what to wear?

When I was younger, kids' fashion was nothing like it is now. When I was very young, my mom *made* most of my clothing, and I had items I loved like a Winnie-the-Pooh jumper and flowered pinafores. I had a pair of black and white saddle shoes.
As a teen, "fashion" was scaled-down version of adult clothes. Tight "designer" jeans and capezio flats.

I was, of course, never comfortable.

I wanted clothes that reflected my personality--but a) nothing like that existed and b) even if it had, I wouldn't have had the courage to wear it.

I began my work career in New York; then I moved to Vermont and I was stunned to see that the Director of the agency where I worked would wear a dress to work WITHOUT NYLONS. But it wasn't hard to adjust to the casual dress...and now I wear jeans to work.
Today I went shopping at the thrift store: this has been a favorite activity of mine for over 20 years. I found 2 pair of lined slacks that I can wear to the office.
I have certain brands that I like: Eileen Fisher, Habitat, Flax, Sigrid Olsen; but I also look for texture and color.
Just because everyone else is all dressed down doesn't mean I can't dress up, if that brings me pleasure.

So I wanted to share with y'all some of the awesomeness that I'm jazzed about today.

A Geiger wrap. Geiger is an Austrian company specializing in boiled wool coats and sweaters, etc.
I found a cream-colored wrap with grommets in the sleeves (hmmm, a specialized straitjacket?) for $7. Clearly I paid way below retail for that.

I also found a very sweet hand-crocheted sweater in a canteloupe color. It's a very serene item, for my grown-up days.

Here are some non-thrift things that I'm longing for:
a blue lyric jumpsuit by BB Dakota. I totally recommend going through eBates if you want one. But leave one for me.

and Trixie pants from meSheeky.

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I am getting more serious about buying a home. I'm leaning towards a condo, because I don't want to worry about who's going to cut the grass, etc. I want a 2-bedroom place so I can make the second bedroom into a own walk-in closet. My friend Alison did this and I'm so jealous.

I have a lot of fun shopping these days. I'm in the middle of two rough couple of weeks so it was lovely to go today and do something I always enjoy.

public struggles

Recently, I joined Twitter as per my mentor's instructions.
I had no idea what I was setting myself up for, and true to form, I just jumped in without looking or thinking.
At first it seemed pretty inane...and I didn't really see the point. Very short thought bites, lots of jokes. Lots of sexual innuendo.
I immediately sought to establish myself sexually. Who here might be attracted to me? Who would validate me?
This drive coincided with my monthly temper tantrum about my sexually disinterested husband.

I see a therapist who tells me I overemphasize the importance of sex, and that he believes I am a sex addict.
The DSM doesn't recognize "sex addict" as a disorder.
I talked with a few people, men and women, on twitter, about sex. Perhaps it was flirting.
I didn't feel good about it. I worked really, really hard to not be that girl, the girl who cheats. I appreciate all the other ways my husband and I connect. But on occasion, it pains me that the man I desire more than anyone else has so little interest in me.
It's hard, as a woman, not to internalize that.
I also remembered what I'd been missing. I awakened that crave in myself, the goosebumps and the rushing blood and the excitement and the longing for touch.
My desire seemed HUGE. Disproportionate.
Like a binge.
So I didn't feel good about that, either:I thought I'd beaten that animal drive.

And concurrently, I published a couple of articles describing my very bad behavior.

Critical mass, baby.

I made an appointment with my psychiatrist. She increased my meds when I described the crying jags and the sleeping.
Guess what?
*that* was a fail, too.
It began to seem to me that not only was I about to crash and burn, falling back into the familiar degradation that I so habitually use against myself, but I was going to do it in front of an audience.

I've run away and started over lots of times in my life. I'm the queen of reinvention.

But once you begin to establish a public personality, that's not so easy to do.

And no one warned me not to use my real name on Twitter.

So, today I'm shaking off the grit.

Back at it, fighting the good fight. I am bigger than this, better than this. Like an alcoholic who won't let a bottle of beer run his life, I refuse to allow my vagina to dictate my actions. 

How to Ruin a Game of Monopoly, or Your Life

When I was a little girl and my parents were still married to each other, we would occasionally make the 13-hour-trip to visit our extended family. I liked visiting my Uncle John, the sheriff, or Aunt Shirley, in her lakefront house. My favorite, though, was Aunt Marilyn.

