Regrets

I have regrets. And they all come flooding back to me in wave after merciless wave when I fall into certain moods. I regret things I've said, things I've eaten, and things I didn't do. And I regret feelings and thoughts I have as well as ones I don't.

It's always surprising which things still have the power to overwhelm me during a regret assault. For instance, I regret inexplicably running directly into Ben Godfrey's chest during a game of Red Rover senior year of high school. I regret tweets I wrote several years ago. I regret trying to make that one guy like me. I regret trying to make that other guy like me. Okay, I regret 99% of the things I did to try to make any guy, or girl, like me ever. I regret boasting about my awards and accomplishments in poem form in an attempt to win a student council position in 6th grade (oh how that couplet mocks me!). I regret boasting about getting the biggest cupcake in first grade on a classmate's birthday. I regret not sending a nice older lady a wedding picture of Matt and I when she asked for it but said she knew we would never send it to her (she died). I regret several Christmas Eves ago not finding out if that person who looked like my friend Erin from high school was actually my friend Erin from high school. I regret not doing more to connect with my friend Maureen after every dream I've had in which I've met up with her and I'm so happy to see her again. I regret not going to Karen and Mike's wedding even though I had to miss it because I was in another wedding. And then there's the uncharitable thoughts I had about a random selfish lady on my college graduation day... Anything I've said when I'm hungry... That biker I cut off when I made a bad judgment call about if I should pull out or not...

I have to remember though, there is hope. Not "hope that I will eventually forget" (though there is that) as much as "hope that I will eventually forgive" my past self. Some recollections that previously manifested as regrets have finally faded to mere nonchalance. Like not telling my last job reference that I got the job (5 years ago). Not giving a professor a copy of my paper after the term ended even though she asked for it because she said it was good. The bouncy ball I lost to a gated-up empty store in the mall in first grade. High school band. My past dating relationships. The time I went out with somebody I was pretty sure was going to be boring and I was right. Calling in to quit a job before I even started it. Spilling that entire gallon of milk in my friend's living room and crying over it (though I'll never forget the way he laughed and laughed about my crying over it as I sat there witheringly embarrassed).

Logical thought holds no power during a regret storm (distraction is the only way to thwart it), but afterwards if I'm lucky I am able to remember and take comfort in the fact that there are some things that I have never regretted. Believe it or not, some times I actually approve of – nay relish in – the actions I did take even when I've had time to think them over. Starting a blog, for instance. Or immediately ditching work one day to hang out with a friend who admitted to feeling self-harmy. Quitting high school band to join choir. Convincing Matt to date me (the 1% of things I did to get someone to like me that I don't regret). All the money and effort I invested in my education. All the time and energy I expended on college marching band. Telling a guy I had a crush on who didn't like me back that I didn't want to go to lunch with him anymore so I could get over him.

Regrets and embarrassment are from the same cloth. Do you happen to know any of those self-possessed yet humble people who don't really get embarrassed? My friend Mike doesn't seem to get embarrassed by anything and it is the most amazing thing to me. He seems so at peace with himself. I'm not even in the least worried that he'd be embarrassed I'm saying this about him on the Internet. I wish I'd met him sooner in life, when I suffered from crippling embarrassment that kept me shy and from exploring new and unknown things. I could have used more role models in being comfortable with one's own self and abilities. Heck, as someone who made herself cry today because she was upset that she freaked out and cried earlier in the day for some lame reason, I could still stand to work on being comfortable with my own strengths and weaknesses. Because there's a good chance today will rise up and attack with the other undead zombie recollections the next time the regret offensive strikes.

