Are you okay? I know this was a hard day for you, do you want to talk a little? I’d like to know how you’re doing.

We had just executed a mass-layoff in my office, including most of my staff, and my knowledge of this impending doom preceded theirs by a little over a month. I had cried at the prep meeting, while terminating my Payables clerk, and with some coworkers after they were handed their pink slips. I cried all damn day, and only worried a little about my professional reputation.

I’m okay. I meant what I said earlier- this is the right thing for the business, it’s the right thing for those of us who remain- but that doesn’t make it any easier. I know that I’ve been able to look back on my darkest days six weeks, six months, six years down the road and I’ve had the solace of realizing that if I hadn’t faced that hardship, I wouldn’t be right here, and that’s always been a source of comfort to me. To be able to say of the hardest things that they helped make the best things in my life. I’m sad tonight for the people we let go, but more than anything, I just hope that they can look back later on and see that this ending was the beginning of something better.

A relieved smile spread from his eyes to his cheeks, and we chatted for a few minutes before someone cut in and I excused myself.

A few days shy of my thirty-second birthday, I still believe that. I can’t defend it, I can barely explain it, the best hope I have is to point to nature and say it is evidence to me of a higher order that we have not yet grasped in our knowledge of the universe.

If faith is an innate knowing, then this is mine, and I understand it in my bones.

I don’t know why bad things happen to good people, and I don’t know why some lives end so early or so unexpectedly. I understand that people hurt people because they hurt, but I don’t understand the cosmic value in so much pain. Perhaps there isn’t any at all, and I only seek to ascribe it some value to make peace with it somehow.

Since my earliest years of awareness, I’ve been called an old soul. Certainly, I’ve had a few encounters with strangers that were more recognition than introduction, and have always read between the lines without really realizing it. What that means is beyond any of us to understand, and I won’t do it the injustice of pinning it down. Those kinds of things are still magical to those of us that want to see them, and I suppose my biggest question for my coincidence and science friends is, simply:

Why wouldn’t you want to think that things happen for a reason, even if we don’t understand how or why?

I’m incredibly suspicious of anyone who doesn’t believe in something, one thing, anything that they can’t see.

Last night, I sat in the kitchen nook. The steam from my soup kissed my cheeks, and the faint smell of woodsmoke sat in the back of my throat. My thoughts drifted to my upcoming birthday and the annual reconciling of reality against my visions and dreams.

As always, my life looks nothing like what I ever imagined for myself. The people and experiences that filled the gap between my dreams and my defeats are both precious and priceless in their own right, and I choose to believe that they put me right here, right now, with this particular perspective. Any variation on my history would not have produced this moment, with these people, and my capacity to appreciate them.

You can argue with that all you want to, and I would relish the discussion.

What you can’t argue with is the sense of recognition and belonging that strikes deep and true, past my neurotic brain and my poor schizophrenic heart, straight into the marrow. It produces a warm calmness that whispers above all the noise of doubt and fear.

You belong here.

You never let me down, and that sensation of being so tenderly cradled by a community bursting with so much talent, skill, wisdom and passion sustains me in my darkest moments. The smallest acts of kindness are as precious as the grand gestures; not every mountain can be moved swiftly. Those of you that have spent years raising callouses on your hands one shovelful at a time have rightfully earned my undying loyalty.

If there exists one value that my parents instilled above all others, it was that we are put on this Earth to love each other while we’re here. When I expressed my gratitude to my father for all of their sacrifices, gladly made on my behalf, and my fear that I couldn’t ever reciprocate, his response carved deep grooves in my soul.

You know how you pay it back? You do for your sister, you do for your baby cousins, you take the help that comes your way with humble gratitude, and you pay it forward. Every chance you get to bring your resources to bear for someone else, you do that. That’s how you repay me, by starting the cycle over again.

My father never turned anyone down for a meal- it was a challenge for your Grandma sometimes, to stretch the menu for unexpected company. But he never let a soul leave that house hungry, you know, no matter who they were or what he had to share, and I’ve always tried to live that way, and I think that’s why I’ve always had support when I’ve needed it, because I’ve always given it when I possibly could.

