The value of a dollar

When I was a kid, I remember hearing adults talk about those who "don't know the value of a dollar." Fortunately, they weren't referring to me. The first born daughter of New England parents who had a strong "Protestant work ethic," I learned early on that things aren't just handed to me on a silver platter for the taking. Sometimes I remember wishing for that silver platter, that my life would have been so much easier...especially in my teens.

When I was 15, my first unofficial job (I got paid under the table) was making Blizzards, taking orders, and cleaning the dining area of the Dairy Queen with my (now ex) stepmother's family in Cherokee, North Carolina over the summer. Shortly after my 16th birthday, my mom practically pushed me out the door to get a part-time job. While my friends were having fun at a party on a Friday night, I was making Subway sandwiches and mopping the sticky floors to oldies tunes blasting from the speakers. A succession of customer service jobs ensued over the years, sometimes paying me so little that I had to work two jobs so I could pay my bills. I also had to get loans while in college and grad school, all the while wishing my parents could have helped me if only they were more financially secure themselves.

Having many bills and loans to pay back certainly isn't fun, but I have to say all these experiences have certainly taught me the value of a dollar. For one thing, no matter how stressed, embarrassed, or sad I feel about my financial situation not being what would make my life most comfortable (yet)....I am always taken care of in the overall scheme of things. If I really want something (within reason), I find a creative (or in some cases, practical) approach to help me get there. I see some people piss away money like it grows on trees (the same people who pay for expensive things they never use?), as if it's paper...which, it is...but lately I find that the more money I put into something, the more value I place on it. The quality of the product or experience changes in my mind's eye. It motivates me and pushes me beyond my comfort zone. And that, to me, is priceless.

Rehab, in the non-traditional sense

I grew up surrounded by emotional eaters. When there was chaos (divorce, remarriage, multiple moves, deaths, conflict, or just flat out stress or unhappiness/sadness), we stuffed our feelings deep down in our psyches by stuffing our faces with food...for comfort, for solace, for pain relief. I never saw my parents drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, or take any drug more potent than a Tylenol. But food, that was the deadly enemy...lurking in the far reaches of the kitchen cabinets, the nooks and crannies of the refrigerator. My mom always bought the most delicious, though not always the most nutritious, food over the years. It always tempted me. I loved food in the moment I was eating it, and I hated how it made me feel about myself afterwards. Especially carbs, my ultimate drug of choice. I have overdosed on bread, pasta, and potato chips more times than I can remember in my lifetime.

Sometimes I think I can relate to my clients (who struggle with addiction and recovery) more than they could ever know, even if it's in a different way. Learning a whole new way of being and living your life is challenging, especially when you've never done it in the most healthy way before. Changing the relationship you have to yourself....your thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and shifting the way you view yourself (from insecure to confident and capable) takes dedication and tedious effort.

The whole term "rehabilitation" seems like a misnomer to me. How does one 'rehabilitate' when 'habilitation' was never present in your life? It's like saying reteach someone to go to school and learn when they have never gone to school in their lifetime. But I'll go with the cultural norm of this term as I ponder my experience.....

Today I was running on the treadmill, simultaneously proud of myself and pissed off that I had to push myself further by bumping up to a 3.0 incline so that my workout wouldn't be too easy. If I want to see changes, I have to set the stage for it. This is what I told myself, despite my misgivings. I continually looked at the time ticking away on the digital timer in front of me, trying not to think about how hard it was as I focused on my endurance. As I neared the remaining 3 minute cooldown, I had this epiphany: The gym is my rehab. In a sense, I am in recovery. I am still guilty of relapse (ie, I ate half a bag of potato chips one night last week when I was feeling incredibly stressed from overwhelming stuff I've been dealing with at work lately), but I am working on changing my overall lifestyle and more importantly, my self-worth. This takes time. I can't expect it to happen in 3 short months, just as people can't expect to never use alcohol or drugs ever ever again or snap their fingers and their lives are easier simply because they spent three months in a stringent, hard core inpatient rehab facility. That's silliness. You can change your environment, but you must ultimately change yourself. You are with you wherever you go, whether it's the gym, the kitchen, your home, or Timbuktu. I realized I have to give myself credit for the strides I have made thus far, instead of finding fault in what I haven't "attained" yet....a difficult thing to do for someone who is a super overachiever AND whose forte is NOT physical fitness, sports,etc.

