what then?

What do you do if the person you love, the person you pledge your soul to morphs physically and emotionally at the hands of a disease like cancer or dementia or even addiction? Does love cover all bases? Are we expected to stick around when life shows up, reality reads like a horror story, and smiles are caught for instants, like butterflies in the wind.

It is important, at least for me, to believe in that perfect, mindblowing love. It might take years and labyrinths to find it, but once the puzzle pieces click together, nothing else in the world really matters. Your minds are in sync as you finish each other’s sentences, your skin responds like lightning to one another’s touch, your bodies provide warmth, arousal, safety. You whisper to each other in the quiet of the night, mumbling words like “love” and “you” and “forever” against each other’s skin.

When you walk together in the light of day, your hands seek each other out. Your proximity decreases to the point where you begin to nearly walk as one.

When you are separated, whether it be between walls or continents, you feel disconnected, not just from your lover but from yourself. When you define yourself by your love for another, when that love is gone, even for a moment, it changes you. You struggle with every step, every  breath.

Is love worth sticking around for when it becomes unrecognizable? When the love that looked so bright and alive, skin olive against the emerald of the grass becomes starchy, like the color of the sheets it rests against, what about then? When the breath that provided loud and hearty laughs and kisses that seem to last for days suddenly can barely sustain, coming out labored and shallow, what then? When your lover can barely see you, barely recognize you, when you see just fleeting pieces of who they were, what then?

When they are begging you to carry them, but you have lost the lover to carry your own weight, what then?

transitory

I am certain, both sadly and excitedly, that I am in a transitory period of my life. Having lived in the last 3 years more than any of the twenty-seven before them, I have been moved and educated and inspired and go forward, take what I have experienced, and apply it all to the next phase of my life. The sadness comes with the prospect of letting go, of saying goodbye, and of releasing my hand from the grasp that has kept me on my feet for so long. I couldn't be more grateful for the gifts of bravery, connection, leadership, friendship, and the kindness of strangers, and all of these virtues have both saved my life and helped me to salvage it and mold it into something new. I needed to lean on it all, keep it close, and follow it like a beacon light. I have realized, though- and this is where the sadness comes in- that I have been given the ability to hold myself up on my own, and no longer need to lean into the arms that pulled me back from the edge. In order for me to move forward, I have to leave some of the weight behind. I don't need it like I used to, and I can't risk being anchored in place today, reaching but never touching the substance of my dreams in the ether.

someday

Someday, somebody is going to read these words and be moved by them.

After hitting an emotional, moral bottom as a rabid drug addict, I entered a substance abuse treatment center called Challenges in 2005. I kept a notebook/journal with me at all times, and wrote in it anything that I found significant or worth remembering. Looking back on it for the first time in over 6 years, I find many of the principles that carried me through my darkest days still exist for me today. Here are some excerpts from the notebook.:

• why does thinking about my inner child make me sad?
• Pain motivates. keep the pain up front- remember it. 
• "Progress Not Perfection"
• you are who you were five minutes ago
• "I am my own Jesus. I am also my own Pontius Pilate.
• what the fuck is up with all the powdered coffee creamer?
• i don't know if it is the cold or the honesty that is making me shiver
• "speak when you're angry and you will say the biggest speech you'll ever regret"
• 15% of addicts stay clean for a year with regular attendance in NA/AA. the other 85% of us are fucked.
• "the only way out is through"
• "for a lesson to be learned, it must be lived"
• anything negative anyone has to say about me is none of my business

...more to come.

challenge your shame and discomfort

Write in spite of your motivation (or lack thereof). Create even if you feel like you are working with nothing. Make commitments to honor your talent and stick to them...

Easier said than done, I know, but damn is it worth it. If one page out of 100 moves you and inspires you, then you have succeeded. As with photography, that chilling shot out of an entire group of throwaways is what makes the process worth it.

Lately, I have written a lot about NOT being able to write, about writers block, lack of creativity, and discouraging empty pages. It feels like a cop out, but it is my reality at this moment. All I know is that no matter how far into the dark I am reaching, I must not stop. I must not make excuses and I must not walk away without putting something, a word, a paragraph, a memoir, anything, down on the page.

Writing about my lack of motivation, and the frustration that comes with it is an uncomfortable truth to acknowledge, but what I have learned is that discomfort is often the key to the door of brilliance. We all know how to write about the things that we relate to, appreciate, and our grateful for. Those, quite often, are the easy things. Human truth comes from a darker, more primal place deep in the brain, and when it is pulled to the surface, it often invokes feelings of anxiety, discomfort, fear, guilt and shame, and the desire to run.

I questioned my limitations, wanting more than a daily planner with a tiny block in which to write the happenings of the day. I wanted to push past the wall I was stuck behind. My truth was much deeper than I was sharing, and that scared the shit out of me. What if death and grief, addiction and recovery, sexual identity, mental health issues and chronic loneliness were too much to share without fear and shame? What if my writing opens doors not ready to be opened?

What I have learned over the crucial last years of my 20's, however, is that discomfort is the key to true passion in writing. Writing about the stories that make my heart race, my head spin and my hands shake, I have realized, is what pulls the best of my craft out of me. My truths, even my darkest ones, leave me with a piece to be proud of, and the relief of pushing past the shame and fear.

The best writing comes from our fears, our shame, our discomfort, and our passions, yet we often step away from transcribing these stories from our mind to our empty pages.