So, if I have an opportunity to cook for you, to rework your resume, to show you some measure of comfort or ease of hardship, I’m delighted to do it. I consider it a blessed opportunity to put just a fraction of the love and concern I’ve received back out into the universe; a calling to honor what I’ve been given by sowing some hopeful seeds for another soul.

I’m not the girl that always keeps up as well as she should with personal correspondence and social visits. Despite my reputation otherwise, I don’t always have the right words to express how I feel about each of you personally. My introversion and mercurial emotional weather create artificial distance in many of my relationships; my thoughts and feelings are sometimes so loud that they drown out the voices of others, no matter how fierce my affection for you.

Please know that I hold you all in my heart, that your love and kindness are the stars in my night sky. Thought does not translate into communication near often enough, and I’m working on that, but I am always here, loving you and wishing you all the strength and peace that I’ve found in your friendship.

My love is a rock.

and as you’re searching for peace in your world,
you may find yourself spinning around and around and around,
while the pain you’ve endured only serves to make you surer
of the strength that you’ve found, and then

my love is a rock, an immovable force
anywhere that you are, my love is right here
with any tick of the clock life can change its course
but my love will not, my love is a rock

-reo speedwagon, “my love is a rock”

You don’t look like an accountant. My accountant looks like an accountant…

I thanked her. Who wants to look like an accountant?

The thick logs and dry tinder of various warnings and lectures about managing my image were sitting there, doused in doubt and fear. She tossed a lit match on the pile as casually as she knocked back the last of her drink and dissolved into giggles. That first flash wore off quickly enough, but there was just enough coal left to sustain a slow burn.

Should I try to look more like an accountant? Should I mock the stereotype? Are the people who express concern about the candid nature of my personal writing and tweeting actually right? Is that the cause behind my struggle to communicate a congruent and resonant marketing message for Words and Numbers? Do I appear untrustworthy?

Since the tender age of six, I’ve been warned about the perils of my precocious nature. The reputation lectures would come a decade later. Both are common themes in the constructive criticism I’ve received in my thirty-odd years. When I took over the accounting department, and then as a part of my assimilation when we were acquired by the borg, I found myself continually encouraged to tone down most aspects of my personality. On the record, anyway.

Off the record, I was received with awe and wonder for my versatility. Who the hell is this girl, that trudges into the office fifteen minutes late in flip flops and no makeup, but is stunning in a cocktail dress? How does one manage to hold her own telling lewd jokes on the loading dock and discussing economic conditions over a formal business dinner? How is it possible that the woman who constantly gets her hand smacked for her scathing wit and email grenades is also the source of valuable financial analysis and reliable data? Who is this foul-mouthed creature in a low cut sweater and two inch heels, keeping up with the boys’ club at the bar, at the dinner table, and in the conference room? How does she show up to an afternoon meeting with senior management in flip flops, with an extra large sweet tea in her hand and a pen in her bun and come out with the glow of meaningful praise? How can she write a genuine and eloquent recommendation letter for a former nemesis?

Out of this mixed message, I developed a useful metric for actionable criticism. When it related to anything I did that made me difficult to work with, I made a concerted effort to mitigate those tendencies and situations. I shared my online life with a few trusted work friends, after I password protected any entry relating to my work or my coworkers and some of the posts that were too raw with personal information and emotion for comfort. I lived in constant fear that my twitter feed would come to haunt me professionally.

This was all very much a part of why I was relieved when the borg spit me out, and why I went into business for myself.

When a friend and client warned me about the perils of my openness here and on my personal twitter account last fall, I quickly reminded him that it was exactly those two things that led me to that present moment: en route to an important meeting for a potential project. Our shared client was extremely conservative, and I pointed out my tea length skirt and light makeup in my dismissal of his concern. He chuckled and changed the subject, and an old neurosis found new life.

