9/30 Things: List 10 (9) people who have influenced you and describe how.

Hey there! So I realized that I haven’t done one of these 30 Things entries in quite a while, and I was struggling to come up with a good entry today – so here we are! The 30 Things entries tend to be quite a bit of navel-gazing but hey; this is my blog so why not. As you can tell, the topic is 10 people who have influenced me and how. I was a little hesitant to make this about ten people from my personal life that have influenced me, so I decided to divvy it up – half and half. I certainly did not list every person from my past that has changed my life – that would be impossible. I’ve had many great friends in my life through the years that have helped me, in one way or another, become the woman that I am today (for what that’s worth!). I also decided to not focus on people that may have influenced me in a negative way, because reasons. So with that! Off we go, in no particular order! 

1. My Grandmother

I don’t know if you have been lucky enough to have a real grandma or not, but if you have – you know exactly what I’m talking about here. By a real grandma, I mean the type that spoils you and loves you unconditionally. I have mentioned before that I was lucky enough to be raised primarily by my grandmother, who I called Mamow. I went from a scary situation and my parent’s house, to a wonderful life with her. She was my sanctuary. She was a Sunday school teacher for small children, which honestly may have ruined christianity for me. Why? Because I held all other christians that I met to the standard that was established in my head, and that was her. 

She was infinitely loving, caring, kind, warm, honest, and non-judgmental. She was everything that I wanted to be. She had this inner light that made everyone adore her. I’ve known many christians, but very few of her caliber. I won’t go off on a tangent on this right now because that is not what this is about. This is about the most wonderful woman that I ever knew and how she influenced me. She influenced me to be a better person, to always keep an open heart, and to give people second and third chances – as many chances as they need if you love them. She also taught me to (try) to love everyone. Hell, without her I wouldn’t even know the basics of how to take care of a home, or myself. Wherever you are Mamow – thank you; I love you. 

2. Stevie Nicks

I came around to loving Stevie a little later in life than I could have. I think that I fell in love with who she was before I even fell in love with her songs. She is a gypsy; and individual; an artist in everything. The first time I saw her, really saw her; I thought, “I want to be her.” She’s beautiful, but a little unconventional. She loves hard. She is unique. I think that she and I are a lot alike in our styles – and I think that is probably because at some point I started dressing to imitate her. That couldn’t happen as much as I liked because I got so large that it was hard to find clothes to fit, let alone a specific style. But now that I am getting smaller I have options – and those options typically drift towards the gypsy boho style. Right now the style is sort of in style so lucky me, but I am sure it will fall out of style in a few years. I will continue to wear it without a care… just like my scrunchies, which are once again acceptable according to Forever 21 (woohoo!). 

Also worth a mention here is the fact that she is living her life exactly the way she wants to, and always has. No, she never had kids (which I also have not and am quickly approaching “will not be able to”), and no she never really settled down with anyone – but she has lived one hell of a life. She has been who she wanted to be and where she wanted to be. Also, she loves animals – specifically dogs – so what’s not to love about her?

3. My mom

My mom was what I would call a free spirit. She loved music – specifically 60s rock and Motown. She loved animals (I am fairly sure that this is where I got my instinct to cuddle everything fluffy), and she loved to read. She used to wear cat-eye glasses and bright red lipstick. She was funny and loving. I remember that she and I used to have these big debates on whether or not she was an old hippie. She would yell that she was never a hippie – she”… was a flower child; and that was totally different!” O.K. mom…

My mom unfortunately, or not unfortunately I suppose, had some pretty intense mental health issues, of which I inherited.  She had some pretty extreme social anxiety (check) and some debilitating depression (also check). But she fought through these things and led a good, quiet life. She read a lot and loved to spend time with her family. Ah, and she loved to shop (with me!). We would go out every season and buy new clothes, whether we really needed them or not. I do have a bit of a clothing obsession now and it may well be because of her. 

She also heavily influenced my early music choices, which brings me to…

4. Jim Morrison

Mom loved The Doors, and gave me my first vinyl when I was pretty young. I think she may have given it to me when I started my gothy-phase, but I could be wrong. Morrison was… just wow. I loved the way he looked; he was gorgeous. I could imagine running my fingers through his wild, dark hair. I could imagine his voice in my ear. I went a little insane for him! 

One year, I think for my birthday, my mom bought me The American Night, which was a book of his poetry. I devoured it – I loved it. If you look at some of my early poetry, you can clearly see that I was mimicking his style – everything nonsensical, violent, and dreamy. I think that this book is what really started my poetry writing. I wrote some before, but he inspired me. I had many of those huge posters that were popular in the 90’s covering my bedroom walls when I was a teenager; many of them were him. I would stand at stare at them; in his eyes –a ghost that I would never meet, yet I felt like I knew. With the help of Morrison, my ability to be creative and thoughtful blossomed. 

