You may be surprised to learn I have a pretty dark, sardonic side that I express through self-reflexive sarcastic #Internet #memes.
I encourage everyone to not only explore her darkness, but to revel in it.
And yes, I do hate everything right now. Everything everything. This site is currently down for scheduled maintenance. (I can see the humor in this.)
I think the moral of the Wizard of Oz is that we are all good and wicked witches with #fabulous #sparkly #shoes. Sometimes, in our searches for home or pathways made of gold or wizards behind the curtain, a house falls on us, and fucking ruins our goddamn #manicures. That's enough to be pretty pissed about.
Mostly that, for some reason, these days, I feel an intense drive to temper my emotions. While it's good for someone to regulate her feelings, there's also a danger in suppressing them entirely.
Right now I feel guilty for getting angry with my sister regarding her new boyfriend. (So, protip: Don't introduce me to your boyfriends -- I will hate them instantly. This probably stems from my intense fear of intimacy. Hey, I've been wounded and if I want to recover fully, I gotta take time to heal.) Anyway, in my defense, dude has been messy, my sister and I are horrible roommates, and this is our last month together, so tempers are FLYING. It's been triggering for me and for her.
The worst thing I did was call him "No good" and claim that he's just using my sister. I've been pretty adamant about acknowledging my faults in our arguments ("I understand your feelings, and I may be reacting irrationally ... "), keeping the #past out of the #present, and refraining from insults. I've been a bully though -- like passive aggressively vacuuming at inconvenient times. In reality, when I step back, this looks like a pretty normal #sisterfight. In fact, it's pretty mundane.
I did, however, text message the Man Who Donated Half His Genetic Material To Me (henceforth known as MWDHHGMTM) after almost a year of silence to demand payment for the cleaning I'm going to have to do (the cat ruined the carpet). I told on my sister. MWDHHGMTM responded with smugness, so I told him to go "fuck himself" (the worst I've said in all this), and threatened him with the glory of my future success ("I will enjoy it when I am more powerful, happier, and more successful than you" -- my exact words though, in retrospect, I lament breaking parallel structure). Childish, perhaps, but I was ultimately saying, "Oh my gawd, I'm so angry, I'm going to go be so successfuljust to spite you!!!" Is this not a parent's dream?
The problem in my family is no one knows how to deal with conflict, so I spent the whole day feeling sick and dreading coming home. (I ended up getting extra work done at the office -- so here's to my #vengefulsuccess.) No one talks shit out in my family. They just get angry, simmer and brood, and then blow up, and it's the end of the world, like all affection is suddenly severed. That's not how relationships actually work. Ultimately, it's very heartbreaking. Also, MWDHHGMTM is an emotionally abusive and manipulative narcissist (and I am, sadly, just like him ... hence my fear of intimacy). It's not really his fault, his parents were jerks too, and we are just a legacy of people being #assholes to each other. But that's actually not a novel concept. Have you read any Shakespeare? Those fools killed each other.
So this post is me laughing at myself. Because in reality, compared to some other people's #familydramz, this is tame. And I need to allow myself to feel angry without feeling guilty. My feelings -- however irrational -- are valid because I am feeling them, like, a real chemical reaction is happening. How I respond makes the difference. And I didn't go medieval on anyone. I may have acted foolishly, but "everybody plays the fool," and I've seen grown ass adults pitch infant fits.
I'm going to forgive myself. I have issues. I am aware of these issues. I am actively working on these issues. And one of those issues is giving myself permission to own my emotions and to forgive myself. Because you're probably sitting there thinking, "Well, gosh, let me tell you about one of the fights I had with my sister!" And that's exactly the point: If you told me what I just told you, I'd tell you to not worry about it.
This isn't a Shakespeare play -- there are no villains and there are no heroes. There are just people fumbling ever awkwardly toward the ecstasy from which we all came.
I'm not sure how to deal with this article about the "dark side of Startup City."
I have a tech startup job I adore. As someone who grew up on a computer, my job allows me to use skills I've been developing since I was about nine or ten, when I used to log onto Prodigy to play RPGs. I have the Internet to thank for allowing a sort of shy, troubled, wounded kid to socialize in meaningful ways. I know how to handle virtually any CMS and set up stories for the web because I used to Livejournal. I was an early adopter of Twitter. Since the beginning I've been touched by the social aspect of technology ... and now I get to do it for a #living.
I acknowledge I was privileged to have access to a computer since such a young age. I hope one day every kid gets her own classroom laptop.
Living in San Francisco, experiencing the effects of tech on the city, having to dodge the Google buses as I ride my bike to work, I am forced to consider some of the new challenges I think the entire world will have to face. For a hot minute, I tried to find my own place in San Francisco, but they actually wanted $1500 a month for that studio in the Haight. I understand there are some concessions one makes to live in a desirable city and I'm willing to make them. I grew up in a house with a backyard no one tended to and as far as I am concerned, the smaller the space, the less there is to clean, so I embrace apartment dwelling. But, I mean, still! The studio was smaller than my current bedroom. I've decided to stay where I am and find a roommate because ultimately, the thought of never seeing my corner store dude again sort of devastated me. That's community, right?
A few nights ago, the building manager of the $1500 studio saw me out in the Haight. She ran up to tell me that out of everyone she saw at the open house that day, she advocated the most for me, but I was ultimately denied because I didn't meet the income requirements. I'm making more money than I ever have before and I guess I still can't afford my own place. I thought I was doing pretty okay!
Outrageous rent and anonymous space shuttles carting around blissfully unaware techies ... I think these issues are all pretty complex and nuanced, the tips of icebergs set in place by decisions people made years ago. I'm glad these issues are making their precedents in San Francisco because I think it will set the tone for the rest of the country (and I think San Francisco will set an appropriate one).
