With your constrictive, boring, brown shell, one awkward foot, and waving antennae
I had no interest in knowing you
In fact, I don’t think I ever paused long enough to know you were there
Or had value
And now, here we are.
I’m moving in, and this isn’t going to be pretty.
 
The thrill of going fast
My former home is more like the flea-circus
Seeing the world whip by
Adrenaline
Faster, faster, faster I spin in my circle
Absolutely convinced I am going somewhere
Even though I’m imaginary
Until I fly off the ride and get thrown into myself.
 
My speed numbed me out to the present moment
Suddenly a lifetime is gone
Only I actually lost it one second at a time all along the way
Life is intimately connected to that present moment I was numbing to.
 
And guess what?
The snail has been patiently waiting for me there all along
I mean, it’s a snail, what else does it have to do?
With a little sign: for sale by owner.
 
So I move in.
Thinking that downsizing is the way to go. More economical, right?
Let me tell you, the process of moving into snail-dom is painful.
 
Trapped in my shell, pushing outwards, in a space that feels cramped, tight, not my size.
I have too much furniture, too many thoughts.
This shell is exerting pressure on me to just be me.
Slowing down feels like suffocating,
Being strangled.
There must have been a mistake.
This clearly isn’t my shell.
Somehow I was given a tiny house, when I’m pretty sure I was supposed to have a mansion.
 
How could this be what my body and life want me to do?
Slow down.
Is this really the "lesson" that seems to keep showing up?
 
My body is desperately trying to live out my souls work, and teach my mind.
It says, listen mind, it’s okay to:
Take a breath
Then breathe into relationship, with yourself, and the people you love.
Slow down enough to feel every part of your environment impeccably
Attuning, sensing, being.
Suction to the present moment so that it can be felt intimately
Move in, and take time to discover the inner world that you’re inhabiting
Realize that there is a mansion in this tiny house…
 
I just didn’t know it because I happened to be swinging on a little flea-sized trapeze at the time.
 
Although I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while
I’m suddenly realizing that going so fast maybe isn’t the way to go about life.
Brilliant insight, I know.
 
Am I trapped?
What am I trying to put on a fantastical circus act to get away from?
 
What could it look like to consider accepting that I’ve already put a sizeable down-payment on this this shell?
Could feeling trapped turn into support?
The relief of simplifying.
Space and time to explore the magic of what is here, and who I am.
So much scenery potentially missed.
A breath taken right now.
 
I want to trust.
I’m still going somewhere, but the path is guided by this shell.
It has gravity and weight as opposed to death-defying feats.
It’s a recalibration, and that takes time.
And it can be painful and uncomfortable for us, and those around us to get used to.
 
It’s brave to downsize so we can appreciate the preciousness of what we already have,
Finding the intricacies of Self in our snailshells. 

To share or not to share, that is the question.
 
Recently I’ve tried a little experiment with myself and my life. It’s called: being authentic, being genuine, being vulnerable, being raw. I’m committed to doing this in my closest relationships, professionally with ethical boundaries, and publically in service of normalizing other people’s experiences.
 
I have spent a lot of my life feeling up on some pedestal of projection that looks a lot like: She has her shit together. She achieves. She is healthy. She’s got a one-up in the world.
 
Why would I possibly want to mess with that? Why would I want to say pssst actually I’ve got some serious stuff going on over here. Especially when it’s about things that are invisible, and probably no one else would know unless I tell them?
 
Because this projection of shiny brightness is only partially true. There is truth to it, and that’s the other part I’m committed to: not minimizing my strength, empowerment, and potential in the world. I definitely have the intention of giving the middle finger to the cultural paradigm that we can’t fully expand into our greatness.
 
So here’s the paradox: How do I own where I’m messy, and also own where I shine brightly? And why does all of it feel so vulnerable to talk about?
 
Just recently I’ve been opening up about my physical illness, among other personal things. That’s all fine and good until I leave my house, and encounter real people, especially ones who may have read what I’ve written. Suddenly I feel, well, naked. Seen. And I wonder, am I strong enough for this? This quest of sharing my truth for my own and other’s healing. Isn’t it easier to just keep my mouth/laptop shut?
 
Because now there are conversations. Now I’m in relationship, and people feel invited in… and they are. It doesn’t stop in sharing a little tidbit, that just opens the door. But this is how we breakdown the massive perceived wall of our own and other’s isolation. Of thinking we don’t impact or affect of others. Of thinking that we’re not constantly in relationship.
 
