You may not want to read this post if you don’t want to hear about my experience with incontinence, as it has played a significant role in my life lately. Feel free to skip this post and remember me as a sexier person in control of her bladder. I certainly would like to.

When I was in high school, our Sunday school class would visit an old folks’ home. That was the gist of it for me. We visited them to take them to church services in their facility, as I recall. I also recall wheelchairs and the smell of stale urine. There’s a huge gap between age 16-ish (where I was) and where those people were in life. It was a little jarring and difficult to relate to. Not so anymore. I turned 50 last month, and that gap has been closing for some time now. I much more relate to the golden bachelor(ette)s than I do to the younger contestants – although I remember the younger times, and I can still relate to those kids in some ways.

I don’t get sick often, but I’ve been sick three times this year. In the winter, the doctor said it wasn’t sick so much as just the stuff everybody was dealing due to weather changes. But it sure felt like sickness.

Just before my birthday last month, I started coughing. My throat felt like it had fiberglass in it. It continues to feel like there is something in it I have to cough out. I started feeling ill 08/11 (no cough yet, just weird) and I had a physical scheduled 08/15. By then the cough and fiberglass throat had set in, so I thought this was perfect timing for a doctor to check me out. He didn’t even look at my throat, but he did comment that the current COVID strain is described as razorblade throat. He didn’t test me, just sent me on my way. I thought I was just too far gone to do anything with until weeks passed and a friend at work came down with COVID and got on Paxlovid and was magically healed almost immediately. Turns out you can get that wonder drug within 5 days of diagnosis, so I sure wish now I’d been tested there on day 5. Lesson learned.

Instead, it’s day 21. I finally went to urgent care on Friday and got steroids to try and boost my healing. The urgent care physician thinks I probably had COVID, but now I just have a lingering cough. I’ve eaten my weight in cough drops, not that they help. I’m just trying in vain not to cough at work. I found out Friday that the girl who sits next to me also has what I have. No mystery where she caught it. I was at work for 4 days before I knew I was sick, and even when I found out I was sick, the doctor just said it was viral, despite his reference to the razorblade COVID. Before that, I thought I just had some kind of allergic/weather cough. Thereafter, a couple of times, the coughing was so significant I vomited – once while sleeping, which meant I threw up all over myself and the bed and had to get up and do laundry in the middle of the night. I’ve coughed so hard I assume I’ve bruised my ribs and/or every muscle around them. I wasn’t sure why I was hurting in specific areas, so I’ve now learned a lot about where lungs and ribs are located. The pain has been excruciating at times. I could barely lift myself to cough; I couldn’t use one arm very well; it hurt to bend down. I dreaded coughing because of the severe pain it brought with it, but it was impossible NOT to cough. I’ve tried cough syrup, tea, whiskey/lemon/honey/elderberry syrup, just honey, Nyquil, plenty of water. This weekend, I’ve had no plans for 2 days and been sooooooooo wonderfully lazy. I haven’t even showered (but maybe I should) and I found some leftover medication we have helps me sleep, so that’s been nice, because the coughing schedule is a lot like having a newborn, I think.

At some point, I had to accept that I was peeing all over myself when I coughed. I’d had some issues with what was described to me as “stress urinary incontinence” back in January when I was sick-or-not. I was coughing so hard one night that I had to clean off the car seat when I got home. So I sucked it up then and bought some little pee-absorbing panty liners, which were sufficient. I’ve tried the Kegel exercises and I think my personal trainer said some of what we do will help. But currently, the coughing has been so significant and prolonged, I found myself progressing to actual incontinence pads. So here I am coughing and peeing, and the sounds and smells of unwellness and urine took me right back to that nursing home. Right back to every nursing home I’ve visited since. Not only is it rare that I get sick, but it’s rare that I get sick in a way that my body doesn’t find a way to kick it. This sickness has me feeling like I might die. This sickness has me feeling defeated, and gross, and sleeping in a separate bedroom for the last couple of weeks because I cough day and night and keep anyone nearby awake. (Bright side for guests who have slept in that room previously: it’s very hot in there, I found out, so we’ve now installed a ceiling fan, and I’ll be rearranging the furniture so the bed goes underneath the AC vent.)