The writer within abhors any suggestion of oppression or censorship. Stories are for telling. The site name, twitter handle and tagline pay homage to my personal dissonance: the original full name of the blog was cattails: adventures of a verybadcat- a bad pun, a play on my given name, an acknowledgement of the unacceptable parts of myself. It was inspired by the wasbund, who often drew decidedly accurate parallels between his wife and her faithful pack of felines (predilection for napping, lack of concern with approval, moodiness, near impervious to direction or discipline, and the tendency to alternately demand and reject affection, respectively) and by my eternal and undying girl crush on Catherine Conners of Her Bad Mother. The crazy stops here… every fifteen minutes is an expression of my deep desire to overcome emotional dysfunction and the seeming futility of that pursuit.

I’ve trusted you with that conflict in all of my delicious honesty, and both the process and results have propelled me further than I ever would have imagined. The experience is what inspired me to honor two extremely different talents and skillsets: my attempt to make a living by making a life. By bringing my strengths to the promising startups and vibrant small businesses springing up around me.

The accountant within is thinking you can’t eat your principles, and in the name of conservatism, she dilutes the writer’s message. Writing credentials are downplayed on LinkedIn, the business twitter account becomes a container for business tweets. She links from personal accounts to business but never from business to personal accounts. The borg spit her out, and she wrings her hands on the sidewalk, muttering about kool-aid and chewing on the ends of her curls while ruminating endlessly over the message of indoctrination. You’re in a conservative field. You’re young and pretty and tumultuous. You can’t afford to let your work speak for itself.  You must always be beyond reproach.

These two are making me crazy, so I’m asking you: who would you put in charge of marketing?

I started this blog four and a quarter years ago; happily married, running the accounting department of a locally owned small business, attending college classes, and doing a little freelance bookkeeping. We’d been in the house almost a year. Somewhere in there, I started seeing a therapist for my bee phobia, at the wasbund’s request. My sister and I had just started to develop a friendship. The four of us took vacations together, visited each other regularly, gathered for holidays. Adicus was a little shy of his first birthday, and already a magnificent specimen. Nearly all of the ingredients for the life I’ve always dreamed of were at my disposal, and my struggle at the time was figuring out how to put them together and bake a cake. Those early posts center on my conflicts with gender roles, feminism, and modern marriage.

My heart broke wide open for this girl who had absolutely no clue what lay ahead. Her heart broke for me; she thought she was on the verge of becoming a mother. We wept together and were soothed by dreams that found breath and life in the years between us: starting a business, cherishing sisterhood, keeping the house, writing here faithfully. I love her for her innocence; she cherishes the wisdom I’ve found in the wake of so much loss and change.

The irony is a thick lump in my throat. I ponder whether a marriage can survive a reversal of traditional gender roles after I declare a clear preference for them, and then proceed to document the unraveling of my marriage under a reversal of traditional gender roles.

I’m so fucking good I foreshadow without even meaning to.

I’ll make no pretense of objectivity here- I’m not sure that I’m capable of that. The more success and fulfillment I found in the external world, the more success and fulfillment he lost there. The happier and more confident I became, the more miserable he became. Whether that was the force of circumstance or a symptom of unhealthy attachment is a knot that will probably never come loose.

The failure of our marriage only means that we were not capable of navigating the changes of our life together. It is not a testament to whether either of us are capable of it with someone else, or its possibility in general. I’m not proud of the way I treated him in those hardest moments, nor am I proud of the way I allowed myself to be treated. We let resentment, self-justification and contempt infiltrate our bond, and it died a slow and horrible death.

Being a single woman denies me the luxury of dividing labor and responsibility. My sister and I share my home and the joy and burden of keeping house. Admittedly, her masculine energy is stronger than mine and she attends to most of the typically masculine chores. One of her greatest gifts to me is her acceptance of my lack of interest and fortitude in tools and things with motors. I’m more than satisfied with the small victories to that end: building some of the shelving for my bedroom closet, running the wood burner, painting the living room.

