Marrying George Clooney

I am at a loss.
Literally.
We are without power. Which means we are also without Internet service and phones. Which means I am completely disconnected. Which means I feel just like I did when I was twelve years old wishing someone would please, oh God, please… ask me to play with them.

Okay. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

There is a big difference between choosing to go offline, and being forced to go offline. Choosing means vacation. It means vacation, and travel, and Pina-coladas, and hot steamy sex and a do not disturb sign hanging on the door for a few days. Choosing is powerful. You feel like you’re taking charge of your life, where as being forced to go offline feels very much like you have absolutely no control what so ever. No matter how many times you walk around the house with your laptop held up to the fucking skylights & the heavens – you are not gonna hit a hot spot. And that’s called… WiFiCryingOutLoud.

Power. Less.
Or more, depending.

Sitting in the dark, at the mercy of Hurricane Irene, is truly deeply all about relinquishing power, and control. Letting go, as they say. You can’t control nature, just as you can’t control another human being. You can’t stand outside and scream, “Hey, Nature, fuck off, go bother someone else today.” Although, you can do that with a husband or partner, or wife – I have tried that at home – it lasts for oh… about three seconds.

Let me share with you a few things that have come to light, so to speak, these past forty-eight (and counting) hours.

First and foremost – make sure you have candles that are unscented. Every single frickin’ candle in our home is scented. Cranberry, Tangy Mandarin, and Black-Cherry Mint. A few assorted Christmas scents like pine, and Gardenia. The entire house smells like a really cheap badly-stocked Christmas store. Or a bad awful fart. So not only don’t we have power, electricity – the house stinks to high heaven. I will never again drink cranberry juice without wanting to puke.

Do not get flashlights that make your face look long and droopy. You know, like Stan Laurel. You want flashlights that give your face some fullness and color. Otherwise you’ll be miserable. Trust me, nothing worse than feeling like shit and not being able to find your make-up kit.

Wine tastes fine lukewarm.

Do not try any new sexual positions without knowing where your head will land first. Concussions and/or comas are not sexy.

When the power company representative tells you that they will restore your power within a 72 to 96 HOUR time frame, ask them HOW MANY DAYS they’re talking about. When I asked the rep what she meant by “a possible 72 to 96 hour power interruption,’ she said, “Oh, you know, 96 hours, that’s like, what, six days.” Huh, I thought … what the fuck? So not only don’t you get power, or service, or even a spoken prompt … you get real life stupid. And if you’re really on a roll… throw some weight around, tell them that Hurricane Irene was named after your mother – you’ll hear a slight gasp on the other end – and then you’re gonna hear these words: “Wow, cool.”
Uh huh.
Cool.
Way cool.
Fuck you cool.

And last but certainly not least:
PRAYING, CHANTING, MEDITATING, GETTING DOWN ON YOUR KNESS for ENERGY & POWER & ELECTRICITY, and everyone’s SAFETY IS SO DAMN SEXY…

….just like high heels.

Ken loves The Weather Channel.
I’m not sure if this is a guy thing, or a Ken thing, or a guy named Ken thing, but it is on the one television set that we own, almost – no shit – 24/7. I kid you not. There are times when I witness, actually sneak a peek, at my husband swaying to the Weather Channel theme music.
He is sexy.
He is mine.

Which brings me to this. Occasionally I’ll get up in the middle of the night and turn on the TV. Unlike my parents who had a TV in every single room including the extra bathroom, where a small Sony black and white sat next to the extra toilet paper holder. I am not a TV person, as in: there are some shows I watch, but can live without. I love HBO, and AMC. I can really frickin’ live without any & all reality shows. However, on the occasional night that I toss and turn and end up turning on the TV – inevitably it goes straight to the Weather Channel since this was the last channel that was watched by Ken.

And there, right there….