I realize it’s only coincidence that I happened to get this sick right around my 50th birthday. Turning 50 itself didn’t matter much to me. But watching Netflix while possibly dying of COVID cough and seeing ads for all the new vaccines I’ll be asked to get in this new half century of my life (hello, shingles and pneumococcal) really explained to me that I am no longer in the “young and healthy” bracket. Possibly, I’ll be healthy again. Or healthier. But I’m sure as shit not young, even if I seem like it sometimes because I’m fun. I do believe that age is only a number – to an extent. But this number has moved me into a different bracket and arrived while I am being taken down by a fucking cough and unable to control my bladder.

I know some of you will read this with eyes and years much older than 50 and laugh at what I have yet to discover. I get it. I don’t even know why I think this is blog-worthy other than maybe because misery loves company. So whether I find comfort in sharing my misery or you find comfort in reading it – here it is. And if you find yourself surprised by a cough that turns into something even less pleasant…just suck it up and get the pads. It beats being afraid to stand up and look behind you.

Here’s to 50! And to not coughing again, ever. (I wish.)

I did not even care to be on Facebook.

A friend created an account for me so we could play Scrabble, because he logged into Scrabble via Facebook, I guess, and needed me to also have a Facebook account so we could play together.  Thus, BA Barakus was born, and I learned about Mr. T’s “real” name – and the pros and cons of social media since MySpace.

Facebook turned out to be pretty fun.  I connected with people I hadn’t seen since college, some who lived across the country once we found each other again.  I connected with people in different countries.  I connected with people I met once who seemed likable.  I have “friends” from friends’ bachelorette parties whom I’ve only seen that party weekend, and then at the wedding, and maybe at a wedding shower.  Some of their spouses were also my friends.  Facebook is good like that, showing you whom you have in common.  I have a friend from Asheville who now lives in Texas who’s friends (at least on Facebook) with my husband’s friend (or friend’s wife?) who lives in South Carolina and also was neighbors with my friend who used to work with me 3 law firms ago.  The South Carolina bunch ended up at my lawyer friend’s wedding and recognized my husband. 

I love that stuff.  I love Facebook’s 6 degrees of separation even if it still hasn’t led me to Kevin Bacon. 

But the longer I am on Facebook, the less of it I love.

My husband told me once – and I don’t think he claims this as his original thought – that Twitter is where you go to find out strangers are assholes and Facebook is where you go to find out people you know are assholes.  You can replace asshole (which is a gross word, albeit accurate here) with idiots in this instance, too.

I realize as I write this that no change will come from anything I say, other than the change I am effectuating in my own behavior, which is to spend less time online. Because it isn’t fun anymore. It is a mindless chore of sorts, hoping I will scroll across something delightful or useful receive a thoughtful message from someone while also cringing through the minefield of junk, opinions, criticisms, and ads.  And although I am making Facebook my subject here, because it is more often the site I’m on when I feel my blood pressure rise, I’ve long avoided Twitter’s seemingly hostile chaos, and Instagram isn’t flawless.  It’s not even the apps I’m mad at (as Facebook tries to become Pinterest and Instagram tries to become my life coach and Twitter tries to make me my best keyboard warrior self) – it’s the people whose content creates spaces I want to avoid.  I am avoiding people. 

My friends’ son died of an overdose this morning.  I assume it was fentanyl, given his history.

I woke to a happy text from his mother, letting me know he was home from county jail, where he had been for months.  He was only home temporarily, as he was set to enter the Mecklenburg County Supervision, Treatment, Education, and Prevention (S.T.E.P.) Program.

We were cautiously optimistic.  He had gained sobriety in jail for the first time in a long time.  His family enjoyed conversations with him that they had not had in years.

I replied to my friend’s text, supportive of her son being home, curious what next steps would be.  He needs a job, he needs a car, he needs permanent housing … 

While I showered, she responded that he was dead.

He was released last night and called her at 11:27pm to come get him.  She texted me today at 6:13am.  My understanding now is that he was dead within that window and we just didn’t know it.

