As The "Real" New Year's Approaches...

I began 905 Liminality Street with my “New Year’s” starting in August, but as 2012 comes to a close, I find myself unable to ignore the “real” new years approaching in a mere 2 weeks or so. 

About 3 weeks ago, I started writing a “this is what I’m thankful for this year” blog post, but couldn’t finish.  I had this strange conundrum where I found myself finding too many things to write down, and then not enough.  I began grouping into “thankful categories,” and that just didn’t seem fair.  I read through it and decided it wasn’t worth posting. 

Really, what I’m thankful for is the array of both beautiful and tragic experiences this year.  2012 has been an insane ride that will forever be partially responsible for my identity. 

It is that time of year when Facebook apps pop up for “see your year of 2012!”  These are always quirky and fun in some ways, because you remember some of the things that happened at the beginning of the year, and inadvertently realize how much can happen in a short year’s time. 

I was frustrated with one of them.  I clicked on one to find the “top moments in pictures.”  It just took a bunch of my profile pictures, 2 of which were silhouettes so you can’t see my face, and the rest were all of me alone.  I thought, “So these are my top moments of 2012? Just my face? Alone? How depressing.” 

I didn’t share it on Facebook because I didn’t want to be the loser whose top moments of 2012 was taking pictures alone in the few spare moments not crying myself to sleep (or so I thought others may perceive). 

I thought about it some more. 

Okay, Facebook, ultimate Panopticon that knows everything, you win. 

***2012: The year I finally made my life about me.***

Sure, it took some heartbreak for myself and others.  Sure, it took 5 and a half months of therapy.  Sure, it manifested in threatening to sue my landlord for refusing to do anything about the Hellmouth.  Sure, it means that I’m still not done with my thesis.  But I can honestly say that in my entire life, I have never been so comfortable in who I am, happy with where I am and what I’m doing, or strong enough to say goodbye to those who don’t accept me fully as I am now. 

2012: The year I finally became comfortable in who I am.

Nerd and proud, of course. I think that has always been there, and I have always been comfortable with that.  Teacher, yes, always been comfortable with that part of who I am.  A food-loving fattie who hates most types of exercise? Well, that one has always taken work, and will always take work. But I’m at least to the point when I can say, “Fuck you. I’m going to eat this cheese, drink this wine, and you can join me in the delicious 10 dollar cheese or you can leave me and my true love alone.”  (True love, of course, being the cheese.)  Bisexual. Yeah.  That one has taken some time to reconcile.  Knowing for most of your life that it’s part of your identity, but refusing to acknowledge that bisexuality exists for part of your life?  Done that.  Falling in love with people of the same sex but being absolutely terrified to say anything? Oh yeah, done that too.  Afraid to admit that part of your identity because of the specific stigma attached to it (you know, we are confused creatures, we only care about sex, incapable of monogamy, that bullshit…)?  Still.  But now, finally at the age of 25, I am at least (mostly) comfortable being open about it.  I still might delete this section. 

2012: The year I finally became okay saying goodbye to those who don’t accept me for who I am.

“Wait, so you’re telling me I’m a people pleaser?  Oh do tell me more, I’m so shocked.”  Those words actually came out of my lips during therapy once.  It doesn’t even matter if I like you, I still try to make you happy.  Why? Because that’s just what I fucking do. 

So, I said goodbye to some people this year, to try and be less of a people pleaser and be more of a…me pleaser?  Some people I said goodbye to in really big significant ways, some in very small, nearly unnoticeable ways. (Please don’t assume I’m talking about you if you are reading this and thinking, “Oh my god, she’s trying to get rid of me!” …No.  Chances are if you are reading this I’m not talking about you.)

But here’s the deal, I’m done pretending to be someone else just so that you will like me.  Why should I do that when there are plenty of people who love me just the way I am? 

2012: The year I learned how to be happy.

