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I loved you at your Darkest

14 May

Half of me. Half of you.

 

And last night was a very very dark night.

I’m frankly ashamed of how it went.  It was not something to be proud of.  It was something that I hope that my coming child will never do to someone no matter how poorly they act to them.

I had had a very difficult few days.  Mother’s Day had come and gone… but not without leaving its own marks and scars.  I’d get into it, but I’d rather not get into it right now.  Perhaps I will when I’m ready.

Let’s just say that the events that occurred this year cut that much deeper as one of them relates to my unborn child and my current relationship (or rather near complete lack thereof) with the father… a man who I had no intentions on meeting and falling in love with in the first place

But life, of course, often has other plans.

Bear and I have gone through some very difficult and dark points throughout our relationship.  We have been off again, on again, so often it’d make your head spin.

Oh how my head seemed to feel like I were spinning we were so in love.

Once upon our time.

We were supposed to have been broken up (again) when I found out that I was pregnant.  However, after the news, we “tried again” (albeit briefly) and… it still ended up failing miserably.

In hindsight, I know what went wrong.  We were trying to conquer the same problem but we weren’t actually doing anything differently.  It was, the very definition of insanity.

One night, several months ago, he came to me in a mess of emotion.  I asked what it was.

“Darkness.” he cried to me.

And for a bit we held each other tight throughout it.

I hoped it would be over.

I know you did too.

It continued to get darker as the months went by.

We fought and fought.  We thought we were fighting the darkness but we were mistaken.

The darkness enveloped us.

It blinded us.

It was so difficult on our own and united we were too scared to stand.

I know I loved you at your darkest.

Unfortunately, in the process of trying to save us both from all of that, things only got worse.  He slipped further and further into the shadows.

They consumed us both.

Especially last night.

Our love had hit its expiration date even if the child inside me hadn’t.  The killing blow had been on Mother’s Day when Bear texted and later called me.

“Happy Mother’s Day”

He did not seem to understand how this “kind gesture” could be taken poorly.

So yesterday I made some phone calls and worked on things.  I consumed myself in other things.  The things that transpired throughout the day continued to beat me down.

So this is what it feels like to be alive huh?

The day had been a repeat of heartbreaking events.  Little did I know that it would be nothing compared to how it was last night… to the wee hours of the morning.

There was more crying.  More and more darkness.

I’m embarrassed.

How did it get this bad?

In the morning I would text him an apology.  I got up and sat in the quiet.  And then there was beauty. First the music.  Then a call from a recruiter again.  I was smiling.  My world had changed and I was still so sad but… why the hell was I smiling?

A friend messaged me asking how I was feeling.  She had just recovered from strep and yet, she was curious how I was.  If I’d slept much.  It was like… she knew.

Today was spent at the fashion district in downtown Los Angeles.  Curious… the little girl in the big city that loved and had her heart broken downtown was… going home to surround herself with… color.

Today was a reminder that no matter how dark it feels there is also color. (*See pictures from it by clicking the link*)

A part of me will always love you.  No matter how much pain and hardship we have gone through together, and apart, nothing is ever going to change that.

Someone once told me a phrase that I, in turn, flipped it around. “Where the light is brightest, the shadows are the deepest.”

Maybe part of the reason it got so bad is that we are so alike.

My friend Karissa summed things up wonderfully yesterday in private.

“No one’s a monster.  We’re all traumatized in some way… some more than… others… just looking for a way to heal.  That’s ultimately the purpose of all relationships– to serve as a mirror so that we may understand what is unbalanced within ourselves.”

Maybe we are both in that darkness… but in the light at the same time.

No wonder it scared the crap out of both of us.

The Sound Blogs: There is still music

14 May

After a very difficult night gone and seeped into the morning I felt emotionally obliterated.

But then in the quiet, when I woke up this morning I heard this in the distance… I had to follow and find out where it was coming from.  In the wash of an otherwise normal Tuesday morning on the West Side this was an uncommon but beautiful occurrence.

Even in the chaos.. there is beauty.

 

If I hadn’t left that night

13 May

Sometimes (read: often) I think about that last fateful night when…

And I wonder… what would have happened had I not left that night.

But I needed to leave.

You needed to feel my absence a bit.

I needed to feel yours.

When I left that night, I was just as upset about it as you are now.

I didn’t want to leave.

I didn’t want to fight.

I just wanted things to stop.

I’m not sure you would have done anything to change those things

If I hadn’t left that night.