Standing in front of a map of the United States, a perky weather person is pointing up North somewhere, giving a local on the 8’s weather report: Tonight in Northeast Pennsylvania we are experiencing a clear crisp lovely evening. Clear as a bell. Ding Dong. No precipitation. And you won’t be needing a jacket tonight. As I look out the window from my Northeast Pennsylvania home, I think, geez, anyone can be a weather person because it’s snowing like a motherfucker, and clear as a bell? hey, you couldn’t see the tip of your nose if it were any further from your face.

So, I have this fantasy: watching this perky person fading, sort of like a dream sequence kind of fade out – as we fade in, I – me – I am the Weather Person. Me. Dressed in a fabulous black pantsuit (wide leg flair trousers, no doubt and opera length Mikimoto pearls.) I look fabulous. Behind me is the map of the United States and I, the new perky menopausal Weather Person, am covering the local on the 8’s.

My show is called “The Internal Storm” outlook.

As I point to the East Coast:

Here in Northeast Pennsylvania a major Tornado occurred in the home of a woman in her mid 50’s. When her husband asked her how her day was going, she didn’t like the tone in his voice, it had a slight hint of condescending, and with that Mary Majors tore her home to frickin’ bits.

As I point to the Southern states:

We have an unusual storm brewing. It appears that a menopausal woman was pulling into a parking space and was “blind-sided” by a Disabled vehicle. The woman, whose name is not being revealed, got out of her car and beat the crap out of the hood of the said disabled vehicle until both the hood and air bag exploded, leaving the disabled person trapped. When the cops arrived, the unnamed woman screamed: “Fuck you! I am disabled, I am emotionally disabled,” and was led away only after she was able to call her husband from her cell phone.

And here in the Midwest, as I point to a general area:

A biblical flood warning is in effect. Two friends decided that they had had enough of their husband’s bullshit and they let it rip, opening every single fire hydrant within a ten-mile radius, and now the entire town is under water. When asked, the local meteorologist said:

“Well, I gotta tell ya, seems to me it’s the internal storms that cause the most damage.” Leaning into the camera, ”Can I say hello to the little wife and kids…?”

mother nature.
all powerful!

it’s not called father nature.

there is a buddhist saying, if the people are pure, the land will be pure. if the people are impure, the land will be impure.
i always liked that.
simple.
to the point.
i didn’t always know what it meant, but i liked it. it had a good strong ring to it.
you know, mean breeds mean, anger breeds anger. love, well, love breeds goodness & kindness & so much more love.

simple.

sitting here watching the weather channel, watching the hurricane being tracked, i can’t help but think: hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunami’s, mud slides, hailstorms, freak snow storms, thunderstorms, fires, tornadoes.

holy mother nature.

angry weather.
fearful weather.

powerful & mean weather.
scary weather.

frightening weather.
isolating weather.
get the fuck outta here and hide weather.

i can’t help but think there is so much greed & avarice & ignorance in the world right now. so much. so much more violence & anger & hatred, so much corruption. so much righteousness. so much emotional hoarding, & spiritual bankruptcy, not to mention financial inequalities. political upheaval. everything seems to be right on the edge. hanging in the balance.
more greed.
more avarice.
much more ignorance.

so much is at stake.
human rights.
women’s rights.
gay rights.
animal rights.
freedom of religion.
children’s rights.

and so many folks i know have a storm or two of their own brewing. right inside of them. right there in the center, by the heart.

if the people are pure, the land will be pure. if the people are impure, the land will be impure.

i think about haiti; the people are so glorious. joyous. gorgeous. but the politicos are so corrupt. so dangerous. so mean.
new orleans. the same. the folks are just pure joy. happy. vibrant. but the politics & corruption goes so deep. so deep. so many secrets, so much evil.
and corruption never wins. never. it may last awhile, but it runs it’s course. it runs out.

and it never leaves quietly.

maybe what we oughta do is start tracking greed, avarice & ignorance, see where it lives. see where it breeds. see what form it takes.

