A Year Without Writing: An Admission

I haven’t written anything in a year.  Not on this blog, not creatively, not privately in a journal for my own secret purposes.  Except notes taken on my cell phone for future songs or stories--notes like “Jail bus” and “I can’t decide if it’s kindness, or dogs, that make the world go ‘round”--there hasn’t been anything.  Which is strange for me.  In my younger years I would fill one journal a month; in my young adult years writing plays and stories was how I processed and related to the world; in my post-college years having an internet blog was the only way I knew how to write and share my writing (and in the earlier times of internet blogs I didn’t know how public it really was, but now it’s out there, forever, sweet lord).  Writing is a thing which I would love to make money at and be known as doing, sure, but it's also a thing which I have always done, which I have had to do, which I identify as an intrinsic part of who I am and how I stay sane.

Until now. This is the first thing I have written since I consciously took a break.  I have considered sharing this but have always abstained because it felt too personal and too “waah waah, look at me” and once you do it you can’t take it back but THE THING IS I don’t think I can get on to the next part until I do this and someone, somewhere, is having this experience in their own way, and if I talk about it then maybe it will help them or even just help normalize something that we silently feel conflict and shame about.  Do you know what I’m saying?  Sharing, you guys. It’s about sharing.

Right.  So.  Writing is something I have compulsively done my whole life whether it’s good or not and then a year ago I stopped.  Because I have anxiety.  Unroll the banner and drop the confetti, everyone.  I have anxiety.  Are you surprised?  I was.  Three and a half years ago I decided to take the unglamorous road to a better life and started going to therapy.  Not because anything was “wrong” or I needed to “fix” something (ideas I encounter a lot from people) but because, like everyone, I have rough edges and dark corners and unhealed parts and unheard parts and parts I want to understand better and feelings I want to process and things I want to forgive and other things I want to love more and growing I want to do.  It’s just, you know, life.  I want to live the best life that I can, and getting out of my own way and going to therapy is a part of reaching for the stars and following my dreams. You should go.  You deserve it.

(I hate this right now.  This is the most boring thing I’ve ever done.  Are we done yet?)

Growth isn’t easy and doesn’t always feel good and requires constant reflection and honestly and it is also EXHAUSTING.  When I first started going to therapy I felt like I had taken on another job.  I was working all the time: the processing, patience, being intentional, filtering self judgement, compassionate action, blah blah blah. SOME times I just wanted to be blissfully fucked up and float through my life.  But I had started and I couldn’t unsee that things could be better.  It was like a mean trick I had played on myself.  

There are many things to say about this experience, but the point right now is that when I started consciously working on my life it meant I had to really know myself, which I thought I was previously doing a good job at.  But there were things about myself that I didn’t know, or miss-identified and the process of getting in there and doing the real “work” highlighted this.  One of the things I didn’t know was that I am an anxious person.  That my baseline of anxiety runs very high, and occasionally spikes from there.  That I developed coping mechanisms to get through my life this way, and that I looked very poorly on myself because I was this way.  I did not know I was anxious.  I thought I was defective.  I knew that anxiety disorders existed and that they were for other people.  They were not for me, surely I did not have one.  No, I was just a defective person who was doing a bad job at life.  I was stupid.  I was lazy.  I had a broken brain.  It took me about six months of learning what anxiety is, how it works and what anxiety disorders mean to begin identifying it in myself.  Part of what made it hard was that I thought identifying myself as having an anxiety disorder meant I was actually giving myself an excuse at doing a shitty job in life.  That it was totally reasonable for other people to have them, and for them it was real, but for me it was cheating.  It took a lot of education in brain chemistry, a lot of trusting medical professionals, and a lot of self care to admit/accept that I have an anxiety disorder.  

I started acclimating myself to the idea by telling people “well, you know, I am a very anxious person”.  I tested the waters in conversation with friends who’d known me for varying lengths of time.  They all had the same responses: “You THINK?” “Are you just now realizing this?” and “yes, Carlee.  I know.”.  

Imagine my surprise!  Everyone knew this about me but I didn’t know it about myself?!  How is that possible?  The truth is that now I cannot imagine not knowing I have anxiety but to begin with I had to be told.  And to begin with I had to get comfortable with the idea that anxiety disorders are not something you bring upon yourself.  And to begin with I had to forgive myself for not knowing I had one.  