This speaks to larger scale problem-solving and conflict resolution, which is something I've been trying to be mindful of. How does one listen to all points without bias (The ego?) and devise the best strategy? If you ask me (you didn't), the impossible rent and Google shuttles are sniffling-nose symptoms of patriarchal hierarchical practices (racism, sexism, classism) founded in part by dogmatic (Western?) religion, so my secret -- albeit long-gestating -- little weapon of activism is just being a strong woman who supports the endeavors of other women (of color). But unless people are willing to have that conversation, then I don't really think we can hope to undo anything.
I mean, speaking of patriarchal practices of oppression, I know I'm late to the game, but yikes! That "Blurred Lines" song and accompanying video is uh, unsettling? Which is really too bad because I like sex. I like campy sex. I have a secret wardrobe of revealing clothing and I've taken back the word "slut" more than a few times. I could sit and tell you everything that's gross and creepy and wrong with "Blurred Lines," but if you don't already see that, then you're just another victim of #rapeculture. And anyway, since we're talking about solutions, I was just thinking about how cool it would be if they had featured a woman rapper who threw in an interlude about how yeah, she hella wants Robin Thicke to bone her, and how fun it is to seduce each other because ultimately, she is consenting to having sex with Robin Thicke, or T.I., or Pharrell -- or, fuck it, all of them at once.
I don't want to embed the Thicke video here, so I'm posting this satire instead (I want one of each, please ... the men and the women):
Speaking of sex, I was trying to find a female equivalent of the word "womanizer" since I was ruminating on my current approach to casual dating. It was just a thought exercise, but I was disappointed to realize that while "womanizer" and "cad" have sort of charming connotations (think James Bond), "slut" certainly does not (Paris Hilton came to mind?). So if you're pissed about gentrification and heaving tech bubbles, consider the larger picture: institutionalized systems of oppression starting with the very way we perceive half the population as mere objects without voice.
My profession -- and therefore my world -- is consumed with micro-blogging. Even at its longest, my daily professional writing rarely exceeds 200 words.
Let us never forget July 4th, 2013, when, standing on a rooftop in Noe Valley as the sky crackled around us, I (almost) fiercely defended the legitimacy of social media. I say "almost" because I quickly realized it was a battle not worth having because hah! Access to social media is a really privileged thing.
However, where I used to blog (or -- eek! -- Livejournal) I now write too-long posts on Facebook that Edgerank hides or scattered 140 character spits on Twitter. I have this blog but I don't write it in because guess what? Writing professionally can make you word-constipated. Even when you just write about cats and dogs. Everything has to be profound and polished and strategic.
But then I found myself wrapped up in this Bossy Femme blog and I was like, "Hey! This isn't perfect, but this person is intriguing." And then I went to post on Facebook and then I was like, "Don't do that, silly. Use your blog."
So here I am.
I spent all day sleeping after coming home with sand in my shoes because I am not feeling 100% and I am supposed to go on Vacation(!) next week. Except now I'm awake at one in the morning. #messlife
I have been in a funk because I have been worrying a lot. My primary concern right now is moving and its implications, as well as the effect it's going to have on my finances.
For the past year and a half I have been living with my kid sister and it's proved detrimental. Okay, that's a dramatic word for it when, really, my family is just sort of dysfunctional and it depresses me and it's not their fault, but I can't have anything to do with them. I know! It's crazy! There's this weirdo American idea that "family" is this thing -- this Norman Rockwell illustration of cozy holiday dinners -- but that's not what "family" looks like for me! "Family" looks like me moving out of the house as soon as I turned eighteen. The point is I need my own home. (I'll cover #familydramz and #newradicalfamily ideas in another post.)
There is this apartment that I really want in the Lower Haight. It's a studio and people from anywhere else in the country would balk at the monthly rent. These are the issues my proximity to my dream have elicited:
DAT RENT will have a sort of significant impact on my finances.
Becomes:
How dare I complain about not being able to afford spontaneous Britney Spears style trips to Walgreens, "WHY ARE YOU SUCH A PRIVILEGED BRAT, LIZ?!"
"You've lived on much less before, Liz, and had a blast. You can do it again."
Shouldn't I be spending that money on life-enriching things like travel?
But I don't want roommates?
It's my money -- I can spend it however I want?
But having a well-decorated home of my own is what I've always dreamed of?
This would be easier if I just gave in and found myself a partner to live with.
How dare the government punish single people -- I will not give into your heteronormativity. I am a committed eternal bachelorette for many good reasons (among them that extremely intimate relationships are problematic for me).
But if I spend all this money on rent and decorating my new place, it will be that much more difficult to leave.
Becomes:
Why am I always thinking of leaving? Why do I live my life around how much it will cost to move it? Why do I live my life wondering how many boxes I could stuff it in?
Is it okay to settle down?
Where the hell else in the world besides San Francisco could I really live as a pink-haired, face-pierced, hairy, polyamorous, kinky queer who works in social media and still be regarded as not only a professional, but an expert?
It's okay to finally "come home" -- I am not destined to become my parents.
If I "settle down" I won't have the upheaval of change to distract me from dealing with some of my more constant issues -- AND THEN WHAT?!
Why is everything so much easier for everyone else?
"Hahah, shut up, Liz, that's not true."
Okay, I know.
Yesss ... I just outlined my anxiety. Which is cool. I feel more in control of it now.
The truth is this is what I want. This is the Pinterest dream come to life. I shouldn't feel ashamed for how I want to spend my money -- it is, after all, my hard-earned money.
Nor should I fret about things "not working out," because, so far, things have. I forget to give myself credit. I came to San Francisco with nothing but a meager savings. Everyone said it would be difficult -- and it was -- but I was resourceful and now I am in a position where I can realistically consider rent in a certain price range. I will still get to travel. I will still get to eat oysters. Things are going to continue to improve because I am far more clever and strategic than I'd like to believe. Not only that, but I am already very lucky to be able to live this life.