I have had a special place in my heart for addicts my entire life, being raised by two recovered alcoholics.  I spend a lot of time wondering why some people can pleasantly, responsibly enjoy what others can only unhealthily indulge, why some people dip toes in both of those ponds, why some people are tee-totalers.  I don’t think fentanyl is anywhere on the “enjoy responsibly” list, and when mourning someone’s loss, perhaps the why is insignificant.  What seems hugely significant today is the absence of a 29YO man I hoped was recovering so I could meet his greater self.  What seems hugely significant today is the breaking hearts of my friends, their extended family, and even the little family we have formed over the last couple of years.  What led us here no longer matters.  What matters now is moving forward, one sad little day at a time.

It was important to Mom that we went to church, so we started going when my sister and I were elementary school age, I think. If anybody knows when Wannie Harden was pastor at Blair Road, that’s when we started going. At that time, pastors changed every four years, and we were very sad when it was time for Wannie to transfer out of our church and into some other folks’ hearts. There were other fine pastors who followed, but none quite so special to me as Lynn Upchurch, who entered my broken heart upon the death of both of my parents, particularly my dad. I think Jenny would say the same.

One of the families we knew at Blair Road was the Ellises: John, Joy, Chris, and Britt. I visited with and cared some for Joy’s mom in her older years. Her name was “Bubbles” and I’d love to know more about that, but am not sure I thought to ask then where she got her nickname. They were all just good people we knew and liked. Joy died the month before Mom did. I was at her memorial service with Mom just like everything was normal on our end except another cancer diagnosis we were waiting for her to beat, and not a month later Mom was gone. So in that way, Joy and Mom are forever linked to me.

Dad was a shriveler after Mom died. Joy’s husband, John, was never a shriveler. He and Joy were always lively and smiling and fun. They made friends with a woman who attended Pete’s and my wedding solo, and I have photos of them having a grand ol’ time at the reception. John brought supper to Dad after Mom died, and tried to help Dad use the V.A., but Dad wasn’t interested (and didn’t even seem very appreciative, although he probably was somewhere in his broken, dying heart). When Dad died, John helped me with his military paperwork and getting the military marker and things like that. I saw him this past November at a church service and am glad I spoke to him even as he was trying to get away to somewhere he thought he needed to be. John loved Pete, and listened to him. John was so busy I couldn’t even make plans with him because he always had something going on! John stayed in touch and I wish I had saved any of his voice mail messages to listen to now, although they would make me cry. 

John is now reunited with his Joy, and with my parents, and for that, I am grateful. But for us, I am sad. 

Photo credit here goes to Alex Newton or her friend Randy Shaw (date 03/20/2010).

I attended a memorial service today for the son of some other friends. I counted 5 people I saw and hugged and was glad to see today who were not known to me or were not significant to me before either of my parents died, but through those tremendous losses, they became such special people to me. They worked at the funeral home or the church; they came to see us in the hospital or at our home; they cared for us; they performed the memorial service; they drove us during the memorial service; they told our stunned, empty, zombie, grieving selves where to go and what to do during the memorial service (and helped us plan it); they remembered us; they loved us – and we love each other even now, 11 and 9 years later, and we always will. I am so grateful for amazing friendships born of such devastation. I am grateful that we can help each other through continued loss and celebrate additional joys together. 

I am, simply, grateful, even as I am sad. That is the silver lining. I am clearly entering the years where there are more funerals. There is more loss. There are more stories about memories I have than about amazing new things I am likely do to – which is partly because I’m not super adventurous. I watch the young folks in our family and I am so excited and hopeful for them. I am so glad for those of us who already did what awaits them. I am sad for the ones who never got to do all the things. Life is phases and passing batons and creating new relationships and ending others and through the happy and sad of it all, I love it. Sometimes it hurts like I might die, but to quote Truvy in Steel Magnolias, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” That is how I know I won’t actually die . . . yet.

My mom had two brothers (pictured at the end of this blog). The one on the left is her twin (Uncle Bob) and the one on the right (Uncle Cliff) is their older brother by 3 years. Mom and the older brother actually more physically resembled each other, but when it came to heart, she and the twin were a match.

Uncle Cliff died today. My mom, as you may know, died in 2013. The photo here is from 2010. Sometime in or before 2016, Uncle Cliff and his wife broke off from basically all of our family. Uncle Bob and his wife, Aunt Linda, thought it was something they had done, a fallout from a disagreement, but in retrospect, Uncle Cliff and his family quit attending all of our family functions. When my sister and I visited Uncle Bob and Aunt Linda at the beach this past summer, Jenny’s youngest son encouraged us to invite Uncle Cliff and Aunt Kitty (Uncle Cliff’s wife) over to play cornhole. These brothers and their wives had beach homes within walking distance of each other, but had ceased contact. Jenny and I took sweet 12YO Eli’s advice and walked some houses down the street. Uncle Cliff answered the door, scowled at us, told us they were eating dinner, and closed the door.

