These past 2 weeks have created a whirlwind of emotions around me. Normally when I log onto Facebook I hope to start my day right with some cute pics of my friend’s kids, a witty cartoon that explains that it’s ok to drink wine every day of the week, or a lovely update that makes me believe that I may still get my chance to meet the New Kids on the Block. I’m afraid that doesn’t really happen during election season. This is where my laziness comes in. I find that I am bombarded with articles, rants and opinions from both sides of the spectrum and I begin to get incredibly lazy with my emotions. And by that, I mean angry. Anger is a very healthy emotion when handled correctly, but when fueled by the internet and media, it becomes an emotion that can quickly become addictive and self harming. Being in the middle of this epic battle, I find, can be extremely disconcerting especially when one is involved in loving relationships with both Republicans and Democrats. When I hear searing jabs against “Republicans” or “Democrats” I take it very personally because I have deep love and respect for both of those people. When I hear that one is a “terrorist” or one is a “racist bigot” I feel angry because those are my friends. And you know what? Neither of them are. I find that when I log onto the internet in the morning, I am constantly preparing myself to go off on a mental rant protecting my respective friends and that anger is fed by the feeling that someone out there is asking me to choose which people to like more. Anger is an easy, defensive emotion to fall into. And I have been extremely lazy falling into it. So instead of picking a side, or calling others names or liars or any of the other things I see on the web each and every day I am going to go deep within myself to listen with an open heart, allow each piercing comment to open my heart a bit more…knowing that anger comes from fear and confusion. And knowing that that is not what any of us want right now. It has saddened me to see that the war over the last few weeks has truly been at home, ending friendships of love, respect and understanding. That each side is bullying each other. That each side is bullying my friends. I am not going to get angry anymore. It’s too easy. I am going to embrace this difficult time we are all going through as a country and really listen, and learn and grow. And vote not because I believe I am going to die, but vote because I believe that all of us desire the same outcome, to live safely, happily and free. And I don’t know how the fuck we’re going to do that, but I have to believe that there is a better way than this.

“Have you ever been in the darkness when an unknown door suddenly opened before you, and you stood, it seemed in the light of a thousand candles of delicate wax?”

I know that I longed for and searched for that door over the next ten years. Relentlessly. I looked for it in Africa. I grasped for it in Hollywood. I meditated, prayed and chanted waiting to serendipitously run into this door that contained the light I knew I could potentially feel. None of it worked. It wasn’t until I surrendered my desperate hunt and learned to accept and move through my darkness that I stumbled upon the most delicate light. It is now in this newfound gentle warmth that I realize I pursued my recovery with the same obsessiveness that I pursued my disease, expecting to inexplicably be healed by something outside of myself. I became obsessive about healing my obsessions. I went out into the bush to be healed by African tradition instead of asking myself why, perhaps, I was feeling so unlovable. I tried to prove myself as an actor to all those around me instead of just proving to myself that I was acceptable as I was. I meditated, prayed and chanted trying to rid myself of my abusive thoughts instead of asking myself why I felt I deserved to be treated in such a manner. I felt that I was being punished with my depressions and diseases instead of treating them as a part of life. I needed to realize that it was not so much me that was flawed, but life in general, and each challenge, each heartache was an opportunity to grow not a personal attack on my soul. And it is so fucking dark because it is so fucking hard. It’s supposed to be. So the next time you find yourself in the dark open your eyes. Breathe it in. Feel every ounce of pain you can withstand and stand strong when confronted by those voices in your head. Know that each bead of sweat that forms during this grueling time lights one of those awaiting wicks and soon your light will flicker like you never knew it could.

My fear of not being a good mother, not properly giving love and not properly getting love stems from many factors with the main one being that I am a third generation anorexic. Although I was never really overweight, my father feared I’d be wearing a muumuu due to my trunks for legs. I was from a young age told to suck in my stomach. Later on I was referred to as “the big girl.” I was sexualized before I was comfortable due to my growing curves which were out of my control. Who knows that if I did not have the genetic make up I was given if I would have even experimented with any type of eating disorder. But I did, and I did and it was incredibly difficult and still is. And because I did, and my husbands family did, my daughter is in danger as well.

