Archives for January 2019

The Wife Between Us – Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

January 13, 2019 by
The Wife Between Us - Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

I wasn’t really sure about The Wife Between Us by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen when I originally picked it out. I couldn’t figure out if it was chick lit or women’s fiction; the difference is important to me. Don’t misunderstand, I am not a snob about it. I enjoy both styles. However, I wasn’t in the mood for chick lit. I wanted something that didn’t require a highlighter, but had some teeth to it.

I also needed to clean my house. I didn’t have all day to figure this out. Because I am attempting to be a more focused reader and writer, I dusted off my Goodreads app and (after I reset the password I couldn’t remember and handled the barrage of notifications I hadn’t answered) peeked at the suggestions from one my neglected reading groups.

Each month, Bound Together has three category of books: one Member Choice title and two “find a title that fits.” In January, Beneath a Scarlet Sky was the Member Choice. As I am still trying to get through The Tattooist of Auschwitz, I passed. “Off the Shelf” was to read a work that had something magical about the story or cover. I was not feeling it. “Author Read” did not designate a particular author this month. Instead, it required that the book be written by two people – with both their names presented on the book. I scrolled through the comments and someone suggested The Wife Between Us. What the hell, I needed to get on with my day so I spent the Audible credit and moved on.

My. House. Is. So. Clean. Seriously, I organized the armoire, cleaned out the pantry, decluttered the office, caught up the laundry – all of it. For two days I found reasons not to sit down so I could justify leaving the book playing in my ear.

Vanessa and Richard are recently divorced. Nelly and Richard are getting married. Vanessa is having a hard time holding her new job and controlling her booze. Nelly is preparing to transition to a whole other life. Vanessa is completely preoccupied with the woman Richard has replaced her for. Nelly swears someone is following her. Aunt Charolette and Sam are side-eyeing the whole thing.

Two things. First, if you think you know what you are getting into based on that synopsis, you would be wrong. Second, I can’t really tell you anything else without spoilers.

This is probably the most fun I’ve had listening to a book in a while. There was constant tension between the characters and in my own head. The authors gave just enough so that I knew there was something else going on and, if I didn’t figure it out, they were going to get me. There were moments I thought I had it. I didn’t, and they did, in fact, get me with the “holy shit where did THAT come from.” Then the real neat thing happened – the story didn’t end. They. Just. Kept. Doing. It. Even in the Epilogue.

Filed Under: Paraphernalia Tagged With:

Fixing April

January 10, 2019 by

One of the healthiest decisions I ever made (that I honestly didn’t even realize I was making) was the choice to leave my menstrual cycle alone.

(Edit – keep reading. Turns out we aren’t talking about periods at all today)

I really wasn’t going to lead with that, but I figured I should go ahead and just put it out there. I realize it’s 2019 but there are still some folks who are funny about talking about that kind of thing and I respect it. I didn’t want them to get a little bit in and feel ambushed by hormones and biology.

Anyway, I really thought I was going to start out by telling you about when I started taking the pill. Funny thing about that – I can’t remember. I just assumed that it would have been a pretty big deal to me back in 199whatever and I would recall the memory upon reflection. I can’t. I can’t even tell you if it was high school or the Navy. At some point, I transitioned to the Depo shot, stayed there for a while, and went back to the pill. But I can’t remember the particulars of those times either.

How interesting is it that there was a large chunk of my life I so misunderstood and underappreciated one of my body’s major rhythm and energy centers that I routinely fucked with it flippantly enough that it didn’t even create a lasting memory. Wow. That’s not quite where I thought this was going as it was a detail I hadn’t considered until just now. Makes me even more glad I just went ahead and put the whole period thing out there in the beginning because evidently, I don’t even know where we are headed this morning.

What I do remember is how emotional my second pregnancy was compared to my first. I remember what postpartum depression felt like. I was lucky that it was the second and not the first. Had it been my first maybe I would have dismissed it as normal or labeled it as a failure on my part. It was 2001 after all. The legions of mommy bloggers, Pinterest boards, Facebook groups, and Instagram inspiration weren’t around. Hell, MySpace wasn’t even a thing yet. Double hell, we had just reached the “more adults own cell phones than don’t” mark. Access to information was markedly different.