mother nature is pissed.
and man, oh man, she has every right to be.

many of us have and live with the shame of the past.
it creeps up. it doesn’t tap you on the shoulder and say, i’m here.
for me it has often felt like a violation.
a reminder of a time & place called invisibility.

the antithesis of PRIDE.

there is so much being written about THE HELP right now, that to add my 2 cents seems unnecessary. there are essays i have found disturbing, filled with anger & rage; and pieces i just love and cheer on that are filled with passion & profundity.

i’m writing this from a different angle, perspective. i had the privilege of writing the screenplay for the movie FUNNY VALENTINES. it was based on a short story by j. california cooper. a stunning, miraculous, brilliant writer. the movie is set in the south, and is the story of two black women who find out that they are sisters. one is a privileged educated woman, the other a simple one. it is a story about pain, sorrow, love, & anger – forgiveness – but mostly it is the story of the power & beauty of women & their relationships.

the script was originally written by two black men, screenwriters. i had been called by both the producer & the executive at the studio to see if i could do what is called a page one rewrite. i had asked what the problem was. i was told the script was written in ebonics (the short story is exquisite, written so beautifully – these writers chose to write the screenplay in EBONICS!). i didn’t quite know what that meant, (and yes, yes… god yes, there was an agent involved) and the script was sent on to me.

what i read – in approximately 120 pages – was not only a badly written script (yes, in ebonics!), but a script that was completely demeaning to women. women of any race & color. the men were all mighty, the women caricatures. ebonics was the least of the problem.

the film had a start date. it had two black actresses attached, and, yes, a black director – a black female director. the script did not have one white person in it. not one.

it was an african american story.

i was hired to rewrite the screenplay. i worked diligently with the director, the producer and the studio.

i lived in NY, they all lived in LA.
i was hired over the phone. literally, sight unseen.

the director and i had numerous conversations. we developed an amazing collaboration and i wrote a new PAGE ONE script in time. a very short time.

it was given a green light, production went on as scheduled, and, a six months (or so) later, i was invited to the premier in los angeles.

it premiered at the magic johnson theater.

my friend melinda went with me to the premier. we were two of maybe fifteen, twenty white people. this was an all black movie. all black cast. a black director.

when julie dash, the director, was introduced to me (at the theater) by the studio executive, she screamed, “oh my god, you’re a white girl? a white girl wrote that dialogue? i thought you were one of my people. a. maze. ing. just amazing.”

that moment sealed our friendship. we became great friends.

it was a big, gigantic proud moment.

i was proud that i had a voice that was universal.
i was proud that i was able to give the script/story passion, humanity, goodness, kindness and a little extra kick.
i was proud that no one knew the color of the writer.
i was proud that julie dash loved my words because they made her oh so proud.
i was oh so proud that i was able to write about a young woman being raped and that i shared in giving her the moment of confronting her rapist – looking him in the eye – saying: YOU MUST BE IN SO MUCH PAIN TO HURT SOMEONE SO BAD. YOU HURT ME, AND I WILL NOT LET YOU EVER HURT SOMEONE ELSE, AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MAKES ME? THAT MAKES ME SO MUCH MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU CAN EVER BE.

and i was most proud if you closed your eyes – her pain, her passion, her victory – HAD NO COLOR.

we all have different voices, different ways of speaking. writing. sharing our stories.
i have sat through many movies embarrassed by the jewish ‘long island’ tilt in the voice; ashamed of the way my grandparents (generation) are portrayed in films. the whole ‘jews are cheap’ dialogue that has been shared year after year after year.
you know, the whole italians are mobsters & gays are fags dialogue.

we don’t seem to have a problem with violence in films, but we sure don’t like sex.

holy shit.

anger has a lot of color to it.
it’s not black or white.

it’s blood red.

we all share that.
same for everyone.