Aunt Marilyn's husband was Morey and their children were Michele and Michael. Aunt Marilyn was a nurse and Uncle Morey was a doctor. Michele and Michael ice skated and skiied, respectively. I loved the symmetry of their lives. Arriving at their cozy Vermont home seemed like a relief. We would hurry across the gravel driveway in the damp ink of night into their house. In the winter we would ride sleds down their sloping front yard and in the summer I was allowed to walk alone down the dirt road to fetch the mail. The angst that haunted my own life on Long Island was absent from their lives. I thought maybe it had to do with the clean air.

There was no television and we used to read or play board games or bang out "chopsticks" on the piano. I liked to just lie on the couch in the living room and look out the window at the evergreens. Or I would climb the ladder to the "crow's nest," a small loft above the kitchen, where my brother, who was the eldest, and Michael, who was the youngest before me, would sometimes set up Matchbox tracks or run the vibrating football game.

I was often in the way.

Once in a while we might play board games. I preferred Parcheesi because the rules were simple but one night it was decided that we would play Monopoly. I may have been seven years old at the time, and I could barely add, much less make strategic decisions about which properties to purchase. Before long I was broke. I was "out."

Before any window of choice opened in my juvenile brain, I hooked my fingertips under the board and flipped it. Maybe I was out, maybe I couldn't playing, but then neither would anyone else. A little dog, a little car, a little hat, a little ship, and pastel colored money: all airborne. Three other faces with round mouths stared at me. I remember feeling guilty and giggling the way a shamed child will, and tricking myself into believing that the game was salvageable.

Of course it wasn't.

My writing was featured recently at the Good Men Project and elephant journal. And in trying to meet editor's requests that I "clean up the ending a little bit," I realized that I'm still not done. I haven't exorcised all of my demons yet; my unhealthy coping techniques are still in my back pocket. I was thinking today about the sad, sick part of my personality: the part that needs supervision, that so quickly reverts to making hurtful choices, that can so quickly cause vast wreckage.If nothing else, I'd like to think I'm too old for this shit. But I'm not.

I think of Nic and Dave Sheff, a father and son who both published memoirs. Nic was a meth addict and Dave is his father. Nic relapsed after the publication of Tweak. He's in recovery now, and having what seems to be a successful life.

I wonder if I'm going to have a public relapse.

I think of recent questionable choices and actions, and I realize that I can't make a situation that's already bad any better by hurting myself. If I throw the Monopoly board, I'm going to head down a familiar road of shame and guilt. Causing additional destruction to things that are already damaged won't improve anything, least of all my relationship with myself. This may be obvious but it's a new idea for me. I hope that this time I am able to gracefully accept being out of the game. And I pray that I can keep my demons in check.

Good Men Project

I'm just one small voice out here in the dark (or living in your computer, whichever you choose). I'm not a reader of Jezebel and I certainly hope they don't find me and come to skewer me. Those women are serious.

I am, however, a writer. A sexual assault survivor. A wife (x3). A mother. A former prostitute. Female.

I was part of the vanguard of latchkey kids: my parents were the only divorced parents in my 2nd grade class (albeit with good reason: my father was a pedophile). Feminism was never discussed at my house because my mother was too busy trying to survive.

Nothing much was ever discussed.

But I learned me-ism; personal strength; resilience and independence. And I learned that when I had achieved something, anything, the best use of that growth was to turn around and extend a helping hand to the person behind me.

I don't remember how I stumbled upon The Good Men Project. But I fell in love with it immediately. I'm easy like that but loyal as well. I admire the stated mission: "an effort to build and sustain a national discussion about being a good father, son, husband, partner, and worker in America today."

That word, discussion, seems to have been lost in the recent controversy. GMP has come under fire for two specific articles that were published: I'd Rather Risk Rape... & Nice Guys Commit Rape Too.

Since reading the articles, being peripherally aware of the attacks on GMP and on Tom M specifically, a few questions and points keep coming to mind.

