Feelings Follow Thoughts Like the Night Follows the Day

 

 Feelings follow thoughts, like the night follows the day. 

I have been a slave to my emotions, my entire life. Probably still am to some extent. I’ve got an emotional thermometer attached to my psyche that I negotiate with daily. You can be deceived by your feelings. For people like me, being busy is a good thing. There is an opportunity to refocus the negative talk. Being too busy to obsess on self. Now there’s a concept.

Like many of us I have had my share of anxiety and depression and the rest of the emotional shit that comes with being human.

I remember when I was first getting sober, and my sponsor suggested I take the emotional thermometer out of my ass and put it on the back burner. What a concept. Quite brilliant.

So, what does all this mean? It means you cannot have a feeling without having a thought first.

The issue is we don’t always know what the thought behind the feeling is.

It means that your mind is the culprit. It seems simple to acknowledge and define feelings, whereas almost impossible to trace where they came from unless it’s obvious…hence death, divorce, loss, grief, obsession.

You do not have to be a victim of your emotions. You can win the big battle? No, you cannot win all the battles…and I’m not sure if at the end of this you will win the war…What I am sure of is that there is going to be a lot of negotiating between you and your feelings. (Hence, you and your thinking)

I’ve got a friend that I refer to as, “lotions and potions.” There is no product on the market that promises healing of some kind of relief that this gal doesn’t have. One time when discussing her boyfriend, she said that someone that she was talking to about her romantic relationship had stated that the reason there was probably no future together for her and her boyfriend was their astrological signs weren’t compatible. I say it’s because he’s an asshole.

Go to therapy, stop using your intellect as a buffer against getting better.

Stop pretending you don’t drink too much, or think too much, or whine too much. Figure out who you are and make changes if you want to. Only if you want to.  

Serve others, spend less time thinking of yourself. I know it’s corny…but it works. Feed the homeless. Find a homeless person, that for whatever reason, you connect with and bring them food weekly. Tell no one.  Just do it. Thank-you Nike.

Make not your thoughts your prisons. Shakespeare…Yeah, that guy.

Chase the truth. Find out what’s going on in your mind. Go to therapy, meditate, or?? Take any action to figure out what’s going on in your mind.

Don’t believe everything you think…just because you think it, doesn’t mean it’s true. It just means you think it. Stop hiding from yourself.

Challenge yourself to change.

I do not say any of this lightly. I’ve spent a lifetime in therapy and 12 step programs.

Has it worked. Oh yes! Do I always feel good? Hell no!!!

Do I have the expectation of always feeling good? Probably.

Do I accept not feeling good? Hell, no. I fight like hell, sometimes. And other times, (rarely) I accept it.

My head is too loud. Yup, I get it…Therefore you must get out of there.

As my pal says, when you are in your head you are in a bad neighborhood.

Learn how to get out.

I’ve recently dropped the concept of arriving at mental health and never having all the negative crap feelings that come with human condition. To feel all the crap is to be human. Like it or not. Liking it is not a requirement. 

A couple of years ago, I behaved badly in a business situation. I didn’t do anything wrong…I just spoke too freely to my pal that had hired me. I was too emotional. It was an untenable situation, and I had to get out of it to save my sanity. Besides, I couldn’t accomplish anything on the job. A crazy person was running the show. A crazy person, that I had been close to for over 25 years. A great human who was now enslaved to many forms of addiction. I don’t really know why I thought I could fix the situation. Shame on me. Anyway, I knew it couldn’t work, but I gave it my best. In that process I regressed. I spoke incessantly to my pal about what was going on. That was the mistake. I left the job early.

The result was, after a year and a half, he was fired, but I was never asked back. I spent a year and a half mourning the job, the people that I cared a lot for, and obsessing over my mistakes. I went into a black hole and couldn’t get out. It wasn’t the first time and probably won’t be the last.

What changed? Firstly, I had to face the fact that saving my sanity meant less to me than doing a good job. With the help of a great shrink, I realized that I undervalued the importance of saving my life.

I found that rather interesting. I also learned that sometimes, “it takes what it takes.”

TINSTAAFL

There is never such a thing as a free lunch. There is a price for everything.

Do I regret exposing my vulnerability to the woman that hired me? You bet I do.

There is no going back to the job that I thought would carry me to the finish of Act 3.

One- and one-half years of obsessing, and pining, and crying, and …

That’s what it took to be done.

But what it really took is actively seeking help. 

Did I do the best I could at that time?

The answer is obviously, yes, cause it’s what I did.

