One would think my skill in recognizing the rabbit hole of angst and shame would be razor-sharp by now, but I still didn’t make the connection between my sudden and surprising loss of compassion and the battle flag running up the pole. A talented female friend posted a link in a closed network, asking for support from the members for one her projects. The first sentence of her message was an apology. It was no less than the fifth self-promotion apology I’ve seen from a female friend in the last seven days.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, really?! Why do we apologize for requesting support and attention in our professional/creative/athletic endeavors?

I should be posting my links and asking for referrals, but I don’t, because I don’t want to look like a stuck-up bitch, but I also refuse to apologize, and fuck if I know how to construct a marketing message that strikes that delicate balance.

Somehow I still managed to be surprised when I woke up this morning and served myself a steaming mug of doubt, failure, and shame. Purchasing new batteries for my mouse without outside financing is a major, orchestrated event right now, and my financial worth is facing a sharp decrease before I can even fathom another upswing in income.

Much of that is no one’s fault. The economy is improving at an excruciatingly slow pace. Start-ups, solopreneurs, service providers and small businesses- my market- are struggling to pay their own rent. They don’t have a need for the recurring accounting work that I anticipated would sustain me while I developed my client base; there’s no money to count, much less to pay for the counting.

Much of it is my own fault. I’m an accountant, I’m a writer, I’m a business owner. Things I am not: extroverted, a salesperson, a marketer, a business development manager. The learning curve, the dues-paying, the crippling lack of familiarity or comfort- it paralyzes me. I know who I am, and I know I’m skilled and talented in both of my fields, but you probably don’t, and that’s my fault.

It’s your fault, too.

When I declared my freedom from the whims of old, fat, balding white men that can no longer tell you what a gallon of milk costs or remember the sickening nausea of floating a check before payday, you cheered me on, and I was grateful and emboldened.

Where are you now?

I live in an entrepreneurial community, which as far as I can tell, means that financially secure baby boomers and aimless trustafarians spout platitudes and retweet each other endlessly. There are no referrals, there is no real encouragement or collaboration, there are cliques and cliches and pet projects. My local encouragement and support, ironically, comes from those who’ve relegated themselves to salaries and cubicials, not from the business leaders of Asheville. Most of those leaders aren’t interested in mentoring me because there’s no immediate payoff for them, like the real estate mogel who informed me that he does business with people who use his services first. He owns several properties and a business services firm. I own an iPad and a ten-key.

If you’ve ever inquired, “why don’t you have a publisher? why don’t you get paid to write?”, the answer is simple. You haven’t liked this page on Facebook, you don’t retweet my posts, you don’t comment here and share these words with your networks. A few of you fall over yourselves praising my talent, but can’t be bothered to answer questions via email to help me understand what’s marketable about my writing. Oh, except for the guy who answered immediately to shame me for not wanting to sell a book about my failed marriage or stormy childhood. Maybe some of you prefer me small and cold, I guess.

Perhaps you know me on a deeper, more intimate level, and you’ve helped to the point of resentment. Maybe you know that your approval matters to me, and you’ve wielded that sacred trust to talk to me about looking for work, or getting a job, or you’ve referred to my very real corporation as a hobby, or little project. Bonus points if you’ve availed yourself of my extra time when business is slow. Since you’re available….

Those are solidly half of the reasons why women apologize for self-promoting, and why I’ve cried all damn day.

I’m working on the other half.

This recurring theme began springing up from all corners well before Valentine’s Day, and for the first time in quite some time, it swelled and deepened so quickly and intensely that I couldn’t pin it to the page. I found myself unable to set it aside and write about anything else; the mental and emotional space it occupies blots out easier subjects.

Faced with a less than enthusiastic reception from an acquaintance and a seeming inability to shrug off the perceived denial of acceptance or approval, it occurred to me that it wasn’t a lack of affection that concerned me, as I first thought, but a lack of respect. The nagging irritation could have been (and eventually was) resolved with a little regard and consideration.