Several of my mentors in life have instilled in me the following message: "If it makes you uncomfortable, explore it." Go deeper, following your fear, because that winding, treacherous road will lead you to relief, and the biggest breath of satisfaction you have ever experienced. Challenge your shame, and win. Be brave, and share it all, for no ones sake but your own.

sleep hygiene

Insomnia locks me to the couch, my eyes closing, my head bobbing. Sometimes I wake up suddenly with my forehead resting on the coffee table, or with my computer on my lap and nothing but gibberish and excessive punctuation looking back at me on the monitor. I know that I am tired, as I can barely move or keep my eyes open. My body is begging for rest, but no matter what I do, I cannot shut off my mind. It races with thoughts of the day, the days to come, and the ones that have past. The moments that have inspired and encouraged me, along with the ones that incited fear, shame, and heavy emotion are what keep me awake. It all twists and turns in my cranium, and the inability to put myself to bed without passing out in a sitting position with the lights and TV  still on. Believe me, that level of sleep is barely satisfactory and takes away the rejuvenating aspect of laying down in bed and essentially floating. Instead, my body poses in an unattractive twist, my neck is sore from hanging my head,

I am dedicated to learning how to better my life by improving my sleep hygiene. I never knew how significant sleep is until I seemingly lost the ability to do so.
....Aaaannnnnnd, my head is nodding, so I am going to practice what I preach and let my body and mind relax

still here

the words arent gone, i'm just waiting for some important ones to come along.

Bicycle Race

The human mind is a well-oiled machine, with a multitude of functions. The relevant information is moved to our consciousness as needed, while our memories unrelated to the current story are moved away. They may as well no longer exist, until a moment comes along that brings the event back into our mind's eye, almost as if it never left. Sometimes what we see is mundane, boring, like someone else's home movie, and we save it and put it away. Other times, we watch our defining moments like high-definition, technicolor blockbusters.

They say that you never forget how to ride a bike, but do we always remember the first time we tried and succeeded? I hadn't thought of it more that a few times over the last two decades, but the senses of pride and accomplishment help to round the details of the day.

My training wheels had been removed from my bicycle, and my father walked alongside me as I pedaled, stopped myself with my feet, and fell- over and over and over. I was especially jaded to see a young neighbor who couldn't have been much older than me, riding with confidence and bravery. I was frustrated and humiliated. I cried and stomped my feet like little girls at that age tend to do, and I was unreasonably certain that I would never learn to ride my bike.

While my brother and I were playing on and around our long driveway, our parents would park one of the cars at the end to discourage us from venturing into the road. I had mastered the art of pedaling down the sloped concrete, but hadn't quite figured out how breaking came into it all. I typically rode down the hill, gaining speed before crashing into the family station wagon. I did that over and over, growing more and more frustrated at my inability to keep moving, or to stop efficiently.

On one summer morning, early enough that dew was still on the leaves and grass, I set my bicycle up in its familiar starting line, at the top of the driveway pointed straight down, towards the car waiting at the end. I pedaled with a huge amount of effort, pumping my legs and standing up to gain momentum. As I approached the car, I veered around it, continuing to pedal as I rode into the yard. I hadn't fallen, I hadn't stopped, I hadn't crashed. I had actually ridden my bicycle, in the correct sense of the word. I don't know what the difference was. Perhaps it was patience, or focus, or determination, and at this point I am not really sure of the answer to that question, but I had figured it out. That was really the first time in my life where I could see the fruits of my labor present themselves. It was one of the first memories I had that is associated with pride.

I am going to try to make the conscious choice to be brave in all my endeavors, no matter how afraid of the crash I am. It worked at the tender age of 5, so I have the faith to make it happen today.

save

cut a rectangle out of a piece of poster board and you have yourself a much cheaper camera... you just have to save the images to your brain rather than your computer.

wait for it

I can't let this go down the tubes. I can't. It's too important. It's my life. I think in prose and in the lyrical quality of words, but you can only write so much in your mind before you lose it... Some days its just easier to lose it, though. Sometimes, having the self imposed expectation to write... something, ANYTHING is just enough to make me want to back away, at least for that moment. That mechanism, that switch, that shut-off scares me on a deep level. Writing is akin to breathing for me, even if I can count the people that read it on one hand. No, that's not the point and it is the wrong reason to take on this passion, this dream... or this hobby? Please let it be more than that...

I've given up everything and put it back together, I've experienced the darkest and most desperate places a human can go. I've also lived and seen the beauty and light that exists in the world... And I've always documented pieces of it all. No matter how preoccupied or depressed or dysfunctional I became, I always had with me the drive to write. Sometimes, and I truly believe I speak for all writers here, the desire to write does not exist in a certain moment, and trying to unnaturally pull it from where it resides produces nothing but shallow fallacy.

Sometimes, to have that honesty, you just have to wait for it.

words lost

You could say, it seems, that I am much less prolific since I found the life to light my way out of the dark. That bit of light appears to be a sign of the positive space that I appear to be in. The intensely frustrating part is that without my writing, I feel that I am only a fraction of the person that I could be. If I don't pick up a pen and a pad of paper or tap on the keys, I feel empty. I feel like I haven't accomplished what I should have at the end of the day, so my potential is never really reached.

Writers block, or The Midnight Disease strikes without warning, and feels akin to trying to play a concert without instruments or a voice. I feel progressively less committed to doing the work that will guide my life and carry me to the place where my dreams are waiting for me to make them come true.

I need to take every offer, every opportunity seriously. Life or death, I need to commit and recommit every single day if I have to. I have played this game before, and I always lose if I am waiting on the sidelines. Always...

