Sparkwood & 21

How I Kicked Anxiety's Ass

Going back as far as I can remember, I was always a slave to ever-present anxiety. I lost friends, never made them, avoided events, stayed in bed, flaked, backed out and wasted more time that I can really wrap my mind around on worry. Incessant, gut-grinding, sometimes vomit-inducing anxiety.

It ruled my life. I self-medicated with this and that. Spent three years in therapy. Did two stints on SSRIs, the last prescription of which I genuinely believe saved my life. But, still, most of the time it kicked my ass. The anxiety almost always won. Sometimes I would get a glimpse of the way things were with clarity, without the cloak of worry, and I would see for a second what it could be like. Those fleeting moments pushed me onward. That and a survivor's will.

Sometimes the worry would be about nothing at all. A gnawing nervousness in my belly, my throat closed, my heart beating so quickly I swore it would skip beats sometimes. Other times it would be about something very specific, very real in my life and something I was deathly afraid of. Then there were the times I was scared to leave my house. Or answer the door. Or take a phone call.

I write this in the past tense not because I have completely erased my anxiety, but because I now own it. It doesn't direct the moves of my life anymore. It still rears its nasty, powerful head, but I understand it for the facade it really is, nothing but a creation of a mind that has the power to reverse its very existence.

I just moved in with a good egg named Beth. She allowed me and my two cats to move in to her beuatiful home, and I want very much to cultivate a respectful roommate relationship. This involves making sure that the cats don't shit or piss on anything, claw at precious items or get too much cat hair on anything.

Just a couple of days after I plopped down my things and set out a litter box, my new roomie flew to New York for a trip. It was just a couple of days after that when I noticed a rip in the lovely, fragile curtains that shade the living room. "Oh God," I thought. "One of the cats leapt for a bird on the other side of the pane, got a claw caught in the curtain and tore it. Obviously, this is an heirloom curtain that her great-grandmother sewed just before the birth of her beloved grandfather."

I began down a familiar road. I locked the cats out of the living room, sat down and began to freak out. Two days in and I'd already let the cats ruin something precious. I was such a shit head. What was I going to do? I would buy her new curtains, obviously, but how could I replace the sentimentality now lost to my bad cat parenting?

Then I remembered something that keeps me sane. The thing essential to battling anxiety and worry and fear: Don't be a part of that story.

Our minds are wired for storytelling. We create story lines to make sense of so much scattered and random sensory input that we would go mad without the beginnings, middles and ends that we create. And at any time we can change the story.

What is done is done, there is nothing about the past you can change. I considered how I would rectify the situation and any other narrative like "Those were irreplaceable," or "She's going to hate me and want me to move out," popped up, for sure, but I realized I was the author of those narratives.

I wasn't going to bother Beth with this on her vacation and that I would just have to wait until she came back to handle it. Years ago, this would have eaten me alive. I would have worried, stressed and belly-ached for days on end, perhaps even becoming so tortured that I would have called Beth on her trip to let her know about the rip against my better judgement, knowing that it was unnecessary, but wanting relief from my overwhelming anxiety.

This time, I just kept my mind on the present: folding napkins, washing my hair, reading a book, rather than let my mind become consumed with dread and fear.

There was no grand epiphany or magic drug or breakthrough psychology session that allowed me to own my axiety, but a slow, steady, constant drip of effort to find relief. Over time, with lots of help and a tremendous amount of patience of the part of people I hold dear, I just got better. I believe the SSRIs helped me get where I am today, in control, but they are no longer in my system. My utter owning of my reality, and therefore my anxiety, is something born of years of intense amounts of trying. Eventually, for me, thankfully (and I am so, so thankful), I kicked anxiety's ass.

For the record, Beth got back last night when I broke it to her about the curtains.

"There has always been a rip there," she said, still casually flipping through a week's worth of mail.

There has always been a rip there.

All along there was nothing to worry about.

It feels amazing to know I didn't waste valuable time on something I need not be. It feels amazing to have kicked anxiety's ass. It feels like nothing I've ever felt before to be the author of my own existence. 

[photo credit]

Urban Combat Training

I am back in the city that fits.

But this time I come to it with fourteen months of urban combat training under my belt.

Before San Francisco used to feel majestic and overwhelming. Now it feels majestic and ready to bend to my will.

Waiting Tables. We Meet Again.

Because I left New York City without a job lined up in San Francisco, my plan was to find something seasonal, a temporary retail position, to bring in a small amount of money while I secure a position (or start a business, who knows!?) in my field. 

