Show me the muscles!

Although I have never remotely been what one may deem a gym kinda gal, it has somehow steered me in the right direction...motivating me towards a healthier and more confident version of myself. I remember the first gym I stepped into was on campus during my college years in San Marcos, Texas...thanks to my good friend Carla. Funny enough though, I more so remember she and I running on the track behind the gym more so than I remember us working out inside the gym...although I do remember the day we took a kickboxing class together. Damn, that kicked my ass alright. I sweat buckets and ached for a good two days at least! It was Carla who was instrumental in getting me to see the benefits of exercise, a friend who still inspires me in such a way to this day.

After college, I didn't go to a gym again until four years later in Chicago. A friend of mine generously gave me a gym membership as a gift. At the time, I was juggling grad school, an internship, and work. Stress and fatigue were quite the norm, as you can imagine. My friend's gift couldn't have arrived at a more opportune time. I was in utter gratitude, as working out at the gym was my outlet and gave me an extra boost of self-confidence. As financial circumstances would have it though, I could not afford the membership once I was expected to make the payments a few years later....so I stopped going. Though I would continue to exercise, running along Belmont Harbor in the single digit temps with the potential to slip on black ice just didn't provide the same motivation, structure, and "comfort" of a gym.

While it is certainly not as cold here in Seattle as in Chicago, I feel the same way....I need motivation, structure, and the "comfort" of a gym setting. It's too easy to make excuses as to why I cannot run outside in my neighborhood....too rainy, too windy, too dark, blah, blah, blah. I cannot do this with a gym though, especially now that I have the means (car and money) to join a gym! I made a spontaneous decision about 3 weeks ago that this year fitness is going to be a top priority for me, whatever it takes. Not only did I join a gym, I also signed on for my own personal trainer! I will be meeting with her once a month (though I feel like I have met with her alot already just in the past 2 weeks!).

All of this is somewhat intimidating and weird for me because as I said, I'm SOOOO not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. It's the one thing that has always been my weakness (athletic ability), which is probably why I have avoided it for so long. I've spent much of my life living inside my head with intellectual and emotional pursuits, less so really in my body (if that makes sense). Now I find myself wanting to be less in my head and more in my body.

This doesn't come without challenges and the need for patience. I have a tendency to do too much too fast, or be too hard on myself if I don't reach at or beyond the bar I set for myself when it comes to achievement. I've noticed this is even more so the case with this fitness undertaking. I don't want to disappoint myself or my trainer. She's super sweet and encouraging. My first workout with her was a bit challenging (particularly the exercises to work my core), but I did it and was proud of myself. The second workout I did with her (on Monday) was difficult, as it involved various weight training exercises she came up with for me to do the next 3-4 weeks. Even though I didn't know if I could do all of them, I kept at it and didn't quit...no matter how powerful the burn. The human body is a strange thing. The following day after that workout my legs ached a bit, but I was surprised my arms didn't bother me much (the arm exercises were the hardest for me...especially the three different bicep curls she had me do). The second day (yesterday) my legs were feeling better and my arms were slightly achy.....but today my arms REALLY hurt. I feel like someone ran over my biceps with a Mack truck; no joke.

For some reason, I really got frustrated with myself about this. I think it's because I am trying so hard to stick to my goal of going to the gym 3-4 times a week (I really need to do weight training 2-3 times per week) and yet I haven't been able to go back since Monday's weight training session because of my muscle aches. I don't like doing things slowly, when it comes to important goals anyway. Hopefully my arms will be back to normal tomorrow, as I am meeting with my trainer tomorrow night for her to show me how to do the abdominal exercises on the plan she gave me.

Will I be able to transform what has always been my greatest weakness into a newfound strength (literally and figuratively)? I hope so. Perseverance will reveal itself, hopefully sooner rather than too much later....

The psychology of gender socialization

(Written 12/28/09)

As a therapist, my job is rarely boring and oftentimes fascinating. Not only do I have the opportunity to help people in an extraordinarily profound and intimate way...pare of the process includes sometimes discussing topics that may otherwise go unnoticed, at least unconsciously. Sometimes I find myself contemplating things I probably wouldn't think much about unless I were in the situation, but is brought to my awareness for exploration because a client brings it up in a session. Today it happened to be gender socialization. I have taken numerous psychology, sociology, and graduate level clinical counseling courses over the course of my academic studies. I have also read various sociology and psychology books outside of the classroom, including evolutionary psychology. Would you know that I still do not understand the root sources of this topic?! Granted, psychology and sociology are 'soft' sciences. It is the shades of grey, of ambiguity that simultaneously thrill me and frustrate me all at once.

I'm tempted to do research on this or perhaps find a book that has thoroughly researched this cultural norm. For instance, who decided which colors are "supposed to" (arbitrarily? I think so!) be representative of male/masculine and female/feminine. Why is blue a "boy" color and pink a "girl" color? Why are boys stereotypically expected to play with toy guns, trucks, and basicially anything perceived as rough or aggressive? How is it that a parent can worry about their child 'becoming gay' if the child really wants to play with something that goes against the script of gender norms? And how is it that intellectually we may discount the importance or significance of gender socialization (depending on the context), but in practice people do it unconsciously all the time (for example, by buying gender specific toys for their children)? Is it "acceptable" for a boy to play with a doll up until a certain age? Why do we (society) have so much fear and rigid beliefs around allowing a child to develop in however he or she chooses to explore/express individual likes, dislikes, personality formation, etc? These were some of the questions I pondered, some with my client in session and others in my own mind after the session. There are more rhetorical questions than there are concrete answers....

The idea is that gender socialization provides a sort of lens through which to see the world: boys act/are interested in/skilled at A, B, C, D, etc and girls act/are interested in/skilled at A, B, C, D, etc. Verbal and nonverbal behavior sends a message to the child early on, setting the precedent for what becomes an internalized worldview. When I was in graduate school at Adler, I took a class that focused on this (Lifestyle Assessment). It was an interesting projective tool to use for a potential (psychodynamic) clinical intervention in therapy work with an individual, and the first time I really thought about gender messages on a deeper level. In the assessment, there are specific questions designed to explore memories of significant experiences and how those experiences in some way reflect unhealthy/negative beliefs that are impacting the individual in an unhelpful way in their lives as an adult. Really fascinating stuff, although just a tool.

Toys and colors associated with gender socialization are but a superficial snapshot of the overall deeper psychology behind it, but knowing this obviously doesn't stop me from wanting to examine those depths. I also wonder how much I will embrace and/or challenge these cultural norms if/when I become a parent someday....

32

(Written on 12/16/09)

How often do we really allow ourselves to dream big and contemplate things (tangible and intangible) we really, really want for ourselves? I know I don't engage in this practice nearly as often as I could. It seems that birthdays and holidays are the only times I tend to be inspired, motivated or encouraged to really ponder this stuff....but what about the rest of the year, the bulk of what comprises one's overall quality of living life with the most joy, abundance, love, wisdom, laughter, growth, and possibility? I think it can be so easy for us as a society to judge or complain about what we DON'T want, maybe because the message we may receive from others is that we are somehow unworthy (not rich enough, not thin enough, not beautiful enough, smart enough, talented enough, ad infinitum) or being selfish (instead of loving oneself in a healthy way). This is the "easy," yet unhappy way to believe.

For those that know me really well, however, you know that I tend to take the "harder," less traveled road (a reference to the great Robert Frost poem "A Road Less Traveled") because it is the journey to happiness...or at least my happiness. So in honor of me today (on my birthday), I have created a list of 32 wants and wishes for the next 12 months. Some wants and wishes are bigger than others, but one must always ALWAYS dream. :)

1. A Christmas bonus.

2. Finally get an iPod.

3. Lose 30-40 pounds.

4. Pay off an existing medical billl, as well as the bill for my laptop.

5. Scale down my credit card debt.

6. Slowly take steps to get private practice work going.

7. A gym membership so I can workout on a regular basis.

8. For my left leg to heal so I can take a Zumba or other hardcore dance class.

9. Finish reading the 772 page novel "Brothers Karamazov."

10. Visit Carla, Matt, and the baby in Austin, Texas.

11. Go to Chicago and visit my friends.

12. Take a weekend getaway cruise to Alaska.

13. Visit Canada before my passport expires in October 2010.

14. Check out Mt. St. Helens.

15. Visit San Francisco/Melissa, Sam, and the baby.

16. Go on a hot air balloon ride.

17. Finally meet and have a relationship with the man out there I'm meant to marry.

18. Make at least one close friend in Seattle.

19. Go sledding with Tracy and Justin.

20. Take a cooking or photography class for fun.

21. Discipline myself to write regularly like I did a few years ago.

22. Take a Pilates class.

23. Go sailing (never done this before) with someone who has a sailboat.

24. Learn as much as I can about my Nikon so I can take even BETTER shots with it.

25. Visit a wine vineyard.

26. Donate blood, even though this scares the crap outta me (needles frighten me).

27. For Eddie and Rajiv (my best friends) to visit me in Seattle!!!!!!!

28. Increase in salary.

29. Go camping and hiking at Hoh/Olympic National Rainforest.

30. See more of the gorgeous Oregon coast.

31. To be appreciative of at least one thing every day.

32. Have MANY fun and spontaneous adventures.

What is it with me and books?!

How is it that I can't remember what happened last week, yet I can remember where I was, what I was thinking, or what I felt when I have read one of hundreds of books that my eyes have crossed over the years? I was just thinking about this as I was going through my "Visual Bookshelf" on Facebook (that I have also connected to the bottom of my blog page here) a few hours ago. I have written a bit about this before in a past blog entry, but I am realizing more and more how many of my life memories (some seemingly insignificant, yet significant enough in its mundaneness) are attached to books I have read.