At times it is disheartening to know that essentially no one is reading the words I am publishing here, but I have to continue to remind myself of the journey. Part of that journey is writing because it is what I love to do, and not because I want to develop a fanbase. That is the dream of a failure-to-be, because shifting focus to the wrong things make the right ones blurred and fuzzy and harder to attain.

I have many dreams, and I will do whatever I can to make them happen. Right now, though, most of my dreams lie in the words and ideas that spin themselves into my consciousness. I am just trying to get to the place where I don't lose them before I can write them down.

The Permission To Lose Control - 2007

Written 11/5/2007 by Stephanie Picher

"There are some times when I just can't think of how to put pen to paper. Tonight has been one of those nights, and I am fully aware that it all comes back to a fear of writing sub-par, and of writing something less than meaningful. I have, at times, become a prisoner to that fear, for it keeps me from really learning, from truly growing as a writer. I am afraid to explore and afraid to experiment with ideas and words and subjects. I am afraid to just write. In a sense, this struggle makes me realize just how much trouble I have centering myself and being in the moment. I can never just do or say or write something without looking at the line I wrote 5 minutes ago or contemplating how to end something I've written out of fear that if I keep it up, it will get worse. I edit what I already know is "good" writing because it is never good enough. If it is not "good enough", if it is not "perfect", then it is bad. It is an all-or-nothing frame of thinking that has gotten me in a world of trouble before.

One thing I have read in countless books on the subject is that in order to be a decent writer, one needs to be willing to "write badly". That idea is frightening to me, but the blinding truth is that my inability to "let go" is what keeps me stuck in a perpetual state of forced journaling, or writing solely so I don't lose the skill. It is control and self-will run rampant. I need to give myself the permission to lose control."

Whitney Houston

In my 30 years on this planet, the only true constant that I have come to know is loss. It happens on many different levels, depending on who and how we lose, and some of the most profound feelings of loss can come from unexpected places. We don't have to directly "know" someone or be connected to the loss itself to feel it in overwhelming, intense ways. The untimely deaths of Princess Diana, Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger, and Phil Hartman, coupled with epic events of tragedy and sadness like September 11th, The Station nightclub fire and the loss of the Columbia Space Shuttle all dug into my heart in a unique and confusing way.

This past week, the world lost Whitney Houston, R&B singing phenom. I remember being an awkward young girl in junior high school with a crush on a boy in my grade, and how Whitney's songs made me cry even then. I once called a local radio station and requested "I Will Always Love You" for said crush. I watched my crush dance with someone else to Whitney's songs. This made them very deep but meaningful thorns in my heart. I always imagined that if I was lucky enough to ever meet her, I would thank her for the deep catharsis she provided me in my pre-teen years...

I keep hearing Whitney sing, on the TV, on the radio, as peoples ringtones. I read on Reuters that sales of her albums have soared in the days since her death. I've enjoyed hearing some of the amazing songs that best showcase her talent again, like her Super Bowl performance of The National Anthem. I watch with my mouth agape at the endless talent, and end with the realization that all of that talent is gone.

I had hopes for Whitney, just as I did for Amy Winehouse. I knew in my heart that she would either get her life back together, make outstanding music again, and change the world a second time around, or that she would die an early death, likely caused primarily or secondarily to her use of drugs. I am saddened that my hope did not materialize.

Life is just so fleeting, so unpredictable. We are all riding this giant wheel waiting for our turn to fall off, and it doesn't matter how rich or talented or healthy you are- it can happen to any of us. It doesn't matter how many times you have already beaten the odds. All it is is a stamped guarantee that no matter what, your day is coming.

It makes me angry to feel the anxiety of trying to wrap my head around the extent of the tragedy that we dodge every day. Specifically referring to Whitney, I am angry that she was not able to reach her full potential again, and that the fault likely lies in her disease of addiction. The thing is, I can't be angry at her for being an addict, doing what addicts do. Addicts use, and statistically, very few are able to maintain a drug free life after initially getting sober. It doesn't matter how smart a person is or how much will power they have- addiction is the ultimate parasite. Once it has latched onto its host, it takes a miracle to remove it. I think that for Whitney Houston, that parasite just never fully let go of her.

I've cried a lot of tears since my mom opened my apartment door to tell me that Whitney Houston had died. Mentally, I was immediately in disbelief. I said "no!", I accused her of screwing with me, raising my voice as I asked if she was serious. From then on, it has been unavoidable. I hear her name when I am walking on campus or at Wal-Mart, I see her face on every major weekly and monthly magazine, I hear her voice in the background as news anchors discuss the loss and it's impact. I've watched her best performances and sat for 4 hours while on vacation to watch her funeral... Some might find it weird to react so strongly to the death of a singer or actor or any public figure, and I can promise you that the reaction is not expected, but as I said, grief can come from anywhere.

Kabuki: Chronicles of an Anxious Cat: Part 1

This is Kabuki. Isn't she adorable? Doesn't she look like she would be the perfect pet? Doesn't she look as if she would love to curl up on your lap and  purr for hours and hours? I'll be honest, I wish that were the case- but Kabuki is just a bit more complicated than that...

I'll start from the beginning... I was working at a Borders bookstore in Fort Lauderdale when I got a call from a co-worker. 

"My neighbor found two kittens and she can't keep them. I figured I would call you and see if you wanted them."

"Fuck", I thought. I already had a cat, my first pet in my one bedroom apartment. I knew that bringing 2 more kittens into the mix would bring me one step closer to "crazy cat lady" territory, but you can't just hold kittens in front of my face like a carrot. I'm sure to bite. At this point, I turn my head and change the channel every single time Sarah McLachlan starts playing on those ASPCA commercials. I can't handle them, and almost consider them abusive to my own psyche. When I have watched them, either by accident or on a dare, become a fucking basket case, and feel the need to save every mangy one-eyed pet I see. 