As I eased into a life identifying as an anxious person things started clicking.  The past started making sense.  Things I hated about myself became understandable, manageable objects.  Once a day, when I thought I was dying, I could finally say “No.  This is your anxiety”.  Do you know what it is like to every day think you are dying because your brain and your body are doing something you don’t understand but you are too embarrassed about to share?  It’s really tiring and lonely.  As time went on I began to identify that I could live with my anxiety and that demanding it go away was not reasonable.   Then I saw that navigating through a life with anxiety was possible, and learning how to do it would make me feel better.  Then I started to learn how to know that things would be ok.

I was 28 years old and I did not previously know that things would be ok.  Ever.  I did not trust the outcome of anything being ok.  That is also scary and lonely and exhausting.  But I started to change it.  THAT process was one of the most joyful, liberating experiences of my life.

So there I was, plugging away in my life with therapy and work and friends and cool adult stuff, being an anxious person who was learning how to be an anxious person.  The better I felt the more my anxiety bothered me.  It became more and more clear how much my anxiety was ruling the way I made choices and navigated my life.  My anxiety was in charge and the more I got hyped on having a healthy, adjusted life the more I became intolerant of the anxiety dictating everything about it.  It became incredulous.  It became unacceptable.  The harder and harder I worked to be a balanced, self loving person the more my anxiety annoyed me.  Because it was in the way.  After years of working, I started to see the degree to which I can control my success and happiness and the degree to which the anxiety will be an obstacle.  There was only so much I could do.  Neither my therapist nor I believed medication was the first answer for anything so we kept pounding the pavement; processing and developing coping strategies.  

Over time I laid a very strong foundation for myself.  I was achieving more.  I was feeling good.  I was looking good.  I was making declarations like “I want to be a professional sports mascot!” and knowing I would follow through if granted access to a furry suit.  I was playing music. I was all up in my one big life and feeling mostly really pumped about it.

Then it was this time last year.  In the fall of 2013 my life looked like this:  The giraffe and I were home owners who were paying our bills.  We were planning for the future.  I was singing in two bands.  I had a job I loved and had been promoted and had a business card, like a legitimate grown up professional person.  I had agents in four cities sending me auditions.  I had been cast as the voice of a new character in a Nintendo game.  I was getting ready to shoot a part in a movie with Reese Witherspoon, directed by someone who was about to win an Oscar.  I WAS DOING IT.  My life was the best it had been up to that point.  All the things I wanted were happening.  I was fulfilled.  I felt successful.  

And yet at least once a week I was immobilized.  I would shake and sweat and cry involuntarily and couldn’t see straight and my speech would slur.  I couldn’t put my socks on in the morning.  I couldn’t answer an email about a meeting.  I couldn’t leave the office at work.  I couldn’t remember what day it was.  I couldn’t get off the bus at my stop (not a metaphor). 

And that is how I knew.  My life was exactly how I wanted it to be.  I’d been working diligently on managing my anxiety for two and half years.  And it was not enough.  I could not beat it with hard work or having the best life.  And by that point my life was so good that allowing my anxiety, through all my best efforts, to get in my way did not feel acceptable any longer.  All the questions like “if I just do ______ maybe it will get better?” had been answered and the answer was no.  

I slogged through the next two months knowing what I had to do but not pulling the trigger.  I thought my partner, my therapist, my doctor, my community would be disappointed in me.  Finally, in January, I told them: I think I need to try medication.  Instead of disappointment I was met with support and agreement.  “You are not putting a band aid on anything,” they reassured me, “you are giving yourself another tool”.  Still, I felt uncertain.  Making the choice to be a medicated person came with a lot of fears, one being that it would make me numb, change me, turn me into a different person.  We’ve heard it a thousand times.  The biggest fear was that I would lose my ability to be creative.  I mulled this over with the doctors for a long time, concluding eventually that for me the risk was worth it.  I had to at least try.  I decided that if taking medication to help with my anxiety made it harder to write, eventually I would learn to write in a different way.  I decided having a healthy life was more important.  So I started medication.  And I stopped writing.

My experience managing my anxiety with diligent work and medication is only my experience.  But for me, adding medication has not changed me as a person.  I am not numb, I am not detached.  It has unequivocally aided me in the experience of living in the moment and being my best self.  It lowers the level of anxiety I navigate through everyday.  It doesn’t make it go away, but it reinforces that I will be ok.  I stopped writing by choice because I didn’t want to force it.  I will admit that I tried to come back to it a few times, and it was always hard.  I allowed myself to walk away from it, saying “try again later”.  I did not punish myself for not knowing how to write; I just let it sit there and exist. 