Right now, I am in "rehab", an intensive outpatient 3-5 days a week structured environment that forces me to work on myself in a challenging and vulnerable way: the gym. It requires self-motivation, time, energy, and commitment. This is the hardest thing I have done in a long time, honestly harder than graduate school and almost as hard as counseling hardcore drug addicts at the crack of dawn for 6 days a week, two and a half years straight.

I have always been excellent at mental, intellectual pursuits....and for the most part, have tended to avoid physical ones. When I was a kid, I was the nice and smart fat girl. As a young adult, I was the down-to-earth, intelligent, witty, overweight, and intriguing risk taker with a great smile. Now in my thirties, I would like to see this negative physical image of myself disappear from the description of my self-identity...the aspect that says I'm not good enough because of my cellulite.

The most hurtful thing that has ever been said to me to date (by the first guy/boyfriend I ever slept with) was "You don't have the ideal body for sexual escapades." Try as I might, I cannot forget this years later. I have forgiven, but not forgotten. I remember it as vividly as if it just happened yesterday. I had read the email while on a break at work. My eyes filled with tears; I had to run to the back of the building to cry so no one would see that I was upset, broken even. It's bad enough when there's something you don't like about yourself, something you know is a weakness. You don't need someone else to rub salt in the wound. In retrospect, I realized Andrew was an asshole (who was more insecure with himself than anyone else)....but that part of me that never feels completely hot, or completely beautiful and desirable to men, the one that doesn't have that 'ideal' body....it's still there, waiting to be conquered. I'm working through it.

The gym is my new ally, my new comfort, my new solace. It welcomes me. It cheers me on. It motivates me. It brings out my beauty, as well as my strength (both mental, and physical). Even when it sometimes feels like an enemy, deep down I know it's a metaphorical friend who only wants what is best for me. It reminds me and rewards me in the little things when I least expect it....my new trainer touching my right shoulder that now feels strong and sculpted with muscle that wasn't there before. Brushing my hand over the top of my left thigh while driving in the car and smiling because I realize it feels firm. Walking confidently in my hot pink tights and black skirt, feeling sexy with my increasingly muscular legs. The muscular curve in my back. Feeling the definition of muscle that is slowly forming in my core. This keeps me going, keeps me moving towards ever more confidence and recognizing the beauty I am capable of possessing...and the beauty I have always possessed, no matter how many Andrews of the world I have or may encounter.

Would you rather?

Would you rather live in a beautiful place with cold, detached people or a cold place with beautiful, warm souls?

Would you rather be surrounded by those with bookish intelligence and no common sense, or those with rich life experiences and great people skills?

Would you rather talk to someone who is open or puts up walls?

Would you rather see honesty or saccharin sweet bullshit?

Would you rather rely on yourself or lean on the unreliable?

Would you rather feel like a sardine crammed into a can or dance to a different drum?

Would you rather see lots of weird and crazy shit while people watching, or yawn at their predictability?

Would you rather be a gem or the status quo?

Would you rather have it all figured out or would you rather wait to see if life pleasantly fucking surprises you?

Would you rather an exhilarating adrenalin rush or the security of monotony?

Would you rather listen less and speak more boldly, or listen wisely and open your mouth less?

Would you rather have a perfect body or a perfect mind?

Would you rather gasp for air or swallow absolute freedom?

Would you rather live to feel love, or love the feeling of living?

Would you rather fight back the tears of sadness or shed tears of joy?

Would you rather laugh till you're clutching your abs or fake it till you make it with a forced smile?

Would you rather judge by quality or quantity?

Would you rather experience compassion or apathy?

Would you rather throw in the cards or demonstrate fortitude?

Would you rather create profound, positive change in humanity that no one else notices or contribute something mediocre that gives you accolades and fame?

Would you rather be admired for who you are right now, or would you rather be placed on a pedestal for what you simply appear to be?