It’s right to take it seriously. I have impact. We all do. And with impact comes responsibility. To be truthful, honest, and delicate with what we share. But also to not be afraid, when and if we’re ready, to share it. Because it matters. The conversations matter. Being extraordinary, and messy, matters. We owe it to each other to try being vulnerable and seen.
 
As Brene Brown (I feel super pop-psych culture quoting her, but frankly she’s fabulous), in her book Daring Greatly, talks about, we don’t want to vomit our unprocessed crap all over people and call it vulnerability, because it’s not (I may have paraphrased that a bit).  
 
So in an effort not to slime you, I check in with myself that sharing seems like the next step in our relationship. Because I want to start a conversation about our nakedness. I want to invite you in, cuddle you close, share s’mores around a campfire, and tell ghost stories about our own personal ghosts. Because chances are, our ghosts are actually dancing together, and maybe they’re not so scary afterall. But we don’t know, unless we share.
 
So here’s the deal:
When you get to a point of knowing there is something that seems like it must be shared with a friend, lover, partner, community, here's a couple questions you can ask yourself, like I do:

• What will be the potential harm and benefit of me sharing this right now, both to me, and to who is listening (ie. What is the impact)?
• Do I feel comfortable with this person/people knowing this about me, and that I will be seen/naked in this way?
• Do I want to have a conversation and be more intimate in relationship around this topic?

What struggles/triumphs have you had sharing something vulnerable? Is it worth it? Comment below:

Yesterday I wept. That’s a poetic way of saying I was a messy, snotty, sobbing, ugly crier. I lost all of my skills… you know, those tools I’ve creatively, consciously, willingly and willfully, through blood, sweat, and tears, cultivated over the past 12 years in an effort to relearn how to interact with myself and the world in a more healthy way.

And then in less than 24 hours I watched the sedatives from the hospital and my physical pain let them slip through my hands like water that flowed, swirled, and gurgled while laughing at me, down the drain. Which, of course, is totally normal.
 
But, I am sad to say that I said things that were hurtful to the person caretaking me with the most compassion, heart, and beautiful selfless, detail imaginable.
 
I said: Stop worrying about me, I’m fine. You don’t think you can leave me alone because I’ll fall down the stairs and kill myself? I’m not a baby. You’re freaking out and it’s stressing me out. I can’t be stressed out because I’ll be sicker, and now it hurts more. Don’t’ you trust me, Do you think I'm an idiot. You think I have to call the hospital now? Why, because who said, some pharmacist? I’m fine. FINE. STOP FREAKING OUT …
 
…only I… can’t… breath… tears, snot, sob sob sob.
 
It took me a minute to realize that even though that’s what I said, what I actually meant was:
Note to self- STOP FREAKING OUT!!!
I'm scared.
I’m attacking you about being worried, because I’m the one that's worried. 
This isn’t fair.
It sucks.
I’m in pain.
What did I do to deserve this?
I want to go off by myself, and suffer, and come back when I’m “better”

• So that I can protect you from feeling pain
• So that I can protect you from being scared, looking at yourself, and having to see your own mortality
• So I can protect you from thinking that you may lose me one day
• So that I can protect you from me

I’m so sorry.
You don’t’ deserve this.
No parent, partner, friend, lover, community, deserves this, deserves dealing with me.
 
So, let’s face it, the only skill left to me after my emotional deconstruction was that of repair. Of saying I’m sorry. Of trying to take responsibility … to de-vomit what I had spewed-out in a dramatic rewind, and let you know that I’m aware that this is actually mine.
 
Chemicals and pain aren’t an excuse to hurt those we love. But it happens anyway. So maybe what’s left is trying to repair it with, hopefully, the willingness, compassion, and heart of the other party. Sometimes it’s such a relief to be human and messy and unskillful, and sometimes it is so hard to do that without a sense of entitlement. Like I can hurt you because I’m being authentic right now. Some kind of contempt of being so fabulously “vulnerable.” How do we give ourselves the permission and relief to be an unskillful mess, while also not intentionally bulldozing over the people we love the most... and when we do, have self-compassion and repair it? I don’t know that I have an answer to that yet... maybe it's something about acceptance that it will happen, love for ourselves when it does, and hope that we can have a conversation about it.. I know I’m doing my best with deep gratitude to the people that love me enough to say, ya, you fucked up, you hurt me, but I love you anyway. I’m still here and I still want this relationship.
 
So take a breath and give yourself some love right now, because we’re all trying our best to figure this out, together through fear, snot, pain, and relationship. 

Thoughts? Comment below:

I sit down to meditate. Instantly I see myself in a pile of debris, of World War II post air raid fallout piled around me, and a big piece of concrete on my diaphragm, pressing so I can’t breathe. I touch my diaphragm, my abdomen, with my hands. I hold her: I soothe and rock myself. I tell myself I’m okay.