I felt bad, cause my thinking was incessantly negative, obsessive, and unrelenting. FOR A YEAR AND ONE HALF.

Get out of your own way and ask for help. Your self-sufficiency is killing you.

Talk to people. You can learn a lot from professionals, but you can also learn a lot from the wounded as well as the healed.

According to google, Robin Sharma and David Foster Wallace said, “The mind is a wonderful servant, but a terrible master.”

That seems to sum it up.

 

 

Naming the Book

 

  Naming the Book

 

I’m __years old and if you are reading this… both of us know that you don’t give a damn. Do I need to say that more eloquently? According to Microsoft, the language I used might be offensive to a reader and what I need to say is… “and both of us know you don’t care.” Hmmm.

 

So, here’s what’s hideous about turning ___ (Besides the number being obviously, shocking.)

(By the way, for those of you who don’t believe this is an egregious experience you are either 1) young 2) an alien or 3) lying to yourself or 4) have embraced the mainstream malarkey (better than saying bullshit according to Microsoft) that these are the “golden years”.) There is nothing golden about this. Nada. And the contemporary psychobabble says..age is only a number. WOW. Now that’s real bullshit. (sorry Microsoft)

Here’s my experiences with aging.

I can spell Medicare backwards. I have a cosmetic surgeon on speed dial, and I’m outraged that no company manufactures the kind of multifarious filters I need for photos. In other words, there isn’t a strong enough filter for moi. All conversations invariably have a predictable medical element to them, gym workouts involve a lot more groaning, there is thinning hair, fatty deposits in unnamed body parts, thinning hair (did I say that already?) an addiction to botox commercials, and a terror of forgetting my spouse’s name. (Thank God it’s an easy one; Joe, as opposed to Bartholomew, or Darius.) Whew!.

So the question becomes, “what now brown cow?”

I had a producer pal, who had a theory on how to respond to all questions that asked, “what are you up to?”.  His solutionist response, “I’m writing a book or working on an album.”

 

So I guess this is ACT 3 and it’s book time.

 

 People have been telling me to write a book about my life for a very long time, and I’ve been considering it for a very, very, very, long time.  

I’m thinking I’d better get to it before I cannot locate my office (it’s in my home).

Here are my overburdened thoughts on the subject. My initial thought is I’m not a celebrity so the book will not sell; I hate writing, and I’ve got the concentration of a tuna with terrets on quaaludes. (Remember those?) Don’t answer…you will be showing your age.

If I do go ahead with this, I’m going to need a title. Here are some possibilities.

Originally, I wanted to call it, “Lost and Found.”

But it’s being used a lot lately in all kinds of forms, so that’s out.

How about …” A funny thing happened to me on the way to rehab.”

Or “Good night, Goodbye, and F off”

Or:

“I’m Writing This Book to Recoup Some of the Money I Spent on Therapy.”

I like this title, it’s honest.

My friend David Malvin wants me to title the book, “If I take my life now, I will never see Baryshnikov dance again.” (There was a time in my life where suicide seemed like a really good idea and the thought came to me that if I exited the planet, I wouldn’t see Mikhail Baryshnikov dance again, so I opted to forgo the suicide.).” Obviously never went back to that plan.

Or my newest choice.

“If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill You, the Memories Will”

I heard this lyric a long time ago in a country western song. Seems very appropriate now. Thank you, George Jones.

 

So what’s a gal to do when the gigs and naughty bits have dried up?

Let the writing begin…….

Will keep you posted.

In the meantime, before delving in…. I’m off to the studio to cut and album. LOL

 

 

Sometime 2021

If DRINKIN’ WON’T KILL YOU, THE MEMORIES WILL

(lyrics from a country western song I heard years ago ...)

 

In the early part of 2021 I had a slight nervous breakdown without anyone (including myself) being aware of it.

Here’s what happened. About 8 months ago I started reliving all the mistakes I had made in my life. Since I’ve lived a long time, the list went on ad infinitum. And each night I was haunted by a reactivation of each event and went very dark. I wasn’t really that concerned, thought this was just part of life...pandemic, no work…. Everyone had situational depression... no big deal.                 

At the same time, I seemed to be falling into an abyss of no self-confidence. Since I’ve spent most of my life in therapy, I certainly expected a bit more grounding, and feelings of wholeness. (Okay…maybe no self-confidence in small doses, but not a total meltdown daily.)