And no, committing to a city for longer than five years won't turn me into my parents, especially when I am living in one of the most exciting cities in the world. San Francisco is problematic in many ways, but in a lot of other ways, it's almost perfect. Maybe it's okay to fall in love forever, especially if that city has taught you how to fall more in love with yourself.
Speaking of self-love, it's time to get back to sleep so I can be well for my trip to Los Angeles -- the other almost perfect city in the world.
P.S. I know the hashtags are totally useless. #stylechoice
P.P.S. I need to do this more often -- for realsies.
The fog had wrapped its arms around the western part of the city -- the part of the city closest to the edge of the world. In the creeping hush that followed, she made a decision. She waited for her heart to break, but it never did. She breathed out, her shoulders lowered against the falling sky.
*****
“This is indulgent,” says my inner monologue. “This is indulgent and you are wallowing.”
“Let me have it just a little bit. Please don’t take my feelings from me.”
“Well, all right.”
*****
“Sometimes I am more in love with the idea of loving someone.” And the moment she said, it instantly became true.
“I know what you mean,” he said, squeezing her hand.
They were both staring at the ceiling, imagining shapes and signs and stars in its texture. She wanted to say more, but the words crumbled away.
*****
“I really just don’t want it,” my inner monologue says, “I honestly feel better without it. Didn’t you notice the way I became sad? And what changed?”
“You make a really good point.”
“I’m trying to be as honest with myself as possible. This is more strife than it’s worth.”
“More than that, I’m just not ready.”
“There will be others.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that.
“Well, that’s good then.”
*****
She watched him move, and if he had been an ant struggling to shoulder a burden of food, she would have flicked at him with her finger, just to watch his body disappear into space.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
*****
“You’re not really like that,” my inner monologue says. Except it’s not really a monologue -- it’s a very real dialogue.
“I know I’m not. It feels like that sometimes.”
“There’s nothing wrong with waiting until you get exactly what you want.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting.”
“There’s nothing wrong at all.”
I nod to myself, taking the sentiment in.
*****
In her fantasy, the curtains rippled as if caught in a sigh -- the only evidence of her moonlit departure from the hardwood floor bedroom they shared … in some glorious home in some glorious land. In the fantasy she knew would only ever be that.
In reality, it was a few lines of texts, issued hurriedly before she could change her mind while he was drowning in his bed on the other side of the city.
She wondered if he would even read them, or if he’d wake, scattered, and stumble to the bathroom to urinate, then carry on with his day, unable to see the Sunset shrouded in fog. And then when he did read them, she imagined he’d just shrug and sigh. She hoped he would respond but also hoped he would not. She hoped his heart would break a little, but she also hoped he’d understand, and that he’d already be reminiscing about their fumbling drug-dumb fingers and the day the rare San Francisco sunlight was made of syrup. She hoped he’d smile whenever he heard that song. She hoped he’d think about her body. She knew he’d understand.
He was not bad for her, but he was not good either. He just was. And this revelation alone was pretty empowering.
*****
“These are such mind games you/I/we play with me/you/us,” my inner dialogue says.
“Yes they are. But I’m getting better.”
“We are getting better.”
“One day there won’t be anymore. But that day is not now.”
I originally wrote this piece in February or March 2012 (I can't recall exactly). A lot has changed since then, but I still enjoy the sentiment.
A lot of people come to Los Angeles hoping to "make it." LA is a transitory city where it's rare to find someone who was actually born there (but I was).
In San Francisco, someone likened the city to an airport, where everyone is just waiting for their flights. And some people are late, and some people are sitting and reading magazines, and some people are stressed out and afraid of flying. But no one is staying. When I think about what I do in airports, I think about how I excitedly text people until my battery runs out.
San Francisco boomed during the Gold Rush in 1849, becoming one of the largest cities in the country practically overnight, and then it all burned down in 1906 after an earthquake blossomed fire started. In 1967 children with wide-eyes and hope-hearts unfurled in the park and they called it the Summer of Love (Mark Twain supposedly called it the "coldest winter" -- but he actually didn’t).
Composite then and now photos of the 1906 San Francisco
earthquake by Shawn Clover via Laughing Squid.
Britney Spears is a certain pop hero of mine because we all bore witness to her darkest moment. I remember the night and the helicopter footage of them wheeling her into an ambulance on a stretcher -- it must have been a Thursday night because S and I were getting ready to go to a regular dance night at La Cita in downtown LA. Britney Spears came to Los Angeles from Louisiana, just a good 'ol southern girl with a Norma Jean whisper in her ear, and she made it -- goshdarnit she did -- and for so long I denied her appeal until one night I found myself pole dancing in a frat house to "Toxic."
I have never attacked a car with an umbrella, head shaved and eyes blazing, but I have totally lost my mind. Screaming crying laughter pacing in my bedroom, tearing out clumps of hair and calling suicide hot lines. Thankfully those lows were not captured on camera, immortalized in pop history, but one time I watched the Britney Spears documentary while I was on acid in San Francisco after walking through the hailing rain in the Castro, and I swear, she was talking directly to me. I could see it in her eyes, the same deep soul-haunting anguish that stirs me awake, the "Lucky" girl who has everything but still cry cry cries.
So I ran away to San Francisco, like the forty-niners, hoping to strike it big in a city huddled dewy under the fog. Or like the flower children, hoping to find some sort of peace for my soul, escape the striking concrete beat-heat of Los Angeles. Los Angeles -- the city I always characterized as my crazy Mexican girlfriend, slamming doors and throwing dishes at me. I ran away from her into the arms of my patchouli scented maiden with flowers in her hair, hoping that I could find some stillness, some stability, some quiet destiny. But San Francisco is a dazed and indolent lover, content to spend hours in the park, too far away to hear my voice as I fling it across the bridge. Once again -- I am lost.