I knew something was different and it was probably me. April Trepagnier, See the Butterfly

What I lacked in outside information, I made up for in self awareness and experience. I knew this wasn’t what all pregnancies felt like. I knew this wasn’t what bringing home all newborn babies felt like. I knew something was different and it was probably me.

That was my first experience with mental health pharmaceuticals and, in all honesty, it was very helpful. I’m thankful it went as well as it did as it was the time before a person could do a whole lot of research on their own or discuss with a larger group of people. It took the edge off long enough for me to “get myself right” which, gratefully, didn’t take very long. I am nearly certain that can be attributed to my immediate focus on diet and exercise. Of course, I didn’t realize that at the time. I just saw it as the appropriate steps needed to take off the massive amounts of baby weight I had packed on. It worked; the medication was appreciated and short lived.

My head rested on his back, my sobs transferred the weight from my heart to his shoulders. April Trepagnier, See the Butterfly

In 2005 I lost my baby. That was a situation I had no frame of reference for. Again, the internet wasn’t huge. You knew who you knew, and a lot of business was still private. To say I was devastated and unhinged would be an understatement. In fact, it would be 2017, over a decade later, that I would find any comfort, peace, or closure.  On our back porch in the middle of a sunny day, I told him my story, Gracie’s story. My head rested on his back, my sobs transferred the weight from my heart to his shoulders. In 2005 however, I was medicated. Again, it was helpful, and I was thankful. And again, I wasn’t on it for very long. I got pregnant again quickly and stopped taking them.

Prior to that loss would be the last time things were easy for me emotionally. The next decade would bring a roller coaster of life with one real exception – you can see the drops coming on an amusement park ride; not so much with life.

In 2010 I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder II. This piece of information was not devastating. In all actuality, it was a comfort. It settled the air around me for a while. Those who routinely thought less of my personality felt comfortable “letting it be” and were patient in waiting for me “to get right.” It was a box I could step into, a shield I could hold up when judgements got to be overwhelming.

Unfortunately, it required me to agree that something was “wrong with me” and I had to take the steps to “fix it.” For the first time doctors were attempting to figure out which meds would effectively make me, at a person level, “better” instead of supporting me while I worked through a tough spot.

The last go at “fixing April” was Seroquel. It is an antipsychotic commonly used to treat depression, schizophrenia, and bipolar disorder. In my body, it was a nightmare. For three days, from the time my kids left for school until after lunchtime, I would sit, white knuckle clutching the arms of a chair, trying desperately to remember that I did not really want to hurt myself or someone else. After the first day, I called the doctor and was told the meds just needed time to even out. After the third day I flushed it all down the toilet. I didn’t have whatever amount of time those meds needed.

At this point, the internet is moving along pretty good. I start trying to learn if there is a way to fix myself. I refuse anymore prescriptions – even my birth control. I focus again on diet and exercise. I learn about mindful cognitive behavior. I’m vegan for over a year. I finish a 50 mile run. I discover chiropractic care and acupuncture. I get a great therapist. The only medicine I agree to is to control my high blood pressure because, for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to do it on my own. Even then, I am guarded and questioning. The one time the docs tried to increase my dosage as the effectiveness was waning, I declined in favor of giving my acupuncturist a go at it first. She handled it.

I burnt it all down. What would stay would stay and what wouldn’t, well, it just wouldn’t. April Trepagnier, See the Butterfly

I wish I could tell you I got real and strong and balanced. I didn’t. I got scared. The more effective and healthy I became, the more I realized I was never “broken” to begin with. But that truth didn’t coincide at all with the reality I was living. Worse, it was beginning to become very apparent that they never would. I was turning 40 and had been battling with myself for over a decade. I was scared to choose between the woman I was and the woman I was. That is not a typo. So, I burnt it all down. What would stay would stay and what wouldn’t, well, it just wouldn’t.

For what it’s worth, that was not the approach the therapist suggested. In fact, she strongly urged against it. But call it impatient, weak, scared, frustrated, whatever, I did not have one more measured step in me. I was too scared, too tired, and too over it.