I feel like now I am ready to get in there again.  Does my writing sound the same as it did before?  Does it happen as easily?  Are my ideas as good?  My jokes as funny?  My self deprocation as relatable?  I really don’t know.  But it doesn’t matter to me.  I trust that it will fine.  It will be fine.

Because I feel so full of life that sometimes I want to vomit and hug people until their heads pop off.  Because I still cry when I am happy and when I am sad.  Because I am thinking less about my expectations for success and more about how to have a beautiful, full life.  Because when things get hard I know eventually they will be ok.  Because I (mostly) let myself make mistakes.  Because I put my socks on in the morning.  

I couldn’t get on to the next thing until I put that out there.  Thank you for listening.

Dear Irony: Whatever You Are

It's been 10 years so I think it's finally ok to say: I don't get irony.  I don't understand the modern use of "irony" and all its social relevance/volume.  I don't get what it means when someone says something is ironic, I'm confused about how an entire person can be ironic, am in the dark as to why someone only "likes" something "ironically", and feel totally lost when I get called out for doing something based on its irony.  And I am mostly confused on this last point because as I mentioned from the jump, I can't possibly be doing something to be intentionally ironic if I don't even know what the application of irony is.

When I was 12 Alanis Morissette released "Ironic" and I thought I understood what that song was about.  She lists maybe 40 examples of irony so it makes it pretty easy to get.  Plus, I listened to "Jagged Little Pill" so very regularly, so I was truly familiar with the ins and outs of her ironic tales.  Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife = irony.  You're like "so many spoons and it's totally the wrong utensil!".  So.  Irony.  Man finally boards plane after years of fearing air travel and then dies in said plane when it crashes.  Sad.  Ironic.  And so on and so forth.  You were probably there.  You remember.  You likely also played pretend with your closest friends about who was which Alanis personality ridding around in that car (I was the squirmy dancy one in the back seat who eats some kind of snack she finds in her hair).  Many years later, around the time "irony" made its serious debut into my life, people started remarking about this song "none of it is ironic.  It's all just unfortunate coincidence".

I'm not stupid but I guess I figured Alanis Morissette wouldn't go around writing multi-plaitnum hits wrought with mis-information.  Too trusting? Perhaps.  Our bad, Alanis.

I distinctly remember my first experience with "new" or "cultural" irony.  It was 2003, I was 20 years old and in college.  There was a dance party in someone's room (as was the regular occurrence) and it was hot, loud, and full of good times.  Someone was rotating through songs on a playlist and they were coming--hit after hit--making us all cheer and sing along like partying in a tiny room was something we had invented.  A song ended.  The next song came on.  It was Phil Collins.  People started mildly bopping around but I, in my bald and joyful sincerity, turned to my friend and shouted "YEAAAAAHHHH! I LOVE PHIL COLLINS!".  My friend replied in the most casual of ways "Me too, but only ironically!".

What followed was a moment I have experienced thousands of times since then.  There was a look passed to me that wanted to know if I, too, was in on the irony.  It was a test with a silent question who's answer predicted everything that mattered about me in the social hierarchy.  That one answer would determine if I "got it" and was therefore cool enough to be cool, or if I didn't because presumably I was a dweeb who didn't know anything about cutting the edge of the cutting edge and should be left to eat alone at meals.  I failed the test that night.  Having been in this situation for the first time I was confused and shouted back "Cool!" and continued dancing.  Over time I learned that a new, mysterious movement was underway and as a means of hiding my embarrassing stupidity about what irony actually was, I started agreeing that I too liked things ironically.  I did this for some years, never knowing exactly why we were saying it.

Another conversation, later, when I got bold enough to ask someone more about this "ironic" phenomenon.
Them: "So, take Journey [the band]."
Me: "ok."
Them: "You like Journey, right?"
Me: "Yeah."
Them: "But you don't actually like them."
Me: "Yes I do."
Them: "No, you don't.  You like them because it's ironic."
Me: "I like them because I think their music is good."
Them: "No, you like them because it's ridiculous and you don't actually like them, but you just like listening to them because it's hilarious and ironic."

And that was about the best explanation I ever got on the matter.  I like something because it's funny and I will spend my time doing/using/listening to this thing but not at all because I actually like it or believe in it.  In fact, I don't really like it at all.  I like not liking it and putting on a show of how much I fake like it.

HUH?

I will be totally honest that for years of my young twenties I stayed silent about things like this because assimilation mattered to me, acceptance was important, and I was insecure about not "getting" something that my peers seemed to be so in on.  But now that I'm older and I don't give a shit about all that I'm going to come right out and say that that seems fucking RIDICULOUS to me.