5. My Dad

I can’t mention mom without talking about dad, because he has also been a major influence on me. I was a bit of a “daddy’s girl” growing up – still am, really. My dad and I are quite different, and have become more-so over the years. Dad is now a fan of the political Right, when I can clearly remember him being the biggest Clinton and JFK fan around when I was younger. He listens to a lot of country music now, when he used to listen to nothing but rock n roll. He’s sort of reverted to some county good ol’ boy attitude, but when I was growing up he loved fast cars, computers, and anything techy. No matter how much he’s changed, I still love him just the same. He’s been through a lot the past few years; hell throughout his life – and he’s tough as nails. 

I think that the most significant way that dad has influenced me is in his perseverance. There have been many times in life that he “should have” been dead. Man’s been shot, stabbed, broken, hit, and everything else you can imagine… and he always gets back up – he always fights. He had a quintuple bypass heart surgery when I was in my early twenties and got up swinging – feeling better than he had in years. He got laid off from his job right before he could retire – so he went back to school and got a degree. He is an amazing man, and he taught me so much about pushing through the pain and doing the best that I can. Thanks daddy. I love you, you tough sommabitch.

6. Vincent van Gogh

I have always liked van Gogh’s work – his swirling style that look so much like tightly controlled chaos to me. I mean, who doesn’t like Starry Night? If I’m honest though, I don’t think that I really learned to appreciate him in a deeper way until I went to college. While studying for my AA, I took an Art History class – a really basics of art history fun type class. For my final I had to choose an artist and write about his or her life and how they influenced the art world. Golden – this I could do.

 I chose van Gogh for the project because I really loved Starry Night; as I said, who doesn’t? And there is a ton of information out there on his life. I watched documentaries, read biographies, and studied his paintings closely. What I saw was a man with the type of pain I have who created wonderful, beautiful pieces of art. Vincent had a tragic life, and his mental illness was perhaps more debilitating than mine. But he created. He loved. He lived. He inspired me because I knew then that despite the way I am I can also create beautiful things; I can also love. Perhaps most importantly to me is the fact that I don’t have to change me or fit into my assigned societal role to do so. 

7. My best friend “Michelle”

No, her name isn’t Michelle – I don’t want to call her out and embarrass her. Michelle and I met when I was 15? 16? Maybe even 14… I’m not sure; but in any case, on my end at least, we connected instantly. I spent an insane amount of my time at her house when I was a teenager, and she did the same at my house. I would walk from my place to hers, which wasn’t that far (about three miles) in some ways, but when you’re walking through the ghetto it kind of is. 

She had the coolest room – the entire lower floor of a garage apartment. We’d smoke, blast music, and just fucking be together. We inspired one another. She was unlike anyone else that I knew in that she was genuine and authentic. She didn’t try to be cool to fit in. She was naturally cool – cooler than any of my other friends, really. She knew exactly who she was, and was unashamed of it. And what was there to be ashamed of anyway? She loved British rock; she wrote poetry; she loved video games and pop culture. She was an incredible friend – a better friend than most people we knew deserved. 

She had a huge heart and it got stomped on a lot; but it never stopped her from loving people. 

So how did she inspire me? Well she still inspires me, actually. She and I had a long time that we didn’t speak (my fault), but when we reconnected it was exactly what I needed. She helps keep me sane and she helps me believe in myself. One only has to observe her to be inspired, really. She is always busy and she is always working on something. She has overcome a lot and is a little fighter that I am incredibly proud of. She builds me up and keeps me sane… so much so that she is discussed as a positive force with my therapist. When I can recognize something good in myself and be positive, we call it a win for “Team ‘Michelle’”, if that tells you anything. So, if you can actually take a breath to read this “Michelle”, thank you. I love you. I hope you’re finding time to write today. 

8. Salvador Dali

I think that I had seen a little on Dali before I moved here to St. Pete, but now that I am here I see and read about Dali all of the time because there is a huge Dali museum here. Why here? I have no fucking clue. He never lived here, as far as I know; he was Spanish. In any case, Dali is “the” surrealist artist, in my opinion. I mean sure, there have been many other great surrealists (Picasso), but I don’t think that anyone did it (or does it) quite as well as he did. 

Dali was eccentric – I mean really eccentric. Though, it is thought that much of his eccentricity was an act; something to get his name out. If it was, it worked. Dali was insanely famous – he worked with Disney and did advertisements. He had this crazy, long, possibly toxic relationship with his wife Gala who guided him in everything. His art, under her guidance and otherwise, is exquisite.

So how did this weird guy with a pointy mustache inspire me? He inspired me to continue to be weird; to be eccentric; to be me. Why can’t I be both strange and successful? Dali says that I certainly can, and he proved it time and again. So he further inspired me to find who it is that I am, and to be that person no matter what others think of me.

9. My husband

I am going to try really hard not to get too personal here but it will be difficult not to be. My husband has loved me at my absolute worst. He has seen me through tragedy after tragedy, and supported me financially and emotionally for a decade. Never has he complained; never has he made me feel like I am unworthy of the sacrifices he has made. Never has he suggested that I can’t do something, or that my illnesses define me.

