I did a thing today

I did a thing today…and a good thing, at that. Something I’ve never done before. I submitted my first writing piece somewhere for online publication. I told my Cipro story as a kind of public service announcement about Fluoroquinolone Toxicity and MCS, and I told it in excruciatingly personal detail. Let me take a moment to celebrate why this was so huge for me.

1. I struggled and spent MONTHS honing this piece. (Well, months of Saturday mornings, anyway.) My blog posts have been okay for someone out of practice with writing, but those were just blog posts. This piece was approximately 4700 words long. To finish something so large at my age, after all I’ve been through and all the education I’ve forgotten over the years feels monumental.

2. I stepped WAY out of my comfort zone with this piece. I basically said “Fuck everything – this is my story and I’m telling it.” I processed underlying trauma, too, through telling it exactly the way I needed to. And I did it well. I’m not saying I wrote it in the best way possible – I’m sure I didn’t, although I tried. But I told it my way, exposed my truth in spite of my fears, and found some profound healing along the way. THAT’S what I did well.

If it’s published, people are likely going to criticize this piece. Mean online commenters might come out of the woodwork to insult me for daring to declare that I have two unacknowledged illnesses caused by chemical and pharmaceutical injuries and underlying industry corruption.

You know what? Fuck ’em. This is my story, my truth, exactly as I experienced it, and nothing any naysayer can possibly say or do will ever change that.

Of course, I also supported my claims with relevant links, so anyone too invested in today’s medical dogma that they can’t be bothered to open their minds to a different truth, well…that’s their right, I suppose. I did my part educating. I can’t make someone change their mind, and have no interest trying anymore. I relayed my experience, and warned others of potential life devastation. If I save one person, it will be worth any disbelief or ridicule.

Anyway, back to celebrating:

3. I took a huge step pursuing one of my lifelong dreams. How will I ever succeed as a writer – or as a designer, or an artist, or anything else, for that matter – if I’m too afraid to put myself out there and risk looking the fool?

Mr. T

I made this meme myself. I know, big accomplishment, right?

 

Answer: I won’t. It will never happen. It still may never happen, but you know what? That’s okay, because on my deathbed I’ll be able to say I tried. Writing is one of my callings. I will continue writing until the day I die, whether or not I’m good at it, whether or not people read my words, and whether or not my life ever looks outwardly successful by society’s standards. Guess what? The act of doing, of trying, of persevering, of spending hours, days, weeks, months, years in joyful pursuit of your passions IS a version of success unto itself, AND its own reward. It may not come with money or riches or a safety net of any kind – or it may, who knows – but it will come with a sense that I’ve fulfilled my purpose in life. THAT is priceless. (But hey, universe, I’ll take money, too. I’m open to all forms of abundance, just to make that perfectly clear.)

This image belongs to Louise Hay, from louisehay.com. I'm unclear if I can legally borrow this image to place on a blog which makes no money whatsoever. If I can't, I will gladly remove it upon request.

This Louise Hay affirmation image belongs to Louise Hay, from louisehay.com. I’m unclear if I can legally borrow this image to place on a blog which makes no money whatsoever. If I can’t, I will gladly remove it upon request.

 

(Why, yes, I did just feature metaphysical guru, Louise Hay, and Mr. T in the same blog post. Why do you ask?)

I’m so proud of myself. Three years ago, the mere idea of writing this piece, then submitting it to potentially be read by hundreds if not thousands of people was unthinkable. I wanted to, though…I SO wanted to. But I was too scared, and too preoccupied with the fear of people reading my words and judging me as crazy, or unintelligent, that I subconsciously blocked my own progress every time I sat down to write – by either procrastinating after barely starting, or by being so obsessed with choosing the right words and the correct grammar that I never got far. But ultimately, I kicked fear’s ass. You hear that, fear? I won. (For today, anyway.)

Oh, and I also thought that writing my story would entail defending my experiences, or having to prove them somehow. Nope. It didn’t. I mean, I provided links, but I didn’t plead my case like I thought I’d have to. All I had to do was tell my story. I can’t control the outcome – or what people choose to believe about me after I bare my soul.

Not trying to control outcomes in my writing has set me free. I figured out that by attempting to control the outcome of this piece, I was trying to please everybody, which is kind of my default setting. Guess what? Not everybody can or will be pleased. Trying to do so dampens my self-expression, and makes me shrink in fear, holding myself back and wasting valuable energy.