We are a generation of people who made it our jobs to go around fake liking things, and essentially filled our lives full of stuff that didn't matter to us at all? Why would anyone do this? Isn't this just the grossest misuse of time?  Aren't you just playing a joke mostly on yourself for being so wrapped up in things you don't care for? Furthermore, how can you even distinguish between what you like and what you like "ironically" when the two occupy your life to the seemingly same capacity?  I'm still confused on this.  My survival strategy through the first few years was to continue liking whatever I liked but say that I liked it ironically when someone asked and that was the "correct response". In the following few years I replied with things like "who cares" and "whatever, man".  And finally, in the last few years I have gotten far enough away from it that it really doesn't come up all that often, but when it does I just ask "how is that ironic?".

I'm 30 and I don't get it.  Everything I do I do because I actually believe in it.  I listen to the music I do because it feels good and I enjoy it.  I wear the clothes I wear because fashion is the funnest thing and whatever I'm wearing is my actual, genuine, whole-hearted taste in fashion.  I have no idea why someone would waste their time doing otherwise.  But irony, being so lumped in with the also ever-confusing culture of hipsterdom, is expected somehow of people who like cartoon t-shirts and Baz Lurhman songs.  People now just assume I am in it for the irony. And I guess what bothers me the most about that is that I have no defense against it because I am, as I already said, confused by what it means.

Irony, according to dictionary.com (ultimate source, of course) is "the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning". Ok, I get that, kind of.  It's sarcasm essentially.  Sarcasm is fun, sarcasm has it's place.  "OK," I'm thinking, "maybe I do understand irony.".  I read about it on the internet.  I discuss it with others.  It seems hard to nail down but essentially comes back to being a large, social form of sarcasm.  Leading me to believe:

Irony is a safeguard against bullying and criticism.  It's a defense so no one makes fun of you for liking what you like.  People who are genuine are the most vulnerable to alienation, being the receiving end of a joke, scorn, and torment.  Irony makes you impenetrable.

Am I right, people? If all you dudes with your funky mustaches say you do it ironically because you fear being mocked, I urge you put down your pithy shield of irony and just come right out and believe in your funky mustache! If you are into drinking Fresca because it is a delicious and refreshing beverage I, for one, WILL NOT make fun of you for doing so.  I will say "Yes! Right on! You are allowed to do that sincerely, because you are a human being with feelings and choices to make!".  Tattooed adult ladies who like Taylor Swift can parade this as honestly as they please, because it does not make them less hip at the rock show or professional in the workplace, it just also means they enjoy sweet songs about puberty and heartbreak. (thank you, all the adult ladies) AND ANOTHER THING, asshole sitting at my bar, I wear overalls because I like them and have been wearing them literally since I had legs long enough for Osh Kosh and NO I don't at all get why that is ironic because "people in Portland are doing it or whatever", I'm pretty sure I do it with sincerity because my love of wearing overalls is sincere!

My dad told me I look cute.

Am I wrong?  Is irony not, in fact, a safeguard as I presume it is?  Is it another thing entirely? If it is then someone please explain it to me.  

We are all adults here.  People should feel brave enough to like what they like and be who they are, and people should remember if they are being taunted for it then the bully likely has some insecurities of their own.  
You do you.  

A couple of months ago I told a friend about a tattoo I wanted.  This friend is one of the coolest people I know so I was nervous to get her opinion.  "I'm thinking...would it be neat if I got a tattoo that just said 'sincerity forever' or would that be too dorky?" My face did the thing where everything squeezes together and I brace myself for laughter and eye rolling.  She presented me with a giant, full toothed smile and replied "I love that.  It's like, the most you tattoo there is.".

So there you have it.  Sincere sometimes despite myself.  Sincere because I don't really know how else to be.  I tried other ways: it sucked.  You can be sincere and be funny.  You can be sincere and be sharp.  You can be sincere and laugh at yourself.  You can be sincere and still use sarcasm.  You can be sincere and wear bart simpson shirts (I'm doing it right now).  You can be sincere and like Journey.  And if you ever feel alone in that, just remember I'm out here flapping in the breeze, too.  

Dear self: we are who we are.