I am incredibly aware of the fact that I hold the power to trigger that gene into an internal war against my daughters now beautiful ego, self esteem and sense of self. And even though my doctor doesn’t know, his mention of the word obese triggered me to want to count my daughter’s and my calories and run us sweaty. And to be shamefully honest, I don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid of her being obese or whether I’m afraid of other parents on the playground looking at her or judging her to be obese. What hurts me is that my daughter is 2. Thankfully I have done enough therapy and work to prevent myself from doing any of these distrustful things, but even so, it is incredibly scary and mortifying to know that I even think about it. She is nowhere near obese and she and I should not have to worry about her weight. I should worry whether or not she’s healthy. I should worry whether or not she feels loved. I should worry whether or not she feels she can express herself. The word obese is so overly used in this nation it works against us the same way “skinny” did. People talk about being too skinny instead of hoping they’d look healthier. They talk about this fear of obesity instead of promoting balance. These types of statements should not be used when referring to the fight for anyone’s health and certainly not at a 2 year olds check up. Why we throw out these negative and debilitating words when trying to lead people on the right path, a healthy path, is beyond me. So just as my daughter possessively grabs onto my leg in the playground and declares, “Mine mommy!” I shall do the same for her. And the next time a doctor or a parent or anyone mentions her weight, especially in front of her, I will hold her close and say, “Look in those eyes, look at her smile, look at that ray of light around her. Doesn’t she have the biggest heart you’ve ever seen?” Because that’s all that matters.

We were told to meet outside the Starbucks on Astor Place at 7 am and a van would take us to the location. Oh, and to wear club kid clothes. Us being from the midwest, we took that as something with sequins and smoky eye shadow. As we waited for the bus to arrive on that chilly morning, we began to realize that perhaps one of these kids was doing their own thing. Every person that showed up was dressed in drag, king or queen, and/or in full-on club kids costumes that put our glitter and tiny backpacks to shame. It is also very safe for me to say that about 90% of them were still up from the night before. We drove to the middle of Nowhere, New York and settled in on a quaint, white wooden church. As we filed into the pews and were handed monk’s robes of bright yellow, red and blue, I couldn’t help but feel slightly uncool. I wanted to be part of the different crowd. I felt I had so much to express on the inside, yet looked so incredibly waspy on the outside. I felt so full of life and inspiration yet I was so ashamed of how normal I looked. I wanted to be part of the rebellion, yet when I tried it looked so inorganic. After draping myself in a yellow robe the lead guitarist of the band, Anthony, stood in front of us, god-like on the stage. He instructed us to, on his count of three, jump together, simultaneously and continuously. As we received our cue, Heather, the club kids and I began to jump. Anthony, with his lovely british accent, had a reaction that went a bit like this,”O.k…you’re a little off…maybe if you just looked…at the…at the person next to you?….Oh Fuck It! Just Jump!” And that we did.

My friend and I have used this phrase many times in life, picking a restaurant, pursuing a boy, getting married, having a baby, trying a new meat, you know, the big things. What I have recently realized is that we don’t use it nearly as much as we should. In fact, it should be a daily affirmation. Too many times in life I have wandered around, trying to keep in time with people whose lives are nothing like mine. I have tripped, stuttered and fallen paying attention to another’s beat and not my own. I have quieted many emotions and stunted many growths trying to blend in or trying to be different. What I should always do is just listen to the music, feel my feet and follow my heart and just jump to my soul’s great content. Because that’s how you keep a party going. So the next time your mind starts questioning whether or not you are in the right place, the next time you inquire as to whether or not you are authentic enough, the next time you are cloaking yourself in a life that is not really yours, please, please say to yourself, “Fuck it! Just Jump!”