A combination of time, experience and making peace with my mother has loosened my view on gender roles. I’m much more comfortable with myself as a person and a woman than I was then. It took not being a wife to realize that my strong feminine energy is an expression of my personality, not a function of role or status. I will never be the kind of woman that could leave her child with anyone else to work sixty hours a week in a traditional office. I still think it’s hilarious that anyone would doubt my ability to be happy and fulfilled as a full time mother and housewife, though I am much more aware of just what a personal risk it is.

Making such a definitive decision either way no longer seems likely or necessary; the gray area is much more spacious than it once appeared. I do still plan on finishing my degree, and I would also love to bring a child into the world, but I am no longer so concerned with how those two goals will fit together. I’m much more confident in my capability to balance them, and the right man will support me in my efforts.

Division of labor is of little significance compared to the dynamic of a relationship. How often is a division of labor argument really about the balance of power? More often than not, I suspect. Trust, respect, communication and commitment are much more important than who pays the bills and who mows the lawn.

My father has always said that I am looking for someone to walk beside me, not in front of or behind me. I would agree, with the caveat that they do most of the navigating, know when I need a direct order and/or a stiff drink, and are willing to take me to the airport at an ungodly hour. One last catch: he should do these things with the same loving gratitude I feel when I am cooking his dinner or balancing his checkbook.

I’ve been playing standby roulette since I was nine months old. It requires a certain level of Zen, because in addition to having absolutely no control over your travel schedule, throwing a fit about it could threaten your standing with the gate agent and cause trouble for the pass holder. My mantra for losing a round is generally it wasn’t meant to be, which is why I couldn’t help but  break a little, because Bloggers in Sin City is. And it was, but not before I was rescued by a dear friend for the night.

When people find out that I’m going to Vegas, they always make gambling comments. Last year, my stock response was “I only gamble with my heart”. After losing my ass in that high-stakes game few times since then, this year I just told people “I don’t gamble, I’m an accountant”.  A fellow standby roulette casualty pointed out: “you do too gamble, you fly standby”. Which reminded me: I’m not as risk-averse as I think I am.

So when in the throes of  conversation I was informed that I’m obviously a sexual person, I could only help but think about the way I admired Melody Sweet’s confidence in Absinthe. She dropped down from the ceiling in her green feather wings and owned Slice of Heaven like it was hers and hers alone, forever. There was nothing hesitant or apologetic about it; she very obviously relished her captive audience. I found myself brimming with envy, until I finally relinquished my intimidation on the skytop terrace at Chateau and drew my own small captive audience. The realization was stunning, to put it mildly.

When I was finally seated on the first flight in on Friday morning, I prepared myself for a little potential isolation. My tardiness meant that I missed the icebreaker and the whole first night, and that might leave me more on the edges of the group. Being ostracized socially for the first thirteen years of my life has left me extremely wary of large groups of girls. People say that, I know, and it sounds trite. So let me be clear: I was literally spit on. As incredible as my biscuits (fellow BiSC-goers) are and as inclusive as this group is on an instinctual level, there was still some fear to chase away.

After being drowned in hugs and drinks and introductions, upon realizing that most everyone was as happy and relieved at my arrival as I was, I felt a little silly. It wasn’t until one of my favorite biscuits chided me for not assuming my presence was requested in a photo that I had a revelation. Here in the present, if I feel isolated it’s because I’m isolating myself out of habit. Perhaps the few girls that weren’t as warm with me were hiding behind the same fear I was. Even then, the smallest welling of surprise still surfaced at the countless acts of kindness and depth of connection that passed between us.

Some intense conversation sparked over a poolside tarot card reading left my emotional sea churning Saturday night. Determination to enjoy the evening’s activities prevented me from pitching to starboard, but it didn’t prevent me from discussing things with my favorite robot, or from having a deeply personal and philosophical discussion at the bar of a hopping nightclub. I very happily filed some of the best and most honest advice I’ve received to date under “think about it later” and promptly had a few more drinks before dancing as long as my gorgeous silver shoes allowed.

After a leisurely brunch at our hotel filled with giggles and tears, pictures and plans, presents and hugs, I arrived at McCarran airport with a considerably heavier suitcase, and a heart so infinitely lighter. The gate agent for my flight was the same woman who scolded me last year when I cried after the sixth flight to Atlanta left without me and my friend. Her words stung, and the memory of her disdain as she informed me that I was foolish to expect anything different than a twelve hour nap on the airport floor on a Sunday afternoon out of Las Vegas seared her face into my mind.