It seems to be a playful joke amongst my friends....if you need a book recommendation, go to Katie because surely there is a great chance she has already read what you are searching for or might be interested in reading. I take it as a compliment of sorts, especially considering there are very few people I know that read as many books (especially on diverse subjects, fiction and non-fiction alike) as I do. I'm not being arrogant when I say this; it's basic fact. I get excited when a friend asks me if I have read such and such a book or what I recommend. It also makes me miss the working-at-a-bookstore days now and then.

Just as specific songs carry meaning (whether intentional or unconsciously) for people, this is incredibly true for me with books....perhaps even more so for me than music. I love music, don't get me wrong, but it is books I resonate with most. You know those silly, fun 'get to know you' questions you find in conversational games that ask something like "What objects would most reflect who you are as a person?" Well, for me....it's absolutely every single book I have read and will read. Why? Because on some level, it reveals part of who I am.....whether something I'm curious to learn, something that resonates with my values and beliefs at the core, a thought or emotion a book brings out in me, my secret/hidden curiosities and desires, even memories of a person, place, or thing attached to a specific book. Perhaps this is why I have an unquenchable desire to continue searching for various books, to add to my bookshelf of memories in the making. A book can be just as much of a snapshot into my life as a photograph.

I remember devouring Augusten Burrough's "Dry" in the span of one day in my studio apartment in Chicago, sometimes being so engrossed that I brought it into the kitchen, hunched over the counter reading it as I prepared a meal or boiling hot water for tea on the stove. I remember sitting at a table in a busy Michigan Avenue Starbuck's one cold and dreary afternoon reading another Burrough's book, "Magical Thinking." I remember reading "Self Made Man" in the intake room on a slow, quiet morning at PDS, most likely because my office was too cold from the air blowing underneath the unventilated Emergency exit door.

There was "The Awakening," "Scarlet Letter", "Emotional Alchemy," and "The Art of Happiness," which I associate with the summer I was living in Kentucky....depressed, hopeless, and downtrodden with no job and no real "life" in sight after graduating college. I was living in an RV, waking up to cows "mooing" outside my bedroom window, working with deadbeats at Cracker Barrel where I was the only one single, educated, and childless. I was lonely and crying for hope, crying for change, crying for something better. Those books gave me something to grasp for and hold onto before I moved to Chicago, Illinois 5-6 months later.

Books that I associate with men who I was interested in and/or broke my heart.....a writer named Jobie I met online who captivated me with his literary intellect and passion, suggesting books like "Flowers for Algernon"( his favorite book), "Thirteenth Tale," and "Factotum" (which he could really identify with, a red flag that should have warned me after I read it and hated the misogynistic themes). Too bad his taste for books didn't parallel his true personality (well, except "Factotum" unfortunately). Around that same time, I met AJ, a cute and sweet Marine 7 years younger than myself. There was something about him that I fell for, something endearing. I read "On Killing" per his recommendation, and later gave him "Deep Survival," "Brothel Mustang Ranch and its Women," and a few John Douglass profiler books before he was deployed back to Iraq. Sealed with a metaphorical kiss, the books have stayed with him and I have not. It was as if I knew I wouldn't see him again or for very long thereafter, my books becoming the only memory of me to live on in spirit...in his possession. I think about him once in awhile and wonder if he still has my books. Even though we are no longer in touch (it was too painful for me to continue communicating with him at all), I hope he only thinks of me fondly when he sees those books, another lifetime ago.

"Siddhartha" my junior or senior year of high school was my first real introduction to what I would begin to resonate with more and more throughout my life: Buddhism. While everyone else in English class read some simplistic, inane book for a required book review assignment, that is the book I chose. I loved every deep page of it.

"A Million Little Pieces" brings me back to my practicum days at Rice in 2004, and reminds me of the day James Frey went on Oprah. My opinion of her character hasn't been the same since then (in regard to how she handled the controversy surrounding the truthfulness of parts of the book....don't even get me started on that!).

"Kite Runner" was read almost entirely on a flight back to Chicago, and I remember raving to my friends Eddie and Rajiv about how they absolutely must read it while we had sushi in a restaurant near their Edgewater apartment soon after I got back from my trip. "The Namesake" reminds me of Rajiv, how we both read it and how excited he was to have me see the movie with him (even though he had already seen it once on a day I was feeling ill and was unable to go originally).

"Heroin" gave me a little more confidence and knowledge after I started working at PDS. "Trauma and Recovery" did the same after I started working at SMH. "Trauma Stewardship" (thank God for my social worker friend Pat's recommendation on this one!) gave me hope, validation, and encouragement during a time I felt incredibly burnt out, somewhat crazy, and depressed working with so many trauma clients at my current job. "Sickened" was another class book review for an Adlerian family class in grad school...quite disturbing. "Toward a Psychology of Being" by Abraham Maslow....I associate with laying on the warm, green grass along the Belmont Harbor lakefront in my old Chicago neighborhood.

I remember sitting on a bench in one of the buildings of the UIC campus reading "Harmful to Minors" (a book my friend Melissa recommended I read) for a little while as I waited for my friend Sara to meet me for lunch at a nearby pizza place.

"The Bell Jar," "Freakanomics," "Tipping Point," and "Devil in the White City" just a few of the numerous books I "checked out" with the library loan while I was working at Borders. I remember reading DITWC on cold bus rides home from work, from Michigan Ave to Lakeshore Drive to Belmont....creeping myself out because my imagination was taking me to visualizing myself living during that time period in the SAME city amongst an unsuspecting sadistic serial killer who hated women. Yikes!

Books I've read that remind me of ex-coworkers and friends because they recommended the book(s) to me: "The Comfort of Strangers" (Nate), "Not Buying It" and "Set This House in Order" (Melissa), the Dexter series (Juan).

Or places...."Memories, Dreams, and Reflections" remind me of my late philosophical and spiritual Uncle Don, a book he urged me to read and which I did while we were both living in Reno, Nevada for a brief time. "Memoirs of a Geisha" bringing me back to standing across the street from Dominick's on Fullerton Ave, waiting for the #74 bus at 5:30am to take me to PDS on Elston....all bundled up in three layers of clothing because it was freezing ass cold. The excitement of reading "Of Human Bondage" at the same time my mom was reading it, just for fun and to discuss it together.....sitting at a table in the Fixx on Sheffield sipping a coffee and feverishly taking notes as I soaked in the character development of Philip Carey and his lifelong adventures.

As you can see, I could go on endlessly recounting my books, my memories, my loves. Can you understand now how I can say books are a window into my soul? And how anyone in my life who asks me about a book, tells me about a book, or wants to talk about a book instantly brings a nostalgic smile to my face? God, I love books.

A Different Kind of Birthday

"Sweet 16" and becoming "legal" at 21....these are but a few of the milestone birthdays people tend to make a big deal over. You know what I'm talking about...the big parties thrown, the ones where such craziness ensues that later on down the road friends start off their nostalgic anecdotes with "Remember your 21st birthday? How insane was that? We were all so trashed that night." For me, there was no such craziness.

From childhood up until young adulthood, I remember secretly hoping my friends or family would throw me a surprise birthday party. Given the usual experience I had of being lucky if people even remembered my birthday (just 9 days before Christmas), I felt that if there were to be a surprise party I honestly would be completely surprised. I wouldn't be the person who knows about the surprise and has to put on a good show with "I had NO idea! Wow!" Just the decoy of Christmas preparation itself would be enough to leave me clueless, distracted, and pleasantly taken aback by the surreptitious plans to be.

Throughout my early twenties, my idealistic feelings about my birthday dwindled. I simply looked forward to celebrating my birthday with whoever had the opportunity to break away from the holiday madness. In my late twenties, however, my birthday started to feel more like a cliche'. Same day: December 16th. Same way to celebrate: dinner and drinks at a bar. Different year. As my 30th birthday apporached, I thought about what I could do differently. I wanted to have a meaningful birthday, one that would accurately reflect and celebrate the real me.

"I'm so tired of doing the same thing every year for my birthday, most of the time with people who aren't even my close friends. It's so boring and uneventful," I lamented to my best friend Rajiv. It was a bitter cold evening, as we sipped our hot beverages at a small table in Argo Tea on the corner of Broadway and Briar. Christmas lights twinkled along the storefronts, pedestrians feverishly scurrying by our window in their layered clothing. Aside from being my best friend, Rajiv can attest to the having-a-birthday-so-close-to-Christmas frustration....his is exactly a week before mine.

"Yeah, I know..." he nodded with me in agreement.

"So what can we do? I want to do something fun. I want to go somewhere!" Rajiv's eyes lit up. A fellow Sagittarian, Rajiv has wanderlust and didn't need convincing.

Although we wanted to go somewhere the three of us (he, Eddie, and I) had never been, we decided on a place two out of the three of us had not yet visited. Just as cold as, if not colder than Chicago? Check. Slightly touristy place during the wonderful non-tourist season? Check. Out of state, yet not too far to travel by car for a short road trip? Sold. I was going to Mackinac Island, Michigan with my two best friends. Rajiv told us he had been there with his cousin on two separate occasions, both of which had been during the summer months. In a way, it would be an entirely different experience for him...seeing snow and hardly any people in an otherwise thriving summer tourist destination.