I've realized that one of my coping strategies for dealing with my own regret and embarrassment is to support other people when they feel regretful and/or embarrassed, to try to make them feel less dumb. If they can see I'm not judging them, maybe they can judge themselves less harshly and healthily move on instead of carrying regrets around like me. I'm reluctant to make anyone feel bad about stupid things they did, perhaps to a fault. If you want tough love, go elsewhere. If you've already judged yourself and learned your lesson and just want a fresh start, I'm the friend you're looking for.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go And Bite Me

My sleep last night was heavily punctuated. The first time I woke up was when I heard a mosquito buzz past my ear. I opened my eyes, targeted the bug, and brought my hand down hard on the pillow under which rested my other hand. I did not succeed in squashing the intruder, but I did succeed in hurting my hand. We couldn't find the mosquito again, so I went back to sleep. The second time I woke up when I experienced the sensation of falling and my legs twitched violently. The third time I woke up when Matt heard the mosquito and leaped up to chase it down. He couldn't find it so he sat there waiting and watching for awhile, and I fell asleep again. I next awoke when he accidentally shined a sizable Maglite directly into my closed eyes (presumably still searching for the bug) which caused significant momentary pain in my eyeballs. A strange way to wake up, rivaled only by the fifth time I woke up which was when the back of both of my hands became spontaneously tremendously itchy. I scratched and clawed at my knuckles in a confused and tortured stupor until after several minutes the telltale white bumps of twin mosquito bites appeared. I couldn't fall back asleep, so I thought I'd try out the hot spoon method of bug bite relief. I had to run the hot water tap for several minutes to get it hot enough, so I used the cooler water to rinse out some yogurt cups and other dishes in the sink first. Wet itchy hands were worse than dry, but eventually I administered the hot spoon to both bites several times before giving up with that and getting out the hydrocortisone cream. I laid back down and the cat sat on my chest, so I distracted myself from my itchiness (which my mind was telling me was all over now) by petting her until I fell asleep again.

All that happened in under hour.

Luckily I got in a few hours of sleep before morning when I awoke all tense from a dream in which I was attempting to get out of being executed for providing the wrong proof of purchase of a digital song by bribing the executioners with a new fireplace. Like you do.

Red Hook Ramblings

I was feeling all emo, but then I made and drank a Red Hook and now I feel pretty chill. Matt was bored so he took a nap on the couch, and then I drank his cocktail, too. Kitty stares out the window, but it is light inside and dark outside, so what can she see? The new patio table perhaps. I left the light on in the kitchen. Sometimes the neighbor probably wishes I'd turn off my kitchen light like I wish she'd turn off her bathroom light. We should both probably just get curtains.

I'm a really good friend. Know why? Because I can't hardly say no. I want to sometimes, but I usually find a way to say yes. I hope I'm less of a pushover as a parent.

Matt and I worry a lot that we drink too much. I don't think we do, though. Despite drinking on a weekly basis, I get tipsy maybe only once or twice a month. I used to get tipsy faster, but enough craft beer drinking in the last year has really toughened me up. And I've only had a hangover once, when I really didn't expect it. Okay, I've suffered from gluttony a few times, but that was pretty much instantaneous, and there was a lot of food and over-eating involved. I probably should have had a hangover the day after I drank 3 Vangelico Hazes, but I didn't. Those were seriously good. I can't wait to have another sometime. I hope it's as fun as the party for Ross and Pam, and they're there.

I'm a loving drunk. I just want to hug you and then fall asleep on your shoulder, because you're the best, man! I'm so glad we're friends. You should come over and stay awhile so I can make you a Red Hook.

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Written tipsily last week from the safety of my couch. No hangover was experienced. Many thanks to Kezia who introduced me to the wonder and delight that is the Red Hook. If I only use 1/4 oz of maraschino liquor for each drink, I'm seriously going to have that bottle forever, so please bring over some rye whiskey and I'll share. Then we can all drink merrily before falling asleep on the ridiculously large and comfortable couch (which I also did shortly after writing this) and play a game to see who wins by waking up with the cat perched on them (Matt and I both won that game at different times today).

Abstracting Communication

I've realized a concerning pattern in my behavior.

When I'm talking to someone and it becomes apparent that we are not understanding one another, my instinct is to switch over to talking about WHY we aren't understanding each other.

And if we can't get seem to work out why we aren't communicating very well at this time, then I want to talk about our patterns of communication in general, with the hope that we can avoid ending up here again.