I wanted you to be better.

I thought that by me leaving, you might appreciate me more.

That I might appreciate me more.

In several ways I have found one of those things to be true.

As breakable as I feel like I can be

I’m not.

There are amazing souls that appreciate me.

I used to be one of them.

I should have been more of them than I had been.

I don’t know if I could have remembered that as strongly

If I hadn’t left that night.

In the midnight hour I still dream of you

Of the person I believed in you

Of the love that I hoped would return to me

Of the happiness that I thought might appear again

But likely couldn’t…

if I hadn’t left that night.

And the texts keep coming

The answers are painful

So very very painful

And knowing might be half the battle but it still hurts wondering

Would it have been different?

Would we have been different?

Would I have been different?

If I hadn’t left that night.

It Won’t Be Like This Forever: My Abortion Story

7 May

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…
our time ago…
 
We were having a bad patch.
It seems like we have been cycling through bad patches ever since we got together.
 
I don’t know how we got there.
How we kept getting there.
How we never seemed to leave there.
 
Months ago during that bad patch I sent him a link to a song about my sadness.
Ben Folds- Brick.
 
 
“That’s a song about an abortion, not us.” he said.
“It’s how I feel.”
 
Oh what little did I know all those months ago.
 
Months later…
I sat in a cold waiting room, alone.
I was filling out forms.
Procedures.
Signatures.
Statements of “understanding.”
 
Image
 
“The world is sleeping I am numb.”
 
And the text messages poured in.
It was terrible.
We had been so terrible to each other.
 
I don’t know how it got there.
How it never seemed to leave there.
 
“She broke down. I broke down. Because I was tired of life.”
 
Inside of me there is a seed of love created in happiness.
Of something once undeniably there.
Of something that…
 
I don’t know how it got away from there.
I don’t know how it never seemed to leave there.
 
The picketers whom I had to walk past to get into the office chanted louder.
The door to the office was open.
Perhaps it was to try and remind the women waiting that there still was light.
That there still was hope.
That there still was… something.
 
I could see the picketers from my seat in the waiting room.
Their voices continued to rise.
Louder.
Stronger.
Echoing through the empty corners of that cold white waiting room.
 
And the text messages poured in.
It was terrible.
I felt terrible.
 
“Now that I have found someone I’m feeling more alone than I ever have before.”
 
I don’t know how we got there.
How we kept getting there.
How we never seemed to leave there.
 
“She broke down. I broke down. Because I was tired of life.”
 
But unlike that song, you weren’t there.
When they called my name, you were states away.
 
And these were my steps.
Little steps.
First steps.
Potentially last steps.
 
There was a part of me sentenced to die…
Whom it seemed you wanted to die.
 
The love I had felt…

That we had felt…

This would be a constant reminder and it was to be completely extinguished.
 
I wiped the tears from my eyes.
I took a deep breath breath.
I closed my eyes and pretended I was Dorothy.
I chanted to myself.
“It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever.”
 
And these were my steps.
Little steps.
First steps.
Potentially last steps.
 
There was a part of me sentenced to die…
Whom it seemed you wanted to die.
 
The next room I would be alone with a nurse.
Like the first, it would also be cold.
Stark cold nothingness.
It was the theme permeating throughout the building.
A sign of nothingness to be and to continue to be.
 
“Now she’s feeling more alone than she ever has before.”
 
The series of questioning would start.
Medical history.
Partners.
Relationships.
 
“Does the father know you are here?”
“Yes. He wants me to go through with this.”
“Do you?”
“I’m honestly not sure.  I feel terrible right now.  I want more information to try and make my decision.”
“Remember that this is your decision.  Don’t let anyone else force you to make one that you will regret.  It doesn’t matter if he agrees or not.  All that matters is you.”
 
“Now she’s feeling more alone than she ever has before.”
 
I closed my eyes and took another deep breath.

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…
our time ago…
 
He might not remember it but he said it.
“I want to have children with you someday.  I think you’re going to be a great mom.”
But he said it.
He said it multiple times.
 

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…
our time ago…
 
“She broke down. I broke down. Because I was tired of life.”
 
I don’t know how we got there.
How we kept getting there.
How we never seemed to leave there.
 
She continued to tell me about the procedure.
I would be asleep.
It would be relatively painless as I would be under anesthesia.
 
“The world is sleeping I am numb.”
 
“I want to find out how far along I am.  I need to know that much before I even begin to commit to anything.”
She understood.
 
