And, boy, has my body decided it’s had enough.

I became social again last year, which effectively doubled the amount I’d been drinking. It became far too regular, and had it not been for the drinking, I’d probably have lost more weight instead of just having maintained my numbers for a year now.

The drinking escalated last fall. More this spring. A good three or four nights a week would be 2-3 drinks, maybe more often than that if it was a busy period.

Just how often became a significant realization this week.

Now and then, too, I’ve had phases of a week or so when I have neck or back pain from too hard of working out, and have to take one or two painkillers a day for a few days in a row — the heavier Naproxen type. I honestly don’t like taking these pills, so I tend to use them very sparingly, but the price of ignoring escalating pain means I either start getting bad spasms or migraines, so taking pills is an evil but infrequent necessity.

But here’s the deal. I’ve always had a tough tummy, so when the doc says, “Oh, take these with food to prevent upset tummy,” but I never get the sick stomach, why worry about taking it with food?

Because apparently it turns out that the food prevents bad shit from happening to your stomach lining.

GOOD TO KNOW. DULY NOTED.

Yesterday, the doctor told me I’ve got gastritis. This, apparently, is why I vomited under a bridge after work on Friday, after a coffee sent me to hell and back — just the latest in unpleasant tummy-type developments in my recent past.

I’ve been putting all the information together since I got home last night, getting all Gregory House on my health’s downward trajectory.

Alcohol helps wear down the stomach lining so it’s more susceptible to things like gastritis and ulcers. So do painkillers like the ones I’ve been prescribed.

Best I can figure is, I had an unholy perfect stomach storm kick off when I decided to work at home, with a very bad set-up, upon the Olympics rolling into town. I was getting migraines daily, but it wasn’t until a week or so past their onset that I realized it was because my desk was too high. So, I’d been medicating with the pain pills, often on an empty stomach.

Then, the Olympics kicked off. You know, the “drunkest Olympics ever”, as dubbed by international press? Not many Vancouverites made it through the Games without a bender or two.

Normally, I drink wine. Beer’s not something my stomach enjoys in large doses, but when it’s sports and pubs? I’m a beer girl. I was a beer girl for the whole Games. A cheap-beer beer-girl. Oh, lawdy.

After a week of having to take two painkillers a day.

Well. Lawdy!

Let’s just say I’ve had a hell of a time for the last couple weeks, I thought I was getting an ulcer.

It’s part bad habit, part dumb luck.

But it’s all a fantastic lesson.

I’m tired of the booze. I went more than a year drinking once a week or so, maybe even once every two weeks. It makes me sluggish, cuts my effectiveness, makes me gain weight, maybe even depresses me.

I just happen to like it, too, is all.

Wine, oh! I mean, the non-alcoholic stuff has nothing on “real” wine. I’m a foodie, I love to cook, and I love a great wine that complements my efforts. I see no shame in enjoying the wine once or twice a week. That’s fine.

The frequency I’ve been drinking at is by no means “acoholic” status or anything like that, but it’s too fucking frequent for me. My body just does NOT like it. That’s the point. I don’t give a shit if it’s socially acceptable or not.

I’ve worked too hard to get too far on my health journey to fuck it up over some drinks. I’m angry, very angry, that I’ve felt as lousy as I have for the last two to three weeks.

That anger’s getting channelled, though. I’ve been eating fantastically — I’m doing really well for diet and nutrition, even portions. While I am indeed angry I’ve let my health go this far — regardless of the whole “once a lifetime” Olympicky business — I am absolutely ecstatic that I’ve re-found my commitment and desire to get on path.

Feeling like I have for the last month, it’s a goddamned crime after I’ve lost 70 pounds. But my body couldn’t handle the booze and greasy pub food overload that came with the Epic Olympicky Games In My City experience. My body got used to me shunning processed food and always getting back on a healthy path within a few days of neglect, not after a month, like it has been.

The funny thing is, I used to live with a pretty alcoholic intake — drinking a bottle of wine a night, eating absolutely shit food every fucking day, three meals a day, hitting likely 3,500-4,000 calories a day — for about two years around ‘99 to 2001. Never did I even need a Tums.

I guess it’s a testament to how healthy I was actually eating in the last couple years, then, that my body’s rebelled so harshly.

I’m oddly proud of that.

So, whatever. I’ve felt like shit. That corner’s turning. I’m glad that obstacle has come. I’m glad I remember what it’s like to be so tired and lethargic all the time, to feel like I’m getting absolutely no nutrition, to loathe the fog that comes from almost-daily drinking for a couple weeks.

I’m glad. I can use this. I can feed of it and become better. THAT’S how I choose to respond.

I might be young at heart, but my body’s 36. It’s important I act like it, and I’m grateful for such powerful motivation.

I’m also grateful for really powerful antacids.

*Fantastic drunken Tom Waits number.

**I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up…

Depression was known to plague Koenig. He got off his anti-depressants sometime last year, and clearly the rest is a story still developing.

I’ve been depressed. Very, very, very badly depressed. And I hate that so many of you probably don’t understand fully what all that means.

Honestly? I am almost guaranteed to face periods of depression for the rest of my life, when situational life gives me reason to do so, and at a greater depth than the average person will face it.

Not just “huh, I feel sad today” kind of depression, but the kind that affects my relationships and the goings-on of my day-to-day and even my job, immensely.

Right now? No, not really. I have ups and downs like anyone.

I’m lucky. I’ve discovered that much of my extreme depression steams from woeful diet and lacking exercise. I’m able to correct my chemistry through pretty natural means.

But when you can’t? Thanks to chemically fucking myself up on birth control pills back in ‘06, I know what that’s like. And, oh, my god. Crippling. C-r-i-p-p-l-i-n-g.

It’s not like the “normal” depressions I’ve experienced. Normally I know, hey, if I’m pissed at the world, I can play any of a few songs and maybe remedy that, or I can ditch some plans and find some “me” time, or make a bike ride happen. Whatever. I know there’s a good chance one of those things will help me past the hump.

Chemical depression, when your body’s not on track?

Nothing helps. Nothing.

If you don’t know what it’s like to live under the darkness of an intense chemical depression, then pray you never learn.

William Styron probably wrote the single best reference about what depression feels like — and perhaps its links to artists & genius — and something I think anyone with a passing interest should definitely read. Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness speaks to Styron’s experience descending into a suicidal depression as a result of the sleeping pill he was taking causing more intense depression and leading to his desire to end his life.

