instantly turned into something else. I’m so grateful for this tiny human who I haven’t even met yet for helping me to feel excited, hopeful, and full of love. So, thank you, Myles Jameson.

Also, on Friday: I went back to Floral Park. It was Belmont Stakes weekend, so the street fair was happening. I honestly don’t remember the last time I drove around near the square or down Tulip Ave. I met up with literal childhood friends—I realized it while we were talking—I’ve known Tracie, Tina, and Jaclyn ((Jackies for the win)) since I was still in my single digits. It was such a trip being back around my old haunts and seeing just how much things have changed. Restaurants I worked at were gone. Banks had turned into physical therapy offices. And while I did recognize some faces ((some which I ducked away from for good reason)), so many young families were scattered on the block. Later, I got to meet more of my childhood friends’ children. “We were all in the same Kindergarten class,” Jaclyn explained to one of them. And we were. I remember standing with them while our moms talked, and now, I got to stand with the moms and remember what it was like to be a kid. I felt really, really lucky to actually witness new generations growing up in my small hometown. FP has its problems, for sure, but it was a great place to grow up—and I am so, so grateful to have reconnected with people who have known me for my entire life. I feel like that’s a rarity on its own.

I knocked one of the bigger things off my longstanding to-do list: I took the boys for their annual vet checkup//vaccines. These cats, man. Sometimes, I don’t know how I got so lucky. They are both so well tempered and sweet. Maddox, though, can be very shy and skittish. I was really worried about getting him into the new carrier I bought for them—Maddy is fast and he’s great at being a cat, so he has tons of clandestine hiding spots. I thought for sure he’d flee as fast as his legs could carry him and disappear into the unknown under my bed or in my closet. But no. He came running when he heard the treat bag, and went right into the carrier to get them. I’m surprised I didn’t scare him with my dramatically loud “Good boy, Maddy! Good boy!” declarations. They were both really, really good at the vet, too. No squirming, scrambling, swiping, biting, or yowling during any of the poking around their mouths, ears, bellies, nail trims, and the shots. It was a more expensive visit than I thought, but I still left in a good mood because everything had gone so smoothly and so quickly.

Another big one: While I was brushing my teeth last week, I turned my head and noticed a small spot in front of my right ear where my port-wine stain has completely cleared.

Completely. Cleared.

It’s such a small spot, but it feels so huge to see it without it being “stained” for the first time in 43 years. If there was a feeling I could jar up and revisit when I needed to, the moment I noticed would be one of them.

Also, it’s the spot where you’d get a tragus piercing. I have never been able to pierce any part of my ears, but after my next visit ((when I make sure to get the go-ahead)), I think I’m going to.

Over the weekend: I finally got to go to Forest Hills Stadium. I’ve been wanting to see a show there for so long, since I love an outdoor venue—especially a historic one. The weather was awesome during the day, and we hung out around the neighborhood for the whole afternoon. The energy felt great as soon as we stepped off the train—I loved the diversity of the people, and that weird teenage-level anxiety I’ve been feeling dissipated. I got into two interesting chats with older dudes before the show, and once we went inside, our seats were upgraded to better ones.

I’m not very familiar with the band, Bright Eyes, but I turned to my friend at one point and I said that I felt lucky to be around that kind of energy. The music was sad, but you could tell everyone in the crowd sang from places of real love and real emotion. I think that’s one of the reasons I like going to see live music so much—it’s really hard not to pick up and be carried off by the energy of the people around you. I spent a good amount of time just quietly looking around at people with their arms around each other. It felt a little like peeking into windows. I’ve definitely been trying to pay attention to how I perceive energy and how certain environments affect how I feel, and this was a really great type of workshop for that.

The show was canceled less than halfway through because an enormous thunderstorm blew in more quickly than I’ve ever seen before. But even that felt like a win—we scrambled to get to the train station and I urged us under an awning just as the wind kicked up. Deep gray clouds raced across the sky and treetops bent sideways. “We’re kind of lucky to get to see this,” I said, and the lady next to me nodded enthusiastically. “This is weather-nerd type of stuff—you want to see it, but you don’t really want to be outside during it.” Luckily, we were able to get onto the train before the intense rain started. By the time we got back, it had ended. I feel like there’s definitely a metaphor or three in there somewhere.

Smaller, but still noticeable wins:

– Finally found a pair of camouflage-printed flip-flops to add to my collection. And they’re Vans.

– Had my first beach day on Sunday.

– I’m almost finished successfully listening to my first audiobook.

– My Spotify station played a bunch of hip-hop I hadn’t heard in awhile.

– I pulled the High Priestess card twice last week.

– I got laundry and grocery shopping done after putting them off.

– The sun doesn’t set until after 8pm.

– Today was the first time in more than a month that I woke up without instantly thinking about something bad.

I’ll take it.

play your cards right.

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I want to talk about rage.

Not the kind of rage that hits you during a bad commute home, when someone cuts you off and you have to slam on your brakes and almost stop breathing. When you can’t lean on the horn hard enough or spew enough horrendous insults. This one is bigger.

I have trouble being angry. That’s not a huge surprise to anyone who actually knows me or has heard me talk about it. I don’t get angry easily. I don’t get angry often. And when it happens the way it has happened recently, I don’t know what to do with it. It’s no secret that I struggle with depression and anxiety—I’m as open as I can be about it, mostly because I want other people to feel safe talking about things they need to—and all I keep thinking about is that decently well-known phrase: “Depression is rage turned inward.”