This year, she winked and smiled as she handed me my boarding pass. Have a safe trip home! The ogre.

My seat-mate on that flight was a little puzzled when I set a pair of gold glitter pumps in my lap so I could retrieve my travel pillow. Are you the kind of girl that wears those shoes? My cheeks ached with the width of my grin. Oh, absolutely, I am.

When the last flight from Atlanta to Asheville was cancelled, I sighed with resignation.

What does the universe have in store for me tonight?

A hell of a story, that. One for another day.

Meanwhile, there’s that intriguing and pesky “think about it later” file and nursing some painful withdrawals. It’s hard enough to accept the geographic limitations on such precious friendships with amazing people. To add insult to injury, my treatment in regular society is jarring when compared to the rockstar treatment we received from all of our sponsors. Reserved prime real estate at the pool every morning, chocolate fondue happy hours, VIP access to scorching nightclubs, endless homemade fudge, and so many free drinks ruin a girl for few days. The whole experience is like, well, a slice of heaven…

Missing new and long time friends, standing in line, paying for things, not being catered to constantly; these conditions are harsh and bewildering. Thank goodness I have ten pounds of goodies from our gift bag sponsors to console me.

You could still send me some work, though. Think of it as a contribution to my #BiSC 2012 fund.

It goes without saying that what lies beyond the horizon is a decision mutually made and known, but so many relationships fall victim to the distance between two points on life’s map. It doesn’t matter how tightly you hold hands if you’re heading in different directions; eventually something breaks. Usually someone’s patience or heart.

All of my failed relationships and friendships have fallen under one of two categories: too much distance or not enough space. Either we were headed in very different directions and the emotional gulf between those two places was not navigable, or there hasn’t been enough space between our shoulders. I would suppose this is how I earn my reputation for being demanding; by expecting people to be emotionally available and reasonably attentive without paying me so much attention that I feel pressured. I have a low tolerance for distance and a high space requirement.

Last April, I cried my way through Logan International Airport, because I didn’t want to go home. Two weeks later, I lay in my bed with a bottle of vodka and promised myself that I would never again put myself through all of that for anyone; the emotional rollercoaster of reunions and farewells, all the standby flights, all the packing and unpacking, and that horrible sinking nausea of watching something slip away like sand through my fingers. That was even before I realized that was willing to uproot my entire existence for someone who couldn’t be bothered to return a text message.

Oh, those were the days.

I’ve since realized that the distance issue was merely muddled by geography. After all, I’m divorced; I know what it’s like to be worlds apart in the same bed. I was reminded of that unique bouquet recently, but only recognized it in hindsight. At the time it was one of those memories you can’t quite pin down in your scrapbook, a sense of eerie familiarity without explanation.

My friendships are no longer limited by physical proximity; some of my closest friends are awfully far away. Some of the people who live nearby are two thousand miles  from my heart. One night last week, I was up till five with a far away friend who was having a rough time, directly after getting into yet another pointless argument with someone that lives not forty minutes from me who wants less space but refuses to bridge the distance she put between us.

Last May, I missed two flights out of Atlanta before I made it to Las Vegas, where I spent the week with one of my best friends and sixty-eight bloggers, half of which I counted among my friends before I even landed. By the time I made it back to Asheville, I had been thirty six hours without sleep, twenty four without a shower, and twelve on the floor of the Las Vegas airport. I found myself wondering when this year’s trip will be announced this afternoon, and thinking about how much I’d love to see some of those wonderful friends again.

Being far away doesn’t mean being far apart, and being nearby isn’t the same as being close.

Which is why I stayed up till sunrise but did not scale a staircase last week. That’s how an six inches of mattress becomes a trip around the world, and two thousand miles can feel like a whisper away.

Funny, that.

