Reprint: So What.

[Originally on my previous blog, I thought I'd include this piece here, too. Mostly for my own benefit, today.] This is something I cut out of the Los Angeles Times years and years ago. I don’t even remember the name of the short-lived column it came from, let alone the author’s name (if you do, will you let me know so I can give proper credit?), but I loved it, and revisit it whenever I’m beginning to get too caught up in myself. Puts me right back down on the planet. I hope you like it, too.

Consider this. We humans eat till we flap, smoke, use ATMs at night, drive–fast and angry–with bald tires, bad brakes and a busted headlight, exercise nothing but our clicker thumbs, drink till it’s up to strangers whether we get home, and far and away the biggest concern among readers is:

How can I not get hurt?

Most of us treat our bodies like rental cars, and yet we coddle our precious little feelings, the one part of us that won’t break, die, run out or get cancer. (The way we treat others’ feelings is a different story.) If we can run on five hours’ sleep and a Ho-Ho, we can certainly handle “I’m sorry, I don’t like you that way.” Or, “You’re not a strong candidate for this job.” Or, “Your face could scald milk.” Or, “There’s a thin envelope here from Yale.”

But no, we retreat into our ruts like they’re trenches. I’ll give you an example. I’ll bet everybody knows at least one smart kid who doesn’t study, who pretends he doesn’t need to. If he dogs it and fails, he’s a lazy cool smart guy; if he tries and fails, he’s suddenly not so smart. Beat failure! Don’t learn!

Here’s the reason to test our resilience every chance we get: The alternative is living passively, never actually deciding anything, wondering why we’re irritable, average, bored, boring and a deep shade of yellow.

So don’t reach down, reach up–for the bright and groovy guy, for the promotion, for the moon. Try to get that driveling essay published. Audition for everything. Apply to a hot college. Wipe out, look stupid, try again. A decade ago, my cousin-in-law decided to be a comedian, moved to New York and fed himself be doing every unbearable job out there. This year: Letterman and a Major Motion Picture. 1. Wow. 2. Why not? You can be told you’re not smart, not attractive, not cool, not interesting, not good enough for the job, and then, sure, you can quit–but if instead you dismiss it, or learn from it, or move on to something else, pretty soon you’ll start to walk like you can take it. Those confident, charismatic people everyone privately resents? Know what they are? Fearless. But you won’t have any idea what that means unless you scrape the couch from your backside. The worst that can happen is “No.” So what.

Not for the non-addict.

I followed a link today and wound up reading a straight-up, no-bullshit blog post written by someone who is highly intelligent, articulate, and on the very first day of a long, hard journey.  I know addiction and its alluring, tantalizing promises. It is one sexy demon. I come from two long lines of addicts, both practicing and dry. I’ve been to countless funerals necessitated by death via entanglement. And if I were to share the countless ways I keep watch, the many nights I stay up late with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of No More Tears, spraying and combing until I can rest assured I have not developed any sultry little snares–well, the truth is I don’t want to share that with anybody. But it’s a constant upkeep. It’s just so easy for me. And I cannot afford to be distracted anymore, at this stage.

Anyway, I left a comment for the brave soul telling the truth about the wrestling match she’s just signed on for. And shortly thereafter, I heard from her. She said the comment had been helpful. Which was so, so gratifying for me. So I thought I would post my comment here, just in case it might help anyone else. And I’ll be honest: it helps me, too. To be a hand in the darkness. It keeps me grounded. It reminds me that we’re all in this thing together.

You don’t know me. But I get it. I understand this. And addiction. And, by extension, you. Make no mistake: it is a battle. To the death. To call it anything short of that is to simultaneously candy-coat and undermine one of the most difficult things a human can do. Remember that. When you find yourself knowing beyond a doubt that you absolutely, positively cannot go on without that thing that makes everything bearable–and you will find yourself there, many times, before you’re through–remember: it IS a battle. And battles DO taste an awful lot like shit. So don’t be deterred by the taste, the exhaustion, the fear. Most of all, do not be swayed by the illusion of hopelessness. Because that part is a lie. It is the biggest lie of all. You’re not hopeless. Not now, not ever. Remember that. Okay? Do it.

Let Us Compare Mythologies

There’s been a lot of talk around the internet lately about manifestos and life lists, and I love that stuff. Seriously. Big life lists are sensationally exciting to me. And manifestos? Color me drooling. I’ve had the life list for awhile now, but felt I really needed something more concise…a, well, manifesto. If you like. Oh, I know you’re not supposed to do these “me, too” blog posts. That’s okay. I love reading about what people want to do with their lives, and I reckon others might, too.

So here it is, my manifesto.

Ask for what you want. There’s this fabulous book I read in my early twenties, when I was still operating under the notion that my life’s path lay in the world of show business. It was all about hustle and strut then [WAIT a sec—it still is!] and although I loved that world, I often found it hard to reconcile my introversion* with the nonstop party I needed to be.  Anyway, I needed encouragement. Something to foster my bravery. And this book was it. It’s a little dated now, just right around the edges (e.g., the internet was still a newish thing then), but the advice is still great. More than anything else, this book encouraged me to come right out and ask. (Because it turns out that, in fact, they can’t read your mind. Also: interpretive dance tends to confuse people. Much better to just ask.)