A certain film producer I ended up in the strange employment of once told me to be careful about my reasons for moving after I told him I wanted to leave Los Angeles to get un-stuck. "You might get stuck somewhere else," he said, as I drove him down the Pacific Coast Highway into Santa Monica. Am I stuck? Am I like the forty-niners, the gold-seekers, who placed all their bets on a dog-led sled, and lost it all after panning panning panning the waters and turning up nothing?
Maybe I could fall in love with any city. There are so many out there. They all have their breathtaking moments: like the way my heart jumps into my throat when I crest a very steep hill and all of the bay rolls out before me, igniting midday fire on the water; or like the way I was struck with childlike wonder-eyes whenever I'd turn down the 110 through downtown LA, all a-glitter, all a-glow. What city shall it be next? Portland? New York? Madrid? Austin? I’d love to be anywhere but here, right now.
Maybe a child of immigrants never has a home -- especially if her parents have never or can never visit their birth places -- then maybe she is a ghost, wandering the earth for a place to finally rest, only the house of her ancestors is not in this country, and she can’t put her head down among strangers even though she’ll take a strange man home tonight. Yeah, "home."
Yours Truly in San Francisco some years ago.
These days I find myself thinking of the past a lot. I have spent a lot of my time trying to forget the past. That’s probably why I've never learned. That's probably why I’ve found myself in the same place, just a different city, just another moment in the terminal, waiting for my flight, reading some celebrity rag, and dreaming of being somewhere else.
One thing I have not taken advantage of in this beautiful new city of mine is the opportunity to create a beautiful new identity. No one knows anything about me and I can be anything I want to be. I can explore aspects of myself never touched because part of my identity in Los Angeles was shaped by my friends’ expectations and by the limitations of the sprawling concrete city itself. In San Francisco no one knows who I am. In San Francisco alternate avenues of living are possible. In San Francisco there is a different culture, a different lifestyle, a different landscape.
I’d never realized just how much my identity was fostered by those around me. I’d moved here with very different intentions than what I’ve ended up with. I came here with a partner and what I thought was a mutual dream to begin our “adult” lives here. What I discovered is that it is difficult to maintain an adult relationship with a man who insists on remaining a boy.
And that is one of the few things that forms the foundation of who people meet when I introduce myself to them: I am from Los Angeles, a lot of my work revolves around dogs, and I am going through a breakup.
During other transitional times of my life I was younger and more flexible, or maybe I was just more ignorant and more self righteous. I was a picky eater -- now I’ll try anything. Back then I knew what I liked and I wore it emblazoned across my backpack. Now I say, “Well, I don’t know, I have to give it a shot or two before I can be certain.” If I knew half the things I thought I knew when I was a teenager I would know a lot more than I do now. Maybe when you are unsure it’s easier to get swept up in a riptide instead of standing fast and anchored and stubborn. Or maybe when you are younger your roots are not as deep, and you can be un-potted and planted anywhere. Maybe once you’ve started to find a certain soil, it’s more difficult to go, and I’m like one of LA’s many non-native palm trees...uprooted, transplanted, and dying.
Today it has been eight months since I threw half my things in my car and drove up here. That is almost a year. I’ve developed a routine, I know my way around, I can sense which stop the bus is coming up on without having to look. The weather nor the hills faze me. I’ve lost a bunch of weight, I always carry a little bit of cash with me. Time is no longer an excuse.
So I am going to start becoming the woman I’ve always fantasized about being. Broodingly beautiful, keenly intelligent, creative, frighteningly confident, graceful, focused, and outlandishly dressed. I’ve started to wear false eyelashes and going early to bars just to sit in a corner with a dark bitter beer and eye people with no intention of talking to anyone. One thing I’ve adopted is handing things to people with the delicacy of a butterfly. Proper posture. Laughing loudly. Bored flirtation. Defining my own rules for my own brand of femininity. Intense vulnerability. Always packing an overnight bag. Trying to please no one but myself. Pursuing the writing career I dreamed of as a little girl but got distracted from by boys, college, and fear. Living fearlessly.
Coco Chanel once said, “A woman who changes her hair is about to change her life.” I’ve always had streaks of pink in my hair, but this time I decided to be more bold. I went to see my fabulous stylist at MaduSalon and the only direction I gave is, “I want my hair to be like a unicorn mane.” I walked out with more pink in my hair than I’ve ever had before. Pink hair I can no longer tuck under a bun. Pink hair that reminds me every time I look in the mirror of the woman I want to be. This woman is fun, daring, and confident. This woman lives and loves in San Francisco. This woman is ready for anything. This is the foundation of the identity I am building here.
One of the greatest changes I am making as part of this new identity (which is actually the old one with improvements) is giving myself permission to dream of and achieve the life I want. Using Pinterest as my vision board, I am allowing myself to visualize what I desire. I swear the very moment I voiced my intentions to the world, the world responded with dazzling opportunities. I’ve gone out dancing in a gold sequin mini-skirt, made new friends, seen live music, been offered a new job, and in developing this enriched identity, feel more like myself than I have in years.
It’s been a long strange journey, but I am finally arriving.
One of the most devastating effects of the Dreaded D-Word is the way it makes you forget all your exceptional qualities. I once read that depression is like wearing gray-colored glasses, but it’s worse than that -- depression is like wearing blinders. You can’t see anything at all. It’s like fumbling your way through a room that is familiar but the lights are out and you just came in from the bright outdoors. When your eye adjust, the room is still dark, and the shadow-shapes could be furniture or phantoms, and if only you could find the light switch then you wouldn’t have banged your thigh on that sharp corner. In that darkness you lose track of yourself.