My husband is not a man who writes me poetry, or brings me flowers. He is not a man that showers me with gifts or tells me that I am beautiful – but he is a man who stands by my side without faltering. As I said before, he has stood by me at my absolute worst without the slightest suggestion that I am too much or not enough. 

Right now there is one specific way that he has inspired me; one particular thing that he has inspired me to do – and that is to love him in the same way that he has loved me. My husband is going through a rough time right now; he has lost confidence in himself and he is unhappy. My suspicion is that he has depression – something that he will never admit to out loud. He is so used to being the rock that he doesn’t know how to lean on me or anyone else. So I’m going to love him. I’m going to hold his hand and help him push through this. I’m going to help him regain confidence in himself. I’m going to help him set and achieve goals. I’m going to save “us” because we are worth saving.

Hold on tight, baby. Our life is about to change again, and this time it’s going to be for the better. I love you. Happy anniversary – here’s to five more. 

******************************************************************************

I was supposed to do ten people – and I was all prepared to write about Anne Rice and what an amazing author she is and how she has inspired me – but I’m calling it here. Not only because this is insanely long for a blog post, but because what better note can I end this post on when my fifth anniversary is today? He had to work today, but tomorrow we are going out to dinner at a nice place and spending the day together. I can’t wait! 

Honoring Your Inner Child

Credit

Yesterday I was gloating about making a milestone on my weight loss on my personal Facebook account, and a sweet lady that I know posted the following message –

“…How are you going to reward your inner child? Treat her kindly, she must be very special.”

I was touched by this simple message. There was something about it that stuck with me. While I was, as always, moved by the positivity and support from people I love and care about – this specific message echoed in my head. I knew, and know that I am overthinking it – it is my nature to do so – but still… The woman who said this couldn’t have known what my childhood was like; I only met her a year or so ago. Was she aware that this specific thing would ring true to me? That it would be very meaningful to me? Of course not. In the spirit of over-examining things, let’s figure out exactly what the Inner Child is and maybe I can figure out from there why this message meant so much to me.

Inner Child is a term that I’ve heard tossed around a lot; especially since entering treatment for depression (and other things) at the age of 15. I can remember hearing about my Inner Child when I was a teenager – pretty much still a child myself. So what is your Inner Child, exactly? Merriam Webster defines the inner child as follows, “…the childlike usually hidden part of a person's personality that is characterized by playfulness, spontaneity, and creativity usually accompanied by anger, hurt, and fear attributable to childhood experiences”.

This is an acceptable definition for me. While there was much in my childhood that was great, there was also trauma and pain, as I have mentioned time and again in this blog. I think that most people have a difficult childhood to some degree – and that difficulty is subjective. My pain is not equivalent to another’s pain and so forth. It is sometimes hard for me to remember that I am not the only person in the world that was heavily molested as a child, and indeed there are people who have been through worse; things that I could not even imagine. “Anna” may have witnessed the death of her pet cat when she was young and feel that it has traumatized her. I cannot compare my trauma to hers and attempt to invalidate it; it is not fair and it is not rational.

The point in this is that I think most people clutch to some pain, some trauma from their childhood and that this discussion applies to everyone – not just molestation and rape survivors; people whose parents divorced; whose sibling or grandparent died; who were bullied… all of these people and more have a place in this discussion. If you buy into the idea of a metaphorical Inner Child, you have one. In theory, we all have them as we have all been a child at some point who experienced things.

So I asked myself the same question my Facebook friend asked me – How am I going to reward my inner child? How does one reward a metaphorical thing? Well, this metaphorical thing is a part of me, is it not? So I suppose I reward her by rewarding myself – but there has to be more to it than that. If I reward myself by buying a new videogame, is that rewarding her? Perhaps in a way. Every inch of my being loves video games, and that includes her I suppose. But that feels superficial. I don’t think that I can truly reward my inner child with things that can be bought – I don’t think that’s what she needs.

And so I decided to do something that I had always scoffed at in my various therapies – try guided meditation. Stay with me, here! Because I know what you are thinking – new-aged hippie bullshit. Perhaps. Just hear me out.

I did quite a bit of Googling and other various research, and I finally came to a free guided meditation to help heal your Inner Child. It’s on Youtube. /shrug. I mean, I learn how to cook, make crafty stuff, and do my makeup on Youtube – why not deep therapy? This is said with full sarcasm that I am sure does not translate well. Despite my doubt of it all, I gave it a try with an open mind.

I followed the spoken instructions. I plugged in my earbuds, laid on my back, closed my eyes and listened to the speaker’s soothing, accented voice. I am not 100% sure what his accent is, and I won’t embarrass myself by taking a guess, but you know us Americans – if you want to add validity to anything just have a person with an accent sell it and we are (typically) on board. I pushed past the part of me that was screaming that this was so very suburban and cheesy.