After getting settled in at the Driftwood Motel in St. Ignace, we warmed up our bodies with food an cocktails. Talking and laughing, we peered around the restaurant and noticed we were the youngest individuals in the room....or at least the only ones in our age bracket. According to locals, most people do not live in the area during the winter months. So not only were we visiting a place during the off season for tourists, we were also in a land of few locals. It was as if we had the whole island to ourselves. Any time we would enter a restaurant, bar or store, the first question asked was inevitably "Where are you from?" Had we visited the island any other time of year, I wonder if we would have taken such efforts to talk with the locals. This made the trip more fascinating and fun, in my eyes.

The lady who worked at the obscure, non-descript art museum told us about her penchant for getting stoned while fly fishing on the lake. Then there was our jolly bartender Dustin who worked at Kewadin Casino. He lamented about not leaving his house in the winter unless he has to shop or go to work.

During a shuttle ride back to the Driftwood our first night there, we asked the friendly driver Mike where we could go for a delicious breakfast in the morning. He recommended Java Joe's, a quaint restaurant that resembles a small yellow house. Initially a pizza joint when it first opened, over the years Java Joe's broadened its culinary horizons to include a smorgasboard of breakfast food, coffee, salads, sandwiches, milkshakes, crepes, dinner entrees, and desserts! We were so impressed with the food and customer service, especially the crepes and stuffed french toast. We ended up having breakfast there twice, the second time the morning of my birthday. The best breakfast of my life on my 30th birthday. Now that's memorable!

When we weren't eating, we were trying our luck at the local casino. I made the mistake of taking a few pictures of my friends playing the slot machines. I was tipsy, easily amused, and unknowingly breaking the casino's rules of no picture taking on 'the pit' (the term they use to describe the location of the slot machines and game tables). Rajiv and I were approached by security guards....he for looking suspicious with a 'man purse' and I for my photography faux pas. It seemed we were definitely testing our 'luck' that night. Fortunately, we escaped the clutches of the security guards unscathed. Unfortunately, we did not hit the jackpot...although they probably would have thought we had cheated if we had won. With Rajiv's man purse and my evil camera, we must have had something up our sleeves!

Young rebels at heart by night, the three of us were just your typical eager tourists by day. Sauntering onto the 10:30am ferry from St. Ignace to Mackinac Island, Eddie, Rajiv and I huddled together to keep warm. I was excited. I had never been on a ferry before! If we thought St. Ignace was desolate, the island was even more isolated. While we were the fools on foot walking everywhere for about five hours, locals sped over the thick, white snow on their snowmobiles. Initially what seemed like a good idea, we stopped for a hot Bailey's Irish coffee before making our journey across the island. Peace, quiet, snow, trees, friends, and a new place to explore. What else could I ask for?

.....a toilet. Why did I have to drink anything knowing there wouldn't be any restrooms on the island besides the ONE at the only bar that was open on the island, the bar we would end up walking far away from? I held it for as long as possible, until I could hold it no longer. Handing over my coat and bag to Eddie, I made a beeline for the snowy embankment behind a shed that housed leather straps near Arch Rock. Finally, relief!

After consuming beer and pizza for dinner, we slept like champions that night. The following day was the big 3-0; we headed about an hour away to another remote destination: Tahquamenon Falls, a photographer lover's paradise. I was in snowy heaven. We walked around, snapped numerous photos, and wandered into a nearby brewery for lunch. I had never been to a brewery before. I decided to be adventurous and try a few other new things: cherry wheat beer and an edible orchid flower that came with our meal. Eddie summed up the edible flower best: "It pretty much tastes the way I'd imagine a flower to taste...."

Despite the creepy dead animals (cougars, bears, moose, and any other wintery forest animal you can think of) mounted all over the walls, the food at the brewery was the best food I had the entire trip: salad, homemade bread, charbroiled jumbo shrimp marinated in herbs and beer, rice pilaf, corn and "Chocolate Seduction" cake.

We realized we were fairly close to the Canadian border from where we were at the falls. I thought it would be cool to get as close as we could and find something fun to do near there. Sault ("Soo") St. Marie, Michigan, however, appeared less exciting than I had conjured up in my imagination. It was dark outside by early evening and the temperature was dwindling with the passing hours.

That night, we managed to be accepted into the casino without another untoward incident. Getting arrested on my 30th birthday for taking pictures definitely would have been unforgettable and ironic on multiple levels, but after all the adventures of the birthday trip there was just one thing left I wanted to do....play Scrabble with Eddie. Sometimes simple things can be just as memorable.

Writing, reading, and growth

A close friend of mine brought to my attention the other day that a whole month has gone by without me writing/posting a blog. While I would like to blame it on the creative writing class I've been taking since early October, regretfully I haven't even been able to churn out every writing assignment for the class. I can ponder on a myriad of factors, like....I have come to the conclusion I don't like being forced to write about a vague topic in a specific style and in a short period of time, I'm many times too exhausted from my therapy and case management work to have enough energy, brain cells, or creativity to write (I truly feel that everyone except therapists don't understand this, but it's a very real struggle/issue) and blah, blah, blah....but when it comes down to it, I simply feel a block in my writing that I am trying to overcome. I think I am in a limbo state of my life right now, hopefully one of positive growth and change. I spend so much time analyzing at work, and then analyzing what I am doing right, wrong, or could improve upon in my personal life. I get tired of working so hard sometimes when it comes to people....helping them, understanding them, and when need be, letting go of some of them. I guess I'm in the wrong profession, huh? ha!

I'm currently reading a book by my absolute favorite famous therapist/author David Schnarch. This is a man who blew me away with his book "Passionate Marriage," which I read with the utmost fascination, curiosity, openmindedness, and respect when I was in grad school. Few books have provided me with radical insightful awakenings and propelled me to really grow, that book being one of them. Now he has a new book called "Intimacy and Desire," which hasn't been as eye opening as PM but excellent and brilliant nonetheless.

As I read the case vignettes on the couples he has worked with, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have him as MY therapist. To have him pick my brain....strengths, neuroses and all....I think I would grow alot faster and alot more! I have come pretty far in my personal growth if I do say so myself, but I still feel stuck in the relationship department. There were things he described that I found myself doing, things I don't want to do or be and am trying to change. He also talks about how every relationship has two kinds of cycles: one of comfort (an absence of anxiety) and one of growth (which requires a degree of anxiety and having a secure sense of self to be able to push past the discomfort of anxiety).

If most people cannot endure the anxiety needed for genuine intimacy and growth, it's a wonder to me how anyone has managed to maintain a long-term relationship. Then again, half of marriages end in divorce! I hope I find a man someday who is willing to grow....for himself, for me, and with me. Reading this book about all the potential things one can learn about oneself(and truly grow) while in an intimate relationship with another makes me want to meet 'the one' all the faster, all the more. In the meantime, I'm just gonna keep on growin' by myself. And I can only hope me being able to write more easily and frequently will be one of the tools in the process.

Snapshots

I am golden yellow, crimson red, and burnt orange strewn like confetti beneath your feet, a watercolor painting against a backdrop of violet hues in the nighttime sky. A gentle breeze flows through locks of hair, giving way to the humidity in the air. Dense fog resembles an airy milk in the sky, making driving a daring undertaking, oh my!

Drops of water collect like beads of sweat on windshields, squeaking clean and dry with wipers that swiftly sway left.....right....left....right. Spittle turns into downpour. Left! Right! Left! Right! Rainfall cannot make up its mind, a game of cat and mouse, a distraction from rush hour traffic on I-5 and Aurora Avenue....toying with impatient commuters. Back tires screech in resistance to the mingling of oil and water, while traveling an upward battle on the concrete sloped roads of Denny and Madison Avenue, which had only been touched by puddles of tears briefly until I arrived in full force.

The sweet smell of lightly burnt marshmallows and chocolate melting between two graham crackers over a roaring campfire, overlooking the Cascades. Laughing until everyone is full of comfort food and storytelling. Dear sun has gone into hiding, ushering in the cycle known so well to dwellers of Seattle.

Fat and heavy pumpkins to carve, seeds to salt and toast, blueberry, apple and pecan pies to bake. Carmel corn to get stuck between the crevices of your teeth, hot chocolate to warm you from the inside out. Dressed up for a world of make believe, candy corns, Kit Kats, and Dum Dums spill out of sugar infested bags....treats collected, tricks an afterthought. Anticipation of downtime that comes with the last Thursday of November, reflecting, revisiting, remembering, and reconnecting with me as we near the end.

I am fall.

I am the unexpected visitor that covers the city in a blanket of thick, sparkling white and penetrating silence. Vehicles crawl along the thick mixture of dark brown sand and snow. Hitting patches of black ice, eyes widening with terror, hands tightly gripped around the wheel, trying to respond without slamming abruptly on the brakes into a spinning frenzy. Twinkling lights and festive ornaments dangle from pine trees on the city blocks of Pike and Pine. Lethargy kicks in as days shorten, darkness creeping up against the end of a workday, the pitch black sky and cold air giving a false sense of time...as if it's the middle of the night during rush hour traffic.

Pedestrians sprint into Starbuck's, Tully's, Seattle's Best, and Victrola in hopes of kicking the lurking S.A.D. to the curb. Safeway pharmacy has prepared for my arrival, providing over-the-counter sunshine in a bottle.

Whip out the Snuggies and blankets, huddle inside....or hustle and bustle to the department stores with a holiday shopper's stride. Prepare your loved ones for delays to the airport in Seatac, because if you don't they might not wanna come back. I am the one who can make or break the greatness of this city....but if you don't like me, you can leave....it won't be a pity.