“In depression this faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent. The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come- not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute. If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul. So the decision-making of daily life involves not, as in normal affairs, shifting from one annoying situation to another less annoying — or from discomfort to relative comfort, or from boredom to activity — but moving from pain to pain. One does not abandon, even briefly, one’s bed of nails, but is attached to it wherever one goes. And this results in a striking experience — one which I have called, borrowing military terminology, the situation of the walking wounded. For in virtually any other serious sickness, a patient who felt similar devistation would by lying flat in bed, possibly sedated and hooked up to the tubes and wires of life-support systems, but at the very least in a posture of repose and in an isolated setting. His invalidism would be necessary, unquestioned and honorably attained. However, the sufferer from depression has no such option and therefore finds himself, like a walking casualty of war, thrust into the most intolerable social and family situations. There he must, despite the anguish devouring his brain, present a face approximating the one that is associated with ordinary events and companionship. He must try to utter small talk, and be responsive to questions, and knowingly nod and frown and, God help him, even smile. But it is a fierce trial attempting to speak a few simple words.”

-William Styron, Darkness Visible

The trouble with a chemical depression is the mental fog that comes with. The realization that something just isn’t right? Not necessarily even going to occur. It’s just utter hopelessness, like life has no point and every single fucking thing you do requires an effort similar to that dialed up by climbers at the Everest Base Camp the morning of making their daunting ascents.

Unfortunately for me, my chemical depression happened at a time when my relationship was crumbling, I was potentially about to lose my apartment, and pretty much zero areas of my life were going where I wanted them to go.

I had no reason to cheer up; with chemistry fucked, I had no hope of it, either.

For the second time in my life, after this breakdown, I went on anti-depressants.

That was August, 2006. By March, 2008, despite my DEEP depression lasting me 14 months straight, I had to get off the pills pronto — with diet and exercise I had regulated my chemistry and now the pills that had leveled my equilibrium were hurtling me BACK into depression.

I’m still a moody person. I’m very intelligent, acutely observant, perceptive, sensitive, and, as a writer, deeply introspective. These things make me prone to depression and moodiness. Fortunately, I’m nearly always funny, and I can think or act my way out of many of my moods. That’s “Normal” Steff.

Styron, in Darkness Visible, asserts that writers are probably the most prone group for when it comes to suicide and depression. Hemingway, Virginia Wolf, David Foster Wallace, Sylvia Plath, Spalding Gray, and the list goes on.

These aren’t stupid people.

They aren’t people who don’t understand society and the way we work within it.

They are brilliant writers most of us lowly bloggers would sell souls to acquire the skills of.

And yet. They left all too soon.

Suicide isn’t for the weak. Depression isn’t for losers.

I can probably mentally process just about any adversity that could befall me. I could tear it apart within the hour and tell you all the things I’ll learn from the troubles and whatever hurts it’ll cause, too. I’m a smart cookie. I accept adversity and trouble as a necessary ingredient to my life.

Yet I fell into a depression I couldn’t shake, then, as I was just beginning to emerge from it, I got a job working for the most negative and depressed person I’ve ever known.

And while my depression DID come back, this time it was situational. I was regulating my chemistry, you see, with pills.

So when the “natural” depression came on, I knew it wasn’t my chemistry. I began exercising and eating better. Next thing you know, I was down 30 pounds. I was still myself — funny, then intermittently Happy or Not — until one day my moods started going ENTIRELY wonky again. Speaking with my doctor, we chose to end the medication.

Poof. Normal Steff underwent life without Ze Meds.

Nowadays — like, say, now — I still volley with moods. Right now is a bad time — I need the Olympics to end because my ADHD self has never been so overwhelmed with the world around me. I can’t find the time to exercise or eat as well as I ought to be, and I know my chemistry and resiliency are on the downswing because of the neglect they’re receiving.

It’s not just the Olympics, it’s February, when 2 of the worst 3 Dead Mom Anniversaries fall. I expect yearly to hit a depression around this time. I don’t particularly sweat it. The Olympicky stuff is dealable and soon to end. The Dead Mom stuff passes too. It is what it is.

Long before my mother died, she attempted suicide with the same sleeping pills as William Styron. I walked in on the attempt.

I can’t explain to you what that’s like at 17, or how it affected me then. But I sure as shit learned about psychology and moods.

Even today, I’m stunned when I remember the days I spent under the black-as-fuck choke-hold of a full-on chemical depression. It culminated with a d-a-r-k full-on breakdown working alone in an office one day. I placed an emergency call to a shrink I’d seen once, and she called me back within the hour, me sitting on the middle of a big planked-wooden floor, tears rolling down my completely-unstrung face as I finalized the breakdown then and there, on that hour-long phonecall where she talked me back from the ledge and into hope.

I was a fucking nutcase that day. Inexplicably. If ever there was a day when I was close to suicide, it was that gorgeous sunny August afternoon.

Tonight, sitting here in my moody exhaustion, I can’t even fathom ever again being the woman I was that day. I can’t. So scared and hopeless and devastated and overcome with every physical manifestation of unease you could imagine — sweating, breathless, pain, tension, shaking.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND how someone as SMART as I am could become that lost! I don’t understand it at all.

Oh, sure, I can rattle off some science that sort of “explains” it. You can try, too. But I live in my head. I know how on top of it all I can be. I know how great I am at balancing perspective when it’s needed.

How could I have become that? So needy and lost, scared and shaken, hopeless and hurt?

Your science doesn’t mean fuck all to me. I know what I’ve overcome. There’s no reason aside from stupid hormone pills for birth control that I ever had to become that insanely depressed.

And yet I don’t doubt that it could, and might, happen to me again one day.

Still, I believe in medication.

I’m pretty sure it saved my life. So too with counselling on that fateful day.

In spite of all I am and what I bring to the world, I hate the stigma of admitting that I became that frayed and frazzled. But I think there’s nothing more important I can do tonight than announce it for you all to hear, if it means a discussion finally ensues.

No one should have to feel shame or alone because society doesn’t understand depression, they should never fail to seek help because they’re ashamed to do so.

If you’ve ever known a woman to go insane or horribly depressed from her period, then you know it’s possible that the body can become completely askew due to the simple problem of chemisty, and it doesn’t take either much or long for it to happen.

Read William Styron’s book. Listen to me — depression afflicts EVERYONE regardless of class, money, intelligence, or status.

The only way we’ll win the war against depression is by talking about the horrors it can weigh on us, because I KNOW I am NOT alone.

I am not my biochemistry. Neither are you.

So don’t be a victim.

Depression doesn’t end with the flick of a switch. Medication alone cannot, will not solve it. The successfully-fought battle involves diet, exercise, working on the self, dealing with emotions, setting goals, and valuing your desires, and not apologizing for feeling there’s urgency to improving your life.

Depression is easily the hardest war any person will ever have to wage, other than serious addictions — which one might argue also are commonly caused by depression — but at least addictions have a “real” cause. When it’s “all in your head,” there’s too little sympathy from others.