There was a different summer, one I prefer to remember, when I was high school or college age and Uncle Cliff and Aunt Kitty invited Mom, Dad, Jenny, and me to the beach. They also let Jenny and me each bring a friend! But my best memory of it is that Uncle Cliff and I walked the shore and found sharks’ teeth. I have no idea what we talked about, but just the two of us walked and found teeth. I liked that guy a whole lot. That’s the guy I mourn, and have mourned for many years.

I follow my cousin’s wife (Uncle Cliff’s daughter-in-law) and her two daughters on Instagram. They seem lovely and the daughters even interact with me a little bit. One of them posted a photo this week of Uncle Cliff and Aunt Kitty on their wedding day, which I thought was an anniversary post, but now I understand it differently. 

My mom’s twin found out that his last surviving sibling died today because someone posted something on a public forum. That’s how a man who never stopped loving his brother found out he lost his last sibling. His brother’s widow/children didn’t notify him or ask anyone else to. I have no reason to think any of us will be notified of memorial services, just as we weren’t notified of Uncle Cliff’s retirement ceremony, which was “just family.” Frankly, we have all been waiting for years to find out that Uncle Cliff died some time ago and nobody bothered to tell us, but they had a lovely service for, you know, his family. Realizing now that I saw an Instagram post that a handful of people knew meant my uncle was dying and I that thought meant it was his wedding anniversary is a great demonstration of how severed this family is.

In 2010, these brothers loved each other. That is why I chose this photo. That is the loss. I am sad that my mom’s brother died and that I am so disconnected from his immediate family, who are facing their worst Christmas ever, that I cannot even send them condolences. But he is someone I don’t know any more because he chose not to know me. When he shut the door in our face this summer, it was as helpful as it was shocking. It removed any question I had about what I could do to restore the broken relationships in our family. I could do nothing. That is a difficult realization for a helper, but it’s true. I cannot fix relationships where I am not invited or welcome. And so, my uncle is dead and I have memories, I have questions, I have sadness, I have anger. And I guess that’s regular old grief.

I originally majored in psychology because I wanted to understand people. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand statistics, so that didn’t work out.

I think even from childhood, I have tried to understand people – why we behave as we do, why we feel as we do. Ultimately, I decided the most important person to understand is myself, because I have the most control and insight over myself. I learned that I can’t be the only one supporting a relationship. I learned that I may never understand why people do and feel the way they do, and I may never understand why I behave and feel as I do, but I can work on myself. I can’t always make myself do better or make better choices, but I have a significantly better chance of forcing myself to do something than I do of forcing anyone else to do anything.

I schedule my life like I understand the airport schedules flights: I overbook. I do it because I have a high capacity for people and events, because I am an extrovert, and because people consistently let me down and I need more people than most to remain fulfilled. I think that’s the short of it. So, Lord only knows what it must feel like for most of you who only need something like 3 people in your life when I let you down – because I do. I am a person and I am fallible and I have bad days and I screw things up.

And I will apologize for the bad days and the things I screw up, but not for being different and busy and having difficulty understanding group limits when it comes to scheduling events. If you want one on one time with me, I am truly flattered – and confused – and you will have to be really specific in making sure I understand that this goal is important to you, because likely you know someone else I know and it makes sense to me that they should join us, or I know someone I think you would like and they also should come along. I am a gatherer of people. It may well be a double-edged sword, but I think most days, it is a splendid gift.

My mom was the nicest person I ever knew.