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/wm-A10302B00000630882/spacehog_cruel_to_be_kind_official_music_video/

A few years back I was having dinner with two girlfriends. One was an old friend from high school, the other was a newer friend I’d met through my husband. My high school friend and I were discussing some of the emotional problems we had experienced over the years, hoping to stumble upon a resolution to our pain. My newer girlfriend sat there quiet, perhaps a bit incredulous, when she suddenly blurted out, “But you’re privileged!” It evoked the same emotions that it always has, guilt, shame, fear, more shame and more guilt. How could I experience any feelings, much less express them because I was so “privileged.” When I was in grade school, my father, through his incredibly hard work, became successful. I went to a private school and at the end of my freshman year I moved into a larger home. My family became upper-middle class. I feel very grateful to have had an excellent education, to have lived in a beautiful home and to be raised in a beautiful city. I was by no means showered with expensive gifts, given a huge sweet sixteen party and a white rabbit convertible with a big yellow bow. But even if I were, even if I were directly born into money, it saddens me to think that people would believe that this would give me an automatic advantage in life. And by advantage in life, I mean an advantage to truly living. Such beliefs suggest that it is fancy schooling, fancy homes and fancy cars that will ensure ones happiness. It suggests that one’s collection of shoes or Prada dresses will fulfill one’s deep seeded longing for love. It suggests that one’s 4000 thread count sheets and four poster canopy bed will provide one with the comfort, connections and hugs one needs to get through the trials and tribulations of life.

There is a reason that anorexia is considered a privileged disease. It is not because the rich desire to look like the models in the magazines, making them willing to starve themselves until their heart stops beating. It is because the illusion that money solves all of one’s problems silences the cries of those hungering for love. There is a reason drug and alcohol abuse is rampant among the elite. It is not because the privileged just love to party. It is because the illusion that success and fame will make you feel whole exacerbates the disappointment one feels when one’s loneliness prevails. Being “privileged” the way it is currently defined in our society is not the key to life. Being privileged does not protect you from having negligent, addicted or abusive parents. It does not protect you from being raped, molested or used. It does not give you the comfort of a loving family or pride in who you are. It does not cure your pain nor provide you with love.

But I will not argue with my old friend anymore. I am privileged, by my own definition, and can honestly say that where I now stand, a lot of my problems have been tackled. I am privileged that I was given a family with a number of emotional problems and obstacles, for we all worked incredibly hard to create incredibly plush and prosperous relationships with one another. I am privileged to have survived a number of years with anorexia, depression and various other mental diseases for now I have learned to nourish and satiate my hunger for love. I am privileged to overcome abusive relationships, postpartum depression and marital ups and downs for I feel visceral connections that show me the richness of life. It is all of my obstacles and set backs and emotional successes and victories that have given me my advantage in life. It has granted me immunity to illusions and helped me experience life’s favors, and that, my friend, has been an incredible privilege.

The summer of 98 was, at that point, the most beautiful I had ever experienced. I fell madly in love with a boy and, I believe, he with me. We would leave work together after hours, drinking red wine in diners and wandering the streets of the west village. We would speak of our favorite writers and musicians and pick out the houses where we would celebrate christmas together with our children. Would would tenderly steal glances and maybe brush the tips of our fingers together. But ours was an emotional and unfortunately forbidden attraction as he had a live in girlfriend. Nearly 15 years later, I’m ashamed that I dreamed so vividly of our future knowing that he had somebody attached to him in the present. But we were young, I was in love, and for the first time I had felt that I was loved back. I felt seen.

As the night moved on, the management grew more lax with the wait staff, and as it was an open bar, we believed that as hard working citizens we should be included in the spirit of the night. On this beautiful March evening my blissed out feeling from the summer of 98 had more desperate vibes, but I felt that it was most likely an unfortunate phase rather than a precursor to a serious illness. I was in a fairly decent place. I felt completely renewed as an artist after having an amazing experience filming a commercial in Mali. But while engulfed in the richness of Africa, all I could think about was sharing my experience with my love, which was now probably more of a delusional obsession. Nights of playing Hangman using words like “time” and “patience” had given me the unfortunate illusion that I had found a soul mate, and even if no one else knew our secret, all I had to do was wait.

Each cocktail exacerbated my growing self doubt. I began slow dancing with my bisexual friend to evoke an energy of allure and sexuality, I flirted and gave coy glances to a few of the celebrities in attendance and I walked the room with all of the confidence I could muster. My love didn’t blink. In a last desperate attempt to gain his attention I frantically looked for him to at least get a quick cigarette break together. A last attempt to convince myself that there was still something there. As I climbed the stairs to the DJ booth my dancing friend stopped me. “He has a girlfriend Amy. He doesn’t love you.” And it was that simple. It was that obvious to everyone else. My desperation, like a drug fiend, became harder and harder to conceal. It dawned on me that I was a fool. And everyone knew it. And everyone thought it. And I was seen. For the weak, annoying and unlovable person I always felt myself to be.

