On the brink

I've stood here before, on the brink, many times in my 48 years of life. Sometimes willingly with my arms open, sometimes white-knuckled with fear. But, no matter the circumstances, I have felt the same inside. Meaning when the countdown is on, and you are waiting for that day to come, the curtain to rise, the graduation, the cherry popped, the baby to be born, the train to catch, the boat to sail- that feeling bubbling inside with anticipation, the knowing that the shift is about to happen and life, as I have known it, is never to be the same again. Just to be clear, I was never the one who took on a challenge willingly with optimism and glee. I was the fearless, neurotic, judgmental one who seemed confident but was actually scared but jumped anyway. It turned out I survived. Phew.

It's like the night before I went to college. My parents were helping me move to Boston (where the college was); they took me to Bed Bath and Beyond to get dorm room essentials, then took me out to some fancy dinner to celebrate my independence. I sat at the table listening to my mother go on and on about how wonderful this was going to be as I unconsciously stuffed my face with my favorite dessert, Lemon Meringue Pie, numb, unsure of how to feel, uncertain of what I was in store, and, quite honestly, not thrilled about it.

I remember that night, laying in the hard fancy bed in the historic hotel, staring up at the ceiling in my sleepless slumber, reflecting on my life thus far, on how uncomfortable I felt looking at my dorm room and meeting my new roommates. My mom was ecstatic and full of jubilee introducing herself to them— two, not one. I stood next to her with my arms crossed, judging them as much as they judged me, wanting to be anywhere but there. Girls are tough. Some aren't, of course, but my gawd, when we are young and scared and about to embark on a new journey and feel threatened or jealous of something, forget it. Good luck. We can be real cunts. But, once we get past all that, if we can get past all that, we bond like sisters, and nothing can tear us apart. Well, maybe if we like the same guy, but that usually comes to pass, too.

Anyway, that last night, the night before I was to fly the coop, the last night I was supposed to be a child or whatever, that sleepless night in that fancy old hotel room full of New England ghosts (no joke!) I remember staring wide-eyed, with an overwhelming feeling of nostalgic remorse. With a sense of fleeting youth slipping through my fingertips like oil, unable to hold on. I wanted to burst into my parent's even fancier suite and apologize for the accusation I made about their parenting skills and how I finally realized that my childhood wasn't as bad as I thought. I want to stay with them forever!!

I endured, as we do, and reluctantly checked into my dorm the next day. I quickly and slowly realized all the first-year students were in the same position as me, flushed with separation anxiety and attempting to grab ahold of their stuffies for one last time. I envied those who went to boarding school and were already used to the separation, especially the ones who knew how to do their laundry, which turned out to be the ONLY thing I learned during my 3-month stint at college, but that's another story entirely.

I found myself back at home here and there, unexpectedly living with my parents throughout my young adulthood. The last time was in my early 30s when I separated from my first husband, lost in a sea of despair, unsure of my path forward and how the heck I ended up like this. But there I was, tears continuously falling down my cheeks in front of the Pacific Ocean, desperately wanting to shift my repetitive ways and find comfort that I was on the verge of a big change. I was reading the book, "Eat, Pray, Love" at the time, too, which heavily influenced me, of course, and, without going into too much detail, I thought the only way through was to go to therapy and travel through Italy alone on a quest to reconnect to myself while eating, drinking and being merry. It turned out the writer of that memoir, Elizabeth Gilbert, knew what was best!

During that trip, I fell in love with truly the love of my life husband of almost 14 years (another great story for another day), and then, a handful of months after that, I became a mother. None of this was what I thought I wanted, mind you, but it turned out it was what I was always searching for all along. Life throws curve balls that you will likely not see or, more to the point, think you are ready to receive. The golden ticket is to be open to explore what comes your way. And sometimes, as was the case with me, your judgment can only penetrate so much before you begin to realize the undeniable truth and learn to tell that side of your neurosis to shut it. Cause it ain't gonna go away, no matter how hard you try, so you better learn how to live with it, and the sooner you accept that it is a part of you, the sooner you will be able to ride with it in the back seat.

I remember that first week of my son's life, recovering from the damn c-section I couldn't avoid no matter how hard I tried (and fought to avoid it until the end, damn it!). I remember getting so frustrated attempting over and over again to breastfeed. He wouldn't latch on, I doubted myself; it was my fault (somehow), I was full of dread; I couldn't remember how to hold him correctly on my breast (blah blah blah), my son was too skinny (of course he was- the bitch didn't latch!), and I felt helpless, lost and afraid. But then I received a visit from my midwife, a postpartum check-in, and she very calmly said, "Just remember, you have never done this before, and neither has he. You are both frustrated and have to figure this out together." That was it. That was what I needed to hear to make the shift. Most of the time, the answers are obvious, the simple things we need to do to get to the other side, but we always muddle it with a bunch of crap. Thinking it must be more complicated than it needs to be.

Like this mountain I have been climbing for the past few years- writing my first screenplay. I had every excuse in the book: why I couldn't do it, how I was not the right one to do it, how to do it, and on and on. But the answer was simple- all I had to do was sit my ass down and get to work. In doing that, in committing to that every day, little by little, re-write after re-write - I somehow got to the other side with a script I am proud of. Is it perfect? No, but it is better than I could have imagined, and most importantly, I have grown as a writer and woman because of the struggle.

It's also like stacking 2 cords of wood. At first, you stare at the large mound of wood on your lawn, overwhelmed with the idea of having to haul it and stack it inside your house before the first snow. You stare at it for a couple of days or weeks, thinking that if you avoid it for long enough, it will somehow magically stack itself. But then you realize no one will be doing this for you, and you have to roll your sleeves up, put on some gloves, and get to work. You decide to set a realistic goal and load up the rolling cart four times a day, which means stacking as much wood as the cart can handle four times a day until the overwhelming pile is gone. It may have taken me a month to do, but gawd damn it, I did it. All by myself.

There is an incredible amount of satisfaction that comes when you conquer challenges as simple as stacking wood. Not to mention, the fire you make with the wood you stack will be that much sweeter. It also builds confidence and endurance for the next mountain you climb. Like the one we are about to embark on, living off-grid on a raw piece of land in a tiny home while we build our house in the woods. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Kinda makes sense that would be our next move when I think about all the adventures we've had these past few years. I mean, we've lived in an Airstream, RV, Boat, endless Airbnbs, and Rentals- a Tiny Home is the obvious choice. Off-grid, ahem, is not, but alas, the world is spiraling; AI is taking over, so we decided to embrace some pioneer homesteading apocalyptic shit in the forest for the win. Let’s hope I survive this one and blossom into some badass silver-haired, self-sustaining witch. Stay tuned.