It was time to take more steps again.
Little steps.
First steps.
Potentially last steps.
 
I came into a room filled with women waiting for their procedures.
Some of them were in hospital gowns.
Some of them were waiting their turn.
There were rollers with iv bags.
There were women waiting for ivs as well.
 
Image
 
It was cold.
It felt like the coldest room so far.
Stark cold nothingness.
It was the theme permeating throughout the building.
A sign of nothingness to be and to continue to be.
 
None of the women so much as looked at each other let alone spoke.
Each woman either sat and stared blankly or covered their faces in their hands.
It was a room full of ghosts.
A room full of sadness.
A room full of undeniable pain.
 
I wiped the tears from my eyes.
I took a deep breath breath.
I closed my eyes and pretended I was Dorothy.
I chanted to myself.
“It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever.”
 
There was a part of me sentenced to die…
Whom it seemed you wanted to die.
 
The love I had felt…

That we had felt…

This would be a constant reminder and it was to be completely extinguished.
 
A nurse came in to check up on us all.
“How are all of you today?  Are you alright?  Well considering the circumstances?”
 
For a moment I felt calmer.
Warmer.
And the tears dried a little, although not completely.
 
I waited my turn.
 
Some of the women finally began to talk.
It was like they had been awoken.
Even if just for a moment.
 
That nurse was a ray of light.
She was hope.
She was a sign that there were still people who cared.
A light in that blank canvas of nothing.
 
Because that’s what a small ray of sunshine can do.
Because maybe that’s why that door was open in the waiting room.
 
There is still light.
There is still hope.
There is still… something.
 
“They call her name at 7:30.”
 
Another nurse.
Another room.
Cold still.
Nothingness still.
 
“It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever.”
 
Another nurse came in.
“So you’re here to get an ultrasound to find out how far along you are?”
“Yes. I am not sure if I want to proceed beyond that.  I know that knowing that much will help me with my decision and my options.”
 
I was told to disrobe from the waist down.
She would return and we would find out my answer.
 
Image
 
I looked up at a monitor.
It was waiting for someone.
It was waiting for me.
It was waiting for…
 
The nurse returned.
We started looking.
Measurements were taken.
Pictures were taken.
 
The nothingness that I felt disappeared.
I began to cry again.
 
Inside of me there is a seed of love created in happiness.
Of something once undeniably there.
Of something that…
 
I don’t know how it got away from there.
I don’t know how it never seemed to leave there.
But there it was… cozy and comfy in black and white on that screen.
 
A sign of life.
A sign of hope.
A reminder of…
 
Months ago…
once upon a time ago…
our time ago…
 
And while my heart fights the reality of that potentially never being anything more than a memory again
 
You’re still there.
 
I’m still here.
 
I’m not ready to say goodbye to either one of us.
 
And these were my steps.
Little steps.
First steps.
Potentially last steps.
 
There was a part of me sentenced to die…
Whom it seemed you wanted to die.
 
Maybe it did that day.
But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the way either of us thought it would.
 
That little piece of black and white was hope.
It was a sign.
A light in that blank canvas of nothing.
 
Because that’s what a small ray of sunshine can do.
Because maybe that’s why that door was open in the waiting room.
 
There is still light.
There is still hope.
There is still… something.
 
And while I admit I’m completely scared and not sure about the details of what’s about to happen I know that it’s going to be ok.
 
Because that’s what a small ray of sunshine can do.
There is still light.
There is still hope.
There is still… someone.
And I can’t wait to meet you when you get here.

External power outage day: Reasons to keep trying

6 May

This morning I woke up early to the sound of the rain.

I was inspired.

I was hopeful.

I was ready to take on the day full force… but only after I wrote here first.

I wrote a bit.

I read a bit.

For awhile, it was on Twitter… quoting lines from one of the comics I got this weekend while out and about on Free Comic Book day.

Image

And then, nearly almost exactly after I finished my earlier post today… well something else happened.

Silence.

The power went out.

I was so busy with my own distractions that I didn’t even notice.

How many other things do we miss because we are too busy with distractions?

I shrugged it off.  I took the dog out.  I’d read for a bit and write for a bit… the old fashioned way and kill some time contemplating and reflecting about life.

This weekend there had been a discussion about how the world “just needs a day to shut the fuck up.”  That sometimes (read: often) people just talk too damn much.  I thought about that a lot today… in the silence.

I really do talk too damn much sometimes.