I am winter.

A chirping bird near your open window tempts you out to play, a gentle reminder: the rain is slipping away. Acres of tulips as far as the eye can see. Sampling wine and a smorgasboard of cheese at Pike's Place market, the sun sparkles like diamonds atop Puget Sound and its ferries. Getting down on hands and knees, tending to the soil and daydreaming of plump tomatoes, radishes, and bright bell peppers arrival.

Enjoying smoked salmon upon a warmly toasted bagel and cream cheese, watching sailboats glide by, you are mesmerized by the Olympic Mountains. Days trips to Mt. Si and Mt. Rainier too, visitors from out of town to spend time with you. Climbing straight up for miles with a camera and backpack, stopping periodically at an overlook for lukewarm water and a snack.

I am spring.

Record breaking heat waves and breathtaking sunsets, wearing sunglasses every day and not needing an umbrella for months, I'll bet. Daytime celebrations before Fremont's solstice parade, French pressed coffee, mimosas, and people watching plans to be made. Oyster Dome, Ballard Locks, Golden Gardens and more...this time of year, never a bore. Dogs who want to play the moment you walk through the door, ferry rides and island adventures galore.

Not always depressing and raining 24/7, I am Seattle's favorite, the little slice of heaven. I make all the others that much more worthwhile, repeating the cycle annually with a reassuring smile.

I am summer.

I am snapshots of the Seattle life.

Lonely and Alone

My mom and I arrived in Chicago one late night in December 2001, a few days shy of my 24th birthday. I was struck by the lights that shimmered from the high rise buildings as we rounded the bend of Lakeshore Drive towards the Belmont Ave exit. Bitter cold, one's breath was visible with even the most minute exhale. After deciding on a studio apartment at 432 W. Belmont, we quickly unloaded my meager belongings. Mom helped with the process of unpacking and making apartment 304 resemble that of a cozy "home." We crossed things off our to-do list as we hopped on and off Chicago's buses and trains, which was a totally new experience for both of us. I remember being worried that if we didn't step on and off of the "el" platform quickly enough, the automatic doors would close in on us. I had never been on a subway train before.

On my birthday, Mom and I laughed about the drama that ensued between a cab driver and passenger as we ordered our popcorn before "Vanilla Sky." Bundled up in our coats, hats, scarves, and gloves, we sought refuge in my apartment and the heat that steamed from the old metallic radiator underneath my window.

Christmas was strange that year because it was just the two of us, but mom didn't want me to be alone. Neither did I. A big part of me wondered how I was going to manage this whole 'alone in the big city' venture I had boldly decided to undertake, as I was afraid to be alone. What if someone breaks into my apartment or robs me on the street? What if I get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood of the city? What if no one wants to talk to me or get to know me? I'm all by myself. What will I do? These were the anxious thoughts that ran through my mind. Yet when I waved goodbye to my mother as she stepped onto a bus the day after Christmas, I thought about times I have been alone.

I am the only product of what came of my mom and dad's marriage. My parents divorced before I could even form a memory of having seen them together. I have no recollection of them as a couple. It has always been Mom or Dad, not Mom AND Dad. As young as seven years old, I had boarded more Delta, American, Southwest and Northwest airlines by myself than any other kid I knew. Traveling from the northeast to hot and humid Tampa, Florida every summer, I would gaze out the window, read a book during flights, and chat with friendly neighbors on the plane. I impatiently awaited the long, dreadful layovers in big cities like Atlanta and New York City, but being served peanuts in a shiny airline package more than made up for it.

Bouncing from Chesapeake, Virginia to Panama City, Florida, to Kingwood, Texas over the span of four years, I had become almost a natural at the role of "the new kid in town." What if I get lost in the halls of the cavernous school? What if my classmates think I'm weird or not cool enough? What if I don't make any friends? What if I miss the bus?

I remember frequently feeling like I was always alone, even when I was surrounded by other people (including family). Sometimes I would stare out the second floor bedroom window of our home in Kingwood with tears welling up in my eyes, wondering when I wouldn't feel so alone anymore. .....Or was it lonely?

Perhaps what I was really afraid of that first night all by myself in the Windy City was not of being alone, but of being lonely. I had spent a majority of my childhood feeling lonely, but my twenty-four year old adventurous spirit was allowing me a powerful opportunity: I could be a strong, independent adult, alone without being lonely.

There's lonely and then there's alone. Chicago taught me there is a difference between the two.

Mustering courage

It's funny how you get to a point where you think you've really conquered and faced so much within yourself, only to find out you have so much further to go! For as much as I push myself beyond my comfort zones as much as possible, I noticed I am still not totally comfortable with intimacy yet. A part of me wonders if intimacy is harder with strangers vs. people I know (family, friends, a significant other). Some may argue it's easier with strangers, but I just don't know about that. There's no building blocks of a relationship to fall back on (yet) when you disclose something intimate to a stranger, so it feels riskier when you don't know what the response will be. At least that's where I'm at with my writing. Someone called the writing class a "psychological nudist camp" and that's TOTALLY how it feels to me. I'm so accustomed to writing to a "blind" audience here on my blog. There's no one in front of me, looking at me, listening to me speak the words I write. Knowing that makes me feel safe in some weird way, even though the whole world wide web can read it. I think it also has to do with being critiqued by other writers, something totally foreign to me. What if I don't measure up to their literary brilliance, originality, and creativity? I know, I know. I need to just swallow these fears and move into the discomfort....after all, it is only in these moments that allow me to grow in a huge way.

Last night was horrible though. After spending Sunday night staring at my laptop, typing away words, deleting words, sighing from frustration and lack of creative flow, then typing more useless words...I got fed up at the 300 word mark and felt like 'screw this!' I had nothing to show for the assignment and went into class with absolutely nothing, which embarrassed and depressed me. Not only because I really wanted to write something, but because I'm not a quitter. Never have and never will be. I'm also not one to not finish something I start. I've always been the superachievin' A++ student. It was incredibly weird for me to not have completed my "homework," even though it's not the kind of class that dishes out grades.

Towards the end of class, the instructor gave a writing assignment for next week and I'm DETERMINED to write it out, no matter how painful and nervewracking it likely will be. The assignment? Write about an epiphany. This will be difficult because it will entail me disclosing some very personal things about myself, but I have to do it! I already know what I want to write about. I may just write it on here first, as it may help me feel more "free" and uninhibited with what I really want to say, with my writing 'voice.' Stay tuned....

In the I.R.

The word "restroom" and "bathroom" feel like misnomers to me. I don't "rest" when I am in there, nor do I always have the luxury of taking a bath or the desire to powder my nose in the "ladie's room."

I was the 6 year old kid who loved my Gremlins Gizmo doll so incredibly much that I brought him into the bathroom with me in our Chester, New Hampshire home. Wherever I went, he went...literally. Well, almost. I didn't go as far as to believe he was real and needed to sit on a toilet like humans, but my borderline obsession with having him near me led to his ultimate demise. I flushed the toilet and after picking him up a few minutes later, he fell out of the grasp of my tiny hands. Freefall right into the (clean) toilet. Poor Gizmo was not the same after that. Our relationship was forever changed and no longer close. I learned relationships and bathrooms (as in having relationships in bathrooms) don't always mix. Note to self: be cautious and selective about who and what you bring in there.

When I was between 9-11 years old, the restroom became my escape route from dinners I detested eating. I loved the invention of toilet paper, small bathroom trash cans, and the magical white porcelain garbage disposal. I pretended that I had to get up from the table to use the restroom and....well, boy did I use it. I would put a big forkful of whatever nasty food it was that I was forced to eat into my mouth and leisurely mosey into the bathroom. It was easy to do because I was the only one sitting at the dinner table at this point. Once past the door into the room that was my newfound savior, I spit the food into the toilet paper and rolled it up. Into the toilet it went. Flushed down into the sewage abyss, where it belonged for its lack in exquisite taste. I wonder if my father or stepmother ever discovered my sneaky strategy. Of course, it didn't help as much as if I could have discarded the whole meal....but having one less measly bite to swallow made it less grueling.

In my teen years, the bathroom started to turn on me. Once a friend, it became more of a fair weather friend...made me feel good one minute, then turned on me the next. I had a love/hate relationship with mirrors. If I was skinny, I loved them. I spent more time often than not, however, overweight. I tried to avoid looking at my curves in the mirror, instead opting to focus on looking at my head. If I could have just removed my head from the rest of my body and put it on the counter like one of those heads they use to train cosmetologists on hair and makeup, it would have boosted my self-esteem. How beautiful a head can be without the rest of the body attached....nice hair, straight white teeth, glowing skin.

Into my early adult years, I remember being in a restaurant with my mom. We had just arrived and I felt like my bladder was about to explode. Before bothering to even sit down at the table, I turned to my mom and asked her "Where's the bathroom?" With a slightly annoyed look on her face, she made a remark about how I always ask her that when we are in a restaurant and that I do it with a feeling of anxiety and uncertainty, as if something horrible will happen or that I haven't the confidence to find it without anyone's help. I had never felt so self-conscious about my relationship to bathrooms before or since. I also don't ask my mom where it is anymore.

Perhaps we need different terms for this room, depending on the circumstances. After all, it is misleading to say we are resting if we are really plotting an escape, bathing if we are really showering, looking at ourselves in the mirror if we are in actuality finding ways to avoid the mirror. It's time to redefine the words we use to describe what we do in what typically tends to be an intimate room. We call the emergency room the ER. Can the "bathroom" instead be called the IR?