•  a discussion usually has more than one point of view, does it not? GMP uses a lot of different writers and claims to be a place for discussion, not dissemination of one specific viewpoint.
•  is there no place where we can appreciate Anonymous's honesty: he provides a very clear window into today's rape culture. In fact, for me, his article illuminated rape culture very clearly.
•  are we each to be judged by our worst actions? if someone is brave enough to hold up their absolute worst moment and say, "Here, this is what I did," in an effort to build conversation, to increase understanding and communication, is s/he guaranteed to be slaughtered in the court of public opinion?
•  at what point did feminism become about bringing anyone down? if the only way I can help to lift myself and my sisters is by pulling someone else down, I'll pass. Maybe I'm incredibly naive, but I believe that there is room for all of us to be better together, regardless of gender.

When I was 20, I worked for a public interest research group in New York, earnestly advocating for clean drinking water. I'm not sure how we accomplished anything: my part was going door-to-door, educating people and requesting donations. The minimum we were required to collect was $100 per night. Our team was made up of college students, an older man named Frank with horn-rimmed glasses and greasy hair, a thick lesbian named Daphne and a skinny kid with a big nose and greasy skin. I slept with most of them. We did something called "cross-training," where we could elect to go to another part of the country and work for their local PIRG and our travel and housing would be provided. I was sent to Virginia Beach and slept with a several people there, as well.

At that time in my life, everything was essentially an avenue towards sex.

At the beginning of our daily shift, we would ride together to previously scouted neighborhoods and be dropped off for a few hours. With territory map in hand, we'd begin knocking on doors at about 3pm and finish by 8pm. On paydays, we'd cash our checks and descend on Richard's house. Richard, and three of his friends, had moved to New York from Georgia and to me it seemed very glamorous and grown-up: four independent adults renting a whole house together. I was camping on my mother's couch at the time.

We would buy lots of alcohol and dance in the unfurnished living room. more than once the evenings ended in bed: Stuart, the bi-sexual blond college student from the wealthy family, George, the slender gay man, Richard, and myself. It's more than 20 years ago now but I still remember how lovely all those hands and mouths felt on me.

Abu, an Indian college student who wore tie-dyed t-shirts, joined our work team and our payday parties and he seemed to like me. This was entirely baffling and made me not like him at all. But we went out to dinner together and when he invited me to go see the Dead, I was more than willing. I hadn't been to a show, ever, although I pretended I had. I was, after all, a hippie activist.

The day of the concert bloomed sunny and temperate and Abu drove us to Giants stadium. I was amazed at all the people in the parking lot. While we were standing in line waiting to enter, I found a $20 bill on the pavement. It was that kind of beautiful day.

Our seats were nosebleeders, of course: our assigned section was something like XYZ600. Instead we rushed among the crowd of people thronging up against the walls, peering over at the floor section below. I could see that plywood had been laid out to protect the football field, and that was covered with blue tarps. Everyone was looking over the wall, leaning out, but no one was jumping down. I only glanced quickly before climbing over. It was a long fall. I jumped directly into the arms of a security guard.

He twisted my arm up behind my back and steered me towards the exit.
"Do you have a ticket?" he asked. I didn't want to answer him: I didn't want him to be sent up to that distant seat.
I said, "Please, I'll do anything." I meant it, of course. I knew if he said "OK," I'd have to follow through with a blowjob in some dirty, half-concealed corner. I didn't want to be ejected from the stadium, have to wait in the parking lot for Abu, miss the show...
"Do you have you ticket?" he repeated.
"Anything, I'll do anything, anything you want." I was trying to twist my head over my shoulder so I could see this man, who seemed so huge, who was hurrying me along with my arm snug up against my own spine. I thought if I could just make eye contact, he would know I was serious.
"Do you have a ticket?"
"Yes, but..." We were near the long exit hallway now. I was trying to think of how I would find Abu after the show, if I was sent to our seats. Where the hell had we parked? Please, please, please, was all I could think. Perhaps I was saying it out loud.

The security guard let go of me. I spun around him and bolted away and met the smiling faces of my fellow Deadheads, the ones who'd watched the end of journey, my near-expulsion and then redemption. I ran back towards the place where I'd jumped over and found Abu. He told me about all the people who'd been able to get onto the floor while I'd distracted the guard.