I put my cards on the table, holding firm with my stance:

"Yeah, I would love to be able to take them, but I just don't have the room." I stood my ground, I was NOT going to take those cats.

Instead, I agreed to just go and SEE them. Just seeing, no adopting. I was doing it more as a favor than anything else, but I was definitely not going to be taking home any kittens. I headed over to take a look at the two of them, stepping over garbage and auto parts in the yard. I was let in and was immediately hit by the smell of urine and body odor. There were boxes and people everywhere. Way more people than there were bedrooms in the home. I was led to a back bedroom by a girl in a NASCAR t-shirt who kept playing with her clearly infected belly button piercing. She showed me the kittens, who were being housed in an empty Jack Daniels box. The two little fuzz balls were absolutely tiny. I would guess they were not older than a few weeks. It was a worrisome situation, but I did my best to stay resolute. 

"They are really cute, but I really, REALLY don't have room for them so---" -she interrupted me in a high pitched, fast, excuse laden voice.

"BUT IF YOU DON'T TAKE THEM WE ARE TAKING THEM TO A KILL SHELTER TOMORROW!" she shrieked "WE FOUND THEM UNDER MY MOM'S CAR!" 

I was annoyed, I was wavering, and I was in love with these kittens. I even said "fuck it" and agreed to take one of them, but that wasn't good enough. I had to take them both. I had to think of an excuse that would justify my horrible decision making, but nothing sufficient came to mind as I carried the Jack Daniel's  box out to my car. They both were trying to climb out of the box as I was driving, and I spent just as much time replacing them in the bottom of the box as I did steering the car.

I initially called a couple of friends of mine and begged them to take the kittens for a few days while I got my apartment ready for them. I don't know what preparation I thought was going to be necessary, but I wasn't quite ready to take them to my place yet. I was scared that the kitten I already had, Astro, would not react well to these new, furry invaders. 

At my friend's apartment, the kittens were not doing well. They were very scared and shaky, and they ran from anyone trying to pick them up or touch them. They hid in every corner of my friends' kitchen and ultimately wound up behind the dishwasher. This was a crisis situation. Defcon 3. I couldn't see the cats, so I couldn't get to them. On the verge of freaking out, I needed to extract the kittens as quickly as possible. One thing I had never seen happen was the removal of a dishwasher. It seemed to be a pretty permanent type of appliance. It is connected to the wall of your kitchen by a variety of tubes and such, and it isn't meant to just be dragged out of place. Regardless, that is essentially what I did. There was a metal bar attached to the machine and the bottom of the cabinetry, keeping it in place, which a screwdriver did quick work of. I then wiggled the machine outwards into the kitchen until I could see the two shaking babies. I fished them out, put them back in their Jack Daniel's box, and got them the hell out of there.

This is essentially the beginning of my relationship with Tegan and Kabuki, but this story is particularly about Kabuki. She came into my life in a Jack Daniel's box, and we have ridden the waves of her anxiety together. She is a unique and beautiful cat with a dark side and the most clinically screwed up behavioral traits I have ever known a cat to have. 

There are lots of stories about Kabuki, including her traits, her anxiety, her behavior, and her tendency to draw blood when threatened. I hope you all enjoy reading about Kabuki as much as I do writing about her. She is chronically misunderstood, and rarely seen by human eyes. She is like a Sasquatch, and I am the lucky, crazy bastard trying to pet the sleeping giant. 

She is a handful to say the least, but she is also incredibly sweet and affectionate with me on HER terms. I have learned to work with them and I know when to push and when to back away. I have come to the conclusion that Kabuki is an anxious cat. The affection that I get from my other cats is a behavior that Kabuki just could not handle. She will never jump up and sit on my lap, but when she rubs up against me or lets me pet her coat before scurrying away, I KNOW that that is what she is capable of. I'm ok with that, and am excited about telling her story.

to be continued...

30: Born This Day

I am officially 30 years old, as of 2:52 this afternoon. Friends and family have asked me in many different ways if I feel "different" or "weird" or even "old" at this point in my life. Nothing could be further than the truth. I can breathe a sigh of relief as I leave my 20's behind. As far as decades go, much of it was a bust until the past few years. If I can bring the momentum that has spun my life around as I continue to grow and step lightly in the mine fields of life, I have no fears or regrets whatsoever, and I am committed to leaving my darkness behind. I have learned many lessons through experience, some of which made me cringe my way to change. I have learned that sometimes, though, you need to wade through some uncomfortable waters in order to make it to the other side. There are no freebies and rarely are there second chances. I spent the greater part of my 20's waiting for someone else to do the work for me, and I suffered greatly at the lack of results. Today, I am quite certain that no one is going to make my dreams come true for me. In a way, that is a great relief, because the weight falls on my shoulders, which is where it should be. That weight is what motivates. It reminds me of the control I have over my happiness, and it feels damn good to not have to wait for someone to fulfill my expectations.

Kabuki: Chronicles of an Anxious Cat

Kabuki: Chronicles of an Anxious Cat- Coming Soon!