I got out of work as quickly as I could running into the night with the 3 most supportive people I could find, a girl with a half a hit of x, my ex-boyfriend who left me because he fell in love with my best friend, and my roommate who was living in our apartment on my dime. After spending some time at the Bowry Bar waiting for a quarter hit of ecstasy to do something for me, we decided to go to my ex-boyfriends apartment. And that’s when my flutter of hope, my flutter of belief in life, my flutter of that absolute, all-consuming joy was put to rest.

I have been lucky that I never became a cocaine addict. But bringing it into my life created enough havoc to experience it’s full potential to destroy. I have never been the same. I will never be the same. I had never had the desire to do it. I actually took pride in having never done it. I actually had a pretty well established fear of it. And that one mistake that one night cost me ten years of my life. Ten years of all consuming obsessive compulsive disorder, anxiety and self sabotage. Ten years that could have been spent building myself up was instead spent destroying every part my soul beyond recognition.

I feel very blessed having come out of it finally. Thirteen years later I can experience that blissful joy, I can experience genuine laughter and I feel way beyond just flutters of hope. But I would take back that night in a second if I could. I know those people who were with me would as well. My ex-boyfriend took his life this past november, and the other two have struggled greatly. If you or anyone in your life is going through an incredibly difficult time please don’t numb yourself in any way. Swim through your heartache, bath in your fear, and cocoon yourself in your shame. Know that it is temporary and that growth and beauty is awaiting you on the other side. Appreciate your life for what it is, the good, bad and the ugly and know that by avoiding any of it, you are no longer living at all.

My Bully, wherever I go, he goes.  My Bully has taped to my back the sign that says “Kick me.  No harder.”  My Bully is an asshole.  And my weak little girl is the one who gives him the strength to constantly harass me.  It’s time for me to grow up. So, I have gone to multiple children’s health websites to scope out some pointers on how to deal with the bullies in your life, and in my case, the bully in my mind.

1.  Practice acting confident.

I do this with my daughter since she thinks I’m kinda awesome.

2. Practice looking your best.

O.k., so I’ve been told in the past that this can be superficial, but I have noticed that showering, wearing something that makes me feel good(even if it’s the same thing four days in a row) and maybe throwing on a little concealer can quiet the negative voice in my mind.  Also, when I clean my house, do some chores, save money and feel organized, the phrase,”you’re a loser” isn’t quite as believable.

3. Practice using a strong voice.

“No” and “I disagree” are really good phrases to practice with. 

4. Practice thinking about the worst thing a bully might do to you and what you could do-then stop worrying about it.  It is unlikely to happen to the “new” assertive you.

One of my favorites. Trust.

5.  Practice liking yourself.

This can be a very difficult one, but I find that like any skill, if you practice consistently you will get better. I practice everyday saying really nice things to myself. With sincerity. Especially after I say something rather cruel. Giving yourself a lot of mental hugs is also very helpful.  And just like practicing the guitar, I think one day I will be able to play.

6.  Practice a game or skill you are good at.

I don’t want to pat myself on the back, but I’ve gotten pretty good at Chicken Run.

7. Practice collecting powerful friends.

I have found that one of the most powerful qualities to have is kindness.  It is my intent to surround myself with people who smile, laugh, listen and hug.  A lot.

My goal is to encourage my little girl to practice these seven steps as much as possible so that maybe one day when someone stares at me, I can stare back and say,”What?”  And maybe when I’m ignored I can yell out, “Hey!  Eyes up here buddy!”  And maybe when I hang around people that offer my bully a little candy I can just say, “No. Peace out assholes.  My bully isn’t accepting any calls right now.  In fact, he doesn’t live here anymore.” 