I kept an open mind and just… followed instructions. After a few moments of deep breaths and piano music something amazing happened – my imagination took over. I was to picture myself, as a child. I could see her. I could see me. Not an idealized version of me – the real me. Too-chubby cheeked, round belly, awkward haircut, homemade clothes… but I was beautiful. I was not beautiful in a child pageant way, I was beautiful in a way far more important than that. I was pure. My name actually means purity – and I was that. I was innocent; I was just… good. I loved everything and everyone, sometimes to the detriment of myself.

Face to face with my inner child, what would she say? Would she be angry at me for some reason? Would she express her grief and terror? Sadness? Disappointment? To my relief, no – she did not. I realized then that what was done to me did not spoil me. Even after I was raped the first time at seven or eight years old I was still pure. I was still good. I was not a package of ground meat in the market that suddenly expired, nor an action figure that had been taken out of the box and suddenly lost all value. I was still me.

She was smiling at me in a knowing way; in a wise way – as if she was in on some cosmic joke that I was not. At some point the voice on my earbuds suggested that I hug my inner child. In my mind, she opened her arms to me and I nearly fell into them. If this were real, I am pretty sure I would have hurt her from hugging her so tight. I was sobbing – not just in my mind – in real life. I was ugly crying. I finished my meditation and laid there in my bed for a while, still crying. I realized that I blamed everything in my life on that first moment – that first betrayal. I gave it so much power – and indeed it did have power. It changed me; it scarred me – but it did not lessen me as a person. It did not stunt my potential. I will not let it be what defines me as a person.

I hope that, whatever terrible thing has happened to you in the past that you dwell on; whatever it is that you blame for your perceived faults and weaknesses, can be overcome by you. This one adventure into the land of guided meditation will not heal all wounds. I am not all better now – but I gained insight and maybe a little bit of self-love – and that is the best gift or reward that I could ever give my Inner Child.

If you’d like to give a look at the video that made me break down and sob like a fool, you can do that here. As always, thanks for reading!

My Shao - saying goodbye to my best friend

In 1999 I was lucky enough to get my very first puppy. I had dogs before; well, my parents and friends had dogs before – but I had never had one all my own. My (then) husband took me to a house in the middle of nowhere that was selling husky puppies. We wandered into the backyard where the owner was standing and saw a bundle of fluffy, adorable puppies that were all flopping about and being incredibly cute.  There were several other people there looking over the pups. I squatted down, scanning them over – I loved them all. But, as it often happens, one chose me. This tiny ball of grey and white fluff with sparkling blue eyes wandered over to me and nuzzled my hand. I picked her up and instantly she was mine – or rather, I was hers.

We had a long ride home, but she sat timidly in the palm of my hand. She gnawed gently at my
fingers, her short tail wagged constantly. She was beautiful, loving, and was bursting with personality. I think that we tried out several names before settling on “Shaolin.” It was more my husband’s choice than mine – I wanted to name her something pretty. I spent a lot of time with her and grew to love her so much that it ached sometimes.

I quickly learned that she was incredibly hyper, as most puppies are. She would be sleeping soundly, then suddenly jump up and begin tearing through the house. She would run from the living room to the dining room and then to the kitchen, her paws slipping violently on the linoleum. She would stop herself by slamming into the kitchen door. She would then Scooby-doo scramble and run back to the living room only to bounce off of the couch and start all over again. Her tongue would be hanging out wildly to the side; her eyes wide and bright.

At some point, my (then) husband decided that Shao should be kept outside. I did not agree, but really did not have a choice at that time. So, out she went. I quickly learned that she had a knack for escaping the back yard. She could leap the chain length fence in a single big bound. She made a game out of having people chase her, often at her own peril as she ran into traffic. Somehow, she never got hurt; somehow I always got her back. Years later, after I was divorced and in an apartment with my (then) new boyfriend (and now husband), I decided that she should be brought along to live indoors with me where she belonged. We took her to obedience classes, in which she excelled.  Everyone loved her; she howled and seemed to speak in short “woos” and whimpers. She loved other dogs and other people. She was funny, mischievous, and very smart.

She did great inside with me and my boyfriend. We had a two story townhouse that she loved bounding up and down the stairs of. She never really barked; not unless she was really suspicious of someone. She loved laying on the couch with me while I watched a movie or laying on the floor of the dining room staring into the kitchen longingly as I cooked. Much to the dismay of my boyfriend she loved giving kisses right on the lips. She would sneak them when you did not expect it and then gently wag her tail as you groaned and wiped your mouth off.

The maddest I have ever been at her was when she killed a baby sparrow. I had found one outside of
our apartment, no nest in sight; no parents in sight. I decided to hand- feed it until I could release it. I went to the pet store and bought formula and droppers and carefully fed the chick many times a day. It was getting strong and healthy and I was really proud of myself. All of this feeding and caring for took quite a bit of my time and I could see Shao glaring up at it, and me as I fed it. One day I left the nest I had made it (with it in it) on my bed as I went to change out laundry. Shao struck quickly. I was devastated when I came back to my room to find her proudly standing over the dead bird in my bed.