Summer Camp Fallacies Part II

A few short weeks after finding out that my Dad had terminal cancer, I left for summer camp. My parents had already paid the six grand (even though I'm sure they could have gotten a dying-parent-refund), and I actually was looking forward to a therapeutic summer before life started to get real. My camp was in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts, about 4 hours from my family's home, just south of Boston. My worst fear was that my father was going to lie on his deathbed and I would not be able to get to him in time. Despite these fears, I was encouraged to go away for the summer, to gather my head and deal with my thoughts. My best efforts notwithstanding, I was a basket case from the beginning of the summer. I lost focus, alienated myself from friends, and burst into tears at the drop of a hat. People were supportive, as much as they could be. After a while, I started to hear my fellow campers say things like "Ugh, she's crying again?" or question my authenticity. This only pushed me further into isolation. I discovered that the mountains will be the death of you if you are a thinker, and I did a lot of thinking that summer.

I connected with my lead camp counselor almost immediately, and we struck up a friendship that was a blessing when all I ever felt was alone. She was protective of me, and came running when I had a moment of panic or grief. She made me feel safe in her presence and she told me that she would always be there. I needed more than her, though, and I imagine that I was too much for her. She started to pull away, to the point of completely avoiding me without any explanation. She avoided eye contact with me, and walked away when I walked toward her. I was devastated. Shattered and betrayed, but in my mind it was my fault entirely. I was too screwed up, going through something that no one else could understand and certainly dealing with a reality that no one else came to summer camp for. I was a distraction, a downer, a burden. I could feel it.

My counselor, the one who started avoiding me, suddenly announced that there was a family emergency back home in Canada, where she was from. She had to leave camp almost immediately, and as she was packing, I asked her if I could come with her when she was driven to the airport. I don't know why I wanted to go or why I thought she would let me, but the tiny, yet brave voice inside me thought that I could perhaps get some answers from her, or perhaps some explanation for why I stopped being good enough. She paused, and took in a breath of air while she bought time to answer. - She said "yes". She told me that I could accompany her and the assigned driver to the airport in the late morning. She said nothing else, and I felt uncertain, but all I was looking for were answers, or at least some reassurance that I hadn't done something incredibly, unforgivably wrong.

The night before she was set to depart, I wrote her a long letter. I described how hurt I was at the way she turned away from me. I told her how alone I was, unable to enjoy the simple things that made others smile because my mind was wrapped around the impending death of my father. I told her how I was certain that we would not speak again, and that I was sorry for that, but that all I wanted was an answer.

I woke up before dawn, in the time between the dark of the middle of the night and the chilly blue of early morning. My hand was still wrapped around my letter, under the pillow as I had left it the night before. It was too important to forget about. As my sense adjusted to being awake, I could hear rustling, things moving around, and wheels scraping the floor. She was leaving, now, and it was clear that I wasn't invited. I winced with that realization and squeezed the folded paper in my hand. I knew that she had lied to me, in the hopes of being gone long before I woke up. As she wheeled her luggage towards the cabin door I leaped from my bed, catching her as she was turning around towards me in surprise. I didn't say anything about being lied to or left behind or about my own feelings. I just handed her the note and told her I hoped to hear from her again. It was all that could be said in that moment, and we both knew it.

...When the day began and the camp started bustling like the self-sufficient little village it was, life moved on without Keri. Yeah, that was her name. I heard it again from a fellow camper telling me that Keri had said that I "stuck to her like glue". It was embarrassing that she had spoken that way about me to another camper. It felt like another one of those betrayals I was becoming so accustomed to...

Just after lunch ended, I heard her name again. The head counselor was having a quiet discussion with one of the camp directors and a few campers. I couldn't hear much, but I heard Keri's name a lot. As it turned out, upon cleaning Keri's bunk and living area, several pieces of mail addressed to counselors and campers (including me) we found in her garbage. Received, undelivered, and opened. I don't know how they do things in Canada, but in the United States, tampering with the mail is a Federal offense. Not to sound all high and mighty about it or anything, but it felt good to know that I was not the only screwed up member of the pair that was Keri and I. She even opened MY mail!

I could never feel "good" about the way things turned out with Keri and I, and finally with Keri. Regardless of what she did wrong, trying to pretend that it made my situation any better was a deluded way of thinking. If anything, she made it easier for me to admit that I had issues of my own, and that my relationship with Keri was formed out of those issues, and of that dysfunction. It makes sense to me now why I got along with her so strongly at first. We were both young women searching for something to belong to, and some kind of validation. We were both too wrapped up in our own self-centered craziness to do a damn thing for each other...

It has been over a decade since that summer. It was a disappointing comparison to summers prior, when my father wasn't dying and I was a leader rather than a jaded lone wolf. In summers prior, no one stole from me, either from my heart or my mail. I went home at the end of that season relieved that I had made it through, and that I could see my father alive for however long I would be permitted. 

That was my last summer in the Berkshires, and the last time I heard from Keri. A few years later, the entire camp was destroyed in an arson fire. The cabins with the metal bunks and the writing on the wall and the secrets whispered between their walls are gone, and that tragic reality is really more of a cleansing for me; a wiping away of all the hurt and judgment I brought home with me.

30

I am about to turn 30 in six short days. It is a milestone age, almost as significant as 18 or 21 or 40. For many, it is an age that they fear, for certainly when you are 30, you are an adult without excuses. You are no longer a "young adult", and that transition scares a lot of people. for me, the great majority of my 20's were spent miserable, uncertain, angry, self destructive, depressed, and unmotivated. I have stories from my 20's that could fill an encyclopedia of dysfunction. A chronological list of the moments from my 20's that haunt me would take days to read, and much longer to write...

Somehow though, and for some reason I can't quite pinpoint, my life began to turn in a direction that shined more light back towards me than ever before. Once my 28th birthday rolled around, I was in the process of pulling myself up and out of the ashes. I have completed that climb and I am still cleaning myself off as I prepare to venture into my 30's. It's not something I am afraid of, but something I welcome with the hope that life will continue to carry me in the right direction.

