Everything else, Grief, Writing

Permission to Rest

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Once upon a time, I might have known what these three words meant.

Permission to rest. 

Somewhere along the way, I forgot.

It’s easy enough to forget things. I forget all the time. Most of last fall I was caught up in a frantic haze of activity. Keep busy, keep busy, keep busy. Holding still for more than a fraction of a second felt like failure. In the course of a session one day, my therapist told me I needed to give myself permission to rest. I nodded and said okay, sure, I’ll do that.

I mean, I’m a reasonably intelligent human being. And I’m pretty good with words. I thought I understood. But it turned out I didn’t. I understood the words individually, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t grasp how to turn them into a verb. Like having a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a jar of jelly in the other, and being unable to figure out how to make a sandwich. So I posted in a group I’m in on Facebook, a group of book lovers, because I figured they are smart and could help me out. And they tried.

But what I realized was, everyone else was too far ahead of me. They were giving me instructions for algebra, but I still needed help with addition. The more I thought about those three words, the bigger they became in my mind. I thought it needed to be some kind of special Permission to Rest time, at a specific time of day, and it seemed as if that would be too much for me, so I quit trying to figure it out. At some point, a friend said to me that it could mean just staring at the wall for five minutes a day. That was something tangible, something I could comprehend. I started doing that. There was something in that silence that reached through the cacophony in my soul.

For me, permission to rest meant permission to cut the noise out.

Once I had a handle on it, I took it a little further. I spent some time cleaning out my social media. Unliked a couple hundred pages on Facebook. Chopped my friends list by a few hundred. If I looked at a name and couldn’t recall where I knew them from, delete. If I hadn’t posted in a group in a couple of months, delete. If someone’s posts were stressing me out, delete. Even real life friends. Even family. Then I started in on Twitter. Same rules. This cost me a lot of followers, but I guess if they were only following me so I would follow them, they didn’t really care about me or my writing to begin with, so no great loss. I unfollowed almost all the celebrities or TV shows I used to follow. I didn’t do these things all at once. It took a few weeks. Some I had to really think about. Then I unfollowed news outlets. The final cut was local animal shelter pages. Anything that caused me stress or upset had to go.

Television was a struggle for me. There are shows I like, and I wanted to watch them. But plots were hard for me to follow and my brain would take whatever I watched and turn it into some horrendous nightmare about death. So, I quit watching TV. (Keep your TWD spoilers to yourself, people. I might pick it up back at some point.) For a while, even music grated on my nerves.

The silence has given me space to mourn.

The silence has given me space to begin to heal.

About two weeks ago, I heard myself laughing really hard at something my youngest son said. It was such an unfamiliar sound, I was startled.

Lately, I’ve been listening to music again. Really focusing on the lyrics. Good music does a lot to lift my heart and I’m grateful I can tolerate it again. I’m listening only to specific bands at this time. Only the ones that really speak to me, and that’s a fairly eclectic mix. Hello Dave. Dead Man Fall. Rend Collective. Hugh Laurie. Big & Rich, and Kenny Alphin’s solo stuff. I have a YouTube mix that I keep on a loop.

There’s a line in Alice in Wonderland where the Mad Hatter says, “It’s good to be working at my trade again.” I’m feeling that right now. Feeling it hard. The absence of the ability to write was a grief all its own. When Knowing Comes releases March 10th. It’s unlikely that I will do any sort of release event for this one. I’m learning to recognize my limits and adhere to them. It means more to me that I am able to write again, that I finished the book. Even in the midst of all the pain of the last few months, I finished the book. I’ll send ARCs out to reviewers, and I’m going to do a live video in my FB readers group on the day it goes live. That’s what I can handle, so that’s what I’m doing.

Not too long ago, my husband sent me a word game on Facebook. I was supposed to unscramble the letters. The letters I got were E-R-T-E. I looked at those letters for an hour. I could not form a word. I remember thinking it was some kind of joke game, because those letters didn’t make any word.

I’m a writer, and my mind was so cloudy I couldn’t spell the word “tree.”

Now I’ve finished writing one book and have a good start on another. I’m blogging again. It feels good. It feels right.

Permission to rest.

Permission to be still. Permission to cut the noise.

Permission to feel the silence.

Permission to heal.

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Bits and Whatnots, Everything else, Grief

Life in Color

Sometimes forward steps seem so small. It’s imperative to remember that any step forward is still a step forward. It doesn’t matter if that one tiny step has taken you years to make.

Forward is forward.

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Yesterday, I did something I haven’t done in many years. Longer than that, actually. Something I haven’t done since I was about fifteen or sixteen. And I’m a long way past that now – forty-two.

It seems like a tiny thing. A normal thing. Something I imagine most humans do on a regular basis. Let me back up a minute.