Every so often, someone questions me on this point. The most notable being my own therapist, and the most recent being one of my closest friends. I used to wonder why people who never knew I ever aspired to be a therapist would ask me why I didn’t take that path, what made people see me in that role without my prompting.

The best explanation came to me from an intimate colleague at the borg, a human resources manager. The amazing woman that took over all of the  duties I resented so intensely under the regime of a small business owner.

You’re a sin-eater.

The best therapists are merely mirrors; gently and lovingly revealing an objective reflection, unburdened by your own perception of yourself. It is offered up under a new light through careful and compassionate analysis for your own consideration. There’s an exchange of energy; the limbic connection that inevitably forms between people who engage in constant, rich and meaningful contact. New pathways are literally formed in a sea of neurons, which allows us to process and react to stimulus in a new and more healthy manner.

One of the better kept secrets in the mental health industry is the toll this exchange takes on practitioners. They become overwhelmed, depressed and disturbed for the very simple reason that mirroring tortured souls means reflecting healing energy towards them and receiving their negative energy. There are methods for properly processing the weight and lack of mutuality of therapeutic mirroring, but I have no desire to take on an occupation that requires a psychic shield. Particularly since I am sensitive to that energy and susceptible to the darkness myself.

Though I have avoided the ugly trap of making my living by eating the misery of others, I cannot always avoid the side effects of being a sin-eater in my personal life.

People become enamored of their reflection in my mirror. They find relief and perspective in the reflection I show them, and they attach that experience of relief to me personally. The crutch of narcissism overcomes them, and mesmerized by their own reflection, they become irrationally demanding of my time and attention. To add insult to irritation, they are motivated primarily by their hunger to have me hold up the mirror, and secondarily if at all by me as a person. I’ve learned that when someone is threatened by my own personal feelings, it’s the mirror they want, not the girl behind it. It isn’t their fault; they have a need, and they find a way to get it met, and that’s what humans do- anything and everything they can to get their needs met.

The problem lies in the space between what is appropriate in a mutually beneficial relationship and what they need.

I’ve become extremely protective of who I form emotionally intimate relationships with, because I’ve had a few that almost killed me. I held that mirror up until I had nothing left for even myself, and slowly died inside behind it. There was a time when I rather liked hiding behind the reflections of other people, because it allowed me to form attachments without subjecting myself to my own reflection.

Now I restrict that very inner ring of my social circle to people who certainly recognize and appreciate the mirror, but are motivated by their love and appreciation of the girl behind it. They are healthy and stable enough to self comfort, and they enter our interactions with energy that feeds as well as consumes. Not only are they willing and capable of mutual mirroring, but their expectations of what I can and should provide them are respectful and reasonable. They don’t approach me with hunger; they only want what is given freely and they only give with an open heart and without expectation.  This is what I strive to provide the people I love the most, and I have learned by now that I am not willing or capable of expecting less from them. This entire exercise of carefully choosing who I allow myself to bond with isn’t some kind of defense mechanism or dating strategy. It’s very simply a matter of life and death.

Sometimes it wrenches my heart to leave a raw and gaping inappropriate need unfulfilled; I have a great deal of empathy for the black holes that ache in the hearts of others. Other times, my anger gets the better of me. I’ve done a great deal of hard work to dull the ache and close in the edges of my own black holes; how dare anyone attempt to use my affection and attention to avoid their own hard work?! My outward response is always the same, in honor of my own self-preservation- denial and withdrawal.

It was pointed out to me recently that honest writing is quite possibly the most intimate act one can commit, because it isn’t mirrored. Which made me wonder if my drive to write is not motivated by a need to force myself to my own reflection. There’s a self-awareness in the process that undeniably has a therapeutic effect; laying my perspective on the page requires me to examine it closely and in meaningful way. I think this is why people react so intensely sometimes to what I post here; they see a part of their own reflection they were hiding from. By forcing myself to the mirror, I’ve tricked them into seeing those hidden pieces of themselves.