After she died, I learned from my therapist about the enneagram and am convinced that Mom was a Helper (Type Two — The Enneagram Institute) like I am.  She used to go to multiple stores to find things I added to the grocery list.  She listened tirelessly to my stories.  She really, really cared about people and almost never asked to put herself first.  Like me, she didn’t know many strangers and did a lot of things by herself because she wasn’t going to miss something she wanted to do just because nobody else would do it with her.  And then, like me, there would come times when all of her selfless sacrifice felt oh so unappreciated and unnoticed, and she would break.  When Helpers are healthy, we help and we need nothing in return.  Maybe we would like to be thanked.  Too much helping without any recognition is a bit grating.  And when we are unhealthy, we sulk.  We resent.  We become martyrs.  “Nobody loves me, nobody cares, all I do is for nothing, nobody would miss me if I wasn’t here, but on the other hand nobody could do this without me . . .”

I had a boss call me a martyr once.  He wasn’t being insightful, or kind.  It was a criticism, an insult.  I deleted his contact information this week – not because of that comment – but because our relationship is only supported by me.  I don’t even know if you call that a relationship.  I think you call it memories one person is hanging onto.  I still know his contact information by heart after working for him for 12 years, but not having it saved it will remind me when I try to text him that there is a reason he isn’t in my phone anymore. 

I wish I could share insights with Mom as I discover ways we are similar.  She used to get her feelings hurt and cry and it made me so sad, but sometimes I also thought she was overreacting and I didn’t know how to help.  I just knew she was legitimately sad.  Sometimes we would have wonderful talks where I really understood her, even when I was young.  I would like to tell her so many things I think I understand now.  The other day I was reorganizing her and Dad’s house in my mind – how it could function better for them if they were still there.  So pointless, as we sold it 8 years ago and they are both dead, but I remember that space so clearly. 

Mom died when I was 37.  I’d only been married three years and was starting to learn firsthand about marital relationships, and I could empathize and understand my mom in ways I never had before.  I think I have gained insight about her and myself that would help her and make her feel less alone in ways she may have before.  But I also think when we lose someone, we see more of them in ourselves because we can’t see them anymore.  I see more of Dad in myself now than I did when he was alive . . . or, I see him differently in myself.  I have a kinder view of him.  We can never be combative anymore.  I’m glad most of our head-butting faded in his later years, anyway.

This week was rough.  April 26^th was 10 years since Mom died, and I thought about it all day.  I also had a busy week at work and a few medical things going on that mostly just annoyed me, possibly more than they would on a different week.  I decided to change dermatologists because the last few office visits have made me want to quit going back.  This time, I had to pay more than $200 at the front desk before I was even seen and was told it’s because I have a high-deductible plan.  Then I got to see the doctor, and thus started the barrage of questions/comments I could barely answer before the next one started.

“Oh, I see you have makeup on.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.”

“Do you wear it for work?”

“Yes.”

“If you refuse to take it off, we’ll have to have you come back for a separate face exam.” 

Um, file that away under things that is not going to happen.  Lady, I’ve been coming to you for YEARS.  When have I ever refused to remove my makeup? 

“Usually I make a note on my calendar not to put on makeup for these appointments.  I just forgot.  I’m not refusing to remove it.”

“OK, thanks.  Here, wipe it off with your left hand while I examine your right hand/arm.  You have on toenail polish.  Do your naked toenails look like these photos [of skin cancer]?  I see you have some color.”

“Oh, yeah, I got burned in Mexico in the shade.”

“You wore sunscreen?  You know, the spray isn’t as good as the other kind.”

“You know, seeing as how I got burned in the shade, I don’t think sunscreen was my problem.  Just a gift my Dad gave me, the ability to get burned through things.”

“You should look into sun-resistant clothing.”  She told me a brand, but I don’t remember it, because what I was hearing is that she sees sun-worshippers all the time and isn’t interested in our bullshit stories about why we have color.  But my story was true!  I spent my entire last day of vacation ALONE in a shade bed (my friends weren’t that interested in avoiding the sun) and woke up to pain on my legs because apparently the material of the shade bed wasn’t sun-proof.  This was the most painful sunburn I ever remember, and I will worry about it until I am so close to death from some other means that I don’t have to worry about skin cancer as a potential cause.  I showed everyone at work my legs, and I think all of them hated me for it.  I made a deliberate effort on vacation to find shade, as I usually do, given that shade is where I don’t get burned (and it’s cooler there).  Apparently Mexico has very strong sun that burns through fabric. 

So, I didn’t care for that encounter with my doctor and decided not to schedule again.  I decided to find another doctor.  This woman wants me in the office 3x a year, which I cannot afford, so we’d settled on 2 and more recently I thought I should go down to one since I’d never actually had skin cancer.  I’m just fair-skinned and have a lot of spots.