I walked the dog.  I’m currently dog sitting for a friend of a friend.  One constant through my recent travels through the city has been the presence of dogs in most places where I’ve laid my head… and felt comfortable.

Perhaps this isn’t a coincidence.  I mean… there are too many damn cat fanatics out there.  Strange strange creatures that they are… on the interwebz.

On my walk I would find out an expiration date: the power would be out until 8:30pm tonight.  There were “too many other emergencies” that the LADWP simply couldn’t keep up.  I looked online on my phone.  I saw the mass amounts of orange dots on the grid.  I should have taken a screenshot.  It was pretty brutal.

Image

The aftermath of the Revenge of the 6th Power Outage in Los Angeles

Well Los Angeles, I guess this is your chance to shut the fuck up for a few minutes.  What are you going to do with your life?

I started to read.  I laughed as I thought about the power being dead on my Kindle.  About how despite the convenience of technology, how much I was still thankful for books.

For piles of analog transmissions and thumbed pages.

Of that new book smell.

Of that old book smell.

Of the joy of turning a page in anticipation of the next.

It’s these simple things that make me smile.  But the day wasn’t over just yet.

“I have a secret anger and rage for every beautiful flower.”

And I did too.  In secret.  In not so secret.

But the rains poured on.

Dogs all over the neighborhood were furious- barking constantly as if maybe that would restore the power.

Neighbors complained that they were stuck.  Technology had failed them.  They couldn’t get out of their parking garages.  After all, those were electric too.  Oh the convenience of technology.

Machines in the apartment blipped and beeped incessantly begging for power.

Begging for purpose.

Cars outside honked.  Impatience surrounded the neighborhood.  Everyone seemed to want to escape.

Everyone refused to shut the fuck up.

Everyone, it seemed, for once, except me.

I conserved what little power I had left on my phone.  I turned to books.  I turned to words.  I was going to sit there and face my demons in that silence.  In that quiet… oh in that quiet…

I’ve found myself missing pieces of my past quite a bit lately.  Yes yes I know, move forward, not backwards.  But something about this last time was different.  Something about this last one changed my life.

Image

Before it rained, it was like something in me knew.  I sent out a message to the world.  To you, the person I really hoped would be reading.

“It’s in the quiet that I miss you most.”

So there it was… the gift of quiet.  I sat there.. in the “dark” and thought about life.  I thought about pain.  I thought about love.  I thought about success.  I thought about failure.  I thought about…

“The manic equivalent of looking in a mirror and unplugging an appliance.”

And in the silence I just.. broke down.. but not how I thought I would.

In the simplest of terms and bits and “sound bytes”… these are not all the reasons but they are the ones I will share with the rest of the world right now.

I am tired of the pain.

I am tired of the anger.

I miss the passion.

I miss the love.

I miss the vibrancy and light that exuded from us both whenever we looked at each other.

I miss your silly Barney Rubble laugh.

It was quiet.  I grabbed a pen.  The words flowed like water.  It was a downpour of inspiration.  Rain seems to have that effect on me.

And then it happened.

Someone, somewhere not too far away started playing a piano.  Beauty came from the silence.  In a world where fingers and thoughts might have been too busy to notice otherwise there was… magic.

I smiled, still quiet, in the company of notes.  Because even if I was alone I didn’t feel alone.  It made me remember the simplicity of it all.  About how far we’ve all come from it.  About how far I’d come from it.

And myself.

“It’s in the quiet… when I miss you… when I miss me… that I find all the answers.  Of all the simple beauty.  Of why I keep trying.”

Thank you LA DWP for this forced moment of silence.  It was exactly what I needed today.

Once upon a different bed

28 Sep

I remember this bed.

quite possibly the most comfortable bed ever

Hell.. I miss that bed.  It was so much nicer than the one I currently have.

Well… minus the comfort there is now.

 

I remember the bed that felt almost like a throne.  It was fashionable.  It was quirky.  It was comfortable with a warm hug of softness to it.

 

This bed has it’s own set but simply just isn’t that same level of comfort.  This one I can sometimes feel the springs.  I’ve woken up several mornings to my back hurting for reasons unbeknownst sans for.. the bed.

 

I remember that bed.

I remember the stories that unfolded on it.  Of the lovers.  Of the tears.  Of the fight to grow up and face the world yet another day.  Of the soft embrace of that pillowtop mattress.  Of the safe place I knew I could always go to.

 

“Dad, I need a new bed.  The one I have is maddening.” I’d said in between that old bed on a different mattress before this one.