So, the day after I arrived in the great state of California, I grabbed two trusty pens, an empty folder, strapped on a smile and hit up the Union Square area looking for a job spraying perfume on unsuspecting shoppers, wrapping gifts for those too busy to do so or even ringing a Salvation Army bell. I knew, though, that I wanted to be honest with my potential employers about the reality of my situation: I will only be able to work for a short period of time, and when I find something full-time, I'll have to quit.

Luckily, lots of retail stores were hiring for seasonal work only. Hooray! The bad part was that they were all coporate stores like Gap or Bed, Bath and Beyond who wanted me to go home, fill out an application online and wait. A few stores gave me paper applications and one place even scheduled an interview with me for Monday, but mostly the response I got was, "We are always taking applications."

I know what that means. That means, "I'm busy and don't have time to find out for you!!" Which is understandable, but not the answer to my question of, "Are you hiring for seasonal work?"

Slightly frustrated, and kinda tired from having to wait in long mall lines to speak to anyone about employment, I found myself in front of a slick-looking pizzeria with long red lacquered communal tables and sparkly lights dangling from the ceiling. I also saw three foot high crispy breadsticks jutting from glassware at the bar and let my cravings carry me inside.

I sat at the bar. I wasn't really hungry after a cheap and filling Latin American breakfast in the Mission, but a glass of wine sounded damned near necessary, so I asked about potential specials. Turns out it was happy hour, and all their tap wines were just $5. Beers like Stella Artois and Trumer Pils were only $3. After 14 months of $8 beers and $12 wines in Manhattan, I was thrilled.

I ordered a pinot gris that was buttery and just the thing. 

On a lark, I asked the bartender if they were hiring for seasonal work. Her eyes told me, "Dear God, yes we are," and before I knew it I was having a job interview with the General Manager while sipping my glass of white. Half an hour later, the job was mine.

I am now working at a well-reviewed restaurant as a food runner. This means I am, basically, a server's assistant. Except, I'm all the servers' assistant. It could not be a better gig. I don't have the stress of pleasing European travelers and lunching ladies with shopping bags blocking the aisles, but I do get to be a whole staff's right hand lady, all the while taking a cut of the earnings. Tip pool, baby! This is a way better part-time job than folding sweaters at Zara. Servers in SF get minimum wage, almost $10 an hour, plus tips. And from what I hear, the tips ain't shabby.

So, seven years after hanging up my apron, I strapped one on last night for a six-hour kitchen shift that involved teetering trays, unobtrusive table clearing, jokes with the chef and a near fall right in front of the coffee station.

Turns out waiting tables is just like riding a bike, you are as good as you were when you last did it. And damned if I wasn't on fucking point. I memorized the convoluted table numbers in just a couple of hours and was, if I do say so myself, kicking ass in the hustling department.

It's exhilarating to be back. I've sometimes missed restaurant work--the camaraderie, the rush you get when the swell of people becomes almost too much, the sheer physicality of it. Nothing quite makes you feel alive like aching feet and a gnawing hunger from watching melting cheese pies leave the kitchen and your last meal was many hours ago.

I'm back. For now. And so far, so good.

[photo credit]

See You Soon, San Francisco

I'm going home.

I've been in New York for exactly one year. For me, one year is plenty. 

I'm going back to San Francisco. I'm moving to California on December 1.

New York is a lot. For this gal, it's too much. Did you know that I hate crowds? Oh, yes, I really dislike crowds.

As I write this I struggle to think over the stabbing sounds of horns outside my windows. I'm sitting as high as clouds, and I can see all the way to Brooklyn through the haze. The view here is spectacular, but the view I miss is that of San Francisco as it spills out at 360 degrees from atop Bernal Hill.

I've discussed this with another former San Franciscan, and together we agreed: there is something miraculous about being able to pull back and take in your city from high above. San Francisco allows this at every turn. Each next climb is a new look at the splendor that is San Francisco, so beautifully nestled between the stark sea to the west and the placid bay to the east. It's the most gorgeous city I've ever stepped foot in, and I want to go back. So, I am going back.

There is so much to do here. There is too much to do here. It overwhelms me. It makes me spend money I don't have. I can't climb a hill and pull back and take it all in. If I lived here all my life I'd never scratch the surface of all that this vibrant city has to offer.

I feel like I can handle San Francisco. It's my size.

I got lost in the vertical horizon of New York City. I couldn't find my way. I grew stronger as a result of the struggle, but it sucked me dry down to my bones.