And then, on the day Mom died (10 years ago), she left me 2 urgent, annoyed messages, wanting to discuss my biopsy results.  The attorneys I support have let me know my cell phone goes straight to voice mail most times they call me in the office.  The doctor said she would call me the next day at 7am.  I had my phone in my pocket and when she called almost an hour later than she told me she would, I still missed it. 

Here’s what I know: I’ve had countless skin biopsies and when they are nothing of concern, you get a message saying so.  “Hey there, your biopsy just showed a precancerous mole, keep up with the sunscreen, bye!”  At my office visit, I pointed out a pink spot on my left arm (not one of the sunburn sites from Mexico) and my dermatologist said right away, “How astute.  I think that’s basal cell carcinoma. Has it been bleeding?” 

“Um, no. I would have been in here a lot sooner if I had a bleeding spot.”

I called her office back after the third missed call and said, “Look.  My cell phone doesn’t work in my office.  I’m getting ready for court and my phone is in my pocket and I STILL missed the call.  Here is my direct line.  Tell her to leave me a detailed message, even if she has to tell me I have cancer.  No more of these, “PLEASE ANSWER WHEN I CALL” messages.

She called my cell phone again.  It worked.  She said, “Oh, did you get my messages?”  Oh, and it was basal cell carcinoma on my arm.  So, now I join the rest of the Lynn family in having some kind of cancer.  I’m not super worried, but, damn.  What a week for that, and so much for me not actually having skin cancer.  I’ll go to a skin cancer surgeon and hopefully that’ll be the end of it.  The sun can’t hurt a Leo!  Come on.

In other news, I also have uterine fibroids and I need an MRI and an embolization.  I didn’t really understand how an MRI works, although I’ve had one before.  I made the mistake of trying to schedule it while I was at work, and I’d like to send the poor girl who went through that with me a basket of her favorite things.  She explored different locations and times (because I have to fast) and then the surprise news that I must remove all metal from my body, which I rejected because I have some cartilage earrings that I never plan to remove, and she said very timidly, “Well, then, they won’t do it.”  She gave up on me then.  I told her I would talk to my doctor. 

My gynecologist (we’ve been together since around 2005 and I trust him 100%) said, basically, go to the consult and ask your Qs, but an MRI is probably what has to happen, which is why he told me to get one.  I’ve already had 2 ultrasounds.  Once I calmed down, I thought how silly it would be to deter what my beloved medical provider thinks should happen over some silly jewelry that, honestly, causes me minor pain on a regular basis.  Today I had the consult and – heads up – CMC Main has changed a lot.  It’s being demolished and rebuilt in parts.  I missed the parking deck (which is in a super obvious and convenient location on the right of the entrance street) and went to where I remembered parking before, which is now a building with an arm at the parking lot that required a human to let me in.  I went inside and the man at the desk told me not convincingly that radiology was on the 2^nd floor.  I went to the 2^nd floor and the receptionist there was texting and either didn’t know I arrived or didn’t care.  I said, “Hey.  Is this radiology?”  She looked at my paperwork and said, “Oh, no.  You need to go to the main building.”  Curse words!!!  I walked . . . quickly . . . and it’s very humid today since we’ve had a LOT of rain.  Then I found out CMC Main has a security guard when you enter.  Once I could figure out which line to go through next, I talked to yet another person who confidently directed me to the elevator that would take me to radiology on the 4^th floor.  Everyone there was fantastic, so much so that I decided for sure to let go of my cartilage earrings (I’ll get them back in after my ears get some rest and a good scrubbing I can’t do with them in) and proceed with the MRI and the embolization, although it seems kind of creepy once they explained how it works, and I also didn’t know I would need recovery time and a driver on the day of the procedure. 

So . . . that has been my week.  If anyone wants to come entertain me during my not-yet-scheduled recovery period and put my earrings back in, I’ll consider it.

The title is not a quote. I’m particularly bad at titles.