This current acute insult on my organs is bringing up residual memories of 3 years of pain and fear. My mind knows there is no more physiological invasive attacks planned, but my body doesn’t. My body is locking up to protect itself, to protect from further tragedy… it’s smart. And also the tension is hurting me, its literally painful. I tell myself, I’m safe-enough, okay-enough, and thank you.

The tension eases up almost imperceivably. I can see it looking at me like a four-year-old child that tilts her head and isn’t quite sure whether to trust the adult or not. Is this a trick?

I can’t lie, it could be, I’ve tricked myself before. For years. Telling myself I was okay when I actually wasn’t. Until my body screamed so loudly I couldn’t lie any more. So she has a point, which is currently living as tension in my abdomen.

Right now myself doesn’t trust my Self. Wow, that’s hard to write, hard to admit… breathe, stare into space, necessary dissociation. Myself doesn’t trust my Self. How do we gain this trust back with ourselves and our bodies, when we have a past record of lying to ourselves? When our bodies had to turn the volume up so loud that it was a scream, for us to finally listen? 

And now with one tiny painful invasive procedure it’s like we’re back at square one, with my body saying fuck you… you didn’t listen for 30 years, why should I trust you now? She says, I tried to tell you. I gave you inability to sleep, nightmares as a child, tingles of anxiety on the skin of your arms and face, shortness of breath, pounding heart, colds, injuries, stomach problems, a hard time relating with others…

While you were going: perfectionism, control, business, awards, beauty, party, perfect, spotlight…

So I was like, okay: fear, pain, jaundice, shutdown, hospital…

And then you were like, big insight: oh, maybe something’s wrong. Maybe I need to change?

And now you have a measly 5-ish years of attempted good behavior.

So now I’m scared. I don’t trust you. If I don’t scream, you may not listen or realize we’re hurting. I’m doing this for both of us.

Alright. I get it. But you need to trust me. Please. I know so much more now, because of you. I am trying to tell the truth, and I’m willing to keep changing. This is just a setback. Let’s get a little bit cheesy and work together on this one. We need each other for the collective wisdom. Thank you for the protection, sounding the airraid siren, building a concrete barrier when you were scared. You saved our lives.

Okay, well, thank you for trying to listen even though sometimes you’re a shitty listener. But, seriously, thank you for understanding that I’m only trying to help, and I won’t freak out so much if I know you’re paying attention and we keep communicating. I want a relationship, I don’t want to have to just take over all the time.

Diaphragm releases, deep full breath, a moment of relief.

It’s amazing what happens in relationship, when we listen to the parts of ourselves that in that moment know better. When we figure out it’s safe-enough. When ourselves can trust Ourselves. 

What do you think? Comment below:

Let’s begin with the cast of characters:
A mom in the waiting room.
Watching the clock (tick, tick).
One hour is okay. They said one hour.
2 hours is not okay. 2.5 hours is definitely not okay.
Page the doctor again.
Anxiety. She’s in trouble.
Why can’t it be me instead, this is not the natural order of things.
I’m not okay.
 
A dad at work.
Looking normal on the outside.
Going through the motions with machines and metal and tools and oil.
Shoving down emotions.
This is life.
She’ll survive, she’s tough.
I’m not okay.
 
A Doctor in the surgery room.
I explained the procedure.
I told her she’d be fine. No problem.
This is beyond my expertise.
I think of what I would do if it were my mom, my sister on this table.
She’s had too much sedation, she’s been prodded too much.
And I call it.
This situation is not okay.
 
There’s an RN.
I get to hold this hand like it’s my job.
It is my job, to have compassion, to send love and care through this hand.
To comfort and soothe. To joke. But to know this is serious.
When I tell her she’s okay, I mean it.
I’m here, you’ll be okay.
But am I okay?
 
A group of friends spread throughout the world.
Connected by Facebook.
They don’t know, because it hasn’t been shared with them.
So they go about their day, wanting to send love but not yet asked to.
Tomorrow there will be infinite “likes” and words of encouragement.
Today they post selfies and motivational memes.
Some are okay, some are not, but their pictures smile.
 
And a man in a far off land.
That feels a lifetime away.
Normalized in a world of hospitals and needles.
But it’s different when they belong to her.
My heart aches that I am not there.
I want to wrap her up in my arms.
And make sure she knows I’m not a thousand miles away.
That she can lean on me even though I’m not okay.
 