While trying to overcome my disordered thinking I have read hundreds of self help books, listened to almost as many lectures, meditated, done yoga, practiced Buddhism, gone to Agape, and of course, watched “The Secret.”  Over and over.  After years of trying to fix and/or escape my self sabotaging ways, I not only grew more and more distraught over my obsessive pursuits, I also felt eternally flawed for not having “positivity” come more easily. I realized my main problem was that before I was able to think positively, I would have to quiet my deafeningly loud voice of self judgement.  How could I really think positively if I was judging myself for how well I was positively thinking?  Rarely do people tell you how difficult it is to train the brain, rarely do people let you know how exhausting it can be, and rarely do they let you know how many setbacks you will have.  I liken it to the phenomena of people buying puppies as cute accessory companions.  These are living things who require a tremendous amount of time, love and patience.  For years.  And years.  Why no one in “the secret” told me the same thing about my brain is beyond me.  I shudder when I think of how much self hatred was with me when I started this pursuit.  Imagine training a poor, innocent puppy and beating it every time it made a mistake.  

While consistently trying to create the positive brain I so craved, the inundation of information about “how to heal your mind” created a world for me where I couldn’t smile with my eyes, couldn’t lift an eyebrow in excitement and couldn’t breathe a breath that would make me feel whole.  I thought positively, then negatively, then a little positively, then more negatively.  It was a constant battle and I felt ashamed that just thinking differently could so easily help everyone else get the cars of their dreams and cure cancer.  I kept waiting for that genuine laugh to emerge yet I couldn’t help but feel completely paralyzed.  I don’t think I’m the only one.  I’ve had talks with other women who claim they would rather, “stay positive” and talk about Rachel Zoe rather then their fears in life.  I have known people who stare into my eyes and say they’re happy while not emoting one ion of love.  I have known people who have responded to my cries for help by saying “keep your head up, stay positive.”  Now I have begun to realize what that sentence might mean.

I believe in life, especially when coping with a disorder of some kind, or even as a woman simply aging, we are all walking in a river of life experiences, and usually the current is working against us.  Not to sound negative, just to be real.  We all have obstacles, we all of heartaches and we all are facing the idea that life does not last forever.  To me, staying positive and keeping my head up is staying in the moment and finding my balance, which at times, can be really hard, and when I’m successful, really fulfilling.  I don’t want to stand there smiling, pretending that I am not in a river, ignoring the cold water chilling my toes beyond feeling.  My face will freeze like a deer in the headlights or a person with too much botox.  And I don’t want to walk forward, only focusing on getting out, not even taking a second to look at the nature around me.  My eyes will grow tired, puffy, circled and lonely from lack of connection and light. And I personally don’t want to turn around and walk with this crazy current.  I don’t want my past experiences molding and pushing my way.  I’ll develop a permanent wide eyed stare from moving too fast and getting carried away by what’s already behind me.  I want to walk steadily forward, recognizing the pain in my feet but also feeling the warmth of the sun.  I want to agonize over the undeniable strength of the current but know that it is simply allowing me more time to take in the beauty around me.  I want to acknowledge that some days I will be tired, some days I will feel overwhelmed and somedays I will simply hate what I have to do.  But those days allow me to sometimes feel awake, sometimes feel free and sometimes be flooded with undeniable love.  Staying positive is a wonderful thing, but a challenging one at that.  If I’m walking up my river and my foot is sliced open on a sharp rock, I am not going to say, “Isn’t the color red so beautiful? I’m so lucky I’m so blissed out where I don’t feel a thing.” And I am definitely not going to say,”Oh my Lord! I’ll never walk again!” When I get another wrinkle I am not going to say, “Isn’t aging a miracle. I love how I become wiser with each line.” And I am definitely am not going to say,”I think some restylane will make me never age again.”  I now know that in difficult circumstances I really have to keep my head up high so I don’t get off balance and fall.  And with my head beaming towards the heavens I will say at the top of my lungs, “Fuck This!!!!!”  And then I will just keep walking.