It will always get better, so hold on- no matter what anyone else says... That is really all the advice I can give.

Summer Camp Fallacies I

I have many memories of idyllic teenage summers at camp in the mountains. The picture of worn but rustic red and white cabins spread over rolling hills is delightfully cliche. In the mountains, even short walks got the blood pumping. We slept in bunks, metal top and bottom twins beds. Whoever was stuck with the top bunk had to hoist themselves up and climb, as there were no ladders. I got used to the process within a few weeks, though, and could make it up in a few hops and little effort. Once the lights were turned out at night, we were expected to drift off to sleep relatively quickly, though random voices and chuckles always filled the air for a few minutes. We woke early, by 7am at the latest 6 days a week. It was one of only a few things that were tough about camp. We were startled out of bed by a camp wide PA system that mostly annoyed us to our feet. It was always chilly in the mornings, and as it usually goes, the first several minutes of consciousness every day are the hardest ones. Dragging the body up and out of bed always sent the chill of the outside air over every part of my body. It was difficult to resist climbing back into bed. It always warmed up quickly, though. Once we stretched, got our limbs moving and some food into our stomachs, we got ready for the day...

I tried to always make the days count. I always spent about 8 weeks living in a cabin and being active for hours each day. it sounds like a long time, but it passes much too quickly. It was the first time that I noticed my perception of time changing with age. I can't speak for everyone I was a camper with, but as far as my goals were concerned, lost time was wasted time. Having to develop a life with dozens of unfamiliar people for several months, calling the communal place "home" is an accelerated process. You could fall in love and divorce in one summer. It was an incredibly intense bond at that point in my life. It is also heartbreaking when you have to leave each other, having established such artificially life changing relationships. Everyone leaves certain that they have expanded their circle of friends ten fold, when in reality, many people end up with a lot of e-mail addresses and phone numbers that they never plan on using again. I have my own collection of such numbers. I guess it is easier to say "See ya later! Call me!" than it is to say "It's been fun! Have a nice life, because I know I am never going to see you again!", even if you don't want it to be true...

a letter to myself at 14 years old

Dear Stephanie (age 14),

I see how alone you are, and I know how alone you feel. I see you walking down those halls alone and sitting in bathroom stalls during lunch to avoid being tormented for having no one to sit with. I know how hard you are trying to fit in, to be liked, and to laugh rather than to be laughed at. I know how you often question fate, and why it left you to play the role of the ugly duckling rather than the beautiful swan. Why is there DNA for "ugly?" I used to ask myself why I drew the hand I did, and why my cards represented nothing but pain and punishment.

I have to tell you, you need to take these experiences and all of the other ones, and remember them. Realize that there is a lesson in every moment, but some of them hurt as much as they educate. I am sorry to say, as dark as life is right now for you, you are going to have to hold on for a while longer. There are some occurrences that are in the middle of your path, and they will not be easy or fun to navigate. You will question your self worth and your desire to live. You will violate your morals, values, and ethics, and you will bring shame to yourself and your family. You will take deadly risks going against your gut instinct... I'm am sorry for being so blunt, but I wish someone had given me the truth when I needed it.

The most important thing I can tell you is to keep holding on, because there is a reason to. I promise you, it is always darkest before the dawn, and today, I am living YOUR dawn. Today I have perspective, blessings, love, friends and family. I also have dreams and aspirations that I thought would never be possible to pursue. I am capable, I am confident, I am a leader.

You are capable, you are confident, you are a leader. I promise.

love,
Steph, age 29 (2012)

between those moments

I have been thinking about my life over the last couple of days, about the changes I have made, and the ones I haven't. I have been thinking about the course of events that have brought me to the mark at which I stand today. The thing is, where am I really? I question everything, but then again, I always have. Nothing is ever good enough, but has it ever been? I find some solace in the fact that where I stand today is as stable a place I have ever existed in. Every day I get closer and closer to feelings of inner strength and personal contentment. At times, there is still an internal reckoning, and a feeling of being stuck, as if I were up to my knees in quicksand and sinking deeper. Occasionally, my reality seems to be based on a perpetual state of visceral discord, but I am learning to feel and connect rather than intellectualize and isolate. My goal is to take more influence from the external, to acknowledge the objective opinions of others rather than listen solely to negative self-talk conjured up in my own brain...

Up until only recently, my hope for the future rested in the futile effort of shaking my head in an attempt to reset my thoughts from the darkness to the productive. It had always been that I could never do enough, say the right things, work hard enough, and accomplish enough to feel anything more than a fleeting sense of internal pride, but nothing lasting. I would wonder, while trying to work out reasons and explanations like a mathematician, why I was so alone, why did I get so little satisfaction out of... anything, really?

I was reading one of my journals from several years ago and I was struck by how little material there seemed to be in the way of recognition of the positive side of things. There were no moments in those pages worthy of a pat on the back. Throughout those pages, there was so much anxiety, so much unease, so much tension. The word "discord" again seems appropriate.