Pop, by Carlee 2013

My father inherited his paper collecting / memory hoarding from my grandmother, and I have, in turn, inherited it from him.  Memory hoarding is a McManus legacy.   One major component to memory hoarding is the keeping of papers.  Many kinds of papers.  School papers, news articles, cartoons, bills, and most importantly, letters.  Saving letters is something that a lot of people do, including my father and I.  If ever anyone wants to publish the notes passed back and forth in my high school years, I have them all.  It would likely make a boring and hard to understand book.

Anyway, the point is that when my father comes to stay with me he brings some of his boxes of papers, and occasionally sifts through them, like he did this morning.  What he found was a four page letter I typed to him in the spring of 2006, when I was 22 and still in college.  Attached to it was his hand written response, which neither of us is sure he ever sent to me.  He brought this finding up to me during lunch while we were eating cheeseburgers (if I was concerned about judgments on our health I would say this is a rare occurrence, but the truth is that the cheeseburger thing happens all the time).  He told me he re-read them and laughed and it made him feel happy.  He told me it was interesting the things that we talked about in that correspondence, and how we are still talking about many of those things today.  Before he went to go buy stamps he brought the letters to me and told me I should read them.

Because I'm mostly interested in how great slash terrible of a writer I was, I started with my letter.  I read about three sentences, started to cry, scanned the rest of the letter and cried some more.  Likely this fact surprises no one. I cry often.  We all get it: I have feelings.  But what made me cry on this occasion was the surprise I felt over what was said.  My father was right.  We have the same conversations today that we were having eight years ago.

Not only are we discussing the same things, but my revelations/feelings/struggles/social commentary is almost to-the-letter the same.  The EXACT same, you guys.

--I love Bruce Hornsby and that maybe isn't very cool, but I don't care who knows it.  Bruce Hornsby is great!
--Tried exercising a couple of times.  Maybe I finally like it now.  I think I will start being a person who exercises!
--I don't understand what kind of performer I am, what kind I'm supposed to be, or what kind I want to be.
--Discovering your parents are just regular people who don't have the answers to everything is hard.
--Adulthood is mysterious and weird and hard.
--Death is terrifying and grieving the loss of people you love is hard.
--I can never fall asleep.  Sleeping is hard.
--Trying to spend time by myself and enjoy it. I feel like I'm missing out on things, so it's hard.
--Change is hard, even when it's right.
--Fleetwood Mac and Ryan Adams blah blah blah.
--Dogs.

It's been almost a decade and I am STILL making declarations about how I love Bruce Hornsby.  Still.  Time to put that one to bed.

What was surprising was not only that the subject matter is still relevant, but that the "discoveries" I seem to have as the years go by are essentially the same discovery over and over again.  I am STILL trying to figure out how to enjoy exercising and every time I do it once or twice I'm like "maybe now is the time!".  I am STILL processing that parents are flawed humans just like everyone else and there is no such thing as "having all the answers".  I am still blown away, everyday, by something about growing up.  I am still battling with sleep and hoping for change.  I am still working through the labyrinth of death and loss and mortality and will likely be forever. And on and on and on.  You get it.  I am still obsessed with dogs, y'all.

I suppose I could feel disappointed that I have continued to learn about the same things in new ways over the last decade.  I could feel like my life is a boring mass of the same issues I just can't figure out and NOBODY LIKES RYAN ADAMS ANYMORE, CARLEE.  I could feel like a loser for not moving on yet.

But in fact, I feel a little impressed.  That after all this time I have been on a more focused journey than I realized.  That I have questions and obstacles and passions, and those things are parts of who I am, not just something I invented last week.  That I have changed so much but am still so much the same.  I am who I am but I am different.  That I guess there is a story I am telling with my life, and the memory hoarding proves it.  Also, ancillary bonus, I am a better writer--less enthusiastic but better.

In my father's response was the reflection of the man he is today.  The same passions, questions, obstacles, declarations of purpose, votes of confidence in his daughter.  The same use of exclamation points.  The same genuine expression of who he is that I have never witnessed anywhere else.  Two people being honest with each other and saving it for later, not because it will matter to anyone else but because it's who we are.

And maybe all of this is just to say I guess we are who we are.  We are just in ourselves, whether we realize it or not.  Odds are I came to this conclusion last month, last year, three years ago, and so on.  Which only proves the point that we are always who we are, doing what we do, learning what we need to learn, telling the story we are here to tell, eating cheeseburgers with our fathers.

**Update: when my dad came back from his journey to buy stamps he asked "did you get a chance to look at these?".  "Yes," I said, "It's crazy.  I'm writing about it right now." "Isn't that something?" he remarked, "Having the same conversations after all these years? It's like, we are who we are." "That's what my post is called!" "No WAY!!!" he exclaimed.  And then we both laughed, because, well, there it is.