I’m also ready to stop trying to please everyone in other areas of my life, besides writing. Because guess what else? Not everyone has to like me as not only a writer, but as an artist, or even as a person. They don’t have to like my personality, my sense of humor, my appearance, or my choices. But that’s okay. My role in life is to be myself and do the best I can, not alter myself to fit everyone’s contradictory ideas about who they’d like me to be. (The same is true for you, too, reader. I don’t care who you are – it’s true for all of us.) The process of writing this piece helped teach me this. I mean, I KNEW it on an intellectual level, but I didn’t know how stealthy and all-encompassing this pattern was – that it showed up in small, hidden ways, like during the simple act of writing. No wonder I’ve never been able to finish anything until now! And no wonder I used to struggle with depression – all that goddamn people-pleasing depleted my energy!

Also, no wonder I’ve spent most of my dating life involved in terrible love relationships. I subconsciously sought out people for whom I’d have to change myself in order to please, because I was afraid show my true self for fear of rejection. Then they treated me like a doormat, or worse. Hello, life epiphany #4726264. Or, hello again. There’s a good chance I actually realized this years ago and subsequently forgot. There might even be a reference to this epiphany somewhere on this blog. Ha!

Anyway, things are a-changing, folks. Even if the person I submitted this piece to doesn’t publish it, the ball is in motion. I will keep writing (about whatever!), and keep trying, no matter how many rejections I get.

Also, I will keep striving to be true to myself while doing what I love. There’s no turning back now! After all, according to Louise Hay, that’s how you attract abundance in your life.

Mr. T would probably agree.

Baby Steps, Secret Goals, Grammar, and the Miracle of Lists

Can I accomplish anything, anything at all, sitting in a hot car shoving a sandwich into my piehole as quickly as I can, while savoring a few moment’s peace before returning to my sweatshop-esque job? Anything? Some inspirational words strung together in a mildly pleasing manner, or even an idea to escape this job purgatory – this endless treadmill going faster and faster and faster, until my body gives out and I collapse and die, then get flung against the wall like in those YouTube fail videos?

No? Okay, then.

Well, at least I fucking tried. Because that’s what I told myself I would do: take one small step every single day to change my unsavory life and work situations, in order to ease my stress and hopefully find some happiness. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But I have a sneaky feeling a magical change will not just happen upon me unless I do something, however small, to initiate it. I can’t just sit here dreaming, pretending I’m someone else, somewhere else, being all happy and fulfilled and shit. I need to take concrete steps – even baby steps, if necessary – so that maybe, just maybe, I can someday feel happy and fulfilled in my real, actual, non-imaginary life.

Like, maybe every day I should work on my resume and portfolio, just a little. (I have a degree in Graphic Design.) One day it will be complete, and then I can show it to people. Maybe, just maybe, one of them will see it and say, “It’s okay that you let your technical skills deteriorate while you worked at that sweatshop for over a decade; you have potential, so we’ll get you up to speed.” And then they’ll pay me a good salary.

Or maybe I could work every day, just a little bit, on my various writing projects. One day, eventually, I will finish some and show them to people. Then maybe someone will say, “It’s okay that you forgot most of the vocabulary words and grammar you learned in high school, and that you were too afraid to even apply to the writing college you wanted to go to back when you could actually write, so you got involved in an abusive relationship for 9 years and let your dreams wither and die.” (I’ll interrupt them right then to point out their run-on sentence. That could salvage some lost grammar points.) Then they’ll tell me I have potential, and ask to publish something I wrote. Like, for money and stuff. I’d really like to have money. In fact, my biggest desire right now is to have the lower part of my Maslow’s hierarchy of needs met. I know, it’s a tall order.

Maybe I could also write a list of everything I want in life as though I’ve already gotten it, and meditate on it every day. Several years ago I heard of a lottery winner who meditated on a certain number every night, and even slept with the number on a piece of paper under her pillow. She ended up winning that exact lottery amount. It was a lot, too. Like, over 20 million. Why couldn’t that be me? I’d have to start playing the lottery for it to work, but maybe it’s do-able.

Uh-oh. Lottery fantasies. I’m turning into my mother again. Let’s switch to a more realistic list of desires, because who’s kidding who? There’s no way I’m going to drag myself inside some gas station every week to stand in line for lottery tickets. (If not for this aversion, I could totally win, though.)

So, here’s my list of goals…

Wait…I just read an article saying that people are less likely to achieve their goals when they share them. And it was backed by actual science, I think. So maybe I shouldn’t broadcast my goals to anyone. Hmmm…

Here’s what I’ll do instead. I’ll copy down the list I made when I was acutely ill with MCS. As part of the Gupta Programme, which is responsible for my 80% recovery from MCS (roughly), I was instructed to make a list of what I’d like to see my future, healthy self doing in my future, healthy life. I made the list, though it was hard. I cried while writing, missing my healthy self, and hesitant to fantasize – however briefly – about a future I ached for more that anything, but which might not come to fruition. But as skeptical as I can be, I am also very open-minded, and willing to give almost anything a chance. So, I made the list and dove into the programme. (That’s the British spelling, BTW, otherwise I would have used my grammar skills to correct it. Or spelling skills. Is spelling an aspect of grammar? I really have forgotten everything, haven’t I?)