Would you rather be rich in relationships or would you rather be rolling in money?

Would you rather be a treasured memory or a forgotten existence?

Would you rather be comforted or the comforter?

Would you rather understand or would you rather seek to be understood?

Would you rather confront or avoid?

Would you rather be an open book or just a short nondescript chapter?

Would you rather push the envelope or would you rather blend in with the crowd?

Would you rather inspire people to think in a more helpful way or would you rather mentally shut them down with bullying tirades?

Would you rather feel lonely in a crowd or would you rather be alone at home?

Would you rather people talk to you only when things are going well or only when things are awful?

Would you rather be right or would you rather be kind?

Would you rather change yourself for the better or repeat the same redundant shit with no awareness and sense of personal responsibility?

Would you rather live in a world of choice or a world of self-induced oppression?

Would you rather someone who agrees with you or someone who argues and disagrees with you?

Would you rather me keep going or would you rather I stop with the Would You Rathers?

Various ponderings....

Over the course of the past week or two, there have been a few ideas marinating in my mind of things I wanted to write about soon. I felt like I had so much to say about these particular topics, and now it seems the juicy thoughts have disintegrated. If only I had more mental energy to blog after a hard day's work, days when these thoughts have flooded my brain. :( I even jotted them down on scratch paper. Now I can hardly remember what I wanted to say about all three topics, extensively anyway. Sigh. Perhaps instead, I can still briefly write about them and pose this more as a forum....a survey of sorts to you readers. What are your thoughts? Comments, please.

1. I recently joined (yet another) dating website and while I feel generally pessimistic about online dating, I was trying to put my best profile forward so to speak. See, I have this problem with talking about myself. I'm not good at it. I don't know how to capture a true representation of "Katie" in a rinky dinky About Me box. It's a numbers game; too bad I've always sucked at math. I originally had written something boring (unintentionally of course), got annoyed with myself, and enlisted the help of my best friend. I had him look at it and bust out the proverbial red pen with suggestions on what to modify. It's funny how changing what you write can attract a different "audience" of who is interested in you. I went from Geekville (in a bad way) to Jockville (also bad). With profile #1 I attracted men who may have had a brain, but no social skills and no physical attractiveness. With profile #2, I seem to attract men who are pretty attractive but are lacking a sense of humor and not enough brains to string a coherent, grammatically correct sentence together. So what I wonder my readers, is it even humanly possible to say the perfect thing in that damn About Me box to attract a match who is at least 80-85% of what you're seeking in the dating/relationship world?

2. I recently had a therapy session with a client and the topic of BDSM (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BDSM) came up, as my client told me she used to engage in this sexual activity in the past. I explored this more with her, specifically the safety of the practice and the emotions that come up for her when she has done this. Interestingly, she talked about how it allows her to cry without guilt or shame (because the message she received growing up was that she looked "ugly" when she cried). As I listened, I was completely fascinated and reminded of the thin line between pleasure and pain. Sure, there are more conventional methods to healing through emotional pain...but who am I to judge that BDSM may in some way be helping this woman heal? I can't say it's "good," nor can I say it's "bad." My perspective on issues is almost always in the grey. This is what I love about my job. It stretches my mind to think beyond the status quo, beyond the dictates of "normal." Honestly, I don't know anything in depth about this form of sexual behavior....and now I'm tempted to learn more just for the sake of knowledge. What are your thoughts on BDSM? Does it seem bizarre? Is it just an unorthodox sexual behavior? Does it have the potential to heal powerful emotional "wounds" stored in the body?

3. I am extremely curious to ask my Dad about this one: This particular subject I got to thinking about comes from a therapy session with another one of my clients. Due to confidentiality, I cannot go into details of what exactly happened. All I can say is that it involved the issue of tazing by law enforcement. A few years ago, media sensationalized the practice with the "Don't tase me bro!" slogan. It became a cultural joke. Tazing, however, appears quite disturbing and inhumane in my eyes. I don't know much about it yet, but I am learning about it now and intend to ask my dad (a cop) how acceptable it is for an officer to use this as a weapon when they're on duty, how often it is abused by law enforcement, and WHY it's even used in the first place (to me it seems like it causes more harm than "good"). Maybe when I research this topic more (by "interviewing" my dad for instance), I will blog more extensively on the subject. How much do you know about tazing? Thoughts? Comments?