Here’s hoping we can make it so a few less parents have to find their suicided children’s bodies in parks.

We’re humans. Not machines. Let’s stop feeling like failures just because we feel.

RIP, Andrew Koenig, 2010.

_______________

My mind feels like an electrical storm.

So much is going on, I’ve so much power yet so little ability to focus it. Writing is a joke when the world is this insane around you for two-plus weeks. Some can do it, I’m sure. I’m just not one of them.

Working from home was my first mistake. My office job landing smack in my living room, that was a mistake. It’s just changed the vibe ever so slightly.

As a serious writer, the right “vibe” is everything. Mood is god, story is king. Chaos is the destructor.

Chaos? Good god. That’s all we have these days. On the “me” side of things, I want the Olympics to be over. I want my cycling paths back, my train back, and my time to write in the morning.

But, the other side? I know these Olympics are a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

Unfortunately, everyone I know is better able to handle it financially.

I have an entire wardrobe to replace, a scooter to repair, many other obligations, and not a lot of finances to do it with.

Me? $9 beers — EVERYWHERE in the Olympics –  and ridiculous meal prices CRIPPLE my lifestyle, and, for whatever fucking moronic reason, the Olympics are held all during ONE pay period.

So, needless to say, I’m quickly losing my ability to be a part of this experience at all. I spilled a $9 beer on Saturday night, the “extra” beer I shouldn’t have even ordered. Then, poof, it’s gone and I haven’t even had a sip. All of a sudden, I just didn’t even want to be with my friends anymore. Fucking 8pm and I couldn’t afford any more drinks? Yeah, good times.

It’s no fun going out when everything you do reminds you that you just can’t afford THAT.

I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world these days. Never has the division of classes been as real as it is now in Vancouver.

And, me, I’m playing in the wrong fucking sandbox.

The kids I play with can afford this shit.

They take vacations, have the lovely clothes, all that. As far as I can tell, they can’t even fathom the difference between our lifestyles.

I’m not asking for anyone to fix my world. I’m not even asking for anyone to buy me shit. Normally, I don’t care. I avoid the social situations that remind me quite loudly who’s the Have and who’s the Have-Not.

I’m QUITE fine with turning down invites to restaurants I can’t afford — I can COOK. I have a cool apartment! Awesome. I can replicate the experience my way.

The Olympics? I can’t replicate that. I can never even TRY having that again. It’s a ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME experience, living in a city with the Olympics. And I fucking know it.

My lack of funds has me realizing how much less of the Olympics I’ve gotten to experience versus most the people I know. The shit I hear people talking about on Twitter? Damn.

It breaks my heart a little.

I fucking love what’s happened to my city. I’ve ALREADY borrowed money from a friend just to enjoy it. That’s ALL that I can tap into. I’m done, I’m spent, and there’s SO little I’ve gotten to really see or enjoy.

I don’t WANT to go into these “Pavillions” where I see people dropping $15 an hour just to drink beers. Maybe THEY can afford it, but I’m reminded of all I DON’T have when I’m there.

In normal life, like I say, I can avoid these situations — and I’m HAPPY to do so. Why?

Because I know that, whatever it is I lack, the things I do have? I’m content with. Where I live? I’m content with. My goals? I know I’m going to kick ass.

I also don’t feel like I’ll be broke forever.I feel quite the opposite. I feel like I’m going to take the world by storm. But these things don’t happen overnight. There’s a reason there’s so much talk of “five-year plans”.

My finances HAVE changed. They’re better. But I live within my means now, I don’t go into the red.  Those means I’m almost certain will improve considerably in the next year, but I’m catching up from YEARS of being short-changed by injuries that have kept me working under 40 hour weeks just to make sure I’m able to ENJOY living rather than be hurt/fatigued all day, every day.

Most of you probably have no clue what it’s like to have six years of injuries piling on top of each other. I’ve been rehabbing for years. That costs money. I’ve worked less to deal with it, that costs money. Even losing weight has punished me financially.

That’s LIFE. I ACCEPT THAT. I’m not a victim, I’m a player in this game.

I could be better off financially, but I betcha I’d have every one of those 65 lost pounds back on my body. I bet I’d be toying with diabetes. I bet I’d be unhappy.

The choices I’ve made have brought incredible successes into my life. Unfortunately, they’re not successes society gives me money for achieving. So, instead, I’m left feeling broke.

I feel I’ve had to make those choices. Fuck, I’d make them AGAIN.

They do, however, keep me from being able to enjoy the life friends lead. I’ve long since made my peace with that — normally.

Never did I think I’d want to enjoy the Olympics this much, though.

Never did I think I’d see the drastic differences between what I want and what I can’t have as much as I’ve seen it this week.

So, yes. I’m ready for the Olympics to be over.

I’m taking a couple days off of the festivities, and I’ll try to enjoy more on my weekend, before it closes, because I have to. I got to do it.

I suspect the fallout after the Games disappear will leave a terrible emotional hangover on this whole city — I won’t be the only one.

We’ll be crushed it’s gone. We’ll be “broke” collectively. (I chuckle as I write that, because some people’s perception of “broke” slays me. Uh, yeah, I’ll have THAT broke, please. )

And like most relationships that end famously, there’ll be reminders everywhere we look of how glorious and great it was, if only for 16 days.

These games could’ve been worse — by far. I don’t want it to sound like I haven’t enjoyed them. I have! I’m thrilled they came!

I just didn’t expect the fiscal reality check to make it so hard for me to enjoy what I’d like to enjoy, or do what I’d like to do.

It’s not like I’ve just been hurting financially since Christmas. This has been my life since 2003, when I first nearly died in an accident. It’s been a long, long time that I’ve been living This Life of Mine.

It is what it is.

Most of the time I’m grateful. Most of the time I know from whence I’ve come and where I’m running.

But I’ve always loved the Winter Olympics, not the Summer Olympics, and somehow I thought it wouldn’t feel like so much was denied me when they were here.

I was wrong. I’ve never, ever felt the class divide like I have these last two weeks.

Sure, I’m not alone.

And now I’m not silent about it.

Oh, and to all you fucking “media” people in Vancouver who’ve not made it clear how much events/pavillions cost, for those of us who can’t afford to make the wrong choice of where to spend our money — FUCK. Do your job — INFORM us.

Yesterday, I stood at the top of an 8-story-tall tower, strapped into a harness, hooked onto a steel cable, and ziplined 550 feet across Vancouver’s Robson Square.

Holy shit.

I’ve had to get the news my mother was going to die, I’ve had to amass the guts to get back on a scooter after I nearly died when I flew head-first off of one — after which long-time riding friends claimed they’d never seen a casual rider as hurt as I’d been get back on a bike — and I have NEVER been as scared as I was when I stepped off that platform.