And if the person with whom I'm conversing still doesn't understand me and our whole conversation breaks down (probably because I've moved it up two levels of abstraction), I begin to assume that we shouldn't even try to communicate because we clearly don't have anything in common on a basic level.

And since it is nearly impossible to be friends with someone with whom you can't communicate on even a basic level, if I consider this person a friend now I'm worried that this whole friendship to-date has been ill-conceived or a misunderstanding. I assume it's mostly my fault. I must have accidentally misrepresented myself early on, or misunderstood that we were good friends when we weren't. Oh crap, how do I get out of it politely? How do I back away without hurting their feelings or getting hurt more myself? I thought I was cared for and understood so I was putting in all this effort, but I realize now that I was misguided!

My intentions are good—all I want is to understand and be understood—but now I don't know how to get off this ledge onto which I've backed myself. So I guess I'll just be hanging out here for a bit, assuming everything is crap.............until I realize that I like my friend anyway, regardless of why we're friends, or how we communicate. And I miss my friend! It's lonely out here on the ledge—and I keep having panic attacks that I'm going to fall off. I'm going to step down and try again.

It's terrifying how quickly that escalates. And it's unhelpful how upset I get when I feel misunderstood. I guess I have another thing to add to my list of things that stress me right the heck out.

Sorry (again), friend! Can you forgive me my abstraction climb out onto the ledge? And can we try again and anew to find understanding? I truly believe investment in communication infrastructure among friends pays out priceless dividends.

An Ode to My Notebook on its Last Page

(Written in the notebook, obviously, but transcribed here to spare you the effort of deciphering my nearly illegible scribbles.*)

The last page. The end of an era. This notebook has seen me through the transition from an occasional, haphazard writer, to a more frequent, deliberate one. Purchased on a whim from TJ Maxx or the like roughly 4 years ago, I was drawn to it's funky cover, and the price was right.

My beloved notebook's funky 80s-inspired cover.

I skipped the first page as I often do in a new notebook — there's just too much pressure to get it right — and started listing NaNoWriMo 2010 ideas on the second. I only had 2, but I ran with the first idea, finishing the required 50,000 words in a personal-best-setting 2 weeks. I have some details of the plot sketched out in the next few pages. Though I hit my word count, I never did write the end of that story, and I look forward to detailing out what I already know happens at the end.

Five pages in records details of the dream I had that inspired my NaNoWriMo 2011 story. I remember writing it down one morning before my visiting houseguests awoke. NaNoWriMo 2011 would mark my first foray into Fantasy writing, which proved so fun at times, but confusing and beleaguered at others. I look forward to returning to that world one day to edit my story.

Next comes a very short story, because I told myself I should sit down and write sometimes, just to write, not for NaNoWriMo or anything. It wasn't terribly good, but it isn't terribly bad either (and does contain the sentence "Paul wasn't about to put the 'budge' in 'budget'.").

Now we get to something pivotal: Right Brain's Manifesto. These statements propelled me into the next phase of writing by recognizing the inner struggle and dysfunctionality between my right and left brains. Until then I had no idea.

Rephotographed with slightly less appalling lighting but same bad focusing.

As I grew more comfortable with my notebook being a safe place, I tried out a little opinion piece about Ann Arbor's crosswalk laws, recorded some story re-write plans, and jotted down a few future story ideas I haven't pursued yet. Then in a journal entry of sorts I even admitted that I really do want to be a writer and I really should take myself seriously.

Here things really started to pick up.

I attended a talk by local, published writers and transcribed their advice in my now trusty notebook. Then I got a book they recommended on writing for Christmas 2011 and used my notebook to do the book's prescribed writing exercises.

