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...