This bed came with it’s own doses of complications even before it arrived.  This bed was the predicate to yet another life shed.  It was a gift but it was far from that comfort I once had… once upon a different bed.

 

The old bed was a gift as well.  Welcome to Claremont.  Welcome to the next page.  You’re going to be working harder than you ever have.  Take this awesome bed.

 

This bed still had hard work attached to it.  But the work was smarter as it was harder.  The lessons I’d learn while in this bed would outweigh the other by a landslide… even if it sometimes felt like it had fallen from one before it arrived in my room.

 

I remember that bed.

I remember the many moves that it made after its first arrival.  I remember the love and pain that went with it.  I remember its departure… of the person who would later take it and tell me “your bed is wonderful” when I thought I didn’t need it anymore.

Maybe I really didn’t.

 

This bed isn’t as comfortable as that old one was.  Its had its share of pain and stress and heart… and has the scars to prove it.  But it’s amazing.  And then some.  This bed is wonderful even if it isn’t perfect.  Perhaps it is for that very fact alone.

This bed is me.

Once upon… a better me.  Every single day I get to wake up.

 

The painters sidekick

22 Aug

When I was younger, my grandmother and I would often be found painting on her screened in porch in a little house on the outskirts of suburban Chicago, Illinois.  Then there were visits from my cousin Marie… venturing from the far far away land of California.

The two of them paired together were the people that introduced me to the art world.  Cousin Marie would teach me the art of brush strokes as we watched Bob Ross on the television.  She would buy me droves of brushes. I would lose them in the myriad of moves.

Growing up and moving out here, I always thought that I would spend more time with Cousin Marie than I ultimately did.  She lived in Bakersfield, and I would go back and forth between Los Angeles and San Diego.  I spent a bit of time with her estranged daughter in Venice.  A bit of time in Culver City.  It was not often enough that our paths would cross.

And then one day I got a call…

Cousin Marie needed some help changing a bandage.  Her daughter was heading to work and couldn’t do it.  I obliged and made the trek over to help her.  I didn’t know how horrible she was going to look, nor did I know about the avalanche of health issues that had come upon her.

Now I’m not a health practitioner of any kind, but the wound I helped her undress and dress took a lot out of me to do.  As I pulled the layer after layer off, and the hole in her side where they had gone in to remove her breast bled and leaked fluids.  Every move I made seemed to hurt her more.  She was in so much pain from all of it.

She was so so thankful- ever vibrant and gracious.  She offered to pay me.  I declined.  The whole time I was there she asked me about me.  She didn’t want to focus on the pain, and didn’t want pitty.

Seeing her like that broke my heart.  One of the heroes from my childhood was falling to pieces.  I didn’t have much, but I offered to help her when a nurse couldn’t, and when her daughter refused to push back her own exploits.

Cousin Marie would later get the treatment she needed.  She was placed into a hospital in Santa Monica.  I regret that I had not visited her while she was there.

Months passed.  I randomly ran into dad after one of his visits.  We thought she was getting better.  We hoped she was getting better.

I asked my cousins daughter for a favor.  She refused.

“You did what you did for my mother, not for me.”

I haven’t spoken to her since February.

Yesterday Dad and Ethan came to visit me in the artist colony I currently reside in.  Cousin Marie had never been there.

“Mom, we’re outside, come downstairs.”

I jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs.  I hadn’t seen Ethan in a few weeks due to work constraints.  We played some cards about killing off members of your family (in comical ways of course) and started a board game.  We didn’t know it then, but this day would be another one that we wouldn’t be forgetting.

Dad sat patiently as we played.  He made some phone calls and listened to the AM radio.  As he got off the phone with the last call, he stopped suddenly.

“She could die any day now.  We’re going to Bakersfield. Are you coming?”

The cancer had come back in five places.  My cousin Marie was now laying in her deathbed.

Back in the days that I’d spent in Bakersfield it always seemed liked death was in the air.  I didn’t understand why she would have wanted to go back up there after being able to get the care she’d needed in Santa Monica.  She chose to spend the remainder of her days where she grew up.

I didn’t know it was going to hit me as hard as it did.  Seeing her there hooked up to machines to “keep her comfortable” as I stood next to my dad and son…

Dad talked to cousin Marie.  He told her about things going on with my grandparents.  About how they had discovered why Grandpa was losing his memory, and how squirrels had destroyed the phone line to their house.  Dad kept his composure.  I couldn’t.  I broke down.