I was recently made aware of something said about me in kindness and love (as well as a little bit of concern) over the summer.  Four months had passed since the comment was made, and I suspect I had never been told about it because nobody wanted me to go down the rabbit hole where I quickly descended.  There are some things people can say about me that I shrug off, and there are others that “hit a nerve,” as we say, for any number of reasons.  Was it something I already thought about myself, so it hurt that someone else thought it, too (remember the list Ross made about Rachel on Friends?)?  Was it so foreign from who I think I am that it left me questioning who I actually am?  Well, there’s only one way to find out, and that is to spend a lot of time festering on what happened, what was said, and what I think/know about myself. 

• Is what was said about me how I want to be perceived?  No
• Is what was said about me an accurate perception? It was at that moment
• Based on the foregoing, do I have changes to make?  I think yes – And that’s not a solid “yes” only because of some ongoing reflecting.

The short point to all of this is that I realized I’m pretty sure of who I am at this point in life. Whether it be that I am a narcissist or just trying to understand what makes me tick, I tend to do a lot of self-analysis. I think I always have. Having minored in psychology (the major didn’t work out, damn statistics!), I remain fascinated also by the workings of other people and how we react, interact, harm and help each other.

I believe the comment was made out of legitimate concern for me and was kept from me out of kindness, and also because nobody likes to be criticized and therefore most people don’t like to criticize. And as much as I didn’t like hearing it, I appreciate that someone cared enough to say it.

And I am grateful that when I felt forced to think about what was said, I settled on these positive outlooks as opposed to self-loathing and contempt for the observer. I’ve spent plenty of time self-loathing and then learning to like myself.  There is always room for improvement, but I am also careful to be sure the improvement comes from my own desires, not from anyone else trying to create a version of me they would prefer.  I’ve had no shortage of people suggest I do things differently, be it my physical appearance or choices I make, how I communicate, or if I even communicate at all. How I respond to those prompts defines me.  (Come on. You aren’t going to stop me from communicating.)  I have a strong identity and I’m fairly contrarian by nature, so my response to most things involves some evaluation if not an outright challenge.

If we don’t know who we are, we let other people tell us who we are. We settle for jobs and relationships that are not good for us and miss out on better opportunities, better connections, more rewarding relationships because we are “stuck” somewhere else.  We make decisions we think we have no choice but to make because we believe what we are told about ourselves.  We suffer unjust abuse and criticisms because we have no defense.  (Read that last sentence carefully, because not all criticisms are unjust, and sometimes there is no defense.)

I work in an industry where people who promised forever to each other sometimes treat each other horribly as they break that promise.  They find ways to use everything against each other, including bad habits they once indulged in together and personality differences they used to overlook or let balance each other out.  In my career, so many things become evidence sprung to gain an advantage, to annihilate, to hurt – and that has also become the world. Everyone lives in a glass house and the stones keep getting thrown.  At any given moment, what we say, write, or do could be recorded whether we know it or not – and it will be used against us when it will be advantageous to someone else.  What a terrifying way to live.  That is partially why I don’t blog as much as I used to.  My journal seems a safer forum.  It neither validates me nor accuses me of a variety of slights.  But it does help me process my thoughts and my feelings and decide how I feel and what I think. 

“A loud voice cannot compete with a clear voice, even if it’s a whisper,” said Barry Neil Kaufman.  It’s easy to forget that in a world of noise (social media, social influence, and onslaughts of “news,” most of which is opinion pretending to be news).  If you don’t know what you think when it is calm, it will be much more difficult to remain even keeled in a storm.  Discover who you are, be certain about who you are, and then – one of my new favorite mantras: “Darling, just fucking own it.” (I can’t even attribute that to anyone. It’s everywhere!)

Not one of us is perfect.  That isn’t a cop-out; it’s undeniable fact.  We are all compilations of the good and bad things we have done, of the good and bad things that have happened to us, of the lessons we have learned and the ones we are still learning, of the mistakes we have made and are still making, of the fantastic things we have done and have yet to do. 

Know who you are before someone tells you what you can and cannot do. Know your limits and know your capabilities.  Know who you are so when someone only wants to focus on your past, you have an eye on your present and your future.  Know who you are so when you hear something you don’t like, you can objectively evaluate that criticism.  Know it so when you receive a compliment, you don’t become an egomaniac, but can still accept and believe the nice things said about you.  Know it because you are worth knowing, and because this world never stops trying to tell us who we are (or should be), and few of us actually know our own selves when left standing alone with nobody else.