When I was beginning college, I tried (so hard) to be happy based on this:

Five simple rules for happiness:
1) Free your heart from hatred
2) Free your mind from worries
3) Live simply
4) Give more
5) Expect less

That was okay, I guess, but it didn’t get at what made me really happy, and I ended up being more of a people pleaser because of it.  I’ve now come up with my own rules, based on my journey this year. 

Five simple rules for happiness:
1) Surround yourself with those you love
2) Keep your mind always learning and your life always teaching
3) Eat, drink, and be merry, as often as life allows
4) Give often, give back
5) Expect realistically, of both yourself and others

Thanks, 2012, for the lessons, the hardship, the friends and family, the laughter, the wine, and perspective.  

Adventures with the Hellmouth, and onto the Sunnydale Side of the Street

Moving seems to be a natural part of my existence.  I’ve moved a lot in my life.  Very few places have I stayed for more than a year at a time.  In fact, in the last 5 years of my life, I’ve moved 8 times. I don’t have a whole lot of stuff- particularly stuff that’s hard to move.  I can’t afford to be a hoarder when I have to move everything I own once a year or more.

Most of the time, my moves are voluntary.  This time, the universe opened the gates of hell from underneath me and spit me out from where I stood.

“From beneath you, it devours.”  That’s the scripture to describe The Hellmouth. You know, from Buffy. 

This thing:

That’s what we nicknamed the problems happening to our house about two weeks ago.  The Hellmouth was coming to devour our souls and happiness, and it damn near succeeded. 

Apparently, the pipe under the house coming from the water heater had burst, and water was gushing into the crawl space underneath the house.  Unfortunately, the base of the house floor is made of particle board which when wet, swells up like a sponge and is a breeding ground for mold. 

Of course we didn’t know any of this at the time.  All we knew was the entrance to the crawl space all of the sudden popped up because the entire thing was full of water.  That’s when the plumber came over, drained the crawl space, and another person came to fix the pipe 3 days later (after the weekend). 

During that weekend, we had no hot water, but it didn’t really matter.  Donna Noble was away at an academic festival, and Rose Tyler and I, along with two other awesome women went to San Antonio to see Rocky Horror Show with Sharon Needles.  Not 36 hours after our absence, we came back to a home with full blown Hellmouth revenge, mostly in my room.  And now you can see why we called it the Hellmouth:

This was the first thing we saw: a 4 inch speedbump in the hallway raising the wall, blocking the closet door from fully opening, and a crack down the center which we quickly duct-taped.

Next, I dropped my bag in my room, only to find a series of speedbumps and openings to stinky mold, which after a few days made me physically ill.

And so, after becoming physically ill, and getting into a spat with the landlord about it, I went back to my nieces bedroom with hot pink walls and the gracious reminder that Girls Rock.  I was happy to see the absence of the familiar Justin Bieber poster, with which I remember many arguments with in my first stay.  Sorry Biebs, I’m sure I said “fuck you” to you more times than you probably deserved. 

Liminality strikes again!

I was suddenly faced with questions like, “where will you live,” and “are you okay signing a full year lease from now,” and “what the hell is the universe trying to tell me right now?” 

See, I don’t know if I believe in God, gods, goddesses, what have you.  (Maybe I just believe in The Doctor.)  Religiously, I’m really confusing.  I do think though, that whatever you want to call it, God, goddess, divine intervention, the universe, or simply life; it sometimes tries to nudge you.  You ignore it long enough and it will flat out scream at you like a Molly Weasley Howler.

A part of me thought it was throwing me out of Texas, until I realized The Hellmouth wasn’t just pushing me out of the house, but Donna and Rose too.  That wasn’t the answer. 

And finally- there it was.  I had to be the loudest, or else we would never leave the toxic house.  What used to just be metaphorically toxic, was now physically toxic.  Thanks universe. I get it now.

When we first moved in, we planned to have a séance of sorts- to get the bad juju out of the house.  We were calling it a “diva night.”  We’d have sage to burn, wine to drink, dishes to break, and prayers and wishes to recite. 