I forgave her in time; I realized that this was an act of instinct and not one of malice (or so I told myself!). Shao and I bonded so closely. When my grandmother got sick and eventually died, she was there snuggling with me; gently licking away my tears. When my mother died she was there, nuzzling under my arm and forcing me to concentrate on something other than despair. When my depression was so bad that I could hardly get out of bed for even the bathroom she was there, loving me unconditionally and without end.

And now she’s gone.

No longer can I wake up to look into those icy blue eyes. No longer can I reach out and rub the velveteen fur on her ears. No longer can I bury my face in the fur on her back, forget the world, and fall asleep. What will I do without her? I don’t know. But will remember her. I will honor her as someone who was not “just a dog” but an important part of my life. She was not a pet, but a true friend. She was an animal, but more human than many people I have known. She was light and sunshine and joy. And now she’s gone. And my life has this… huge hole. I still walk around the place on the carpet she loved to lay. I still wake up and reach down to pet her head. I am still so crushed by this, and I don’t know how I will recover.

I’ve had enough loss to know that this will somehow heal with time. The scab over the wound will remain, being bumped and scratched at now and again when I’m reminded of her. Eventually I’ll be able to think of how lucky we were – how lucky I was. Sixteen years is a long time for a big dog to live. There was so much laughter and fun and love in those sixteen years! But for now all I can think of is my loss; of not having her. But I’m glad that I was by her side in the end. I’m glad the last words she heard were, “I love you” and “you are such a good girl”. I’m glad I got to gently wrap my arms around her and hug one last time.

Goodbye Shao. I’ll never, ever forget you. Thank you. And I hope that one day I’m worthy and lucky enough to see you again. 

Shaolin

1999 - 2015

Always in my Heart

The Villain Arts Tattoo Convention

Many years ago at the height of my really shitty, really abusive first marriage I got a tattoo. Without going into way too much information about it, I have a ton of bad memories and feelings about that tattoo and a major case of tattoo regret.  It was ugly and shoddily done by an inexperienced artist who had his own shop! Always, ALWAYS check out your artist’s portfolio and credentials. Don’t assume that him or her having their own shop means that they are a great artist. The tattoo itself would have been hideous, even If it wasn’t badly done. It was a pair of red lips that had been sewn shut. It was on the back of my neck so, thankfully, it was not visible most of the time. But I still knew it was there; oh yes. It was like a dirty secret, whispering insecurities in my ear from its place on my neck- a reminder of the many mistakes of my early twenties. I hated it.

It’s been many years since I’ve gotten a tattoo. I got several ugly ones in the years after the lips. I even got a couple of regrettable homegrown tattoos. But, I finally just stopped. I wanted quality ink, not cheap ugly stuff. I had one or two that I was actually proud of (professionally done), but the majority were crap. Quality tattoos cost money – and well deserved money. So, it happened that I was following this really great tattoo artist on Facebook and she was coming in to town for a tattoo convention. I have never, ever been to a convention and Tampa (the neighboring city hosting the convention) is confusing and scary to me. But, she had a beautiful piece that she wanted to tattoo, and I had a spot on my neck that needed to be covered. We made the arrangements and I met her there Sunday afternoon.

If you have never been to a convention, you should really experience it.  Once inside, my husband and I were quickly approached by artists trying to hard-sell us on a tattoo by them, pushing their cards in our hands and asking what we needed. It reminded me of going to a flea market in a way. Not to say that all of the artists were this aggressive; truly only a few were. Most artists were hard at work on tattoos, or politely chatting with browsers in their booths.

There were stage shows, of which I sadly missed. There were also live suspensions, which I (frankly) gladly missed. Enigma was there, but he seems to be everywhere. I did not get to speak to him, but according to my husband he seemed “very jovial” and like a “real nice guy.” From my spot on the stage at one point I could see Enigma smiling and gently cooing at a baby being rocked in her mother’s arms. The baby was smiling at him sleepily, either unaware or uncaring of the stigma attached to people who have extensive tattoos and body modification – it was touching really. There were belly dancers and sword swallowers; there was an artist painting mural-size pieces – but mostly there were booths and booths of tattoo artists.

Enigma, photo credit

I was happily unaware of the reality television shows that many of the artists came from. I honestly do not watch very much TV, and when I do it is very rarely “reality” TV. I think the scripted reality is condescending and is contributing to the dumbing down of the US. This is nothing against the artists themselves – who doesn’t want to be on TV? Who doesn’t want a shot at fame? It was good exposure for all of them, I am sure – regardless of whether they won or lost.