I know I am emerging from my cycle of depression because I feel more like myself. I move with ease among friends and strangers, and I feel connected to them. When I laugh I mean it. I can find the thread of energy that runs through those exquisite moments and hang onto it. I recognize when my body needs to rest. I do things for myself and I don’t feel guilty. I’m remembering that I possess a radiant, accepting, and celebratory quality that people gravitate toward. When I found myself dancing to Cher’s “Believe” after two beers and a slice of pizza with one of my best friends, I knew the fire inside of me was returning.
And my life is magical. I am not a religious person, but I am a spiritual one. Maybe it’s the Mexican in me, but I believe in magical realism. I mean, I don’t really believe in magic, and I know the systems of connections and divination I’ve devised for myself are merely my human efforts to create some sort of meaning in a chaotic world ... but things happen to me that seem lucky or destined, and my life is richer for these things. I could tell you so many stories, and maybe, one day, if you invite me out for coffee, I will.
Recently I was walking a dog for work over in Bernal Heights -- the dog is very old so I have to be very gentle even though the dog anxiously awaits his walks like an excited puppy. We move slowly. He sniffs at things, sees things, hears things … but not really, because both his eyesight and his hearing are gone. As we turned homeward, a meter maid rolled up alongside me and parked. She got out of the car and I stepped aside, uttering, “Oh sorry, excuse me.”
She said quickly, “Oh no no, it’s okay.” She paused. “I just … I just need to relax a moment.” There was a verdant tree before us. She reached underneath it, searching, and her hand emerged clasping a white flower. She held it to her nose, and even I could smell its perfume. “I just had a confrontation with a guy. I was writing a ticket and he started yelling at me, he said, ‘My girlfriend has the key, I can get the key’ and I said, ‘If this isn’t your car, then there’s nothing I can do’ and he called me a Nazi and opened his car door and his dog nearly attacked me and I was scared.”
Her body was tense and the words tumbled out of her so quickly she stuttered intermittently. I must have been the first person she encountered since the confrontation.
She twirled the flower in her hand. “I’ve been doing this job for twenty years and I don’t understand why people get so upset. I can let people go, but then I have to explain it to my boss, and I could lose my job. I do let people go -- I understand how life is. Sometimes you go to the doctor and it takes longer and then I’ll say, ‘Okay, know what? I understand. It’s fine.’ But when people don’t have the keys or it’s not their car, then what am I supposed to do? My brother says, ‘Just say okay and send them the ticket in the mail,’ but that feels wrong to me.” She clapped a hand over her heart. “That doesn’t seem fair … I’d much rather people see the ticket right away than get it later in the mail. That just doesn’t seem fair to me. So I write the ticket and leave it on the car. After twenty years I haven’t learned, but I just can’t just send it in the mail. It seems unfair.”
She inhaled from the flower again and after a breath, she continued.
“This tree is part of the magnolia family.” She told me the specific name of the tree, and I even asked for it twice, intending to write about it, but I’ve forgotten it. “My parents go to China every year and they love magnolias. I love magnolias. And I saw this tree here before and after that fight, I just wanted to come here to this tree to smell the magnolia flower.” She held it out to me and I breathed in. It was a rich, sweet perfume. Very fresh and very alive.
“That smells good,” I said.
She held the flower to her nose again. “I had some magnolia trees in my yard, but the economy’s been bad, and I’ve had to rent my house with the yard out, and the trees died. But I don’t understand why people get so angry. He called me a Nazi. I wanted to say, ‘Look, if I was a Nazi, would I be talking to you right now? Would you actually say that to me? Nazis don’t talk.’ I can’t believe he tried to let his dog attack me. I have two dogs of my own. I love dogs.” She made a gesture to the dog at my side.
Clutching the flower, she told me about her parents and their trips to China, about what it’s like to care for an aging mother and father. She told me about other parking confrontations. She told me about her job. She told me more about the magnolia. I let her talk because I could tell she needed it. She didn’t know me, but she needed me, and in a lot of ways, I needed her too. Dressed in her shapeless uniform and with her helmet strapped dutifully under her chin (In San Francisco the meter maids drive open electric golf cart-like vehicles and I guess they are required to wear a helmet) she seemed small and helpless. For some reason I noticed her nails were painted nicely -- red -- and I imagined that her manicure was her small indulgence in a world that sics its dogs on her while she tries to complete her job with a sense of dignity and honesty. I recalled a friend’s recent vocalized hatred of meter maids and it seemed suddenly very unjust. I wanted to know more about her then, I wanted to invite her out for a calming glass of wine (Do you drink?), compliment her nails (Where did you get them done?), and ask her about her childhood (Did you grow up in China?).
But she looked at me, sighing. She said, “Thank you for listening to me. I’m sorry to do this to you.” “Oh no no, it’s okay, you’re upset, this is okay.” “It’s just really frustrating when people do that to me. They don’t realize how much it hurts me. They don’t realize I’m just trying to do my job. It’s just a ticket. There are so many worse things in the world.” “Totally. I’m sorry that happened to you.” “Thank you for listening to me. I appreciate it. I have to go back to work now, but thank you.”
She climbed back in her cart and I tugged the dog along. I looked back and had I seen her, I would have waved, but she was gone.
I walked back to the dog’s house and I felt significant and fulfilled. I hoped the rest of her day was better. I hoped she would think of me the next time she was confronted with unkindness and I hoped the memory would soothe her. Perhaps that is vain of me.
But I am here thinking of her. I will walk by the magnolia tree three times a week with the dog for work, and I will take in its fragrance and recall the conversation I had with the meter maid in its shade. And I will try to engage everyone with compassion.
Later that day I meter parked my car and even though I’d set a timer on my phone, I dilly-dallied in the park, and when I returned to my car, the meter had run out … but there wasn’t a ticket on the dash.
The Seven Deadly Sins, also known as the Capital Vices or Cardinal Sins, is a classification of objectionable vices (part of Christian ethics) that have been used since early Christian times to educate and instruct Christians concerning fallen humanity's tendency to sin. The currently recognized version of the sins are usually given as wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony.