Defy categorization. I’ve never fit in. Anywhere. Too poor, too rich, too ethnic, too white, too smart, too young, too old. It was a bit of a nightmare during the formative years, as you might imagine. And to some extent, the fear I developed of never finding a group of people who would get me has stayed with me. I’m interested in a million things and very good at a few things, and possibly those things cannot be combined to score me the corner cubicle.  But at the ripe old age of thirty-four, I’ve decided: fuck it. Oh, look: I’m a free agent now, with what’s shaping up to be my dream job, and am surrounded by crazy-inspiring, super-supportive, vibrant, intelligent people. The end.

Be you. I love Gretchen Rubin’s site The Happiness Project. I’ve been known to spend upwards of an hour combing through the archives. One of the things she’s done is create her own personal commandments. The first of these is “Be Gretchen.” Simple, yet so profound.  Be you. It’s not an excuse for moral slovenliness; it’s a call to action. Be the honorable, true you that’s in there. That’s who you’re meant to be.

Collect your “NO”s. Prior to working in entertainment, I had grand ideas about becoming a working actor (a working actor generally does not wait tables, in case you’re wondering what the difference is between an actor and a working actor). One of the best lessons I learned in my acting classes was this: you have to go out and collect your “NO”s. As an actor, a lot of your time will be spent applying for jobs you will never get. You’re selling it like the rent’s due, all the time, and only a very small percentage of those sales will come to fruition. Sound familiar? Yeah. I thought so, too. It’s about not wasting time taking things personally [a lesson I am still learning]. The sooner you meet your “NO” quota, the sooner you’ll hear your yes. Yes?

No one else can speak your piece. The other day one of my amazing clients sent me her answers to my Brand Alchemy Session questionnaire. Among her thoughtful, intelligent offerings was this gem:  “No one else in the world is just like me – it is up to me to allow my truth to be spoken, or else my ideas will never be out there in the world.” It stopped me dead in my tracks. I saw with an almost surreal clarity that my approach has been backwards. I just didn’t know it. It’s my responsibility to speak my truth. And it’s your responsibility to speak yours.

Listen. Always. Everywhere. Listen to what people say—and to what they don’t say.

Say thank you. Always. Everywhere. People don’t do this much anymore. It matters, and it stands out.

Comb your hair and show up. This one is courtesy of Bob Brasier, my favorite real-life rock star. When all else fails, when you can do absolutely no more, when you’ve got nothing left to give. Comb your hair and show up. I’ve repeated this one like a mantra every time I’ve found myself faced with a mistake, a tragedy, an embarrassing situation. It reminds me that showing up is better than not showing up. And when things get overwhelming, it can be infinitely helpful to reduce our overly-complicated lives to a yes/no checkbox.

Thoughts? Comments? What’s yours?

*I’m an extroverted introvert, not the regular kind. Much like a floodlight, I am either ON or OFF and require lots of OFF time in order to function. (And yes, it is tiring being this complicated. Le sigh!)

Re-writing the Script

It’s not a new concept. We live our lives by the script inside our head, usually completely unaware of it, assuming the script is simply who we are. But it’s not, really.

Re-writing the script is difficult. Aside from an incredible amount of self-awareness, it involves holding each belief up to the light, examining it closely, figuring out what purposes it serves, what purposes it has served. Where has it helped? How is it holding me back? What if I could replace it with a different belief? What if I could drop it altogether?

But that’s not the scary part, as it turns out. The scary part is after that, when you’ve cleaned house and you’re on your way, and nothing–nothing!–looks or feels familiar. That’s when you’ll be tempted to turn back. Because the devil you know, and all that.

This is where faith comes in. This is where your mettle is tested, your big words, the ones you use to encourage the beautiful souls around you. Faith. Don’t look down. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Even when you have convinced yourself that you are in danger of falling, that you are alone, that even if you weren’t alone, nobody here knows you or cares.

You keep going. You keep it at. If you have to do what feels like lying to yourself, you do it.

It’s not lying: you’re not alone.

Photo by kwerfeldein

C’est tragique.

If you didn’t know me during high school, here’s what you missed.

Rad Bauhaus shirt, huh? In case you can’t tell, my hair was buzzed down to about a quarter inch, save the bangs. (Also: this was the same year I requested that my then-boyfriend administer a tattoo of my own design, using a homemade tattoo gun he’d gotten from some classmate of his who’d been in jail or something? It was a very small tattoo, as it turned out, because a guitar string makes for kind of an oversized needle.)

Here, a bunch of my kooky peers and I show off our respective senses of fashion.  I was really into the band London After Midnight then. Also: I got that lacy top at JC Penney. Yeah, you kids get all your schmattas at Hot Topic now, but us? Huh. We had to ask our parents to drive us into Hermosa Beach to the one store in the South Bay that carried what we wanted to wear. That, or get creative with the old lady department at Penney’s. We knew what hard work was, then…

Did I mention I liked London After Midnight? I sure liked them. You can tell, right? Man, I loved those leggings, too. It still makes me happy to see them in this photo. Incidentally, those six-eye Docs I’m wearing there? I’m not sure if you can see the scuffs and scratches on them, but it took me the better part of an entire lunch period to kick that new-leather look off of them on the asphalt steps by the photo room, where I used to hang out (in case the teacher I was smitten with decided to walk by on the way to his classroom).

Alright, look, I’ve said enough.