My fake obituary

Back in the fall of 1997, I was attending a community college in Kingwood, Texas. While there, I took one of the most fascinating and thought provoking psych classes of my undergraduate years...The Psychology of Death and Dying. One of the class requirements was to write one's own obituary. It is funny to read now, to see how I imagined myself at the time, as well as what I imagined myself, friends, and family would be like/doing in the future. It's also interesting to see how far I've come in my writing skills over the years, in retrospect (at least I hope!). I wonder what it would be like to re-write my obit now. Hmmm. Anyway, here's what I wrote back in '97:


In Memory of....

Katie L, age 45, died yesterday, January 1, 2022, due to hermorraging of the brain from a head-on collision with a drunk driver. She was on her way home from a New Year's Eve party hosted by longtime friend Stephanie C. and was reportedly in high spirits when she left the house at 2:30 am, only to die unexpectedly minutes later in a car wreck that was caused by a lack of clear judgment made by the other intoxicated driver.

Katie L. is survived by mother Alice and stepfather Oliver F. of Spokane, Washington, father Dana L, sister Dr. Kristen L., and brother Lieutenant Thomas L. of Tampa, Florida, brother Alex L. and wife Lisa of Flagstaff, Arizona, uncle Donald C. of Phoenix, Arizona, and her loving husband Tim and their two children, Star and Tyler, of Clearwater, Florida. She will also be missed by many friends and coworkers.

At the time of her death she was working on a Psychology dissertation, which would further her along in the field and challenge her to explore other areas of medicine. The world will suffer the loss of her contributions in the areas of health care facilities. She will also be missed for her natural flair for expression found in the beauty of her photographic works displayed in the local Clearwater exhibits. She was a member of the local photography club, theater, and choir group.

Katie L. is gone, but not forgotten. Her friends and family will always remember her for her thoughtfulness, warmth of her smile, ambition, loyalty, willingness to listen to people, sense of humor, friendly attitude towards people, and her overall devotion to those she loved. In addition, she loved to travel, sing, read mystery novels, laugh, and dedicated her life to understanding different types of people. She touched the lives of many, more in the little things she did than with her personal accomplishments (such as making people laugh or telling them how important they were).

Although Katie lived her life with few regrets and believed everything in life happened for a reason, she would have liked to have a better self-esteem and more confidence in herself. Moreover, she wished she got along better with her father.

After organs have been generously donated, the body will be cremated and the ashes will be spread over the mountains of Taos, New Mexico. In lieu of flowers, money should be donated to her most worthy cause: hospice organizations or other beneficial health care programs. A memorial service will be held tomorrow night at 7:30 on Clearwater Beach to honor Katie L. one final time. The family politely asks those attending to refrain from wearing black.

Thanksgiving, 2004

(Excerpt from one of my notebooks)

I walked out the door and was surprised to see remnants of the previous night's nasty fury. A few inches of snow on the ground and patches of ice here and there. Chilly, but not unbearable. Melissa and I chatted briefly on her couch as we sipped some delectable red wine to help me start off slowing down the day to a relaxed state of mind. She had made a 2:00pm reservation for us at the Chicago Diner on Halsted and told me not to argue---the meal was her treat. I thought that was kind and generous of her. Inside, I thought it had a quirky, individualistic sense to it and reminded me of the restaurant Toast (where Mike and I have had a few scrumptous breakfasts).

There were three colorful heart shaped paintings on the wall and people watching was one of the many fun things to experience while there. Off and on I pondered whether this 20-30something woman and 40-50something woman were colleagues, friends, lovers (though I didn't get that vibe), or mother and daughter. What was peculiar was that I can almost guarantee they did not exchange more than a few words the whole time. Not that one or both people in an interaction with each other must always be talking incessantly, but no conversation at all? And the body language was hard to follow too. Were they each lost in their own worlds, looking at the ceiling, other people, seeing past the other person, as if each were dining alone (mentally)? Was there a language barrier? Were harsh words and regrets looming in the air before they sat down at this place? Or maybe just at a loss of words, both introspective, shy individuals having an internal dialogue of things to be grateful for within their own head? I never figured it out...interesting to watch nonetheless.

Melissa was eager to see the cute waiter she had told me about, quick to show a surprised hint of giddiness later when he revealed that he remembered her with a comment about her usual likings for milkshakes. Melissa was a bit turned off by his name, however, when she glanced at the receipt...Rusty. Ah, the poor boy. I suppose there are worse names though, right? All in perspective....

Let me just mention all the food to partake....a sweet combination of winter squash and apple soup with a sprinking of pumpkin seeds, rolls that came with a soft, creamy garlic flavored butter, mulled wine that had the smell of potpourri to warm the insides, a side salad with a taste delicious, but I can't quite identify, and for the main entree: pumpkin filled spinach ravioli with a walnut sauce for the topping, along with a side of stuffing, risotto with mushroom, a huge ass chunk of sweet potato, and then a slice of mint chocolate mousse cake for dessert (with coffee). I was so full, I couldn't even finish my entree, nor the cake. I took the meal for leftovers and finished it later, but alas, the poor slice of cake was abandoned by my finite appetite.

Pre-film fest observations

It's fun every once in awhile to look through my old notebooks (back when I used to write regularly in journals/notebooks) and read some of the things I've written, what was on my mind, even relive my past on the page. I came across something I wrote while waiting in line before I went to see a short film at the Chicago Film Fest on October 13, 2004. Thought I'd share it here.....


All of us expectant movie-watchers have been put in a "holding pen," like we are pigs waiting for our nightly feeding. As I await being released from the confines of captivity, a lady a few feet in front of me wearing a pink hoodie carries on with two tall, older conservative looking gentlemen. Her laughter grates on my nerves as it carries beyond the radius of her personal space, spilling into mine. "Ha ha ha. This is SO FUN-NY. You should work for them. You should really work for them" she announces as I try to patiently await being released from this herd of wild animals caged amongst me. A cloth bag hangs loosely from her left arm by her side. "Yoga" magazine peers slightly curved, rested inside the lining of the roomy bag. Now she is needlessly talking about picking up a mango drink for someone as a favor, adding that she doesn't know why "she" requested this mystery smoothie. All I can silently scream to myself: "Who cares lady?!"

Meanwhile, Thing I and Thing II behind me are tapping each other playfully (irritating and repetitive to me) with their movie tickets. Probably a yuppie newlywed couple. I turn diagonally to my right and glance over to see a Tobey McGuire lookalike. Well, a long haired version, with his straight brown hair pulled back loosely in a ponytail, cascading down his back. He looks like he is about to be cast in an Indiana Jones flick.

I plop down to unwind once we finally migrate to the theater room. Although there are a plentitude of seats to choose from, a twentysomething female with short, greasy hair sits right beside me to my left. I imagine she is a traveling transient in the city for the festival and has been exclusively staying at a hostel. From the looks of her backpack and the body odor that smells of onions and sweat, I predict she has not showered recently in attempts to be a low-maintenance spender. I refuse to let my movie experience be spoiled by this most atrocious of smells and move up to a row much higher in the back. Much better for my enjoyment!

3rd floor event space

It was late September of 2002 or 2003 when I started working at Borders bookstore on Michigan Avenue ("The Magnificent Mile") in Chicago, Illinois. Over the 3-4 years I worked there part-time to help support myself through graduate school, I accumulated more than my fair share of "interesting" observations, stories, and fond memories. Nothing quite stands out to me, however, like that of the more than 30 author/musician events I worked during the course of my employment with the company. Every time I worked an event, I wrote down the name of the person with the intent to write about my event experience with that person at some point in time. I have saved that list after all these years, but I realized that it's only natural for us to remember what was meaningful, random or idiosyncratic. Giving a play by play takes away the flavor, so instead here's a flavorful snapshot of my vivid remembrances......

Gene Hackman was down-to-earth and an engaging speaker. He looks exactly the same in person as he does onscreen, minus the evil onscreen persona. Larry Flynt rolled down the aisle onto the stage in a bright, shiny spanking new looking gold wheelchair. Jenny McCarthy outspokenly joked about having to shit on a plate during childbirth, something mainstream pregnancy and childbirth books didn't tell her in "What to Expect."

Kay Redfield Jamison put a very human and professional face to mental illness, boldly challenging its stigma. I told Mitch Albom my mom uses "Tuesdays With Morrie" as a steppingstone to talk about the difficult subject of death in the college level English classes she teaches. I remember Alex Kotlowitz was a Chicago based writer whom I had never heard of before. I asked Augusten Burroughs about his recovery and writing process after the event, when everyone else had left. He told me there's a part in "Dry" that he wrote while drunk. I went home that night, eager to find it and never did. Note to self: re-read "Dry" in its entirety.

I don't remember anything about Sara Paretsky except that she's a mystery/thriller writer. Mannheim Steamrollers felt socially awkward and uncomfortable. When I gave gorgeous Nigella Lawson the tea she kindly requested, she joked about needing it after traveling so much and looking like "an East German transvestite." I marveled at her candor and secretly wished we could be friends. Her book "Feast" purposely released around the Thanksgiving holiday, I told her about the comfort and memories attached to my grandmother's cooking growing up. She listened with a warmth and compassion unlike any other celeb I've interacted with thus far.

Allan Lee attracted all the die hard "Lord of the Rings" fans, a trilogy I still don't understand what all the fascination is about. Mark Winegardner wrote a wine book....I think. Jack Welch sat by the magazine section on the first floor. It was an afternoon event during the middle of the week, to attract the business folks on their lunch break?, I wondered. I have no recollection of Jack Welch, but I remember spotting Dustin Hoffman buying a guide book on Chicago. He was shorter in "real life," dressed like your average American in jeans. This celeb sighting had gone virtually "undetected" until a customer standing beside him at the register where he was making his purchase loudly exclaimed his name with excitement.