...I used to grasp for the moments that contained some pieces of my dreams, but never could quite reach them. They are, after all, just moments. Solitary units surrounded by the dense, weighty and dark infinity that is so exhausting to wade through. These days, I refuse to waste time waiting between those moments.

ellipsis: a million conversations that we never thought to start

...I remember those long drives to Disney World while "Man in the Mirror" played on the car radio. Hotel rooms. Dad slept alot, always. The Mickey Mouse doll for my brother's 4th birthday was wrapped in a huge red package. Fisher Price kids flashlights that turned themselves off when we forgot to. Pee Wee's Big Adventure, Look Who's Talking, The Land Before Time, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Independence Day. I remember how you cried when you accidentally ripped our giant Goofy wall stickers... It upset me because you cared so much more than we did. You thought you failed us, but it really didn't matter much... The smell of cedar, and how nothing but the most important things were placed in that old cedar chest... Rest stops, driving down the east coast. Your cherry red pick-up truck. I remember visiting your work, running down that long hallway and banging on the maintenance department door. Would you believe that I walked that same hallway a few months ago? I saw some of the guys you worked with, in the same brown pants and tan work shirts that you always wore. They showed me your badge and a photo of you on the wall. They looked at me like they had seen a ghost. I probably looked the same... The smell of Old Spice and fires in the fireplace. The beach, how you love the beach. Sitting outside on a beach side hotel patio in Daytona Beach with your fingers laced behind your head... Our old dog Kojak was around long before Patrick and I were, a puppy in early photos I remember once seeing. We used to be able to smell him on his collar for a while after he passed away, but now it only smells like the things that have taken its place... World War II, and Trivia on your bedroom floor in the summertime. When you were sleepy, you always asked "Who is buried in Grant's Tomb?" and we knew we had lost you for the night... Did you know that you and Santa Claus have the same handwriting?... You took me to vote for the very first time when I turned 18. You made me feel like what I was doing was important... Christmas trees cut with your very own saw in your own two hands and handmade ornaments, milkshakes, blood red steak, Vietnam. Books. You taught me to love reading and I inherited your illegible script, which I could always read. Chicago and Blood, Sweat, and Tears, "Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road". The Hall of Presidents and One-Dollar Jeopardy, roller coasters, movies, and sledding... You loved the Abraham Lincoln museum in Washington, D.C., and you made it important to me, too... You stopped drinking when I was a toddler. I wish I had stopped before I lost you. I promise I have done right by you now, I just took a few detours... You always put my toys together, and you drove my friend and I to New Jersey and took us to Six Flags. You were so proud of me when I took acting classes, and you were at every performance I ever had, no matter how small the role was... Stained glass and haunted houses in the basement, and the way you could whistle with your mouth closed. Burning everything you attempted to cook, and teaching me to ride a bike... your gold toothed smile...

Solitude 11/19/07

Solitude: written 11/19/2007
by: Stephanie Picher

i like laughing. i enjoy the healed feeling i get from being moved to roaring amusement. laughter seems to help me to forget the darkness which seems to bookend my moods. i am reminded, again, by the simple act of expressing joy, that i am not as alone as i often feel. i also realize that i am not as cold as i sometimes believe. i am capable, even though i so frequently forget, of relating to other people, of being a part of something, of being included. more than all of that, i am also capable of enjoying the most mundane moments of my life, so long as i choose to.

what are the common denominators of depression for me?
-loneliness
-isolation
-grief
-sadness
-guilt
-shame
-self-pity
...depression is a result of the time i spend ruminating in solitude about these problems and situations. the key word is solitude. i have created, and am living a self fulfilling prophecy

i like being alone.

when i am alone i become depressed.

when i am around others, my depression subsides.

...the problem is, i choose to be alone. my choices confuse me. the nature of things is complicated. i'll surely become depressed again trying to work it all out...

A Rhetorical Question

Is the act of helping others selfish if i only do it to save my own soul?

A rhetorical question. I already know the answer.

remembering losing you

i think of how it felt to dance with you, to float across the floor together. i remember how your sculpted back and arms felt against your starchy shirt and vest. i remember the way you smiled when our paths crossed, the way you laughed at my jokes, the way your skin looked. soft and unblemished, seemingly untouched by the pain you carried behind your vivid eyes. i think about the innocence of fireworks and board games, of friendly dinners and quiet conversations. i shake my head and think about the hope that came with knowing that finally you were changing your life. the pride i saw in you, i could tell, was a personal triumph.

"are you mad at me?", you asked, as the smell of alcohol drifted from your lips. i think about my answer, still to this day.

"i don't judge you for your choices." i said. "i love you all the same."

had i known that this would be the last night i would see you, laugh with you, dance with you, and respond to that last question, my reply might have been different.

I think about your suffering, and where you disappeared to. did you think of crying out for help? did you know that your last time was, indeed, your last time? or did you believe you would have a chance to make it right again?

i can see you in my minds eye, telling me goodbye as you walked to your car, your back turned to me. how could we have know the weight that word would hold? the horrifying finality of "goodbye"... i think you said you'd see me later with sorrow in your eyes, although i cant be sure. it is difficult to know what is real when something makes as little sense as this...

i remember going on-line and searching for your name among the death notices, trying to find some evidence of what happened to you. i found nothing and hadn't heard anything since i heard the news the night before. there was a part of me, perhaps even most of me, that foolishly believed that maybe there was some mistake, some miscommunication, or something lost in translation.

this, i'm told, is called "denial". it is the feeling of searching in vain, of looking for a grain of sand in the vast, dark ocean. something inside you tells you it is there, if you just look hard enough. i know the truth, despite my attempts at self-delusion. i know, on a fundamental level, that knowing and believing are two different concepts, and ultimately i am terrified of both. i feared my own emotions as much as i feared the reality of losing you.

Walt Disney Blues

not writing for a day or a week or a year is like experiencing muscle deterioration in my hands from lack of use. essentially, if you don't use it, you lose it. my fingers hit the keys with slight hesitation as i search for the right words to fill the blank space provided. i have learned from experience that the longer i go without purging my mind, the harder it is to do so.