What stayed was my desire to be better, my want of happy, my love of humanity, my need to know myself. What didn’t was the box, the shield, and the bipolar diagnosis. It took several months to let the embers of my inferno cool off, but when the dust settled, the diagnosis was rescinded. Turns out I wasn’t cycling through mood swings. I simply had allowed myself to attempt to function in an unfunctioning environment for far too long.

I will include the passage I encountered in my reading this morning that prompted this whole thing…but it probably won’t make any sense. I am already over 1300 words in and I really just wanted to tell you about how acupuncture fixed my damn periods and how embracing my natural cycle allows me to feel more connected to my Wild Woman nature. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

“Over time, we have seen the feminine instinctive nature looted, driven back, and overbuilt. For long periods it has been mismanaged like the wildlife and the wildlands. For several thousand years, as soon and as often as we turn our backs, it is relegated to the poorest land in the psyche. The spiritual lands of the Wild Woman have, throughout history, been plundered or burnt, dens bulldozed, and natural cycles forced into unnatural rhythms to please others.”

~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves
Filed Under: Chrysalis Tagged With: , , , , ,

Nine Perfect Strangers – Laine Moriarty

January 9, 2019 by

I absolutely adore Liane Moriarty. I first encountered her with What Alice Forgot. That one is still my favorite. It feels a little disloyal to Liane to write about this one first before I have taken the time to tell about all the other ones, but alas, here we are. There’s a character…I’m getting ahead of myself…

Nine Perfect Strangers started out slow for me. In fact, there was a point where I was worried I wouldn’t enjoy it at all. I was wrong.

Liane’s approach to this story is slightly different than she has taken in the past. Her character development is super segmented in the beginning and finding the point to the story (and thus my interest in it) was difficult at first.

But then she does what she does best – just enough twist to rock your socks and just enough formula to be comfortable.

Some may see formula writing as a negative. I do not at all. I read for a number of different reasons, one of which is to be delighted. I am most often delighted when I encounter engaging characters in a familiar way with an interesting turn. Liane is one of my favorite go to writers when this is the read I am looking for.

Nine people from different points of life converge together for a 10 day wellness retreat hosted by former corporate diva Masha, and her direct help, Yao and Delilah. Liane does an excellent job of mixing up each characters’ real motivation and personality with subtle hints to the actual and swerves to catch you off guard later.

I suppose Frances should be my favorite character. She is a successful romance writer with a charmingly quirky personality. She reminds me a lot of me in a silly and shallow way and I enjoyed meeting her very much.

But she isn’t. The AT favorite character award goes to Tony. I adored him from the moment he is introduced, through his smiley face butt tattoos, all the way to the last page.

As is with most of her works, it’s hard to explain anything else about the book without ruining the adventure. She will deliver on the obvious and surprise you with left field.

As a complete side note to the review itself, a passage in Nine Perfect Strangers reminded me why it is imperative for writers to read and read often. It is no secret that I have had quite the time lately putting nouns and verbs together. It has been a painful process to get in the chair and write, much less find the ability to stay there. You can read more about that passage here.

In fairness, this is probably not intended to be the most profound message in the story. In fact, you’ll see so many other important ideas in the book, I am sure. However, on this particular day, in this particular reading, it was, hands down for me. There was no other close second. For that, I am immensely grateful and, flaws and all, give it five big gold stars.


Filed Under: Paraphernalia Tagged With:

A Discussion on Book Reviews

January 8, 2019 by

I always intend to do better about reviewing, discussing, documenting, whatever, the books I read – then I obviously don’t. I am pretty sure it has a whole bunch to do with my lack of consistency in putting words on a page. I am pretty sure that comes from my lack of confidence in making nouns and verbs do what I want them to do when I want them to do it. Couple that with my lack of discipline in waiting to start another book before I write about the one I just finished. Next thing you know, I just refuse to do it at all.

Additionally, I read different books different ways. I enjoy audiobooks, e-readers, and paper. Typically the method depends on the book. Audiobooks are usually fiction or easier reads. I save the non-fiction or “those likely to need a highlighter” for my iPad or paper. I own many of my favorites in multiple formats. You would think that lends itself to easy, quality, book write ups.