It's hard to live here. If you can handle the hard, it has to be worth it. My God, the place is crawling with world class everything. If you can stand the snow and the summers and the crowds and the expense and the grind of commuting and the non-stop jostle that is living in New York, then the payoff is tremendous. But I don't need world class everything. I don't need the best ballet in the word. Just having a ballet to go to suits me just fine. 

I miss the nature that San Francisco provided. It's a big city in the midst of some of the world's grandest scenery. When people talk about being in San Francisco and being able to be at the ocean one day and skiing the mountains the next, you've heard it a hundred times before. But until you've lived in that kind of paradise, it's hard to comprehend. San Francisco is splendid. New York is splendid, too, but in a grittier, harder, more concrete way.

I'm going back to San Francisco a different woman. New York City is a spanking, and I've learned many a lesson. So many that I know I won't know the breadth of them for a long, long time.

I miss San Francisco so much that I am going back without a job. I've secured housing, but I have yet to find work in the city by the bay. I've been looking, but it's difficult to get hired from 2,500 miles away. I don't care. I can temp, I can wait tables, I can stock shelves, I can work three jobs if need be. I will make it work.

My job at Modest Needs Foundation was incredibly fulfilling and the skills and experience I gained there will carry me far. I am grateful for my time there, but that job requires that I be in New York. And as great is New York is, it isn't great for me.

I'm selling everything I own to afford to move back. I'm bringing my cats, my clothes and a few other valuables, and heading west. What lies next, I have no clue, but I'm up for what ever adventure may await.

San Francisco makes me happy. I did an important thing in coming to New York, but it's time to go home.

Thirty days and counting.

What Is Going on in There?

Third night in a row of intense nightmares, all of the same variety.

Horrible. Awful. Terrifying.

I am scared to go to sleep now.

Time to Try Something New

I love San Francisco, but I am leaving it.

I'm moving to New York City.

Two months ago I took a job as the marketing and outreach person at Modest Needs Foundation, and oh, how fun I thought it would be to work from home and make my own hours. I would go the gym every day! I would blog in the park! I would meet friends for lunch or tea!

Instead I sit in my studio in the perpetual fog, or bundle up in a coat and scarf and sit by myself in some drafty coffee shop until I'm so over-caffeinated that my teeth shake.

I became depressed. I gained weight. I drank too much. It wasn't a good scene.

Apparently I don't have the discipline it takes to work from home. Structure and camaraderie and a place go to each day that is not my couch is what I need.

So, I am moving to New York City.

It's not just so that I don't have to work from home anymore, but because (cue cliche) I've always wanted to live in New York. And I've only ever lived in two places--both awesome in their own way--but I want more. I want to know what it's like to wake up in a city that never sleeps in a place with no horizon, only buildings and more buildings and more buildings, and nine million people. I want to learn new train lines. I want to develop a new accent. I want to carve out my own experience in one of the most challenging, but potentially most rewarding cities in the world. I want to not look back with regret. I want to follow my bones to the place they feel they should be.

This move, this step forward, is not without its intense sadness. Despite my deep and overwhelming love for the person whom I've spent two and a half years exploring Northern California with, I have chosen to go it in New York alone. It's heartbreaking. But it's something that needs to happen, for me. I need this time to come into my own, something other people do much earlier in life. It took a while for me to grow up enough to get there.

I am lucky and blessed that my dear friend and partner is an amazing man. I went to him scared and anxious with my plans and what I wanted, and he smiled at me. He took my hand and said he understood--how could he argue?--and then he told me that he was very proud of me. And that he knew it took courage to reveal my wishes to him. And that while it would suck for a while, that he was very happy for me. And that he knew exactly what it was like to feet drawn to a place, and he also knew exactly what it was like to need to be alone for a while. Thank God I don't have to give up this phenomenal man's friendship, because we make a good team.

It was a loving, mature, clean split that hurts like hell.

But, I'd always regret not going if I didn't go. I feel the pull.

I'm going to miss the shit out of San Francisco. And Ian. And the kind people here who are generous enough to call me a friend.

But, it's time to go.

It's going to be hard and scary and wonderful and wacky and a whole bunch of other things I could never, ever anticipate.

I have a lot to learn.

So, I am moving to New York.

And I broke up with my boyfriend.

And I feel like I am going to throw up.

I can't even wrap my mind around what's coming next. Best to channel the Buddha and just live in the moment, I suppose.

Holy shit, I am moving to New York.