Kirstie Alley had pretty, long flowing hair and carried herself confidently, which gave her far more beauty than any scale could in my eyes. The UK band Keane put on a musical performance as the sun came beaming through the windows. Kanye West had fans waiting in line to see him, a line that wrapped around from the 3rd floor to the 1st floor. He left before the time he promised to stay, and the line for him was replaced by a line of disgruntled customers at the registers returning his cd. It seemed like Alan Alda was 7 feet tall with a cheery smile.

Dan Savage read the witty passage from his book that I suggested he read when I briefly spoke to him before the event started. Margaret Cho doesn't come off as crazy and loud as she appears to be on her standup comedy shows. It made me think her standup literally is "just an act." Nate Berkus was a short, sweet, down-to-earth guy who really took the time to connect with every single customer that came up to the book signing table. I remember being eager and excited about the opportunity to have my picture taken with him, but I missed the chance because I had to use the restroom. For a brief instant I wished I was one of my gay male colleagues who got to snuggle up against him in that photo op.

Al Franken was cranky and moody. He got bent out of shape about not receiving the right coffee from the downstairs cafe. I can't say I remember a single memory of Brad Thor. Sorry, Brad. William Moyers, son of Bill Moyers, spoke about his addiction and recovery. I was touched when he humbly thanked me for the work I do with addicts and the difference I make in their lives. Mike Ditka had a bright red face and commanded the events space as if it were a football field all his own. I was excited about yet another photo opportunity, this time with Billie Crystal. The general manager Julie sent me on a short trip to Walgreens for either a disposable camera or more film. I can't remember if I even got to take a picture with him or if I did, just never received a copy of it.

I think Judith Wright was a life coach whose audience basically consisted of women. Every one of us working the Anderson Cooper event seemed to be a bit infatuated with his charming good looks and personality. I made sure to let him know my mother watches his show. Harry Shearer was witty; all I could think about was Homer Simpson as he spoke during the event. Marlo Thomas had a genuine humanitarian vibe about her. It appeared to me that Rachael Ray wanted her book signing to be as speedy as her 30 minute meals.

Chuck Klosterman is even funnier in person than in his books. It was the only event I worked where the audience primarily consisted of my generation (people who grew up in the 1980's and early 90's), apropos to his pop culture topics.

Gus Russo, Nathaniel Philbrick, and Terry Brooks provide me with no memory whatsoever besides my having written down their names. Robert Baer was the inspiration for the movie "Syriana." His stories were far more interesting and revealing than anything I gleaned from watching the yawn of a movie.

What's my purpose?

When I was a senior in high school, it was while I took a psychology course out of mere curiosity and interest that I found myself intrigued by the subject....so much so that I delved into it more and majored in psychology my freshman year of college. My sophomore year of college I took a sociology class about families and relationships. During one particular class, the teacher brought in a marriage and family counselor who spoke about what it was like to be this kind of therapist, what it entailed,etc. I remember getting this feeling that I really wanted to do that, in a strong sense that I was even "meant" to do that.

After receiving my BA in Psychology and feeling "lost" for a year without any full-time employment, I decided it was time for me to really reflect on what I wanted to do next. It was at that time I made the bold decision to move to Chicago and pursue a master's degree in Marriage and Family Counseling. This was truly a life changing experience for me, all 6 years of it (living there)!

Though this is not something a majority of people know about me (even those closest to me), I have always been powerfully guided by spiritual principles and intuition....I just rarely talk about it. It is the one part of my life that is totally sacred, something I would rather experience than talk about.

For me, no time is greater for growth than in the unknown-ness of what direction my life will take next. A part of me though wonders if that is because I thought I knew my spiritual purpose.
From that high school psych class to grad school to my almost 5 years as a therapist, I have spent the last 14 years believing that it was my purpose (and I truly speak with no ego, only good intentions) in life to help heal others. It has been a valuable journey and I am blessed to have been a part of various individuals' healing processes....yet I am in a transition right now that has me feeling like I do not want to do it anymore, that it is no longer what I am meant to do. I have spent so much of my life taking care of other people, focusing on them, helping them, being attentive to them...and while it wasn't in vain, it has been to my own detriment alot of times. It's scary, strange, liberating, and exciting to envision what my life would be like to spend most of my time taking care of myself and living my passions rather than taking care of other people and living vicariously through their passions.

I have been thinking constantly about wanting to do something serious with my writing, something big. A part of me wonders if this is what I am meant to do next, yet I am not sure how to get there, when, or how. All I know is that whatever I write, I want it to mean something. I want to write about things that will touch people in some way and contribute to society. I am definitely in a transition and trying to allow myself to "let go" of the old in order to make room for the new me.

I've been experiencing alot of things lately that are drawing me to a different way of life. I've had very telling dreams. I also find myself giving clients feedback of a spiritual nature that I feel I need to honor within myself in order to be true to myself. I am more selective about who I choose to talk to and interact with, trying to avoid people who seem negative, judgmental, or not on a similar "path" as myself. I am becoming more aware of what I consume, both with food and drink. I am eating more fresh produce and less junk. I have reduced my "emotional" eating patterns. I am more "green" with the environment and have been recycling since I moved to Seattle. I spend more time in nature. I have less tolerance and interest in alcohol, as well as that being a medium to "connect" with others. I would rather connect in deeper ways. Surprisingly even to myself, I have even been considering giving up alcohol totally. I feel like it has no use for me in the overall scheme of things.

In addition, after reading a book about self-care written by a former social worker here in Seattle, I realized just how much I've been lacking in that department. I've been neglecting what brings me joy, happiness, and peace. So I decided to sign up for a creative writing class, which I will start in a few weeks. I'm incredibly excited. My mom recently gave me a book on creative nonfiction to read, something she just read and thought I would like too. As I started reading it on Saturday, I found myself getting excited about it. I even looked up the creative nonfiction website associated with the book's editor Lee Gutkind. I also went to Gutkind's webpage.

Between looking at both webpages, I was pulled by this strong feeling of "THAT" is what I want to do in some shape or form. The definition of what creative nonfiction embodies, Gutkind's literary philosophy ("mission statement" if you will), and the literary career he has had over the years (teaching and writing books with different themes) finally put a name to the kind of writing I am passionate about and strive to emulate.

A part of me really wants to pursue a degree in creative nonfiction with an institute in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (where Gutkind teaches), but how is that possible? Is that something I truly want? Am I crazy? How do I make a career out of my passion for writing given that I have no degree or work experience in writing? What do I do if I don't know what I want other than simply wanting to write? Passion and purpose are two sides of the same coin, at least for me.

I hope this is where my intuition and receptivity to spiritual guidance comes in to get my answer. I need some signs.

My journey of forgiveness

Although I consider myself an open book, there are certain things about myself I don't share as openly (and certainly not publicly,so this will be a first) and easily. For this very reason, it is all the more important for me to write about here....especially given the news I received on September 9, 2009.

Incest is one of those topics in society that is rarely talked about (even amongst family members) unless it is forced upon by legal involvement, such as CPS or other social services related systems. Unfortunately, society's tendency to push such "secret" things under the rug only proves more damaging to the incest victim's sense of shame and pain all the more. Society tends to focus on the "victim" archetype without accurate and helpful attention on how one can transform to that of a "survivor," a process that calls for courage, strength, resiliency, opportunities for spiritual growth, and most importantly forgiveness....with oneself and the perpetrator. Many victims of sexual abuse struggle for years with these very real issues, if they even work through them at all. I am relieved I am in the minority.....a survivor, not a victim.

Even so, it was not certainly not easy. Forgiveness for me didn't happen in one single moment, but rather through a series of critical situations throughout my life.

It happened on a summer evening when I was 7 years old. My cousin couldn't have been more than 13 or 14 years old at the time. I blocked it from my memory until I got to be about the same age. Two events occurred which brought it flooding to my awareness. It was my cousin's visit to our house around the holidays (I felt uncomfortable being around him and I didn't know why) and the topic of incest and sexual assault in my middle school sex ed class that triggered the painful, shameful, and repressed memory I had buried for several years.

Sitting in the bathroom crying and frozen with an inability to get the words out for what felt like an eternity, I finally broke down and told my mother. I begged her not to tell anyone, fearful of possible recrimination. A part of me thought it (the pain and shame) would just go away simply because I was able to tell someone about it, but this was not to be the case. It was only the beginning of my healing process. Other than talking to my mom about it now and then, it was going unaddressed....until high school.

Shortly after we moved to Texas, my mom took me to a hypnotherapist for treatment. At the time, I remember going into it feeling like this kind of treatment was going to be hokey and unhelpful. Surprisingly, it wasn't. While it did help me release and come to peace with some emotions, however, I wasn't 100% "cured" by the experience. I still struggled with issues of self-worth, particularly in regard to relationships and sex. I was unable to fully experience either one until my twenties, a late bloomer to most societal standards. Other than the visit to the hypnotherapist, I never received counseling to help me with this issue. All the demons I faced were on my own courageous volition, through self-help tools and literally face to face.