“Jen lives in an artist colony now Marie.  You’d probably like it there.”

My son hugged me tight.  Cousin Marie could barely open her eyes, let alone much else. Dad left the room to talk to the friend she had been staying with.

“Cousin Marie I want to thank you for showing me about art.  You are inspirational.”

She opened her eyes and smiled.  I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say, but I think she knew what I had told her.

We walked out of the room.  I found out that my cousins daughter had not been up to see her.  It upset me some more.  My cousin’s daughter lives a couple of hours south of where her mother was.  Dad advised me not to contact her regarding it, as the relationship between Marie and her had been estranged.

I texted her anyway.

“You need to put your differences aside and go up there.  It’s only a couple of hours away.”

She called me in tears.  She gave excuses as to why she wasn’t going to go.  She claimed she had gone last weekend.  She seemed upset about things out of her control… of the past that she was trying to come to terms with, but wasn’t.

“She made her choice to go up there.  I asked her many times to come down and paint with me.  She didn’t.”

As we left my son hugged me some more.  I felt worse that my son has had to experience death much sooner than I ever did.  I have been very fortunate to have had my family around this long.  Now, one by one they are going away.

“Mommy’s going to miss her the most.”

I think back to those simpler days with Gram and cousin Marie.  Days that formed my childhood.  Days that would form my adulthood.  I think about how different I would have been without these two women.  I think about how different I will be when I don’t have either of them anymore.

We drove home shortly after.  Said a rosary in the car for her.  My son was to have his first day of school today.  His days growing up are far different than mine.  They are so less full of the art and imagination that my cousin and grandmother ingrained in me back in the days that my dad didn’t really care to let us play video games as much as he does now. The days before I started on the path of working in video games and dad would allow my son to play far too much for my liking.

“Call me before you go to school if you can.  And if not, call me after.  I want to know how your day was.”

This morning on the bus, I got a phone call about the time Ethan would be going to school.  I answered excitedly, hoping he had had the chance to call me before after all.  It was unfortunately the call that my cousin’s battle with breast cancer had come to a close this morning.

“She’s gone Jen.”

Immediately it rushed over me.  I was ever so thankful I had had the chance to thank her for impacting my life before she passed.

The pink of the flowers along the path seemed to be a bit more vibrant today.  I saw my cousin shine in the world around me.  I smiled through the tears.  But it still hurts.  What do you do when one of your childhood heroes passes away?

To one of the most inspirational people of my childhood, you will be missed more than you know.  To those that would like to help support the fight against breast cancer, I highly encourage you to donate your time or energy to the Susan G Komen foundation.

Carmageddon: The Aftermath

17 Jul

Dear Los Angeles,

So I see you that have survived the feared inferno of “Carmageddon”. You rocked the happy hour specials. You steered your four wheeled vessels clear of the freeways in fear of losing your ever so precious time sitting parked on the freeway for hours upon hours.

You chose to not clutter the streets with aggravation. For a few glorious days, there was a silent peace decorated on asphalt. People were drawn in droves to the otherwise bickered about public transportation. There wasn’t arguing with the hurried commuter in the other car, bike, or motorcycle trying to get to x function. There were no stretched necks as accident after accident piled up to make the drive home from work, play, or errands a little longer. There was less noise and pollution.

The 405 is opening as I type this. It bids one to wonder if the community has learned anything from this exercise. How will the Los Angeles community change? How have you changed for the greater good?

Los Angeles once had the greatest public transit system in the world. Nowadays, people dread the thought of taking a bus, a train, or a bike in lieu of a car. This weekend proved that the community here is so ambivalent to change that, rather than embrace the possibilities of other alternatives, would rather just not participate at all.

This weekend Los Angeles biker community advocates Wolfpack Hustle embarked on a 40 mile race against an airline proved the power of the human versus the machine. In a race won by pedal pushers that generated substantial buzz, why are the Los Angeles bike paths lacking in comparison to other major metropolitan cities?

Now that Carmageddon has come and gone, as a business person, are you going to take heart the relief and production capabilities of a happier worker that has not had to “deal” with traffic for one day? Are you going to provide more of an incentive to take public transit?

As a regular commuter are you going to make a more proactive attempt to take public transit when you can? Will you take an extra few minutes to walk down the street to that cafe for brunch or the extra few blocks to the grocery store?