The stigma of (not drinking) alcohol

How often do you drink alcohol? Daily, weekly, a few times a month, a few times a year, not at all? When you drink, how much do you consume? Is there a pattern to your drinking (ie, have a beer or glass of wine to "relax" after work, go for a night on the town with friends, partying till all hours of the early morning, special occasions,etc.)? How many years have you been drinking? Can you remember what your life was like before you first drank alcohol? Can you imagine what your life would be like without it? Do you feel (or act) differently when you drink than when you're sober? These are but a few questions I asked myself recently.

In recent months, I have become increasingly aware of how frequently alcohol and drug addiction is mentioned in the media. Of course, I realize that the media is built upon the idea of sensationalism (the nice word for "drama" if you will), as well as exploitation...but given how working with addicts has been a large part of my professional career the last five years, it is very real and very accurate. In fact, I would go so far as to say it's even more rampant than what we even see in the media...but I digress.

Coupled with the aforementioned questions that have run through my head, I also had a growing awareness that alcohol is everywhere. If people aren't drinking, they surely will be soon. They talk about looking forward to drinking. They joke about needing a drink. They talk about how much they drank last night or last week, and with whom. They plan happy hours. They bar hop. They talk about their favorite alcoholic beverage. They mention alcohol as a reward for having to endure something crappy or stressful that's going on. They use it as a social lubricant, to feel that somehow they are more confident, fun, and interesting than they are sober. They are consumed by it and god forbid the response you get when you challenge this mindset by stepping outside the norm. Stigma for drinking? Think again. Stigma for NOT drinking: Katie's social experiment.

It has been 30 days so far that I have abstained from alcohol. Go ahead, ask "Why?!?!" with a very frantic, disturbed look on your face. This is the typical reaction. It's funny (ironic, not haha); I've had clients who struggle with addiction and/or are in recovery who have told me negative experiences they have had in regard to not feeling supported in their recovery as far as others not respecting their sobriety or even sabotaging their sobriety by offering them alcohol,or ridiculing their sober efforts, etc. A part of me wondered if they were full of it, like they were just making up some excuse as to why they relapsed....but now I'm seeing a different perspective. There's something about alcohol (because it's such a mainstream socialization behavior?) that really provokes a reaction in people. I'm not even bringing the topic of religion into the picture, because that carries its own separate factors that aren't relevant to what I'm discussing here. What I'm talking about is a sociological epidemic. There seems to be a stigma against NOT choosing to imbibe.

You tell someone you're on a diet, so you're not eating cookies or carbs. End of story. People generally understand and respect your efforts to exercise willpower, work on being healthier, etc. That's usually the end of it; there's no Spanish Inquisition around your decision and most people wouldn't judge you as being weird/abnormal for not devouring an Oreo's cookie with them. You tell someone you aren't drinking for awhile (note: I didn't even say completely, just for an unspecified length of time) and there's that strange look, followed by jokes like "What, are you in recovery?" or "Well, what do you do for fun then?" (followed by laughter). And of course there's the peer pressure with justifications attached. "What about if you just have (such and such a drink)? It only has such and such amount of calories..."

A little about me for anyone in cyberworld that might be reading this that doesn't know me personally:
1. I'm not in recovery/an alcoholic (but I'm beginning to empathize with how my clients must feel...that there is some truth to what they have shared with me about relapse issues in social environments)
2. I'm pretty damn fun sober (if I do confidently say so myself!) and don't "need" alcohol to enjoy my own company or the company of others.
3. I'm not doing this for religious or puritanical reasons (here I told myself I was going to stay away from bringing religion into the mix of this blog!), so no...I haven't given up alcohol for Lent or anything like that.
4. I don't need the mask of alcohol to have social relationships. Frankly, as I grow older I'm growing tired of that world/culture. I want meaningfulness with people and when alcohol is involved, many times I question how "real" my interaction is with someone. Is it deep or is it superficial? Is it all an illusion? I'm pretty sure you know what I mean. The conversations you had or the chemistry you felt while drinking with someone. Was it real or just "beer goggles", I or they were too drunk to know/care/remember? Would I have had these same interactions sober? Would they with me?