My friends with me didn’t see it, but I was crying when I took that step.

What they did see, though, were my knees shaking violently, my face suddenly 15 years older looking as all the blood drained from it and my jaw dropped in terror.

I almost vomited, I never even breathed as I zipped at 50k an hour and crossed the square, but about 2/3s of the way in, I finally snapped and realized, “I’ve done it!”

Unfortunately, part of my fear was about getting back onto the other platform, even thought I knew how it was done. Part of that has to do with my weight issues. I’m heavier than I look, by far, and I know it. Sometimes defeating a fear means defeating ALL of it from start to finish, and it’s not until after that you realize It’s Over, I Did It.

You can’t just ignore those hang-ups, you kinda have to face ‘em down and beat the shit out of them.

I got back on that scooter years ago because I knew I’d never respect myself again if I didn’t. The scooter didn’t almost kill me. My driver error did. I simply had to be better, be more in the moment.

This zipline thing, though, was purely symbolic and something I really didn’t have to do, I had no control over where it went, how I did, my success, survival or my experience. I had to just have faith.

Why bother, though? I didn’t have to do the zipline at all.

Except that I did. I did have to do it. I did it. I did.

My form? Complete shit. I was not graceful, not cool. I held on for dear life. I was CLEARLY the person doing it to tackle fear. I was fully conscious of everyone staring up and empathizing as they snapped photos, probably a thousand onlookers on the streets below.

I was totally freaked out until I reached close to the end. I was in terror again as I was being hauled to the platform, wishing I had longer legs.

But I fucking did it.

Also: I brought along spare panties, in case the obvious happened. Never needed them. Fantastic.

Whew. I still find it hard to fathom that I did that. I don’t even like climbing on the fourth rung of a ladder, man, let alone an 8-storey-high tower I’m about to strap onto with a harness and a kinda dubious looking carabiner in order to hurtle myself at high speeds through open air over concrete, steel, and glass.

For others, it’s no big deal. For me, I was close to having a complete breakdown up there.

Right before me, though? A nine-year-old girl, seen in the photo I took before my horrifying descent. All I kept thinking was, “A nine-year-old just did this. Everyone has lived so far. I’ll never respect myself again if a nine-year-old made me look like a pussy.”

I still can’t really process the quantity of fear I felt.

When they say fear is “paralyzing,” well, I guess now I really get what they mean by that.

But it’s like I wrote on Twitter last night:

Tomorrow I get to wake up knowing I’m the kinda chick who rides a zipline. That’s better than waking up the kinda girl who’s scared of ‘em.

Now I’ve asked my best friend if we can change our plans for celebrating my birthday at a swank restaurant — which was last September; he loves me but has time commitment challenges — and instead go ziplining on a mountain.

The mountain zipline terrifies me too. It’s really high. And it’s not a 60-second experience that takes 5 hours of build-up. No, it’s an eco tour that takes two hours to complete.

Yikes.

But I meant it when I promised myself that 2010 would be about facing fears and winning.

Yesterday was just the first really scary, profound, and transformative step in Steff’s Fear-Facing Throwdown of 2010.

One by one, I’ll tear down all the insecurities that have ever made me think I was This Girl and not That Girl.

Because I was clearly way fucking wrong on that count.

I didn’t get it done pretty yesterday, but I got it done. I did it for no one but myself, and my self knows what I’ve accomplished. It’s a small yet monumental change in who I am.

Sometimes, we don’t know the impact of the changes we make until time starts to pass. It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet and the emotions that bubble beneath my surface are murky yet. I’m unclear where this leads.

But like I say:

Today, I awoke a different kind of girl than the one I woke up as yesterday.

My decades of trying to play it safe so I don’t get hurt, they’re suddenly coming to an end.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson in my life can be found somewhere in all of this… that playing it safe doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt; it just means you get hurt without payoff or getting a great story out of it.

“Hurt” is inevitable for us all. Sometimes playing it safe maybe hurts more than having risk go sideways ever could, because playing it safe always, always comes with that feeling of emptiness you get from knowing you’re selling yourself short. I have two decades that tells me this is true.

Knowing my potential for true awesomeness, that particular brand of selling myself short has become the bitterest pill I’ve had to swallow. Oh, how unlike myself I’ve felt for so long. I’m better than the body that imprisoned me for so many years.

With a bunch of tough choices, fears faced, pride swallowed, and risks calculated, I may never have to swallow that bitterly disappointing pill again.

2010. Vancouver. Citius, altius, fortius. Faster, higher, stronger. For all the Steffs, too.

I win.

In fact, I’m not actually a person. I’m a giant ‘fraidy-cat. Yup. A pussy, wimp, gutless turd.

I do it well.

If there’s risk of, you know, embarrassment or shame or, well, death, I’ll probably find a way to get out of it, if I can. I’m just being honest.

I’ve been working on this, uh, “quality” of mine for the last year or so. Headway has been gained. Kind of at a glacial 1-inch-a-year kinda pace, though. It’s a recession, I’ll take what I can get, man.

Luckily for me, it’s easier to swallow fear of adventure lifestyle because of my litany of fucked-up injuries over the last 15 years. The cheat-sheet version? Thrown from horse, fell down flight of uncovered stairs, five car accidents (one major), thrown off scooter in shoulda-been-dead accident, three blown knees, blown back, four cases whiplash, and maybe a few other things in there.

I’m a human crash-test dummy, and I’m not even TRYING to be.

But if I’m not dead yet, I’m clearly immortal.

If I survive The Year 2010, I’m starting a cult on an island with volcanoes, palm trees, and a well-stocked bar, because I’ll TOTALLY be worthy of worship.

As much as I am completely paralyzed by fear and don’t even REMOTELY want to do some of the things on my Not-A-Bucket-List, well, in the next 18 months, there’s a crazy list of shit I want to accomplish, as if to say “I’m not what my baggage is, not anymore.”

I have nothing to prove to anyone. It’s not about you.

These activities, in some way, aren’t even about me. The things I want to do (and the list stays with me and a few friends) all in some way are directly opposite what the Steff Of Old would have done, versus what the Steff Of Legend was capable of in my grade-five-fantasy mind.

Friday is day one of the slow ascent to some completely unreal chick I don’t even know if I can be, but I’m going to try.

It’s zipline day.

And not one of those nice, cushy ziplines where you might fall in a marsh or at least have a thorny bush to break your fall before you careen into a tree, or when that paperclip-wire snaps and you go hurtling to your inevitable death below.

No, this one’s zipping over one of the busiest squares in the Olympics. And glass roofs! Concrete! Glass! Steel! Humans that can be crushed like bugs! Death! Dismemberment!