It’s time the community took a big look at the bigger picture. We have the power to carve this city into something greater if we unify ourselves. Time is a precious commodity but so is a calmer, healthier way of life. Instead of putting one in front of the other, perhaps both are capable of happening. Dare to be a part of the change.

One week of sobriety: A test of self control

20 Jun

Last week was a blur of disappointment and successes, but not for the reasons most might be thinking.

The biggest stateside video game conference had come and gone. It hadn’t been a fun filled week for me as it was for the many that gather here to our great city to celebrate the latest advances in technologies.

I work in two fields: journalism and entertainment. And while video games are a part of my 9-5, they are followed by my true passion: journalism. I have been fortunate to have resided on both sides of the fence. Each has its perks and setbacks.

I did my laundry Sunday. I washed away the remnants of people that I had thought more of before last week, of someone who I didn’t know what to think, of someone whom there exists a war in my head with what to think, and of pieces of myself that I’m learning more and more about.

I waver in between worlds within the spotlight and highlighting those who sparkle under it. But this camera sees a depth of field that…

With any conference comes the after parties. Behind these scenes is where the real magic and disasters occur. It’s the stuff of a million stories that writers won’t write about. It’s the stuff of stories that they probably should write about. It’s stuff that gets compiled into your brain and begs and begs to be released but rarely ever does.  Its the stuff that you wish you didn’t know.  It’s the stuff of stories that can drive you insane due to the lack of ability to release.

It’s the story of someone making an ass of themselves meeting someone for a secret rondevous. It’s the story of trying so hard to impress someone that the only thing that surfaces is the detestable.  It’s the story of having so much alcohol in order to make others tolerable, that a black out happens. It’s the story of [redacted] and the story of [redacted redacted].

When you work in the entertainment industry, you see this in so many instances that eventually, you have two options:
1) Let it overcome you.
or 2)Find a way to overcome it before it consumes you whole.

Life becomes more exhausting than usual. Not only does the weight of your own reality weigh on you, but so does the weight of the people vying for their chance to shine in the limelight of a coveted piece of fifteen moments of fame on the tabloid of choice.

Fearing an impending overdose on it all, I elected to take a command step forward. Paired with someone to assist in co-miserating the experience, I embarked on a journey into a world of glitz and glamour free of a method of escape. For one week I would be alcohol and smoke free.

Notes: I am not a daily drinker. I drink on a number on an occasional basis: networking parties where everyone has a glass of something in their hands, happy hour with coworkers, dates, and when something is really getting to me. The same generally applies to my smoking habits sans for one additional place it enters. Ah the “joys” of Los Angeles traffic.

Day one was to start when he left. He and I had spent the whole day together booze free. The evening had been cut short unexpectedly. Our plans to disappear into historical places taking roost in fabled haunts with as equally fabled spirits faded into the ether (for the time being).

An hour after he’d left however, I found myself assisting a friend (and veteran featured personality) with an art show she’d curated located within a seedy motel downtown. My time was spent in a bed navigating perverts (read: art enthusiasts) through the graphiti clad thrashed rock themed art room. He and I had talked earlier about me attending the show and I was originally going to stay at home and work on my book, but yet there I was. In the middle of it all, I stayed true to my mission. I remained sober and penned away at a notebook as the crowds waved in and out.

One shocking thing happened from the alt-shock event extravaganza  was not what I was expecting in the slightest. Among the sea of onlookers was one of the artists featured in the show with a very special guest. He was a “short” man.  Five ten with brown hair, scruffy and parker-esque. He had a smile that illuminated the room. His words faultered as he was nudged to “Just ask her”.

He talked to me a few minutes.  He’d wanted to take my picture with this artists work. Both of them were delightful people but there was something more about this gentleman. While talking about how we’d both ended up at the event by way of serendipitous routes, my tale of my mission to be sober for the week came up in conversation. He turned to me and said “I completely understand. I’m sober myself.” Does like energy really attract like energy?

When I arrived home however, it was nearly 2am. I was exhausted from the event. I’d had to help scrub the graphiti off the walls and clean up the aftermath. There had been four of us toiling away that evening cleaning. Being an art curator (or in my case, assisting one) is not always as glamorous as it sounds.

The bar below my apartment had my favorite beer on tap. I immediately walked up the steps and got a glass. But after I’d paid for it and it had been poured in front of me, I began to feel horrible. Day one of sobriety had been going so well. Within an instant, I’d ruined it.