At one point during my tattoo a gaggle of women and girls expectantly approached the artist in the booth next to us. The kids (yes, kids!) seemed to be very enamored with him – so did their mother, to be honest. She locked eyes with me as she waited to have a picture with him, hovering over his booth like a vulture. She seemed confused that I didn’t share her enthusiasm – that I wasn’t incredibly blown away to be so close to the artist. He seemed like a nice guy – the very brief encounter that I had with him was positive, in fact. But I was concentrating on not jumping out of the chair that I was sitting in and making a run for the convention hall exit. Plus, I had never seen the show. It seemed odd to me that a tattoo artist had fangirls; I wondered what it was like for him. Did he get recognized everywhere he went? Did women who were missing teeth and who dream of him fixing up that confederate flag tattoo on their upper thigh follow him around the grocery store?

There was loud and (sometimes) bad music blasting from multiple spots on the convention floor. In one ear I would hear 90’s era Bro. Lynch, and in the other ear Journey. It was definitely a mish-mash of people. The food was reportedly bad, and far too expensive – but this is typical of convention food (so I have heard!). So far it sounds like I am complaining, but really I am not. Let me tell you the great thing about my experience at the convention- the people.

As a big girl who has always felt like an outcast, I expected to be ridiculed – shunned perhaps. I have never been one of the cool kids. I have never been one of the beautiful people. I have certainly never blended well in a crowd or been part of a group; not really. These people, all of them, were nothing but nice to me. I really don’t know what I expected. My tattoo, once finished, was entered into three separate contests. I had to stand in line with other entrants who were mostly beautiful men and women who were fit (not all were; but I was certainly the largest woman there). Not once did someone ridicule me or make fun of me; just the opposite, in fact. People in line with me were kind, excited, and funny. The judges were sweet and patient with me. My artist and her husband? Two of the nicest people I have ever met. Even the aforementioned artist in the booth next to us (from the reality show) who has a reputation for being really crass and easily angered was nothing.but.nice to me. It was amazing. I also came home with two trophies! My artist won 3^rd place in Tattoo of the Day and Best in Show. I am so proud of her! And proud of my award winning tattoo!

Myself and the beautiful and talented Jamy
at the end of a very long night! And a photobomber! =)  

Getting the tattoo itself was an entirely different experience. The moment I met my artist, Jamy, I knew I liked her. She was sweet; she had this great, beautiful smile; and she was really down to Earth. I regret that I didn’t really have the chance to talk to her too much. It was hard for me to chat while I was getting tattooed because the pain was a bit much for me. She was incredibly patient with me, and did not make me feel bad for squirming and clenching my teeth.

For some reason, when Jamy put the stencil on me, I almost passed out. My arms both went completely numb. The room started to spin. I closed my eyes and silently pleaded with myself not to pass out; not to embarrass myself. I came really close to passing out, but I endured somehow. I would love to know what caused it. Anxiety from being out in a crowd? Instinctual panic; something left over from my years of being abused? If she noticed my hesitation, she was kind enough not to comment on it.

Naturally, the tattoo hurt, and that pain increased as time went on. As I said before, I have tattoos. I used to actually enjoy getting tattooed; I even developed somewhat of an addiction to it. I can clearly remember sleeping through most of the touch-up work on the portrait of my leg. This was different – so very different. Jamy had what I would call a light hand; she was, for lack of a better term, quite gentle. Her machine was incredibly quiet; it was far superior to the machines that I was accustomed to. Her hand moved expertly and carefully across my back as she worked. The extra pain had nothing to do with Jamy, and everything to do with the location of my tattoo. The back is an intense place to get tattooed, and I learned that well at the convention.

Before I went to the convention, I expected something wild; something really crazy – like a kind of tattoo themed Burning Man, or something. The reality was a loud, but low-key gathering of amazing artists and tattoo fans. If you are looking for great food or music, this is probably not the kind of convention you are looking for. If you are looking to get an amazing piece of permanent artwork on you, this is exactly the type of convention you want to go to. I highly suggest doing a little leg-work ahead of time and researching the artists who will be at the show. Look at their portfolios; send them an email and let them know that you are interested in getting a tattoo. Many of these artists book up pretty quickly, so the likelihood of walking in to the convention and getting a tattoo by your artist of choice without an appointment is slim.

Me taking a much needed break
after the outline. Some incredibly
clean linework!

Also, and this is an unwritten rule, but think about the tattoo you are getting and what you can do to make the process more efficient and comfortable for both your artist and you. For example, if you are getting a tattoo on your leg and you have very hairy legs, shave the area before you go. Facilities are not optimal for shaving at these conventions. Keep in mind that good hygiene is important, and convention halls are sweaty. Noone wants to be in close quarters with someone with extreme swamp ass. Finally, wear clothing that will grant to artist access to the area. I happened to have a shirt with a low-cut back that was just the right size for the tattoo. If you are getting a tattoo in your thigh, it’s probably a bad idea to wear skinny jeans (it’s always a bad idea to wear skinny jeans, just so you know.)

If you want to see if the tour I attended is coming to your city, you can check on that here.

Or, if you would like to see where Jamy and her husband Pete (who is easily one of the best portrait tattooist I have ever seen) will be touring soon, or check out their portfolios, you can do that on Facebook here. Happy inking! 

The finished tattoo. Truly a work of art! 

That one band.