Perhaps you don’t realize what it’s like to live inside my head.

I’m pretty sure there’s maybe a handful of people who could relate to what Inside My Head is like.

I’m… “imaginative.”

I can’t just see the potential for horror in my grand attempt at a zipline, I can imagine the bloodiest of calamities ensuing. Graphically. In slow motion. I see it all. Arterial splatter. Limbs flying. Screams echoing.

No, not pretty. In fact, my vision involves a mass grave out UBC way.

And yet.

AND YET. [GULP]

Friday. Zipline. I’m doing it. I think. But that’s why I’m writing this posting, for peer pressure. Too many people in my life read this for them not to be able to mockingly lord it over me if I stay true to my marshmallow heart and want to run like the coward I am.

Fear’s fear. Sometimes it can’t be “gotten” over so easily. I’m going to try.

I am so fucking terrified of doing this, though. I don’t want to do the zipline. Nope.

But I want to BE THE GIRL who’d DO the zipline. So, to be that girl, it takes doing it, and it takes knowing on the flipside that I can do it and survive.

It’s not a big deal for other people, they’re just that kind of person. And that’s wicked. For them.

Me, I’m the girl who came close to 300 pounds, and who came through a lot of stuff I wasn’t sure I’d see the other side of. I’ve survived that. I’m pretty sure there aren’t many adversities or troubles in life that could beat me, not anymore.

I’m the girl who’s taken chances and has been horribly injured, in years of chronic pain, rehab for more than a year on four separate counts…

There is a LOT of argument for me to live my life in a bubble.

You have NO FUCKING IDEA how much validity the argument of living Bubble Life holds when you’re talking about the kind of stuff I’ve had to endure over the last 14 years, pain-wise and rehab-wise.

One injury after another, you’d think “Jesus, just stick to cycling and swimming,” too.

But if I got hurt that much, that often, that badly, from playing it safe, and had to suffer the consequences so long…

…Then why the fuck not try to at least HAVE the Big Bucket Experiences if I’m going to have that kind of fall-out anyhow?

Why not?

And why not be that chick that I have always considered hot? The chick who can do the things that the daring boys do? I’ve always wanted to be that girl, and always used my fat and my klutziness as reasons not to do it.

Well.

WELL, NOT ANYMORE. (I’m saying that like I mean it in case that somehow helps me believe it a little better. Just between us.)

YEAH, YOU HEARD ME. NOT ANYMORE.

[Cough]

Oh, god, help me. I’m scared. I want my mommy and she’s dead, so I guess that means I’ll either be wearing grown-up diapers or investing in alcohol for after.

It’s symbolic, this incredibly stupid Friday-morning plan I have. Very.

Ziplining is like how life should be, always.

Jump, know you’ve got safeties around you, so have faith, but move forward, get where you want to be, and appreciate that from which you’ve come.

Yeah. I’m terrified. I’ve got the zipline planned for this Friday, and I’m hoping this kink in my neck/shoulder isn’t going to interfere, but if it does, there’s another 9 days to get it done before this zipline’s dismantled after the Olympics. I think I’ll be fine, though.

Just scared. :)

My fear of heights is pretty intense, but my fear of falling is one of my major nightmares. I’ve faced a lot of things in life that terrified me and had me sure Thar Be Monsters, but they were unavoidable and I either faced them and succeeded, or they’d beat me.

Fight or flight, man, and I fight. Rawr.

But choosing to willy-nilly go into the fray? Fuck, man, the fray finds ME, why help it out, right?

And yet.

I guess, for once, I wanna be that movie hero who doesn’t sit in the apartment and wait for the baddies to come breaking down the door. I wanna suit up, pack my weapons, have that big-bad shot of whiskey, go out, and kick ass and take names. None of this waiting-for-the-fray thing.

This time, I want the element of surprise to be on my side.

Here’s where, in reality, I’m muttering “Better be careful what I wish for.”

Yeah, well, in about 51 hours, I’ll know where I stand. Hopefully it’ll be on the NORTH side of Robson Square.

Pray for me.

I voted “YES” in the Olympics plebiscite “back in the day,” when we lowly democratic peons had the chance to vote on the once-every-four-years-party that, you know, would cost a few bucks to put on.

Now, I know, that voting day was such a sunny, beautiful day so many years ago that we didn’t even have a majority of our citizens turn out.

You know what? Not MY problem.

Because I fuckin’ voted. I did my job.

And I’ve lived and paid my taxes in this city my entire life, so, y’know, I feel entitled to that vote & the smugness that comes with.

Now, here we are, the day before the Games. There are more people supporting them than not, but now we have a new cry arising from the anti-Games protestors.

They think us “Pro-Games” people are trying to quel their “freedom” of speech.

No, you know what we’re trying to do?

We’re trying to get you to shut up, or at least be more constructive in your message.

Quite a different thing altogether.

See, we shut up and let you have your say for years. No harm, no foul, man! Say whatcha gotta say. Democracy in action, man.

You know how you get a few hundred people at your rallies, at best? In a city of 2 million? Well, we’ve letcha have your say. Loudly.

And good for you! You’re keeping democracy alive!

But here’s the thing.

Protesting the Olympics now? TODAY? TOMORROW?

That’s like standing at the bottom of a mountain with an avalanche of spring snow rushing at you and being pissed it has the indecency of crashing your picnic, throwing your arms up passionately, and bellowing “STOP! I COMMAND THEE!”

You can TRY, but… Nice fuckin’ try, chump.

Why not use the opportunity of having the world at our doorstep to protest things you CAN change? To use your voice to rally others to take up causes that WILL affect others?

Fighting the Games now? Just fucking dumb. Sorry if that insults your intelligence, but it’s kinda my blog and that’s the way it rolls in these far-too-blunt parts.

The Games are here. Why not err on the side that, you know, a party costing $6 billion might be a fun one to show up at?

It’s not a party for the “rich.” Do you have ANY idea how much of the Games are free to see? Probably close to half. That’s a party for the PEOPLE, man.

Oh, and there’s another point. Psst, the “Games” didn’t cost $6 billion. Infrastructure we needed cost a lot of that money.

Like the fancy new highway that was famously one of the deadliest heavily-used highways in Canada and needed upgrades for safety, but never had a chance of being approved for improvements to the extent that it was improved, not without a mega-project like the Olympics spurring it on.

Or the schmancy new train that’s changed MY life so much for the better.

Or the incredible public areas along the Olympic village and road upgrades throughout the city?

That’s not “for the rich.” That’s for all of us. Yeah, the city will eat a loss. And this is unusual for Olympics how? Wholesale improvements to ANY area tends to result in loss before it pays off. Those payoffs tend to occur in intangibles that defy measuring, too.