RELATED: I Live Here: SF

My Aunt Shirley

My aunt is dying. She may already be dead, I don't know. She had a massive stroke several days ago. A Do Not Resuscitate form was signed. They removed her breathing tube this morning. She continues to breathe.

She would be totally blind and in a complete vegetative state were she to survive. She was in poor health prior to the stroke, always suffering. She had horrible rheumatoid arthritis that gnarled her fingers and lung cancer and her knees replaced. She always hurt. My Dad tells me that she does not hurt now in her final moments due to large amounts of morphine. This pleases me if true. A great deal.

She never had kids of her own, therefore she always an awesome aunt. She spent quality time with me and my sister and my cousins. She taught me to blow a bubble and how to wink. If I said, "Aunt Shirley," she'd reply, "Whaty?" She was hilarious. She loved to gossip, and I never cared if she'd already told me the story twice, because she did it with such relish that it was a delight to listen again. She had genuine sass, and she loved hearing stories about what it was like to live in San Francisco. Frankly, she asked me more about the city than almost any other relative. You could tell she'd really have loved it.

She was fun. She was always pulling you aside for juicy secrets or playing little tricks. She'd let you get away with stuff, but nothing too bad. She was always hoisting more potato salad onto your plate. She made the best potato salad.

You'd have adored my Aunt Shirley. You couldn't not. She was genuine and had the best laugh and she'd welcome you to whatever she had straight away.

I love her so much. She was awesome. 55 years are too few by far. She'd shine in any room with her wit and charisma. She made me, in part, the woman I am today. I was closer to her than any other aunt or uncle. We bonded through shared memories. She was my ally when I was a little girl. She was always down for a good time.

I hope she is not suffering at this moment, but what I do know is that she won't for much longer, if she is. And knowing she won't hurt any more is a great comfort, and I can sit back and smile at her memory because, first and foremost, I will always remember first her boisterous, hearty laugh. In a way it defined her.

UPDATE: An hour after I posted this she passed away. I can't be there for the funeral, so my father is going to read this at the memorial service. I wish I could be there. It'll make mourning harder that I am so far away.

Outside My Window Right Now

The fog doesn't usually show up as much where I live, but it is pressing itself hard against the window pane this night.

A white cloud midnight hug.

I want to hug it back.

Offline

Rebooting.

Adventures in Mass Transit: Morning Commute

In my anticipation of San Francisco living, I was really hoping to be near a Muni light rail line. BART is great and all, but I got to ride it plenty when I lived in Berkeley, and wanted to try something else. Something faster than a bus. Which is why I was thrilled to discover that the J Church line is a six block walk from my new place.

This morning, my first day back to work since my move, I locked up the apartment, walked down to Mission, crossed the street and continued toward Dolores Street. Once at 30th and Dolores, a J line stop, I saw the Muni sign on a street poll. It read: J Church to Balboa Park. I'd discovered the outbound stop, but where I was to get on in order to ride the J downtown was beyond me. I couldn't find it anywhere. I decided to punt.

So, I trotted back down 30th to Mission where I saw a bus headed my way. All I needed to do was get to the 24th St. BART station. I knew the 14 and the 49 went there, but wasn't sure about any of the others. I squinted and made out a 67 on the front of the fast-moving bus.

Quickly I texted Ian: "67 goes to 24th St. BART, yay or nay?" I hit send just as the bus hissed to a halt.

I waited until all the rest of the riders boarded.

"Does this bus go to the BART station on 24th?," I asked before I mistakenly fed the machine a buck-fifty. The driver nodded, so I climbed aboard. Things were looking up, but I held my breath when it made a left onto Valencia. That wasn't the way to the BART stop. Deciding not to freak, I checked my phone. "It may turn right at Cesar Chavez," Ian had replied. Sadly, it did not.

Once the bus made it to Valencia and 24th I hit the yellow button signaling the driver to stop. It wasn't far too hoof it from there to the trains.

"You are going to the BART station, right?," said a kind, balding man who looked a little like Craig Newmark. I nodded at him.

"He'll make a right here. Your's is the next stop," the Craig look-alike informed me. I thanked him repeatedly, as San Franciscans don't offer up unsolicited transit advice all that often.

Sure enough the bus stopped just in front of the BART station. I climbed off and descended the stairs, happy to be back on schedule and using a mode of transportation I'm entirely comfortable with.

The Internet tells me that I can take the J line to downtown from 30th and Dolores. Tomorrow I plan on going back there to figure out where that inbound stop has run off to.

EDITED TO ADD: I did all this shit in high heels.