The intensity of my anger and focus were more bothersome than the specific circumstances, so like a child with a new toy, I checked this revelation against other sources of rage that I’d been unable to shake in spite of having rather incredible things blooming.

Which, of course, led me directly to this.

My high school principal often said (in regard to bullying) “everyone has the right to be left alone”, and those words landed hard in my heart as a girl who has endured her fair share of bullying.

That inability to “refrain from intruding upon or interfering with” is exactly how an intelligent and insightful man who claims to be a good person that cares deeply for the people in his life manages to take a girl that loved him home from the bar for his own personal satisfaction, without regard or concern for her mental and emotional well-being. It is also how he finds himself excusing his behavior by denigrating her person and feigning ignorance of her nature, despite having done thorough research on both for some months before ever setting eyes on her.

Dare I say that outright disrespect for someone one “loves to death” must be symptomatic of a deep self-respect deficiency?

Oops. Anyway.

In the last month, my love life has come to resemble something from the middle chapters of cheesy romance novel. On the professional front, I’m actually starting to believe that I might not end up living out of a washing machine box under the I-240 overpass. The advantages to both of these developments are deep and plentiful, but they come with a most unpleasant side effect.

The people in my life who love me more in weakness than strength are revealing themselves, and lo, it is heartbreaking.

Obviously, this is a function of their own insecurities and deficiencies. While my compassion for that mindset is plentiful and borne of experience, my tendency to internalize the negativity of others leaves me in an awkward and difficult position.

I can’t have folks pissing in the garden; my very survival and future depends heavily on that sweetened soil. Both love and entrepreneurship require a faith that leaves no room for playing small to preserve relationships.

In order to hold myself in esteem and honor, I must require it from those permitted to enter my life and heart. The reverse is more often spoken of- a healthy dose of self-respect improves the quality of people one attracts, but that only lasts as long as the standard is upheld.

When I started this post some three weeks ago, it was a preachy, bitter tome about the perils of allowing disrespectful behavior and a righteous, angry call to rise up against those who would make us feel small.

It took me that long to remember that we make ourselves too big or too small; the world only makes that chore easier or harder.

Instead, I’ll just ask you to do the whole world a favor:

Respect yourself.

Sure, she had a smart mouth, broke the occasional rule, and was prone to emotional outbursts and displays of temper. She sometimes suffered an inability to accept a perceived injustice, and working so hard at being a good girl gave her a sense of entitlement. She had her resentment squirreled away in a savings account, to be retained as righteous indignation when she had her heart set on something that never materialized. Cath could be quite a handful in those moments, and her Mama likened her to a girl from a nursery rhyme:

There once was a girl with a curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.

Cath’s parents were trying to teach her that life isn’t fair. They wanted her to learn to accept defeat gracefully, and to treat others well. She had to learn that one does the right thing for their own satisfaction, and not to gain favor or reward.

Somewhere, most likely at the intersection of life isn’t fair and you reap what you sow in the world, she misinterpreted the meaning behind the message.

Being a good girl means meeting others’ expectations, but you have no right to your own expectations. If you get what you want, it’s because you’re a good girl, and if you don’t get what you want, too bad- good girls are grateful for what they have.

Aren’t you grateful for everything we’ve given you?

For the next thirteen years of my life, I was a bad girl. Cat started drinking, sneaking cigarettes, doing drugs, going out with older guys, skipping school, speeding and generally doing whatever she wanted, fuck allwhat you thought of it. Her Daddy cured her of that her sixteenth year- he taught her that appearing to be a good girl was what counted, and that she could be as bad as she wanted if she didn’t get caught. He showed her that following the little rules made it easier to break the big ones.

Cat picked that up quickly, and she excelled at acting like a good girl and being a bad girl when no one was looking. She met a man who prided himself on that very same thing, and they fell in love. They were very happy most of the time; save his occasional failure to meet her expectations.