We never did it. 

It got pushed to the back-burner, and we continued to live in the house where Rose Tyler lived with her ex-husband, where Donna Noble’s furniture barely fit, and where we all spent most of our time on the back porch because it was really the only part of the house we truly enjoyed.  I still partially blame that for the Hellmouth eruption.

Now we have a new home, with bright sunny colored walls, vaulted ceilings, a sun-porch/greenhouse, and a hot tub.  The space is open, welcoming, leak-free, mouse-free, Hellmouth-free, bad memory-free, and already pre-blessed by the previous tenant who we guess was Wiccan. 

I talked to my mom on the phone yesterday, and she said “you sound like you have a brighter disposition on life now.”  Maybe it’s the fact that the walls are yellow.  Maybe it’s the space.  Maybe the last tenant’s blessings are working. Maybe it’s as simple as getting the mold fog out of my brain.  Whatever it is, we are quickly moving out of 905 Liminality Street, and it’s bound to be a sunnier side (Sunnydale Side?) of the street. 

Depression: Personified

Many of you have probably seen the anti-depressant commercials with the hovering cloud or the bouncing blue ball.  It refers to depression as this thing that follows you around and makes you feel sad and worthless.  Really, it’s not that far from the truth.  JK Rowling’s metaphor for depression was a dementor: creatures invisible to muggles that made the world cold, sucked the happiness from the world, had the potential to kiss your soul away, and the only thing that helped after an encounter was chocolate.  (I also think vodka would easily do the trick, but that’s just my opinion.)

I had a conversation with my therapist today about the personification of depression: how it becomes something outside of yourself yet a part of yourself.  This thing hovers right above your brain shouting insults, reminding you of your fears, and proclaiming as loud as possible that, your dreams? Hah! You wish.  Dreams are for the beautiful ones, the already successful ones, the sickeningly charming ones the depressed people want to punch. 

This thing is not you, but not not you (hah! I knew I’d get that in in one of these blogs; thanks grad school, everything is academic now).  It is this alternate conscious that is fucking with your identity.  It literally tells you that your identity is stupid.  My therapist is convinced that when people attempt or succeed in suicide, it is this alternate conscious, this “thing” that they are trying to kill, not actually themselves; not the self that thinks of a future and shapes an identity.  

I think this thing loves to taunt the possibility of suicide.  She’s dark, taunting, cruel, and is generally asking you to punch her in the face most of the time.  I decided to “invite her over for an interview,” so that you all could meet her on some level.  I’ve decided to name her “Swamp Thing” for the interview.  I think she’ll get a kick out of it. 

Me: Good afternoon.

ST: What’s my name again for this thing?

Me: Swamp Thing.

ST: Original.  Nobody thinks that’s funny. You don’t even think that’s funny.

Me: Yes I do.

ST: You wish you thought it was funny.  You basically wish you were funny.  Anyway, nobody’s going to think this is funny because nobody reads this stupid thing.  What’s the fucking point in doing this anyway?

Me: Well, I think it’s a good exercise to personify you in a performatively written script. 

ST: Oh here you go, going all academic again.  Do you think this is going to make you look smart?  It doesn’t.  It just makes you look pretentious and annoying. 

Me:  Well, academics are often pretentious and annoying.  Anyway, I’m supposed to be interviewing you.  You’re distracting me. 

ST: That’s my job, idiot.

Me: Yeah, well.  Whatever.  Okay.  First question. 

ST: Oh God, here we go.

Me: Stop it.  First question.  What exactly do you do? You alluded to “your job” a second ago.  What is that?

ST: It’s not a “job.”  Jobs are for real identities.  I come out of chaos.  I just find joy in making your life a living hell, alright?  And I can’t help it. It’s just so easy.  Find out your fears, remind you of them all the time, find your hopes for the future and smash them a bit, make you tired, and the rest of it is easy.  I just argue with you and make you feel worthless and eventually you crawl into your little blanket cave! Hilarious. 