okay, so a few years ago, ken looked at my collection of shoes in the closet and said: “wow, hon, maybe we can re-fi your louboutins!”

it was a joke, obviously, but…

but…

not unlike many, many, many women i know, shoes were a lover. and yes, i did buy & wear louboutins & prada & blahniks & on occassion, j.p. tods.

i also lived in nyc, and wore ‘real clothes,’ unlike the clothes i wear living in the country. i wear sweatpants & tee-shirts & big girl panties. in the summer i wear one of two of my favorite rubber thongs, and in the winter, i wear my reliable old frye boots.

but none of this is really the point of this blog.

ken & i are on a budget now. and truthfully, honestly, at first i went/said to ken: “oh good god no. you wanna save and scrimp, and hoard pennies…go fuckin’ ahead. but not me. i’m gonna get my mani’s & pedi’s & fancy schmancy haircuts & go to barney’s NY for the everything 70% off sale… you wanna budget, go ahead.”

well, i gotta say, color me shocked, when saving, and reeling back, and saying ‘no’ has become a very powerful experience. saying no to going out to expensive restaurants once a week; saying no to buying more shoes that i don’t need in the first place, saying no to hundred dollar haircuts and yes to a $35.00 one. saying yes to eating in four nights a week, and one of those nights is a romantic meal with candles and flowers and yes oh god yes a romantic romp in the bedroom … saying no to whole foods and yes to price chopper. saying no to ReVive and yes to Olay. saying yes to kohls and no to kiehls.

just the other day, i went to tj maxx and bought a few fall pieces – a sweater, a skirt and a swell v-neck tee – all for 75 bucks. all max mara. if i had gone to nyc and went into the max mara store, i woulda spent at least 350 bucks.

cool, huh?
you bet!

you couldn’t catch me at tj maxx two years ago if you put a gun to my head. ca-ca.

because truthfully, honestly, i gotta say, being on a budget – thinking about budgeting – made me feel ashamed. it made me feel small & tiny & a little bit leaning toward embarrassed. like i had & was much less. but what i’m realizing, seeing with both eyes wide open, we live in a time where being frivolous is grossly overrated. having so much is not cool. so many have so little, and continue having less. less IS more. big is not better. having closets full of clothing is truly an embarrassment of riches when others don’t own a winter coat.

we live in a time where role models are few & far between. just watch TV. snooky & the kardashians, & all housewives from new jersey to hell. girls have gone wild & bad…
and some girls even consider – think of – a blow-job as employment.

the dumbing down of america.

ken is retired and we’re trying this brand new thing called BUDGETING. while i kicked and screamed and begged, “Please, ken, no, no… oh god no … not that…”

it has proven to be sexy & swell & yes, a challenge.

it makes me deeply appreciate everything i own. from shoes to old worn tee-shirts. it made me realize the value, the tremendous value of taking care of the things that i love and treasure. it makes me understand the value of re-cycling. if my shoes are worn, instead of going out and spending a small fortune on new flats, i will re-soul/sole (no pun intended) them. after all, now they feel so comfy and just right.

i don’t need to buy, or spend a fortune on every anti-aging cream out there. i need to feel the joy of living! as goofy as it seems, happiness does make you younger. and yes, they’re called laugh lines. it’s true. and for the record, there is very little difference between ReVive “feel younger look younger” moisturizer than say Olay. Cross my heart. no difference at all.

and for the record, i’m not & probably never will be a clipping coupon girl. unless of course, barney’s ny starts that kinda campaign:

BUDGETING IS THE NEW BLACK.

it was november 7, 1991.
i had just spent a weekend with a man who broke my heart. you know what, let me rephrase that: i had just spent a weekend with man who fucking knew he was going to break my heart when i got on the plane in new york to fly to ann arbor, michigan.

he knew he was going to break my heart. he was an asshole. and i was a girl who was very, very, very much “in like,” and totally blind.