So I think it’s only wise that the inner chambers of my life and heart be reserved for those who are capable of stepping through the looking glass.

if it’s a mirror you want, just look into my eyes
or a whipping boy, someone to despise
or a prisoner in the dark
tied up in chains you just can’t see
or a beast in a gilded cage
that’s all some people ever want to be

you can’t control an independent heart…

-sting “if you love somebody set them free”

I wished on stars under desert skies in Scottsdale, marveled at the power of the spring thaw in the swollen Ausable River, walked the brick-lined streets of Burlington, attended a Red Sox game at Fenway, rode a puddle jumper to Saranac Lake, tested the limits of my dignity, stamina and alcohol tolerance in Las Vegas, drove the Blue Ridge Parkway to Lynchburg, and caught a glimpse of the nighttime Manhattan skyline.

I lost my job, moved my sister into my house, and was issued a divorce decree in the span of ten days.

I formed a corporation.

There was a spring fling, a fall in the fall and too many maybes in-between.

Oh, yeah, and I found out that my Mom reads here, which was the last shred of anonymity I had in this space.

I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one minute, not even the hardest most awful minutes, especially not the hardest most awful minutes.

This year isn’t about what happened to me, or even what I did. This year is about who I’ve become.

One of those warm desert nights in early spring, on a patio under a heat lamp, I sat in the lap of a very handsome man who very graciously kept both my martini and water glasses full. We spent half the night in one chair and the other half on the dance floor. He gave me his number at the end of the night and asked me to text him when I got back to my hotel room intact, so he could sleep well. I sent a simple message about being back safe and having a great time, and he replied:

You are an incredible girl. You deserve the world.

At the time, I thought it was very sweet but rather odd and kind of silly. What I really deserve is the bitchin’ hangover and incriminating pictures I’m going to wake up with tomorrow. How, after a night of drunken chatter and dancing, is his impression of me that I deserve the world?

Oh, what a difference a year makes!

I’m not perfect, I’m not even close. I’ve made mistakes, I have plenty of flaws and scars and secrets. There is guilt, shame and doubt in my heart, and I allow my light to be dimmed by that irrational darkness all too often. Still…

I am incredible girl, and I deserve the world.

Most of the world I am free to strive for, to chase, to labor tirelessly for. That effort is one of my goals for the new year. To write more. To do more with my writing. To make the life I deserve, a life of meaning and freedom and just enough security. Claiming my rightful place in the world through intelligence and diligence and courage.

The sweetest things in this world, infuriatingly, cannot be earned or claimed. They can only be given and received in mutuality.  I may never find someone who can take what I give and give what I take, and I would be lying if I said I thought my life could be full or my heart could be whole without it. Settling for less than what I have to give isn’t healthy or productive, though, and I don’t have to do it. In fact, it’s kind of my responsibility not to.

I am an incredible girl, and I deserve the world.

This year, I learned how to gather rain.

her imagination
has started stretching wide
and her new conviction
no longer will she hide
she’s not branded
when prophets speak words of fire
the same love she gives
she requires
so she gathers rain
she gathers rain
to rinse away all her guilt and pain
she gathers rain
she gathers rain
to wash and cleanse and make
her whole again

- collective soul “she gathers rain”

I called this series Becoming as a nod to Stephen King’s The Tommyknockers. Not because it was a great book or a significant part of my personal cannon. No, I used it because there is no other way for me to describe my writer’s soul. I want you to envision me digging into my wounds with tireless arms and a sharp shovel, laboring feverishly even as my teeth fall out and my eyes take on a strange glow. It is through this compulsive process that often takes on a life of its own that I become. I think they call it self-actualized, but that sounds entirely too well adjusted to use as a description for something that often resembles a fierce heroin addiction. I am capable of living life in first person until my head and heart are brimming, but once that happens, I herald a silent call and retreat to the narrative.

I survived that year the very same way I became a writer: because of you.

You leave comments in droves on those hardest posts. You send me emails to tell me that I remind you of something in your own story, that I made you laugh or cry. You send tweets and facebook inquires, and I can hardly open my mailbox without finding a treat from some of you. You call me a writer, you send me messages that say “fuck accounting, you need to write”, you share pieces of the darkest and most tender parts of yourselves with me in secret.