Freeze.
Camera zooms in on me:
Lying on the hospital bed
It’s cold in my thin open nightgown
They put warm blankets all around me
The RN holds my hand
The Doctor moves into my jugular vein
My mom is in the waiting room with 20 strangers holding her breath
My dad is dissociated with a wrench at work
My friends create their day in the world
And he holds someone else’s hand in a different hospital
And I wonder, is everyone else okay?
 
Fentanyl
The world goes fuzzy black
I feel pressure on my neck
Time looses meaning
 
Who I was: Glitter toenail polish fading from a month ago in Vegas as I relived my showgirl days
Who I am: Humbled on a cold hospital bed
On the outside: Vitality and beauty
On the inside: Twisted uncooperative veins, weak blood damaged by disease
Outside potential: Relationship, speaking, MedX at Stanford
Inside potential: Internal bleeding, possibilities of eventual transplant
So much potential all around that doesn’t matter in this moment
A steady beep, beep, beep is what counts right now
External projection: She has her shit together, I want to be her
Internal projection: She’s a mess, I feel sorry for her
 
And…. Action!
The silent incongruence that lives between glitter toenail polish and a hospital bed
 
Stay tuned for next week, where we lather, rinse, and repeat… all the while hoping for a different outcome.

Any experiences resonate? Comment below! 

Let’s face it, unless we’re in complete remission/recovery forever and not in a relationship at all, we’re probably going to be going through some sort of set-back/relapse/diagnosis process at some point while also being in a relationship. 
 
And it’s hard. 
 
In my experience my illness/diagnosis bonded us, but also took a toll on my relationship,. When I was diagnosed I had periods of feeling closer in my relationship: like we were a team, like we were beating this together, like if we can make it through this, we can make it through anything. It was the experience of bonding through trauma. 
 
And then came the moments where I felt anger, resentment, shame:
No, I’m not healthy yet (will I ever be healthy?). Stop expecting me to be on a different timeline than I am. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to be normal.
No, I still don’t want to have sex. I don’t know if I ever will.
You know what, you don’t even get me anymore. This relationship is broken.
 
I’m a different person now then when we met.  
 
We all do the best that we can.  Maybe we grow closer together, and maybe we grow farther apart, and there’s also a  whole realm of combo deals out there as well.  There are as many scenarios as there are facets to relationship. 
 
Main point: when things happen to us personally the person we’re in a relationship with takes the most direct hit. Diagnosis in not fair to anyone in the relationship.
 
We want to protect each other from the pain we’re in, from the fear of our own and each other’s mortality, from the reality of the truth. So we stay quiet. As much as this is a noble cause we also miss out on support, and being seen in our pain.   
 
So if you want to be in a real-ationship, my encouragement is to keep communicating.  The harder it gets to be honest about the pain you’re in: be brave and share it.  It’s only going to be worse if you’re holding it in and not sharing, and both people feel isolated and unseen in the relationship.  Hard things, are, well, they’re hard to share. Sometimes impossible. But we have to take each other along on the journey if we want to stay together and grow. If we want a real-ationship. 
 
So what would happen if the things that you think you can’t share about your medical experience, you actually chose to share? 
 
And what would happen if at the same time you could trust your partner to let you know when they need a break from talking about it, and that you’ll come back to it, but you don’t take it personally?
 
This gives everyone an opportunity to be with each other in a crisis when we need each other the most, with enough space to deal with their own issues.  That’s part of one definition of compassion: having all the love in the world, but with a little bit of space. 
 
Everyone gets to be responsible for their own experience, and also be deeply loved. We get both autonomy and support. We get to rock each other to sleep.
 
But, here’s the trick: it’s a practice, and it can feel hard, scary, and vulnerable… but at the end of the day do you want to be in a real-ationship or not? 
 
If so, get brave, and get sharing.   

Does this seem true for you? Comment below:

Sometimes things seem too potent to try to share using narrative writing. At moments like these I watch myself turn towards my own bastardized form of poetry, to get to what’s vital. So here we go...
 
I wanted to share with you a little bit of what I learned from conversations in my relationships (with myself and others) this week:
 
​
Isn’t it sad how we come into the world in diapers and then go back to diapers. It’s pathetic.
No, it’s humbling.
 
What am I doing with my life?
I want to curl into a ball, in a cave, and never come out.
To give up. Because I’m overwhelmed.
But instead it’s time to create
These are growing pains.
 
They rock me like waves.
What lies beneath the waves?
What anchors me so I don’t float away from my potential?
 
You and your potential are fruit
The pain right now lies in how ripe you are, yet still on the stem
You will fall to the ground at some point regardless of ripeness, and be incorporated there.
So, how do you nurture yourself to feed your own fecund earth?
 