Felt raw and badgered by life and my emotions. Felt small and insignificant. Started to go along to get along in conversations. Couldn’t handle any discomfort so started selling myself out in conversations by people pleasing (there is a new term for that now…it’s called fawning…look it up…very interesting.)  This went on and on...mostly I carried on…going to the gym. (Inspired by my new commitment to health and wellbeing) continuing to go to recovery meetings and sponsoring people, working on a business, hiking, going to therapy, etc..., etc., etc., All very adult and responsible actions. Staying busy. But underneath something was askew. And then I pulled my back, and everything stopped. The pain was gruesome. After 5 months of chiropractic adjustments, physical therapy, acupuncture, tens machines, ultra-violet light healing apparatus, medical massage, gym rehab, patches of some kind…. The pain was horrific. And to top that all off…. At night all my mistakes came back to haunt and punish.

It’s been 6 months since the beginning of this debacle. 6 long, humorless months and then back surgery. And now, as I begin the healing process, I’m beginning to connect with what really happened to me in the pandemic.

All the stuffed emotional shit came up. OUCH.

Something deep below shifted, and the process was uncomfortable, unyielding, and depressing. I also see now that in the sticky pool of regret and despair grief is alive and well and prospering. Maybe just maybe, during the pandemic, when everything slowed down, all the repressed grief stirred up and showed up. There was unyielding quiet. There was soooooooooo much time. The grief showed up in the form of self -doubt, lack of confidence, loneliness, despair, and the horror of what was happening with the “big lie,” and it penetrated that “deep below” and erupted with a big bang. 

It’s weeks later now and the “deep below” seems to have calmed down…

So what really happened? There was no outer world to distract me from my inner world…and as my friend Casey once told me …”you have to get current with your grief.”

And I did. Couldn’t run and couldn’t hide. OUCH

And now what..??? Drum roll…. The solution?   SELF-FORGIVENESS

Keep forgiving yourself again and again and again…I hate the cliché, “you did the best you could with what you had at the time..” but maybe it’s a cliché because it’s true.

Self-forgiveness

Self-forgiveness

Self-forgiveness

Get Current With Your Grief

And now..............more self-forgiveness......

 

 

 

 

 

September 10, 2021

Now is different

When I turned 40 (years ago) I woke up that day wanting to be somewhere else with someone else doing something else. My life was good at the time; but that’s how I woke up. It lasted 3 days.

Then I realized that nothing had changed.  I looked exactly how I did the night before at 39 and had a great husband, career, home etc. etc. After 3 days the feeling went away and did not return for many years …. till now.

But now is different…Now is strange…I had a face lift in 2020 expecting to go back to work a few months later…not only did I not go back to work but wearing masks became mandatory and my new expensive face stayed hidden, and all my jobs left the building.

Now is different.

I’m still in therapy sometimes gazing at my navel and sometimes gazing at yours…going to recovery meetings and semi-pretending things are semi-normal. They are not. Now is different.

I’m not alone in all the political muck…disappointing unvaxers, voter discrimination and basically the demise of truth. I am tired of people defending their insanity…it is neither pleasant nor interesting just disheartening.

Now is different.

So, what’s the solution? Well…. I’m going to stay hopeful…I know how mundane and horrifically stupid this sounds but I’ve decided at least for today to stay hopeful.

Now is different …but now is not forever.

I am hopeful.

 

 “YES”

 

Every week someone tells me to write a book....so easy for them to say.

First of all, I’m not a very good writer, secondly writing is painful, and thirdly I haven’t finished cleaning my garage...even though I had the whole year of the pandemic to do it.  Shall we discuss priorities?

I’m in Alcoholics Anonymous...it’s an anonymous program or at least use to be. Now it makes grand attempts at being one...Facebook sort of blew the begejus out of that concept.

I’ve been sober a long time and my best girlfriend wants to argue with me that I was only a very, very, bad drug user not an alcoholic. She didn’t see me for a couple of years in Vegas when I was kind of blowing out...it’s okay, it’s all pretty much the same. Alcohol is a liquid drug. Choose your poison. Sick is Sick.

I used to be really crazy and have a litany of psychiatric illness to prove it. I was crazy and now I'm not. I get crazy, but I’m not crazy...Is that why people keep pouncing on me about the book?  Or is it that I call out bullshit?  Or is it that I have banged and thrashed in life, AA, and therapy to combat most of my demons and won? Or at least survived and navigated mental illness to live a pretty good life? Not sure. Or maybe they don’t know what to say so they start dictating policy.... telling you what you should do with your life, so they don’t have to look at their own life. Staying outer focused is a very good way to deflect from looking at your own personal inner turmoil. Stay in your own hula hoop mother-f---ers.