You’ve held me while I’ve cried, you’ve cheered me up when I had so little to laugh about, you whisper in my ear and tell me that you love my writing, you’ve cleaned up my house and my yard, you’ve cheered me on and cleared the way, you’ve taken me out and gotten me drunk and you’ve sat on the porch with me. You taught me how to love again, you restored my faith.

My writing is only half of becoming. The way that you’ve received me with such love and kindness is the other half.

I’ve written most of this series in the early hours of the morning, as my sister slept in the room beside mine, and my parents snored in the living room. On Tuesday, we had a family dinner so that the family that made me could meet the family that sprung up around me here like so many crocus. Quiet points of beauty and hope peeking out of frozen ground. I looked up and down the table at the people who love me best, and I felt the joy you can only have when you are utterly soaked in affection and trust. There was enough love and laughter in that room to last me a lifetime in recollection.

Wednesday night, while I stirred a large pot of homemade soup, my Mom quietly informed me that she found me on Twitter and she’s been reading here. My heart stopped and my breath left me and she rushed in to fill that space with pride and reassurance.

“You tell the truth, from your heart and through your own eyes. That’s what writers do.”

Her love and acceptance and pride in that moment reinforces every secret wish I’ve ever had about her. We have come full circle as a family, through hell’s fire and cold wars, through the best and worst parts of each of us, through the widening and thinning of our ranks, we’ve only learned to love each other more, harder, better. It may not have always been easy or pretty, but there are too many people in this world that never know the depth and breadth of such love and loyalty.

Saturday is my thirty-first birthday. It is also the first time the friends I met through my life off the page will meet many of the friends I’ve made through my writing. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate- to gather so many of the people who’ve lifted me up and share my unending joy with them.

I’ll be sharing that joy with someone else as well.

So many of you thought that the next man to gain any ground in my heart and my life would be a man of words, someone with a gift for speech or a fellow writer. I couldn’t form an attachment to someone incapable of holding a certain level of conversation, that’s glaringly obvious. What I must assume is more subtle: that land isn’t bought with flattery and love letters. It can only be exchanged for a piece of pretty meadow in kind; proven with a quiet sincerity that reveals itself in a thousand tiny ways.

“The certainty of his gentleness was like a clear shot of sunshine to me. I had met a great man, at last.”
- pat conroy “my reading life”

I’m almost sure that I can’t seem to finish a novel because I’m superstitious about writing endings when I can’t see my own. There is something untouchable about the process of moving characters to resolution and tying up loose plot ends when an infuriating lack of premonition prevents me from doing it for myself. I don’t know what the future holds, I only know that I couldn’t be in a better position to face it.

I am risen in your affection, loyalty and love. And all because I dared to lay my soul bare in the white space.

I’m a writer, y’all. My Mama said so.

“From the beginning I’ve searched out those writers unafraid to stir up the emotions, who entrust me with their darkest passions, their most indestructible yearnings, and their most soul-killing doubts.”
- pat conroy “my reading life”

A notable but minor manifestation of my neurotic personality: I cannot stand to have things running around loose in my purse and laptop bags. Everything in my purse is enclosed in another small bag, to keep things separated and easy to find.

When I opened the package, I realized two things immediately: my makeup collection would not even come close to filling either of these up, and the larger one is the perfect size to hold all of the odds and ends that travel with my laptop. My portable hard drive, my financial calculator, my usb number pad, my usb hub, my mouse, and my portable surge protector all fit perfectly into the bag with my name embroidered on it.

Both bags are well made, so I’m confident that they’ll withstand the abuse of traveling. The liners are well suited to a makeup bag- sturdy and seemingly easy to wipe down after a minor spill.

I can’t tell you how happy I was to finally have something pretty and roomy enough to hold my peripherals on my trip to New York City next month. Almost as happy as I am to tell you: I’m going to New York City next month.

As for the smaller bag, it fits nicely in my purse.

I would tell you what I’m keeping in it, but a girl has to have some secrets…

Disclaimer: I received the bags in exchange for this post.