I didn't think about what could have happened, what almost happened, what I'd invited to happen. I was a happy hippie girl, a peripheral student of zen. I danced. But sometimes I remember the girl I was, and wonder about what she was so willing to give away.

2012 was a pretty good year...Of course, I continue to wrestle with the grief and guilt of my mistakes and most particularly my son being gone.
But I kept a list of the good things in 2012 (thanks, OCD!) and here are some of them:
being included in the anthology! working with David...articles accepted...journalling class proposal accepted...going to Kripalu...JourneyDance & dance in general.

I believe that 2013 will be a good year as well, even better, full of growth, new learning, and positive stuff!

Stick around, I'll be posting on a weekly basis here.

Thanks, much good love & Happy New Year!

Living in My Body

I used to joke with my kids, rubbing my belly and saying, "This was your first home!" It went along with the way I parented: attachment parenting before it was popular, co-sleeping and extended breastfeeding. (I made some epic mistakes, too, but that's another post.)

I wanted what every parent wants: more for my kids than I had. The disconnect between my brain and my body began before I can remember and I'm still trying to knit the two together, like a lopsided Tim Burton character.

Trauma will do that to a person. In addition to my early sexual distresses, my sister and mother were having their own food and body image issues. When puberty made its awkward arrival, my  role models were assuring me that thin thighs were the most valuable currency. Anorexia, bulimia, heroin addiction and sex work were my spectral sisters.

After my daughter was born, I exercised maniacally. I was keeping up my end of a deal I'd struck with my then-husband: if I lost weight, he'd quit drinking. It was also a result of nothing else to do besides parenting my daughter, as well as a manifestation of my depression. I biked ten miles every day, walked four miles daily, and lifted weights and practiced yoga. We were vegans without even realizing it as a result of a tiny food budget. I learned only that I enjoy movement, and that fruit is my favorite breakfast. It occurred to me that food might not be the enemy.

My new body annoyed the hell out of my mother.

People said surprising things to me, like, "If you get any thinner, we'll be able to see through you." I was startled by and grateful to the men in vehicles who honked and whistled.

It was a vague fear, and not the expected joy, that settled on me when I noticed my finally-thin-thighs. I felt...vulnerable and anxious. I couldn't put any cohesive thoughts together then: I only increased my exercise. Anything to expend the nervous reactive energy.

I struggled with mongamy--you can read about that here.

When my cheating escalated to a career as an escort, suddenly I had the money, time and justification for self-care. I delighted in having my nails done, my toenails attended to, and all the waxing at the refuge of the salon. The tanning bed was my sanctuary. Running five miles a day was required, because I had to look good for my WORK. My body and my appearance were something to control. My body was my tool and I operated it from the command of my brain.

The fact that I often cried when I ran remained a mystery to me.

When I left everything---ran away from my marriage and my home---I took my body with me. Then I found myself hiding in hallways at my new, "straight" job, gasping back inexplicable sobs. Suicide became my favorite fantasy, the one I fondled the most. When I reached out for help, a team of amazing therapists came to my rescue.

A lot of the healing happened in offices, sitting in chairs, talking, using my brain.

I wanted to move again. I wanted the grueling punishment of running in the dark and rain and snow. This was not recommended. I was growing uncomfortable in my softening body and disturbed to watch my muscle tone melting away.

No running. Dance.

I am clumsy and I don't like group exercise. But instead of shame, I was able to laugh when I misstepped or couldn't keep up.

I attended a workshop at Kripalu with Toni Bergins and Adam Sutton, on scholarship. I cried and I hid and I slept. I moved a little bit on a floating dance floor. I watched other people move.

I began attending Nia dance classes. I drew in my journal.

In February, I will go to Montreal and become certified as a Bellyfit instructor. Dance has landed me squarely in my body and does not allow the escape that running does. Dance has given me the fibers to begin to connect my mind to my body.

The world does not, to me, seem like a safe place. I was unable to name this constant, low-grade discomfort until I recently observed my daughter, now 22, and how easily she moves through life. For her, the world is a safe and manageable place. Her body is her own safe haven.

Baby steps.

If I want to be comfortable in the world, I need to start at my foundation. I need to feel secure in my first home, my body. I need to understand that my body is not be a tool to used for others' approval and enjoyment. It's my own.

That's a new idea for me.