But since I am not a religious (though I am a spiritual person), I indulge my vices -- Instagram being the primary one.
1. Wrath
Uh, well ... I don't know.
2. Greed
Catster was all like, "Hey, we'll pay you $$$ to cover
the Amazing Acro-Cats!" and I was all like, "Okay!"
3. Sloth
Hanging out in Alamo Square with my bicycle
on a Monday afternoon ... because I CAN.
4. Pride
Amusingly I found this near Elizabeth St in Noe Valley.
GPOY: admiring my natural eyelashes.
5. Lust
Dang I still really want these shoes ...
why don't I have them?
Oh right, because I impulsively bought one of these
and -- more outrageously -- one of these.
6. Envy
Hmmm, I am not a particularly jealous person,
but maybe I wish I drove a pink Cadillac!
7. Gluttony
(This is probably my greatest religious offense)
I eat a lot!
Mmm ... food.
Life is just a plate of gross-looking cherry pits.
I want caaandy!
I drink a lot of beer!
... and ice cream!
Bedtime beer, thank you very much.
Was this beer worth all of the $10 I spent on it?
I don't know, but the bottle was cute!
I get way too much Starbucks! (In a city with far superior coffee offerings!)
And -- dun dun dunnn! -- I smoke the cancer sticks!
"Did you know smoking kills?"
"I'm betting on it."
By golly, I am full of sin, but as the young folks say, "YOLO!"
You can follow me on Instagram @liz_from_LA -- see ya there!
I talk about going to therapy. Not in every article. Not every day. Not with every person. But I talk about it freely if the conversation arises. If I’m on my way to an appointment and I run into a friend who asks where I’m headed, I will say, “To therapy.” If my employer casually wants to know where I’m going on my lunch hour, and if I trust them and it seems appropriate, I usually say, “I have a therapy appointment nearby. I’ll be back soon.” If someone wants advice or brings up something relevant about stress, I feel all right saying, “My therapist says…”
Recently, someone in the comments of one of my Thought Catalog articles, got indignant about one paragraph, in a piece about my anxiety surrounding my relationship with my sister, wherein I mentioned what my therapist thought about the issue. I didn’t harp. I just wrote, “My therapist thinks…” The commenter took issue with me talking so openly about seeing a therapist. “Every other article on here mentions therapy. Seems self-indulgent,” they wrote.
I know there’s a stigma around mental health wherein for example, if I’m having a panic attack, most people will tell me it’s all in my mind and that I can control it. And I know that. And I can’t.
Going to therapy or to a psychiatrist is seen as a weakness or an indulgence. You can’t deal with your problems yourself so you need to pay someone to do it for you. You don’t have any real friends you can talk to, a deficiency on your part, so you have to essentially pay for a professional to listen to you whine. You see a therapist? You must be Woody Allen. You must be a navel-gazing lunatic. You must be an unbearable human being.
The mistaken idea is, I think, that you go in, talk about your problems incessantly for an hour and get, I don’t know, patted on the back or something by a therapist who indulges your self-obsession. I don’t think going to therapy makes you self-obsessed and so what if it does? Introspection isn’t the enemy. Sometimes we can only be better to others, in our lives and careers, if we first start unpacking ourselves. But also, that’s not only what therapy is.
If you broke your leg, you’d go to an orthopedist to get it put into a cast. If you needed a root canal, you’d see a dentist. So why if your brain is not doing what it’s supposed to are you chastised for seeking professional help? And for casually talking about doing so?
There’s also the misconception that therapy is for the rich. Sure, some psychiatrists charge a crazy amount per session, but not all. The therapist I see works on a sliding scale based on my income. I pay 30 to 40 dollars a session depending, and some weeks I could choose to pay nothing at all.
My therapist is a student, but they are qualified and smart and I feel they do a great job for what I pay. I found them by Googling, “sliding scale therapy.” It takes an hour out of my week and it helps me feel okay when I do not feel okay. (I shouldn’t even have to explain this or get defensive about it to anyone, but I thought it might help someone who thinks they are too poor to seek help.)
I have anxiety that manifests in physically painful panic attacks. I have issues with food and with growing up the child of an alcoholic. Those are just a few of the things we work on in therapy. The physical pain in my chest will not go away by seeing an MD. It will only go away through therapy. This is not an indulgence. This is medical.
If it helps one other person see that mental health is worth working on, that their problems are treatable, that there is hope — then my talking about going to therapy will have been worth it.
One friend I talked to about this said she thought everyone should have to go to therapy at least once. Her reasoning was that, “…therapy helps you to identify problems and then articulate and communicate them which are skills pretty much anyone could benefit from having in any relationship.”
I liked that phrasing. People have such a hard time understanding each other, that if we all built the skills to better communicate, so many relationships — working relationships, dating relationships, family relationships — would run smoother. Therapy is not self-indulgent whining. It’s eradicating physical pain. It’s acknowledging the importance of your mental health. It’s working on yourself so you can be better to others. You look inward, but the ultimate focus is outward.
The only way the stigma is going to go away is if we talk openly about seeking help — without shame, without criticism — the same way we would talk about seeing a dentist or a hairdresser or any other professional. If you’re on the fence, I hope you’re motivated to get help. Because I’m going to keep talking about seeing a therapist. And I am not sorry or ashamed.
So I was just reading this over on Jezebel -- Rapists Explain Themselves on Reddit, and We Should Listen -- and thinking about a recent conversation I had with a fellow (I'll call him B) when I told him about a time I was sexually assaulted. We were sitting on his porch smoking cigarettes.