Guess what? The programme worked. Yes, I have thoroughly slacked on the exercises the last couple years, and really should get back to it, but at the time it was my savior. It pulled me out from the depths of hell so I could breathe again. Literally. The MCS gave me breathing trouble at times. Either that, or it made the act of breathing stressful when I inhaled chemicals which made me ill. Can you imagine what it feels like to experience stress just from the simple and vital act of breathing? I didn’t think so. But don’t feel bad like you lack empathy, or anything – most people can’t imagine such a thing. (Well, I guess people with asthma and other lung conditions can. Uh…nevermind.)

ANYWAY, many months after experiencing recovery, I ran across my old list. Guess what? Every single thing I wrote down happened – all the things that made me cry to wish for, because I thought I’d never experience them again. I was astounded. (Well, not EVERYTHING happened. I couldn’t move and paint walls or garden, for instance. But I’m certain I could have done those things and remained healthy had there been an opportunity.) I’m not saying the act of making the list was magical, but I am saying that I got to experience many things I had formerly believed were utterly impossible. That was the miracle.

So, at the end of this post, I think I’ll copy that old list instead of my current list, which I plan on making later. That way I don’t jinx my goals. When everything on the current list comes true, or at least a significant number, I’ll post that one, too. Until then, it’s for my eyes only.

Hey, look…I actually did string some words together on my lunch break! That’s a minor accomplishment. I’m terribly late returning to work, though, so it ended up costing me $15 in wages, or approximately $2 after taxes. LOL. But that’s okay, because I took a baby step. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to take a baby step that doesn’t cost me the money I’m trying to materialize in my life.

Also, I feel better. A little inspired, even. And I no longer have the urge to take a nap on the train tracks. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, here I come!* (I wonder if that sentence has ever been uttered in the history of language.)

*Okay, the article I linked to earlier informed me that I do not need to have my lower-rung needs met in order to be self-actualized, but god dammit, I still intend to eventually get my basic needs met before I drop dead, hopefully to avoid dropping dead prematurely due to the stress of not having my basic needs met. And fuck grammar – I’m gonna leave that possibly run-on sentence with repetitive words alone. I aced this stupid grammar test the other day. Doesn’t that count for anything?

Future Self list, from approximately 2011:

1. I am wearing makeup
(I could barely use any personal care products back then, let alone frivolous makeup.)
2. I have a nice haircut
(I couldn’t visit salons because of their ambient chemicals. My hair was a long, frizzy, stringy mop with roots growing out for 2 years.)
3. I am sitting in a coffee shop writing, reading, and drinking coffee
(None of that was possible when I was sick(er).)
4. I am painting the walls of my own new house
(I couldn’t tolerate freshly painted anything. In fact, fresh paint in my workplace contributed to my development of MCS.)
5. I am gardening
(I think I just wanted to get my hands in some dirt. I probably could have had an organic garden, if I had had my own yard and the stamina to actually grow it. Okay, maybe I couldn’t have gardened while sick with MCS.)
6. I am visiting friends
(People’s personal care and laundry products made me ill, so I stopped visiting friends.)
7. I am on an airplane
(That thought was a joke when I couldn’t grocery shop without getting sick.)
8. I am on vacation in a city
(Again, a joke. Plus, pollution.)
9. I am on vacation someplace tropical
(Travel was difficult/impossible back then. Now that I’ve traveled again, I am officially counting an East Coast beach as “someplace tropical”, because fuck it – it’s a beach. Close enough.)
10. I am visiting my family
(I couldn’t do that for years. My one attempt was disastrous healthwise.)
11. I am eating delicious food
(I ate a boring-ass diet for a couple of years due to food sensitivities. None of it was delicious.)
12. I am hiking outdoors
(I was too sick to exercise or enjoy nature back then.)
13. I am laughing
(I rarely laughed.)
14. I am happy
(I was more miserable than I ever imagined possible on a daily basis. Not that I’m the epitome of happiness now, but at least those pesky death fantasies are mostly gone.)

See? The miracle of lists. Now I’m off to make a new one, because as miraculous as it was to achieve these goals at the time, they no longer suffice. It’s time to get out of this limbo/purgatory, for fuck’s sake, already.