When I was a young teen, my sister went to cosmetology school. I went in often to let her practice on my hair and nails. Eventually, she graduated, and after that, anything that was done to my hair took place either in her kitchen or mine. I haven’t been to a salon since then. Not once. Those times when she was cutting or coloring my hair were catch-up moments for us. What’s been going on, what the kids are up to, who she was dating.

Now, my hair isn’t something I spend a whole of time on. I wash it, blow dry it, and just leave the Medusa curls as they are. It’s thick, heavy, and generally uncooperative, and it just takes too long to do anything else with it. I’m also not good with keeping up on coloring it, so by the time I get around to it, I’ve got a couple inches of roots grown out. By the time my sister started having pain in her shoulder, it had been months since I’d cut or colored it. Then she wasn’t able to move her arm well enough to hold her scissors. And very shortly after that, we knew it was stage 4 cancer.

After she died, the thought of anyone else touching my hair was so repulsive I couldn’t stand it. For a long time, I did nothing with it. By the year after her death, my hair was such a mess, even I couldn’t stand it any more. The ends were dead and splitting inches up from the bottom, and it was making the curls look more like I’d just stuck my car key in a light socket.

I looked up how to cut my hair in layers on YouTube, and found a tutorial for doing it by putting my hair up in a ponytail and cutting. I did it myself in my bathroom, and when my hair hit the floor I cried because she wasn’t the one cutting it. That first time was rough, but once I figured out how to do it, it wasn’t so bad. Two, maybe three times a year, I’d just pull my wet hair up in a ponytail and lop off a couple of inches. It took me four years before I could let anyone else touch my hair, and even then, it was my daughter.

She’s a cosmetology student at the local community college. Last summer, I sat in my kitchen chair and let her even up the mess I’d made of my hair and then color it. It was funny how similar her hands felt to my sister’s. Quick and confident.

About a month ago, I woke up one morning and decided to cut myself bangs. They turned out all right. I just used regular household scissors. But after that, I felt like I needed a big change. I decided to color my hair purple.

So my daughter made me an appointment, and yesterday I drove to her cosmetology school and spent six hours getting the red out of my hair and the purple and brown put in. It was crowded and noisy, and at times, that was difficult for me to handle. Since my brother’s death, I haven’t been out in public much. Crowds trigger my anxiety attacks. But I made myself sit through it. Even though my daughter is the one who did my hair, it seemed so strange to be in a salon. The experience took me right back to when I was fifteen, sitting in a twirly black chair at my sister’s school.

When it was finally all done, I left the school and drove straight to my church. A friend of ours had passed away and I went to his memorial service. After I parked my car, I checked myself in the rearview and realized I had purple dye smeared on my cheek.

I went in anyway.

Funerals have gotten hard for me. I know most people don’t actually like funerals, but for me, having lost so many family members in a short span of time, it’s difficult for me to fight through flashbacks, and sometimes I have trouble catching my breath. This was the second funeral for me this week. The church was crammed full of people, so for the second time yesterday, I had to force myself to handle being in a crowd without having a panic attack. I made it through the entire service but didn’t stay for the dinner because my personal limits had been reached. Sometimes I just have to say no and either people will understand or they won’t. I can’t control their reactions.

It seems like a small thing – going to get my hair done. But for me, it was a huge, huge step forward. Yesterday was the longest consecutive amount of time I think I’ve spent in a crowd since my brain went to shit about six months ago.

That tells me two things:

  1. This combination of medication is working for me.
  2. Hope is out there. Somewhere.

Grief and its aftermath are such hard things to live through. But I’m doing it.

I’ve said before that intense grief is like suddenly having an enormous hole in your leg. At first, it seems like your life is over – how can you function with a gaping hole in your leg? You can’t walk. You can’t do anything. It’s awful. You need help with everything and it’s unimaginable that you will ever have any semblance of a normal life again.  At some point, though, you realize you can do some of the things you used to do, you just need to do them in a different way. And later, you don’t need as much help. You can go on with your life, though you might need a cane and you’ll always have a limp.

My purple hair is me walking with a limp.

But at least I’m walking.

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Everything else, Writing

Anti – Alpha

Let’s talk about alpha males in fiction for a minute. The men who resemble gods – they’re all about six-foot-five – with perfect teeth, perfect hair, rippling muscles. They always get the girl, even though a lot of the time, they act like absolute jerks.

Yeah.

I really don’t like the whole alpha male thing.

Which is why I enjoy writing my character Rogan so much. Since I wrote the first Windy Springs book, he’s been my all-time favorite character. I see and hear him so clearly in my head, I feel like I could just reach in and pluck him out. He’s fiercely protective of his family and friends. He’s been hurt, but doesn’t wallow in it. He loves to read and is well-spoken. He’s emotional and open about that. When he’s upset or overwhelmed, he cries. Because he’s a human being with feelings. He’s kindhearted and gentle.