Briefly, this is what happened: I was a freshman in college and I agreed to visit a male who was a friend of a friend, and on the phone before heading out I told him I didn't want to have sex because my heart was still broken after ending things with my high school sweetheart. I set my boundaries. Yeah, I went over there and I drank and I smoked, and even as I took the drink, I restated my boundaries and was assured they would be respected. Later I had to repeatedly tell him to stop before he did. Was it rape? I don't know -- but it was assault.
Upon finishing my story B said, "Well, you shouldn't have gone over there."
I didn't say this at the time, but my response should have been, "Oh, you mean like I shouldn't have come here, to your house, where you've similarly offered me a drink, because I should just not trust any man ever? I should just assume all men -- including you -- are potential rapists?"
I really loved this piece from Thought Catalog mostly because yes, it references Britney Spears, but also because it speaks a lot to where I am right now in life (yes, I just bought some new shoes with "credit card dollars").
Well Yeah I’m A Woman Now, But I’m Definitely Not, Like, A Proper Adult Grown Up Or Anything by Kat George
When Britney Spears sang “I’m Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman” I was 16 years old, and I totally got it. I understood every word, and I wanted to shout it to the world; “Be patient with me, be kind,” I wanted to say, “but trust me, please because I’m old enough to know what I’m doing, even though I might not be old enough to know where that will take me.”
I’m 27 now, and I sort of wish someone would write a similar song for how I feel now, something along the lines of, “Well Yeah I’m A Woman Now, But I’m Definitely Not, Like, A Proper Adult Grown Up Or Anything.” Because that’s just as equally a frustrating feeling to try to articulate; of being on the brink of something, but not wholly understanding what that thing is and remaining apprehensive about diving in to find out.
Technically, I’ve been a woman since I was 11, that ripe old child bearing age when spots of blood appeared on my underpants for the first time and I ran into my mother’s arms sobbing, “I don’t want to be a woman, mommy!”
But I guess emotionally I began to count as a woman somewhere in the grey area of my mid-20s, when I was no longer satisfied with being a girl; when I’d been in love and after that; when I was earning my own money; when I started really formulating solid ideas about the things I believed in and when I began to realize that I don’t actually have all the answers, and that I very probably have none of them; when I was literally out in the world by myself, holding my own against… well, everything.
There are more things than that to which I hold my womanhood, and I assume and hope that each young woman has her own defining moments and achievements that make her feel worthy of outgrowing the role of girl in order to begin a later chapter. But here’s the confounding thing I’ve found about being a woman: it doesn’t exactly make you a proper adult grown up, or anything.
For the first time in your life, as a woman, you’re clueless. We all know girls have all the answers. And I mean. Every. Single. One. Don’t try and tell a girl she doesn’t because you’re not ready for the ultimate sass of a girl disagreed with. When you’re a woman it’s different. You suddenly have absolutely no notion of anything. You begin to pick your battles and your mind begins to open to the possibility that yes, you are wrong, sometimes. Maybe all the time, even. What’s “right,” anyway?
When you become a woman, nothing and everything is possible. You’re aware of your shortcomings in a different way than a girl is, but you haven’t come to peace with them the way a proper adult grown up is supposed to. You begin to shed your girlish insecurities but you begin to pick up new ones like will I have this career I want and will I be able to have babies at the same time and oh no, it looks like my vagina wants to start with the technical difficulties and ouch, these mammograms really hurt. You suppose that proper adult grown ups don’t have any insecurities at all — they’re rational and strong and deal with each blow as it’s dealt.
You know you’re on the cusp of something, there in the middle of your womanhood. Part of you is groping backwards for the girl, doing shots at the bar at 3 a.m., kissing the bad boys, reading moodily in cafes downing coffee after coffee, writing too many things about too many feelings, and spending too many credit card dollars on too many shoes.
But the other part — that’s the part that’s reaching forward. The part that tells you to eat better, take responsibility for your environment, go for that run, be objective about your white girl problems and meet a man that is good and kind and that understands and embraces your tumultuous, indefinable feminine personality.
It’s scary to think that the proper adult grown up is closing in. That less irresponsible decisions will have to be made, that if I want to be the sort of proper grown up I want to be, I’ll have to leave little bits and pieces of this reckless, piss-into-the-wind young woman scattered along the path behind me.
I couldn’t bring the girl with me, even though I can look back and see her clear as if it were yesterday, smoking in the toilet stalls and dying her hair pink. She taught me so much. And so I won’t be able to bring this young woman I am now with me, even though I’ve learned a lot from her, too. I’ll bottle her frenetic energy, her consuming existential battles, her absolute sincerity and probably, one day, will laugh at even this that I’m writing now, because proper adult grown ups are wise and jolly, and I guess see life as this beautiful, ridiculous mess that all you can do is shrug at and carry on loving.
So maybe we need a song to define this time. Songs are good at that, even if they are silly pop songs; they still speak to us in blindingly obvious terms, which, for the most part, is as comforting a luxury as we can be sometimes afforded.
And because this wouldn't be complete without the song in question:
As you may or may not know, I was misdiagnosed with ringworm, which, besides making me an accidental virgin, left me stressing out about washing my sheets every three days and Lysol-ing everything I touched. Even worse, the supposed fungal infection was responding to neither topical nor oral medication, further distressing me.
My rash began with a large oval lesion on my right thigh that appeared sometime in the beginning of June along with a mild cold. Over the course of about a month, other, smaller lesions appeared on my torso. Guessing that it might be ringworm, I began treating the lesions with a topical anti-fungal spray to no relief, and that's when I began suspecting it was not ringworm, but something else. A Google search of "rashes that look like ringworm" brought up a common skin ailment called pityriasis rosea, which begins -- as mine had begun -- with a "herald patch" lesion that then develops into a widespread rash. I brought this up with the first doctor I saw, who soundly dismissed me and said it was probably ringworm. This was at Planned Parenthood, so she advised me to see my general doctor for further diagnosis.