...i do have a bit of an excuse at the moment, however, as i am in Walt Disney World with my family for a brief furlough from the increasingly bitter temperatures in the northeast. my mother and father started jamming Disney down our throats from a very young age, and we were riding space mountain when we only just barely met the height requirement. i have an endless supply of memories from the trips i took to this tourist trap, from craning my neck in order to get the best view possible of the parades to approaching the loading area after waiting excitedly in line for one of my favorite rides. i remember how thrilling meeting the characters always was. they were like celebrities to me and my brother at that age. handing our autograph books to Donald Duck or Goofy or Mickey Mouse made our tiny hands shake. there was no one any bigger than them at that point in life. i may as well have been meeting Lady Gaga...

today things are a bit different. i am older, wiser but also with a touch of pessimism and poetic darkness. the lights don't shine as brightly here, the colors are less vibrant. i explained to my brother today that being here feels like a graveyard, a place filled with grief and recollections of a childhood lost. i have tried to make the best of it, to enjoy the experience through the eyes of my young nephew, but when i see my brother with his son on his shoulders i feel tears welling up. i have not a single doubt that if my father were still with us, he would be so proud of the directions my brother and i have taken in our lives. he would be a doting grandfather, boasting and bragging about the wonderful child that has been brought such joy to all of our lives.

i remember being pushed by my dad through the Magic Kingdom in a stroller. how young i was exactly, i am not sure, but it couldnt have been much older than 3 or 4 years. even at that tender age, i fell in love with the atmosphere and fantasy that is and was Walt Disney World. sitting next to my father on rides like Big Thunder Mountain Railroad and Splash Mountain made me feel safe as my shoulders rested against his large frame. twists and turns, as well as large drops would elicit a loud roar of laughter from him that always made me smile.

my dad is not here anymore, having taken his last breath just over 8 years ago on New Years Day, but i see and feel him everywhere. when i see a particular ride or shop or restaurant, i only think of him. i close my eyes and try my hardest to conjure up those memories as accurately as possible, but the human memory is fallible. as time goes by, i feel more and more distant from the sound of his voice or the feeling of a strong, supportive hand on my back or shoulder.

they call Disney World "the happiest place on earth", but there are exceptions to that phrase. at times, it feels like a place that harbors sadness and pulls the memories from my body to behind my eyelids, where i can feel the tears trying to push their way out.

after dozens of trips over the years, i no longer get as excited at the prospect of going into the parks. i fear losing control of my emotions and ruining the experience for everyone else. this place, it carries far too much weight in my mind, body, and spirit. this time, i came for my nephew, and i am glad i did. watching him take in the sights and sounds, smiling and laughing, asking questions and experiencing curiosity has helped to fill the hole inside me with a level of connection and acceptance.

i can feel my Dad everywhere, and i often wonder if i have ever stepped on the exact spot where he walked as he pushed my brother and i through the parks. my brother tells me that the memories i carry are a good thing, and that i should embrace them rather than let them steal the joy of the experience away from me. i know he is right and he is the perfect model of my father in the way that he parents his son as well as how accurate the advice he gives is. he speaks from a controlled place, balanced evenly with wisdom from both his heart and his mind. he has learned to take the best from life and leave the rest. it is a skill i have gotten better at over the years and through experiences, but i still have alot to learn...

i dont want to see this place as a graveyard or a place of mourning and sadness. especially now that i have a young nephew who wants to share this experience with me as much as i want to share it with him. seeing him experience what to him is akin to magic is worth putting my discomfort aside for. i watch him grow from month to month, and time is limited. he will not always want to be cradled in my arms or to read a book in my lap. bright lights and fireworks and his favorite characters will not always thrill him like they do now, and i dont want to miss a second of it, despite my own grief and anxieties.

i have to believe that this is all part of my process of growth. god knows, ive been through them before. they can be uncomfortable as hell and paralyzing in their intensity, but the most effective remedy is to walk straight into the fire the i fear so much. approaching that which makes us uncomfortable gradually, but certainly decreases that level of discomfort... really, its a cost/benefit analysis of what is worth fighting for versus what is not.

my family, my nephew, and my own mental health is worth fighting for. my fathers pride is worth fighting for. being a part of something as opposed to a part of nothing is worth fighting for... the prospect of winning the fight with a sigh of relief and a smile on my face is worth fighting for.

"All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind." - Khalil Gibran

you love me

you love me. i know this, have for years. you are one of my best friends and i mirror the love you feel. i have always been grateful for you- for your laughter, loyalty, and honesty. no matter how much time passes between us, out connection will undoubtedly remain strong and true...

but you are IN love with me. a bombshell i could have never expected or predicted. flattering, but shocking, unexpected. and then i think of the hypothetical "what ifs?" what if our timing had been better? what if you had vocalized your feelings, at least once, over all these years. what if you had told me instead of letting me go? 

it's a hard bunch of questions to answer, im sure. they are impossible to answer for me, because i had absolutely no clue that you felt anything romantic toward me. you seemed so surprised and even unsettled when i revealed to you that i was a lesbian. i understand now that those reactions likely came from a much different place than i had originally thought. i believe that had i known, i would have given us a chance. i cant imagine not being close to you, so had our lips met, i would likely have felt myself split in two.

i would have wanted you, im sure of it. i would have wanted us to be something more than i could have ever imagined, because i could never not love you for loving me the way you say...

i wish, with so much intensity, that you hadnt shed your fears and your truth while at the same time inviting me to your wedding. 

...there goes that regret again.

why did you change my life only to walk right out of it?