Carlee, by Pop 2013

Dear small moments: laying on the floor

A few nights ago I walked into our living room to find the Giraffe laying on the floor in the dark, listening to music.  "Remember when you used to just lay on the floor and be quiet and listen to music?" he asked.  I do.  "It feels nice," he said.  Then he closed his eyes again.  He looked remarkably peaceful.

I spend so much of my days "doing" or being preoccupied with what I should be doing, that standing there watching him it started occurring to me that I can't remember the last time I just let go of responsibility and laid on the floor and listened to some music.  Music has become an accessory to a busy life: working, commuting, cleaning, socializing, writing.  There, with his eyes closed, looking remarkably peaceful, he seemed to be on to something.  So I decided to put down my list of things to do and join him.  He picked song after song (I threw one in there) and we laid quietly listening for almost an hour.  No to-do's, no pressure to get up.  Just us, and the floor, and the music. 

We played: 

wonderful tonight -- eric clapton

shelter from the storm -- bob dylan

big sky country -- chris whitley

crazy mary -- pearl jam

lay lady lay -- bob dylan

solsbury hill -- peter gabriel

that's how strong my love is -- ov wright

And then we said goodnight to our neighborhood of Rainier Beach and went to sleep.  It was truly one of the nicest ways to spend an evening at home.

Dear Carlee: a letter to my 15 year old self

Dear Carlee,

Now you are 30.

The first thing you need to know is that we didn't do it.  

Take a look at the list you've been making of all the things you plan on doing by the time you're an adult--say 30 years old--and try to understand right away that almost none of those things have gotten done.  Really hardly anything.  

I know.  It's disappointing.  You are upset.  And I'm sorry.  But I'm only sorry because it's painful for you and you are feeling hurt.  I am not sorry because I think I did anything wrong or because I have any regrets.  I don't.  

Listen, when you started making these plans for us I know that you really thought it out.  You had the best intentions and I know how confidant you felt that we could do it.  I don't think you were wrong.  A lot of things have happened between then and now, and we never could have planned for them, and being a little farther along than you I have to say that a very large part of life is bending to change, finding yourself, and embracing that the journey is a million little steps in a dozen different directions, not bullet points on a to-do list.  We've been really busy.  We haven't forgotten the goals you set, and we haven't given up, and we haven't decided they don't matter.  Not at all.  Carlee, we are trying to live life on life's terms.  The list you made was made on your terms, and that is a wonderful thing about it--that you were independent and strong enough to know exactly what you wanted and you reaffirmed that for yourself everyday.  I love that about you, I honor that about you.  You made those plans for us when you were safely inside a construct where the future meant nothing but what you imagined it to be, and that list in that time and place was the perfect thing for you to be creating.  But it cannot be our road map.  And I think part of why it is so painful for you to hear that we have not followed your road map is that for the last 15 years I have let that be the control in how we view our success.  And that is my fault.  Carlee, your plans for our success are useful reminders and motivation, but they are not healthy measurements for how well we are doing.  Unfortunately, today I am going to have to burn our list.

So here is some disappointment:

We have not starred in any feature films.  We have not had our own television show.  Sorry, we haven't even had a guest role on a television show.  We don't have anything published.  No one has made our movies, read our stories, or done our plays.  We have not had tours, reading our works for thousands of people whom we have inspired.  We don't have a rap career.  We aren't rich.  We don't own couture shoes or diamonds or a new car.  We aren't even a little well to do.  We don't vacation.  We don't have children.  We aren't married to Leonardo DiCaprio or Ryan Gosling or Matthew Lillard.  We aren't married at all.  We have not won a single award for our performance abilities.  That also means we haven't won an Oscar.  No accolades for writing, either. We aren't a member of a successful theater group.  We aren't on Saturday Night Live.  We have never done stand up comedy.  No one interviews us about our opinions on things.  We do not get VIP seating at shows.  We are not friends with Ani DiFranco.  We have not bought our parents their retirement homes.  We don't own vacation properties or a ranch in Montana.  We don't live in LA with "a little place" in New York.  We have no tangible way to prove we are helping to change the world in a positive way.  

Did I get it all? Have I missed anything? Look over it one more time.  Not one of those things has gotten done by a benchmark you so faithfully believed was far enough away that there was ample time.   So that's some bad news.  On top of which you can add: we still have acne and a jiggly belly, we suck at doing laundry and keeping things tidy, we have debt, we run late, we sleep poorly, we still have a "day job", we live in the city we grew up in, and sometimes we still feel afraid and uncertain.