Me:  Wonderful you find that so funny.  And I don’t have a blanket cave. 

ST: You do, you watch that stupid alien show in it.

Me: Doctor Who. It’s not stupid.

ST: Yeah whatever.  You and your annoying little obsessions. 

Me: It’s my obsessions with things that keep me alive.

ST: I know, that’s why they’re annoying.  It seems to be the one thing I can’t touch.  You’re still interested in stuff and I hate it.

Me:  Okay, so second question.  It seems like you make me lose interest in stuff that I used to love.  Why is that important when you are already instilling feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness? 

ST:  Why?  Hah. Stupid question. 

Me:  So you’re not going to answer it?

ST: It’s a stupid question!

Me: Well, okay, so I asked you a stupid question. 

ST:  I don’t like answering stupid questions, I just like to make you feel stupid. 

Me: Fine.  Okay- how about this one.   Why me?

ST:  Why not you? 

Me: Because! I have a life!

ST: And how is your life more important than anyone else’s.  It’s not. In fact, at this point, I’d argue it’s less.  Hey! I have an idea! Why don’t you go kill yourself! That sounds like so much fun!!!

Me: That was uncalled for.

ST: You thought it.

Me: No, you did.  You are separate from me.

ST: Sortof.

Me: Fuck you.  Next question. 

ST: Nope.  You just said fuck you.  I’m not answering you anymore.

Me:  What are you a toddler now?

ST: …..

Me: UGH.  You are such a petulant child.

ST: That means you’re a petulant child.  I’m you! Hah. Anything you say, sticks to me, but also sticks to you! Hah! If you hate me you hate yourself. Boom! I win.

Me: Wait. So…if you win, do I win?

ST: …..

Me: HAH Got you.

ST: You’re still fat.

Me: Oh God, here we go.

ST: AND you haven’t finished your thesis yet and you’re behind on grading and your friends hate you and your grandma’s dead and you don’t have a boyfriend and you are poor and you are short and you have terrible eyesight

Me: Terrible eyesight? Is that the point we’re at now?  Making fun of my fucking glasses?

ST: THEY ARE UGLY YOU LOOK LIKE A FAT LIBRARIAN

Me: I like librarians. 

ST: No you don’t! You’re just trying to shut me up! Nanananana!

Me: Okay. Interview done.  I can’t take it anymore. 

*********************************************************************************

So there’s Swamp Thing.  My personal little depression cloud.  She’s actually pretty tame today compared to what she can be. 

I try to poke fun at depression when I can.  Honestly, the way depression works is ridiculous.  Sometimes it really is like yelling at yourself for being a pathetic eye-glasses wearer.  And then you cry about it.  And then you eat a bag of chips, and yell at yourself for eating them.  Then you sleep, wake up abruptly, because depression decided you’re pathetic for sleeping.  It really is absolutely ridiculous.  Sometimes the only thing you can do is laugh at it. 

Swamp Thing is yelling at me again.  Here’s to hoping her visit will end soon.  

I'm The Teacher: A time lord with 16 kids and 11 regenerations to go.

A part of me has known my whole life that I’m going to be a teacher forever.

A friend of mine has been researching Tarot Cards and palm reading (palmistry) in the French Quarter for a project, and at the bar about a week and a half ago he read my palm.  No surprise, according to my palm, I’m going to be a teacher for the rest of my life because there’s no way I have 16 kids. Apparently, my life-line merges into some awkward random line and doesn’t really end.  My conclusion?  I must be a time lord.  I’m not The Doctor or The Master.  I’m “The Teacher.”  And I have 16 kids. (And also, 2 hearts. Makes sense.)