My general doctor, however, is whatever moments the doctor on staff at the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic can spare since the only covered care I have is through HealthySF. I spent two hours past my appointment time in the waiting room, and it was only when I broke down and began crying that someone finally saw me ... for about five minutes. With one quick glance, the doctor decided it was indeed ringworm, and prescribed me clotrimazole 1% (which is another harrowing story, but you'll have to ask me about it in person). With a tiny 1 ounce tube of cream I was supposed to coat every lesion (which had further multiplied to cover my entire torso and back) twice a day for a month. Again, the rash did not respond. I ended up prescribed griseofulvin ultramicrosize 250mg twice a day for twenty-eight days. The medication left me tired, achy, and irritable, and after eleven days, no sign of improvement.
Frightening Google searches and few conclusive answers left me anxious and distressed, as if assigned jail time with no certain end date. I didn't know if I was getting better or getting worse, I didn't know if I would be infected for days more or months more, and I didn't know if I was possibly spreading it to anyone who came into contact with me or anything I even touched. Purchasing fresh tubes of cream every few days was draining my finances. I felt trapped and I felt scared, and there was the lingering doubt that it wasn't ringworm after all.
That's when I decided it was time to prioritize my health, and simply pay out of pocket for quality care (or rather, put it on my credit card). So I went to an urgent care center, and again I did not feel satisfied with their diagnosis. The doctor's hesitation made me question her training, and I did not feel confident with her ability. I asked for answers, but, again, received nothing conclusive nor compassionate. I was told to continue washing my sheets, applying a topical, and hope for the best. I sat in the car and cried. I knew something was wrong and I felt I wasn't getting the help I needed.
So I researched a dermatologist and made an appointment. Their schedule was full, but I convinced them to make an appointment for me the next day. I rearranged my work schedule. I couldn't be sick any longer.
I saw Nikki Satovsky with the California Skin Institute, and with incredible bedside manner, she took one look at me and said, "That isn't ringworm." Spying the rashes that had progressed up my neck, she said, "I'll bet it's on your back too, isn't it?" I removed my shirt to confirm it. She said, "Just looking at you I can tell this is pityriasis rosea. It's harmless and it's not contagious and it'll go away on its own. Come back in a month if it's not better." I felt relieved, and with some of my stress dissipated, I saw instant improvement in my skin.
Pityriasis rosea is a common skin rash that affects people ages 10 through 35. They are not sure what causes it, but a virus is suspected, though no research has confirmed it. It is characterized by an appearance of a "herald patch" followed by a development of lesions in a "Christmas tree" pattern that rarely extends to the lower arms and legs or face. In some cases the rashes cause mild to severe itching, especially when irritated. Mine do not itch much at all. Though unsightly, it is not contagious, and resolves itself within six to eight weeks with no reoccurrence. Some research has shown that phototherapy can help shorten its duration. One common thread among sufferers, however, is stress.
Lesions form a "Christmas tree" pattern,
extending outward from the center in sweeping branches.
I've always joked that my body isn't a temple, it's a monster truck rally, and through an active lifestyle and somewhat healthy eating, I've always been able to depend on my body to get me through crushing deadlines, back to back nights out on the town, and the general mayhem I put it through. My body is a good body -- it's strong, it's healthy, it's cute. I love physical activity, I love drinking enough water, and I love taking the stairs instead of the elevator. I make sure my body gets plenty of sunshine and I like to put good food in it. My body and I are a team. I've always seen it as the physical manifestation of my personality -- quirky, adorable, tenacious, and defiant. I confront life head on, and my body has always been there for me, a fortress if not a temple, a battle ram ... sensual and sensuous, my own wonderful body.
But it's true that lately I have been unkind to my body. We have been under a lot of stress. We are trying to figure out where we belong in this beautiful city of San Francisco. We are learning to live without the soft caress of a partner we once loved sharing a bed and heat with. We are adapting to new weather, new schedules, and new geography. My body has been hungry and I've been too far away emotionally to remember to feed it. My body has been tired and I've been too preoccupied to sleep. My mind has been ill and my body has fallen suit. It has finally had enough. It has spoken to me through my very skin and said, "You need to pay attention to me, and we need to rest."
All right, body, I'll listen to you.
There are a lot of issues that have come up through this experience. Among them is how devastating it can be to not have access to affordable, quality healthcare. I am privileged to have been able to seek help outside the confines of HealthySF, and I recognize there are others who cannot afford to pay out of pocket for specialized services. The severity of my plight is minor compared to what I am sure other, less fortunate people have to go through. It should not be this way. Everyone does have a right to good health because it is ultimately less burdensome for us all.
Doctors are not infallible. They are human and make mistakes. Your health is your own and it is okay to be assertive about attaining the care you need. If are uncomfortable with a doctor, it is okay to ask for someone else. Just like the people in our lives, some work, and some don't. Some people make better friends than lovers, and some people make better lovers than friends. Sometimes you and a doctor do not get along. Trust yourself and your body, and get a second, third, or fourth opinion if you have to.
Referencing Robert Mapplethorpe,
whose work inspired my interest in photography.
Part of what's been so devastating about this rash is how unsightly it is, and I never realized how much I love the way my body looks until it was drastically altered. At the same time, I acknowledge that this isn't my fault, it is not contagious, and it is only temporary, so while others have expressed self consciousness about their pityriasis rosea, I do not feel the need to hide it, especially since it needs sunshine to help heal it. In fact, I might spend the rest of my day off lying in the park with a book. I don't know what these conflicting feelings mean about myself or the world around me, but maybe I'll sit down and think about it and then get back to you regarding.
For now I am grateful for answers. For now I am going to bed early and making sure I get at least seven hours of sleep. For now I am taking supplements and eating food specific to assisting my immune system. Perhaps this is a blessing in a red-rash disguise. This is focus and clarity during a turbulent time. So I guess I will embrace it ... my body says I have to, after all.