The next day I went to visit family in Huntington Beach. I was intending on spending some time as a mermaid beachside a bit as well. Of course, the outfit I chose as I headed to the beach felt more suiting of the event I was at last minute then what I’d ended up wearing. Cest’ le vie. As I packed my bag my brain immediately went to “cans of beer and smokes”.  I shook the idea off and headed seaside.

Even after I’d arrived to family bbq, the two items I’d left behind were pushed into view. My family helped to make excuses for why it would be alright.  So did friends who’d invited me to return back to the bar below my loft bribing feats of hilarity in kiddie pools.  Everyone seemed to chime in “You can just start tomorrow.”

Remembering the night prior, I stuck true to the goal. It was a bit frustrating but it was nothing compared to the temptations that would follow the rest of the week. One such example happened later that evening when I’d arrived home. My secret guest and I had limited ability to enjoy our weekend as my roommate (who isn’t usually home and isn’t home as this is being written) was home for the entirety of it. However she’d had a guest that evening. I wanted nothing more than to go downstairs and have a beer. No can do.

I found myself as the week progressed, and as life continued to rapid fire bullets of everyday flies in the ointment, running a gammit of emotions from intensely frustrated with my lack of easy escapism, to rationalizing the act, to… undeniable clarity.

I went to my first networking event without the escapism. At one point, I’d thought that the booze was necessary. You need a glass in your hand in order to be approachable after all right? Almost right. The event had been a test of wits. It forced me to modify the way I went about my interactions. With the sobriety came more clarity and control over myself in navigating the event than I’d remembered experiencing for a long time.

My eyes were wide open.  I saw everything.  I was better able to gauge who would be the best conservators. I met more valuable, more mature and more truly talented people than I might have had I not been completely sober. I immediately was able to see how I could make their businesses better.  I was more on point with statistical and competition information.  I felt empowered by my lack of a barrier to readily access that information.

The main rationalization I’d previously turned to for the reason to do it “I deserve it” became the reason not to do it. It evolved. Perhaps I did a little in the process as well. And while I may not go completely sober or smoke free right now, I will continue to follow this path. The lessons that I have learned from this week shall not disappear into the ether. I highly encourage each of you to try this for yourself. You don’t have to have a huge problem for it to be effective.

Why?  Because “You deserve it?”  Almost.  It’s because “You deserve more.”

If you or someone you love is experiencing a debacle great or small with alcohol or any other substance, don’t be afraid to seek help with it. You are not alone. For more information on support centers and other outlets, or if you just want to attend a meeting to see what others are saying to see for yourself, feel free to look into the following link at your leisure:

Alcoholics Anonamous

Silent reverb

24 May

I wish I was me when you met me.
I was almost there but not quite.

And when the storms hit, and the ship rocked and rocked…
I felt like I was going to tip over.
I thought I was going to pour out.

I wanted for you to be there- by my side as I was at the helm.
I didn’t need you to help guide me.
I didn’t need for you to take the wheel.

But you insisted.

I didn’t want to fight you.
I wanted you to be there and watch me do it myself.
But you insisted.
And I didn’t know how to take it.

Parts of me stripped away
As the storms raged on and on
I was afraid that I was going to lose you
I wanted you to be steadfast and hold on.
But it was too late.

I cried out in anguish as the seas claimed hold of you
I wanted it to be me
I wanted to jump in and bring you back

And the storms raged on and on
The wheel spun and spun and spun.
It heeded me return to it

The fog rolled in
I watched you as you disappeared

I cried out in anguish as the seas claimed hold of you
Oh how I wanted to jump in and bring you back
I wanted it to be me

The grey clouds thickened and enveloped the ship
You weren’t there to help save me
For the first time I felt scared
Was I really going to be able to do this alone?

And the storms raged on and on
The wheel spun and spun and spun
It heeded me return to it

The fog rolled in
I watched you as you disappeared

I cried out in anguish as the seas claimed hold of you
Oh how I wanted to jump in and bring you back
I wanted it to be me

Parts of me stripped away
As the storms raged on and on
And when those storms hit,
and the ship rocked and rocked…
I felt like I was going to tip over.
I thought I was going to pour out.

I wanted for you to be there- by my side as I was at the helm.
But what I found in your absence was more strength than I had ever fathomed even before your entrance.

I didn’t need you to help guide me.
I didn’t need for you to take the wheel.

The skies opened up and the night was filled with stillness
Stars scattered across the now black canvas once again
It can’t rain all the time.

I wish I was me when you met me.
I was almost there but not quite.

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