Sometimes I just have to dig my thoughts deep to keep the critics in my head quiet

You would be forgetting that I am the quintessential over thinker.

Instead what happens is one of a few things…

With audiobooks, I am a staunch “unabridged version only” snob. This is a deep seated, personal prejudice born from my buy in on the format in its super early days when you still had to get the tapes (yes, the cassette kind). Back then (you will still hear it occasionally today, but I find it is pretty rare anymore), folks who utilized audiobooks weren’t considered actual readers. You were guffawed if you claimed to have “read” a book you “only,” in fact, “just listened” to. Therefore, I pledged to be an unabridged listener or bust.

But I never just sit down and listen to an audiobook. I am always doing something else – driving, cleaning, running. That is the beauty of the unabridged audiobook. I can read books I would NEVER have time to get to otherwise. The downside is obviously divided attention and no pencil (I love to read with a pencil). Maybe, on a super rare occasion, I will take the time to hit the “+ clip” button on my Audible app to mark a particular passage or section that strikes me as profound or compelling. However, qualifying those times as “super rare” is not an overstatement.

In a weird and self conscious way, that creates a distrust in myself whenever I sit down to write about an audiobook I just finished. “Weird” because it doesn’t slow me down one second when suggesting a book to a friend or discussing the work with someone that has also read it. It probably has something to do with the difference in words on the page and words on the air. I would guess this was the main argument of the “no you didn’t read it, you listened to it” crowd. There is a small bit of truth in that. I didn’t see the names, I don’t know how they were spelled. I didn’t see the layout of the words on the page, I had the inflection bias of the narrator. These things matter.

But I have decided they don’t matter enough to prevent the recording of my experience with them. They don’t change the fact that I encountered a piece of work and that encounter created perspective, emotion, and memory. They don’t matter enough to make me question the validity of my thoughts. Seems a bit heavy I know. It really isn’t. Sometimes I just have to dig my thoughts deep to keep the critics in my head quiet.

I get all up in my feelings over some arbitrary bullshit that, in the real world, doesn’t really mean anything. I have cost myself a lot of good days getting tied up like that.

Then there are books I pay a lot of attention to. There are a quite a few in my collection that have numerous passages underlined and notes in the margin. There are even a couple that have warranted their own notebook. These I have tried to write about and the work falls prey to my inconsistency or perceived expectations of “timely manner.” That timely manner shit gets me on the regular. Like if I haven’t accomplished a thing on a certain time schedule I have failed in some way. Then I get all up in my feelings over some arbitrary bullshit that, in the real world, doesn’t really mean anything. I have cost myself a lot of good days getting tied up like that.

To this, I have finally come to the place where I am comfortable with the idea that I write for free. There is no revenue generated here. I am not letting my family down with my inability to pay the bills. I am not being professionally irresponsible by ignoring deadlines. So if I write an installation of a reflection on a particular work and never come back to it again, whatever. There’s nothing to feel any kind of way about. That freedom is game changing.

The hardest are the books I didn’t particular like or the ones that were just okay. As a reader/writer I have dueling opinions. As a reader, I should be able to honestly discuss my thoughts in a constructive way. As a writer, I should have thick enough skin to expect that there are people who don’t like my style or story. As a reader, maybe the work was good and the failure was mine. As a writer, shouldn’t I have some sense of solidarity and support for my fellow writers because I know just how fucking hard this is.

Enter stage left two of the most valuable lessons I have learned in the past two years as it relates to words on a page: First, I don’t have to publicly publish everything I think. Second, everything I do publish doesn’t necessarily have to be rose colored, positive, clean, popular, tidy, polished, resolved, enjoyed, or profound.

I simply have to write.

Filed Under: Paraphernalia

Respond – Focus Word 2019

January 6, 2019 by

She dared to look up and the stars were a million darting eyes on the lookout for rule breaking in her story. Sexism, ageism, racism, tokenism, ableism, plagiarism, cultural appropriation, fat shaming, body shaming, slut shaming, vegetarian shaming real estate agent shaming. The voice of the almighty internet boomed from the sky “shame on you.” Francis hung her head. “It’s just a story,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Jillian.