Well, here I am! If you have been following my weight loss page, you already know that I survived the surgery and have been doing pretty well! Did I overreact pre-op in thinking that I would probably die? Likely. I have really neglected this blog and that is a shame because I feel freedom here. I have worked pretty hard on Metamorphosis - but I am not the sum of my weight-loss. There is much more to me than how much weight I can lose. So, from now on, I will try my very best to be creative and write about something other than protein shakes and trips to my surgeon's office.

I'm going to show my crazy a little here so, forewarned. My close friends know that I was diagnosed with several mental illnesses when I was a teenager, and more later as an adult. I have, over the years, come to not be ashamed of them (for the most part) - they have helped make me who I am, and I am strong as hell. Anyway, EVERYONE knows I am a Counting Crows fangirl, and if you were to ask me about them you would get waaaay more information than you intended. If you want to read my embarrassing open letter to the singer, Adam, you can do so here.

When I was a teenager I, somehow, got a CC's Cd - probably from the used disc place my friends and I used to frequent. Around my friends I mostly listened to metal or something aggressive and dark - NIN, Pantera - that kind of thing. However, when I was alone I toned it way down. I was more an ALT girl than a metal girl at heart. I really loved the grunge scene, and I found that there were a lot of really great songwriters around that were more pop or alt. I can remember laying on my bed, my big 6 disc changer on my dresser that I randomly loaded skipping to a new CD, and being completely blown away by what I heard. I had, of course, heard the Crows before. Mr. Jones was pretty hard to escape, and while I liked that song a lot it was Round Here that Really spoke to me. It made me ache. I felt this connection - I understand these emotions; I know this feeling. I cried. I literally cried. When I rediscovered CC's in 2011 (? or so) I had that same feeling.

I started watching more and more videos of the Crows online. I watched live performances; I listened to them in the background while I worked on homework. Sometimes a song would grab me and I would have to stop what I was doing so I could sing along. During what was absolutely one of the worst times in my life (when my mom was dying) this band got me through the bleakness. How do you thank a band for saving your life? Besides not pirating their music?

Counting Crows will be here in my hometown in a couple of days. I, much to my disappointment, do not have tickets. I entered every crappy contest I could find in an attempt to win a pair, but have not heard back from anyone so alas, my destiny has been denied. My birthday is tomorrow, but we are broke, so I do not have any expectations. Maybe next year? I know I will be watching my concert DVD that night and pretending that I am there.

This post is about a specific band that means something to ME, but I know that any audiophile will relate. There is that one band that speaks to your soul - I often wonder what that band is for friends and family of mine. For my dad? Probably CCR. One of my best friends is most likely Oasis. My mom? Who knows - she loved so much music.  Who is that one band for you?

Checks and Balances – Saying Goodbye

I know this entry is going to sound pretty morbid, and probably over-dramatic, but as my surgery date approaches I feel the need to, “wrap things up”. I am pretty positive that this is a mental and emotional process that everyone having a major surgery goes through. There is a certain amount of a fatal, impending doom kind of feeling. People die during and shortly after this surgery. It is risky. With my circulation issues I could have a deadly blood clot, etc, etc, etc. I feel like I need to say goodbye to people that I care about “just in case”, and I started that process today. Don’t get me wrong, I am not so dramatic as to call people up and say “Hey, I could DIE”, but I think that it is necessary to, in my own way, find a way to give people closure on our relationship in case the worst happens. I started with an easy one today – an email that the person may or may not read. The harder ones I am saving for later.

The list of people I care about is sadly not a very long one. Years of severe depression and an abusive marriage isolated me from most people. I don’t think that I really ever learned how to make friends as an adult. I had a lot of close friends as a teenager, but at that age your friends are your life. As an adult friends simply can’t be that; people have families and careers – they can’t spend the night over at your house 4/7 days a week. Because of my quick transformation from 17 year old with active social life to an 18 year old who was not allowed to leave her home without strict permission, I think I missed out on a transitional period in life. Still, I find myself clinging to the idea of having a girlfriend that I can gossip and giggle with, or a beautiful artist friend to lie in bed and draw with. It’s hard to let go of the past, perhaps doubly so when your present is bleak; your future questionable.

So, here I stand on the “precipice of change” wondering, if on the off-chance this surgery is meant to be my end, did I live a life worth living? Will anyone remember me? Did I do enough? Did my life – all of the struggles, the pain, the trauma – did it mean anything? Was I a good enough friend; did I love my husband enough? The answer, in my heart to all of these, is a solid no. The kind of no that rings infinite like the eternity that I now face and fear. That no is what scares me the most. The more life lessons I learn; the more I learn about the world, the more sure I am that when we die there is a vast nothingness. The concept of a meaningful, purposeful life is a construct of our own creation – and that thought is terrifying. There is no supreme justice in the afterlife; there is no doting father waiting to finally take our tortured and world-weary souls into his arms; there is no final rest – there is nothing. We are not stardust, we are dark matter.  All we have is here and now, and I have lived my life in a state of waiting for tomorrow to come.