If alcohol represents the primary cultural mechanism in which we express our identity and carry ourselves in social situations, what does this really reflect about ourselves as a society? And as separate individuals that comprise that collective whole?

I'm not sure how long I will continue my non-drinking stint, but it has been an eye-opening experience. Responses from people have been more challenging to face than the actual substance itself. It's just that powerful. An addicted nation?

Exploring Trauma

Back in January, I attended a phenomenal workshop led by John Briere (a brilliant, renowned professor and researcher in the field of PTSD/trauma therapy work). I highly recommend him to clinicians in the counseling field who are interested in learning very relevant and postmodern information on the difficult arena of trauma work, one of the hardest and most complex clinical issues to treat besides addiction (in my opinion). His presentation was by far the best workshop I've attended in my quest for practical and yet interesting, helpful continuing education seminars.

I was first introduced to trauma work when I first started working at my current job (back in July 2008), as many of my clients are survivors of physical, emotional, sexual, and psychological abuse. To make matters more complicated, most of my clients suffered through multiple traumas. Imagine what it would be like to endure one specific, isolated traumatic event. Compound that by years of chronic abuse at the words or actions of various people in your life (usually beginning from the toddler or early school age years and continuing throughout adulthood), and you acquire what has become known as Complex PTSD. It is more challenging to treat and heal because it is so ingrained in the formation of one's personality/identity. In fact, Briere believes that there is no such thing as Borderline Personality Disorder, only unresolved trauma (ie, personality disorders are strongly correlated to childhood abuse and neglect).

According to Briere, trauma has two parts: 1. any kind of painful experience that 2. overwhelms your capacity to handle it. This can be either non-interpersonal (such as experiencing a natural disaster, like an earthquake) or interpersonal (which tends to affect people more strongly because someone is intentionally trying to hurt us). One of the most fascinating things Briere mentions is implicit memories vs. explicit memories.

Implicit memories are those that are formed on a sensory, pre-verbal level (ie, birth to age 2-3) in the brain. When someone has an implicit memory, they are more likely to be triggered by something visual like a photograph or a flashback/nightmare...yet not have the words to describe how or what trauma is being triggered within them in that moment (because they could not put the experience into words if they were younger than age 2-3 when it happened). This is why it can be difficult for a therapist working with a pre-verbal trauma client to talk about/describe the trauma(s). How can they put into words something that occurred before there WERE words? See the Catch-22 of treatment and recovery? Explicit memories are formed on the verbal level (age 3 to adulthood), so naturally it is "easier" to treat trauma from an explicit memory standpoint.

In addition, Briere talks about the avoidance triad: substance abuse, dissociation, and tension-reduction. As it turns out, there is a meaningfulness to avoidance behaviors with the trauma survivor. I don't know about other clinicians, but it has been my experience that avoidance behaviors seem like mere forms of escapism from pain.....which they are to a degree, but it's more complex than that. Briere goes a step further to suggest that engaging in such behaviors is the only way the trauma survivor knows how to "soothe" or "take care" of oneself, however misguided and unhealthy it may seem to others. This is what he calls "tension reducation behaviors" or "TRBs." They are intentional, external activities the trauma survivor engages in (ie, gambling, excessive exercise, self-mutilation, binging/purging, compulsive sexual activities, and drinking/doing drugs) for the purpose of reducing painful, internal states. While the trauma survivor may feel that these behaviors "help"quell the emotional pain, it only serves to perpetuate a cycle of shame and often, degradation.

While pain may be inevitable, Briere makes a distinction that suffering is optional. What does this mean? Pain may be a given, but what you do with it is optional. The pain paradox theorizes that cultivating a focused awareness can lead to relief/resolution, whereas avoidance contributes to constant suffering and emotional intrusion. This is where mindfulness as a clinical intervention with the trauma survivor comes into play. When someone has been through horrific, painful experiences, the last thing you want to do is pour salt into the proverbial wound and make them hurt even more by delving into it....but this is exactly what MUST be done...just with a gentle, mindful and timely (ie, not too fast/too soon) approach via the 'therapeutic window.'