You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. I get to decide that. You only get to decide what’s best for you. Psychology 101. You don’t know what’s best for me...you just think you do. I just figured out what I am going to say to people when they tell me to write a book... Shut the f--- up. Oops

 

Okay, okay, sorry. I got a little dramatic there.

Okay, okay.

Okay, okay.

Okay, okay.

Okay, okay.

Okay, okay. I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to attempt to write a book. I’m taking on the challenge of writing a book.

Trust me I am as surprised as you are.

After all my resistant dialogue, I’ve decided to possibly try and write a book. Funny huh?

Why am I doing this?

I’m not sure. All I can come up with is if enough people suggest something-even though you, or in this case I, find it offensive …. maybe they see something we don’t see. Maybe, just maybe, there is some merit to their suggestion.

Maybe this is the moment I suspend what I think I know and consider other points of view?

Isn’t that what I had to do to get well? To get sober? To turn my life around? I had to risk, and trust, and follow other people’s suggestions. People smarter than me, people wiser than me, trustworthy people who weren’t afraid to tell me the truth.

I had to become coachable.

So today, I say, “Yes.”

Let the writing begin……………………

I don’t believe I can do it…but my answer is still,

 “YES.”

 

 

 

 

On Me

Many years ago, I had the privilege and pleasure of working with some of the most talented, ice skating professionals in the world. It was truly an honor. Plus, it was a lot of fun. I worked with notables such as Randy Gardner and Tai Babilonia, Robin Cousins, Viktor Petrenko, Oksana Bauil, and Linda Fratianne.  I was directing and choreographing ice skating tours and shows. In some ways, I was the industry joke because I had never ice skated a day in my life…But as my late friend and Canadian champion Brian Pockar said to me, “ Don’t worry about whether you ever ice skated or not…I skate well enough for both of us. Just keep choreographing.”

This was the Nancy Kerrigan-Tanya Harding time. Big stories, big press, lots of ice shows.

During this time, one of the husbands of one of the champions came to see me in Las Vegas to talk about putting an ice show in one of the casinos. He was pompous and arrogant, and his ego entered the room before he did, but he was not a bad guy. He brought with him one of his partners from Palm Springs. A thin sundried tomato looking gentlemen who obviously played a lot of golf and had the suntan to prove it. He was equally as supercilious and dismissive. They both acted as though their entrance into a room demanded a celebratory response for those awaiting them.  Seeing and feeling the assemblage of pomposity stacked against me, I brought along my secret weapon; my friend Neil.

 Neil’s resume reads like a who’s who in the entertainment world. He’s been the entertainment director and VP of entertainment for properties all over the US. I figured I’d stack the deck. Plus, he’s a great guy and could probably get their attention. Wrong. They were so self-consumed that they never asked him any questions…just assumed they knew everything. Neil and I tried to speak to them about how different the Las Vegas market was. Having an Olympic champion in a show in Vegas was not a big enough draw to sustain eight shows a week; fifty-two weeks a year. The show needed lots of pops and whistles to compete in this market at that time.

Neil and I, and my terrific pal Phil, who had done the initial introduction, spent lots of time with these know-it-all guys, working through creative concepts and introducing them to a number of hotel directors who might be interested in their project.

Original Creative ideas don’t come along that often, so when they do, you hold them near and dear to your heart. I had one of those concepts on this project. It doesn’t happen that often, so I felt really good showing them the concept. The Puffed Ones seemed not to understand the importance of a good solid creative concept. To say they were dismissive would be a kind way of phrasing it.  My pals Neil and Phil liked the concept, and their approval meant the world to me.

I kept thinking that I wasn’t giving the Puff Pair the correct overview of the Las Vegas show scene. They didn’t seem to be connecting to how competitive the show market was in Las Vegas, and that it would take more than a couple of famous ice skaters to keep people buying tickets. There would have to be some theater spectacle.

Knowing this, I decided to spend a shit-load of money and take everyone to see “O” the exquisite Cirque du Soleil show. I figured that Puffy Plus One could see the competition and have an AHA moment of how important the creative aspects of the show would need to be. So off we went; moi, my pal Phil and the two puffed pastries.

To say that the two puffed pastries did not like the show would be accurate. They didn’t marvel at the show, like most do.  Prior to the Covid epidemic; “O” was the most sought after show in Las Vegas, with sold out tickets months in advance. It is extraordinary theater. Theater at its best.

Not for Puffy 1 and Puffy 2. They did not see the value of the show nor understand that this show would be one of their competitors. Holy Fu--in Moly.

Obviously this wasn’t going to work, but we gave it our all.  

On their last night in town, we all went to dinner. To say I felt marginalized would be an understatement. But I have learned to show up in life...no matter what, no matter what.