When she threw a fit, he gently explained to her that she wanted too much from him, more than anyone deserved, probably because her Daddy hit her and her Mama was closer to her sister. It was okay, though, because he loved her even though she was bad for being angry when he was cold or disrespectful.

Would I be here if I didn’t really love you? You’re just crazy. The way you depend on me is bad; I can’t be your everything. You need a life of your own.

She knew he was right, she was always bad that way, wanting more than she deserved, not merely gracefully accepting what she was given in exchange for being a good girl. He was right, she was bad, and she was so very grateful that he loved her anyway. So what if he was bad sometimes too, if he made her feel bad, it was her fault, for not just loving him anyway, for putting up with her. She loved him too well to expect the same in return.

Ever so slowly, she built a life of her own. Cat snagged an incredible professional opportunity, she made friends, she even started college. They bought a cute little house in the middle of nowhere, and she started to believe that her life might turn out better than she ever dreamed.

Once again, she had a great deal of responsibility for her age. At twenty-six, she was a wife, a homeowner, the Controller of a multi-million dollar company, and a student. All of these roles required suppressing that bad little girl. She was constantly belittled and criticized for her passion, intensity, honesty, and the clumsy new way she stood up for herself.

That’s when I became a verybadcat. The blog was first; verybadcat needed a place safe from criticism to start writing again, to tell the stories no one wanted told, a container for her badness. All those pieces and parts of her that were not honored and accepted off the page. Her deepest fears, darkest secrets, secret dreams and wishes. She was astounded to find that she developed a following, that people who didn’t know the good girl loved verybadcat. Twitter allowed her to communicate with those folks in real time.

Her life was finally full and fruitful, she gained confidence, which was just what the wasbund always said he wanted. Unfortunately, what seemed ideal in theory lost luster in practice; the career, the social life, the night classes and homework, and all of that fucking around on the Internet took time and attention away from him. She wasn’t content to sit on the shelf till he was inclined to take her down and dust her off. At that same time, his full and fruitful life began the agonizing process of unraveling.

The addition of financial stress and marital discord to her already demanding life left her with no room to move. Anything she wanted for herself: time, energy, recognition, space, respect, and especially love or money, she had to steal from the life she built. The guilt of resenting all of the pressure was crushing. Everything was a secret.

Her precarious financial position was a secret from her employer, because admitting that you are cold and hungry at night isn’t a good idea when you hold a key financial position in an organization. Her professional success threatened and intimidated her chronically unemployed husband. Her friends almost knew how bad things were, but she alternated venting between wholly separate social circles to keep the depth and breadth of misery a secret too. Most everything was a secret from her family.

She was two people then. Catherine did the payroll, and verybadcat kited personal checks to get to work the week before payday. Catherine made good grades and enjoyed being back at school, but sometimes verybadcat just let everyone think she was in class, so she could have her brain to herself for a few hours. Catherine felt badly about leaving her husband home alone with no food or heat for decadent business dinners, but verybadcat snickered over it after a few cocktails.

This arrangement worked beautifully until both girls went alone for a secret long weekend in Ohio to mourn her last living grandparent, followed shortly by a week in Atlanta to help her baby sister bury her first love and witness with abject horror the effects of chemotherapy on her previously strong and healthy mother. All of that mortality shattered the illusion that there was room in one life for two girls- because she had felt the precious fleeting nature of this life, and because it occurred to her that the collision of all of those secrets would have made her own funeral apocalyptic.

They both decided that Catherine would stay and verybadcat had to go, since Catherine was a good girl and verybadcat was selfish and shameful.

It didn’t work out that way. One after another, the expectations Catherine had to meet fell away, and more people came to know both girls. Suddenly, verybadcat found herself single and starting a business. Catherine couldn’t let go. She needed more than ever to prove she was a good girl, but for the first time in her entire life, there was no one there to define what that meant.