But there is good news:

We have friends--actually enough people like us that there are friends we go for years without seeing but still love very much.  We are decent looking (for a while there in our mid twenties we were not feeling so certain it would work out this well).  We have dogs.  TWO dogs.  Remember how voraciously we anticipated the day we could get a dog? We went to college and it was the one we wanted and we graduated.  Our voice is in a museum.  We sing in front of other people and sometimes they seem to really like it.  We have a career, ok? We HAVE a career.  It doesn't look the way you thought it would, but I've worked really hard at it and I'm proud of it so I'd appreciate if you didn't judge our progress on that too harshly.  We are a working actor.  What you didn't quite know yet was how much "working" and how little glamour was involved.  We've kept writing and we are trying to figure that out but it's a lot harder to navigate than "writing then publishing" something, so it's taking some time.  We are healthy.  Actually, the healthiest we've ever been.  We have a healthy relationship.  The kind that you were always really hoping for but feared didn't exist?  We have that.  And he's really good looking and funny, so don't worry.  We also love ourself.  I know you don't want to hear about how hard that was to work through and you think it's a little embarrassing to share, but I have done a lot of work to get us to a place of actually enjoying who we are and believing we are ok, so just take a moment and appreciate that.  We bought a house.  We bought it with our non-celebrity handsome-man-partner and we make payments on it every month.  We have health insurance.  We have a job where we have responsibility and we feel fulfilled.  We own just a ton of clothes (more than even you imagined).  

And the best news of all:

It gets better.  We feel inspired and touched and moved all of the time.  We can openly admit that we are sensitive and that is ok--great, even.  We don't feel quite so overwhelmed by the pressure to always do the right thing.  We are available  to other people in a way not even you knew was possible because now we are also available to ourself.  We accept rejection as a daily part of what we have chosen to do, and not as a measurement of our worth.  We take more chances.  We treat ourself kindly; with compassion; with forgiveness.  We spend time alone.  We help other people and we allow them to help us.  We are a lot happier now, doing a million little steps in a dozen directions, than you are at 15 feeling so overwhelmed and anxious by all the things you are supposed to achieve.  We are excited to get older, and to see what happens next.

Let me leave you with this: Life is not a movie.  I've tried--like, really tried--and it just doesn't go that way.  Life is unceremonious change and disappointment and surprise and changing your mind and crying on the bus and trusting yourself and being present and unfiltered joy and weddings and funerals and babies being born and always learning.  Life is a journey.  You know that Dan Eldon book you are obsessed with?  The one that says "the journey is the destination"? That's true.  We are doing it right now.  We are doing it, Carlee.

So.  I know you are determined.  And I love you.  Stay determined.  I know I will.

It's been really wonderful getting to know you.  

I'm making a new list.  And it's full of things you don't really understand yet.  But when you get here, you will.

Love,

Carlee

Dear Dreams: A Serious Announcement

For a long time I didn't understand that there was, or could be, a difference between goals and dreams. I thought they were the same thing.  Goals = dreams.  That all of the things you imagined, enjoyed recreationally, played-make believe about were in the same category as things you sought after with intention.  That you were somehow beholden to achieving your dreams the same way you were beholden to achieving your goals.  Which, in some cases, can be true, but certainly not always and it led to feeling quite overwhelmed by all the things I was *somehow* going to have to manage to cram into my life.  But THEN I eventually realized that dreams and goals are not always the same.  Goals are something you can tangibly work towards, and dreams can be absolutely anything that makes you feel good, regardless of its likelihood of ever coming true.  What a relief! Dreams have no boundaries.  Dreams are whatever the hell you want them to be. Dreams are dreamy.

A goal is "I want to be an accomplished writer", a dream is "I want to be Jay-Z's best friend" (true story).

So, here I am, everyone.  About to turn 30 years old.  I am wearing a fashionable ensemble of adult acne and a Garfield nightgown and I want to share with you a life dream.

It has been a dream of mine, for some time, to be a professional mascot.  A PROFESSIONAL MASCOT.  There it is.  I want that.  That is a DREAM.  Professional mascot.

Dreams in action 

I finally admitted this to my mother a couple of weeks ago and she laughed for over 20 minutes.  With each detail I added into this dream she laughed harder.  When I demonstrated some of my dancing skills, she wept.  And it felt really good to share that with her.  We laughed together, she doubled over on the ground, me gesticulating wildly as a moose or bird or dolphin.  It felt so relieving to say "I have a dream...to one day be a professional mascot, and YES that is hilarious, and that's ok."  Because it's a goddamned dream, and that dream is real.