He’s also five-foot-two. Bald. And has crooked teeth, because his parents couldn’t afford to get him braces when he was young. As a child, he was bullied.

He’s grown up to be a good, good man. He’s short and strong. Not short but strong.

Short and strong.

He’s comfortable with who he is. He’s a sensitive guy, but unafraid to fight if it’s warranted. Hardworking, but doesn’t have some glamorous job. Lives frugally in a single-wide trailer, but is not some “trailer trash” stereotype.

Rogan is freakin’ awesome. And hell yeah, he gets the girl.

I’m so excited to share with you that the second book in the Secrets of Windy Springs series is now available for preorder. When Knowing Comes will release March 10th. Book three is already in the works.

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Everything else, Writing

Making Strange Art

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One of the coolest things about indie art is the variety. The art I tend to love best is the kind that doesn’t fit into any neat category. It’s the work that colors outside the lines, the brave ideas that forge a new path that catches my eye.

Maybe those artists don’t have a huge following, but that doesn’t mean their style of art isn’t worth making. Creating art for public viewing is scary enough as it is, even when you make it “to market”, when it’s the trendiest and likely the most accepted sort. Creating art for public consumption that is weird and likely to be scoffed at…

Man, that’s pretty terrifying.

When you pour your heart and soul into a piece of work, shine it up the best you can, and let it fly – it’s like sharing a piece of what makes you tick inside. It’s sharing a bit of the part that makes you, well, you. 

And regardless what sort of art you make, there will always be people to tear it down. Always.

But there will also be the people who have just been waiting for the sort of art you create, and when they find it, it will speak to their soul in a way that connects you to them. They’ll recognize it as something they’ve always needed. They’ll love it. They’ll share it. They’ll tell people about it.

I read a comment about my work where a person who has never met me stated, “She just hasn’t found her voice yet, that’s all.”

Oh, honey. I’ve found my voice.

My voice is multi genre. My voice is weird. My voice may be different, but it’s mine, and I intend to continue writing my strange books to the best of my ability for the foreseeable future.

People will like them. Or they won’t. That’s not my problem.

My burden lies in writing my books as well as I can, and putting them out for other fringe souls to find.

Make your weird art, and know the people who need it will find it. Don’t conform for the sake of an audience. There is a crowd out there waiting for the art only you can create.

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Bits and Whatnots, Grief

A Different Sort of Love

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Tomorrow is Valentine’s day, and in the spirit of celebration, I’m going to share a love story with you.

Not that kind of love story.

This one is about the love of a community.

My brother’s wishes were to be cremated. As a family, we decided to use some of his ashes to have jewelry made for each of us as a keepsake. Most of them came in back before Christmas, but my two daughters had ordered blown glass pendants, which took longer to create. They were ordered in early November, and just came in February 3rd. I drove out to the funeral home in our old hometown to pick them up. It was a Friday, and my daughters were ecstatic that they had finally come in.

Last Tuesday, February 6th, I was at work when my cell phone rang. It was my youngest daughter’s number. When I answered the phone, she was wailing, a terrible, strangled cry that broke my heart.

She had lost her necklace. She had come home from school, changed, picked up her pendant – which was still in the box it came in from Crescent Memorial – put it in her pocket and stopped at a local store on her way to her boyfriend’s house to show it off. During the drive, she realized the box was no longer in her pocket, and immediately retraced her steps. She searched the store and the lot, to no avail.

The beautiful blown glass pendant – ordered in blue and green, because my brother loved nature – the last link she had to her beloved uncle, was gone. Her heart was shattered.

I made a public post on my Facebook page with a picture of the pendant and a plea to help us find it. We live in a very small town, and I hoped local friends might have spotted it. My husband went to the store and looked again, and the employees felt so bad for my daughter, they got out dust mops and checked under all the shelving units, just in case it had somehow fallen beneath them.

By the time I came home from work that night, my post had been shared over 500 times. Considering I only have about 370 Facebook friends, that was pretty good. The next morning, it had been shared over 1,000 times, and I had glass blowers messaging me with offers to make my daughter a new pendant, free of charge, if we had more ashes. Around ten a.m., a local news station saw the story and asked to interview us. Neither of us were excited to do that, but we hoped it might get the attention of more locals. After all, the pendant had to be somewhere, right? Someone had to have seen it. So we went and we did it. The story aired on the 6 o’clock news, and my Facebook post continued to be shared, with comments by complete strangers who said they were looking, or were sharing in local buy/sell groups. I received notifications from people who had shared in Kentucky. Oregon. Florida. Literally across the United States. And it hadn’t even been 24 hours since the necklace had been lost.