Picking up where her experience left off, she made a list that included just about anything that made her too happy. Surely she didn’t deserve those things; every mistake, every failure, every rejection, every missed opportunity was proof that she was just a broken piece of trash that snuck her way into a place in the world far beyond her worth. Catherine ran behind verybadcat with a clipboard, counting up demerits and doling out punishments in the form of deprivation. She labored tirelessly to atone for verybadcat’s constant self-indulgence.

On Friday morning, Catherine filled a page with evidence of unworthiness easily before noon. She couldn’t get to the punishment, though, because verybadcat was solving her problems by helping beloved friends solve their problems, who in turn made her own solutions better. Catherine tried to calculate the cost of the love and support she was receiving, and fretted about the total deprivation required to even it out.

She had almost finished cleaning out the kitchen cabinets Friday night when it hit her.

There are no more secrets. There are no more outside expectations. The people who love me the most are the people who know me the best. The world, this world, my world finally needs me in whole. There is no good girl, no bad girl, no Catherine, and certainly no verybadcat. There is just me, in all my flawed perfection, essential to the whole and lacking nothing essential.

Just like the integral cat.

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.

The first charge was putting on a brave face, appearing to have everything under control. Wait- are you suggesting I don’t have everything under control?! Absolutely, I’m putting on a brave face. It isn’t you I’m trying to convince.

Anxiety and depression grow to fit the space they are allowed, unfolding into infinity when left unchecked. I could be living in my walk-in closet in a week if I put my mind to it. There’s an electrical outlet in there. Conversely, working my bravery muscle to failure is the only logical strategy. I try to prepare for the giving out, but often it is like losing a pie-eating contest: sudden, messy, and unpleasant for anyone involved.

My demons are very clever; their taunts are the perfect checkmate. You’re more trouble than you’re worth. You are unwanted, unloved, unworthy. They shake my confidence and cut off my supply route with a few hot whispers. Insecurity prevents me from seeking reassurance; my need for support becomes evidence against me, and I find myself caught between sorely needing some assistance in finding my center again and being utterly unable to absorb the slightest rejection. It’s a miserable place for someone who has even a basic understanding of human nature.

So I withdraw, because if one’s deepest fear is a lack of acceptance and affection from the people they love, the solution is not to need them. I do love y’all very much, though, so the only path to take is inward. Sometimes I manage a sweet solitude, rich with understanding, compassion and determination. Other times I fail at self-comfort, and punish myself harshly for my inability. The irrational nature of my anxiety serves as a logical basis for my shame, delivered with a low hiss.

You’re a fucking trainwreck. No one wants to chase the monsters out from under your bed. Stop being such a child.

That refrain warps a healthy social need into a pitchy desperation that I abhor with all that I am. I isolate myself when I’m struggling, because I positively cannot stand the possibility that I might be that girl. The girl everyone sighs and rolls their eyes at before they answer her call. If they answer at all.

My intention is to be a net positive in your life; the highest form of that intention wants to bring you the same level of enrichment that you bring me. The lowest form fears an imbalance of power and doubts your ability or desire to handle that with grace and care. If I rely on you, will you become demanding or disrespectful? Will you let me grow to trust you and then dissolve into the shadows, leaving me standing alone in the storm delivered by the shifting of your trade winds? If my circumstances are precarious, my well of courage and resiliency draws down from my very survival, and my ability to invest trust in others evaporates like groundwater in drought.

There is no better training ground for whoever cares the least has the most control than a failed marriage. Apparently, it made me a fucking ninja at feigning indifference. I began as the silliest of silly schoolgirls and finished with such icy detachment that I frightened all but my closest confidants with a stunning lack of emotion. Winning the I don’t give a fuck game wasn’t a hollow victory; it was my conviction and resolve that gave me the courage to end what had become a toxic relationship.