After I graduated college, another cousin (the brother of "the" cousin) generously offered to help me move from my college apartment to my mom's in Reno, Nevada. This entailed a road trip from a little hill country near Austin, Texas to Phoenix, Arizona (where my uncle and two cousins were all living together at the time). The plan was for us to get from TX to Arizona, and from there my uncle and I would make the drive from AZ to NV because my uncle was moving to Reno too. It was truly a catch-22. I wondered why God was doing this to me. Why would God put me in a situation, knowing I would be face to face with someone who damaged my spirit at 7 years old? At the same time, I didn't have a choice. I had to move and I refused to be gripped by fear. I also had this feeling that if I didn't confront the situation, it would be as if my cousin had "won" somehow.

I wondered how it would all go down. I knew my cousin knew I had told someone because my mom had talked to my uncle about it at some point. My uncle had then asked/talked to my cousin about it. Yet, no one had ever talked to me or asked me how I felt...ever. Any and all talk around this issue between family members took place behind my back. Or by secondhand information my mom told me later on down the road. I was never included in any of those conversations, something to this day I honestly still don't understand. I think it all goes back to family secrecy and uncomfortability bringing up such a difficult topic, especially with the survivor.

We arrived in Arizona in the wee hours of the morning. I was relieved my cousin was asleep so I could avoid seeing him, but I could only postpone the inevitable for so long. When I awoke and made my way down the stairs later that morning, my heart was racing with fear. What do I say to him? Do I wait and see what he says to me? How will I act around him? How do I pretend to be comfortable and "normal" around him? These were the thoughts that raced through my mind. I remember he was in the kitchen. After a few minutes of hanging out in the kitchen and neither one of us saying anything to one another (he was talking to someone else in the room), I realized it was going to have to be me to break the silence. I didn't want to be the bigger person, but I did anyway. It was just small talk of course. I think he was just as uncomfortable as I felt, yet it angered me that I was the one having to interact with someone who hurt me and never apologized, let alone hadn't acknowledged what he did. Still, my spiritual belief that "everything happens for a reason" provided me the strength and sustenance to get through the distressing experience. I thought that was enough to help me heal and grow. It had definitely given me alot to reflect on. I didn't want it to negatively impact my sense of self anymore.

While it took awhile to forgive my cousin, I was finally able to do this when the opportunity presented itself a few years ago....again, in Arizona. My uncle had died and the family had come together for a memorial. I knew my cousin would be there because my uncle was his father. I felt like I had grown alot and healed from my past trauma, but it's hard to know for sure until you are immersed back into a situation with the person. I knew this would be the "test" that would show me whether or not this person was still affecting me or not. During the time I was in Arizona for the memorial, I was around him at a family barbecue and I was ok. The morning of the day I left Arizona, the family went out for breakfast. I felt compelled to give him a hug before we parted ways from the restaurant. I did it for myself and it felt good to know there was no more anger and pain in my heart. I had completely forgiven.

What does all of this have to do with the news I received on September 9, 2009? Well, my cousin was not one to take care of his health. He was overweight and he did not properly take care of his diabetes with healthy diet, exercise, or insulin. He had gone at least partially blind and one of his toes had to be removed in years past, thus he has been in poor health for some time. It caught up with him on Wednesday morning. He had a heart attack and all his organs shut down. He died at the age of 37 years old. When my mom told me the news over the phone that day, I was in shock. Part of me was shocked that he died so young. The other part of me was glad that I wasn't happy or relieved. Horrible to say, but many years ago I thought the only way I could let go of what happened to me was by thinking it would all be "buried" and forgotten if he died. All I felt after I heard the news though was sadness and compassion all at the same surreal time. Sad that he didn't take care of himself. Sad for my other cousin who lost both his father and brother in a few years time of each other. Sadness for my cousin who likely never forgave himself....and yet compassion for my cousin. And myself.

My cousin, unbeknownst to him, taught me the power of forgiveness and spiritual strength like no one else in my life.

Rest in peace, Jody. I am.

Technology and detriment to relationships

I've been thinking about this alot lately, and more so...I feel increasingly frustrated about this....

It relates to a blog I wrote about quite awhile ago ("Connecting in a Postmodern World", or something along those lines of a title), only this time around I feel like it extends beyond the realms of trying to navigate through a confusing realm of dating. No, this is so much broader and potentially detrimental to human relationships as a whole.

Can anyone remember a time pre-Internet and social networking sites? Remember when having a relationship (of ANY kind, whether with a friend, family member, significant other, neighbor or coworker) with someone was done the "old fashioned" way of talking to the person on the phone, spending one-on-one/face to face time, and/or doing community based activities? How often does this happen now? Unless you're living in a poor, rural area (aka third world country), I would venture to say that a majority of relationships in the 21st century do not look like this anymore. Instead, direct interpersonal contact has been replaced by indirect impersonal, disconnected contact more often than not. By this, I mean relationships have become negatively dependent upon technological mediums (whether texting, emails, and especially social networking sites) to develop and maintain relationships. I can much more easily tell you who was the last person to text me, email me and communicate with me via a social networking site and how frequently this occurs in a given day than I can recall the last time I received a phone call or meaningful "in person" contact with someone in my personal life.

While I cannot speak for everyone, my keen psychological observations lead me to the prediction that this is more the norm for a majority of people than the exception.

In some ways, technology has made communication incredibly expansive and it definitely has its positive aspects...don't get me wrong. Taken to the extreme, as with anything else in life, it has become toxic to human relationships in many ways. When an individual seems to be having more of a relationship with a computer than a real, live person...there's a problem. It can have profound effects on one's capacity to engage in meaningful dialogue, demonstrate critical thinking skills, social skills, and developing genuine intimacy in relationships. It can also affect one's mental, emotional, and physical health.

It also extends to impacting one's ability to be "real," vulnerable, authentic and raw in expressing oneself with another in "real life." I saw a clip for a PBS special recently. It was a program about differences between the generations and they had people of various ages talking about what is different about Gen Xers, baby boomers, and the current generation (Gen Y'ers?). One mid 30 to fortysomething woman said something about how young people are so consumed with communicating via technology (texts and social networking) that they have a hard time even making eye contact when face to face with someone. I could not agree with her more, although I don't see it quite so specific to just that generation.

What bothers me (and what I haven't quite figured out yet) is, how does one come to terms with this in their relationships when this is the cultural norm? I don't know how many times in the past couple of months I have genuinely yearned to talk on the phone and/or spend time with someone I care about (too many instances to count), only to find the individual doesn't want to talk/chooses to be "distant" in their contact with me (but is definitely more accessible to communicate with online or through texts) or is too busy to hang out. Granted, things happen in life and I don't expect someone to be available at the drop of a hat. If you know me, you know I am not demanding in my relationships with people. At the same time, human beings are social animals who need to be stimulated by all of their senses (seeing, hearing, tasting, touching, and that 6th sense we call our intuition) and this includes our relationships.

I want more personal mediums in which to interact and communicate in my relationships. I want less of the current norm. Am I the only one who wants a return to this "old fashioned" way of having relationships? Do I put up with it, taking a 'this is better than nothing at all' attitude? Do I mourn the loss of the kind of relationship I would like to have with a particular person that just won't happen if he/she isn't willing to take it to the level I would like? And where do I find those that want more than a technologically based relationship?

It's pretty sad when the most meaningful conversation and face to face contact I have on a daily basis (on average) is with my clients...a surreal juxtaposition against my personal relationships that rely heavily on technology for a certain degree of staying "connected" in some way.

Literally, sleeping together

I got to thinking about this subject yesterday. A 10 yr old told me he sleeps in the same bed with his mother. I found myself justifying the possible reasons, such as their socioeconomic status, small living quarters, and the fact that at least this kid isn't a teenager because that would just be very strange. Still, even with those rationalizations I was still creeped out. It led me to examine my thoughts and feelings about it more. Why was this bothering me so much? What is so abnormal and/or "wrong" about sleeping in the same bed?

In some cultures, it is completely "normal" for a child to sleep in the same bed as a parent(s). It seems to depend on the age of the child, socioeconomic factors, as well as spiritual and moral belief systems (such as a child sleeping with their parents to ward off evil spirits). I wonder if it's primarily in the USA where we automatically fear the likelihood of incestuous relations. Could a culture's attitudes towards issues of intimacy and sexuality influence the degree to which its citizens are comfortable with "sleeping together" (and by this I simply mean just sleep next to one another in the same bed)? Or is it largely dependent upon the nature of a specific relationship?

When I think back to my experiences over the years with sleeping next to someone in the same bed and/or the potential to share the same bed, I have come up with diverse outcomes.

I have slept in the same bed with friends, though I think only female friends. There were a few occasions where male friends crashed at my place when I was living in Chicago and there was this whole awkwardness on their part (two separate guy friends on two separate occasions) about where to sleep. Both opted to sleep on my hardwood floor, even though I didn't make any sexual advances on them or do anything to make they uncomfortable when I suggested they could sleep beside me (I live in a studio with no other rooms or beds, couch, etc). I was simply wanting them to have a comfortable place to sleep. I couldn't understand it. I have slept in the same bed with my mom from time to time, my sister while she was visiting me in Chicago, and slept in the same bed beside my brother during family vacations in motel/hotel rooms...and I was fine with it. I didn't feel nervous or uncomfortable.

Do we as a society associate "sleeping together" that literally? Is sleeping closely next to someone an intimacy in and of itself, having someone next to us in one of our most vulnerable states? I wonder. This extends to lovers and significant others as well.

I've heard about people who have had one night stands, have sexual relations in bed with each other, and then go their separate ways right afterwards because one or both individuals aren't comfortable sleeping beside each other for the rest of the night. Ok, so you are comfortable enough to see each other naked and be sexual...but sleeping next to each other feels too intimate and out of the question? Hmmm. Given the norms of monogamous relationships in the US, I suppose this shouldn't surprise me.