In the classes that I teach, I’ve been explaining identity.  Identity, as I explain to my students is something we create based on all of the symbols around us- we are suspended in a web of symbols.  We are constantly (re)creating our identity. Some parts of our identity might be consistent, but other parts of our identity are always changing.  This also suggests that in some ways, we are always in a constant state of Liminality, since we are always in transition.  Liminality is where our identities change the most, and where we tend to ask those existential questions: who am I and why am I here?

I’ve been quite concerned with those existential questions lately. I do, after all, live on Liminality street. 

I’m not sure who out there knows this, or experienced it, but we have the best porch in Denton. It’s perfect for having a cup of coffee in the morning with Ella Fitzgerald on Pandora.  It’s also perfect for grading and reading.  We’ve also become a hub for “porch drankin’”, since our porch is also the perfect place to have a beer with good company. 

Porch drankin’ has become a pronounced part of my Texas identity.  Most of the time, I don’t want to go out anywhere because I’d rather sit on my own porch- it’s cheaper, quieter (sort of), and much more relaxed.  We can also play whatever music we want.

A few nights ago, we had a delightfully redneck evening on our porch.  I made a chicken, cheddar, and avocado pie, and a spinach, mushroom, goat cheese pie. We ate it on country-style rooster plates, and put TV trays together on the porch as our table, and sat behind 4 different styles of chairs.  Each place setting had tiny silver buckets with everyone’s name written in chalk on the tiny chalkboard on the front, and of course two tea lights inside. We drank beer AND champagne, and sang along to 90’s music very loudly.

Some might see that as beautiful.  Others may look at this as incredibly redneck.  I see it as both, and I’m completely okay to say that I loved every minute of that porch experience.  Never until now have I been comfortable admitting that Texas is a part of who I am.

This is why identity is so complicated.  We carry our own symbols with us to each new web we travel to, and spin identity silk throughout all of it. I’m still Minnesotan. I’m also Texan. I’m a teacher, and a student, and a nerd.  I’m definitely an anglophile. I’m a feminist that wishes to live in the 1920’s, which is a time period not very friendly to women.  I’m a bit tomboy.  I love domestic things like cooking and knitting and sewing.  I’m a writer. A performer. A scholar. A traveler.  I’m compassionate about animals an animal rights, but I am also damn good at fishing and have no problem killing and cleaning my own fish or de-boning and de-skinning a whole chicken. 

In one of the new Doctor Who episodes, “A Town Called Mercy” (which takes place in Texas, no less), The Doctor meets a Kahler (Kahler Jex) who is a war criminal.  The Doctor has a difficult time with an ethical solution in bringing justice to Kahler Jex.  Jex sums it all up when he is sitting in his cell taunting The Doctor.  He says to The Doctor “If I was just a war criminal or just a doctor who helped people, everything would be fine.  The fact that I’m both drives you mad.” 

You can’t answer the “who am I” question with one simple phrase.  My small paragraph with identity markers doesn’t even scratch the surface of who I am.  We are complex, by nature of being abstract thinking humans. We have the ability to be both ends of a bipolar measuring stick. We can even be multiple measuring sticks. The Doctor certainly understands this, which is why he loves and tries to heal and protect humans so much.  The Master does not- which is probably why he tries to kill them. 

I’m The Teacher. I, like The Doctor, understand the complexity of humans, but I also have the desire to show this understanding to other humans, unlike The Doctor who has been known to call humans “stupid apes” and make fun of them for their tiny boring brains. I’m The Teacher. I show compassion for my students like mothers do for their kin- which is why they show up on my palm as 16 children.  I’m The Teacher. I give great advice that I struggle to follow just as much as those I give it to. Teachers are learning just as much as students.  I’m The Teacher.  I make mistakes, learn from them, and then use those as examples in my lesson plans.  I’m The Teacher.  I’m always looking for good questions, not good answers. I’m The Teacher, a time lord with 16 kids and 11 more regenerations ahead of me (11 new identities! So exciting). Maybe next time I’ll be a ginger.