i was on top of the world. my career was taking off. a script i co-wrote was about to be made into a big hollywood movie, i was writing a TV series and … i was dating a guy who was teaching at the university of michigan. oh my frickin’ god, life was swell.

i always said if there were three men sitting at a bar, i would choose the one who just got out of prison for a heinous crime. i went for bad. i went for mean. i went for less than. i went for pond scum.

and, truth be told, i was promiscuous. i slept with – had sex with – many men.
many on the first date.
some in the elevator on the way to their apartment.

and so here i was – in michigan – with a guy who knew before i got on the plane that he was going to break my heart in pieces. on friday night we had dinner, we had sex, we had champagne. on saturday we had breakfast, we had sex, we took a long, long… long… walk. on the long long long walk he told that he met someone and fell in love. his exact words were, “I met someone and fell in love.” i asked him through my snot nose sobbing why he didn’t just tell me this over the phone, why he just didn’t call me… he said he wanted to tell me face to face, he felt he owed me that much … after all we were “dating, and you know, long distance relationships are, you know, hard… difficult.” i asked him where this woman lived, the one he fell in love with. he told me australia. i asked/said, “australia, michigan?” i felt dirty, i felt used. i felt spit out. “we had sex,” i said, “how could you do that if you’re in love with someone else? how can you do that?” after i caught my breath, and shot the snot out of my nose, i told him he owed me air fare and a week at a spa of my choice.

he didn’t find my humor appealing. and, i found out, he preferred women with very large breasts and accents.

clearly, i was not that girl. i wanted him to die a slow painful death, but instead i told him to have a nice life.

and so…

it was november 7, 1991, i was at the airport, waiting to catch a flight to fly back home to nyc where i would slip under the covers for a week or two, and cry myself silly and then realize – an epiphany – that this guy was so the wrong guy and get out of bed and start life over again. the airport was crowded. the tears were non-stop, the flights weren’t. i was hoping to get on an earlier flight. for a girl who hated to fly, the airport became my only safe haven. i went to the sports bar and ordered a drink. the bar was filled with men.

i hated all men at that moment.

the TV screen was right in front of me.

magic johnson was about to hold a press conference.
I wasn’t following basketball, but i certainly knew who magic johnson was.

and then he said it.
he said the words.
he told the world that he had contracted HIV.
he was HIV positive.

everything & everyone at the airport stopped.
all eyes on him.
you could, honest to god, hear a pin drop.

i believe, although i can be wrong, at that time HIV/AIDS was thought primarily as a gay man’s disease, and here was this man – this straight sports god of a man – sharing his pain & sorrow & sadness in not only contracting this god awful disease, but his sheer stunning determination that he would beat the disease.

it was profound.
it was stunning.
it was shocking.

it scared me.
it hit home.

i was a girl who mistook sex for love.
sex was easy.
love was hard.

or as my friend once said in regard to her own love life, “i’m always taking crumbs.”

how fitting, i thought to myself, that his name is magic.
he shook the shame-crumbs off the tree.

i made a vow (a silent vow) right then and there – at that airport on that day – that i would never again give away the goods.

i was going to love me.

no more crumbs.

it came after hours.
the news.
on friday.
i mean how fucking thoughtless.

the s & p downgraded the US after the market closed on friday. from triple A rating to double A plus.

it reminded me of when i had a mammogram years ago, and the doctor’s office called me on a friday at 5:15 (PM), and left a message on my voicemail:
“hi, amy, it’s kathy (not her real name) just wanted to let you know that the results came back from your mammogram and, uh, there’s this little cluster that, you know, looks a bit suspicious, so we want you to come back on monday and do another screening. okay. have a great weekend.”

have a great weekend?
what are you fucking kidding me?

this is where i went to, traveled to – emotionally – on that particular weekend, 48/14.