Wrapping my mind and heart around the end of forever shattered my ability to trust even myself. Taking responsibility for my own role in the ugly demise of our sacred bond left me incapable of trusting my intuition, my perception, my ability to survive any more loss, betrayal or shame.

Nothing lasts forever became my new truth, and that fear stood sentry against any hint of rejection or abandonment. At the first sign of trouble, I cut my losses and pushed forward alone, assuming that yet again I had worn out my welcome.

My withdrawal, my unwillingness to let anyone come too close or help too much, an utter refusal to assume that there was any genuine affection or good intention underneath conflict or misunderstanding left no room for anyone in my confidence that wasn’t willing to scale a wall just to see if they would be greeted peaceably on the other side.

In attempting to protect my badly battered heart and shelter the people I love from the darkest of my shadows, I’ve caused a lot of pain and confusion. Though I never intended to inflict either, in hindsight I don’t know how I could have expected anything else. To admit that I truly believed I wasn’t hurting anyone (except perhaps myself) seems trite now, but there you have it.

I once had an argument about the song from the post title. I didn’t care for the song, because who loves that girl? She’s mean and fickle and insecure. Could anyone ever love someone like that for who she really is? Really?! Seriously?

God, I hope so.

Behind the podium, I alternately check my notes and stare at the back wall while people file into the room and settle into their seats. There are wooden chairs or pews, I can never quite tell, in this dimly lit room with horribly colored walls. Some kind of goldenrod, with just an overtone of olive green, or is that the shadow, maybe, and oak accents. The roof is beamed, and the architecture reminds me of a sanctuary, but I can never remember if there are stained glass windows, or whether I’m standing merely at the front of the room or at an altar.

The  hum of  people slows to a whisper and then near-silence.

Tears welling in my eyes and a thick lump in my throat provide the sensation of being behind an aquarium wall- I could scream and no one would hear my cries as the water stole my breath and my voice without trying. Quiet determination wins a slow victory, and I try to scan the audience and make out their faces. Looking for someone to speak directly to, an old trick.

I’m searching for someone specific, someone with kind eyes and a steady gaze, who will eye me expectantly and maybe tip his chin up ever so slightly, as if to say go on, girl, you can do this. If I could focus on just his face, I could find my voice and carry on. He isn’t there, or I can’t pick him out- my vision won’t sharpen, but I can’t feel his energy, I can’t sense his presence among everyone else. My fingertips prickle with panic and my breath comes too quickly as I stare at my notes, willing myself to speak that first sentence and break the now noticeable silence.

Blinded by terror, the words are senseless, like ants running across the page.  I can hear nothing else but my own roaring thought: who are you looking for? The realization that I don’t know washes over me and sends the room spinning.

With my eyes fully closed, I hear myself speak one sentence before the sensation of falling down a rabbit hole startles me awake.

Thank you for being here today to honor the life and memory of my father.

My waking reaction varies. Sometimes the stunning icy fear still has my chest in its grasp when my eyes fly open, sometimes I wake up covered in cold sweat and hot tears. Sometimes I manage some gentle self-admonishment as I roll over and think of sweeter things. Sometimes it stays with me for days, and I find myself daydreaming about the exact color of the paint, or about the windows, wondering why I never remember those maddening details.

I’m always disturbed and perplexed by my utter inability to make do by fixing my gaze on a spot on the back wall, but I don’t like to think about that.

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.

Yep. I’m a reluctant agnostic. This news will inevitably break some hearts, and I struggled with making such a public declaration for that very reason.

My soul was promised to Christ in St. Perpetual Parish when I was six months old, a fulfillment of a promise made to Dad’s mom when they married. I made my Holy Communion there as well. My Confirmation was postponed because I was the flower girl in someone’s wedding and missed the Mass. Before it could be rescheduled, I ran into some trouble in my Sunday school classes for not absorbing the subtle message of feminine submission. Dad, who spent twelve years in Catholic school, took a good hard look at the doctrine and found it unsuitable for his independent and strong-willed daughters. We still attended Christmas and Easter Masses, and accompanied our relatives to church when we visited them, but my formal relationship with the Catholic church ended there.