I know I need to nurture, I need to slow down… I’m overwhelmed, and I did it to myself again.
My business is how I cope.
I judge myself for not being able to internally motivate to change.
Right now it just feels like it needs to come from the outside.
But you don’t want it to come from your doctor.
(No, I want it to come from you.)
 
This is the hospital calling to schedule your next procedure.
 
Ego check.
Reality check.
Vulnerable. Scared. But of course I’ll be fine. I always am.
There’s my external motivation. It’s not the one I wanted. It never is.
But part of me is relieved. Now I have permission to come back to what matters.
Health. Relationship. Purpose.
 
And I’m reminded to:
Live your truth and share it,
You never know who you’re going to inspire.
 
 
Humbling growing pains
rock me like waves
The ripe fall.
 
Slow down.
Change is calling you.
 
Health. Relationship. Purpose. Inspiration. 

So dating.  As if dating weren’t a tough enough situation for most people, bringing up all kinds of internal “stuff,” now we throw illness into the picture.  Sometimes I imagine "Sex in the City" or "Friends," but give each character a chronic, life-altering, or terminal illness on top of it- can you picture it? (Oddly enough, they haven’t made that tv show yet!)

First date:

• Hi, nice to meet you, I have a chronic liver disease, what’s your name again? (Hmmm, I think that went well.)

 
How do I even approach the subject of my illness?  Awkward. That's one thing I assume, is that it’s going to be awkward..  The story in my head, based on zero facts, is that I’m going to tell this person about my illness and they’re going to:
     ·      Scream and run away
     ·      Start crying because they feel so bad
     ·      Spontaneously combust
Of course, all of these options are not dramatic at all, and seem totally possible. Particularly number 3.  Regardless, the conclusion of the story is that I’ll be left to pick up the pieces, and the check. 
 
What if I wait to tell them,? Ya, that could be a good idea. But that brings up the question: when do I wait until? I look fine on the outside, maybe they’ll never know.  Maybe I won’t have to tell them because it’ll just be a short term thing.  Maybe I can just pretend that I’m normal.  You know, go on a few dates, have great sex, everything ends before I have to say anything.  Oh wait, back to the present moment where we’re out having our first date dinner. I can’t drink because of my liver.  I know how this goes, I’m not going to have a drink (no matter how amazing this one date is it’s not worth a one way trip to the hospital so I can live out a fantasy that I’m normal for one dinner!). Which means that they’re going to say:

• You don’t want a drink, come-on, it’s on me, have a glass of wine. 
• I can’t, really.
• Huh. (I’m watching wheels spinning in their head coming to one of two conclusions. She's either:

      ·      In recovery. She’s an alcoholic.
      ·      Pregnant.  I’m on a date with a pregnant woman.)

• Ya. (and I’m thinking, here it comes, brace for impact, are they ask why I don't drink? Awkward. Awkward, awkward, so f-ing awkward!)

 
And with all this swirling in my head I’m definitely not present in the moment.  I forget the fact, and perspective, that lots of people have parts of themselves that they feel like they’re hiding.  That they’re wondering whether or not, or when, to share with someone new in their lives.  In fact I have lots of other things that I have like that too. 

We want to be authentic, but it’s so vulnerable.  
 
The facts in my experience are: I tell people, as soon as I can, and I notice what a challenge that is for me.  At the same time I pay attention to the person’s reaction.  It’s true, they may not be able to handle it, and then I’m so relieved to know that. Because I need to be seen for all of who I am, and this is a big part of me.  So they need to be able to tolerate the discomfort in their own system, and still want to get to know me, and hopefully grow with me. And that’s information I need to know at the beginning so that I can fully show up and not minimize myself or my experience.  Nothing is worth me dimming who I am and living with knowing that I’m only being a fraction of myself.
 
Also, in realty, most people I’ve told have surprised me by their reaction.  They’ve understood in the best way they know how, and they’ve usually related to an ex, a family member, or maybe even their own experience with their own illness (so my being vulnerable lets someone else be vulnerable too, and we realize how similar and human we actually are).  It’s been okay.  Big sigh of relief.
 
So, here’s the point: be brave. This is part of who we are, and part of how we get to do relationship. We get to be 100% real, true, us in our relationships: real-ationships. Claim it no matter how uncomfortable and awkward it may seem, and then gather some information about whether this is a genuine connection or not. Scary, but hopefully doable.  Trust me, it gets easier over time. 
 
We’re not broken, we’re human. And we deserve to be in relationship.
 
What do you think, does this feel true for you?