Briere mentions the therapeutic relationship to be one of the key elements (the therapist as a caring, nurturing, and safe agent for facilitating change/healing within the trauma survivor client) and being able to teach mindfulness skills to the client.

The workshop delves into various clinical interventions/tools the clinician can utilize with the trauma client, which I won't explain in detail here. You'll have to attend the workshop yourself if you want that information.... :)

For more information, visit http://www.johnbriere.com/.

Is atmosphere really everything?

Like a little kid in a candy shop, I always have a sweet craving....for books. The three tiny bookshelves in my modest studio apartment are comprised of both books devoured and those still unread.... some dusty and ignored, others that have been manhandled by too many to keep count. Sometimes I think the nerdy part of me is in desperate need of a vacation reserved just for reading and writing, no distractions to pull me away.

I remember my years in Chicago as a time I was reading and writing voraciously like never before. Don't get me wrong, I've always been a reader....in utero, if possible! I grew up around book lovers (my mother and her father/my grandfather) who instilled within me a desire to learn and question the world around me as my curious eyes danced across the pages of numerous novels. Eventually, that love of reading also spilled into writing. I have heard that if you want to be a fantastic writer, it is suggested that you experiment writing in different places....coffee shops, restaurants, at the beach, in the woods, the airport (think of all the stories you could concoct!), the laundromat, on vacation, on the road, and the list goes on. I tend to think the same may be true of reading in different places as well. I'm also a firm believer that to be a helluva writer, you must be a helluva reader (this means read ALOT).

I wonder if atmosphere really IS everything.....if the cliche' "variety is the spice of life" carries more weight than I have previously considered. People who have followed my writing over the years (from the beginnings of my MySpace blogs to the blogs I write on here, and the pieces I have written for a creative writing class) have definitely noticed a transition in my writing, in regard to content, quality, and frequency of writing.

When I first started writing blogs back in 2005, I had just finished grad school and was entering the daunting foray of addiction counseling. Perhaps it was the adrenaline rush of doing something unknown, challenging and scary...I don't know. Whatever the case, I was also still working part-time at a bookstore, a unique alternate universe in and of itself. I was constantly people watching....customers, coworkers, and clients alike. I soaked up books like the world was coming to an end; I couldn't finish one to start another fast enough. Frequently having unreliable and disengaged clients at work, I took advantage of the free quiet time and typed out blogs within the quiet confines of my purplish-blue walled boxy office. Sometimes the events that transpired within the walls compelled me to write as well. Most of my writing was done back in that office on Elston Avenue.I wrote several times a week, at times more than once a day.

I have yet to find that same voracious writer part of me here in Seattle. Perhaps it is hiding out and waiting for me at a wireless coffee shop, or hidden in a crevice of my apartment. It's surely not in the comforting, yet distracting office I share with six other therapists. If there's one thing I need in order to write, it's privacy and sometimes absolute stillness (depending on the topic I'm writing about). Then there's the aforementioned inspiration. Timing is also essential. I cannot be rushed when I write. Time has to stand still; it has to become irrelevant if I am to let the words flow out of my mind and onto the page (or keyboard). I think this is why I wasn't good at churning out writing pieces for the creative writing class I took recently. I got too caught up in the pressure of deadlines that it suffocated my creative flow.

With that said, I have to say "Yes." Atmosphere is everything, yet what it is to me is different than what it is to you. Atmosphere may be sipping a caramel macchiato and listening to shuffling songs on your iPod while simultaneously reading a compilation on how writers think and what inspires them to write, thus inspiring the reader to want to abruptly leave Barnes and Noble in order to rush home and write before the inspiration fades (that would be me today).

Atmosphere could also be a special place that you inhabit when alone or in the company of fascinating, colorful others. Atmosphere could also include mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual elements.It may be found in a conversation with a friend. It may be tangible and it may be unpredictable.

Atmosphere: the ultimate muse?

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!