When I get angry, I turn it into sadness. I think I’m probably too good at being sad, since I’ve certainly spent a lot of time doing it. I think maybe sadness feels a little more natural to me. I can feel awful with a good reason, not just one that has nowhere to go. But let me explain something I’ve been trying to practice for the last two-ish years—the 180s. I’ve been trying to reframe my thoughts and behaviors more intensely since the beginning of the year, because I came to a stark, scary realization: I don’t think I’m going to make it if I keep thinking the way that I do. So, when something anxiety-inducing pops up in my brain or when I’m on the verge of tears about something I can’t control, I try a 180: I think about what my instinctual reaction/thought would be, and I do the complete opposite. It was working out really well. There were some blips and bumps, but for the most part, every 180 I made was a clear move that put me into a different headspace where peace was the most important thing. Nothing is worth more than peace, to me. I know that. I’ve known that. But I feel like I’ve gotten so angry that peace isn’t a concept I can even fathom.

It started a few weeks ago, when I was on my way to visit a friend who had sent me really unhinged, really inappropriate text messages the night before. I’m someone that needs to do serious talks in person. Texting is impersonal, and it’s too easy to misinterpret tone. Phone calls just make me anxious. I’d rather look at you and realize that this is something happening between two human beings with faults and emotions. I always want to hear about how someone else thinks. So, I arrived at the house and walked inside, like I usually did when I came to visit, and checked two levels before locating my friend, asleep in the basement. I saw him, and I wanted to turn around and leave. The next thing I knew, I had woken him—abruptly—and was as close to screaming at someone as I think I’ve ever gotten.

This is the level of angry that I’ve only reached a couple of times in my entire life. It is white-out mad, when it’s nothing but fire and smoke in my head, and words loosed like a band of arrows from the back of my throat. A lot of archers showed up that afternoon. Arrows flew with abandon. I don’t know where a lot of them landed.

I am certainly not saying this wasn’t absolutely deserved. It was. This was some high-level disrespect that had been happening for months, and when I couldn’t 180 it, not really the way I wanted, I 180’ed into complete rage. I don’t even remember everything I said, but things just kept coming, even after I wasn’t as crazy angry, and I felt like I couldn’t stop. And of course, after I had calmed down and returned to my normal human form, I felt sad. I was so sad to have spoken to someone like that, even if they deserved it, so sad that who I am and what I wanted from this was not at the forefront of my action. I was still upset with my friend, but all I wanted was to hug him. Which I did, later. And I did get a chance to talk out some things in a more composed manner.

While things seemed like they were going to calm down a little, they absolutely did not in the coming days. The situation most definitely took a 180 itself, and went from tough, but manageable, to impossible and impassable.

And now, I feel like somebody else.

My mood had been so great for about three months. I had focused so hard on changing how I think about things, and I was so excited and proud of myself for feeling like I actually was living a different life than the one I felt sentenced to. My therapists had even commented on it. But it felt like all of that work had been balled up tightly, into a tiny thing that couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

For me, being in my 40s has brought back a lot of things. I remember who I was as a teenage Jacks, the passion and enthusiasm I would steer toward creativity, the strong, strong sense of who I was. It felt really good to grab her hand and pull her out of whatever crevice she’d been tucked into for too long. But I also got to remember what it felt like for her when she couldn’t get things out, when she was shoved into that crevice, and her thoughts became snakes in the dark, wrapping and wrapping themselves around her, sizing up their next meal.

I don’t know where my strength has gone. The confidence I had in changing thought patterns, the progress I was so happy to be making—I don’t know where it is. All it is now is rage, and it feels like there’s no outlet big enough for any of it. What do you do when you know what will make you feel better, but you’re not afforded the opportunity? When it took you so long to finally name it, finally embrace the things you know that help you, only to find them completely obsolete against a wall of silence and shadow?

My thoughts have not been my friends. They have been snakes. And it’s an infestation. They make me think about things I don’t like, things I won’t do, things that feel like they came from somewhere else. Even when I’m engaged at work, or caught up in an episode of a show that I like, or hanging out with Maddox and Mambo. I hear them, hissing from where they’re watching everything. It’s more than Scumbag Brain, which I’ve talked about and written about before.

I have been so desperate to feel better over the last three weeks. I feel like a pauper at a coronation parade, hands scraping at the road for some kind of scrap of merriment and prosperity. Oh, and it was my birthday last week.

Instead of buying myself something a little shiny or a little more expensive, I bought myself my first-ever tarot card reading. I’ve been thinking about it since it ended, and how it feels pathetic to be so despondent that you actually try to pay for happy thoughts or ideas. I sat with the reader, and—just like in my kitchen during a solo dance party, just like in my bed when I tried to quiet things down with a nap, just like when I was in the middle of feeding the boys—I started to cry. My throat tightened, and I literally could not use my full voice to apologize for things not turning out the way I thought they would. She had a lot to say about the things I don’t, and the way it makes things worse for me, and how it buries me underneath so much heaviness.

She asked me if I ever blogged.

It’s funny how things come full circle sometimes. How I used to use written words to say the things my voice couldn’t. How I’ve stepped away from it, even when I know it will work. We talked a lot about opportunities. She reinforced how my words have always been a life ring tossed into storm-grappled water, not just for me, but for people around me. I feel like I’m crawling back on to the shore, in tatters and depletion. And I’m wondering if anyone is listening.