The real advantage of the Olympics is the profile Vancouver will receive. With our medical system, no matter WHAT they approve in the States, we still offer major incentives to industry — but there are a lot of delusional ideas about what life in Vancouver will mean. Like igloos. Or salmon-smoking shacks in every yard.

When the world gets a load of people wandering around in t-shirts when the sun emerges next week, preconceptions about Canada will shatter around the world. You can’t BUY that kind of publicity.

Or, well, actually, you can. When you win the chance to host something as coveted as the Olympics, a party so exclusive you gotta wait four years between ‘em. I hear the going rate’s about $6 billion. -Ish.

I’ve lived here ALL of my life. I’m one of 26 people, give or take, in Vancouver who can say I was born and raised here. I know what this town looked like with the population a fraction of what it is today.

I’ve seen the changes. All of them.

Some break my heart.

But some make me so proud.

And through it all, my city’s remained beautiful, has become an incredible multicultural paradise, and maintains something uniquely Canadian about it at the same time.

I want the world to see what I have. I want the world to know what Canada offers. And I’m not sorry for it.

Protesters, we let you have your stage. You’ve fought the Olympics for years.

We’re not telling you not to protest wrongs, we’re just wanting you to focus your protest more constructively.

You had your floor. Even though you lost years ago, we never tried to shut your soapbox down. Authorities might’ve, but we citizens kept our mouths shut and let you do your thang.

Now the world’s here, and it’s our floor, and we want it to be the best goddamned party we can throw.

Protest homelessness, arts cutbacks, anything you goddamned well want, but just don’t impede the torch, don’t crash the opening ceremonies. Play nice!

Let us have our time in the sun, too.

We’ve quietly waited for years.

We’re just not being quiet about it anymore.

And it’s not censorship. It’s a request. From one neighbour to another.

Let’s enjoy our block party. Heck, I’ll buy you a beer.

In two weeks, it’s over, and it’s civic unrest as usual for you — but nothing left for us, except possibly the bitterness that might linger if we feel we were robbed of our very expensive moment in the limelight.

So, today, we’re asking. Let us enjoy the moment. It’s our turn.

Regards,
Steff.

I’m moody and full of vitamin-Cunt tonight.

I couldn’t figure it out.

What’s eating me? Why am I spiralling into a darker and darker place? Why do I hate the idea of attending any of the 3 parties to which I was invited tonight? Why does the idea of just being civil to others fill me with a questionable revulsion I can’t fathom?

Why? Why? Why?

I couldn’t conjure happy-engaging Steff an hour or two ago, prompting a fella to comment that I didn’t sound very happy. Was my day just long? Where was I coming from emotionally?

BOOM. Then it hit me — snuck up and sucker-punched me, more like.

It’s the start of two weeks of Dead Mom anniversaries.

Next week, the 15th, is the day they found her cancer during a routine hysterectomy. “No, don’t worry about it! Only one in 10,000 fibroids is cancerous!” Like the grapefruit-sized one in you, you mean? The one that metastasized while the medical system was going through social-system strikes, you mean?

Yeah. Right.

And February 21st would have been my mother’s 68th. She died at 57.

As much as I want to pretend I’m past it all and healthy and good, even after 11 years, my heart fucking breaks sometimes at how much I KNOW I lost when she died.

She was my hero. She never realized that. I don’t have a lot of regrets with my mother, thank God, but I wish she knew more of how much I idolized her. She had no question I loved her, but her confidence problems might’ve prevented her from ever realizing the hero factor. That saddens me. She deserved to know.

But how many of us really believe the others in our lives when they tell us how much we impact them? Not many. So I take comfort in the fact that it’s more her humanity that prevented her from knowing that, than it was my failure to school her in it. Because I tried.

God, how flawed she was.

So many shortcomings and insecurities and places she never went in life. So many dreams she had that she never fulfilled. Flawed, flawed, flawed. Died broke, even.

And still she was my hero.

It’s who we are in the face of who we’re sometimes unable to be that really speaks volumes about our character. The things we stand for when just being on our feet is more than we could’ve asked for, that says infinite things about us.

And those deciding factors made my mother a giant amongst women.

She was the kind of person everyone respected and held in great esteem. She never had much money or “proper” social standing, but you couldn’t fault her on integrity. You couldn’t ignore her goodness and everywomanness. You’d be wowed by the vast array of people from varying walks of life she knew — even though she felt undereducated and too impoverished to mix with some of them.

There are a lot of ways in which I’m stronger, tougher, and more outspoken than my mother, but my core values — the goodness, the generosity, the truthfulness, my trustworthiness, my work ethic — these qualities were all, without a doubt, implanted by my parents. Whatever my parents weren’t, there was no doubt in their goodness.

Tonight I guess the loss has hit home for a rare night of sorrow. This doesn’t happen to me very often anymore. It’s 10 years gone now. For four or five years, I was just crushed.I was drunk more than sober, depressed 24/7, and not particularly motivated to change that.

But it’s not like I got a call from someone saying my mother was dying.

Unlike a lot of people my age who are motherless in the last decade, I was living with her and caring for her in the last months. I GUESSED she was dying before there was even a diagnosis. Three months before the “cancer” word even came up.

There is too much I saw that no child should see happen to a parent.

Like seeing things that can’t be unseen.

Nights like tonight are when those visuals flood back upon me, and what rises in me is an anger and a hatred that she ever needed to face those moments of humiliation and inhumanity.

A death like cancer isn’t fair to anyone. Least of all those doing the dying.

Especially when they lose their colon and have to shit into a plastic bag burrowed into their belly.

When they used to be a red-headed fashion model every guy crushed on.

Like Mom.

And that was only the beginning of the vanity-killers doled upon her. I don’t want to write the worst of what I saw. I don’t want it to be that real for me. Not now, not ever. I’d rather pretend, thank you.

My god, how well she dealt with the blows to her beauty. In a moment of weakness, she confessed to how ugly she felt.

And it broke my heart.

I was overweight, insecure, and the only thing I knew growing up was that my mom was GORGEOUS. Just GORGEOUS. I had HER genes. Wow! Lucky me. If I got my shit together, one day I could look like her.

To see her lose her self-esteem and feel so ugly and flawed before her death was such a sorrow. It crushed more than just my illusions.

I wonder now if my mood began this morning because my hair was falling a certain way and, when I looked in the mirror, I saw my mother’s features staring back at me. In my 30s now, after losing 65+ pounds, I’m finally starting to look a little like my mother’s daughter, the mother she was when I was a girl.

But, today, the first thing I saw was my mom looking back at me. Not me, but my mother’s features. And a pang hit me then.

I didn’t know it was growing, that pang of pain. But I guess it was.