for starters, i went straight to “death.”
i did not stop at “geez, could be benign.”
i did not stop at surgery.
i went straight to death. not only was i going to die, but i was fairly convinced i would die that weekend. i told ken that i loved him so many times that it began to sound completely & utterly untrue. disingenuous. oh baby, i love you. i love you so much i can’t breathe … hold me baby, hold me, i love you so sososososososo much it hurts.

i rubbed & examined & felt up my left breast incessantly. and not only did i feel myself up, i asked a bunch of folks (yes, good friends, intimate friends) to also feel my breast to see if they too could feel the lump, the mass, the cluster that i was throughly convinced was growing minute by minute. ken loved this part of the weekend. oh baby feel… feel … lower, higher… a little more. whatdya think? you think it’s solid? lumpy? down, up… more… more…

and not only was i thoroughly convinced that i had a mass, a tumor, a cluster, but because i was touching and examining and feeling myself up incessantly, my entire left breast was inflamed. red. swollen.

i left a bunch of angry bitter “fuck you” messages on my doctor’s answering machine.

i was scared, worried, and went to big bad dark awful places. i thought of people i loved and people i didn’t like. i wanted to re-do my will. i felt overwhelmed and cried myself to sleep. i became a drug addict (xanax) and an alcoholic (mojitos, and fru-fru drinks with umbrella’s). i wrote many letters to ken. many. all filled with deep love and appreciation and a couple of tips for his next wife.

i gave away clothes.
i gave away shoes.

i asked for my shoes back.

i gave away a few bucks to some local homeless people.

i told my nosy jealous mean yenta neighbor that i was tired of her being so rude & nasty to everyone, and no, i didn’t like her and never did, and i felt like a burden had been lifted. she was mortified, but screw her, i was gonna be dead. i win.

i told the local corner deli owner that their tuna salad needed to be made with real mayo, not miracle whip. i wanted no ifs, ands or buts. mayo or bust. (no pun intended)

i went back & forth, in & out. fear & hope. love & sorrow. give & take.

and by the time monday rolled around for another mammogram – i was cautiously optimistic that no, no, god no, i wasn’t going to die from breast cancer, BECAUSE….i was more than likely going to have a massive stroke and be paralyzed on my left side.

that weekend & most of monday was pure hell. horrific.
unbearable.
and then the news:

the cluster – i was convinced would grow to be the size of a football – turned out to be a BAD CALL.
an unnecessary call.
a thoughtless call.
a miscalculation.
shame on them.

tuesday, all felt better.
calmer.
less chaotic.

i could breathe.

and so, i tore up the letters i wrote to ken. there wasn’t going to be another wife. i was it.
lucky, lucky us.

this past friday the S & P downgraded the united states. the downgrade came after 5 PM. people panicked. freaked. worried, what to do? what to sell? holy shit! folks were quaking in their boots. scared to death. not knowing whether to turn left or right. would they lose everything AGAIN? knees-buckled. sadness ruled.

a whole long weekend of worry & panic settling in.

some people, no doubt, gave away shoes & clothes & became alcoholics & drug addicts and some, yes, some fearing the absolute worst imagined the absolute worst … writing long loving letters to loved ones, re-doing wills, settling accounts, saying goodbye.
no one knew what would happen.
not one person knew.
another crash.
another down-grade.
another horrific fall.

on monday a complete free fall. holy mother of god. tumbling, tumbling. sell. buy. sell. sell. get out now. NOW.
out.
of
fucking
control.

it felt like the whole country was on life support. a karen quinlan kinda day. barely breathing.
pushed right up to the edge.

and then tuesday.
a heart beat. a teeny heart beat.
a test of faith.
a rebound.

and then wednesday.
a rollercoaster.

you know, i’m thinking someone oughta open a restaurant chain:
FYIF
(FUCK YOU IT’S FRIDAY)

… along with a sister franchise with all the beer you can drink:

TIGBBWMS
(TUESDAY IS GONNA BE BETTER, WEDNESDAY MIGHT SUCK)

“maybe we weren’t ready for a black man.”

that’s what my friend said to me today.