That winter, I made the mistake of not taking my notebook with me on my vacation (JCCC2), thinking it would be too heavy and needlessly bulky in my luggage. This would be my last trip without my treasured notebook. The cruise turned out to be wildly inspiring due to the mix of talented creators and highly supportive fans. The Right Brain/Left Brain war flared up to its worst yet when RB got inspired and had ideas but the only paper I'd brought was my small notebook dedicated, per LB's wishes, exclusively to lists. Such drama on the high seas! How many thoughts were needlessly lost in this and other battles between free-form and organized methods of documentation? When I got home, I knew something needed to be done, so I started this blog.

Now that I was drafting blog posts, doing writing exercises, and journaling my reactions to my experiences, the notebook began to fill up quickly. The notebook came with my on all trips short or long, attended writers' conferences, and planned the launch of the PotMC. For the first time, my thoughts were all together in one place. Right Brain had a home, and Left Brain let her be (so long as she generally confined herself to one notebook and wrote front to back without wasting any pages (the first page notwithstanding, of course — obviously don't want to mess that up! LB and RB agree on that point, even if for different reasons.).).

Typical notebook page with blog post draft and edits.

In the last year and a half, I have filled the last 95% of the notebook with my various scribbles. What a delight! What a beautiful tidy mess. You won't be far from reach, dear friend, and I will visit you often. Less as time goes on, perhaps, but your duty as keeper of the thoughts, 2010-2013, will always remain, and a noble calling is that. I can't thank you enough for your sturdy and colorful covers, no-nonsense lined pages, and durable spiral binding. I did not know the treasure I had in you until it came time to find your equal!

(*This blog post is admittedly modified from the original text, because the notebook's dying breath reminded me "The notebook serves the writing, not the other way around!" Such a noble notebook!)

Conversationway Traffic Report

"And now, over to our communications correspondent for breaking news on the latest miscommunications. Jim?"

"Thanks, Hal. We are receiving reports that a tanker of words has overturned on the conversationway causing a major miscommunication. Authorities believe the tanker was on its way from Rachel's Brain to deliver a shipment of thoughts when it started to self-analyze the way it was driving. The tanker driver tried to correct course but was unable to regain control. Emotion-wrought words spilled from the tanker as it began to tip, making the conversationway confusing and incomprehensible. The leaking words are causing quite a backup of conversation now, and it doesn't look like any sense will be coming out of Rachel's Brain tonight.

Meanwhile, police are searching for the cause of the accident. Could a patch of sarcasm or willful misunderstanding on the conversationway be to blame? Or was it careless driving of the word tanker, which some estimate was in violation of the bottled-up thought limit by at least 2,000 words?

The driver of the overturned word tanker could not be reached for comment but the mess of words themselves reveal that they are likely the product of over-thinking. We may never know the intended meaning or destination of this shipment, but if spills like this one are to be avoided in the future, an investigation into the thought factories in Rachel's Brain will be necessary. Back to you, Hal."

"Thanks, Jim. Keep us appraised of the investigation."

Sometimes I Want to Write

Sometimes I want to write something, but I'm not sure if I should because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I want to write about the end of an era, and I want to share about a thing that used to exist in order to commemorate what it meant to me. But unless I am at least equally positive about the new opportunities made possible by the change, I'm worried that I will come across as though I categorically hate the Now or the Nouns involved in bringing the previous era to a close. I might really like the new era, given time—innocent until proven guilty and all that—but I'm reluctant to drive head-on into the future when I can still see glimpses of a pleasant past in my rearview mirror. I want to take a detour down Memory Lane. Perhaps I'll meet you at the corner of Closed Door Rd and Opened Window Ave in a few miles.

Sometimes I'm so unsettled inside that I can't write anything. Conflicting thoughts swirl around in a flurry of unfinished sentences and unsupported arguments. Bits of dialogs I'd like to be having interrupt analysis of situations and events of which I can't make sense. The tiny piece of me still grounded in reality has long since realized I can't think my way through it, but the greater part of the mind is stubbornly fixated on the idea of Sherlock Holmes-ing a discovery and a resolution.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about a thing I want to write but the words aren't making much sense, the white noise in my head gets louder and I slowly slump over onto the couch. I wake to find a cat perched like a mountain goat atop my hip or stretched out like a worm aside my legs.