I didn’t think I’d find myself in tears tonight when I chose to stay home from those parties. I didn’t know what was eating me. I don’t know how I realized it.

But now I know what’s eating me. The stream of tears down my face as I write this is pretty much all the evidence I need.

I know I’ll go to bed hurting and feeling alone tonight, angry at all the years and conversations and hugs and needs that have been robbed from me in those 10+ years I’ve been without my mother.

But I’ll wake up tomorrow and the sun’ll be shining and it’ll be a near-record-breaking warm February day and somehow, yeah, it’ll all be easier in the morning. It really will be.

Tonight, though, I’m a little lost in the things I’m remembering.

And that’s the least she deserves. Remembering.

Even if it hurts for a little while.

“The sound of a cougars claws slipping down the slope called age.”

That was the comment in its entirety, aside from quoting the entire paragraph under the blockquote-box’s question.

It pissed me off. Why?

I’m the anti-cougar. I wear Chuck’s All-Stars, not stilettos. I like concert t-shirts and trendy shirts with nice cuts, not revealing tight-skimpy things. I’ve never had a microskirt or a tube skirt. You know? I don’t flirt much, as I wrote about in this piece I called Flirting Fail.

I’m not saying I’m fail. I’m just not the stereotype, is what I’m saying. I like myself just fine, thanks. The world has plenty of busty chicks in tube tops.

But let’s leave that aside. You know what really pisses me off?

That it’s the mere fact I’m a woman over 30 who has more than a passing interest in sex that has left me judged a “cougar” by this stupid ass.

Every guy out there wants a woman who’s a feisty beast in the bedroom and Doris Day outside of it, if my 36 years of experience on this planet has any validity.

The trouble is, the moment a woman becomes overt in her sexuality at all, she’s judged as being a Different Kind Of Woman. She’s in some other class. She gets hurt less, is easier, can be acted around differently. The stereotypes are fucking ridiculous.

And the further trouble is, the women who ARE overtly sexual at a younger age, so many of them are using that sexuality to compensate for what they perceive to be shortcomings in other areas, because the REST of the younger girls are all freshly raised to believe that Women Who Like To Do It Are Whores.

This is changing a little, but not enough.

Women are still defined morally by what they like sexually. Men aren’t. Women are.

It’s a huge hurdle for women to get over. Every chick probably can tell you an experience when they felt absolutely disrespected or judged for some small little thing to do with sex or how they were dressed. And when that happens, it reaffirms all those moralistic preachings by our suburban parents about just what it is that Good Girls DON’T Do.

If men want more women to be comfortable with their sexuality, this hypocritical bullshit needs to stop.

They need to stop judging averagely sexual women, or sensual women, as if their morals are somehow different just because the enjoyment level for sex is more obvious than with others.

Authentic cougars — you know, women who are all about the sex or who value themselves only according to how well their sex life is going, like “Sam” in Sex In The City — are a stereotype and can be mocked a little. Anyone who allows themselves to fit squarely into a stereotype kind of deserves a bit of mockery, honestly, whether a horticulturalist or a hussy.

But making the mistake of thinking you know someone’s ethics or morality just based on their views on sex is about as fucking dumb as it gets.

Me, I have a sometimes-sex blog. Sure. I got skillz. You betcha. I’m able to write about sex in a way that has edumacated folks in the past.  (Like some of the oral sex how-to’s on this page.) But I barely date. I don’t sleep around. I like relationships. I’m never very public about my sexuality apart from things I talk or write about; I don’t flirt particularly well. I’m not a seductress. I’ve never cheated on a man. I bake muffins for boyfriends, giggle at their jokes, and get along with their mothers. I say please and thank you, I hold the door open for old ladies. I pay my taxes. I keep in touch with my dad, cared for my dying mother. Used to sing in the choir. Was a Girl Guide Leader and a Pathfinder Leader. I sing a wicked “Kumbaya.” I don’t have a criminal record, I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never tried a drug harsher than pot or drank gin.

But, yep, sex is a good thing. In many, many ways.

If you judge me on the fact that I’m a little dirty-minded versus EVERYTHING else I am, you’re a fucking moron. Flat-out. Hands down. And you’re missing out on probably one of the best friends you could have, the sort of person who’s a lock for a 3a.m. body-removal crew. Ethically, morally, I live to a higher standard than most people I know. I’m so old-fashioned it hurts. I demand better from people in my life, because I’ll deliver it, too.

Still, that sex thang, man. Always a good thing. And often.

Now, I haven’t been laid for at least one whole calendar, and it ain’t doing me no good at all, but that’s life and it hasn’t been something I’ve really tried to change because I was very disinterested for a long time. It sure as hell disqualifies me from “cougar” running, that’s one thing I know.

But go ahead. Call me a cougar.

Insult me for advocating that ALL women should be more in touch with their sexuality.

Deride me for asserting that no matter how “moral” we are, sexuality’s an awesome thing to enjoy in life and necessary for a full life.

Mock me for believing that society would be a greater and more productive place if everyone put as much focus on their sex life and communication as they did on making money.

You want to know why so many women keep their sexuality closeted, or why so many women won’t bring themselves to even masturbate, let alone get crazy with positions or initiating things? Because they still get shamed too much of the time. If women aren’t comfortable in their sexuality and don’t feel encouraged to grow sexually, they won’t masturbate. If they don’t masturbate, they’ll never learn what works for turning them on, or gain the physical comfort level needed for women to reach orgasm, and that’s why so many women never even orgasm until well after their 30s.

Because of the bullshit being spouted by hypocrites — whether it’s from asshole moralists in pulpits or men who don’t have the guts to own their own sexuality, THAT’S why.

Why women have SO MANY hang-ups is because of the mixed messages we’ve received for centuries. Bend over/BEHAVE. The church has done it, our parents have done it, our lovers have done it, and society as a whole still does it.

Let’s embrace real, healthy, vibrant sexuality. Let’s realize that’s a completely different thing from the bubblegum whorey girls who are using sex to get somewhere because they have nothing else to offer.

Sexuality comes in many different styles. If you’re gonna judge anyone for being that way, you might just be missing out on what could be a pretty wild journey of discovery. All of us, every one of us, unfolds differently when it comes to being physical. This ain’t no mass-produced experienced. It’s a unique thing with each person.

Don’t judge. Be open.

Life’s a hell of a lot more fun that way.

And I’m not a cougar, dummy.

Most of it is of my own doing, too. Having burnt out with EVERYTHING last July, I just walked away from most of my obligations, organized  fitness, and social life. It’s been EXACTLY what I needed to do, but my back has been iffy from time to time as a result.

Fortunately, I’ve always sort of maintained my core to the bare minimum, and have had a lot of improvement with my back. It’s better, FAR better, now than it was last July when burn-out hit me.