When a couple is living together or married, it seems like it is a cultural given (I'm speaking to the norms of the US, as I don't know the standards for every country in the world) that they will sleep in the same bed. When they don't (or have stopped) for a consistent period of time, we wonder "is everything ok?" or assume "they must not be getting along/their relationship is in peril/they aren't having sex."

How is it that a bed holds that much power and symbolism, a "window" that peers into the nature of any particular relationship between friends, family members, spouses, or lovers?

I don't have any answers, but I sure do find it fascinating to ponder.....

Driving and freedom

I've never had what would be considered a "normal" driving record. I never took a driver's ed class. My dad taught me how to drive while I was staying with him one summer in Florida. After failing my driver's test the first time because the instructor in the car wasn't clear about how far they wanted me to back up, I received my license on the second attempt around the age of 18 years old. Even so, I wasn't able to totally appreciate having a license to the fullest because I could not afford a car in high school. I was lucky to have good friends that were willing to give me rides here and there, but it was a source of embarrassment and shame for me to have to depend on others.

I moved to Florida for my freshman year of college. I drove my Dad's white Jimmy truck to and from campus, as well as work and ended up buying a very cheap little white car that was on its last life. It truly lived up to the title "POS" (ie, piece of shit), yet it got me from point A to point B....that is until one unforgettable accident. I was on my way home from work at Publix, less than a mile or two away from home. I was in an unprotected left turn signal lane and there was someone on the opposite lane going the other way that was in my blind spot. Being a foolish 19 year old at the time, I thought it was clear and went for it. Once I turned, I saw a pickup truck coming towards me and it was too late. I put my foot on a gas pedal that had little to no pickup and was sideswapped. The car was totalled. No more car for Katie. I must admit, I still have a little PTSD-ish anxiety around unprotected left turns to this day.

The summer of my freshman year of college, I moved back to Texas and drove my mom's big ass conversion van. Again, it was mainly to and from work or school when my mom said it was ok for me to use it. It felt weird to drive such a huge vehicle. If you saw me driving it (the short girl that I am), you'd have chuckled. When I transferred to SWT (or Texas State University, as it's known nowadays) a few years later, I was back to square one. No car whatsoever. I think I very well could have gone 2 years without driving once.

Summer of 2001 rolls around and suddenly I am faced with driving a very LONG Penske truck from Reno, Nevada to a little country town near Lexington, Kentucky....after not having even driven ANYTHING in years. I was nervous, to say the least. I did well, despite a minor incident of hitting someone's tail light in a very claustrophobically small parking lot while turning around. Again, this was close to our destination in Kentucky. I can't remember if I helped Mom drive the Penske truck when I moved to Chicago months later in December 2001.

After moving to Chicago, however, I went my longest stretch without driving/having a car: 6 years! Driving a car to get around was a non-issue with Chicago's great public transportation of buses and trains. It wasn't until I decided to make another move (in yet another Penske truck, though not as long as the one I drove in 2001) that I found myself apprehensive and in unfamiliar driving territory again. In early March 2008, my friend Carla accompanied me as a driver in my journey from Chicago to Seattle, WA. She did most of the driving.

I drove my mom's car a few times back and forth while I was working part-time at the BBW last summer, but otherwise I was roughing it out with Seattle public transit. I went 10 months without driving a car and it was very exhausting, as well as oppressive. My work commute should be about 20-30 minutes by car and it was taking me an hour to an hour and a half...one way. Traveling so much during the week left me tired, lazy, and unmotivated to go anywhere by bus for anything else other than work a majority of the time. I really wanted a car, but I just could not afford it.

Chris made plans to visit me in May and I ended up renting a car for us to drive during his stay because I wanted us to have the freedom to go wherever we wished. Not surprisingly, I was nervous as I drove the two of us from the airport back to my apartment (a 35 minute drive, around 1:30am no less!). I drove a bit more that weekend, feeling a little more comfortable as time went on and yet, I have not had a chance to become totally confident and comfortable with driving because I have not been able to drive on a regular basis for years. Starting today, this is a whole new world for me.

I have been hesitant to get a car up until this point in my life due to my financial situation. I wanted to feel confident in my ability to pay car related bills responsibly. Yesterday I had a deal practically slap me in the face, one that would be ridiculous to pass up. My mom told me about a great deal my stepdad recently found on a 2 door Toyota Yaris. Her rationale was, 'it can't hurt to go to the dealership and talk to the guy' to get information and look at the cars. Off she and I went. After taking a look at my budget, I slept on it overnight...or I should say I barely slept, eager and excited about all the places I could go with my own vehicle.

I signed a 3 year lease on a red 2009 Toyota Yaris today! It still feels surreal....to drive and travel solo, something most people take for granted because driving all the time is the standard norm. I think I'll appreciate my new car that much more than the average person for this very reason and for all that it embodies for me now. The question now is....what to do with this newfound freedom? :)

Glock, stock, and barrel

(Picture on left: Marked bullet holes are the ones I fired...some of the other holes could have been my dad or me).

While visiting my family in Florida last week, I had the privilege of experiencing something I have never experienced before....shooting a gun. I had no idea what to expect, thus I kept my expectations to a bare minimum. This was the best possible mindset for me to have, especially since I know myself well enough to know that if I thought about it too much, I might freak myself out to a point where I would change my mind about following through with the bold (for me) undertaking. The United States seems to have such a cavalier attitude towards guns, that to most people shooting a gun may not sound like that big of a deal. Not for me though.

Although it has always been "normal" for me to see my Dad carrying a gun when we'd be out and about (he's a cop), I have had a very standoffish and slightly fearful attitude towards guns. I didn't like them and never even considered using one! I'm not sure what changed my mind, perhaps my unquenchable and curious thirst for new experiences. I like pushing past my comfort zones and challenging my perceptions, especially when it comes to proving myself wrong. Yes, I am that rare human specimen who would rather be proven wrong than right. Call me crazy, but I get satisfaction from being reminded that the human imagination can conjure up some real doozies that most times aren't reflective of reality. For instance, we humans have a way of thinking the worst possible scenario or making inaccurate assumptions. Prior to my experience of having shot a gun, my mind created images of me accidentally shooting myself or freaking out that I could unintentionally hurt someone else, drop the gun, get hit by others in the range....and this was me fantasizing at the bare minimum! Imagine what I could have conjured up in my mind if I had REALLY thought about it. With that said, my motto (as much as possible in life) is "Feel the fear and do it anyway"(also the title of a psych/self-help book, fyi)....so I did it. :)

First came the gun instruction with Dad. We sat on his couch in the living room and he showed me his .40 Glock. He showed me how to load the bullets, told me a little bit about the mechanics, and told me I needed to say "I got it" when he handed the gun over to me (safety precaution). He also showed me the proper way to hold the gun when in shooting mode, as well as posture. Knees should be slightly bent and according to Dad, "It should be a surprise" to hear the gun go off if you pull back on the trigger with the padded tip of the index finger ever so slowly.

Seeing as it was the day after July 4th, the Shoot Straight gun range was pretty dead inside (yeah, bad pun, huh? haha). This was fine by me considering having more people around might have heightened my anxiety. We walked into the place and there were guns everywhere. Teeny tiny size guns, medium sized handguns, and shotguns. There were also lots of dead animal heads on the wall. Again, such a thing would have bothered me in the past, but I was open-minded to experiencing something out of my usual realm of comfort and understanding.

Dad and I approached the counter to "check-in," meaning we had to sign our names on a sheet with the time. I laughed when I saw the three options of gun target pages hanging behind the counter: the standard human body silhouette outline, one that had smiley/sad faces, and this is what got a chuckle out of me....a laughing zombie. Not your average run of the mill looking zombie, but a laughing zombie. Those gun folks sure do have a sense of humor! Even though I was tempted to get the zombie target paper, I was intent on taking this new experience seriously...mainly because I really wanted to know how skilled I would be at something that I barely just learned from Dad's brief gun instruction "lesson." I went with the body outline.

Before heading back to the area where the shooting happens, I was told that I needed "eyes and ears." I put on the plastic glasses and ear muffs. Dad and I walked through the double doors of the target practice area. There must have been about 8-10 "stations" where people could go to stand and shoot, though only half were occupied. Bullet casings filled the floors around us, the temperature in the room oppressively hot. Dad took out the contents of his gun bag: Glock, magazines (for those not in the know, that is what you load the bullets into and then load into the gun), and bullets. I was starting to get really nervous. This was really about to happen, no backing out now. I had to rise to the challenge, no matter how scared I was starting to feel. Dad told me I could change my mind and stop at any time if I wanted to, but I didn't want to give in to my fear of the unknown.

I approached the mini gun 'counter' and focused my eyes on the target 21 feet ahead of me. I concentrated on doing everything exactly the way Dad told me to do to the best of my ability. As you can see, I did pretty well. Although my arms were a bit shaky at times from nervousness, 60 rounds later I left with a feeling of accomplishment. Once again, I have surprised myself at being able to do something I had not previously fathomed I was capable of doing. My dad repeatedly told me I did well for it being my first time with a gun. I thought maybe he was exaggerating or just saying so to be nice, until he told me that some fellow cops he knows are poor shooters/too cocky to learn how to shoot a gun well.

I can't say shooting a gun was "fun" per se, nor can I say with certainty whether I will shoot a gun ever again. What I do know is that it definitely wasn't what I expected, in the best possible "prove me wrong"kind of way.