“maybe we weren’t ready for a black man. he’s not a shark, he’s not a barracuda. he’s more like a spiritual leader, he’s more thoughtful, kind, contemplative. he’s not a street fighter, or a thug. you know, he’s up against thugs and bullies.”

yes he is.

yes we are.

i think we were ready for a black man. i think what’s happening in this country is scary, and god-awful and makes me quake in my rubber-boots. i think what’s happening is exactly what we needed. because we needed to see the god-awful hatred and the sickening bigotry and all the fear and viciousness and righteousness that’s right in our own backyards. we needed it illuminated. we needed for it to shine right in our eyes. we needed to witness the dumbing down of america; all the snooki’s and kardasian’s, and all the crap reality TV shows, and we needed to witness with our own two eyes the vile headlock we’ve been in for the past few months.

we need to stand up and say, NO MORE.

we need to get up off-line and get out onto the streets and we need to take back what it is we love and fought for and believe in. we voted for HOPE and CHANGE and now we’re all – at least most people i know – feeling HOPELESS and scared to death.

we need to get off face-book for one entire day and get out into our communities and make a ruckus. we need to believe once again in the power and greatness of the human spirit.

i’m witnessing friends losing their homes, and losing their faith. i’m watching my husband worry about his retirement going down the tubes again. i’m seeing people on bread-lines, and watching stores closing. i’m hearing from friends who are so depressed and worried that they want to take their own lives because they can’t take THIS LIFE anymore. people long to feel wanted & needed. useful & creative. people long to be inspired & encouraged. people long to have opportunities & choices in every area of their lives.

i read about mothers and fathers killing their newborns, their babies, and then i drive on highways, and i read the billboards that say: abortion is murder.

i pull up behind a car with a bumper sticker that reads: BLACK IS NOT BEAUTIFUL.

i pass our local church and see the food-lines wrapping around the block – women & men with babies, and kids & teens standing in the holy shit devastating heat – on a friday night at 6:30 because there are no jobs.

and yesterday at 5:15 PM i stood on line at the pharmacy, and witnessed a dying woman from my community being told by the pharmacist that she lost her healthcare and she said, “i will die without this medication.”

no, she won’t. because i have to believe, with every fiber in my being, that we won’t let her die. we will not let people die because their medication has a higher price tag then their life.

to all those politicians out there who want to keep the people of this country afraid and worried and sick; who want us to believe that the black man is the wrong man to lead this country, to all those congressman and senators who went on vacation and left this country hanging by a thread. to all the folks who think that selling us a bunch of tea-bags filled with hatred and righteousness: i say to all of you: fuck you. none of you get to take away HOPE.

i voted for change.

i voted for hope.

he’s in the white house.

is he perfect?  no.

but neither am i.

Fear.
In Webster’s Dictionary, it is defined as an unpleasant feeling of apprehension or distress caused by the presence or anticipation of danger.

In the Thesaurus, the word fear is synonymous with terror, dread, horror, fright, panic, alarm, trepidation and apprehension.

Fear.
Some people wake up with it, some folks go to bed with it, and some of us even carry it around like a handbag – clutching it, holding on to it with every fiber in our being. We are afraid of being abandoned, being disappointed, being left behind, being dismissed, being discarded, being successful, being a failure, being defeated and being forgotten. We’re afraid of being loved, being hated, being recognized, being looked over, being found out, being happy, being depressed. We’re afraid of life, and we’re afraid of death.

