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