I’m back, baby, and my back’s considering coming back too. I began last week with the simple goal of being active daily — not much, just enough. I’d started inconsistently the week before, but last week did honour my commitment to doing something physical on each day — even if only for 15 or 20 minutes. By the week’s end, I seized the day and had an 80 minute cycling adventure.

The last three days have been filled with uncertain moments for my back, though. Twinges and tightness, pricks and pains. I’ve been so looking forward to chiro. I’ve also been torn — do I rest this, or do I work it out? Resting wasn’t really working out for me, so I decided to pick up the weights.

Over the course of morning and evening, I probably did about 60-70 minutes with 10 lb dumbbells and kettlebells, and plyometrics. All I know is, I hurt when I went to bed — just whole-body fatigue and aching abs, burning thighs from squats and lunges.

This morning? Fantastic. A few downward-facing dogs and planks, I’m heading out shortly with a bike and a lighter workday ahead of me.

In this age of caution, padded playgrounds, and bubble-type children, most folks are probably more inclined to lick their wounds when pains and symptoms arrive, but that’s often just going to allow the status quo keep the power. Sometimes, throwing a new element into it, fighting it with everything you got, is exactly what you NEED to do when you think you ain’t got nothing left to give.

Case in point? When I began my holiday in Kelowna this summer, my back was all fucked up from riding with an improper bike set-up and a shit-ass 6-hour Greyhound bus trip before it. I wanted to do an 8-10k ride, thinking the wind was quiet and I’d be better if I “loosened up” a little.

Well, it was 34 degrees (95F), then the wind rose to 60k an hour, I was on a mountain, and my trip was misjudged thanks to bad scale on a “tourist” map — it was 18km with the last half being uphill. So, I cycled the final 9km up that mountain, into the 60km/hr winds, in that heat, with what I thought was a fucked-up back. I took turns walking for a couple blocks, cycling a few minutes, et cetera. It took me two hours.

Later that night, my back felt better than it had in months.

The moral of my story is pretty simple.

Believe in your adversities and your challenges, push them for all you can. You’ll often be surprised at the result, and whatever does happen, you’re almost guaranteed to be stronger for it.

Life’s too short to ride the disabled list by choice, man. Get in the game.

[DISCLAIMER: But don't be a fucking idiot, right? Monitor yourself. Pay attention to your body. Don't do anything that feels like something's off. And don't even think of holding me accountable for anything stupid you might do to yourself as a result of this posting. I mean, seriously, I'm not a professional, I'm a chick on the web with good ideas about living life, but I sure as hell am NOT diagnosing YOU for anything over the web. Your brain's the best weapon you have; use it.]

This past week, I’ve figured out a structure for my book, and the start of the order of content and how to make it marketably different from most of the non-fiction offerings out there.

I want my book to be profoundly literate. I want it to be the best thing I ever write. It has to reflect all I’ve accomplished so far, and all I’ll accomplish in the next two years, as I finish this life-change dream I cooked up in the fall of 2007.

Whoa! Holditaminutethere! What book?

Right. When I decided I wanted to change my life, I also promised myself that, if I got even halfway where I dreamed of getting, I’d write a book about my journey.

For the first year and a half, I didn’t bother thinking much about it, I was too busy working on changing myself. But, New Year’s Eve 2008, I was trapped at home thanks to my bad back and record snowfalls, and I wrote a promise to myself that I would now have to fulfill that goal of writing the book, so the time was coming up when I’d need to start figuring out HOW to do it.

Here it is, 13 months later, and I’ve figured it out. All in the span of about 8 days.

I’ve come up with a very sophisticated storytelling structure that is going to demand that my flow and transition be better than its ever been, and that my six-degrees-worldview be sharper than ever, too.

Truth be told, I think my flow and conversational ability to slip in and out of topics is one of my strengths, so I don’t think this challenging way of telling my story will hinder me, but rather bring me out at my best… if I commit to the time it’s going to require. Which I can, and will.

By coming up with the way of telling the story, it now makes all the goals I’ve set in my life for the next year absolutely pivotal to accomplish. Not only that, but the way I want to tell the story also helps me figure out the order in which I need to accomplish my life goals for the next 18 months as well. Also?

In the span of 8 days, I’ve gone from wondering daily “How the fuck do I tell this story?” to believing I can write a book worthy of sparking discussion and passion. I believe in the story now, and since the story is about me, I have to wonder if it’s going to change the passion and belief I have for myself, and for the better.

I will learn more about myself through this process than any other process I’ve ever endured. It’ll be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, because of the honesty I’ll be forced to put forth. The book’ll be the accomplishment I’ll smile about until the day I die, when I get it done like I think I can.

I’m not sure I’m ready to start the writing yet. I think I’m going to, though. I’ve spent some time this afternoon plotting things out in an old-school lined notebook (see inset) and I feel great about having a starting point at all.

I didn’t know where to begin. I’ve had a lot of people make their suggestions about it. “Start at the beginning,” meaning where I decided to change my life. Others suggested the point at which I almost died on my scooter. But none of those felt real to me. I’m not an unskilled enough writer that I have to do the beginning-middle-end approach to anything I write.

And my beginning? Was a VERY dark place. I don’t want to start from the darkness; I want to start from a point at which everything has changed and, for the first time ever, I come to really believe it in my heart, too. I know when that time will come, and I’m very, very close to it.

But I don’t want to start at the beginning. That sounded smart for a bit, until I realized it was a bleak and obvious place to begin from. “Bleak and obvious” is not how I ever want this book to read.

There are a lot of writers who’ve used brilliant structure in a few books I’ve been wowed by, and they are:

• Wallace Stegner in Crossing to Safety
• Pat Barker in The Regeneration Trilogy
• Martha Cooley in The Archivist
• Jim Crace in Being Dead
• Alex Garland in Coma
• Zadie Smith in White Teeth
  

That’s barely even scratching the surface. Sure, they’re all fiction, but so what? That’s good writin’ for ya. Yes, I prefer really contemporary writing, and I intend to write from more of a fiction feel.

To feel like I’ve finally come up with a structure that pays homage to all the sort of writing that’s blown my mind over the years, it makes me feel fucking fantastic. Finally. Few people can probably relate what it’s like to go over and over and over an idea or a challenge for more than a year, on a daily basis, and never make any headway, and then, suddenly, boom, in the span of a week or so you make more progress than you thought possible, when the idea of achieving that dream at all was beginning to die… which, for me, it was.

I feel like I could sleep for a year, I’m so at peace with myself in this perfect moment, here, now.

That’ll pass soon, I’m sure, but what a great headplace to hang out in, if even for just a night after so long of banging my head against my inner walls.

Fuckin’ A. Yeah. I’ll drink to that.