Which left me in a rather interesting position: spiritually, I never reached the age of accountability.

Mom was raised Protestant, abhors public discussion of religion (hi Mom! aren’t you proud today?!), and has a decidedly New Age outlook. Her bookshelves were the beginning of an epic journey to find my spiritual home. My endless curiosity caused my father some concern when I came home from the library with books on demons and black magic, and I still remember the one thing he ever said about it.

If you believe there’s a hell, Cathy, and I do, then you have to believe that there is evil out there. You need to find yourself, your beliefs, and I understand that, but I want you to be very careful with this stuff. Study it, but I would prefer that you didn’t practice any of it. Don’t fool around with the dark side. It isn’t where the answers are, anyway.

He was right about that. There wasn’t anything there for me to hold on to, but it was fascinating to read about.

Adolescence didn’t really offer me any answers, either. I struggled with the cultural shift from the very secular Midwest to the Bible belt. Being so socially open about faith felt ironically like moving to a nudist colony. My devout Aunt chided me after my Grandfather’s funeral mass for taking the Eucharist without having been to confession, with a neat implication that I certainly had sins to answer for.

I was never confirmed, so in the eyes of the church, I’m not accountable yet. And really, if I’m such a sinner, doesn’t that mean I need it more than anybody else here?

My anger and the quickness of my retort surprised me. The significance of what I had done was not lost on me, but I never considered not entering the receiving line. Most shocking, I seemed to come to this conclusion unconsciously; when called to defend it my response was instinctual and immediate.

This instinct would guide me through the next minefield on my spiritual path: falling in love with a Southern Baptist.

We attended church with his parents, and the pastor’s daughter just happened to be one of his ex-girlfriends. I was not a prized member of the congregation, to say the very least. My future mother-in-law made a formidable effort to have me baptized, insisting that my christening didn’t count. She was only a little more carefully received than my aunt. When a deacon made a casual reference to Mary Magdalene in my direction, I’d had enough of church for awhile.

Turns out, no clergy member worth his salt will marry a non-practicing Catholic and a non-practicing Southern Baptist. For the wasbund’s sake, I made a valiant and serious effort to find a church for our wedding, and still came up empty handed. Our unholy union was one of my running jokes during our engagement (oh, foreshadowing, you’re so coy!). We were married in a state park by a Superior Court judge.

Convinced that all organized religion is nothing but politics cloaked in spirituality, I washed my hands of it.

A decade later, I found myself weeping in a the hard wooden pew of a Mormon church. Overwhelmed with grief, the only words I remember from the eulogy would prove to be the key to surviving that tragedy and the slow unwinding of my marriage.

Let us choose to be better, not bitter.

The comfort of faith in salvation still eludes me. We understand so little of the natural world; we are truly only beginning to understand what we might not know. That gap between rational knowledge and spiritual belief is impassable for me despite my heartfelt efforts. There are times I have longed for it deep in my bones, but as a wise man once reminded me: grace doesn’t come when it’s called.

Why, then, did I light candles in St. Patrick’s Cathedral last fall? Why did I stand before Mary Magdalene’s shrine, amused and honored by the unintentional compliment in an old man’s underhanded insult? I have often found myself with a less than stellar reputation, misunderstood and marginalized but brimming with devotion.

My path to grace is one of enlightenment: observing things with acceptance, understanding that we are all connected by the energy we exchange, and making a heartfelt attempt to do great things while allowing myself to be flawed and sometimes defeated in my efforts.

I don’t have an answer for what happens after this life, though I do believe that something happens. Our bodies return to the soil but energy never dies, it always goes somewhere, converted somehow. An innate energy that science cannot replicate or restore is in all living things, and that is proof enough of divinity to spend a lifetime loving the questions.