Thursday, a local radio station reached out to my daughter for permission to share the story on their Facebook page. She agreed, and soon that story was being shared as well. So many people left kind comments, stating they were praying for us, that they understood our grief and what this necklace represented to my daughter. A glass blower in Oregon messaged me and offered to make my daughter a new bead, if we sent some ashes to her. She said she’d do it even if we found the necklace. This sort of generous spirit amazed us. So many strangers reaching out with love, with hope. It made a difference.

In the beginning, we offered a $50 reward for the safe return of the necklace, no questions asked. On Friday, I edited my post to raise the reward to $100. Later that day, my daughter received a call from a number she didn’t recognize.

“Are you Savannah, the one who lost the necklace?”

She barely dared to hope. “Yes, I am.”

“I saw the story on the radio station page and on the news and recognized it. I can bring it to you right now.”

They met in a grocery store parking lot. My daughter offered her the reward money, and the woman refused. She wished to remain anonymous.

We have this cherished necklace back, and there are hardly words to describe what that means to us.

The news  station ran a follow up story about it, and the comments from people who said they had been praying for us all week, that we had been on their minds, were simply amazing. I updated my Facebook post to thank everyone and let them know the necklace had come home, and total strangers contacted us to share their joy that we had it back.

That is love in action. That is community. That is family.

It’s a different sort of love story, but no less important.

 

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Bits and Whatnots, Writing

A Daring, Hopeful Diagnosis

 

typewriterI’ve always thought everyone else was simply better at being a person than I was.
In every aspect of my life, including writing, I have struggled to maintain my focus. Not in the way most people do – where they get distracted by a noise or a conversation for a second and then bounce back to what they were doing. I zone out, come back, and realize I’ve been signed up for a committee I didn’t want to be on or some other unwanted responsibility. I can’t remember most things I need to do through the day if I don’t write them down and pin them someplace where I know I’ll see them – so my house and desk at work are full of post it notes and scraps of paper with notes to myself scribbled on them.
I want to remember. I just can’t.
I get very frustrated with myself when I can’t make myself remember, or when I can’t sit still and feel actual pain if I don’t move some part of my body. I feel frustrated when I’m in public and snapping my fingers or tapping my fingers together or bouncing my knees to the point I annoy the people around me. I try to stop. But then it feels like bees are swarming around inside me instead and I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t start moving again. I wonder how other people manage to control that feeling. I marvel at writers who consistently sit and write for hours every day.
Most of my dedicated writing or creativity time looks like this: write for five minutes, get up, walk around, read a paragraph of a book, crochet for five minutes, walk around, remind myself to write, try to relax so I can, start bouncing my knees because I need to move, remember I was supposed to call someone today, try to find the piece of paper I wrote the number on, chastise myself for not washing the dishes, start clean water to do it, sit back down to write, forget I turned the water on, remember ten minutes later when the sink is overflowing, clean that up, berate myself for being stupid, sit back down to write, remember I still had to call someone, try to find the paper I wrote the number on again…
My brain has always been this way. I’ve put it down to being an extremely creative person. High school was a struggle. College was a struggle. Anything that has more than three lines of instructions on it is a struggle for me. I didn’t know everyone’s brain doesn’t work like this.
I’ve only ever had the one brain, so I couldn’t compare.
Turns out, not everyone thinks this way. They aren’t just better at controlling it than I am. They aren’t just better people. They aren’t just smarter than I am.
I’m not lazy or stupid or less of a person.
I just have ADHD.
I’m 42, and when I was in school, ADHD was just getting to be more widely known. At that time, it seemed to mostly be a label stuck to little boys who couldn’t hold still or listen to directions in school. I was well-behaved and did my work and sat still – with great effort.
But as I’ve gotten older, it seems to be getting worse. And since my brother’s death, it has worsened exponentially. I’m used to being scatterbrained, but this is a whole new level. It feels like I’m trying to think with a brain made of Swiss cheese. I know grief can do a number on our brains, but I was beginning to feel like I couldn’t trust myself to function on a daily basis. The anxiety is worse, as well, and I’m in treatment and trying to learn ways to cope with that. It’s hard.
Now that I know what the problem is, I can get help for it. I’m thankful for science and medication, and having a prescription to try and coping mechanisms to learn makes me feel like there might be a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I know there are other writers and creatives who have ADHD and have managed to produce beautiful art. It gives me hope.
I’ve finished When Knowing Comes and it has gone out to the editor. I’ll soon have a pretty website (courtesy of my talented and intelligent daughter) with a newsletter – something I’ve tried and failed to do multiple times in the last few years. I have an assistant now who is helping me streamline and keep up with the social media end of writing. I feel much less overwhelmed. And I’ve been on medication for just over a week. I can actually feel my brain becoming less scrambled. It’s weird.
I will likely always be scattered and impulsive and struggle with focus to some extent. But for the first time in a long, long while, I’m excited to see what the future holds.

I’ve got a long ways to go, but I’m confident I’m going to get there.

 

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