My Dad, about 3 years before I was born, decided that 29 would be the perfect age to take up Rugby.  His decision, while quite idiotic in terms of maintaining functioning limbs and a decent size nose, was one of the best things he could of done in terms of teaching me about friends and family.  Before I was born, every weekend was spent on the field playing and every weekend night was spent getting drunk in bars and forming very old school camaraderies that were strengthened with beer and maintained with heart.  While I was forming my first cells, my mom was unknowingly downing rum goofies in Jamaica while at a Rugby tournament.(Ironically, she was jealous of her friend who was knowingly pregnant and luckily abstaining from rum goofies.)  I love you mom.  My first play date with that other(sober) rugby baby was bonding over our inability to move or rollover while our moms gossiped and most likely bitched about their idiot husbands who play rugby in their late 20s and 30s.  As years passed, our basement became weekend central with kegs and goofballs who could radiate a good time out of their pinkie finger.  The parents played ping pong and danced to Huey Lewis and the News while us kids(two more were added on…rugby babies one and two both got brothers) choreographed awesome dances to the “Super Bowl Shuffle.”  I felt an incredible amount of love and acceptance during those years. I felt so proud to have some really fun “cousins” and cool “aunts and uncles” who would hold the other side of the limbo stick at our birthday parties.  I felt safe watching my parents genuinely smile, laugh and have fun.  I felt like this was family.

Paul Michael Patrick McShane, who gave me warm hugs when I still sucked my thumb, who shared many Bears losses and some wins with my Dad, who was married to the strongest, funniest, and most loving Rugby wife I’ll ever know passed away February 22nd.  I was honored to watch him walk his beautiful daughter down the aisle,  I am honored to have his two amazing children in my life, I am honored to have known and loved this man.  But most importantly, I am so grateful to have felt what it is truly supposed to be like to have family.

I had the honor of meeting Rachel Cheetham Moro a year an a half ago in the Islamorada paradise know as The Moorings.  My family has been vacationing there for over 20 years and in 2010 we became quickly acquainted with a family who recognized the magical healing powers of our home away from home.  As we all made our rounds of getting to know one another, Rachel cheekily described her career as an international blogger.  She struck me as an incredibly strong and intelligent woman to whom I was instantly drawn, and quite honestly, a little afraid(raw honesty is a pretty awesome presence).  As we got to talking over a mojito, I learned of her metastatic breast cancer and it’s return for which it had no cure.  I don’t know if I truly understood or wanted to believe the weight of her situation until I saw her the next year a few months before she passed.  Her blog, which inspired me to write my own, was The Cancer Culture Chronicles.  It was an incredibly brave and honest spotlight on the unspoken culture of breast cancer, the one that isn’t pink or pretty or easy to cure.  It is the type of cancer whose presence leaves many people speechless and uncomfortable and many victims invisible.  When we last spoke on the veranda of our home in paradise, we discussed how the “awareness” of breast cancer hasn’t yet taught outsiders how to relate to the victims of this relentless disease.  Friends tend to disappear, people tend to act as if nothing is going on, or offer advice that they read in “Good Housekeeping” about staying positive.  Staying positive, while a very important attribute to the human condition can be harder for some people.  When someone suffers from depression and or a physical disease, “positive” producing neurons are slow to fire and sometimes seemingly impossible to fire.  So, to me, someone saying “Stay positive!” can come across as though someone in a life raft is screaming “Just stay afloat!” to a person treading water with boulders tied to their ankles.  This is an occurrence that happens across the board with many “uncomfortable diseases” be it cancer, anorexia, addiction, bipolar disorder, OCD, etc…I’m not saying these folks are assholes or idiots, it’s just that they can’t see what’s going on beneath the surface.  And they’re not going to unless they ask.  And they’re not going to ask unless they know to ask.  Maybe when they learn of what’s going on they can dive in and untie the boulders, or at least row over and give them something to hold onto.  The problem is, in the education of a lot of diseases people only discuss the people simply treading water, the people who above and beneath the surface are easier to save.  Maybe it’s because they are easier to save.  Maybe it’s because one doesn’t have to get too involved to help.  Maybe it’s because they don’t want someone else sinking their raft.  But the information has to be out there so at least the courageous ones can know to ask, the empathic ones can be there to help, and the scared ones can at least recognize the weight of the situation and voice their fear so those grasping for life aren’t treated as though they are weak and/or invisible.  And let me fairly state, I am certainly not immune to having this reaction, I bring it up to summon the courage to face life and its roller coaster of emotions with the greatest balance and awareness I can muster.  Life is not all easy.  It’s not supposed to be.  But let us live with and through all of it.  Embrace your friends and family for who they are and what they are going through.  I am not asking you to save them or fix them.  I am asking you to look at them.  Honestly and openly.  Don’t run, don’t deflect, just remember, as Ram Dass once said, “We are all just walking each other home.” Please just ask them if they need some extra help doing it.