Sooooooooooooooo there we are at dinner. Puffy 1 (apparently deciding to come off the throne) starts asking me about my life. How long have you lived in Vegas?? Are you married? Blah, Blah, Blah. Somehow I have become a person to him, or he knows that he is required to enact that theme. Probably something his mother taught him…act like you give a shit…might be helpful in your life.

So he then he turns to me after asking about my husband and says, “Where did you guys meet?” I explain that we were introduced by mutual friends and in my relentless effort to connect…said laughingly, “My husband thought I was a tall blonde.” (I’m actually a short person with very very short black hair and this has always been a running joke with my husband and me.)  My husband usually refers to me as a tall blonde.

Dripping with disdain Puff 1 says, “Well what was HE ON? “

So without missing a beat I looked at him smilingly and said, “Me.”

“That’s good,” he says.

“I know,” I said.

BAM!!!!!

And in one moment, it happened. The very thing that most of wish for in an uncomfortable situation…The great comeback.

 

 

 

Sober Stories

It’s been quite a long time since I’ve blogged. Time to begin again.

I’m calling these Sober Stories

Enjoy.

 

Story 1

The Big Oy Vey

 

My parents, two sisters, and brother were holocaust survivors. I was the only child born in the US after the war. Their story is extraordinary and heart-breaking and heroic, and I can only tell you in general terms what happened to them. I would have more details if I were able to read my sister’s book, “Portrait of a Holocaust Child-Memories and Reflections.” But alas, although I was not alive during their horrific ordeal, I cannot go to any holocaust museums, nor read any books, nor look at documentaries on the holocaust lest I start writhing on the floor dribbling.

Their experience, however, somehow made its way into my DNA.

In my three decades of recovery from life, drugs, and alcohol, I’ve received the great gift of meeting extraordinary humans along the journey of life who have illuminated my path. I feel compelled to share their wisdom with you. I call these stories …sober stories.

This one is called: The Big OY VEY

When I was about 8 years sober, I was sitting at an AA meeting waiting for the speaker to begin sharing, “what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now.” This is the usual format of a speaker meeting in AA. I was waiting to be inspired…waiting to hear something that would alter my thinking and therefore hopefully diminish some of the depression, anxiety, and emotional pain of living life on life’s term without self-medicating. In other words…waiting to hear something that would give me relief. That’s why I self-medicated. I’m looking for relief. Relief from my FEELINGS. My obsessive, critical, judgmental, diffident, self-mocking FEELINGS. The FEELINGS that says, “you are not worthy, you are stupid, you didn’t finish college, you are less than, you will never be confident, you will never be good enough and probably nobody really loves you (that’s always the icing on the cake isn’t it?)   

Back to my story…so I’m waiting to hear the speaker.

She spoke.

It was worth the wait. She was marvelous…stunning, articulate, warm, intelligent, and exceedingly honest. She did not look to me like the person she was describing. She looked nothing like what she described as her life…literally leaving her small children on a pier in California with no adult supervision and taking off to Hawaii in a drunken stupor.

And then she dropped the bomb.

“I have learned how to lean into the pain.”

Mic drop.

Whattttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt???????????????????????

 No self-medicating, no delusion, no deflection, no retreat just “bring it on.” Are you fu---ing kidding me?

Whoa!!!!!!!!! Do you mean no more running away? No more self-deceit? No more self bullshit? No more deflecting by getting another hobby; gardening, cooking, cleaning, facebooking, instagraming, twittering, tiktoking,  letter writing, planting, painting, skipping, hiking, crocheting  (I am beginning to sound like the UPS commercial) I WILL DO ANYTHING EXCEPT FEEL. (or going to the gym)

Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Oy Vey.

Her theory is: cry, scream, rant, rave, writhe and FEEL THE PAIN.  

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Don’t go around it?? Don’t bury it?

 Go through it?? What are you new?

The big oy vey.

 Lean into it. Feel it until it’s over. Stop Fighting. Pay the price of pain then get up and go again. OH MY.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

And then I tried it. Not without a therapist, a shitload of meetings, and twelve dozen donuts. But, I did it. Again and again and again and again and again.

Not pretty.

And I do that now. Not gracefully. Not without an initial pushback. But I do it. Because I’m pretty much willing to pay any price to stay sober and fight for my mental health.

And it was worth it. I’m alive.

And in this process I became a hero instead of a victim.

How utterly simple.

How utterly complex.

How utterly divine.

Like love.

Utterly simple

Utterly complex

Utterly divine.

Oy vey.