I am not yet finished with the latest book from Liane Moriarty, Nine Perfect Strangers. But if it gives me nothing more than this small passage, the book is a huge win for me. For days, I (and everyone else in the internet world) have been considering and declaring a “focus word” for 2019. This idea has worked well for me the past few New Years. I appreciate its contemplation more than the act of making resolutions (although I am pretty sure the difference is just semantics).

At some point between the wedding and New Year’s Eve, my word came to me – Respond. Since then, I have tried desperately to work out how to explain myself truthfully while not being unintentionally offensive or judgey or condescending or hurtful or superior or passive aggressive or belligerent or self indulgent or selfish or…or…or…or…

My nouns and verbs, as they are prone to do lately, keep getting hung up in the “or”s.

Actually, it isn’t just lately. I routinely find myself holding my tongue in (what I try to justify as) thoughtful contemplation. When the idea of “the pause” became so popular, I was all in. When the memes make fun of the brilliant retorts conjured in the shower days after a conversation, I relate at the bone marrow level.

I wish I could tell you there is a singular good or bad reason I do this so that I could then declare I will continue to always do it or am working on not doing it anymore. That definite, pointed course of action is way easier than the truth.

The truth is I do it for a variety of different reasons, some productive and some not, in a variety of different situations, some positive and some not.

At its core, my pause is who I am as a person; my hesitation is a result of fear. Being able to quickly decipher which action is truly going on in the moment is difficult for me. Therefore, in order to hedge my bets, I do nothing.

I have gotten comfortable in the “do nothing.” I realize it isn’t the healthiest idea for me and is probably unfair to those that encounter it (and the residual emotions that follow). I rely on it anyway for the immediate gratification that I am not really doing anything irrevocable and can revisit it later. Except I don’t revisit it later. I crash up against it because I have ignored it until it becomes an immovable force that insists a reckoning. It is typically far larger than its original size as it grows and compounds until its size is one that I can no longer pretend isn’t there.

To be fair, it isn’t always quite this monumental. Sometimes it is as simple as seeing a text or a call that comes through that I just don’t immediately reply to. However, that too grows. It starts as a simple, “I don’t want to do that right now,” or a legitimate, “I am in the middle of something and I’ll get to it in a minute.” Except then I don’t and then when I simply must, it is accompanied by this overwhelming sense of guilt that I really should have sooner. And, despite my insistence to the contrary, I have done something irrevocable. “Sooner” is something I can’t get back. “Sooner” is something I can’t achieve. It is already now.

And therein lies the goal of the “response.” Of being present and in the moment. Of being authentic and intentional. Of being fearless, or at the least, less fearful. I am blessed beyond words with the people in my life. I have the most amazing tribe of friends. My family is beautiful and strong. My husband…my husband…my husband…he is the rock, the safety, the catalyst.

In the not so distance past, when I stepped back and looked at all of the wonderful people I have in my life, I felt fear first – not gratitude or love, but fear. That’s a fucked up place to be. However, when you are convinced that you will do, say, be, the wrong thing, when your experience tells you that one unintentional misstep, one misunderstood action leads to the removal of affection and instant condemnation, you learn to be afraid. You learn that being nothing is better than being the wrong thing. When love is conditional and weaponized, fear is all you get.

Fear creates the “fight, flight, or freeze”. While I am a fighter, it is not my first choice where love is concerned. I am most assuredly a “flight or freeze” girl. I am typically, without a response.

Mike loves me unconditionally. It took me longer than is fair to him to believe that. It has taken me longer still to learn how to get comfortable inside of that. It is requiring me to learn all over again who I actually am, without all the self judgement and fear. It requires me to respond in the present because I am in the present. Those who are in my circle deserve a response. Moreover, they deserve for that response to be authentic with follow through.

The old adage imparts the importance of letting your “yes” be a “yes” and your “no” be your “no”. The prerequisite for that, of course, is a response. In 2019 I am focused on the response. In that is the trust of myself and those who love me best. In that is the freedom to release a whole bunch of crazy fear and confinement and step into this life of love, connection, and growth. It is permission to show up as myself, completely, and know that being myself, in all its variety, nuance, loud, quiet, soft, hard, absolute enoughness, is what those who love me, including myself, deserve.

Filed Under: Chrysalis