And so, my goal and my vow is this – if I survive this surgery, if I somehow drag myself out of this hole that I have created for myself, I will fight for each day like it is my last. I will live in the here and in the now. I will stop waiting for or expecting some magical cosmic justice to save me and I will save myself because in the end, that’s really all I have. I will be the best wife that I can be and I will be worthy of the unconditional love my husband has given me. I will live a life worth living – to me, if not to anyone else.

8/30 Things: What are 5 Passions You Have?

Dogs!

One of my current
buddies - Adeline

Seriously, how can anyone not love dogs? I think that my love of dogs started when I was a little girl. My mom bought me this small, stuffed german shepard that I, for some reason, named Cruiser. I took that damned stuffed dog with me everywhere I was allowed to. Now, small dogs are alright, and there are even some that I like a lot – but BIG dogs, like huskies and pit bulls, are what I love the most. For me there is nothing better than cuddling with a big, warm dog that loves you more than anything else in the world. Freud would tell me that the unconditional and excessive love that I receive from my dogs is likely a replacement for unconditional love that I missed as a child but, meh? Puppies!!!

Music

Music has always been important to me. Putting on a song that I love can change my entire day. My tastes have changed over the years. During the 90’s I was an alt-rock fool. I loved grunge and metal as well. I still do! There are many bands that I am still really passionate about that I listened to when I was 16. Counting Crows, Type O Negative, Pantera, Pearl Jam? All still great in my book. There are some that I listened to back then that are... questionable to say the least (Sarah, if you read this, I officially apologize for all of the Limp Bizkit and ICP), but at the time they did… something for me. Though, what ICP did for me I couldn’t say. I am happy to say that I did not do the Juggalo thing. I resisted! Praise Bob!

I am currently going through what my husband calls my “Lillith Fair” phase. That’s fair, I suppose. Mostly I listen to Fiona Apple, Florence and the Machine, Amy Winehouse (I was late on her, but when I heard her sing “What kind of fuckery is this” I knew she was for me), The Cranberries, Stevie Nicks, Regina Spektor, Tori Amos (“So you can make me cum that doesn't make you Jesus” – yeeeees!); yeah, that kind of thing.

Art

In college I took a couple of art appreciation classes, and they introduced me to a lot of the masters. I was always somewhat aware of them, but the town that I grew up in? Not a lot of great art; certainly nothing on par with what you might find in galleries in big cities like New York. I do recall seeing an O’Keefe at the local gallery once, but it was so crowded around that it made it difficult to really enjoy it. Thanks to the wonders of the Interwebs anyone can enjoy art anytime. You can go to the MET website and explore pieces *almost* like you were actually there. I say almost because it’s truly not the same unless you see it in person. My goal is to see Starry Nights before I die. Yeah, I know it’s like, one of the most popular paintings ever, but I still love it.

The Hallucinogenic Toreador
From the Dali Museum Website

My life and my appreciation for art really changed when I came here to St. Pete the first time on vacation. My husband (then boyfriend) took my friend and I took the Dali museum. No matter what you say about Dali’s circus-like antics, his art is amazing. I stood beneath The Hallucinogenic Toreador and The Ecumenical Council breathlessly, trying to grasp the vastness of them and what they mean. Every piece of art that I walked by I heard myself helplessly whisper “wow.” When we left I was nearly speechless. I couldn't absorb it all, but I loved it. It changed me, for the better.

RPG’s

Awwww!

I love the escapism that RPG’s supply. I played D&D with my brother and cousin when I was younger, then Vampire: the Masquerade when I was a teenager. These days I go along with my husband and play an rpg at his best friend’s house. I have a lot of fun with it, though it is not really the type of rpg that I enjoy. My favorite video games are obviously rpg’s – as per my Mass Effect/Dragon Age posts.  I love rpg’s so much that one of the best Valentine’s Day gift that my husband bought me was something by a company called Book By You. They make romance novels in which you fill in the personal details – everything from the names to the color hair, eyes, and body types of the characters. He put us (and friends of ours that will remained un-named) in a medieval romance novel! Okay, so not quite an rpg – but it provides the same amount of escapism.

Beauty products

Bath fizzies, shower gels, mud masks, makeup and hair products – ugh, I am the worst. My bathrooms growing up often looked like they were supplied by Bath and Body Works (Cucumber Melon was my jam!).  These days my obsession is with make-up. I have always loved stuffing my Caboodle with makeup, but a few years ago I was (re)introduced to Urban Decay and it has never been the same. I have…10? 12? eyeshadow pallets. No one, outside of the cosmetics industry, needs that much eyeshadow. That is not counting the loose single eyeshadows that I have. Ugh, consumerism.  It’s kind of gross, truly.

Well, that’s five of my passions. I have many others, including Nag Champa incense, New York style cheesecake, and discovering The Wilhelm Scream in movies – but these were the five I could justify the easiest.

Thirty Things