I think I would be a great mascot.  It is an excellent combination of my inherent skills and serious interests.  It involves marginally embarrassing oversized dance moves, people pleasing, performing, getting crowds totally psyched up, inciting laughter and joy, being involved in sports teams without possessing any athletic abilities, amazing costumes, and the best 90's dance songs.  You get to wear that luscious plush head so you are totally anonymous and just free to get out there and rock that crowd so hard.  Some people dream of being Justin Timberlake, I dream of being the Mariners Moose.

If I got to be a professional mascot I would make everyone so proud.  I would just really dedicate myself to making the funniest, most passionate routines the game has ever seen.  I would cry.  Sometimes I work on my dance moves.  Sometimes I explore character development and my "signature style".  Sometimes I imagine the stories I could tell through the art of the mascot.  Sometimes I build my catalogue of mascot songs ("Y'all Ready for This" "Whoop, There It Is" "Who Let the Dogs Out" "Good Vibrations" "Might As Well Be Walking on the Sun" etc).

The Wheedle is the best

I know this is not a "cool" dream.  I know I don't get any street cred for un-ironically announcing this on the internet.  But I don't care.  It is something I carry around with me that brings me so much joy to think about.  I realize now that if you don't tell people what you want and how you feel no one is able to really share your life with you or celebrate in your successes or support you in times of need.  So I'm telling you all, people everywhere, that I dream of being a professional mascot and NOW if I ever get the thrill of actually becoming one you will know how truly powerful that is.  You will know that for this pizza faced cry baby, it is a dream come true.

And I think it's important to say that before I turn 30.  Just put it right out there.  Come clean.

This Seahawks mascot is doing a triumphantly epic job

Maybe someday I will get an opportunity to be a mascot.  I sure hope I do.  As I've already said, I'm pretty sure I would do a first class job.  But maybe I won't.  And that's ok, too.  Being a mascot is a dream.  It lives in my head and heart along with being Jay-Z's best friend, having diamonds in my teeth, and wining an Oscar along side Philip Seymor Hoffman.  It lives with dreams.
And having dreams is important.

Dear Writing: the Death of Ideas + Content

It's pretty simple, really.  I sometimes have this fear that if I write too much, I will use up all my good ideas.  And there will be nothing left.  Like I have a predetermined amount of funny jokes, witty references (still waiting to use those), insights, snarky remarks, social commentary, plot lines, characters, experiences, morals, questions, big words.  Like a female has eggs.  I only have so many of all those things to use, and I can't acquire more, and if I use them up too quickly, I will be done.  I will go into writer's menopause.  And that will be it.  There will never be another thing for me to write ever again.

I have realized I am actually afraid of that.  Isn't that crazy?
Wait.  Let me rephrase that.  Is that crazy?
Is it a subconscious tactic in procrastination? Like if I hold onto all my ideas because I have a fear of running out of them then it presents a fairly logical reason to ration writing of any kind.
Maybe it's a subconscious act of self-protection. That, in keeping all my ideas to myself, I am protecting myself from ever being exposed to failure and the possibility I'm really not good at writing at all and the long drawn out existential crisis that would surely follow.

I mean, these are all possibilities. Simply discovering the fact that I have been walking around believing I only have a limited number of things to say for the rest of my life was pretty incredible. The realization of this fear has made it easy to see the humor in it and takes away the power of its potential truth.

And on the other hand, some of the writers, comedians, storytellers, and musicians I admire most spend their entire career telling the same kinds of stories, just with different details, circumstances, and feelings. So maybe it's not such a bad thing.

Maybe, a person should just do what they feel moved to do.
Maybe a person should just do what they feel moved to do and fight the critical voice inside of them that says it's repetitious or boring or old or recycled or not any good at all.
Because maybe the bigger point is not weather what you do is any good or not, but that you have a thing that you feel moved to do at all.
Maybe having that thing is part of success, and just doing it is the other part. Maybe its goodness or abundance or popularity is an ancillary bonus.

Maybe I should write because I like to write, and if I only have five stories to tell I will just spend the rest of my time telling them over and over and that will be the truth of my life. And at least there will be a thing that I enjoy doing.
Ok. Yeah. Maybe that's it. I feel comfortable with that.

Champion voice: 1
Critical voice: 0

See you next round, fear breeding critic.