Fear.
We push it down, suppress it, ignore it, transfer it, obliterate it, annihilate it, repeat it, and dismiss it. We give it power, control, time and energy. It keeps us knotted in a ball and our stomachs churning – we become tense and angry, resentful and bitter. It works its way through our bodies like a tapeworm – slipping and sliding through our systems and when it hits a nerve, the nerve – whoa – paralysis. And then what? We try to get rid of the fear. We’re afraid someone’s going to leave us, so we pick up the phone and start calling incessantly. We’re afraid someone won’t like us or love us, so we do everything humanly possible to get that persons attention. We’re afraid we’re not good enough or worthy enough, so we manipulate or strategize how we can be needed or wanted. We’re afraid of failure, so we sabotage every opportunity. We’re afraid of our own opinions, so we lie. We’re afraid of being powerful, so we make ourselves small. We’re afraid of being found out, so we keep ourselves at a distance.

Oh, the list is long.

One way we deal with fear is by making it the very foundation of our lives – in other words, our jumping off point. It becomes the place where we make decisions, make choices, and take action.

While most human beings – at least the ones I know – have a garden variety of fears, I will use one of my very own ‘personal, favorite’ experiences as an example. For many years, more than I care to divulge, I dated men who were absolutely toxic. By toxic I mean self-involved, arrogant, insecure, and abusive men. And the more they didn’t want me, oh, the more I wanted them. If they didn’t call, I would call them – incessantly I might add – making up excuses as to why I needed to speak with them. If they didn’t show me affection, well, then, I would shower them with affection. Not to mention buying them gifts that ranged from small and cute, to expensive and extravagant. All the while, my insides were desperately churning away. As I write this, the image that comes to mind is a hamster wheel. It was as if I was trying to keep up with the fears that were overpowering and overwhelming me, and all I kept doing was taking what I thought was the appropriate action, making the appropriate causes to have a good healthy loving relationship. But what I was really doing was taking action to get rid of the fear. And so, it would just perpetuate, a different man, but exactly the same experience. And like every bad horror movie, the boogeyman fear monster would come back and be bigger and more frightening then the previous time.

Then a friend of mine told me I needed to understand the fear – to not just know what it is, but to look it smack in the eye and understand the root of it. Holy shit. When I rattled off all my fears, alphabetically I might add, he said, “It’s just one fear.” So much for thinking I had it under control. The concept of getting to the root of the fear took on a visual meaning for me. My image was that of weeds, spreading carelessly throughout a beautiful garden. You can’t just deadhead weeds. They’ll grow back even more abundantly. You have to pull them out by their very roots so that they stop growing.

After a few weeks, I became completely focused. My single-minded thought and prayer was to understand the fear, and get to the very root of it. What finally occurred to me was that I was deeply afraid of being abandoned. It was connected to a childhood trauma, one that I neatly tucked away and conveniently forgot about. As soon as I understood what the fear was, I completely and utterly understood why I took the action I did – the action I took perfectly matched the fear I was experiencing. I was afraid of being left, so I did everything humanly possible to hold on to these men. A phrase that ran through my mind was ‘desperate breeds desperate’.

The minute I understood my behavior, it all made sense. A few days later, literally, I met Ken. And I determined that I would no longer be held hostage by my fear. For two weeks every time the fear took hold of me (and trust me, I was in a fucking head lock), I let it run through me like the flu. When I felt the impulse to call because I hadn’t heard from him, I talked myself out of it. When I felt the urge to buy him a little gift, a little trinket, I bought myself something instead. I reminded myself every single day, over and over, that if he didn’t want to be with me, well then …. I certainly didn’t wanna be with him. Period. It took everything in my power to control my urge to try and hold onto him. After all, my behavior had become a self-destructive free fall. After two weeks of doing battle with my own personal boogeyman fear monster, it no longer had power or control over me, and just like that, the fear upped and left and quite naturally Ken took its place at the table. And he’s been sitting there every since. We’ve been married for almost twenty years.

What I realized, what I’ve come to understand, the minute you have the courage to look something smack in the eye – whether it be a person, a challenge, an obstacle, or even the monster boogeyman, the minute you connect with it, the minute you face it – it no longer has control over you.

In other words, set yourself free & keep hope alive.